#in admin only care about your own peace of mind not the students welfare or their pleas for you divest and y’all never have

[cinematicbookworm]

I find it highly ironic that both my former undergrad which is now cal poly Humboldt and my current Graduate universities have both been sending out messages saying they support free speech while also calling the cops on student protesters and also trying to deflect responsibility like I’ve been part of protests at Humboldt in the past the admin then barely tolerated what was also a peaceful protest like the professors for the most part usually support the students but the higher admin have never supported the students rights they just wanted to line their pockets then and I doubt things have changed now

[penumbra-rp]

Congratulations Ricci, you have been accepted for the role of Marlene Mckinnon!

Thirty’s a dirty word for a young woman. Simultaneously, she’s failed to grow up yet succeeds in decaying. Grief doesn’t die, and nor does guilt, but kinder feelings perish slowly, driving Marlene to sigh through Order meetings, feeling hope’s rotting carrion reek a new stench of cynicism. She admits to nobody that she doesn’t believe in any of it. Still, she tries to cling to their ideals, praying that she might earn something for herself as a witness to the sincerity of their hope, waiting for a spark of life to reawaken amidst their earnestness of their idealism.

Admin Becky: Marlene has shaken off her past and shed the weight of perfectionism like a creature determined to find a new, more comfortable skin to grow into. Her stubborn cynicism will undoubtedly help keep the Order grounded, whilst those who dream of cutting corruption out of society may provide her with sparks of hope to alight the kindling of blind rebellion in her chest. I adore how she has formed a sense of maternal kinship towards all those looking to do the same, turning her into something of a figurehead, a beacon, for all those who are lost in the world as she had once been. It makes her so perfect for the Leaky Bucket, her sharpness enough to defend a place that is much a home to some people as it is a refuge.

Please check out our checklist for joining Penumbra.

01. Out of Character

NAME: Ricci

AGE: 20

YOUR BIRTHDAY: 01/25/99

PRONOUNS: she/her

TIMEZONE: GMT+8

02. In Character

CHARACTER: Marlene McKinnon

CHARACTER’S PRONOUNS: she/her

FACECLAIM: I’d like to play Sonoya Mizuno because having no titties is integral to Marlene as a person.

CHARACTER’S BIRTHDAY: 05/27/89

PERSONALITY:

[ + ] Diligent - Though most may assume such based on the careless with which she carries herself, Marlene isn’t lazy, just selective about what matters to her. When she finds something she cares about, she puts her all into making it work. Seeing the fruit of heartful labor is incredibly rewarding for her.

[ + ] Understanding - An unexpectedly sharp mind accompanies a secretly tender heart, and the combination allows Marlene to easily see situations through the eyes of others… when she wants to.

[ + ] Maternal - Deny it she may, but behind her mask of recklessness and flippancy is a woman that cares deeply about the people in her life. She notices that Order members are getting younger and younger and is overwhelmed with the desire to protect them, wanting to save them from suffering from the same cynicism she regards the world with.

[ + ] Bold - Whether it’s feigned or not is up to debate, but Marlene carries herself with a certain kind of confidence, unwilling to expose her vulnerabilities to anybody she isn’t close to. She isn’t afraid to take risks if it’s for something she cares about or believes in.

[ + ] Self-destructive - Her past history with family deaths and abandonment has left residues of self-loathing within her. Though not explicitly self-hating, Marlene occasionally regards her life with very little care, preferring thrill and adrenaline over her own welfare and safety.

[ + ] Hedonistic - When the working day is done: girls – they wanna have fun. Girls just wanna have fun. That’s all they really want.

[ + ] Irresponsible - It’s the first thing anybody notices. Laid-back and free-spirited as she is, Marlene prefers not to take herself, or life, seriously, preferring to face the tragedies of the world with a sharp wit and a strange, vulgar sense of humor. If life’s a joke, be the first to laugh, she says.

[ + ] Turbulent - Though never easily angered, Marlene is prone to bouts of mania and sadness, her emotions as ever-shifting as the earth’s climate ( thank you, Carrow energies ). She is driven less by ambitions and more by impulses, riding the next new wave of excitement whenever it comes.

BRIEF BULLET POINT BIO:

- Marlene McKinnon is twenty-six years old when her mother takes her own life. Midori, she says, nervous fingers flicking the corners of a page she has yet to read as her gaze lifts to meet the pairs of eyes stare, with scrutiny or with pity, at the newly-orphaned woman standing behind the funeral parlor podium. It should be easy to talk about a woman so many had loved (West End loses its angel to heaven, the obituary had said,) — but Marlene knows her mother has never been one for platitudes. So she tries harder. Midori was a great woman. A great mother. A pause. A breath. There was this time, when I was a kid, I remember —  she starts, and doesn’t finish, because in the precise moment Marlene scours her mind for a happy memory, she comes up empty.

- After half a lifetime of striving to crawl out of her mother’s shadow, it is ironic that death makes Midori’s already pervasive presence near inescapable. Tabloid writers and so-called journalists  hound Marlene with questions and interview requests in some futile attempt at digging up whatever was left of the story her mother failed to bury. Marlene denies them any answers. The facts they pry out of less trustworthy sources are somehow mostly correct:  Her husband’s death years ago had devastated her, but the marriage was tumultuous. She has not spoken to her daughter in more than five years. She left her with nothing.

- Nothing material. That much is true. The pain of abandonment stings but the blow hardly hurts her financially. In fact, she’s proud to say that in half a decade of estrangement, Marlene has built herself a place she could call her own. London isn’t the kindest to neophyte businesswomen, yet the Leaky Bucket has only blossomed under Marlene’s management, slowly growing into a home for scrappy university students and young adult delinquents, far rowdier than the upper class crowd her mother once surrounded herself with. It’s chaos, but it’s hers. Sometimes, her self-made success bears fruit to kinder daydreams. In the best of her imagination, she gets to greet Midori’s disgusted scowl with a grin and a sardonic, “Love me yet, ma?” In her worst, it’s Midori that smiles. The woman’s expression softens at the sight of her daughter’s work, her small lips forming words she would never have spoken outside of this contrived daydream: Marlene, I’m so proud of you.

- Midori leaves no will, no note. But all mothers, in some way or another, leave their daughters an inheritance of scars.

- What is hard to love is even harder to grieve. If the world remembers Midori for her voice, Marlene remembers her for her silence. Wide-eyed and love-starved, a child Marlene had begged for her mother’s affection in the only language the woman seemed to speak: achievements. Thus began a childhood of ballet and piano and voice lessons she hardly enjoyed but felt she needed to pursue, insatiate heart seizing whatever scraps of love she might find in her mother’s smallest of smiles. The harder she tried, the harder it got, because the more she strove to become her mother, the more she learned to accept the impossibility of growing into her mother’s insufferable perfection. The child will spend ballet recitals staring at two empty seats, silently praying for an audience she knows will not come. When Midori does come home, exhausted from hours upon hours of theatre rehearsals, Marlene will have her Clair de Lune rendition be dismissed with a cold frown and the words: You can do better. Outside her family, she will receive more appreciation, but her efforts will no doubt invite the disappointed gazes of her mother’s peers, matched with hushed remarks that the demons lurking within Marlene’s mind will later on replay: not as talented, not as charming, not as electric, not as beautiful, not as poised — she’s not her mother.

- Grief, complicated and disquieting, writhes within her bones. “My ma’ named me after Marlene Dietrich,” the present Marlene half laughs as she addresses the funeral visitors. “Guess she knew I was gonna grow up wanting to wear suits and fight Nazis.” This is the the truth, but not the one her gut feels it needs to spit out. Family, she thinks, is synonymous with fracture. Once, she was content with neglecting the word’s brokenness, but death shatters it past the point of repair. Stammering out a eulogy feels like choking on the shards of whatever it was she failed to fix. Inside, the fragments wound her. Later on, the tabloids will speculate the reason behind Midori McKinnon’s death and come to ill-founded conclusions that a self-loathing Marlene will find herself agreeing with: It was her daughter’s fault.

- The desire to become worse than the bad daughter her parents seemed to believe her to be exacerbated during her college years, ignited by the unexpected invitation to a selective extra-curricular club headed by a certain Albus Dumbledore. Eighteen years old and already far too jaded to fully believe in their fanciful ideals of change, Marlene accepted the invitation half-heartedly, less for their causes and more for the new warmth of knowing she belonged somewhere. Still, in their presence, she found herself braver. The long stirring spark of anger finally turned flame, triggering a new pattern of explosive dinner rows with her father, which pushes an already silent Midori deeper and deeper into her shell. The Order of the Phoenix brought about a new era of rebellions: against corporate giants, against her family, against expectations.

- Mostly, she rebelled against herself. Graffitied a body that failed to be perfect, needling ink stains over skin she always loathed wearing, singed her insides with liquor and passed-around party pills. Here is the revolution against the girl who got it all wrong. Staring at the mirror, she made peace with the woman behind the glass — an unwanted daughter who will make herself repulsive if the only alternative was accepting that she was unlovable. Michaelangelo said: I saw an angel in the marble in and carved until I set him free. With the new knowledge that she was not made of marble and possessed no inner angel, Marlene stopped carving herself in her mother’s shape.

- Too many scandals. Too many arrests. They told her she couldn’t come home anymore. She wanted to tell them it never felt like a home anyway, but her anger was quieter than her grief. The stammering of her heart and her eyes’ threat of tears reminded her later that the daughter who craved their love hadn’t died in a revolution fire as she suspected. She just became quieter. The urge to beg for their acceptance was too loud to ignore, but she willed herself to forget it, and with a pocket full of too much borrowed money and her sights on a burnt wreckage, she set off to carve herself a place of her own.

-Only years into adulthood does Marlene learn to blame herself less. It happens sometimes. Some people are built with their atoms all wrong, their fuses too short, their gears too rusty. Brilliant as the public claimed her mind was, to those close to her, it seemed Midori’s brain was short of the ability to process happiness, to register hope. Perhaps it’s merely genetics, or the high stress of nightly West End performances, or perhaps her mother, and her mother’s mother, and every mother that preceded, had all starved their daughters of love — this is their heirloom, this absence — and none of them learned to give what they never received.

- The child Marlene’s dream of becoming her mother sees fruit later on, albeit in all the worst ways. Her eyes are her mother’s. The way they see the world in sepia tones. Her heart is her mother’s. The way it feels bone-hollow and restless in its hunger for colour. Her exhaustion. Her cynicism. Her loneliness. When she hears the news of her mother’s passing, all she can think of is that college summer spent driving a breaknecking Volvo down vacant roads if only to have that adrenaline-roused daydream of collision burst against all her empty.

- Thirty’s a dirty word for a young woman. Simultaneously, she’s failed to grow up yet succeeds in decaying. Grief doesn’t die, and nor does guilt, but kinder feelings perish slowly, driving Marlene to sigh through Order meetings, feeling hope’s rotting carrion reek a new stench of cynicism. She admits to nobody that she doesn’t believe in any of it. Still, she tries to cling to their ideals, praying that she might earn something for herself as a witness to the sincerity of their hope, waiting for a spark of life to reawaken amidst their earnestness of their idealism.

- The younger Order members, with willingness to throw their lives away for impossible ambitions, terrify her to no end. But they awaken something in her, a new protective instinct, a maternal spark. She wants to save them from her fate, defend their youthful optimism from whatever threatens it. Family, she has always believed, is synonymous with fracture. As the Leaky Bucket bustles with the liveliness of young rebels, they sweep up the shards of old and construct a new definition, one that allows hope to blossom, slowly and organically, within Marlene. If she cannot save the world, she will protect every bold soul that has the audacity to try.

INTERVIEW

i. How do you feel about your current occupation?

Marlene lays her back against the wall of the Leaky Bucket’s storefront, offering a wide grin to the video camera in front of her. Turning away, she crosses one leg, plucks a cigarette out of a pack tucked in the small pocket of ripped black jeans, and sets the tail end ablaze with a lighter, less because she feels like having a drag and more because it might look cool on video.

Perhaps it doesn’t, but the inhale of smoke feels good anyway. “I feel incredibly lucky. Enjoying what you do isn’t a privilege everyone is afforded.” Marlene folds her arms, letting her cigarette dangle between two fingers. “My Ma’ used to say that life in late capitalism is like a Japanese claw machine. All the opportunities are laid out in front of you, seemingly within reach, but the chances of getting anything are actually slim to fuckin’ none.” Her mother never actually said that, but the metaphor was too good to go to waste, and attributing her own words to somebody else makes her seem far less pretentious than she feels at the moment. A knife of a smile cuts through her face. “So let’s fuck up all the claw machines, yeah?”

ii. What song would you say describes yourself?

The drums come first. Then, a single chord. Then, the abrupt, unwanted stab of truth — MY GOD, I’M SO LONELY, SO I OPEN THE —

“Off the top of my head?” Marlene laughs a little, a flippant shrug rolling off her shoulders. “No Scrubs?”

Despite her words, a different song plays in her mind without her warranting, echoing from the memory of having it on repeat weeks earlier, a day before her monthly cycle was due. In her hormone-induced despair, Marlene had drowned herself in cheap wine and the honesty of an annoyingly catchy pop song, all at the expense of any perceived rationality. No, she forces her mind to sing, I don’t want your number, no— nobody, nobody, nobody — I ain’t gonna give you mine and no — NOBODY, NOBODY, NOBODY —

The Marlene of memory sang along as she stared at the bathroom mirror, dragging cotton pads over the streaks of mascara running down her cheeks. Through her tears, she laughed about the melodrama of it all — the runny makeup, the snot on her nose, her being alone, her naked reflection, her illogical emotions — angry and amused when the more practical side of her mind had made an unglamorous acknowledgment of Maybelline eyeliner’s waterproof quality and interrupted the movie-worthiness of her misery, all while she adjusted the seriousness of her expression to validate herself to a nonexistent voyeur that might have found something poetic in her PMS. “I’ve been big and small,” she blubbered through snot and laughs and half-breaths, “And big and small… and big and small… again and���” And still, nobody wants me. Still, nobody… wants… me… “Give me one good movie kiss… and I’ll be…”

NOBODY! NOBODY! NOBODY! NOBODY! NOBODY! NOBODY! NOBODY! NOBODY! NOBODY! NOBODY! NOBODY! NOBODY!

The Marlene of present tilts her head, leaning back to take a long drag of her cigarette. “Nothing comes to mind, really.”

iii. Does reputation matter to you?

The chorus of tiny Mitskis fall silent in her mind as a new thought interrupts their melody, prompting her fingers to click against her skin with one abrupt snap. “Bad Reputation!” she says, grin falling open in excitement. “Joan Jett. What a fuckin’ banger. Bit cliche,” she adds, dismissing the notion of her own predictability with an expression of mild disdain and a noncommittal wave of her free hand, “but succinct enough to answer both questions. You could say it’s two birds with one Joan.” Marlene punctuates her sentence with a laugh that rings hollower by the second, ever mortified by her own cheesiness, then raises her chin to greet the camera with a wide, self-loathing grin. “Edit that out or I’ll stab somebody.”

iii. …Does reputation matter to you?

The breath she inhales comes out through her nose as a quiet chuckle. “What a unique question. Genuinely.” Her palm strikes her chest, above her heart. “I don’t think I’ve ever been asked this before.”

Marlene’s smile fades as she presses the tip of her cigarette to her lips. After one long drag, she exhales, letting a now pensive gaze rest on the wisps of dissipating smoke.

It’s hard to be honest when it comes at the risk of being known. Past the smoke tendrils, Marlene’s brown eyes linger on the camerawoman in front of her. Small ashes rain from the tail end of her cigarette. An expression of uncharacteristic earnestness sweeps over her features. “It’s a bit…” she trails, biting her lip. “Complicated.”  

If thirty years of life taught Marlene anything, it’s that most women spent their existences doing less growing, and more outgrowing. It’s a hasty generalization that she draws from the narrow pool of her own experiences, but sometimes, she thinks it’s true. Sometimes she looks at women and tries to guess what they hate about themselves. What they like, too. The camera operator is pudgy and small and square-jawed, but she carries herself with confidence behind the lens, as if she knows she belongs  there. The girl is beautiful. Marlene wonders if she can tell it to herself without doubt.

She thinks of a younger Marlene, sixteen and tightening a belt around her waist as far as it could go to create proportions that would distract from the absence in her chest. This younger Marlene is overcritical of her reflection: narrow eyes, a flat nose, small lips.  Reputations, Marlene thinks, stem from appearances, and appearances are all any girl is ever taught to care about. I think all women grow up hating themselves, she doesn’t say.

“The world we live in carries far too much prejudice,” she says instead, though she wonders if serious words carry any weight if they are said by a person that seems to never take anything seriously. Marlene furrows her eyebrows. “I’m a woman of colour and a lesbian. You get things like catcalling, sexism, homophobia, microaggressions. Not all the time, obviously — people aren’t as bad as we make them out to be — but you have all these unpleasant experiences scattered throughout your existence.”

The younger Marlene doesn’t look anyone in the eye. She keeps her head down, afraid that if anyone looks close enough, they’ll discover the dirty secret lurking in her gaze. In the rare occasions where one does find it, it’s not bad, because they’re ecstatic to unearth a glimpse the same irreverence reflected in somebody else’s. The younger Marlene lets another girl slip a hand under her Catholic school uniform and finds that her touch makes her hate herself less, but the thought of being seen sucks the air out of her lungs harder than a belt tied too tightly around her waist.

“Women like me,” she says, drawing her words out slowly as not to let any useless emotions spill out, “all we have to do is exist, and people of more small-minded worlds automatically draw their own conclusions.” Feeling a new load weighing down her shoulders, Marlene shrugs. “We’re born with bad reputations.”

She doesn’t know what she can do for the world. She doesn’t know how to pry the hatred out of women. How to help them outgrow the unnecessary need to be beautiful. She thinks of other, younger, smaller Marlenes out there, wants to teach them to laugh at the absence of mass on their chests and point instead to the pulse heaving against it — there, she will tell them. That’s the most beautiful part of you.

And she thinks of the Marlenes who are afraid of this pulse and what it wants to love. Her heart swells with the urge to save them, but she doesn’t know how. If she could build a world where love was easier, she would. “Does it matter to me? I like to pretend it doesn’t. But I know —“ she pauses, nervous, afraid of being misconstrued, and wills every bit of sincerity to leak through her words. “I know I don’t want anybody else to suffer. So it matters.”

iv. What is your relationship with your parents like?

With a scoff of relief, Marlene decides that her quota for serious answers has been met. “My Da’s Catholic. My Ma’s Asian. I’m a clinically depressed raging homosexual with sixteen tattoos, five piercings, two terminated pregnancies, three previous arrests, zero university diplomas, an alcohol business, a nicotine problem, and a mild to mildly severe addiction to being a little bit of a cunt.” The corner of her mouth curls into a small smirk. Marlene turns to the camera, shooting a wink that brims with both impishness and affection. “Naturally, I’m their pride and joy.”

v. What languages can you speak?

A length of sleek black hair falls over her face as Marlene throws her head down, hand hovering above her mouth to conceal the quiet laugh of a scoff that escapes her throat. “Trickiest question that’s been asked thus far.” Leaning back, Marlene raises an eyebrow, mouth quirked into a flippant smile. “Because I’m getting this sinking feeling there’s a secretly correct answer, and if I don’t give it, the Duolingo Owl will find my address and set my house on fire.”

vi. If your home was on fire and you could only save one item, what would you choose?

Brown eyes widen in mild horror. “…Russian For Beginners.”

vii. Which Hogwarts University faculty did you study at? The Gryffindor School of Applied Science, the Ravenclaw School of Humanities, the Slytherin School of Social Science, or the Hufflepuff School of Art?

“When I was younger, I didn’t really know what I wanted to do, just that I wanted to do something good. So Environmental Science.” The fact that Marlene McKinnon studied in Gryffindor surprises a lot of people. The fact that she never finished the course surprises less. “It’s funny, because I think I did a lot more harm than good. In my second year I ended up dating someone in the non-renewable energy industry. I cheated on her — not my best moment — and it pissed her off — understandably so — and long story short, I guess it’s half my fault that there’s now a hole in the ozone layer in the shape of my pussy.”

vix. What is your social media username?

“I don’t want strangers on my personal accounts but —“ Marlene pauses to snag a slip of paper from her pocket, reading off a spiel she had prepared moments ago. “‘Follow The Leaky Bucket on Instagram at Instagram-Dot-Com-Slash-Capital-T-The-Dot-Capital-L-Leaky-Capital-B-Bucket for a chance to access our secret menu.’” Throwing her hand to her forehead in one lazy salute, Marlene turns to the camera and offers a smile and one last farewell wink. “And review us on Yelp, while you’re at it.”