#meanwhile I as a black agnostic woman was like..

[theladygazingatemptiness]

like I've seen so many posts made by people of color (most of them not even religious!) that rightfully criticize and call out white atheism as a movement and the racism (against Natives and Muslims specifically) that's fucking rampant within it but because they had the audacity to imply that a white person being an atheist doesn't make them objectively incapable of racism and that white atheists do in fact have white privilege over religious Natives and Muslims everyone just calls the posts reactionary (ignoring the fact that a fuckton of white atheists are reactionaries and very anti-leftist themselves (TAA, anyone?)) and take the post as Some Religious Zealot Attacking Atheism rather than a nonwhite person criticizing a very real subset of racism disguised as legit criticism of religion.

these types of criticisms aren't about atheism vs religion, they're about whiteness and people using atheism to weaponize their whiteness against poc in the same way that white Christians use their Christianity to weaponize their whiteness against poc. it's about the fact that some forms of anti-theism can in fact be the result of racism sometimes. it's about the fact that you cannot say that you support Natives and then put the Native religions that were forcefully eradicated by colonialism on the same level as the White Western Christianity that replaced it. it's about the link between white atheist culture and the fundamentally racist Eurocentric standard of "intelligence". and if y'all feel this threatened by poc discussing these things and calling out your white atheist faves for their racism then y'all can go have a pleasant chat with and bond with racist right-wing Reddit bros about those barbaric Natives and violent Muslims while bragging about how Not-Reactionary you are I guess

idk where this recent trend of people implying if not outright stating that there are no valid criticisms of atheism as a community/culture/movement (esp white libertarian-brand atheism) and that everyone who's ever criticized somebody's atheism in any way no matter way is a reactionary by default but I can't say I'm fond of that tbh

[sephiroths-stuff]

Something I relearned today

Cishet, able bodied, white, well off, educated, neurotypical, christian/a-religious* men, and this goes for cis/het/NT/able-bodied/white christian/a-religious, well off, and educated women** too, will never understand the pain that those who are different from them go through, and they will generally think your claims of bigotry, persecution, and attacks being leveled against you are being exaggerated, because they have never been attacked for existing the way you have.

Never let that dissuade you from speaking out, calling out injustice, taking action when it needs to happen, and being unrelenting in standing up for yourself when at all possible. When people call you a liar for exposing injustice, hold your head high, and cut them from your life with no regrets.

To my siblings of color and other minorities: are not obligated to tell anyone anything to prove your experience as a minority is valid. You should not have to defend your voice in spaces when it belongs there.***

Those with privilege who do not actively try to embetter those who suffer are part of an oppressive system. If you have privilege, you are obligated to help others, because having great power comes great responsibility and having the ability to help and choosing not to and that inaction leading to suffering puts the blame in your court.****

EXTRA THINGS TO NOTE BELOW:

* a-religious just means the general deist/agnostic/atheist etc.

**People who are some subset of the privileged I listed above obviously have different amounts of privilege than someone who is all of the above types of prigileged, and women are generally less privileged than men of the same race who have the same other categories of privilege, meanwhile, a white cis woman inherently is generally more privileged than a black cis man etc.

I am in none of these categories of privilege outside of education, and I only have that because I got scholarship haha and I might not even get to finish college due to illness and money. I'm a trans, asian/pacific islander, bisexual, Neurodivergent (autistic/schizophrenic), disabled, poor, and Sikh but also looking into Jewishness as an exploration of my adopted family's ethnicity and religious background (I personally don't feel like any one religion holds all answers for me, plz don't start discourse with me abt that on this post this isn't the place)

*** this is in reference to gatekeeping people, not, for instance, people claiming to be things they aren't for clout. For instance, people (mainly goyim) have attacked me for saying I'm of jewish descent because my adopted family is Jewish. (Which would imply that they don't see me as actually related to my own family) Jewish beliefs through the ages have mixed opinions on adoption, but MY JEWISH FAMILY had me take their last name (which did but no longer sounds jewish because it was anglicized for... Well they immigrated in the early 1900s so take a guess), and I have been told by multiple people of my family as well as other members of the Jewish community that especially as I'm exploring the religion and have Jewish parentage, I have the right to say I am Jewish. I shouldn't even have to say that but this is Tumblr and someone's gonna take this out of context someday on my resume lmao. But anyhow. Don't gatekeep. This goes for white passing poc, closeted people, ace inclusion, people with invisible disabilities and illnesses who want accommodations, etc. They are all valid and members of their communities.

**** If that was worded weirdly, basically, if let's say someone knew someone was dying and was the only one who could save them, and knew this, and still actively chose to let them die, they would be responsible for their death. Same concept.

~ being poor/uneducated/disabled is a weird issue because it's something that could happen to anyone, even white, able bodied and or educated people, especially with our medical system, but it disproportionately effects bipoc/poor/disabled people and often intersects them and is because of one or both things. White people can be poor and be an oppressed group due to it, but their poverty is NOT due to their race, which is an important factor. It's the poorness that's oppressed not the race.

~ if you are white or otherwise privileged and feel that this post is calling you out for treating your bipoc/disabled/lgbtq+/etc friends poorly, it probably is, and you should step back and rethink your internalized prejudices~

There is no TLDR. Because people need to read and fucking understand this. To be a good ally you don't just reblog posts that say "fuck terfs" and "I hate nazis" and "eat the rich" you amplify minority voices, you aid people when you can materially or even by giving time or emotional support if that's your capability (EMPHASIS ON IF YOU CAN. IF YOU ARE UNABLE TO DUE TO A VALID ISSUE I'M NOT GUILTING YOU). And above all, you let the people in your life know that you are there not as someone who will silence them when they say uncomfortable truths or call out injustice, but boost them up and help them and defend them as they make the best of a world determined to tamp out the lesser privileged.

[nowitsdarkfic]

meet the blogger/the fic writer

general:

name: Hannah 

nickname(s): nirvhannah, Chris, alisonchains 

hometown: Ventura (southwest of downtown LA, on the way to Santa Barbara)

age: twenty-six

gender: female 

myer-briggs: ENFP

sun sign: Aries 

moon sign: Aquarius 

sexuality: who knows 

religion: agnostic 

appearance:

height: 5′7″

hair: dark brown with blonde and reddish streaks 

eyes: solid brown 

weight: 228 (I’m a big girl)

favorites:

color: purple 

food: too much to choose from—really I’m better off saying what I don’t like

family member: my parents and my grandparents 

actor: Keanu Reeves, Al Pacino, Edward Norton, Benedict Cumberbatch, Johnny Depp (fight me), David Spade, Idris Elba

actress: Brittany Murphy, Sharon Stone, Audrey Hepburn, Uma Thurman, Charlize Theron, Gilda Radnor, Scarlett Johansson

beverage: coffee

country/countries: France, Italy, Japan, New Zealand, Sweden, Denmark, Germany, Georgia, Mongolia, South Korea, Haiti, the Ivory Coast

city/cities: Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, New Orleans, New York City, Santa Fe, Helsinki, Auckland 

book: The Portrait of Dorian Grey, Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre, Interview with a Vampire, Blindness, the Harry Potter books, the Great Gatsby, the Hobbit

movie: Erin Brockovich, Midnight in Paris, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Pulp Fiction, Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, Blazing Saddles, The Goonies

show: Seinfeld, Friends, Sex and the City, Nip/Tuck, House, Sherlock, Doctor Who, The Simpsons, Family Guy, Beavis and Butthead, South Park, Ed Edd n’ Eddy (just Cartoon Network, really), Portlandia

music: (ha) Soundgarden, Nirvana, Chris Cornell, Audioslave, The Beatles, Black Sabbath, The Doors, Metallica, Megadeth, Anthrax, Joey Belladonna, Pearl Jam, Alice in Chains, Mad Season, Stone Temple Pilots, Velvet Revolver, Mother Love Bone, Truly, Screaming Trees, Nine Inch Nails, Hole, Garbage, Rihanna, Avril Lavigne, Demi Lovato, Bob Dylan, David Bowie, Leonard Cohen, Mark Lanegan, Marilyn Manson, Type O Negative, Green Day, Ramones, Dead Kennedys, Pink Floyd, The Smashing Pumpkins, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Jane's Addiction, My Chemical Romance, The Cure, Oasis, Blur, Tool, Korn, Deftones, Faith No More, Mr. Bungle, Bullet for My Valentine, Avenged Sevenfold, In This Moment, Opeth

app: Sketchbook 

scent: my perfume which is legit called “a little sexy”; i’m not sure how to describe it other than “soapy”, like I just took a shower 

holiday: Halloween 

season: springtime 

dog breed: Chinese crested (’cause my best friend was one 🐾🐾)

vs:

strawberry vs blueberry: blueberry (although strawberries are so luscious)

coke vs Pepsi: ehhhh, can’t stand either

grape vs cherry: cherry

day vs night: day

cats vs dogs: both 

Batman vs Superman: Batman

movies vs TV: movies

hockey vs football: hockey

fries vs onion rings: fries

likes: art, earth science, biology, books, cats and dogs, horses, reptiles, grunge, thrash metal, boys, erotica, pin-up style, 70s/dark 80s aesthetic, graffiti art, psychedelia, the Goth subculture, sci-fi, steampunk, things considered “taboo”, baseball, field hockey, tennis, cycling, Formula 1, hiking, the ocean, road trips, pastries, pasta, my mom’s baking, my grandpa’s cooking, trying on new clothes 

10 random facts:

I speak with a stutter (it’s not as bad as it used to be when I was little but I still have it and I’m still kind of insecure about it)

Refer back to my weighing over 200 pounds: I don’t even look it, and it’s kind of a trip to see women weigh less than me who are freaking huge. I’m as big as I am because the other alternative was literally starving to death: I almost became an anorexic when I was 13, and it came to a head when I was 19 and wouldn’t stop losing weight from depression. So as part of my recovery, I reconciled my relationship with food, and I just started eating. I’m trying to get up to 230 and tbh, I wouldn’t mind climbing up to 240.

It’s funny because I feel like such a rebel liking Joey as much as I do. The latest thing is to like fat boys and “dad bods”, and even taking it further and getting like almost morbid about it--when I was writing Have Your Cake I often lurked in the feedism tags on here to grasp the idea of the community; when I visit them now, the latest thing is to be like “this lifestyle is totally gonna kill you but you’re sooo hot so keep it up!”. This almost feels akin to when Audrey Hepburn came on the beauty scene with her thin elegance, the reaction to all of the full figured woman: he’s a slim, lush, gorgeous man who needs a lot more love (”raw beauty if I ever did see it” as Mr. Lang put it).

I’ve always wanted to get inked but I never know what to ink myself with, or where to put it for that matter.

The one time I ever cut my hair, like had it cut short, was 20 years ago in the first grade. The longest it’s ever been was down to the halfway point of my thigh when I was... 15? Right now it’s down around my butt.

Recovering cutter: I started in 2006 after my grandpa passed and then I stopped; did it again after my parents split in 2011, and again after Chris passed; I’ve been clean since August 22, 2017, three months following his death. 

Chris was a fan of my art. It’s true! My little cartoons never would’ve become the entities they are now without him.

My cartoons have been labelled everything from “grunge” to “metal” to (recently) “emo”. I’m actually fine with just any label you throw at them: just don’t call them anime because that’s not technically correct (anime is animation; manga is printed works, and even that’s bit of a stretch)--my writing meanwhile has been simply labelled “unusual”

I’ve always been a fic writer, but I never actually wrote-wrote a fanfic until I was a freshman in high school. I never went online with a fic until 2013 and then I pretty much stopped it for a few years to focus on school and preserving my mental health until earlier this year with Have Your Cake and Eat It.

Fuuuuuuuck I love food. Yeah, when I say you’re better off asking me what I don’t like I mean it. I will eat just about anything (i’m actually surprised I’m not fat tbh). I’m as much a lady of the flesh as I am a lady of intellect.

[kamino-ink]

Trust | Bang Chan

genre ⌁ haunting!au, horror, supernatural, angst, fluff, enemies-to-lovers-ish

summary ⌁ you are a regular ole’ demonologist, just living your best life attending the occasional possession or exorcism - until a novice exorcist with a giant ego accidently gets you into harm’s way.

word count ⌁ 2.8k

warning ⌁ kinda violent tbh, mentions of death n blood and religion

Check out my masterlist!

A/N - I hate this a lot I swear the other parts will be better :/

the case of the southend werewolf was one that would haunt you forever, for years to come until the day you passed

while the famous husband and wife duo, ed and lorraine warren, had solved the case many decades ago, one oddly similar instance popped up in news reports and videos over time

you’d been doing some personal research since the very first story came up on your recommended page, diligently applying your demonology knowledge to the strange case

yes - demonology

you weren’t exactly catholic, or... religious in general, for the most part; you liked to call yourself agnostic for lack of a better term

you didn’t quite believe in the idea of gods and all that jazz, but you did however delve deeper into the possible existence of demons or, rather, negative energy that fed off the masses

moving on

you decided that you really wanted to go to the area in England where the supposed possession was taking place, but on account of their authority figures (and the church) you required a professional to go with you

enter bang chan, novice exorcist in training

in the midst of your heavy digging for an exorcist to accompany you on the trip, you stumbled upon a verified site from the Vatican itself, which cited experienced or in training students all over the world

bang chan happened to be the first one who had a decent record, plus he was technically still training so if he came on the trip, his supervisor would have to go as well - meaning double the protection

after a week of arranging flights and meetings, you found yourself landing in an airport located in Essex, England

there you met up with chan and his supervisor, a decorated exorcist by the name of park jinyoung

together the three of you spoke about the case, from the ride to the hotel all the way into unpacking for the stay

while you and jinyoung had been in a heated discussion over the suspected possession, chan spent that time rolling his eyes whenever you presented your research or an opinion - he even had the audacity to glare at you as you asked questions about their church and services

“you shouldn’t even be here,” the Australian man finally spoke up, “you’re not a child of god, so why do you even care about our church or what we’ve devoted our lives to?”

jinyoung hisses and smacks the younger man on the back of his head, offering you a reprimanded look of apology

“chan, just because you’re technically a licensed student doesn't mean that you can ridicule others who have different beliefs than we do. our first lesson is to-”

“not judge others, for judgement is a sin.” the blonde finishes with a grunt, though he sends you another harsh glare at the same time

“my beliefs are my own, chan. while I don’t believe in your god, I do believe in the mere existence of negative entities in our world.” you reply shortly

he scoffs, abruptly standing from his chair at the dining table, “you’re completely unbelievable, woman. just - stay out of our way during our investigation.”

and with that, he left, storming off into his bedroom

jinyoung apologizes for his pupil’s behavior, though he doesn’t bring up the topic of your beliefs for the rest of the night

for the next three days, the three of you delve deeper into the possible possession of a man named mark tuan

he was a normal guy from la who moved to England a few years ago so he could be with his long-term girlfriend, and up until recent months he was just like any other man

but then he started to exhibit strange, inhuman habits; such as uprooting a fence post and crunching on the wire mesh, walking on all four limbs, and just the other day he reportedly sniffed out a deer carcass deep in the woods behind his home

after witnessing the man break out into a cold sweat and nearly attack a smaller dog much like a predatory wolf, father jinyoung decided they would perform an exorcism

the plan was to bring mark tuan back to their church in Australia, as the demon manifesting inside of him was something entirely inhuman and could potentially be a threat if it somehow wasn’t fully dismissed

however on the same evening you all were planning to fly to Australia, something triggered mark into a furious frenzy

foam started to dribble between his dry lips, his hair stood up all over his body, and the lanky man literally lunged at father jinyoung - effectively pinning him to the ground as he attempted to gauge out his throat

you leapt into action, throwing yourself onto the back of the man to try and pull his weight off of the priest

meanwhile chan was in a state of sheer panic, watching as his own mentor was being targeted by a very powerful demon before his very eyes

“c-chan,” jinyoung called out to the stunned man, letting out a painful scream as mark tears into his flesh with his teeth, “leave and lock all the door and windows - call father jaebum from the church in London-”

but chan doesn’t listen to him - he silently reassures himself that he can handle a real exorcism himself - it’s what he’s been training to do his entire life

so the blonde snatches a bible from the bookshelf behind him, flipping through it until he finds a set of pages, his gaze wavering in fear and panic as you whip your head around to gawk at him

you scream and shout at him, telling him to listen to the dying man’s words, all the while struggling to pull him towards the front door and away from the possessed man

still he goes on, reciting his teachings word by word until there’s a pregnant pause

mark’s body, still on top of father jinyoung’s, twitches after a certain phrase chan had stuttered out weakly

“y-you didn’t say it the right way-”

“how would you know!?”

“just because i’m not religious doesn’t mean I haven’t done my own damn research,” you hiss quietly, voice shaking as mark continues to twitch madly and turns his attention to the two of you, fresh blood and torn skin hanging from his stained lips, “c-chan, we need to go!”

“no - if we leave then there’s a chance the demon will use his body until it can find a new host and go on torturing innocent people just like mark!” he protests, glancing down at the bible as the brunette man takes a step forward

“chan-”

he doesn’t listen to a word you say, attempting the passage yet again, but more clearly this time

it’s too late, though

on his last word mark charges towards the man, his mouth wide open and prepared to take a chunk of flesh from his neck - but you’re somehow faster. you shove chan out of the way just as the deed is done, receiving a painful bite to your shoulder

in seconds mark’s body collapses onto the ground, a strange, cold presence emitting into the open air before all goes quiet

the series of events that followed that were a blur to you: from chan rushing to cover your wound to the two ambulances that arrive on the scene to take you and father jinyoung to the nearest hospital

before you know it, an entire month has flown by since the southend werewolf incident

you had to stay in the hospital for a majority of that time, since your demon-inflicted wound tended to get infected too easily

by the time you were given the okay to leave, you heard that father jinyoung was still being held there as a patient, his entire throat needing to be worked on for who knows how long

the one interesting outcome of the entire situation, though, was finding a defeated looking chan at your doorstep when you got home

“the church said that, due to my hasty actions and its consequences of you being injured by a demon I was instructed not to interact with, I am to be your caregiver until I am able to go back to learning.”

“... so you’re grounded, basically.”

“please, don’t say it like that.”

so that my friends is how bang chan the sort of exorcist was thrust into your life for good

“heyyy chan, can you please make me some chocolate-chip pancakes for breakfast?”

“your bite is healed, you can cook your own fucking food-”

“ah, but the church said that you have to do whatever I ask of you until you aren’t grounded anymore~”

“... I’ll make them super fluffy if you promise to stop saying it like that.”

so for the next two months, you were accommodating an amusing roommate of sorts

he slept on an air mattress you set up in the living room, so it wasn’t like the poor guy had to suffer with an aching back the entire duration of his ground- of his punishment

each morning he’d cook the both of you breakfast and begrudgingly watch exaggerated dramas with you until lunchtime rolled around

usually he’d take you out to eat and explore the city with you, something he refused to admit actually made him have some fun for once in his life

for dinner you’d both kind of give up on the idea of making real food and would instead order pizza or Chinese takeout, all the while hiding under a set of fluffy blankets next to you in favor of watching scary movies

you kind of hated to admit it, but chan had really grown on you - over time he seemed to accept his mistake back in the England exorcism, and one night he even took the time to apologize to you on his own terms

“chan, I still don’t understand why I have to wear a dress if- oh...”

there the man stood himself, clad in a black tux with a red bowtie next to the tiny dining table stuffed in the cramped kitchen. “I think it’s time that I owe you a real apology for what happened in England... and how I acted. I know that, to a degree, we have different beliefs - but you’re still an amazing, wonderful woman who I would like to call a friend.”

you totally didn’t almost ruin the moment by commenting on how his bowtie was crooked, shhhh

that night he treated you to homemade pasta and brownies for dessert, the first dinner either of you had actually made yourselves since he arrived at your home

ever since that night, the two of you would grow closer and closer - and then his punishment was over

the church had called him immediately, stating that he had to return quickly if he wanted to continue his training

neither of you admitted it aloud, but having to help him pack his things just so he could go back to Australia crushed your hearts

you’d grown so used to each other’s presence, forming a natural routine every single day that never became tiresome

after you bid farewell to the now silver-haired man at the airport, you found yourself feeling more lonely than ever before

sure you both exchanged contacts with one another and talked on the phone often, but it just... wasn't the same, honestly

then, out of the blue, just about two weeks after his departure, chan called you and told you about a haunted house he was being sent to investigate near your city

you weren’t required to go, but you found yourself offering to accompany him during his paranormal studies at the home

the moment you two met up at the house, you went straight into work mode, having no time to catch up since it seemed as if something was very wrong

cameras placed by the two husbands all over the two-story house showed signs of life, even when no one was awake

they reported that they’d seen furniture being tossed around their rooms and that their own daughter had started to experience hellish nightmares that ended with her being covered in scars the next morning

you and chan went to work, looking at every single audio or video file you could find in their tapes and cameras, even interviewing each member of the family alone to see if it was a hoax as the church suspected it to be

then one night, you felt an odd chill roll over your body in the middle of your slumber, though you at first thought nothing of it

but the next morning, there was a circle with a cross etched onto your wrist. chan immediately guessed that the demon had somehow managed to inch its way into your body - though that in itself was odd, especially since demons traditionally had to weaken their target host before fully possessing them

your condition continued to grow worse and worse as the days passed by, up until chan had finally decided that the best course of action was to take you to a church and see what more experienced priests could do

luggage in tow, chan lead you to the front door of the house, bidding a short farewell to the family and promising to send members of the church the same day - yet, you didn’t follow him

or rather, you couldn’t

something forcefully snapped you back into the house, causing you to stumble and crash into a shelving unit on the wall

“y-y/n?”

“mam, are you alright?”

you shake your head, slowly standing back up to walk back to the door where a worried chan was staring at you with furrowed brows

the second the tip of your shoes reach the doorway, another tug slams you onto the cold floor - quickly going to drag your limp body down the hallway into a bedroom before the door suddenly slams shut

you can feel the demon lurking in your body, hungrily feasting upon your state of utter terror - though you try your best to fight it off before it can fully possess you

seconds, minutes, hours - you're not quite sure how much time had passed since you’d been thrown into the secluded bedroom

all you knew was that you had grown so much weaker in that period of time, your eyes struggling to focus on anything in the room

you also knew that chan was banging on the door, trying his damned hardest to break it down

in a woozy state your head bobbles around until your blurry gaze lands on your now exposed shoulder, spotting the wound from the werewolf demon now irritated and red with pus seeping out of it

the demon had been able to subdue you so quickly because you’d technically already been afflicted before, and now it was a race against time before it was able to completely overpower you

with a snap the bedroom door flies open, a rugged looking chan standing with a bible and a slim jar of what you could only guess was holy water

“c-chan,” you echo his name just as the late father jinyoung had, feeling dread sweep over your entire being as another wave of pus pushes out of the inflicted wound on your bare shoulder, “leave, be-before you get hurt-”

“I won’t run away from you, y/n,” he whimpers softly, stepping closer to your now convulsing body as he flips to a page in his bible, “you’re not going to get hurt because of me... not again.”

you find that you’re too exhausted to argue, instead nodding your head silently

“I - I trust you, chan. you’re an exorcist, you can do this-” you stop in your tracks, heaving in pain as a spurt of red blood shoots out from between your cracked lips

with no hesitation at all, the silver-haired man clears his throat and continues to stare you down, occasionally glancing back down to his bible as he perfectly recites the words for the exorcism

he splashes a dosage of holy water onto your skin, wincing as you let out a screech of pain - but he knows it’s not you reacting that way, it’s the demon possessing you

in a matter of seconds he’s performed the passage perfectly, not once stuttering or saying a word incorrectly like he had in England

a wave of relief causes you to topple over when the evil presence vanishes completely from your body, but before you can hit the floor chan has wrapped his arms under yours to hold you up steadily

“I sent the family out to call an ambulance and other members of their church - you’re going to be okay, I promise.” he speaks to you softly, brushing your now frazzled hair out of your face

“I knew you could do it, you know.”

“but - but how, y/n?”

“because I trust you with my life, bang chan.”

[freedom-of-fanfic]

Hi, I have a question! What exactly would intersectional feminism look like? I ask because I see a lot of lip service but not a lot of action, and I'd like to know what I can actually do to help out.

good question.

first I want to point you to the roots of intersectional feminism as an idea, theory, and practice: a theory of feminism specifically about the experiences of Black women in the US. 

While the theory of being intersectional with your feminism is practicable/applicable in terms of any intersection of negative effects of patriarchy & other types of marginalization, the specific conceptualization of intersectional feminism was developed by Professor Kimberlé Crenshaw in response to observing & experiencing the intersection of anti-black racism and misogyny and how that changed the experience with both. In her words: “The basic term came out of a case where I was looking at black women who were being discriminated against, not just as black people and not just as women, but as black women.” (x) That is: it’s not as simple as experiencing both anti-black racism and misogyny: where they intersect, anti-black racism & misogyny compound, forming a new, specific type of oppression that’s unique from each of its parts. a form of oppression only experienced by/inflicted on black women (and sometimes inflicted on those incorrectly perceived as black women).

so I’d check out what she has to say on it before anything I have to say on it. And on that note:

Here’s Professor Crenshaw giving a TED talk about intersectional feminism

Mapping the Margins: Intersectionality, Identity Politics, and Violence Against Women of Color by Professor Crenshaw

An interview with Professor Crenshaw contextualizing violence against Black communities (women particularly) & defending against that violence

In building her theory of intersections of oppression, Kimberlé Crenshaw coined the term ‘intersectionality’ as a holistic look at how a form of systemic marginalization hurts any one person. and in this way, intersectionality in our feminism is applicable to other intersections of hurt. For example: a burka-wearing person in a wheelchair experiences marginalization in a way that only another burka-wearing person in a wheelchair could, and demanding/advocating better treatment, respect, and recognition for people who wear burkas and people who use wheelchairs at the same time is going to do good for all burka-wearing people who regularly use wheelchairs.

What that ‘looks like’ is going to really depend on the situation, imho, and I think it’s different on a personal vs macro level. my (very rough, very simplified) take on how to practice intersectionality in your feminism is:

on an individual level: 

setting aside your assumptions or judgement about a person’s* situation, lifestyle, and experiences - particularly in places where they are ‘less’ accommodated or consideredat a societal scale than you (or also unaccommodated/unconsidered at a societal scale, but in a different way than you are.

listening closely to what a person says about themselves: what they experience, what they already have, and what (if anything) they request from you.

acting in accordance with what that person’s wants & requests rather than in accordance with what you think that person wants or needs.

respecting others as individuals by drawing on experience and education to inform your responses to them, but always remembering that previous information is a guideline, not a rulebook. 

This example by @star-anise of how intersectionality would have made the work at a women’s shelter much more effective is, imho, a good example of what intersectional feminism would target if put into practice at an individual level.

on a broad level:

particularly in areas where society treats you as ‘default’**, and therefore ‘normal’, consistently make an effort to be aware of your trained, subconscious assumptions about other people who deviate from the ‘default’.

particularly in situations where society treats you as ‘default’, and therefore you rarely encounter difficulties or discrimination in your daily life, consistently make an effort to be sensitive to how you may not notice inconveniences or outright harm other people experience in the same situations.

make a specific effort to broaden your sources of information by drawing on work from people of many demographics, experiences, and educational backgrounds. listen with particular care to people whose voices are usually ignored or drowned out - frequently people who are marginalized / marginalized in more than one way.

make a specific, ongoing effort to promote and signal boost the voices of people who have traditionally been ignored, pushed to the side, or ‘spoken over’ - frequently people who are marginalized / marginalized in more than one way.

(at the same time: don’t expect any one marginalized person to be a ‘spokesperson’ for all other similarly marginalized people. treat individuals as individuals. recognize that the experiences and opinions of any two people can be wildly different, even if their demographics are the same.)

take appropriate action on behalf of people in the ways you are asked to by those people, as opposed to taking action based on what you think is best for them.

when it’s appropriate***, help teach others. it can be hard to balance this, imho, between not speaking over other people who have disadvantages you don’t and also not demanding that disadvantaged people constantly educate everyone else about their difficulties, but I think it’s important.

recognize that inaction benefits/perpetuates the status quo, which is in favor of the current ‘default’ and hurts anyone who isn’t ‘default’. 

on a political level: 

where you can, use your privilege (or the intersection of privilege & lack thereof!) to protect others who don’t share your privilege. take action you’re safe to take on behalf of people who wouldn’t be safe to take that same action.

vote for people who pledge to protect & improve life for people in all kinds of disadvantaged situations. Make voting for those people a priority.

attend or support protests on behalf of people who have disadvantages you don’t have.

make donations to advocacy groups made up of the people they represent.

volunteer in fundraising, helping, supporting, etc people who have different disadvantages than you.

I’m sure there’s lots of stuff I didn’t mention that people can think of. but the long and short of it is: respect other people. listen to them. act in their best interest - not your assumption of what would be their best interest.

here’s some more links to stuff I’ve read about this & that might give you more food for thought:

what is intersectional feminism? in USAToday

academic study of intersectional feminism from a student of Denison

video about intersectional feminism on Braless

intersectional feminism vs white feminism in the Chicago Tribune

notes below the cut.

I used a lot of vague language about ‘marginalization other people have that you don’t’ in this post because that goes a lot of ways, and none of those experiences are necessarily comparable as ‘better’ or ‘worse’. they are each unique, though, and each person experiences them uniquely. that’s why the emphasis of intersectional feminism falls on listening to marginalized people, promoting their voices to others, and acting according to what they are saying rather than according to your own wishes or beliefs.

*I used ‘person’ instead of ‘woman’ because there’s a huge variety of people who might be in a situation where they are perceived as a woman or treated as a woman while not being a woman, or treated or perceived as a man while being a woman, and there’s nonbinary people and intersex people and just … a lot being covered here. I feel ‘person’ is insufficient to the meaning but I don’t know what else would be appropriately inclusive and quick.

**in america, some examples of the ‘default’, where deviation (especially in more than one way) creates disadvantages, oppression, and violence: white, male, cissex, perisex, straight & heteronormative, able-bodied, mentally healthy, of average intelligence, neurotypical, monogamous, protestant Christian/agnostic/’rationalist’, English as first/only language, etc.

***’where appropriate’ - imho: this is wherever the marginalized person speaking on their own behalf a) asks you to do it, b) the marginalized person would be endangered (but someone else - you - aren’t), or c) a place where the marginalized person isn’t and/or won’t be respected in speaking for themselves. 

for instance: a member of my family voted for Trump. He wouldn’t listen to me about Trump being a rapist & why that’s a reason to distrust him: as a perceived woman, he thought I was speaking based on my own biases.  but another cis male member of the family was able to make that family member understand the seriousness and horror I feel about Trump’s treatment of women. (Trump voter has since apologized to me, but it first needed to come from someone he respected already before he could start to respect me.)

and meanwhile, cis white women overwhelmingly voted for Trump - despite all the evidence he never respected women, white or not, and without any regard for - perhaps even because of - his xenophobic and racist platform. (that’s what you get when ‘feminism’ isn’t intersectional.)

[dadbodbobby]

I like how so many Christian conservatives claim modern ST is too political, meanwhile stanning the original 60’s show that featured 3 Jewish men, one of whom was Russian (Cold War), a black woman, and a Japanese man, all of whom were portrayed as experts at their jobs, but not absolute dickwads, and episodes that focused on genocide, racism, sexism, A MISSION OF PEACE BUT NOT COLONIZATION, and the only time someone else’s traditions were seen as bad and changed were when they were ACTIVELY HARMING OTHER PEOPLE.

And these neckbeards genuinely don’t know that these beloved characters would despise every single one of them.

(Yes I know that Kirk, Spock, and Chekov were never stated to be Jewish, but their actors are so until we’re told otherwise I’m going to headcanon their characters as Jewish).

Also that the creator of the show was a polyamorous agnostic.

Peace and love on the planet Star Trek. Everyone has to say one nice thing about Star Trek. I’ll start: I like their silly boots :)

[donatnetherlystudios]

                     The Downsizing

                   Chapter 1 – Fallout

  The dust and ash had settled, so we collectively thought after the third world war     hope was restoring itself. Families and friends of families ushered out to an atmosphere enshrined in sandy driven air, almost like mist with dirt. Craters lay everywhere from each major explosive that had set off and the radiation was finally dissipating. Mountains and deserts for miles were the only environments that could be seen,

not from war, but for this particular area of the country in general. As for our hope

and faith we relied upon, we couldn’t have been more wrong at the time.

    Previous allies who had long supported Americans such as Russia, China and others had turned against us at turning point in the war. The remaining ones took neutral stances. Anxiousness and fear were overloading them to oppose what had become new superpowers. Our allies in UK, Canada, Australia and Israel were still with us to the end. Sadly, they would suffer the same consequences we did. The only thing that saved us from total destruction was nuclear chaos in every country, no one knew where they came from. Every country was alone now dealing with their own woes. Betrayals came from every spectrum, but none as sinister as that of our own. Our own military had dissolved due to casualties from war and the government in place collapsed. When the opportunity arose the remaining officials and military who had planned for takeover assembled. They rose up and formed a dictatorship led government, with the army itself forming into more of a widespread militia. Our country had become what some of us had felt about other nations before it started, third world. Common folk were treated like peasants in medieval times. Labor camps were installed left and right, barricaded, highly fenced, heavily gated and with plenty of militia to keep everything exactly how the government wanted it.

    Militia was dressed in all black with red symbols of a picture of our great country in the center and an X over it to show their anti-American sentiment. Politicians who were actually against the new order had either fled the country or taken up with the new ones to become just as corrupt. Our encampments were called settlements, with tents seen for miles in the distance. “Move along.” says one soldier as they scramble us forward like cattle. Militia quarters mirrored actual building structures made of stone and steel. Laughing, drinking, and all types of rustling sounds could be heard from structures. Frankly, it made me sick. The tents were more quieting since the majority always felt defeated, ashamed or just weary of how things unfolded and how much worse they could actually get.

    My name is Eve, which suits me because I had always wanted the forbidden fruit, so to speak. I was in fact named after Eve from the bible as my mother was of the Christian faith. My father had always been more of a realist though and was an agnostic who believed if there was a God, things wouldn’t have gone down the way they did, with so much suffering. In the long period before the order had come together properly, there was a time of dead silence everywhere. We were alone from other people, but we didn’t care, since we were together as a family.

    A gun goes off in the middle of my daydream and rattles me with me almost jumping in the air. “Shit” – I turn around to catch a glimpse of who was eliminated and realize it was the old man who mentored my father, who had just turned 70. I walked forward while the line and militia were moving the opposite direction to investigate further. “You’re going to get caught” came from a familiar voice. It was Emmy, my best friend in the settlement, possibly my only friend. Heeding her advice, I turn around, met with being struck in the face with the back of a militia hand. “Next time you’ll get the gauntlet” he muttered as he pushed me back in line. The gauntlet was a solo event the militia devised for their evil amusement and found one poor soul being forced to wander across a field while soldiers from all sides took places shooting them. It wouldn’t be merciful and fast because the person in question would be shot in areas less severe and gradually getting worse until they reached close to the end. Most were dead from bleeding out before they got there. Thinking further back I started to remember my father teaching me survival skills from a tender age that involved archery, throwing knives, scavenging and surviving in the wilderness. Guns weren’t permitted for civilians even then, so they were out of the question. He always told me the ammo would run out anyways. A loud noise of a piercing sound mixed with a siren commenced to go off and snapped me out of my daze. I recognized it as the escape siren, this time a group of five attempting blitzing some soldiers and forcing through the gates, only to be put down a few seconds later from gun fire. Any people attempting escape were killed and disposed of in the desert. We all knew when deaths occurred, despite our captors giving us light explanations of the missing. It had become like concentration camps from the second world war, only in the year 2032. All ammunition had begun running extremely low and other resources declined not far behind it.

    Men who were able bodied were put to heavy labor working the fields or in construction. Women were treated as if they worked in sweat shops and treated as objects or toys for the militia to play with. Elderly people and those with major disabilities were terminated quickly to preserve supplies. Pregnancies were forbidden, with any woman and her offspring wiped out shortly after it was known. We’d hear babies cries and painful screams from the women giving birth. Following that was dead silence, which seemed worse than the noise. As we knew what that meant.

“Time is 21:00, all civilians please return to your homes” blurted out over the PA, as people everywhere scrambled away like mice. My face was the shade of the bark on a tree from the mud and debris I had worked with all day. My hair was matted against my head and shoulders from sweat and the color copied the same shade. I was still only 20 years old and small but was lean and agile. My skin was tan from all of the sunlight and even though I was of Indian descent I had always been a lighter skin color than my family. The rebellious side of me was from the Irish in my blood, as well as me holding my liquor whenever we could sneak some from the passed-out soldiers on more idle days.

    Nothing to see in front of me, everything pitch dark. Soldiers had streetlights but they were as good as useless. They would sway back and forth and flicker nonstop against the midnight backdrop. A light came into view from the distance and I could finally tell it was my tent. A candle sat in the doorway with a bell, as I would post it there as my porch light and used a cowbell to pretend as a doorbell. Gradually I winded down for the night plugging my ears with a mix of cloth, leaves and other material worked into a ball with doughy material. As I lay there, I think back to the day my parents were killed. Both had come ill and the moment those bastards found out they were spoon fed a kind of quick acting poison. I was only 16 at the time. My father could sense he was fading from a source other than his illness and was able to tell me bye. My mother never got the chance, she plummeted a mere minute or so after the poisoning. I was handed over more lies of how it happened but had an inside source who told me the real events.

    That evening I lie motionless, with every inch of my body asleep. Clattering noises tap the ground back and forth, nudging me partially awake. Telling myself its due to the wind is what becomes of it. The corner of my eye catches a shadow lingering behind me and showing a silhouette on my tent. My candle makes it like a light show. Finally, I hear obvious footprints in the back, leaving me completely petrified. Unsure how but the shadow seems to fade as fast as it came, and I decide I’ll be alright. “Cling” – My cowbell drops off its foothold and to the ground. The sound shakes me enough to cause me to finally turn around toward the tent flap opening. It is now wide open, even though I safety pin it at lights out. I remain there speechless and dumbfounded, frozen in place. As I turn around a hand is already grabbing me by the arms and forcing me to my cot. Though it’s still dark, I recognize the force to be one of the soldiers clearly drunk. I screamed but it was done in vain, as no reinforcements would come to aid me. The heavy smell of tobacco and alcohol was enough to cause anyone to gag. He grabbed my miniscule wrists using only one hand. Meanwhile he hit me several times with the other to silence me, as by that time I had given up waiting on anyone else. Bloodied and beaten I was severely weakened, but I came from a family of survivors and fighters. His sweat and mine allowed my hands to slip from his grasp, but still on top of me. Using all the weight I could whip around and forward; I landed a few strikes with my fists to which he barely flinched. He smacks me again and my arms flop beside me. As he leans forward, I feel my arm thinking its way over to the side of me. Though dark I can feel the insignia on my Mother’s pen knife lying on the bedside table.

    As fast as he was there, my right arm flew forward and forced the pen knife into his chest. Feeling he would fall over any second and I’d be free were my only thoughts, not thinking about alternative possibilities. Slowly he pulled out the knife, glaring at me with his evil, bloodshot eyes and a smile that showed me just how little effect my short-lived attack had on him. He was simply too strong and overpowering. I was winded and my head lay to the side toward the tent entrance. I concentrate on the candle, attempting to black out what is ahead of me and try and imagine a different place. Although the entire event took only a few minutes, I was raped for what seemed like hours. A tear crawled down my cheek, as my innocence was ended. I’ve never been one to cry, but one could fill a river with the amount occurring at the time. The sheets were painted red from his blood and mine. They were also damp from sweat and tears. The air itself was suffocating because all of the malice around and the fact he smelt like a chimney. Since most of our settlements were in the deserts, he had dry chapped skin. As he rubbed up against me, that dryness could be felt to the left and made even lying beside him more unpleasant than it needed to be. Snoring and sleep grunting seeped from his vocals and I could sense he was passed out. After I had peeked around and confirmed it, I had my eyes set on the way out. I slowly backed away from my side of the bed and dropped to the side, before making my way around the front end and making a break for my front flap entrance.

    Although still shaken and frighten, I manage to stumble through our row of tents trying to seek out a safe place to finish out my night. “Thud” – Falling to the ground out of exhaustion I collapse. Sobbing proceeds to take over as I start to release the cries of anguish I had longed for earlier. The tent flap opens, and a girl approaches I recognize as Emmy, who assists me off the ground and inside, before penning the flap back up and walking me over to the bed to be able to sleep my pains off. She lie beside me stroking my hair and just whispering it’ll be alright. Sounds of my crying didn’t cease so she simply allowed me to finish it out, before I eventually drifted to sleep.

    Barely a month following the assault, I found I was indeed pregnant with my abuser’s child after being a few weeks late. Knowing the consequences for me and the child, I foolishly had thoughts of attempting escape to a border state away from New Mexico. Alas, the gates were heavily guarded and little way over the fence, so I returned to reality. Emmy comforted me with her only advice being something we came to call back alley abortions. It was a play on words, since we had no alleys and were out in the desert. They simply took place in a secluded area of camp where nothing had been constructed and were out of view of any lighting not provided. They were risky and dangerous, as the procedure wasn’t precise and couldn’t possibly be unsterile. A risk of being caught was a common fear at the same time, with patrols not sticking to their normal routes for certain all the time. Unlike some young mothers I actually yearned to keep my child, for they were from me and would be the last family I ever had. Arriving at the vacant tent, Emmy ushered in her light. The stand in doctor asked if I was ready and I reluctantly nodded. He approached me and I chose to swing my head to the side to black it out and bury it like other traumas. The physical pain was immense but didn’t compare to the emotional pain I would endure. Thoughts of vengeance consumed me with the thoughts of violence spiking as we approached the end of the event. Although the doctor and Emmy are mumbling in the background, I remain still and as dead as before. From those moments on I swore nothing like that would happen again and that it wouldn’t be the end, but the beginning of a revolution. My abuser would be my first target and just as he had snuck into my tent in the dead of night, I would use a stealth tactic to get to him. I figured it wouldn’t require much to amp the settlement up into an uprising, as things had been heated between the men and soldiers for the past year. I couldn’t save my family but was going to save my friends I had and other’s families from this abusive new nation by any means necessary. Only after they had been overturned would I find peace and a restful heart.

    I’ve always heard time heals all wounds, it wasn’t something I believed in. My mother’s gift of dispensing hope and faith caught ahold of me, meshed with my brain absorbing my father’s training in survival. If this new tyranny thought it was over and that the rest of us would remain their slaves, they were wrong.

[nofomoartworld]

Hyperallergic: The Heavy Metal Symbolism of the Salon Rose+Croix

Jean Delville, “The Death of Orpheus (Orphée mort)” (1893), oil on canvas, 79.3 x 99.2 cm, Royal Museums of Fine Arts, Belgium (© 2017 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York/SABAM, Brussels. Photo © Royal Museums of Fine Arts, Belgium, Brussels: J. Geleyns-Ro scan)

Looking at the paintings in Mystical Symbolism: The Salon of the Rose+Croix, 1892-97 at the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, New York, it is clear that 19th-century France had an infinitely more interesting fin-de-siècle flip-out than we did in the 20th. We had Y2K and The Celestine Prophecy, while they had Josephin Péladan and the Salon Rose+Croix.

Péladan was a writer whose novel, Le Vice Suprême, which advocated the benefits of the occult religions of the Ancient Near East, was the publishing phenomenon of 1884. The next seven years were a rush of events: he cultivated a daring hairstyle, and with some like-minded confrères, formed a mystical brotherhood — the Ordre Kabbalistique de la Rose+Croix. Then came disagreements, the dissolution of the brotherhood, and the creation of a competing order, Ordre de la Rose + Croix du Temple et du Graal ou de la Rose + Croix Catholique, in 1890. He named himself “Imperator” and “Super Magician,” and, in part to distance himself from his former brothers, sponsored its first salon two years later.

In his call for participation, Péladan rejected the art of the officially sanctioned École des Beaux-Arts as well as its increasingly successful Impressionist challengers. As the rules for the participating artists in the Salon asserted, “The Salon de la Rose + Croix wants to ruin realism, reform Latin taste and create a school of idealist art.” The strain of art that most answered these demands was Symbolism. Symbolism emphasized the spiritual (if not religious) in art, music, and literature and favored a hermetic sensibility of art for art’s sake. As Péladan wrote in the catalog of the first salon, exhorting its participants: ‘Artist, you are priest…Artist, you are king…Artist, you are magus.’

Pierre Amédée Marcel-Béronneau, “Orpheus in Hades (Orphée)” (1897), oil on canvas, 194 x 156 cm, Musée des Beaux-Arts, Marseille (© Claude Almodovar/Collection du Musée des Beaux-Arts, Marseille)

Péladan’s rules explicitly banned all humorous, patriotic, or banal topics, so the resulting tone of the works selected — some 40 paintings and drawings — is heavy with portent. If you are female and wearing clothes, then you likely have your hands clasped and your eyes either modestly downcast or raised ecstatically to heaven. If you are male and not Péladan himself, portrayed in sumptuous robes, it is likely you are Orpheus.

If you are female and not wearing clothes, while you may also clasp your hands, you are free to take other poses as well. In Charles Maurin’s “Dawn of Labor” (1891), for instance, a variety of nudes loll and stride about, clutching their breasts. To symbolize Liberty, one woman, impressively, rides a rearing white horse bareback, backwards, clutching a knife and a hammer.

Charles Maurin, “The Dawn of Labor (L’aurore du travail)” (ca. 1891), oil on canvas, 79 x 148 cm, Musée d’art moderne et contemporain, Saint Étienne Métropole, France (courtesy Yves Bresson, Musée d’art moderne et contemporain, Saint Étienne Métropole, Franc)

This sense of artists as visionary magi who are the only ones paying attention to the deeper sensations of life, which apparently include buxom women whose motives and morals are uncertain at best, combined with an illustrational devotion to idealized figures, lends itself to an aesthetic that would be best characterized as Heavy Metal. Two of Jean Delville’s works would make excellent album covers, and in fact, “Idol of Perversity” (1891), a meticulously rendered drawing in graphite on paper of a semi-nude woman crowned with snakes, already has. One serpent strays into the cleavage of her gravity-resistant breasts, en route to her rounded belly. Her face is in shadow, but her eyes gleam balefully from their sockets — though not nearly with the intensity of the slightly cross-eyed gaze of her nipples.

In “Death of Orpheus” (1893), another work by Delville, Orpheus’ severed head, nested in his lyre but still singing poetry, floats down the river Hebrus after having been torn from his body by maenads. Orpheus’s head, as richly maned as a lead guitarist’s, glows greenly against the water, which ripples in neat folds to the edge of the canvas. In the foreground, at an improbable angle, a few exotic mollusks gleam beneath the water. The waves are scattered with the reflections of stars that shine so brightly they seem to rise above the surface of the water.

Whatever his strictures on content, Péladan was agnostic about surface. Delville’s smoothly detailed approach, for instance, keeps company with that of Pierre Amédée Marcel-Béronneau, who studied with Gustave Moreau. Marcel-Béronneau also depicts Orpheus, this time playing his lyre for Hades, with a rich and toothsome surface. (Concealed in the darkness among the textured brushstrokes are seemingly endless anecdotal details of underworldly miseries, all gaping mouths and dripping blood). Jan Toorop’s painting “The New Generation” (1892), although painted in oil on canvas, seems to be carved from wood. Alphonse Osbert’s “Vision” (1892) and Henri Martin’s “Young Saint” (1891), meanwhile, use short, opaque, almost Impressionist marks.

Henri Martin, “Young Saint (Jeune sainte)” (1891), oil on canvas, 65.4 x 49.3 cm, Musée des Beaux-Arts, Brest, France (photo © Musée des Beaux-Arts, Brest, France)

The latter two paintings bring us into the territory of the clothed and pious female, which instead of album jackets, would go well on the covers of Thomas Hardy novels. Osbert’s “Vision” is hung particularly successfully: its pale, cool palette against the red walls of the exhibition space seems to gush light. The young woman with clasped hands in the center of the canvas makes religious visions seem accessible: just stand very still in a misty, dawn-yellow meadow in the company of an adoring sheep and look up.

Nearby is another ambitious canvas, “The Disappointed Souls,” by the Swiss artist Ferdinand Hodler, who was probably the most prominent of the artists to exhibit at the Salon Rose+Croix. Neither the shape nor the subject for the cover of a book or album (though its long and narrow format might go well wrapped around a coffee mug), it also taps into a different, more desperate mood than the other works. If part of fin-de-siècle anxiety yields from uncertainty about the future (Paul Gaugin’s painting “Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?” dates to 1897) part of our interest in it has to do with our awareness of how events actually turned out. By the last of the Salons Rose+Croix in 1897, the ascendance of Modernism was less than ten years away, with World War I not far on its heels. The Hodler, with the flat, mottled color of its landscape not unlike the Cubist earth tones of Picasso and Braque, and the tragic expressions of the black-robed, refugee-like figures, seems the most prescient.

Ferdinand Hodler, “The Disappointed Souls (Les âmes déçues)” (1892), oil on canvas, 120 x 299 cm, Kuntsmuseum Bern, Staat Bern (courtesy Kuntsmuseum Bern, Staat Bern)

This sensation is underscored by the exhibition’s location at the top of the nautilus swirl of the Guggenheim’s concretized eschatology of modern art, currently embodied by Solomon R. Guggenheim’s original collection, hung chronologically. Visiting the show thus is like stepping into a magical and mildly histrionic cul-de-sac of history. Its pleasure is in appreciating a range of little-seen paintings, all held together by the thread of Péladan’s taste. The importance of Péladan as the mastermind behind the Salon is emphasized visually by several portraits of him in assorted mystical and majestic poses, but the curators do not elaborate on the origins or details of his philosophies. This is perhaps because of the fundamental anti-Semitism of his Catholic splinter group and the more overt racism of one of his rules (he excluded art relating to Asian religions and philosophies — in less polite words). Perhaps they were merely daunted by the task of expressing it all in words concisely enough to print on a wall. Either way, the sense of his voice, if not his eye, is strangely lacking without reading the catalog. The Super Magician would be disappointed.

Mystical Symbolism: The Salon of the Rose+Croix, 1892-97 continues at the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum (1071 Fifth Avenue, Upper East Side, Manhattan) through October 4.

The post The Heavy Metal Symbolism of the Salon Rose+Croix appeared first on Hyperallergic.

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[benrleeusa]

[David E. Bernstein] More on the Liu Nomination: "Bias" and "Racism" Aren't Synonyms

Imagine that a well-known conservative federal judge has a last-minute need for a clerk, and it's important to him to have a clerk who shares his general political ideology. He gets two applicants. One is white woman from a small town in Kansas who went to the University of Kansas Law School and notes on her c.v. that she teaches Sunday school at an evangelical church. The other is an African American man from New York City who went to Yale Law School and notes on his c.v. that he is a vice-president of the local chapter of the Skeptic's Society. Both list "member of the Federalist Society" on their c.v.

So the only direct evidence we have of the ideology of the applicants is that they are both members of a conservative legal organization. Which one might you expect the judge to have suspicions about, ideology-wise?

The easy answer would be the male. Our Bayesian priors would be that being African-American, from a heavily blue area, a "skeptic" (unlikely to be religous), and a graduate of Yale Law School are demographic indicia of liberalism. Put them all together, and a judge may need a lot of convincing that the applicant is "really" a conservative.

I think that the easy answer often going to be the right answer, even though the judge may in fact be looking at it the wrong way. One could argue instead that it's easy enough for someone like the female candidate to join the Federalist Society--she's from a conservative part of the country, she went to a law school in that part of the country, and the people she associates with in church are generally conservative. She could easily join Fed Soc without thinking twice, even if she doesn't have an especially well-thought-out worldview, and even if many political positions she does hold aren't conservative.

By contrast, the male candidate likely grew up around people who not only identified as liberal Democrats, but many of whom thought of Republicans and conservatives as "the enemy." Attending Yale Law School only provided further reinforcement of such attitudes. As an African American, he is constantly challenged by liberals of all races of how he could align with "the enemy." His social circle of skeptics tends to be disdainful toward conservatives, especially religious ones. If he nevertheless publicly identifies as a conservative, this suggests that he's thought about things deeply, and despite being constantly challenged, and at times perhaps socially shunned, for his views, he is steadfast.

If the judge happens to be a black conservative--when I said "well-known conservative judge," you pictured a white person, right?--he is much less likely to approach the decisionmaking process with a bias toward thinking the African American candidate isn't really conservative. But the white judge you had pictured in your head may very well have that bias, having not had the experience of identifying as a conservative in a hostile ideological and social environment.

This gets us back to my post about the barriers Neomi Rao and Jessie Liu faced when President Trump nominated them to high-level positions. Some critics have suggested that I accused their leading critics, Sens. Josh Hawley and Mike Lee, respectively, of racism and maybe antisemitism for suggesting that the nominees being women of color who are not members of conservative churchs may have played a role in the opposition.

Here's what I wrote: "Please note that I'm not accusing the Senators in question of antisemitism. Nor am I accusing them of conscious racism. But I do suspect that in certain conservative circles, people have an image in their head of what a 'trustworthy' conservative looks like, and that person is white, likely male, and a religious Christian. Those who don't fit that mold are more likely to have their conservative credentials questioned."

Miy bad, at least in part, for not making it clear that in not accusing the Senators of conscious racism, I wasn't accusing them of unconscious racism, either, but of "bias" in the social science sense. In my judge hypothetical, I think it would be grossly unfair to say that a judge who, based on demographic heuristics, was more trusting of the female applicants' conservatism than of the male's, was being "racist." Rather, his strong, empirically-based Bayesian priors (a "bias") of the likelihood of an agnostic black male Yale law graduate being conservative created a cognitive bias which would be difficult for that applicant to overcome.

Of course, it could be that Hawley and Lee were piqued at Rao and Liu, or at Trump, or at the AG, for undisclosed reasons and just used their purported ideological untrustworthiness as their public excuse. But that wouldn't explain why so many conservative bloggers and some interest groups were so eager to jump on their bandwagons, even though they were entirely accepting of other nominees whose conservative (including pro-life) credentials were far from well-established. Indeed, some of these same people and groups have expressed a vocal president for certain potential Supreme Court nominees, based on little more than knowledge that these potential nominees are people of traditionalist Chrisitan faith.

For the reasons noted above, it's not at all clear that someone who fits the demographic mold of a "Christian conservative" is going to be a more steadfast judicial or legal conservative than someone who doesn't. But regardless, when the only two high-level Trump attorney nominees to get public opposition from prominent conservative Senators based on little more than hearsay and speculation don't fit the demographic mold, it suggest a "bias" favoring those who do. And that's why I suggested that the Republicans are skating close to identity politics.

ASIDE: It would be nice if my critics would be more careful with their facts. Just for example, at the Federalist Kyle Sammon references Liu's "longtime membership in the National Association of Women Lawyers." As I understand it, Liu was involved in the NAWL for less than two years, and, according to her account, quit because the organization was getting too political (and left-wing). She quit in 2006.

It would also be nice if the critics were more consistent. The "objective" basis for opposition to Liu was that she was involved in the NAWL when it opposed Alito and filed a pro-choice amicus brief. Liu personally and publicly supported Alito's nomination, and no one has presented evidence that she agreed with the brief. Meanwhile, one of my critics, Cleta Mitchell, began her career as a liberal feminist Congresswoman. My critics also support Donald Trump, who was publicly pro-choice until he started contemplating a run for president as a Republican. Based on their own implicit criteria, Mitchell and Trump should be forever blackballed from any important role in conservative politics, on much stronger evidence than they have re Liu.