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paperboy-pb · 1 year ago

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"A Very Special Day" [Life Story]

[TW for: ableism against kids, internalized ableism, and mentions of suicidal ideation.]

9 years ago today, in the state of New York on September 5th, was my second day of 6th grade. Being a Special Ed kid, I was upset; my school, a K-8 that I had been with since the start and stayed with until the end, had always treated us so differently. And the world around me had promised that things would change once middle school began. But they hadn't. In fact, barely anything was new at all.

Same old baby talk from adults who saw me every day, but willfully ignored how big I had grown.

Same old bullying from my peers, disabled children who spent their days as pots calling kettles black, because no one had any intentions of teaching us better.

Same Adapted Phys Ed, getting ready to interrupt my morning reading every Monday, Wednesday, Friday; even though they'd promised to let me play in Gym with the rest of my class years ago by now.

Same old kids from the neighborhood filling up the rest of my grade, coming in smiling and laughing and oh so free in their new groups of 30. 30-something of them. 12 of us.

They'd even gotten some new kids from the K-5s around town. All of which seemed really nice. Man. Lucky them. Meanwhile, everything was so same-y that I'd considered running away from the school bus when it pulled up.

September 5th, 2014. Still kinda hot in Brooklyn. Sunny out there.

The day had gone bad. My classmates were talking FNAF, and being mean about things I don't remember. They flicked food at me during lunch while I tried to read and mind my own business. We weren't allowed to change seats, even though the rest of our grade got that privilege. It was supposed to be for all of us middle schoolers, but when I'd asked the day before, our lunch aide had no idea what I was on about. She suddenly insisted it was never a thing! While the rest of our grade was splitting into cliques behind her back, paying us no mind, knowing they'd somehow earned it and we didn't.

10-year-old me couldn't wait to go home.

By the end of the day, I was drained like no other. Head down on the desk and all. I was thinking, 2:20-something. Just a few more minutes.

God, why are things like this? Is it gonna get better later this year? I hope so, it's only the second day. Maybe it just starts bad!

Man, I miss summer already. I wish I spent today home all day eating onion ring chips again and playing Animal Crossi--

"Alright guys, listen up!" Said Mrs. Z, who would pretty much be our only teacher this year. (Meanwhile, everyone else got to have different people for different subjects.)

I don't remember her exact words. But she held up a white booklet with a bunch of kids holding hands and awkwardly smiling at us from the mostly-white cover. She said something about it being very important. And she ended her little stanza with, and I quote, "DON'T read these, alright? It's for your parents."

I think that one line changed the trajectory of my life.

As our para handed them out, my bookworm ass couldn't help but furrow my little brows. I'd had teachers assume certain books were "too hard" for me when they weren't, and get upset at me whenever I summarized the plot of them correctly. I'd had teachers tell me not to read other books during class, which was fair enough, I guess. But a teacher telling me not to read something at ALL?

Now THAT'S a new one...

It felt plasticy, not like paper. It's a packet, not a book. Six kids in a row, but none look like me, as usual. The cover said, "Family Guide To Special Education Services for School-Age Children. A Shared Path to Success." ...I don't think a title should be that long. Why not parentheses that end bit?

After that, we were dismissed. Me & some peers headed into the hallway down to the first floor to wait for our bus, and we chatted about it a little bit?

One was like, "Is this a report card or something?"

Another was like, "I guess?"

The first boy skimmed it, though, and saw nothing about him. Which eased his nerves.

A third asked me what I thought it was since I was the only kid who'd hit a Z-reading level. They figured I could make sense of it. And my first thought was boring adult stuff, or some sort of... after-school? Program? Thing? But I didn't really answer. I was too preoccupied with what Mrs. Z said.

What kind of teacher tells me not to read something? Give it to my parents is one thing, but specifically, "don't" read this? Dude! What doesn't she want me to see?

Everyone else had tossed the damn thing into their bookbags and zipped 'em up by now. We headed downstairs, and I couldn't help but notice that our 6th grade class was on the third floor; with a lot of grades 2-4 around us.

Meanwhile, the rest of the big middle school classes came down from higher up. It turns out that they all had their classes high up on the top floor. A bunch of bright minds floated down from above like they were that summer's fireflies, and we were the tips of night grass. Or maybe even worms, burrowing into the dirt and calling it a day.

...

By the time the bus was moving, I still had the packet in my hands. I was wondering why they all got to be up there and we didn't. We lived pretty close to Coney Island, after all: it must be cool seeing the parachute jump from the hallway window on your way down every day.

I barely had time to stuff the packet in my hands once we pulled up to my apartment.

If you've ever wondered what Kid Jonah was like, imagine some sort of hybrid between a miserable little nerd & the most optimistic goody-goody you've ever met. Like, yeah, I'd been in a few fights by this point, broken some rules behind their backs, but I was also... 10. And known for being "THE good kid" in front of teachers. I didn't like to defy them, you know? Even if they did always make me feel weird, or on-edge, or like I was a part of something bad.

So when I made a beeline for my room, I was like, Oh my God, I'm actually gonna do this...? And I didn't tell my parents a thing. I've kept the packet all this time and they STILL haven't read it!

But I did. I think I hesitated, but I remember opening it on my bed.

"Welcome.

Dear families, we've come a long way since our special education reform initiative, A Shared Path to Success, was launched citywide in 2012... we've also been changing hearts and minds as our core belief- that special education is a service, and not a place- has taken hold in our schools...

Section 1... Children learn at different speeds and in different ways. Some children have physical and/or intellectual disabili..."

WHAT?!

...

It was a really dense packet for a kid. Long, boring, seemed endless. But I understood the words. Especially that D one. And at the time, 10-year-old me knew it was a bad one.

I'd crossed the point of no return by then. I kept reading. And I didn't dare skip a word. "Intervention," "Special," "Disability," "Meeting," "Evaluation," "Eligibility," "IEP,"-- Hey, I know that word! IEPs are the dense things stapled to my report cards!

I remember the anger flaring in my heart, out my nose, widening my eyes once I got to the Eligibility bit. I thought, and I quote, "THEY THINK WE'RE DISABLED?!" I don't think words can articulate how insulted little 10-year-old me was!

...I don't think I can articulate how sad that is now, either. How do you instill such heavy ableism into a little boy like that? How do you live with yourself?

But I couldn't throw the book at the wall or take one of my mom's lighters to it like I initially wanted. Because I realized pretty quickly... Oh my God. This is it. These are THE ANSWERS! THIS IS WHY IT'S ALL HAPPENING!

I couldn't believe my eyes as I took it all in. The 13 disabilities that landed me and my friends in this mess, some of which matched up with certain kids I knew right away. But what really caught my attention were the services. Terms that I KNEW about. Things I engaged with. Things I... hated.

"Occupational Therapy." That nice older lady who takes me out of class every few days so I can play memory games, or play with this hand-gripper, or yank pegs outta this bright green putty.

"Paraprofessional Services"; those weird second-teachers that annoy us and only us, but never anyone else in the other classes. They're so stuck-up sometimes! And they never really seem to know how to leave us alone. Especially certain kids.

The stories I could tell about them all now... good fucking lord.

Physical Therapy; That's the one where the lady is always making me feel bad about things and do sit-ups or run drills in the hallway and stairwell... and do embarrassing stretches like people aren't walking by.

And she got upset with me because I brought a lunchbox every day for years; she told me, "You'll never be a big kid if you keep bringing food from home, Jonah!"

And I told her, "But my mom doesn't even make the sandwiches anymore! I make them for myself!"

And she was like, "But still!"

She also measures her footstep, saying it was a foot of distance. Like, 12 inches. But nuh-uh, it was never a foot! Her sneakers aren't that big. Rulers are longer. Why didn't she just get a measuring tape? What's this lady's problem?

The one that sunk my heart, though, was Adapted Phys Ed. The packet said it was "A specially designed program of developmental activities, games, sports, and rhythms suited to the interests, capabilities, and limitations of individual children who may now safely or successfully participate in the activities of a regular physical education program."

And I thought: ...That's the watered-down gym class I do three times a week.

The one where we do "challenges" like stepping into each hole of an agility ladder mat and doing a squat before moving to the next.

The one where we never play sports like everybody else gets to do.

The one that makes the gym teacher sit me out on the bleachers by myself, and watch literally everybody else I know have fun. And when I ask why, nobody tells me anything.

The one where I ask how I can improve in order to go play with everybody else, but nobody tells me anything.

The one where Mrs. D keeps promising me that I'll get to play with the rest of my class soon... but it never comes true.

This is why everybody acts so weird around us.

This is why we can't even talk to the rest of our grade.

This is why nothing ever changes...!

It all made sense. 10-year-old me couldn't feel the floor or the bed anymore. The back of my mind buzzed like shaken soda, fizzling against the back of my skull. I didn't cry. I didn't have tears. But I did sink down, down into the depths of I-don't-even-know-where.

I went time-traveling back to May of last school year, where a Special Ed kid the grade above me was saying to his classmate, "We're all just the kids nobody wants." But I didn't have context. Was this the context? He sounded like he was about to cry.

I went back to 4th grade when I headed into the bathroom and saw two kids from my grade walk by with papers promoting the talent show to everybody. I saw the text written on them clear as day! And I got excited; Our school's having a talent show? COOL! We must be getting those later today, too!

The papers never came.

I went back to 3rd grade, where paras would hover over our class during lunch, but nobody else's. They always stood tall above and between us, like they were a scarecrow keeping the birds of our grade away.

And there was so much. More. Than that.

...

I still wonder why Z didn't want me seeing that. Maybe she knew I would spiral or label myself. But at the same time... that's a learned behavior. Ableism is a hatred, and hatred is learned. From ADULTS. One that she and the rest of the school could at least try to curb if she noticed.

Z wasn't a bad lady. I think she was trying to protect me? But... we already knew we were being treated unfairly. Why would keeping this secret protect me?

The anger only lasted a little while. Because something else dawned on me.

I can't stay here.

This place had been upsetting me for YEARS. And now I knew that it was happening for a reason. A shitty one, but still... a reason. It's not just bad luck. And that it wasn't going to change unless I removed that reason from their minds.

I had to leave. Sound familiar?

The next day we had school? I was completely shaken up. Kinda surprised no one noticed. I was finally seeing just how deep this all went. The teachers smiling in my face, baby-talking, getting reallll close while having this sense of disgust in their eyes.

The staggering difference in numbers between "normal" classes and ours.

Our class locations.

I even found this board on the first floor that had a picture of every teacher and what they taught. Sure enough, "Special Education" was specified in the label for every teacher I'd ever had. I was even able to find the next teachers I'd have for Grades 7 & 8. And my blood went cold because I knew those two particular ladies were pretty mean.

My school was DEFINITELY failing that, "Special Ed is a service, not a place!" shit the state allegedly wanted to accomplish. It was a place. And I... was trapped.

And I couldn't stay trapped. Because as far as I knew, education was everything. I was a very academic little boy back then. And I didn't know what staying in a place like this could mean for my education later down the line.

I didn't want to find out.

I also didn't want my social life restricted like this. Especially since there weren't many kids who treated me well. I wanted freedom. I wanted independence. I wanted a chance to actually find real friends!

And this is sad, but... I was already very depressed by that age. Due to the nature of Special Ed at school. Had been since 8. And so... I made a plan in my bedroom the same night I found the packet:

I can't carry this environment with me into high school. I have to do anything-- EVERYTHING I can to get outta here by the time 8th grade starts! And if I fail... I can't finish 8th grade like that.

The Verrazzano Bridge and the walkway by the water, the one with the short fence that I can get right over, are only a fifteen minute walk from home. If I don't get out of Special Ed by 8th grade, then... I have to go out there and throw myself off. I have to kill myself. I have to...! Because I know for a fact I just can't. Stay. Here.

And I was serious. Dead-serious. Because I thought about it every day for the next 2 years straight.

...

That packet started it all for PB. And as sad as it is that I technically had to go behind adults' backs just to learn something about myself and where I was, I'm extremely glad it happened. Because it's also what kickstarted my interest in disability topics. My journey in learning who we were, what we were, and what we do & don't deserve.

It led to the first drafts of PB just under a year later, which set my life on a completely new path. Paperboy would not EXIST if it weren't for that day. Hell; I don't even know if my OTHER projects (like Weirder Than Usual) would, either!

That wasn't right. None of that was right. But it did give me a story to tell. One that you guys are finally starting to see!

And one that I'm very, very proud of.

Disability conversations are extremely important to me now. I don't think I'm the beacon of anti-ableism or anything like that. I know I've fucked up as I grew up, especially in my younger years. But this entire situation showed me how hush-hush the world likes to be about it. And while it's better now than it was in 2014, it ain't great yet.

And I think I owe it to 10-year-old Jonah to change that shit. Because when he googled "Special Ed makes me feel bad," he barely found anything.

It was definitely an experience I will never forget. And as you saw above, I still keep that packet with me to this day, and I always will, because of just how heavily it changed my life.

I have no idea where or who I'd be if it wasn't for that.

Happy 9th birthday, SpEd packet. Can't wait for the 10th!

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wri0thesley · 1 year ago

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I am so sorry if this is invasive and weird, but may I ask what you work as? I'm at the stage where I have to build my future and I know you don't have an age specified but you seem to be doing really well (at least from the posts we've seen, again I really hope not to be invasive) for yourself and your partner and 25+ is still young! Again, I hope this isn't mean or weird, I'm just curious. (and severely nervous. First year of college is ruining me harder than any fictional man.)

ahh anon i'm afraid that the answer is probably not what you're looking for!

for the record, i am 27, i just find getting fandom older a little scary, especially having it listed right there!!!

i actually intended to be a performer and a singing teacher (my degree was going to be in music & musical theatre); unfortunately, due to a plethora of reasons (mostly my undiagnosed autism, unmedicated ocd/depression/anxiety combo, a nervous breakdown and my partner's physical health declining) i dropped out of my degree before the end of my first semester.

for about three years or so after that i was severely agoraphobic. talking 'can't answer the door' agoraphobic; 'never left the house alone, and even when with someone only went to the doctors and therapy' agoraphobic, 'rotted in my bedroom in an absolutely non romanticised way' agoraphobic. i was on the equivalent of disability because i literally could not function. meanwhile, my partner, who lived with me and my parents was getting physically worse whilst i was mentally struggling (since then haz has been diagnosed with ehlers danlos syndrome, fibromyalgia, lipoedema, thyroid issues and a lot of other things; they have a lot going on). i DID access several therapies, had . . . a couple of very bad relapses, went under crisis teams and all of that stuff (i had occupational therapy too which was HONESTLY i think one of the most useful things and helpful things for me in the long run; i cannot imagine what i would be like if i hadn't had the occupational therapist the crisis team found for me).

(coincidentally, if you are an og jojo follower you probably remember how bad it was; i've said it a hundred times, but running this silly little reader-insert blog probably helped save my life at a time when i had almost no contact with the outside world. i couldn't leave my bedroom, but i had my blog and i had my little internet friends and discord server).

i have gotten a lot better.

haz, unfortunately, has not gotten better physically and probably never will. they need help with a lot of things most people don't even realise disabled people might need help with. brushing their hair, fastening clothes . . . when haz first moved in, they were doing the same dance-intensive college course that i was. we danced maybe three or four hours a day. nowadays, haz needs me to hold their hand and keep them steady when they go from our bed to the bathroom (the room next door).

so i don't really 'work' as anything. well, my therapist would tell me off for saying that; the uk government classes me as an 'unpaid carer', which basically means i am on call for haz literally 24/7 and they pay me the pittance that is carer's allowance (carer's allowance assumes you care at least 35 hours a week, and pays you the privilege of about 45 pence per each of those hours. if, like me, you live with the person you care for and do more than those hours, it gets . . . yeah. oof. the government unfortuately know that most unpaid carers are loved ones and family members of the person who needs care and won't just stop doing it, and they'd be in the shit if we did because trained carers are expensive, so they can get away with that - FUCK the tories, honestly.

i am EXCEEDINGLY lucky that i live in a cheap area of the uk, that haz and i are internet savvy enough to be able to access carers/disability discounts, that we are in rent-controlled social housing (which my crisis team helped find for us because living with my parents was taking such a toll on us both, woo!!!!), and that we've been able to access services to help on the nhs. i got my autism assessment and diagnosis; haz is under several pain management teams.

all in all, i'm happy. i'm so much happier than i was seven years ago when i'd dropped out of university and felt like a huge failure, because all of my life i was a gifted overachiever and i thought my self-worth was tied to my academic achievements (and as an extension, what roles i got in what shows and when and who saw me and so on). i don't have a lot of money (i am a bargain shopped fgbnkjgjnfb) but i know what i like and because i'm Older Now (tm) i've amassed collections of it.

i am absolutely sure that you'll boss college, anon! that you will find that thing that works for you (one day i would LOVE to go back and get my degree! pre-covid i had an acceptance for a creative writing degree and i was getting ready to go back to uni as a mature student, but haz's health got bad again and then covid happens - and now ofc i have my autism diagnosis i can access so much more help!). but even if you don't, you can absolutely find happiness without 'traditional' success.

i don't have a lot in the grand scheme of things. but you're right in that i am doing pretty well, in terms of where i am, and where i've been. i have my own little home. i have my partner of ten years who is my soulmate in every conceivable way. i've had experiences that make me feel so happy i sometimes cry when i remember them. i have my own little cat now!!! things still stress me out. but i have come so so far and when i feel down i remember that.

good luck anon! i believe in you <3

#nat.txt

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mikeshanlon · 3 years ago

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i really enjoy the way young royals explores the theme of legacy and how detrimental it can be to have to live up to a legacy or be obsessed with reputation. (analysis and thoughts under the cut)

i think wilhelm resents the fact that he has to live up to the role of being in the royal family and yet is very afraid of ruining that legacy bc of all the pressure. before he was sent off to hillerska he went to a normal school and wanted normal people around him and was content with erik having to take on the responsibilities of crown prince. and when he does have to assume that role he says he can never be erik, that he’s always had to be compared to him and obviously doesn’t like that. but even before erik passed and he had to take on those duties he was afraid of fucking up the legacy of the crown, when he sees that sign in the hallway that says you are in charge of your own legacy after he holds hands with simon, his anxiety worsens. you can tell it’s been instilled in him for a long time that what is most important is the crown’s reputation rather than his own wants. in the scene where him and simon fight about alexander being caught, he obviously wants simon to stay, but he focuses on how him doing drugs will fuck up his family’s reputation if it gets leaked. as much as he cares for simon, his legacy and his duties are like this oppressive cloud hanging over him.

i do think that wille cares for his family of course but to me it’s different that the sort of loyal unconditional care with simon and his sister/mom. erik and wille had unconditional love, erik understood how difficult being a prince in the public eye was, and wille obviously cared for him deeply and felt like he could to talk to him about issues. his relationship with the queen is much more strained, she wants a tailored, doctored representation of him in the media, he cannot be anxious and bite his nails, she makes all the decisions for him. family is important to wille partially because it has to be bc of how special his family is. he helps his family, he helps august pay his tuition, and then makes a point of disowning august after his betrayal as his new “brother”. but again, because of the royal status and expectations upon the family, that supersedes and colors all of their relationships with each other. it seems to be more a sense of “duty” than unconditional love. especially after erik’s death, wille always has to consider how the crown’s image will be impacted, even though he never wanted to have this responsibility, or even the responsibility of being the “regular” prince under erik. being a family unit that is under constant public scrutiny is going to strain relationships. the queen knows that the anxiety of fucking up his legacy will get to him, and she uses that to get wilhelm to back out of admitting it was him in the video and coming out. wilhelm has to choose between his own happiness and their reputation, is forced to think that denying it’s him in the video is the only way. he loves simon and wanted to live freely, but that pressure of legacy won out.

i don’t know if i think wille necessarily values the crown over his own personal happiness and relationships, like in the way maybe the queen does--i don’t think it comes from a place of “i’m lucky to be prince and owe my duty to the crown, so i do what i have to do to stay that way” (like how the queen said the crown is a privilege not a punishment), but from fear of destroying the legacy and his family. afterall, he still wanted to pursue a secret relationship with simon, i think if he fully valued the crown and uplifting legacy and fulfilling his duties he wouldn’t have tried that. he wouldn’t have made a point to tell simon he loves him. hopefully we get another season because i think with the iconic ending revolution rendition and him looking in the camera, which also parallels the shot of him being forced to apologize/go to hillerska, he is realizing that focusing on legacy is taking away what’s important to him, and he’s going to shake shit up.

august is definitely the most obsessed with legacy, wanting to carry on his father’s business, being persistent on befriending wilhelm and trying to social climb, wanting power and perfection with being prefect, rowing captain etcetera. he is so obsessed with perfection and reputation he gets addicted to drugs, he fucks with simon and makes him get stuff for parties he can’t afford because good parties will make him look better, he manipulates sara multiple times, he mostly wanted felice because of her nobility, he fucking films wilhelm and simon and OUTS him, his own cousin. he hates that wille has everything he wants but isn’t as interested in preserving and more importantly improving the legacy he’s inheriting. meanwhile august’s familial legacy is dwindling, and he holds on to the last bit of assets and names that he can.... v much sick and a weirdo that shows how harmful being obsessed with legacy is

the queen is of course v focused on legacy and it really breaks my heart and makes me angry that she doesn’t care about wilhelm’s happiness more than their reputation, and moreso doesn’t get august in trouble for literally leaking child p*rn of her kid for the sake of appearances?!?!?! like how is he even remotely trustworthy she is wrong for that! like i said earlier the obsession with legacy puts a strain on their mother/son relationship. she doesn’t even really say anything about wille’s sexuality or his relationship, and barely comforts him, mostly goes in with a plan she’s already concocted without him to fix everything.

erik seemed to understand and accept his role as crown prince but obviously had issues with it as well, like when he makes the plan for him and wilhelm to run from the press, or when he tells wilhelm to enjoy himself while there aren’t so many eyes on him that care. erik shows someone who has more unconditional love and empathy but still has to focus on legacy and is much more inclined to continue his legacy, but we do see those glimpses over how even the most “ideal” attitude of preserving legacy causes issues.

felice is expected to live up to her mother’s legacy, of being an equestrian, of being the lucia, but she doesn’t want either of those things. her mother wants her to be thinner and straighten her hair, and find someone of nobility to be with. obviously she does find wilhelm attractive lol but i think the main reason she pursued him and definitely why she pursued august was because she was expected to social climb and have royal kids. felice feels the need to portray a false narrative of herself on social media to uphold a certain image of herself. it’s very fucked up that her mom wants those values instilled in her but i love that felice was putting up boundaries and pushing back against her mother and the narrative she’s supposed to live up to. her giving sara the role of lucia and focusing on supporting her friends more in the latter half of the season shows growth and i’m excited to see where her story goes.

sara is interesting because she seems to want to reject the legacy of her family and being working class and to fit in with the elite of hillerska. sara hates micke, hates that simon contacted him because it’s bringing in this “shameful” and painful part of their past (which i mean is def fair). other than sara’s betrayal in 1.06, i think the scene where she tells her family that she wants to reside at hillerska really exemplifies where she’s at in her relation to legacy/class. after dining at hillerska and living amongst the elite she gets annoyed at eating around the TV, she blames her mother for not leaving micke sooner, she gets angry with simon for caring for her. she wants to lead her own life, be popular and wanted because people want her, not for pity (even though i think simon of course truly cares abt his sister she feels annoyed with his protection and care). felice says early on that she thinks sara doesn’t care what other’s think or having friends, and sara says she still wants friends though. i think sara’s biggest thing is she wants to belong, her and simon moved schools after she was bullied for being autistic so i think that definitely affected her even though she tries to act nonchalant about hillerska at first. we see sara’s longing to fit in in smaller ways at first, like her asking her mom for a better piece of her uniform because hers are “cheap” and already worn out. she gets annoyed at simon for chewing loudly, or her mother sitting casually at the table. as she gets closer to felice and madison and all the other students, the allure of the upper class and their lifestyle draws her in more. so much to the point where she gets very anxious and upset at the idea of her and simon leaving hillerska because he’s having his own crisis and doesn’t consider his pov. so much so that she effectively betrays simon and felice, the people she’s closest to, to make a deal (and make out lol) with august to room there and “be just like him”. personally i think sara’s attraction to august is mostly that allure of the elite and that he seemed to “desire” her when he kissed her because he was being a manipulative dickhead--again that want to fit in and be wanted. and i think there is a really interesting angle of jealousy and competition in female friendships, even if it is really subtle or not intentionally insidious or anything, sara does slowly start to trying to assume all the roles/fashions/mannerisms of felice to live that life she wants. i do think felice and sara’s care for each other is genuine and one of my fave parts of the show, but i think a lot of people who experienced being a teen girl know how we are always pitted against each other even in our subconscious because of how society treats and values women.

simon seems to be the character that is least interested in upholding legacy and tradition or giving a fuck what anyone thinks (as omar said here lmao) and that makes him a really interesting foil to wilhelm. there could be something said about micke fearing that simon is following in his footsteps, but to me that plot more so reveals how the upper class (august) continually exploit the working class for their benefit, and the trappings of generational oppression. the other thing that can be said is simon signing up for private tutoring and rowing, but again i think that serves to further show that he is forced to “play” by the game of the elites because the school/society is corrupt, and also, that simon has further ambitions outside of where he’s at. he wants to get good grades because he wants to explore new places and avenues. to me simon’s biggest motivations are his passions, the things and people he loves--music, his family, wilhelm. he isn’t loyal to others just because he’s expected to be, or uphold a certain image but because he really cares. he doesn’t watch out for sara because that’s his expected role as her brother to do so, but because he cares. he wasn’t interested in knowing wilhelm because he’s a prince like everyone else, he makes it clear he thinks the royal family are privileged and exploitative, but he is interested because he saw the real wilhelm. he’s out and proud even though his elite classmates are more conservative, he doesn’t care about voicing his unpopular opinions, he has no problem walking away from august’s dickhead behavior or calling him out on his shit. simon doesn’t care if people don’t think of him in the best light. (the only exceptions ig are the drugs conflict and the video, though literally anyone would have a problem with that because it’s much deeper that public opinion and has ramifications and is deeply traumatic--but just adding that before someone is like “well actually!”) i also think it’s interesting that most of the songs simon sings has themes of pushing back against the societal norms, and being remembered in history, plus of course the revolution song motif, and how much those songs affect wilhelm, he seems to connect deeply, like he wishes he could do those things but simon is the one who gets to sing them and actually live them.

#young royals #the way this is 2k words lmfao #i do not expect ppl read to this but when the analytical worm starts gnawing on my rottin brain i must oblige

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svnarintaro · 4 years ago

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any other way mr. boom boom man

a/n: this is for yssa’s birthday,, she is one of my best mutuals ( @katsuhoee )

my birthday message for her: thank you for not only being a good mutual and total icon for the bnha tumblr community you are one of my greatest friends and i think i could never have express how thankful i am to know you :") to be your friend is a privilege and i thank you for putting up with me 🤧💕

synopsis: bakugou has been so busy with trying to figure out how to start his own agency after you guys graduated and that was all he had on his mind. so after you get forced to hang out with your best friend on your birthday you knew that he had long forgotten your special day.

word count: 1.4k

bakugou katsuki x !fem! reader

(i made this gif :”))

~~~

“Y/NNN let’s go somewhere you lucky birthday gal!!” mina’s loud voice rung out in your house. after the graduation you just felt kind of empty, school was over and a new chapter in your lives. mina was hanging out in your room on your birthday, she came early in the morning to deliver you a box of cupcakes and your birthday present. “i would love to mina but.. i was planing to visit katsuki..” you held your head down low in disappointment and you checked your phone for the tenth time in the given hour.

mina internally panicked. it was her job to keep you occupied as katsuki was at his house getting things ready with the rest of the bakusquad, she needed to get her whole act together but she needed to make it seem natural, "you know your boyfriend is literally an old man in a teen body, he barely has his phone on."

a wave of disappointment fell over you. 'she does have a point. and besides katsuki hates birthdays anyways.' you sadly smiled and asked mina if the two of you could go to a specific grocery store to pick up a specific type of popsicle. "WAIT THERE ARE SUCH THINGS AS BOBA BARS?!" mina screamed out.

"yeah! i mean.. todoroki said something about there being boba bars a while ago and i thought tat you would be one of the people that would try it out with me." your mouth practically had a bucket of drool with how much you wanted the popsicle. "can we open the box once we get one?" mina asked as she skipped alongside you. you were happy that throughout all three years at U.A she was there to be a shining light of positivity. your head nodded at her request.

meanwhile

"I TOLD YOU GUYS TO GET OUT OF THE DAMN KITCHEN," bakugou screamed in pure anger as he was trying his hardest to concentrate. "bakubro calm down a bit, knowing mina she can probably find a way to distract your lovely girl friend for a while." denki assured the angry alpha male in the kitchen.

he wasn't under the pressure of time. he was more angry at the fact that he had three imbeciles helping him for y/n's special day. "I KNOW PINKY IS VERY CAPABLE UNLIKE A CERTAIN DUNCE." the aggressive blond continued to stir the living daylights out of the whipping cream he bought for the icing. the three other boys were there to help with the decoration of his house. "damn who knew bakugou was such a simp for his girl-" sero whispered but the moons the mutters the words 'his girl' his face was met by a wooden spoon.

"guys don't make fun of him. this is a day about her not a day about him being doting for her so calm down." kiri places his hand on his heart as he was about preach about 'how manly' his best friend was for doing this for his girlfriend. in full honesty bakugou never really celebrated birthdays. he was always with his parents on that day and refused to see anyone else but the moment he had you his whole life changed so he wanted you to be happy on your day.

mina went on and on about her old dance performances, even breaking out into dance when she wanted to show you how the dance went. "you seem pretty cheerful today mina~ what's up with that?" you were growing a little suspicious since on the way to the market she wanted to film around 3 tik toks and they all were posted privately, "nothing i just really like hanging out with you." her arm was hooked around your shoulders and she ruffled your hair.

"alrighty mina. operation boba bars shall now commence." you clapped your hands as the two of you dashed towards the frozen isle. you scanned for a black little box that had the bars that you needed, while mina was on the other side texting bakugou asking how much longer did she need to stall for the boys to get ready. 'calm down i just need thirty more minutes racoon eyes.'

mina got the message as she put her phone in her back pocket and started her search for the popsicles. 'if it takes ten minutes to get to bakugou's place from here and approximately 5 minutes until the bars melt with this type of weather, i will opt to eat half of the box so the boys can have the time they need.' and as if it was magic mina found the box and she grabbed it and went to the other isle to find you.

"y/n!! i got the.. bars." you were looking at a group of first years getting together. the nostalgia felt surreal to you. "y/n.. are you okay?" mina tilted her head to see your face more clearly, you were crying. "sorry it's just.. ever since graduated our lives are now beginning, we are moving so quickly and i don't even know where to start.. i just remember how much time has gone by.." you wiped your tears to show a smile. "but i know one thing is for sure! is that i want you, bakugou and the rest of our friends to stay friends for the rest of our lives."

you felt sad but you knew you had to let go from being seventeen and jumping onto eighteen. "alrighty princess let's get your crown back on your head. we are going to eat these and then we are going to barge into bakugou's place and yell at him." the classic mina smile made your solemn feelings melt away and you nodded. "and as your ultimate bestie i will have he obligation to pay for you."

after the two of you payed you opened the box to have the popsicles. it was a hot day after all, so the two of you started to head to the bakugou household. "okay but like why do these absolutely SLAP." you laughed as you enjoyed the cold treat. "todoroki knows what's up-" you laughed out and you smiled thinking about how far todoroki went from being the most awkward boy in the class to on of the most easiest people to talk to.

the two went on and on about how good the popsicle was and recorded each other for your snapchat memories.

the moment that you got to your boyfriends house struck some true terror in you. "alright here it goes.." you walked up the pavement with mina at your side and you knocked on the door only to see it open as if it weren't locked.

you were confused and walked in. "katsu? where are you the door was open.." your head was filled with the worst case scenarios. as you walked into the house even further the lights were turned on and you heard a loud 'surprise'. you saw not only the rest of the bakusquad but the rest of your friends from your graduating class of 3-A. "guys.." you brought your hands to your face to wipe the tears off of your eyes.

you saw bakugou in the middle with a cake that had an elegant icing job.

"you thought we forgot? bold of you to assume the the great bakugou could ever forget his princess' birthday." he held the cake in front of him as he took large strides towards you. "i wouldn't miss this for the world."

he urged you to blow the candles out so you could hang out with the rest of your friends before you got to open your gifts. you got greeted and you talked about random topics with the people you haven't seen since graduation; deku and uraraka were getting married, todoroki went to europe, jirou got scouted by numerous agency's and so much more.

by the time the party died down and the presents were exchanged bakugou came up to you and wrapped his arms around you. "happy birthday love.. i have something for you." he pulled you outside to gain a little more privacy. "i know we have been through so much and that our lives are beginning to change before our eyes. i know we aren't going to be friends with everyone in the class once we begin our careers but.." he pulled out a lanyard with a key on it. "i will never let you go y/n. and i swear by that. so could you do me the honour and move in with me in my new apartment?"

you couldn't believe it, you could finally live with bakugou and actually have free reign of the place. "i wouldn't have it any other way mr. boom boom man." you smiled as you pulled him in for an kiss.

#bnha #mha #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bnha imagines #mha imagines #mha imagine #bnha scenarios #mha scenarios #bnha fluff #mha fluff #mha headcanons #bnha headcanons #bakugou x reader #bakugou drabble #bakugou imagines #bakugou scenarios #happy birthday yssa

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smartguyreviewed · 5 years ago

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2x2 - Working Guy

Originial air date: September 17, 1997

Did anyone have an actual job when they were teens? I remember how embarassing it was for me, a high schooler in the mid-aughts, to tote around resumes in my little manila folder and then be told to either apply online or have some snooty white asshole at Eddie Bauer all but dismiss me because he was clearly racist. The only jobs I really “held” included being an election judge twice, once during that totally insignificant 2008 presidential race and the other being a summer camp counselor at the church I went to.

Those little jobs sucked but I chose them. The students of Piedemont High were not that lucky.

The setting for this episode is the work experience program that shows students what it’s like to have a job. I have a lot of questions. I’m sure some of these students fared better than me back then and already have jobs, so wouldn’t this make no sense? Would they have two jobs? Are all of these jobs suitable for minors? Why does Piedmont fund such strange things?

Mo, as usual, (or depending on the plot of the episode) only cares about the perks of whatever he’s doing. With the band, it’s the girls. With this program, it’s being able to leave school after lunch. Wait, what? They’re having the students skip multiple classes for this? Is this part of a class or an elective? I wonder because this seems like it takes up a lot of time.

TJ is more excited about working in the industry of his choice, but if that was the case, he’d already have a job assigned to him as opposed to having to pick what’s on the board, making it first come, first serve. This is dumb and I can’t believe I have this many questions about a fictional high school. Anyways, TJ is short so he can only grab what he can reach and it’s not what he wants at all because he has a menial blue collar job.

Meanwhile, at the crib, Floyd is pissed because his basketball buddy who is a doctor apparently has cancelled their game because he has to do surgery. Floyd is only petty every once in a while so I’ll let him have this one. Then Marcus comes in wearing a suit and even though we’ve definitely seen him dressed up before, the audience goes wild. I hate canned audience reactions! He says not to hate him because he’s wearing Armani.

I first thought Marcus was joking because it looks like a Sears original to me, but apparently he took Floyd’s credit card and had a ball buying clothes for his fancy schmancy job. Okay, I have more questions. Marcus had to buy a whole suit and shoes to enter his predominately white workspace. Is Piedmont paying for things the students need to even work at their job? What if you’re a natural black woman and you have to get your hair straightened if you have Marcus’s job? This is all for a part time job during school hours, so will these hours count towards credit since you’re not in class? I am so confused.

Floyd is surprisingly okay with Marcus running up his card because his next question is asking if he can help Floyd get ready for his game. Marcus jokes that he’s going to be drinking with the guys after work. Floyd doesn’t press further and says he’ll practice alone until Yvette offers. Marcus and Floyd have a nice kii at this because duh, Yvette’s a girl and girls don’t play basketball. I love how all the Henderson men (including Mo) are sexist in their own ways. This isn’t the first time Floyd disregards his daughter when it comes to doing “manly” things and Marcus and TJ bond over their hatred of Yvette when her feminine ways don’t align with their default male ways.

TJ comes in and doesn’t want to talk because he’s embarassed to have this job that was forced on him. Marcus adds insult to injury by informing him that he’s working at Marcus’s job.

Speaking of Marcus, this dude just doesn’t quit. He begins sexually harassing one of the women who works there, inquiring about what she does. She has to explain to him what a DVD is, immediately dating this show. Luckily, she has sense and shoots down his attempts. Sis can’t even do her job without some horny little high school boy bothering her. This program is stupid, by the way.

TJ enters, wearing his blue collar work uniform and ringing a bell. After fending off the usual “aww he’s so cute” remarks, he’s led into the office that needs the grub. The buffoons working there can’t seem to figure out whatever physics equation makes the DVDs run and of course, TJ is effortlessly able to offer a suggestion. He gets poached from this stupid temp position to help them out.

Floyd and Yvette are practicing in the garage when Marcus and Mo show up to gloat about their temporary yet important positions. Marcus has his own office. I would hate to be the person who worked there for years, sacrificed weekends, holidays and their sanity to get a promotion and their name on a door, only to watch a punk ass intern from high school get it instead. Mo is somehow working for a judge but I’m not sure for how long because this briefcase that was foolishly given to him contains a document that should have already been mailed off to William Renquist. Mo quickly dashes from that scene to deliver the mailpiece. Marcus makes an extremely dark joke that i didn’t even catch at first about someone getting the electric chair due to Mo’s carelessness. I’m sorry but I bellowed at that. However, I question how many lawsuits will be filed against Piedmont after this program is over.

TJ comes home and announces that he quit his blue collar job and is now working as a special consultant for research and development at DVD Electronic. That’s the name of the company? It’s so bland and generic that i sounds like an Amazon seller of used books and shit. Floyd is confused but TJ gets hired by a large company every other week so it’s whatever.

At work, we see TJ has his own office. Remember that person I would hate to be? They have to watch a fucking 10 year old get it instead. Maybe they did a mass firing or something because they seem to have plenty of rooms to just give to people. Of course, TJ likes the new digs. After his friendly secretary introduces him to his space, the resident hater shows up. I guess the person I was describing earlier is this white man, because man is he salty about having to share a cubicle when he started. White man is now attempting to get into TJ’s head and asks that he pitch all ideas to him first. How TJ, who is probably a psycho or sociopath didn’t see through this as a ruse for him to profit off his black ass ideas is beyond me. Or maybe TJ is faking dumb so that when he does reveal white man’s treachery, it’s more believeable?

Marcus barges in and the white man is two seconds away from calling the cops before Marcus lets him know they’re related. But white man thinks him calling TJ his brother is a “black” thing until TJ says they are related albeit with similar genetic coding. I assume this is an obvious reference to Marcus being darker than him? Funny because I just wonder if Floyd’s wife was dark or if they both have a dark skinned parents and it just so happened to manifest in Marcus and no one else? Or maybe Marcus is actually his half-son? Let me stop.

After the white man leaves, Marcus correctly assumes he is a piece of shit but TJ disagrees. He then gets a call to join a meeting. The head boss who is stationed in Zurich makes it a point to consider that TJ’s work study day ends at 5--wait, so they’re away from school for that long?--but quickly ignores that tidbit when some meeting gets pushed to 6. Of course, TJ shouldn’t be here unsupervised and out this late but we’re gonna ignore that even if the logistics of the Piedmont Work Study Program still boggle my mind.

So yeah, TJ is stuck at work and being asked about one of his ideas, the big boss says that the white man told him to filter all ideas through him. The white man is clearly displeased with TJ snitching but the boss man ends up making TJ the new head of the project. That’s how you use your privilege, even if it is child endangerment! The hating white man (whose name is Dick Ferrett by the way) comments to another coworker that TJ is toast. How dare this little black bastard be better than him?

Meanwhile, at home, Floyd is nursing an Yvette inflicted wound from when they were practicing basketball. TJ comes home acting like a middle aged adult, complaining about work and how bad traffic was. When Floyd notices how TJ is being affected by this job, he suggests that he quit. TJ whines for a little bit and Floyd relents. What the fuck Floyd, drag him by his collar and make him sit down! TJ promises to make Floyd’s game which means he won’t be able to make it because of work.

The next day, TJ is at work and discussing things with his secretary. The hating white man is just itching to fuck up TJ’s day and it shows. You might not be wondering who replaced TJ as the chow wagon boy but it turns out that it was Mo. Yes, instead of being fired from this program that he had no business being in to begin with, he was demoted to TJ’s job.

TJ is about to leave for the day when hating ass white man comes and dumps a bunch of work on TJ’s desk. See? Told you he wouldn’t be able to make Floyd’s game! Luckily, his secretary is going to film it for him.

Back at work, TJ is falling asleep trying to carry these stooges to a victory and the hating ass white man is actually calling TJ names. They even go back and forth for a moment. Floyd finally decides that enough is enough and he’s bogarted his way through security to get TJ because I’m sure it’s midnight at this point. TJ tells Floyd he must be mad that the game was missed. Floyd says he isn’t mad although the other guys’ kids showed up. Aww Flody. Parents have feelings, too.

The head white boss offers Floyd to hire TJ permanently but Floyd declines. TJ is able to get the hating ass white man fired before he leaves, in a move that is definitely petty but deserved. Fuck that guy, exploiting a gifted black child like that.

TJ is mad at Floyd according to a conversation between Yvette and himself. He thinks TJ is going to be mad at him forever but he comes downstairs and asks to play dominos with him. Aww. This is quickly ruined as per the usual. We all know TJ only abruptly forgives and forgets when he has an ulterior motive. This time, he’s going behind Floyd’s back to keep working with DVD Electronics. Floyd comes in during a session. I’m assuming he got his ass whooped after this but we just fade to black before an arms-folded Floyd can dole out any punishment. Eh, guess we’ll find out in the next episode. Ha. No we won’t.

Stuff I noticed:

- DVD Electronics video chat has a pretty stellar, crisp quality for 90s internet.

- Mo rewore this shirt from a prior episode. I really like when characters rewear clothes. It’s much more realistic than characters who seem to always have money for new outfits no matter how broke they claim to be.

- When TJ is bringing in the food, there’s an audience member who yells “You go, girl!” I have heard this woman in the audience of a Boy Meets World episode and another show that I can’t recall, but further proves that canned laughter is creepy and needs to be banned everywhere.

#tahj mowry #smart guy #marcus henderson #tj henderson #mo tibbs #omar gooding #90s #nineties #john marshall jones #floyd henderson #essence atkins #yvette henderson

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ice-cream-nekogirl · 6 years ago

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A Peeping Tom and a Bird Documentary (Tokoyami Fumikage X Reader)

Summary: Summer’s coming up and that’s the perfect time for swimming! But Tokoyami catches you staring at him at the pool...

ARGH I’m still recovering from Game of Thrones... and hating how sad it all is rewatching old episodes... but loving the more heartwarming moments that we managed to get in the show... so... I’m paying homage to one of those scenes!!

Featuring: Emo Birb boi!!

Summer break was coming up once again, and you were pretty ecstatic. Not today though, today was actually pretty boring.

At least until the ladies had decided that it would be nice to use the school pool, and the guys had similar ideas. However, thankfully you and the girls had remembered to always keep covered up when in the presence of a certain little pervert, and you all gladly denied that stupid Mineta the opportunity to see you all dressed in your swimsuits by wearing the school swimsuits instead. Kaminari looked so innocent, but you couldn’t give the cute ones too much privilege.

“Hey (Y/N)! C’mon and play with us!” Mina cheerfully suggested but you chuckled a little bit and gave her a crooked smile.

“Oh sure… I’ll come to you gals in a minute… right now I’m just chilling… and checking our guys out…” You very quietly mumbled that last part to yourself.

As much as you hated Mineta, in a way you weren’t exactly innocent yourself since while the girls were busy playing around you kept low in the water with only the top of your head and eyes visible, paying close attention to the guys on the other side. Of course, you respected the hell out of them, they were each powerful and amazing individuals, but you had to appreciate how pretty they were too.

Each of them were built in several different ways that you really liked, and it helped that the past year of training had helped them gain a little more muscle and tone their bodies. Especially Kirishima, Bakugou and Kaminari, three of the most attractive boys in your class in your opinion.

Kirishima had a nearly perfect body complete with a sweet nature and endearingly sharp teeth that any lucky girl or guy would adore. Kaminari might have been a flirt, but damn he was one attractive blonde and had a magnetic (pun intended) personality that would lure anyone in. And as much of a jerk Bakugou was, damn he was like a male version of Regina George. Had a great physique, beautiful blonde hair complete with his army of skanks that consisted of Kirishima, Kaminari and Sero, except they weren’t skanks.

But that’s besides the point, the point was that physically, Bakugou was nearly perfect, and then there was his personality, you couldn’t lie, his confidence and badassery were very attractive traits that shined through his overall appearance.

And you couldn’t deny that Sero and Shouji both looked fantastic too. Who said Sero was plain? He was super cute and really fit-looking and his permanent smile just made him even cuter, and Shouji was ridiculously attractive to you, sure he might have had more arms than the average person, but each of them were muscular to match his athletic physique and then his gentle nature despite his appearance just made him even more endearing in your eyes.

However, another one of your classmates caught your eye: The Prince of Darkness himself, Fumikage Tokoyami. He was perhaps the most interesting student in your class, close to Todoroki in your opinion. Whereas you could read subtle hints about Todoroki, Tokoyami was more of an enigma. A strangely alluring enigma.

Sure, he might have had a crow’s head, feathers, beak and all, but the rest was all human, he himself was a human, he just happened to look like a crow, but it was only the head even though you thought a pair of wings would have looked awesome for him.

His body was definitely human as you couldn’t help but analyze how well he was built despite being rather thin and small compared to the rest of the boys. If anything, his thin, short stature was really endearing to you. Damn, where did those muscles come from? His training with Hawks you assumed, but the more you stared the more enamored you were starting to feel. Part of you wished that you could touch those arms of his, his body was beautiful…

It help that you thought crows and ravens were some of the most beautiful birds because of their unique elegance, which Tokoyami brought with him every time you would look at him, yet the times you interacted with him made you realize that he was a bit of a dork despite the aloof and mysterious allure surrounding him. But that just made him cuter in your eyes. He was more than just a guy who looked like a crow, he was an interesting human being and oddly a very captivating one.

Closely, you looked right at him to check him out and size him up. There was something about the raven that fascinated you. Not just his appearance but his quirk too, personally you thought it was an incredible and useful quirk that you envied somewhat.

Given that your quirk only let you generate and manipulate aspects of light, which was a total contrast to Tokoyami’s Dark Shadow, which was a manifestation of elegant darkness and was fueled by darkness itself. He was your opposite in many ways, and yet he didn’t cease to enrapture you with his mysterious personality.

“Wow… Tokoyami looks even more awesome than normal…” You thought to yourself as you enjoyed the boys doing their little pissing contests, and especially Tokoyami just chilling out and subtly hanging out with the quieter boys Shoji and Kouda.

Meanwhile, Tokoyami was only mildly amused by his classmates’ antics and enjoying the company of his closest allies Kouda and Shouji, and yet he couldn’t help but feel like he was being watched somewhat.

“PSST! Hey Tokoyami! Check it out! (L/N)’s staring at you!” Dark Shadow spoke to him via telepathically, much to his annoyance. At least until he registered just what his quirk was telling him. “What are you talking about?”

“Turn around!”

Tokoyami sighed in annoyance, wondering if his shadow was just messing with him as he did turn around to humor him, but he saw your (E/C) eyes peering right at him. His expression didn’t change but he was slightly surprised to see you of all people looking at him, except he noticed that you weren’t really gawking at him. Your eyes told a story, as if you appeared almost interested in what you were seeing from him. Secretly, he hoped that was the case…

And you gasped as soon as his sharp, scarlet eyes met with your eyes. Nervously, you tried to glance away but Tokoyami wasn’t deterred by this action as he looked at you curiously, and wondered what you were playing at. Being stared at was something he was used to, but part of him was still hoping that maybe you didn’t mean to stare…

You contemplated on sinking in the water as you prayed that he looked away and lost interest, but you looked over at him again and came into contact with his red eyes yet again. There was nothing you could do to look away this time now that he caught you staring like some sort of weirdo…

Except he didn’t look put off. Confused and uncertain maybe, and yet for some reason he couldn’t quite pull away from the stare that yours and his eyes were locked in.

“She’s totally checking you out!” Dark Shadow made it worse by putting that thought into his head, and at first Tokoyami didn’t believe him. At least until he did notice that you were kind of looking at his physique, and not just his not-so-human features. He almost felt a little self-conscious, and a little tempted to turn away in an attempt to cover up somehow when he realized that you were definitely looking more at his physique rather than just his head.

That was strange. Mostly people just noticed the head and not the body, and he didn’t know how to feel about that. All he could do was slowly pick up a towel, bringing it over his chest in a vain attempt to cover up, but not once did he take his eyes off of you.

You were totally caught staring, and the water did nothing to cool down your blushing cheeks that grew hot with every second spent with Tokoyami’s eyes on you. However, a sudden impact hitting the side of your head tore you free from the stare as you grunted in shock before turning to see what had hit you. And it was the volleyball your friends had been playing with.

“Oops! Sorry (Y/N).” Jirou’s voice broke you out of your daze as she sheepishly apologized with a guilty look on her face for having hit you. But you weren’t angry at all, in fact, you couldn’t be more thankful that she distracted you from Tokoyami and saved you from your super awkward stare-down.

“N-No problem girl! Ahahaha… it ain’t your fault! I shoulda been paying attention! Now c’mon! I’m ready now let’s play!” You suddenly exclaimed with reddening cheeks complete with an awkwardly wide grin that confused your fellow girls, but they decided to just let you be as they happily played with you once you spiked the ball for them.

While Tokoyami blinked a little bit, secretly glad himself that neither you and him were just staring awkwardly at each other anymore. Although he still wondered, what had compelled you to look at him like that? There’s no way you were ‘checking him out’ as Dark Shadow had accused, maybe you were looking at something else and he just happened to be in the way of it. No one ever checked him out, not while he looked like a bird. He might have had a human body, but he was still sure that no one would check him out like that…

He somewhat hoped that you were, but his insecurities wouldn’t let him believe that.

No matter how interested you might have looked...

30 AWKWARD MINUTES LATER…

“(Y/N)~! You perv~!”

You made the mistake of confiding in Mina after you all got out of the pool, and she couldn’t help but play around with you a little bit as you shouted lightly in frustration, face red with embarrassment as you put your hands on your hot cheeks. “I know! I’m a pervert… a total peeping tom… I’m no better than that little fucker Mineta… come to think of it… why ain’t he outta here yet? Shinsou’s in the course now shouldn’t Mineta like… I dunno be out of here by now since the former is like… SO much more deserving.”

The truth was you were attempting to change the subject, but surprisingly, Mina knew better, “Well Shinsou makes the class even now but you can’t distract me that easy~!” She giggled, and your face darkened even more as you groaned a bit, “I was just kidding~. It’s not like we can help when we think a guy or a girl is hot… the difference is that you were admiring him, not objectifying him like certain people.”

Wow, Mina was smarter than she let on, and she was your best female friend so she knew exactly what to say to you. “Yeah… I never want to objectify Tokoyami… he’s… my friend… at least… I hope we are… we’ve certainly talked… at times… but… I would like to get to know him better…” You mumbled softly. There was nothing you could do as your face might as well have caught flames by now. “And then some…”

“Oooh la la~. Somebody’s got a cruuuuush~!” Mina sang cheerfully as you glared at her a little bit, sticking your tongue out. “Tch… okay so I like the guy… not like he’ll like me back after he caught me staring…”

“Well it’s not like you were watching a bird documentary! Everything else is all a human body!” Mina reassured you though when she thought you sounded insecure and you were a bit… but then you thought about how good he looked…

“That’s not just body… that’s body-ody girl…” You nodded a bit more suggestively the more you thought about how strangely hot and attractive your raven classmate was. But your embarrassment resurfaced when Mina started to squeal, “EEEEE! And that’s why you have to talk to him! Just try it! I’m sure he’ll be flattered! He really don’t look like he gets a lotta attention like that…”

That wasn’t the nicest way to put it, but Mina had a point. Not everyone found humans with a bird’s head attractive…

Did that mean maybe you had a chance? You hoped so…

Ultimately you knew that Mina was right, so you sighed and said that you would go talk to him, but the first thing you wanted to do was at least apologize to him for being a weirdo as you left the girl’s locker room. Hair still damp but you were sure that you didn’t completely look like shit.

Or so you thought until you saw Tokoyami in the hall with his things, obviously getting ready to go to the dorms. You were positive that neither of you would interact in the dorms after such awkwardness. So, you had no choice but to go to him first.

“Tokoyami.” It took all of your courage just to approach your classmate, since you were pretty sure he thought you were a weirdo or a pervert after he caught you gawking at him at the pool.

Tokoyami stopped momentarily in his tracks as he turned to face you, obviously not having forgotten that you were definitely staring at him not too long ago. “Good evening (L/N).” His tone was polite yet monotonous. He still wasn’t sure how to feel about it but he wasn’t going to confront you about it; it wasn’t anything he wasn’t used to.

“I’ve come to apologize.” You then said rather quickly, which just further surprised your crow-headed classmate, but his stoic expression didn’t make it obvious. Tokoyami wasn’t going to hold this against you since it wasn’t the first time someone’s stared at him, although the way you looked at him was a little different compared to how others have stared at him. But he couldn’t give himself high hopes that you were looking at him in an almost admirable way.

“You don’t need to.” He replied to you calmly, not expecting anything else from you as he prepared himself to keep walking.

“I hope I didn’t freak you out or anything.” But you spoke again, and because he didn’t want to be rude, Tokoyami stood to hear you out. “You didn’t.” He said to affirm that you didn’t exactly unnerve him or creep him out.

After that there was just silence, and it was feeling super awkward too. Of course, that was to be expected since Tokoyami wasn’t much of a talker, but you were still kind of worried that you didn’t get all of your feelings across… including some new feelings you were starting to become slowly more aware of the more you glanced at how cool and strangely beautiful he was.

“You know…” You started off, which made him glance your way so that way you knew he was listening to you. “Today I realized something… these days we’ve spent together in class… like at the Sports Fest and during our study sessions… we don’t really know each other that well… do we?” You wondered out loud, since although you respected Tokoyami, you knew that you hadn’t truly gotten to really know him as well as you wanted to. Especially with all these new… feelings you were starting to experience more and more for the aloof raven.

“I suppose we don’t.” He agreed with you as he began to think about that. For all that he’s known you as a classmate, he didn’t truly know you as much as he probably would have wanted to. Tokoyami respected you despite the sheer differences you both shared regarding quirks and personality, and he thought you were much more tolerable compared to some of his crazier classmates. Yet you were still fun, you seemed like a fun person, something he didn’t really consider himself to be...

“Yet they’ve been a hell of a ride. The USJ thing, and the whole Summer Camp thing that happened a while back? Who knows what else is in store for us?” You wondered outloud, feeling a rather warm, cerise blush heating your face when you prepared yourself to say this next thing. “But I hope… that gives you and I a chance to… get to know each other even more ya know? I’m… not saying that for any calculated reason or anything though. I’m not that smart… I… would actually like to get to know you more… you’re one of my cooler, nicer classmates…” Chuckling a bit, you smiled sheepishly at the boy who seemed to pay more attention to you as he turned his head slightly to look at you better.

He saw your expression, not a glimpse of deceit, maybe a secret but it wasn’t anything that made him feel suspicious. Tokoyami didn’t get conversations like this a lot though, this was completely new to him. “I believe you.” He finally said after a pregnant pause between the two of you passed.

“You’re not manipulative or deceptive. I trust you (L/N). You are… a classmate I feel I can rely on and feel more… comfortable with. Even though we haven’t gotten enough chances to get to know each other… I would like it if we did.” Tokoyami almost felt nervous saying these words to you, as they came from how he actually felt about you, and catching you looking at him admiringly seemed to trigger more nerves and newer emotions he hadn’t really felt before. Sure, he was initially shocked by what happened at the pool just recently, and yet for some reason…

He was happy? That you were looking at him like that…?

And you blushed quite madly when hearing him say that he actually trusted you, a giddy glee building in your chest that made you force back any big grins or squeals that wanted to escape your throat. “Hee~… I trust you too… and… wow that’s… awesome…” Still you couldn’t help but giggle, feeling so much more relieved that he wasn’t put off by your staring, and you swore you saw him smile at you just a little bit.

“Ah… but… still…. I’m sure it was weird to just have me staring at you like that, like some weirdo so… I’m sorry for that Tokoyami. I’m sorry for… gawking… instead of talking first.” You let out a sigh as you started blushing, keeping your eyes low as Tokoyami looked at you with slight awe.

“That’s all right.”

He was so thankful that his feathers could hide any blush he could feel on his cheeks, “I’m... I’m glad... I’m glad that you saw me (L/N).” Tokoyami finally admitted when he accepted that you were looking at him with interest. And it actually made him really happy...

Your eyes widened slightly as your cheeks turned red again, shocked but relieved and yet you were just as happy and ecstatic that you had to NOT squeal again. “M-Me too...!” You beamed with the most cheerful tone that made Tokoyami’s heart flutter a little bit the more he looked at it. Such light his guarded heart had never seen or felt before...

"Would you... like to walk to the dorms together?” Tokoyami was amazed at how difficult it became to just ask such a simple question, and how he could practically hear his heart drumming when your smile seemed to grow. “Yeah! Totally~! I can also tell you about this new horror movie I feel like seeing, I’m sure you’ve heard about it too the commercials are blowing up on TV... and I ain’t talkin’ about Toy Story... which is a bit scary in it’s own right when you think about it...”

But Tokoyami was thankful that you started talking about something he enjoyed, and knew exactly what you were talking about. “That’s right. I want to see that one too. More demons and ghosts. And a doll that also comes to life... in a much more different manner than Toy Story...” He almost sounded enthusiastic when you talked about the new Annabelle movie...

However... even though he tried to talk to you... his shadow was starting to snicker, ‘I told ya! She likes you~!’

‘Dark Shadow!!’

At least he was still able to talk to you, and you were so happy that you finally got to talk to him more, even if it was after staring at him. Maybe you would finally get to know him better, and become something more.

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3416 · 4 years ago

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Why are you so angry @ people who want to pursue higher education//angry at the idea of higher education in general? I 100% agree with you the classism that the system perpetuates is a problem. But the way you phrase it just seems so... angry at the world that YOU didn’t get to have that opportunity rather than angry at the system. + I think that anger is valid, but the way you usually phrase it - with an incoherent keysmash and a focus on you rather than the collective - gives off petty vibes

did you send this to the right person?? i've talked about higher education in the past (keysmash sounds like me !) and honestly have a lot to say but i haven't made a post recently i dont think so i have no idea what you're referring to. anyway if this IS intended for me... here's my answer:

why am i so mad about the higher education system in america? bc it's literally a joke putting thousands and thousands of ppl in debt for a piece of paper that half the time, it doesn't even matter what it says ! i have so many anecdotes about people who got jobs just bc of the bachelor's degree and it wasn't even in the same field lmao. you work and work and work toward this "degree" that's supposed to mean something, and here, it honestly doesn't. i'm not angry at people who want to pursue a degree (i am literally one of those ppl) but i think from a young age, the system does a damn good job brainwashing you into thinking you HAVE to have one. we were thinking abt where we wanted to attend college from the age of like 8. that's fucked up and in school, they never even leave room for you to think.. oh maybe i don't want one. and we're not even talking abt the pressure it puts on people who have no fucking clue what they want to do. the job market is oversaturated with ppl who have degrees and no experience, so they have to settle for being underpaid. meanwhile, you've got debt piling up and up and up and you have to start paying on it. plus costs of school are rising but is the education itself getting better or more meaningful? literally no. and don't even get me started on public vs private and ivy leagues and all that stupid shit... you wanna talk abt something that perpetuates classism. i love the idea of continuing school, learning more than i have post 12th grade, but the united states has a FUCKED system of higher education and the disparities are gonna continue to grow until it collapses or there's reform, so. again, idk if this was intended for me as a message, but your questions prompt me to believe that... maybe YOU need to look at the system and how it operates in the real world rn. and if you're not from america, well... lucky you, probably. i've known plenty of people... with class and privilege and money.. who have gone to school and made a great time of it, but it needs to be more accessible to everyone and i think some people really need to examine their options before they pile on thousands, even hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt and then go into a work force that pays you $16 an hour. just doesn't cut it, it's all a trap, and it's the system's fault very OBVIOUSLY, not the peoples. anyway, it's not petty to want better for people or better for the system and culture as a whole. and maybe you should stop assuming you know where people's anger comes from internally, no matter who this was intended for, and look at why you yourself are bothered enough to send an anon, lol.

#easks #this literally could not even have been meant for me but ive made comments in the past that could warrant smth like this #so ill talk anyway #and if ur not from america . i have no idea how ur higher education system works so god bless it #i know most other ppls 'debt' like in europe means... not even close to the same as here #gotta pay that shit in full WITH interest and you HAVE to start paying almosr immediately #what a time to be alive and pay 50k a semester to live with shitty facilities and a subpar education itself #all good ! i think it's a con job and im actuallt sad for ppl who go into debt bc of college #i refuse to do it

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ducktracy · 5 years ago

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82. buddy’s bearcats (1934)

release date: june 23rd, 1934

series: looney tunes

director: jack king

starring: jack carr (buddy), bernice hansen (cookie), billy bletcher (hotdog vendor/mustachioed player)

jack king’s first directorial credit! a former animator at disney, he was placed as a priority by leon schlesinger, who wanted disney animators to take charge in hopes that looney tunes could be proper competition with disney. king would direct a number of buddy cartoons and later beans cartoons, as well as delving into a handful of porky cartoons in 1936 (which are some of my least favorite porky cartoons LOL. sorry jack!) king returned to disney in april 1936, hoping to direct cartoons in color. for much of the 30s, only friz freleng and tex avery would have the privilege of directing the merrie melodies, later expanding to frank tashlin and even chuck jones towards around 1938-1939. ANYWAY, buddy’s baseball team, the bearcats, take on the dastardly battling bruisers.

it seems king was the frank tashlin of the mid 30s, experimenting with new camera angles. a sign advertises BASEBALL TODAY — BUDDY’S BEARCATS vs BATTLING BRUISERS, a pan out revealing it’s a flag rustling in the breeze above a bustling stadium.

a chipper line of people wait at the ticket-booth, eagerly awaiting their access to the game. a rather rotund man purchases his ticket and goes about his business—until the clerk yells at him to come back and yanks him back. the camera angle is great: the animation is weirdly smooth and feels unnatural, and fits with the extreme close up of the man yelling and dragging the poor patron back. weight gags galore as the clerk charges the man again after measuring his girth. we’ll be seeing a lot of those, a LOT.

meanwhile, two tall men compress themselves enough to sneak under the ticket booth without rising suspicion, reverting back to their lanky selves as they enter the game.

a man peeping through the fence announces “it’s buddy!”, and sure enough our pint sized pitcher is happily playing with a baseball, limbering up before the big game. we cut back to the man peeping in, shaking his lower body in a jaunty rhythm. i like the jaunty idle stance! many of the characters have that throughout the film. it adds some fun and flavor and musicality to it. a wiener dog agrees, sticking his torso under the man’s butt and receiving a good back rub.

many sneaking-into-the-stadium gags! two men argue over peepholes, switching the heights: one drags a high peephole down, making the other guy’s low peephole high, the fight going back and forth. a man uses a wiener dog’s tail to crank him up and get another guy inside, and two men combine bagpipes and a drum to fashion the world’s most obnoxious hot air balloon: love it! the gags run a little long, but they’re enjoyable. the music is a plus to convey a happy atmosphere.

this is cookie. what a major redesign! i miss her betty boop-esque design. this is very cute, too, and probably the best way to go so she matches buddy. there’s something very comical about the contrast in design between cookie and buddy, though! like jessica rabbit and roger rabbit. their dynamic isn’t as amusing that way, and they hardly have a dynamic in the first place. maybe this change in design will change THAT, too. buddy flirts with her and bounces a baseball off an array of bats on the ground like an xylophone. ladies, if your significant other does this, they’re a keeper!

i enjoy that this cartoon is particularly more musical than the other looney tunes (not merrie melodies). we have a hotdog vendor selling hotdogs and singing about his process. fun fact! the sign on his setup reads “WILLIE KING HOT DOGS”—willie king was the guy who sold concessions around the warner bros lot. here he’s voiced by billy bletcher. there’s also a man selling sodas, attaching a propeller to the bottle and throwing it to a man. certainly different!

a singing announcer introduces the teams: the menacing battling bruisers, who do a tap dance routine, and buddy’s bearcats, also doing a routine. the dance is very amusing to watch: again, i love the jaunty feel to this entire cartoon.

everyone assumes their positions, and we meet our announcer in the press box, a highly amusing caricature of baseball commentator joe e. brown. he’s got charisma! buddy pitches a curveball, which lands directly into brown’s mouth. horrifying yet funny!

buddy’s up to bat as a nefarious, mustachioed pitcher squirts oil into his armpits instead of the ball as he swings a doozy of a pitch. buddy, however, hits it with ease, making a slide with the aid of wheels attached to his back. wow, what a little cheater! no wonder he’s “our hero” and so good at everything, he’s a little sneak! i knew he couldn’t be trusted. a man cheers buddy on, pushing the bench down as another man’s toupee flies into the air.

our mustachioed menace is next to bat, giving an evil laugh that’s undoubtedly billy bletcher. buddy tosses him a screwball this time, putting a literal screw in the baseball and giving it a few turns. the ball flits around like an angry bee, the menace pumping pesticides to “kill” it—a standard gag but highly amusing. nevertheless, one of the bearcats catches the ball with an extendable mitt, and we get this absolutely horrifying shot of the commentator’s mouth closing right in on the camera as he yells “he’s OOOOOOOOUT!!!!” now THAT’s the jack king i know, terrifying closeups! we’ll see many of those in his porky cartoons. nevertheless, i appreciate it. it’s different and definitely gets a gut reaction out of you.

bad news for buddy, who’s stressed about the game. game’s tied 47 to 47, barecats up. buddy paces around near the dugout as an insatiable crowd chants “we want buddy! we want buddy!” buddy exclaims that he can’t do it (even though he was batting just fine earlier!), but a squeaky “buddy!” interrupts his doubt. cookie comes to cheer him on, saying “hurry, buddy! they’re calling for you!” buddy laughs nervously and stammers “alright, cookie, i’ll go.” buddy doesn’t normally have much personality, but here he seems to have a shred of some! not just winning all the time, even happy go lucky rubber hose mascots have their doubts. a cute little scene, although cookie herself falls rather flat in terms of personality.

buddy shyly approaches to bat, the mustachioed menace (he doesn’t have a name, i just gave him that because it’s funny) laughing with evil glee as he pitches. buddy smacks the curveball, and it’s a home run! nice shot of buddy running to the bases as the baseball flies towards the audience.

victorious, buddy slides to home plate, urged on by cookie and the commentator. cheers are earsplitting and uproarious as spectators toss their hats in celebration. a giant pile of hats rests on home plate, disturbed only by cookie and buddy who embrace as more hats pile on top of them (awww :)). iris out!

i was a little trepidatious seeing jack king’s credit: his porky cartoons aren’t THAT bad, and i’m sure i’ll appreciate them as i review them—they just pale in comparison to the cartoons produced by tex avery and frank tashlin during that time. i’m pleasantly surprised at this cartoon! granted, it still fell under the decent/average category. i feel the spectators had more screen time than buddy did, and some of the gags wore on, but the atmosphere was upbeat and happy, music especially entertaining and jaunty. buddy and cookie were endearing, as barren in dynamic and personality as they are. you could go either way with this cartoon, watch it or skip it, but i lean moreso on the watch it side than i do the skip it side.

link!

#lt #buddy’s bearcats #reviews #long post

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bennettmarko · 4 years ago

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Fiction and Identity Politics

I hate to disappoint you folks, but unless we stretch the topic to breaking point this address will not be about “community and belonging.” In fact, you have to hand it to this festival’s organisers: inviting a renowned iconoclast to speak about “community and belonging” is like expecting a great white shark to balance a beach ball on its nose. The topic I had submitted instead was “fiction and identity politics,” which may sound on its face equally dreary.

But I’m afraid the bramble of thorny issues that cluster around “identity politics” has got all too interesting, particularly for people pursuing the occupation I share with many gathered in this hall: fiction writing. Taken to their logical conclusion, ideologies recently come into vogue challenge our right to write fiction at all. Meanwhile, the kind of fiction we are “allowed” to write is in danger of becoming so hedged, so circumscribed, so tippy-toe, that we’d indeed be better off not writing the anodyne drivel to begin with.

Let’s start with a tempest-in-a-teacup at Bowdoin College in Brunswick, Maine. Earlier this year, two students, both members of student government, threw a tequila-themed birthday party for a friend. The hosts provided attendees with miniature sombreros, which—the horror— numerous partygoers wore. When photos of the party circulated on social media, campus-wide outrage ensued. Administrators sent multiple emails to the “culprits” threatening an investigation into an “act of ethnic stereotyping.” Partygoers were placed on “social probation,” while the two hosts were ejected from their dorm and later impeached. Bowdoin’s student newspaper decried the attendees’ lack of “basic empathy.”

The student government issued a “statement of solidarity” with “all the students who were injured and affected by the incident,” and demanded that administrators “create a safe space for those students who have been or feel specifically targeted.” The tequila party, the statement specified, was just the sort of occasion that “creates an environment where students of colour, particularly Latino, and especially Mexican, feel unsafe.” In sum, the party-favour hats constituted – wait for it – “cultural appropriation.”

Curiously, across my country Mexican restaurants, often owned and run by Mexicans, are festooned with sombreros – if perhaps not for long. At the UK’s University of East Anglia, the student union has banned a Mexican restaurant from giving out sombreros, deemed once more an act of “cultural appropriation” that was also racist.

Now, I am a little at a loss to explain what’s so insulting about a sombrero – a practical piece of headgear for a hot climate that keeps out the sun with a wide brim. My parents went to Mexico when I was small, and brought a sombrero back from their travels, the better for my brothers and I to unashamedly appropriate the souvenir to play dress-up. For my part, as a German-American on both sides, I’m more than happy for anyone who doesn’t share my genetic pedigree to don a Tyrolean hat, pull on some leiderhosen, pour themselves a weisbier, and belt out the Hoffbrauhaus Song.

But what does this have to do with writing fiction? The moral of the sombrero scandals is clear: you’re not supposed to try on other people’s hats. Yet that’s what we’re paid to do, isn’t it? Step into other people’s shoes, and try on their hats.

In the latest ethos, which has spun well beyond college campuses in short order, any tradition, any experience, any costume, any way of doing and saying things, that is associated with a minority or disadvantaged group is ring-fenced: look-but-don’t-touch. Those who embrace a vast range of “identities” – ethnicities, nationalities, races, sexual and gender categories, classes of economic under-privilege and disability – are now encouraged to be possessive of their experience and to regard other peoples’ attempts to participate in their lives and traditions, either actively or imaginatively, as a form of theft.

Yet were their authors honouring the new rules against helping yourself to what doesn’t belong to you, we would not have Malcolm Lowry’s Under the Volcano. We wouldn’t have most of Graham Greene’s novels, many of which are set in what for the author were foreign countries, and which therefore have Real Foreigners in them, who speak and act like foreigners, too.

In his masterwork English Passengers, Matthew Kneale would have restrained himself from including chapters written in an Aboriginal’s voice – though these are some of the richest, most compelling passages in that novel. If Dalton Trumbo had been scared off of describing being trapped in a body with no arms, legs, or face because he was not personally disabled – because he had not been through a World War I maiming himself and therefore had no right to “appropriate” the isolation of a paraplegic – we wouldn’t have the haunting 1938 classic, Johnny Got His Gun.

We wouldn’t have Maria McCann’s erotic masterpiece, As Meat Loves Salt – in which a straight woman writes about gay men in the English Civil War. Though the book is nonfiction, it’s worth noting that we also wouldn’t have 1961’s Black Like Me, for which John Howard Griffin committed the now unpardonable sin of “blackface.” Having his skin darkened – Michael Jackson in reverse – Griffin found out what it was like to live as a black man in the segregated American South. He’d be excoriated today, yet that book made a powerful social impact at the time.

The author of Who Owns Culture? Appropriation and Authenticity in American Law, Susan Scafidi, a law professor at Fordham University who for the record is white, defines cultural appropriation as “taking intellectual property, traditional knowledge, cultural expressions, or artifacts from someone else’s culture without permission. This can include unauthorised use of another culture’s dance, dress, music, language, folklore, cuisine, traditional medicine, religious symbols, etc.”

What strikes me about that definition is that “without permission” bit. However are we fiction writers to seek “permission” to use a character from another race or culture, or to employ the vernacular of a group to which we don’t belong? Do we set up a stand on the corner and approach passers-by with a clipboard, getting signatures that grant limited rights to employ an Indonesian character in Chapter Twelve, the way political volunteers get a candidate on the ballot? I am hopeful that the concept of “cultural appropriation” is a passing fad: people with different backgrounds rubbing up against each other and exchanging ideas and practices is self-evidently one of the most productive, fascinating aspects of modern urban life.

But this latest and little absurd no-no is part of a larger climate of super-sensitivity, giving rise to proliferating prohibitions supposedly in the interest of social justice that constrain fiction writers and prospectively makes our work impossible.

So far, the majority of these farcical cases of “appropriation” have concentrated on fashion, dance, and music: At the American Music Awards 2013, Katy Perry got it in the neck for dressing like a geisha. According to the Arab-American writer Randa Jarrar, for someone like me to practice belly dancing is “white appropriation of Eastern dance,” while according to the Daily Beast Iggy Azalea committed “cultural crimes” by imitating African rap and speaking in a “blaccent.”

The felony of cultural sticky fingers even extends to exercise: at the University of Ottawa in Canada, a yoga teacher was shamed into suspending her class, “because yoga originally comes from India.” She offered to re-title the course, “Mindful Stretching.” And get this: the purism has also reached the world of food. Supported by no less than Lena Dunham, students at Oberlin College in Ohio have protested “culturally appropriated food” like sushi in their dining hall (lucky cusses— in my day, we never had sushi in our dining hall), whose inauthenticity is “insensitive” to the Japanese.

Seriously, we have people questioning whether it’s appropriate for white people to eat pad Thai. Turnabout, then: I guess that means that as a native of North Carolina, I can ban the Thais from eating barbecue. (I bet they’d swap.) This same sensibility is coming to a bookstore near you. Because who is the appropriator par excellence, really? Who assumes other people’s voices, accents, patois, and distinctive idioms? Who literally puts words into the mouths of people different from themselves? Who dares to get inside the very heads of strangers, who has the chutzpah to project thoughts and feelings into the minds of others, who steals their very souls? Who is a professional kidnapper? Who swipes every sight, smell, sensation, or overheard conversation like a kid in a candy store, and sometimes take notes the better to purloin whole worlds? Who is the premier pickpocket of the arts? The fiction writer, that’s who.

This is a disrespectful vocation by its nature – prying, voyeuristic, kleptomaniacal, and presumptuous. And that is fiction writing at its best. When Truman Capote wrote from the perspective of condemned murderers from a lower economic class than his own, he had some gall. But writing fiction takes gall.

As for the culture police’s obsession with “authenticity,” fiction is inherently inauthentic. It’s fake. It’s self-confessedly fake; that is the nature of the form, which is about people who don’t exist and events that didn’t happen. The name of the game is not whether your novel honours reality; it’s all about what you can get away with.

In his 2009 novel Little Bee, Chris Cleave, who as it happens is participating in this festival, dared to write from the point of view of a 14-year-old Nigerian girl, though he is male, white, and British. I’ll remain neutral on whether he “got away with it” in literary terms, because I haven’t read the book yet.

But in principle, I admire his courage – if only because he invited this kind of ethical forensics in a review out of San Francisco: “When a white male author writes as a young Nigerian girl, is it an act of empathy, or identity theft?” the reviewer asked. “When an author pretends to be someone he is not, he does it to tell a story outside of his own experiential range. But he has to in turn be careful that he is representing his characters, not using them for his plot.” Hold it. OK, he’s necessarily “representing” his characters, by portraying them on the page. But of course he’s using them for his plot! How could he not? They are his characters, to be manipulated at his whim, to fulfill whatever purpose he cares to put them to.

This same reviewer recapitulated Cleave’s obligation “to show that he’s representing [the girl], rather than exploiting her.” Again, a false dichotomy. Of course he’s exploiting her. It’s his book, and he made her up. The character is his creature, to be exploited up a storm. Yet the reviewer chides that “special care should be taken with a story that’s not implicitly yours to tell” and worries that “Cleave pushes his own boundaries maybe further than they were meant to go.”

What stories are “implicitly ours to tell,” and what boundaries around our own lives are we mandated to remain within? I would argue that any story you can make yours is yours to tell, and trying to push the boundaries of the author’s personal experience is part of a fiction writer’s job.

I’m hoping that crime writers, for example, don’t all have personal experience of committing murder. Me, I’ve depicted a high school killing spree, and I hate to break it to you: I’ve never shot fatal arrows through seven kids, a teacher, and a cafeteria worker, either. We make things up, we chance our arms, sometimes we do a little research, but in the end it’s still about what we can get away with – what we can put over on our readers.

Because the ultimate endpoint of keeping out mitts off experience that doesn’t belong to us is that there is no fiction. Someone like me only permits herself to write from the perspective of a straight white female born in North Carolina, closing on sixty, able-bodied but with bad knees, skint for years but finally able to buy the odd new shirt. All that’s left is memoir.

And here’s the bugbear, here’s where we really can’t win. At the same time that we’re to write about only the few toys that landed in our playpen, we’re also upbraided for failing to portray in our fiction a population that is sufficiently various.

My most recent novel The Mandibles was taken to task by one reviewer for addressing an America that is “straight and white”. It happens that this is a multigenerational family saga – about a white family. I wasn’t instinctively inclined to insert a transvestite or bisexual, with issues that might distract from my central subject matter of apocalyptic economics. Yet the implication of this criticism is that we novelists need to plug in representatives of a variety of groups in our cast of characters, as if filling out the entering class of freshmen at a university with strict diversity requirements.

You do indeed see just this brand of tokenism in television. There was a point in the latter 1990s at which suddenly every sitcom and drama in sight had to have a gay or lesbian character or couple. That was good news as a voucher of the success of the gay rights movement, but it still grew a bit tiresome: look at us, our show is so hip, one of the characters is homosexual!

We’re now going through the same fashionable exercise in relation to the transgender characters in series like Transparent and Orange is the New Black. Fine. But I still would like to reserve the right as a novelist to use only the characters that pertain to my story.

Besides: which is it to be? We have to tend our own gardens, and only write about ourselves or people just like us because we mustn’t pilfer others’ experience, or we have to people our cast like an I’d like to teach the world to sing Coca-Cola advert?

For it can be dangerous these days to go the diversity route. Especially since there seems to be a consensus on the notion that San Francisco reviewer put forward that “special care should be taken with a story that’s not implicitly yours to tell.”

In The Mandibles, I have one secondary character, Luella, who’s black. She’s married to a more central character, Douglas, the Mandible family’s 97-year-old patriarch. I reasoned that Douglas, a liberal New Yorker, would credibly have left his wife for a beautiful, stately African American because arm candy of color would reflect well on him in his circle, and keep his progressive kids’ objections to a minimum. But in the end the joke is on Douglas, because Luella suffers from early onset dementia, while his ex-wife, staunchly of sound mind, ends up running a charity for dementia research. As the novel reaches its climax and the family is reduced to the street, they’re obliged to put the addled, disoriented Luella on a leash, to keep her from wandering off.

Behold, the reviewer in the Washington Post, who groundlessly accused this book of being “racist” because it doesn’t toe a strict Democratic Party line in its political outlook, described the scene thus: “The Mandibles are white. Luella, the single African American in the family, arrives in Brooklyn incontinent and demented. She needs to be physically restrained. As their fortunes become ever more dire and the family assembles for a perilous trek through the streets of lawless New York, she’s held at the end of a leash. If The Mandibles is ever made into a film, my suggestion is that this image not be employed for the movie poster.”

Your author, by implication, yearns to bring back slavery.

Thus in the world of identity politics, fiction writers better be careful. If we do choose to import representatives of protected groups, special rules apply. If a character happens to be black, they have to be treated with kid gloves, and never be placed in scenes that, taken out of context, might seem disrespectful. But that’s no way to write. The burden is too great, the self-examination paralysing. The natural result of that kind of criticism in the Post is that next time I don’t use any black characters, lest they do or say anything that is short of perfectly admirable and lovely.

In fact, I’m reminded of a letter I received in relation to my seventh novel from an Armenian-American who objected – why did I have to make the narrator of We Need to Talk About Kevin Armenian? He didn’t like my narrator, and felt that her ethnicity disparaged his community. I took pains to explain that I knew something about Armenian heritage, because my best friend in the States was Armenian, and I also thought there was something dark and aggrieved in the culture of the Armenian diaspora that was atmospherically germane to that book. Besides, I despaired, everyone in the US has an ethnic background of some sort, and she had to be something!

Especially for writers from traditionally privileged demographics, the message seems to be that it’s a whole lot safer just to make all your characters from that same demographic, so you can be as hard on them as you care to be, and do with them what you like. Availing yourself of a diverse cast, you are not free; you have inadvertently invited a host of regulations upon your head, as if just having joined the EU. Use different races, ethnicities, and minority gender identities, and you are being watched.

I confess that this climate of scrutiny has got under my skin. When I was first starting out as a novelist, I didn’t hesitate to write black characters, for example, or to avail myself of black dialects, for which, having grown up in the American South, I had a pretty good ear. I am now much more anxious about depicting characters of different races, and accents make me nervous.

In describing a second-generation Mexican American who’s married to one of my main characters in The Mandibles, I took care to write his dialogue in standard American English, to specify that he spoke without an accent, and to explain that he only dropped Spanish expressions tongue-in-cheek. I would certainly think twice – more than twice – about ever writing a whole novel, or even a goodly chunk of one, from the perspective of a character whose race is different from my own – because I may sell myself as an iconoclast, but I’m as anxious as the next person about attracting vitriol. But I think that’s a loss. I think that indicates a contraction of my fictional universe that is not good for the books, and not good for my soul.

Writing under the pseudonym Edward Schlosser on Vox, the author of the essay “I’m a Liberal Professor, and My Liberal Students Scare Me” describes higher education’s “current climate of fear” and its “heavily policed discourse of semantic sensitivity” – and I am concerned that this touchy ethos, in which offendedness is used as a weapon, has spread far beyond academia, in part thanks to social media.

Why, it’s largely in order to keep from losing my fictional mojo that I stay off Facebook and Twitter, which could surely install an instinctive self-censorship out of fear of attack. Ten years ago, I gave the opening address of this same festival, in which I maintained that fiction writers have a vested interest in protecting everyone’s right to offend others – because if hurting someone else’s feelings even inadvertently is sufficient justification for muzzling, there will always be someone out there who is miffed by what you say, and freedom of speech is dead. With the rise of identity politics, which privileges a subjective sense of injury as actionable basis for prosecution, that is a battle that in the decade since I last spoke in Brisbane we’ve been losing.

Worse: the left’s embrace of gotcha hypersensitivity inevitably invites backlash. Donald Trump appeals to people who have had it up to their eyeballs with being told what they can and cannot say. Pushing back against a mainstream culture of speak-no-evil suppression, they lash out in defiance, and then what they say is pretty appalling.

Regarding identity politics, what’s especially saddened me in my recent career is a trend toward rejecting the advocacy of anyone who does not belong to the group. In 2013, I published Big Brother, a novel that grew out of my loss of my own older brother, who in 2009 died from the complications of morbid obesity. I was moved to write the book not only from grief, but also sympathy: in the years before his death, as my brother grew heavier, I saw how dreadfully other people treated him – how he would be seated off in a corner of a restaurant, how the staff would roll their eyes at each other after he’d ordered, though he hadn’t requested more food than anyone else.

I was wildly impatient with the way we assess people’s characters these days in accordance with their weight, and tried to get on the page my dismay at how much energy people waste on this matter, sometimes anguishing for years over a few excess pounds. Both author and book were on the side of the angels, or so you would think.

But in my events to promote Big Brother, I started to notice a pattern. Most of the people buying the book in the signing queue were thin. Especially in the US, fat is now one of those issues where you either have to be one of us, or you’re the enemy. I verified this when I had a long email correspondence with a “Healthy at Any Size” activist, who was incensed by the novel, which she hadn’t even read. Which she refused to read. No amount of explaining that the novel was on her side, that it was a book that was terribly pained by the way heavy people are treated and how unfairly they are judged, could overcome the scrawny author’s photo on the flap.

She and her colleagues in the fat rights movement did not want my advocacy. I could not weigh in on this material because I did not belong to the club. I found this an artistic, political, and even commercial disappointment – because in the US and the UK, if only skinny-minnies will buy your book, you’ve evaporated the pool of prospective consumers to a puddle.

I worry that the clamorous world of identity politics is also undermining the very causes its activists claim to back. As a fiction writer, yeah, I do sometimes deem my narrator an Armenian. But that’s only by way of a start. Merely being Armenian is not to have a character as I understand the word.

Membership of a larger group is not an identity. Being Asian is not an identity. Being gay is not an identity. Being deaf, blind, or wheelchair-bound is not an identity, nor is being economically deprived. I reviewed a novel recently that I had regretfully to give a thumbs-down, though it was terribly well intended; its heart was in the right place. But in relating the Chinese immigrant experience in America, the author put forward characters that were mostly Chinese. That is, that’s sort of all they were: Chinese. Which isn’t enough.

I made this same point in relation to gender in Melbourne last week: both as writers and as people, we should be seeking to push beyond the constraining categories into which we have been arbitrarily dropped by birth. If we embrace narrow group-based identities too fiercely, we cling to the very cages in which others would seek to trap us. We pigeonhole ourselves. We limit our own notion of who we are, and in presenting ourselves as one of a membership, a representative of our type, an ambassador of an amalgam, we ask not to be seen.

The reading and writing of fiction is obviously driven in part by a desire to look inward, to be self-examining, reflective. But the form is also born of a desperation to break free of the claustrophobia of our own experience. The spirit of good fiction is one of exploration, generosity, curiosity, audacity, and compassion. Writing during the day and reading when I go to bed at night, I find it an enormous relief to escape the confines of my own head. Even if novels and short stories only do so by creating an illusion, fiction helps to fell the exasperating barriers between us, and for a short while allows us to behold the astonishing reality of other people.

The last thing we fiction writers need is restrictions on what belongs to us. In a recent interview, our colleague Chris Cleave conceded, “Do I as an Englishman have any right to write a story of a Nigerian woman? … I completely sympathise with the people who say I have no right to do this. My only excuse is that I do it well.”

Which brings us to my final point. We do not all do it well. So it’s more than possible that we write from the perspective of a one-legged lesbian from Afghanistan and fall flat on our arses. We don’t get the dialogue right, and for insertions of expressions in Pashto we depend on Google Translate. Halfway through the novel, suddenly the protagonist has lost the right leg instead of the left one. Our idea of lesbian sex is drawn from wooden internet porn. Efforts to persuasively enter the lives of others very different from us may fail: that’s a given. But maybe rather than having our heads taken off, we should get a few points for trying. After all, most fiction sucks. Most writing sucks. Most things that people make of any sort suck. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t make anything.

The answer is that modern cliché: to keep trying to fail better. Anything but be obliged to designate my every character an ageing five-foot-two smartass, and having to set every novel in North Carolina.

We fiction writers have to preserve the right to wear many hats – including sombreros.

This is the full transcript of the keynote speech, Fiction and Identity Politics, Lionel Shriver gave at the Brisbane Writers Festival on 8 September.

#censorship #free speech

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itslovewithyouthings · 6 years ago

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sinesalvatorem: yesharrypotterlover123blr: fawnfreckles: devilinhighheels: … http://bit.ly/306TDz3

sinesalvatorem: yesharrypotterlover123blr: fawnfreckles: devilinhighheels: marril96: mizumanta: cheshireinthemiddle: cheshireinthemiddle: thefingerfuckingfemalefury: be-blackstar: This is how you handle getting your privileged called out. Not reverse racism! Not heterophobe! and all those other dynamics that dont exist. Just recognition. Recognition of privilege (and hopefully continuous self-checking) THIS Do you have any idea what someones high school experience was like? What if she was homeless in high school and got beat up everyday? What if she went through severe depression? What if she lost a parent in high school? Your assumption that traits you are born with automatically make your experiences worse is crap This same show could say that merideth doesnt like planes and some gay muslim tries to shame her for it. Even though She got in a plane crash Lost a sister in that crash Fought off animals from eating her sister Almost lost a husband Lost a close friend Suffered trauma and lasting fear. But shes white and heterosexual so her experience must be easier than yours. Becuase you know all about what little she went through. There was another white character who was homeless in high school and lived in her car. Compared to black lesbian who spent high school knowing that she could come home to a loving family a warm house consistant meals and fresh clothes. Dont downplay peoples experiences based on race especially when you dont even know their experience. You know what? No. Fuck this. FUCK THIS! You can never know what someones been through. If something bad happened to me I need understanding not some asshole pointing out some people have it worse. Just no. If anyone ever tries to pull that shit on me I will tell them to fuck off. I actually had something similar happening to me this week funnily. I told a friend of mine (the guy with the crazy NYE girlfriend if some of you remember) that he should be more confident before going into a new relationship and that I knew it is hard. He told me I shouldnt be talking because I live with my boyfriend and get money. I just wrote What money do I get? You mean my half-orphans benefits? Or my child care money? You know why I get that? Because I saw my mother fucking dying in our Croatia holidays when I was 13. Because my father had to decide between his girlfriend who abused me for years and me his daughter and kicked me out? And may I remember you why I live with my boyfriend? Because my aunt let her daughter abuse me every single day humiliated me and broke me to the point of me cutting developing disordered eating habits and emotional breakdowns every single day. Im suffering from these things called depression anxiety and PTSD. I am so sorry that I tried to help a friend with shit Ive been going through since Im eight He apologized after that. dont put down others experiences because you think youve suffered more What I dont like about either of these assumptions is that often people dont simply suffer more or less they suffer differently. For one thing Im sure there are plenty of things that I havent had to deal with because of my privileges. Im also sure that Ive had to deal with other things that like the commenters have said have happened in spite of it or in some ways because of it (jealousy invisibility statistical minority). Im also sure that there are people who regardless of background have suffered more than me and less than me. And Im sure they include some people who have gone through the same things as me and had the lack of privilege to deal with on top of it. For another it isnt even as simple as that. What if the scenario above had been a straight black man and a white lesbian? In my case I come from a tremendously privileged background and havent had anything charity-story-terrible happen to me but Im on the autism spectrum and most of the people at my school – who were from far less privileged backgrounds – were not. Im lucky in that suffering in my case is an exaggeration. When I hear the kind of stories other people have gone through about being abused by those closest to them or tortured by bullies or having their closest immediate family members die I realise how lucky Ive been not to have had that in my past. That being said the kind of stuff Ive been through because it isnt that serious can be hard for me to describe to people. Imagine going to Oscar night and youve lost the oscar and you tripped on the red carpet and you peed your pants and nobody cares because theyve never had the opportunity to go to the Oscars and think youre complaining about first-world problems. Meanwhile you feel as though every dream youve had is destined to be that little bit mediocre and part of you wishes youd never gone at all while the other tries to console it by saying hey at least you went. I think that in terms of privilege and background people who say the black lesbian suffers more doesnt mean the black lesbian whos had a good life with a few microaggressions suffers more than the straight white girl whos been abused and had her family die they mean the black lesbian whos been abused and had her family die suffers more than the straight white girl whos been abused and had her family die. The problem is that this fails to account for all scenarios. Im sure that in general a black lesbian autistic suffers more than a straight white male autistic because they arent really represented as autistic they have to deal with the stuff that comes with being black and being a lesbian on top of it they have to deal with the angry black woman stereotype they have to deal with the black trans disabled pansexual lesbian joke and so on. But if I decided to infodump during a meeting and so did she she wouldnt be the one seen as an oppressive misogynist. I also just straight up dont get what might motivate someone to react that way? Like high school sucked seems like it should be immediately responded to with saaame or relatable or I know that feel girl. Like We have had a similar experience and that brings us together is just such an unalloyed good that I cant imagine responding to something you actually relate to (like high school sucking) by trying to say you had it worse (even if you did!). (I am aware that there are some bizarre people who actually want to avoid feeling bonded/connected with the people around them. However this makes roughly as much sense to me as wanting to saw your own arm off. Less honestly – there are situations where sawing your own arm off could be actually beneficial like if youre trapped under a rock.) Like whats the value gained from telling someone you have it worse than them (assuming youre actually right and not just an asshole)? Is there some limited supply of sympathy to go around and you need to pounce on it quickly so that the other person doesnt steal it all? Who is that person even getting that sympathy from such that you need to get in between them and the source? Are there other people in the room youre looking for sympathy from? If so you might actually seem more sympathetic if youre not being such an asshole to the first person. Are you trying to get sympathy from the person you just shut down? Because uh you are doing it so wrong. People who feel shamed for having problems are usually less inclined to be sympathetic to the shamers problems. If you say Yes I understand that problem. In fact I had [worse related problem]. I can guarantee you youll get at least twice as much sympathy from your interlocutor than you would from You think you have problems? You should try mine! The only thing I can see this as being good for is shutting someone else down so they wont speak about their problems anymore. Which I guess could make sense. You may not want to listen to someone you dont care about much complain about their problems all the time. But dont construct this is valiantly calling out privilege. You really are just shutting someone down. Decide on those terms whether thats what you want.

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not-another-mtg-fanblog · 8 years ago

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Why Aren’t There More Women Magic Players?

Finally posting my article! It’s really long and I don’t want to clutter people’s dashboards with the full thing, so please click Keep Reading to read it. Thank you to everyone who responded to my “interview” questions! It was so helpful, and it certainly gave me a good look at what’s going on in the community.

Special thank you to @gaytog and @ally-encampment, who are most heavily featured in the piece. Your responses were phenomenal and I’m grateful for your help on this.

Secondary shout out to @chelsea-beleren-vess and @zoe-of-the-veil, neither of whom I interviewed but who both have been outspoken about this issue and thus who I mention in the article for their public posts.

Again, thank you, and enjoy the article!

Full Text:

It’s a Friday night, and Topp’s Trade Center, in Benton Harbor, Michigan, is, to say the least, packed. At the counter to check out, five or six men and teen boys stand in line to pay to play Magic: The Gathering in the weekly Friday Night Magic (FNM) bracket. All who play will get a small discount later in the evening on packs of cards, and one lucky winner will get a mythic rare card for free.

Meanwhile, in the gaming room, two college-aged men are deep in a heated Magic: The Gathering match, while a half dozen other men look on. Two women of about the same age walk in and sit down by themselves across the room from the others, and begin to play their own match, completely ignored. Of the 30 or so people that have come in for FNM, they are the only women in the store.

“There still is a low percentage of women at FNMs and such I go to—often I’m the only one there, or just one of two,” says Lily Haaron, a woman player from Seattle.

According to Wizards of the Coast, the company that owns Magic: The Gathering, over 12 million people worldwide play Magic. Of that, somewhere between 60 and 90 percent of players are male. The women who do play frequently state that they feel unwelcome in game stores that host Magic events. They cite instances when they were not taken seriously, were the butt of hurtful and often discriminatory jokes, or were even harassed by other players because of their gender. However, many women in the community have started clubs and social media groups specifically for women, in order to create safer spaces for women to play.

“Many male players see the community as of and for primarily other male players,” says a female Magic player going only by the name Joy, who began playing around 2013 but has only been heavily involved in the community in the past year.

Joy says that she initially felt drawn to the complexity and depth of the game’s lore, which follows the story of several different characters that are also printed as playing cards in the game. She says, “I read the entire story of Khans of Tarkir block and loved it, and have been keeping up since,” referring to the story published in once-a-week chapters prior to the release of “blocks” of new cards.

Many players enjoy the social aspect of the game. After all, it is called Magic: The Gathering, which refers to how people must gather together in order to play. “I enjoy that Magic gets me out of the house every day,” Joy says, “On weekdays, my job gets me out of the house. On weekends, Magic does.”

But the social aspect can be rougher for some than for others. Ally Robertson, a trans woman and regional Magic judge from Maine says that, while she has never experienced harassment herself, she has friends who have. “When [one of my good friends] was still new to Magic, [she] had a store owner tell her that if she went out back and gave him oral sex, he would concede to her,” she says. “The local judge at the time just laughed, like most of the store.”

The game was invented in 1993 by a white man, and for many years it appealed only to white men, to the exclusion of women and non-whites alike. “What I have experienced, both at my LGS (local game store) and online, is a male-dominated culture that manifests in subtle and not-so-subtle ways,” says Joy.

The creators of Magic have since attempted to increase the number of woman players, though the demographic statistics vary depending on who you ask. For example, Mark Rosewater, the lead designer for Magic, said on his blog, “market research shows the gender breakdown of male to female is 62% to 38%.”

Jesse Reynolds, a former store owner from Evanston, Illinois has an even more stark view of the demographic differences. He says, “If [other store owners] say that more than 5% of their players are female, they are lying.”

Participation in competitive events, such as the professional tours and even FNM, closely resembles what Mr. Reynolds says, which suggests that while women are attracted to the game itself, there is a significant barrier keeping them from playing competitively.

“I’ve been treated like crap by guys when I go play Magic,” writes a Tumblr user going by the URL chelsea-beleren-vess. “Or ignored when I’m like ‘hi how are you?’ Or asked if I’m here with my boyfriend. They don’t take me seriously.”

Some players say that, although the community as a whole has a long way to go, the company itself is inclusive in a way that its consumers are not. “Wizards of the Coast has demonstrated a commitment to making Magic a more inclusive gaming experience, and so far, I think they’ve done well,” says Joy.

Indeed, Wizards is unlike other media in its representations of women and non-binary individuals. The company has actively remade edited versions of card art that previously objectified female characters, even after having received backlash from male players that saw nothing wrong with the original art. Wizards also wrote new female characters into the story, some of whom are lesbian or bisexual. Two years ago, the company released Alesha, Who Smiles At Death, a card based on the company’s first openly transgender character, and in the past year it introduced an entire race of people, called the Aetherborn (pronounced EE-ther-born), that are non-binary, using they/them pronouns.

“I love that they have characters like Alesha, or the Aetherborn. It definitely adds to mine and my partner’s experience of playing the game and it also makes conversations about inclusivity easier,” says Ms. Robertson. “On the flip side, though, it’s frustrating when people on coverage misgender the Aetherborn or assume their next coverage pair consists of two men. As a whole, Magic is still a ‘boys club’ and any attempts to expend that mentality usually end in backlash.”

So what might improve the gender disparity at Magic events? What might draw more women to Magic? Some say that it is the responsibility of Wizards of the Coast. Others say that the privileged majority in the community need to step up and be more inclusive. Yet others argue that those who have been harassed or discriminated against need to report their experiences. No surefire consensus has been made, though perhaps all suggestions have their merit.

“I feel on a local level stores need to do more to try and get women into the game, and support women communities with it,” says Ms. Haaron.

Ms. Haaron wants to see more groups like the Lady Planeswalkers Society, a women-led group of Magic players that hosts events specifically to draw women into the game and create a more welcoming and inclusive environment for women players. The society has had moderate success, purporting to have over 80 active chapters throughout the world and more than 1600 followers on Facebook. However, 1600 followers out of the 12 million that Wizards claims play is not even a dent in the community.

Some argue that Wizards of the Coast hasn’t done enough to create an inclusive community. “I think Wizards needs to take more direct action against stores that have unwelcoming environments,” says Ms. Robertson. “If a store gets repeatedly reported for an environment where players are degrading women, or making rape jokes, Wizards should step in and tell that store to keep their player base in line or lose DCI sanctioning.”

DCI sanctioning refers to the ability of a store to host official Magic: The Gathering events. Many stores make their money by hosting such events, so being sanctioned is good for both the store and for Wizards. Furthermore, participating in sanctioned events helps competitive players advance to the next level of competition, so it’s good for the players as well.

When players are repeatedly harassed or made uncomfortable during the events, things get a little complicated. Wizards has rules put in place to punish players that make the environment uncomfortable for others, but those rules are just not strict enough for some.

Ms. Robertson says, “I think jokes that promote violence or jokes that use minorities as a…punching bag should warrant an immediate disqualification, or at least match losses.”

For now, many women players are creating their own safe spaces to play. Tumblr user zoe-of-the-veil has created a server on the Discord app, which is a group chat app specifically for gamers. She says, “Basically, this will be a place for women magic players will be able to connect and support one another.”

#women magic players #women in mtg #magic the gathering #mtg #article #writing #lady planeswalker society #women in gaming #gaming #games #mtg fandom #magic fandom #feminism #women

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tzores-tasks · 8 years ago

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> do demons gain power through this kind of stuff?

Yes! Sort of! Summonables can become stronger with the more souls they take, but luckily, you're a succubus. You can become stronger by the amount of sexual favors you can satisfy! The next time T'zore can level (after fulfilling ten sexual quests), we might be able to add on another skill, or even buy something worth while. Who knows?

> Maybe shift on your back to give them a better view while lightly moaning. Then if they still don't do shit, start "waking up".

> Act super docile (read "moe") and innocent.

Ohhh, good idea...? You guess? Fuck it, these guys don't hold any sort of power over us anyways, might as well screw with them and see where it heads then.

> Say, what IS the description of our job? Are we meant to just complete whatever the summoner summoned us for before poofing back, or are we trying to just sucker someone out of a soul before we return, or what?

Even though we're just lowly Summonables, that doesn't mean our Summoner is granted any sort of privileges. Some Summoners are powerful, worshipped, and not to be messed with, while other Summoners are kids playing with ouija boards in locker rooms with Satanic circles made of chalk. It's really just circumstance. For now, we'll just have fun? As a test run, for you guys! Anyways, you roll onto your back as a whimper leaves your mouth. You attempt to bat your eyes at the guys as you whine pitifully, "T- That really hurt... uuu..." Just from that alone, everyone's already started pitching tents. You hold back from laughing as you shiver, "What do you guys... want with me...?? Uuuu... I'm scared..." You don't really know how to act, as you can tell. Dick sucking didn't help you in theater. "We're not going to hurt you!!" Little Seven insists, trying to hide the boner that's literally casting a shadow over you, "We just... uh... We really need help with our s- soccer and... we thought maybe s- something like, you! Could help us?" Seriously? We're back to the sports already. Well, it wasn't football, like you were guessing, but still. Ugh, what now? You're not a sports expert, but you don't want to leave without something worth talking about.

> You can always use your powers of Manipulation to mess up the other team if we REALLY want to help them with the game, but we're pretty much just dicking around at the moment. Say that you can help them, but your...uh, "energy level" is super low right now and that's why you fainted, and you need their "energy" to be able to work your magic on the other team, as well as get home afterwards. These guys seem like the perfect combination of turned-on and willing-to-help that they wouldn't question it, and we certainly aren't going to turn down an excuse to net some free energy.

> make soccer puns, that'll get em

Getting yourself up on your knees, you begin to stutter out a cute little solution to them. While you can't help them during their game, you can offer your services to them as long as they help you out first. "I- If you can be... er, k- kind enough to just, 'play' with me for a little bit, s- so I can gather up my energy, uh... I'll... be able toooo... strengthen! You guys! with the ability... of..." You realize in the middle of trying to convince them that they have been staring at you readily for the past few minutes. Well, fuck, looks like they're ready for anything then.

As you pull off your bra completely, you attempt an awful soccer pun. "I- If you need someone to... shoot your goals... at... then I'm your keeper!" Booo. You're really lucky you're hot.

> ...let's just...save up for the Acting/Seduction talent next, shall we. For now, though, this is easy street. You majored in blowjobs. Get yoself some free sex experience, girl. Sexperience, if you will. SEXP.

> Yank down Seven's pants and suck him off first.

Yeah, we're definitely saving that under the drafts for later. Also, SEXP is catchy!! We're using that now, forever. Onwards...

To BLOWJOB CENTRAL. With the eagerness of a harlot who just graduated in whoretistics, you waste no time in getting to sloppy territory. Seven yelps in response to how fast you've chosen him, but doesn't fight against your tongue! Awesome! He's ours for the taking! All we got to do is get this high school senior to cum in our mouth and that'll definitely raise our SEXP! Remember: orgasms are KEY to raising it! No satisfaction, no points!

> Does he have to cum in our mouth? Getting covered on the first day would be a nice start, I assume...

> Swallow if the answer to this is know. What happens to the people we deplete energy from? Is the effect in any way detrimental?

Technically, no, he doesn't have to cum INSIDE of us... but results are way more faster that way. It's weird stuff in the contract about "blah blah blah must be satisfied by YOUR actions, not by their own hand" and all that nonsense. You could probably find a loophole in that, but we'll go with the flow.

And nothing bad necessarily happens to the people who have energy taken from them. If we have repeated intercourse for hours on end, they'll probably die. A blowjob and some fuckin' isn't going to hurt anyone though. Maybe just some dizziness. Drinking a little apple juice might help with that.

> Dude might be a virgin, but take it easy and keep it vanilla at first. Good old-fashioned blowie, no bells or whistles. You wrote papers on these techniques-- no chance for a double-dip of sexperience if you give them the most mind-bogglingly intense orgasm you've got right off the bat. Test the waters, maybe try a little fondling. Be sure to moan a little. If he cums faster than we expected, don't make him embarrassed about it, just move onto the next dude so he can recover for another round. You've got it down to a science at this point. A sexy science.

> No reason not to multitask now. Wiggle your butt and see if anyone else takes.

Can do! We'll try to slow it down a bit so Seven over here won't get too overexcited. No shame if he does, though. We've all been there. Meanwhile though... advertising the other departments shouldn't be too bad! Let's seeee...

> BTW how experienced are we at this whole thing?

We're a pretty low-level demon, if we're going to be honest. Level 3, noted by the amount of skills to our name and the minimum level to reach in order to become a Summonable. That's what makes our job so trashy; it's literally the easiest thing to apply to. Or... did you mean experienced as in handling all this lewd? Because T'zore got pretty good grades in displaying the history of her culture to her professors in college. D's get degrees and all that.

> Why exactly did we choose to become a Summonable then? If we had good grades and wanted more...

Because 'shut the fuck up /dad/', that's why. J- Jesus, man, this shit takes time, gotta... build yourself up before... uh... hm... Anyways, back to the dudes!

#t'zore's tasks #thread 1

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the-still-small-voice · 7 years ago

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Permission to Create

There is an epidemic taking place. I’ll limit my judgement to American culture, since it’s the one I grew up in. I’m aware there are exceptions to the rule, but the toxicity seems to begin at the root. Not only did I grow up in America, but in the great and restless state of New Jersey, which often epitomizes the very problem I’m here to address: Creatives feel they are no longer “allowed” to create.

I started singing and performing for family members when I was three years old. I dedicated the foot of our family staircase as my stage. It was the same staircase where I first faced mortality. My mother sat me down at two years old to tell me about the death of a family member. It’s a moment I still remember despite being so young, and it was a peculiar foreshadowing of my later inclination to turn heartache into song.

Around ten, I began writing in the front yard of our suburban house, complete with white-picket fence. I had no instrument other than my voice and no concept of the “right way” to write a song, but I loved making lines rhyme over melody, and that was enough.

One night, while asleep at thirteen, I had a defining dream that I could play guitar fluidly. I was sitting in the entryway of my childhood church and people were coming from opposite directions - the outside doors and the sanctuary doors - to sit around me on the floor and listen. I woke up and told my parents. It inspired my dad to buy me my first guitar, and despite all previous attempts to play, this time it stuck. I spent hours in my bedroom learning songs and writing my own. I had no teacher - I just learned whatever I needed to learn for the next thing I was trying to do. Then, naturally, I recorded videos of the songs and sent them to whichever boy I happened to be interested in.

In my mind, there was never another option for what I’d do with my life. I tried exploring the music realm for something worthy of a college major, but I had no interest in teaching. I didn’t know how to locate a four-year college with a great recording program, and thank God, because otherwise, I’d be in-debt for an education I could’ve gotten on YouTube before proving myself someone’s worthy unpaid intern.

I love education. I love learning and reading about all topics (minus math). I won’t sit here and pretend I don’t care what people think, but when it comes to maintaining the status-quo, I’ve always erred on the side of rebellion (sometimes to my detriment, though often to my benefit). I never saw the logic in paying $20,000 - $40,000 per year for an education that wasn’t even streamlined in the direction I hoped to go (rock-stardom) in order to satisfy my high-school guidance counselor.

(Side-note: I swear to God, if Belmont University offered a “Rockstar 101” class, they could probably afford to purchase the rest of Nashville within the first year.)

So there I was, left with no formula, in a section of the country that isn’t exactly defined by it’s creative endeavors once you remove the majestic works of Bruce Springsteen and Jon Bon Jovi. I was incredibly lucky to have parents who supported me both in music and in finances, but they also wanted me to learn how to function in everyday life. This resulted in their emphasizing what I considered to be petty nuisances; things such as: budgeting, household chores, and holding down a day-job.

My brain was so caught up in the philosophical (and episodes of Laguna Beach), that I struggled with the idea of simple day-to-day responsibilities (still do). I saw my parents’ attempts to teach me the benefits of discipline as nagging, and it paralyzed me. I assumed I must have been devastating them with my irresponsibility. Really, they wanted to cultivate my potential.

I didn’t have any notion for how fiscal responsibility or time management could affect my creative life. I was seventeen! I was trying to write sad songs and smoke cigarettes to fit in (and not fit in). I didn’t care about having money for the mere sake of having it, which seemed to be what so many people around me were doing - hoarding their paychecks to feel the illusion of safety that a number on a bank statement could bring. I wanted to play music and see the world. I didn’t have the mental capacity, since the human brain isn’t even fully developed until somewhere around twenty-five, to correlate working a job with pursuing my art. I didn’t contemplate the fact that maybe I’d want to build a home studio one day or buy a house in a city with a booming market so I could save on rent, work less, and write more. If I’m being honest, I still have a really hard time staying motivated, but I’ve learned a few tricks along the way.

Things like:

1. A Positive Environment Changes Everything.

In Nashville, there’s no end to the misery of the stifled artist. The food industry is one of the best places to work if you’re a touring musician. You have plenty of co-workers to cover shifts, and at some restaurants, six months of reliable service is enough to deify you (or at least grant you the ability to ask for favors), but they can also be a real soul-sucker. Aside from grown men pitching fits over untimely refills on their Diet Cokes, I can recall a co-worker whose hours were triple my own. He was working to pay off loans from the aforementioned university, and now he didn’t even have time to make the music he’d spent $200,000 to study.

As much as I sympathize with the over-worked creative, submersing yourself in an environment of people who’ve had their dreams crushed can be toxic to your own. They feel they’re no longer permitted to pursue what they once loved because the so-called “real world” has hit them like a brick to the face. If you’re not careful, you’ll soon find yourself commiserating over one-too-many beers and accepting artichoke dip as the extent of your life’s calling.

You are an artist. That means you are intuitive. If you walk into a job interview and everyone in the building is trudging around grimacing and muttering complaints about their existence, do yourself a favor and find a different place to work. Creativity is energy, and what you spend it on matters.

2. Your Time is Valuable.

I’m twenty-eight years old with over fifteen years of childcare experience. I’m CPR certified and trained in First Aid, yet I still have a hard time asking for more than $12 an hour to keep people’s children from sticking their fingers into electrical sockets. Meanwhile, the average cocktail costs $12 and takes about fifteen minutes to disappear. I’m afraid of “offending” someone, even subtly, by stating my own worth, and THAT, my friends, is half the reason why the music industry has gone to shit, in my humble opinion.

Thankfully, artists are resilient. We find uncanny ways to support ourselves in order to keep creating, even if it involves borderline pleading with our friends to pre-order an album or trading gear on craigslist to make ends meet. Then, after all the effort, we have the privilege of listening to our extended family members complain about how we’re “always asking for something on ‘The Facebook’.”

The South lends itself to a sense of community, but in the region where I grew up, asking for help was often equated with weakness. You don’t borrow your neighbor’s lawnmower. Instead, you work until you can buy a brand new one, preferably nicer than theirs.

All this to say: you are allowed to put a price on the things you need to do to survive in order to alleviate pressure from the things you want to do. You’ll have more time to create and you’ll feel less drained. I am by no means claiming you should do your day job and then give away your creative endeavors for free (a sure way to be taken advantage of), but you will do some of your best work when paying your rent isn’t hanging in the balance. As time passes, if you stick to your guns, you’ll find people who are more than willing to pay you for your skillset because your experience and passion will be evident, shining through in conversation. You’ll sound like you know what you’re talking about because you do know what you’re talking about, and that’s when you quote them exactly what you know you’re worth.

3. Art is Work

If something takes time and energy, it is work. That’s just science, y’all. When you start pursuing a career and taking risks in your chosen field (i.e. going on a tour, fundraising for a record, or moving to a different city), you WILL encounter naysayers. People who are creatively blocked, or don’t believe themselves to be creative, will inevitably question you. You’re rocking the boat, and it makes them uncomfortable. Some will be inspired by your efforts, while others who haven’t felt inspiration in years, interpret it as condemnation - as if your differing priorities are a subtle attempt to shame their own. Suddenly, you feel obtrusive for simply talking about your dreams.

The easiest way to tell who has an alcohol problem at a party is by casually mentioning you’re not drinking - then wait to see who tries to pour tequila down your throat. It’s the same with risk-taking: the ones who barrage you with questions about how you’ll make money or say things like, “You know, men don’t like strong women”, are the ones subconsciously wondering what might’ve happened if they hadn’t surrendered their entire existence to the promise of a 401K.

Is there anything wrong with a 401K? Of course not. (I had to Google the definition, but it sounds pretty okay!) What’s not okay is acting as the voice of cynicism and chopping away at someone’s dreams just because they chose to take a different, less security-oriented path. Thankfully, we get to choose to ignore those voices.

Work: “Activity involving mental or physical effort done in order to achieve a purpose or result.”

Granted, there is a secondary definition that involves “employment for the sake of earning income”, but the primary definition of work is rooted in a sense of purpose, while the second involves a focus on money. The irony is that so much of what we do to achieve a sense of purpose involves no money, while much of what we do for money seemingly involves no purpose. The goal is to find what inherently gives us a sense of meaning and then, without shame, gradually let the mental and physical effort we put forth provide for us monetarily as well.

We can absolutely pursue our passions while having unrelated day jobs, but there are only 24 hours in a given day, and we should be sleeping for a third of them. If you want your craft to become full-time, you’ll have to channel your energies in a way that eventually releases you from the hours spent wiping tables or sitting in a cubicle. Balancing family life, physical and mental health, and pursuing inspiration in the form of reading, travel, and rest are not luxuries - they are the foundation of a thriving human life. We are allowed to remove what doesn’t serve us or find a way to better make it serve us. For instance: asking for a well-deserved raise so you can spend less hours at work and more hours in a studio or with your children isn’t brash or selfish, it’s actually the most responsible thing.

Here’s what happened to me: I trusted my gut and moved to a different city the week before I turned 22. Shortly thereafter, I started playing shows, making an album, and meeting tons of new people, but I was also a very small fish in a very big pond. This was equally as difficult as it was necessary to my growth as an artist. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve hit what I thought were impenetrable emotional walls trying to salvage a sense of confidence or originality. On any given day, at any given restaurant, I inadvertently share space with Grammy-award winners. I’m not exaggerating - I once showed up to a random babysitting job to find FOUR Grammys sitting on top of their father’s desk. How the hell am I supposed to ever feel like a real musician?

It comes down to this: I choose to. I’m reminded of the truth - that this little indie-artist is just as worthy of the label “musician” as those who’ve won awards or been on television. Plus, If I actually think about it, winning a Grammy has never been a personal goal. So why am I gauging my definition of success against those who have what I don’t even want? I’m a musician because I play music whether or not people are watching.

Now when I go home, the same people who questioned my choices and intentions think I’m living a revolutionary existence simply because I’ve been on a few short (self-booked) tours and saw Kelly Clarkson in person once. The point is: If you learn how to climb the walls, you end up stronger. The naysayers either come around or end up on the other side of the wall. A mere few years after people are done discouraging you for your work, they’ll be applauding you for it, or they just won’t have anything to say at all. You will ALWAYS fall somewhere different on the “success” spectrum depending on where you are and who you are around, but if you haven’t decided you’re allowed to be an artist, you’re going to let other people decide for you - and if you don’t decide to get off of that roller coaster, it’s going to inevitably make you sick.

One more thing:

As artists, we are constantly biting the bullet. We feel anxiety and act in spite of it. We get vulnerable on stages in front of complete strangers. We work for years with no guarantee of money or recognition. We often find ourselves as sacrifices on the altar of opinion without ever asking to be there. We strive to balance strength with sensitivity, but no one gets to tell us we’re lazy.

My band played a show in Atlanta a few weeks ago, and here’s what our day looked like:

-Wake up at 6am to meet at a central location.

-Load gear into the van.

-Drive 5 hours (with stops).

-Meet up with our fill-in keyboardist.

-Unload gear into his house.

-Practice for three hours.

-Re-load gear back into the van.

-Drive to the venue.

-Unload gear out of the van into aesthetically unpleasing green room.

-Set up merch.

-Wait three hours.

-Sound-check.

-Play the show.

-Talk to people and sell merch.

-Reload gear back into the van AGAIN.

-Drive 4 hours back to Nashville.

-Get home at 2am so no one misses work the next day.

I repeat: No one gets to tell us we’re lazy.

4. “What Do You Want?”

I’ve was technically unemployed for the last two months, though not for lack of searching. As of writing this, I’ve been hired at two different coffee shops, but up until a few days ago I’d been forced into limbo - waiting on callbacks or jobs to actually start.

While not-working in the traditional sense, I’ve had time to, yet again, ask myself what I would LIKE to do. I spent much of the last month bouncing between searching for a local day job and pursuing freelance writing jobs online in order to find something that could travel with me.

After a co-writing session that turned into a two hour pep-talk with my friend Sam, I realized I had a knack for coaching people through their creative frustrations and songwriting hurdles. It hit me over the head like a lightning bolt, so naturally I spent the next week trying to find someone to tell me I wasn’t qualified. No one objected. In fact, most everyone I told deeply affirmed the idea with, “You should TOTALLY do that. You’re made for it!” (I have really good people in my life). Now, slowly but surely, I’m being paid to do it for others because I know how to cultivate a safe space for fledgling (or simply intimidated) artists, after having waded through many of the same trenches myself.

If you’re a driven person over the age of twenty-five, there’s a significant chance you have ten to fifteen years of experience doing SOMETHING that someone else is just starting out doing. There’s also a significant chance they’d desperately love to process with someone further along than they are. Again, I don’t have four Grammys on any of my shelves (I barely have shelves), but I do know what it’s like to wonder if my lyrics are worth showing the world, and I do know the paralyzing terror of hearing your voice played back over speakers for the first time.

The question, “What do you want?” is one of the most dangerous and profound questions you can ask or be asked. Growing up in a dysfunctional church environment, I wasn’t allowed to ask it. I was supposed to ask: “What does GOD want me to do?” Conveniently, there were plenty of ill-intentioned leaders eager to answer on behalf of the congregation my family belonged to, and it usually involved God being suddenly strapped for cash.

A poor sense of the nature of God (the Universe, Creator, Energy, or whatever works for your vocabulary) led me to assume I was required to do the complete opposite of whatever I enjoyed.

“I want to play music on stages where people connect with the songs I’ve written. But that’s clearly egotistical. I guess I’ll have to become a missionary to Africa” (crazy how many of those God seems to need per youth group).

“You have free will and God loves you unconditionally…

But that thing you’ve always dreamed of doing? Not allowed.”

What’s the deal with these mixed messages?

Honestly, what’s more egotistical? Wanting to play music in a band, or assuming God needs you to play the martyr because the salvation of Africa hangs in the balance of your life-choices? Everybody, chill out.

We spend so much time doing things out of guilt. I’m not saying anyone should become intentionally calloused toward the needs of others, but do you really want a bunch of people at your birthday party who feel obligated to be there? The reason we become cynical is due, in-part, to forcing ourselves into environments, boxes, and facades we were never designed to be a part of in the first place. Try saying “no” to anything you would have done out of guilt or obligation for one week and watch how much healthier you feel and how much more energy you have. “I don’t want to” is a perfectly acceptable answer, and it will change your life and reshape your priorities faster than you can imagine.

So what if, just what if you were put on this earth to do the very thing you love doing? Far-fetched, I know, but let’s all stop pretending we know what the word “reality” means when few of us have been alive for more than eighty-five years. For God’s sake, we exist on a speck of dust floating through space.

Why not leave this place more beautiful and more inspiring than when we entered it? Can you fathom Michelangelo talking himself out of painting the Sistine Chapel? Imagine if he’d convinced himself to take the “humble-route” and pursued a behind-the-scenes life merely on the basis of comfort, but at the expense of his artistic instinct?

I can almost guarantee, if you’re the type of person who is hyper-concerned about becoming an egotistical maniac, you run little risk of it actually happening. Worry about how you’ll deal with fame when you’re actually famous - otherwise you’re wasting precious energy you could be using to fuel your present work. Plus, the world is already running rampant with much bigger ego-maniacs ruining things. The more you exercise your creative nature, the healthier you become. The healthier you become, the more effortlessly you can benefit those around you. Take a deep breath.

5. It Matters.

There’s enough garbage going on in the world. Any remotely sensitive person could easily fall prey to emotional paralysis simply by looking around for too long.

That’s exactly what happens. Whether it’s the pain of poverty or feelings of inadequacy when surrounded by other artists, we all have a difficult time creating because it feels like an uphill battle with no actual results - especially if we’re prone to discrediting ourselves. In a recent conversation with a beloved friend, he expressed feeling a sense of pointlessness when it came to writing new songs. He wasn’t writing out of a place of sadness anymore, and he felt like anything he could say had already been said by one of his influences with a larger fanbase. As a personal fan of his music, I wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him (I probably did).

I don’t care if you think your songs sound similar to someone else’s, there are people in the world who have never even heard of the “someone else” you are familiar with. A younger person may stumble upon your art, allowing you to become one of their influences because they happened to be at the right place at the right time and something in your voice resonated in them. The only way you get to decide who crosses paths with your work is by never putting it out there at all.

Redemption happens when all of the aforementioned garbage gets recycled into something even more extraordinary than it was in the first place.

This is the job of the artist: to open ourselves up like the vessels that we are, letting all the sadness and bullshit and divinity swirl around in us until a song spills out and the paint hits the canvas.

If we don’t, we end up miserable and withholding. The way fireflies light up entire forests simply by offering the individual flecks of light they inherently contain is a profound image of what we’re each endowed with, not just as creatives, but as living and breathing human beings.

6. Don’t Fake It (But For God’s Sake, Please Stop Being So Self-Deprecating).

I have a love/hate relationship with the phrase: “Fake it ’til you make it.” On one hand, I appreciate the concept of cultivating confidence through action, but the word “fake” has a disingenuous ring to it. What we’re actually talking about is a form of hyper-honesty.

Call yourself what you are. Stop pretending you are what you’re not. I am definitely not a surgeon, and pretending to be one would only result in a series of lawsuits. But there are things I can do and don’t do, simply by convincing myself I am not qualified enough despite plenty of evidence to the contrary.

Imposter Syndrome: “a concept describing high-achieving individuals who are marked by an inability to internalize their accomplishments and a persistent fear of being exposed as a ‘fraud’.”

A few years ago, I showed up to a babysitting job I’d found online. A brand new mother had just moved with her husband from New York City and needed some occasional help watching her newborn son. She was a writer for any number of well-known music publications - Nylon, American Songwriter, etc. She’d also started her own Nashville music blog.

Naturally, I was somewhat intimidated, but I was just there to help with the baby - not try to promote myself. I wasn’t even comfortable enough in my songwriting skin to show my music to friends yet - but she politely asked me about my life and I mentioned it in passing.

One afternoon, after watching one of her artist interviews get derailed by technical difficulties, I sat down with my new journalist friend and her colleague as they drank a glass of wine and I held the baby. I commiserated, while trying to convince them it hadn’t gone nearly as badly as they thought it had. We chatted for a while when, out of nowhere, she directed a question at me:

“You said you play music right?”

“Uhh...yeah?” I said nervously. (I knew exactly where this was going.)

“Will you play us a song? I’m gonna go grab my husband’s guitar.”

“You really don’t have to...”, but she was upstairs before I had time to talk her out of it.

She came back downstairs, acoustic guitar in hand, and I nervously chose one of my songs to play while I kept my eyelids tightly sealed. After all was said and done, both women looked at me dumbfounded. They’d really liked it, and the novelty of living in a city where your babysitter doubles as a decent songwriter hadn’t worn off yet (after a few years, we all safely assume our Uber driver has played Conan at least once).

Without reading a single blog I’d ever posted, hearing another song, or even knowing my education level, she offered me the opportunity to write for her website. It could be as often or as little as I wanted, and while she couldn’t pay me, she could get me into nearly any show I wanted to cover for free.

I took her up on the offer, and what started as free entry into shows turned into, “Hey, do you want to grab a quote from the artist? Here’s their contact email”.

The first time this happened, it was literally hours before the show, and I boldly decided I was going to ask for a full-on interview and see if I could get away with looking like I knew what the hell I was doing. That night, I proceeded to interview Andrew Joslyn, violinist and head of Passenger String Quartet, who were touring as David Bazan’s backing band at the time. Our interview struck up a friendship and resulted in eating late-night food with everyone after the show.

After the first impromptu interview went well, I was asked if I wanted to interview the band Copeland. I recorded the answers to their questions on my shattered iPhone 4 and again, felt the high of an opportunity I had zero formal education in. There are people who go to college for years just hoping to sit down with an artist they respect in order to write a piece and see it published. I was doing it because I’d shown up to the right babysitting job and someone decided to tell me I could be a writer if I wanted to be. All I had to do was take her up on the offer and not shy away from it.

It happened again a few weeks ago. I was able to walk into Grimey’s Record Store an hour before the band Manchester Orchestra released their newest album. I chatted with a bunch of high-profile music industry people (only because I have no idea who they are when I start talking to them). I even got up the nerve to ask Andy Hull for a few words, all while secretly tipping my hat to my teenage self.

And guess what? No one cared. No one kicked me out or said, “Hey, I can’t put my finger on it, but you seem like you don’t belong here.” I was doing exactly what I was there to do. The only person who thought I was getting away with anything was me. I even ran into a friend who’d been specifically hired by the band (and previously, many other reputable artists) to take photos at the cd release. We shared a mutual moment of: “How did we end up here?”

If I had decided “I’m not a writer, I don’t know how to do this,” or shied away from drafting an email to someone’s publicist for fear of not sounding professional enough, I’d have missed out on these rare chances to ask artists who make me want to play music, what makes them want to play it.

The moral of the story isn’t to name drop or look “cool” (spoiler alert: I’m not). It’s no exaggeration when I say that, immediately after that cd release show I headed to a pet-sitting job to scoop cat litter. Life is interwoven with highs and lows, and misery stalks you the moment you begin over-identifying with any title. But I think maybe, if we took all of the energy we spend on trying to make our lives appear a certain way, and funneled it into saying “yes” to what we’re actually passionate about, we’d be astounded at the places we find ourselves and the (sometimes, very specific) gifts we are handed.

So if you have something you love doing, the only pretending involved is saying you don’t love it or you can’t do it. Sometimes you go out on a limb, but more often than not, it pays off. Sometimes you work for years without any pay all, but it doesn’t mean you aren’t deserving of the title, the same way the title “Mother” and “Father” don’t come attached to a salary.

Stay humble. Take the good with the bad. Successes are often followed by a litter box that needs cleaning. Don’t forget about the people who love you regardless of social standing. Know your worth is inherent and not dictated by what you do. If this sounds reasonable, then by all means, just go do the damn thing.

7. Pay Attention

The mundane is not my forte. In fact, I can book entire tours and endless road trips simply to avoid the dreaded monotony of everyday life. In part, it’s human nature - familiarity can breed contempt, but only if you let it.

It’s too easy to cop out of life when it isn’t exciting. Rather than defining the act of “growing up” as a mandatory selling of your soul to the corporate gods, what if we saw it as true maturity - a realization that the good and the bad aren’t always so cut and dry. In the previous story about how I fell into music blogging, I can almost guarantee that, while driving to babysit, I was thinking: “How much longer do I have to do these peasant jobs before I get to do something distinguished and significant?”

Well, years later, I’m still babysitting people’s kids and scooping cat litter. But I’ve also interviewed bands, toured with my own music, and now help people work through their artistic paralysis. If I’d been above taking care of someone’s son (a pretty significant job, actually), I wouldn’t have crossed paths with the same opportunities, or maybe I would have been too apathetic to recognize the things that were unfolding in ways I wouldn’t have predicted.

But let’s forget about the future for a moment.

Nothing is guaranteed. We are free to dream or watch television, go to church or not go to church, talk to the homeless person or walk past them because we don’t know how to respond. We will make mistakes. We will feel ill-equipped. We will tragically lose loved ones and wonder if there’s even a point in trying. Then, we may see art blossom from the depths of despair - not because we were aiming to make a concept album, (our minds wouldn’t dare to prostitute the heartache) but rather because, “art is born in attention.” - Julia Cameron, The Artist’s Way

Cameron goes on to say:

Art may seem to spring from pain, but perhaps that is because pain serves to focus our attention onto details (for instance, the excruciatingly beautiful curve of a lost lover’s neck). Art may seem to involve broad strokes, grand schemes, great plans. But it is the attention that stays with us; the singular image is what haunts us and becomes art. Even in the midst of pain, this singular image brings delight. The artist who tells you different is lying.

We don’t need to be sad to make art.

We simply need to be paying attention.

Maybe you’re up every day at the crack of dawn opening a coffee shop. You have five minutes to yourself before your co-workers all show up. You’re thinking about how much longer you can “keep doing this shit,” when you happen to notice the streaks of pink sky out the window as the sun is coming up. You take a deep breath. The steam from the coffee billows around your hands and the smell suddenly reminds you of a camping trip you took with your dad when you were seven.

Inspiration is limitless. It is unwarranted and uncontrolled. It seeps in like water and saturates anything even remotely permeable. So we must remain permeable, present, and open-handed. Yes, there is benefit to having discipline in order to actively create (the only reason I was able to drag myself out of bed and into writing today), but if you aren’t allowing inspiration in, what can you expect to put forth? If you can’t take a moment to breathe, even in the midst of work - to thank life for a second of stillness and for letting you be a part of it, then your attempts at productivity will likely be met with frustration.

It is in your nature to create. You think it’s in your nature to work a desk-job you hate for nine hours a day for the rest of your life. You think doing so is “responsible”, but if you really contemplate it, it doesn’t make any sense.

You are a living organism - more closely related to a plant than to a robot. If you act in accordance, you’ll see what happens when you begin trusting yourself to do what you were born to do. You’ll see what happens when, instead of making assumptions about coworkers, you realize they each contain a universe within themselves and have a story to tell. Unexpectedly, you not only see them through a new lens, but you see yourself differently. Your spine straightens with a sense of purpose and you go home to channel what you’ve seen, heard, and tasted so tangibly all day into something that might even move someone else, should they choose to pay attention.

The only moment that exists to us is the one we are experiencing right now, so do your best to honor it. Stop trying to fix the past or manipulate the future. Each moment is building toward something greater than itself, but if we try to rush the process, our foundation gets half-built and the entire thing collapses on itself.

Instead, slow down. Look around. Take a deep breath.

We are overwhelmingly surrounded by wonder.

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