#over the top liberal they/them blue hair stereotype

[missfay49]

[ID: The first image is a full page 70's style art-piece depicting 3 women with identical outlines that are colored and positioned differently on the page and one man holding one of the women. The other two women are lightly holding each other. The man is tan with black hair and mustache and chest-hair. The woman he's holding is a pale-white with red hair and blue eyeshadow. All three women have exposed nipples, but there is a heart transposed over their vaginas. One woman is a more tanned redhead. The other is pale with pink hair. There are rainbows, clouds, and stars in the background with a heart in the center of the page and a rose at the top-right. There are three overlapping symbols along the right side of the page; the top symbol is the icon for Mars, with the arrow pointing straight up. The middle symbol is the icon for Venus, but with the stem pointing to the left. The bottom symbol is the standard icon for Venus with the stem pointing down. End ID]

Transcription:

BISEXUALITY: THE NEWEST SEX-STYLE

Could you be ready for a lesbian encounter? Well, a surprising number of perfectly "normal" man-loving females are...

By Jane Margold

With his loose-limbed sensuality, which was sometimes macho and sometimes camp, Mick Jagger was one of the first celebrities to hint at a new erotic identity that was neither heterosexual nor homosexual but somewhere in between. Jagger's fellow rock star David Bowie clarified the message, freely proclaiming his bisexuality to the press as well as to his audiences. Last Tango's Maria Schneider was the next to declare her fondness for both sexes, and suddenly the list of known bisexual celebrities extended to include Lou Reed and the late Janis Joplin, with singer Joan Baez recently chiming in to say that one of the nicest loves of her life had been a woman.

Still, bisexuality was a revolutionary movement where the chic and the famous weren't in the vanguard. Judging from the bisexual therapy groups that had sprung up in big cities like New York and San Francisco, and from the pro-lesbian talk heard at women's meetings everywhere, striking numbers of perfectly ordinary heterosexuals had been exploring gay relationships before the idea occurred to the elite of London, New York and Hollywood.

To those who remember the time, just three years ago, when Kate Millett caused a furor in the national media by confessing her dual sexual preferences, the speedy acceptance of bisexuality as a life-style seems almost unbelievable. Members of the "third sex," however, see nothing surprising in this sudden reversal; to them, bisexuality is a logical result of liberating forces that have "sophisticated" us all to the point where we now view pornographic double bills in neighborhood movie theatres, contemplate spending our vacations at sex-therapy clinics, and politely RSVP when invited to an orgy. In a society already familiar with every variation of love between the sexes, leading a member of one's own sex into the bedroom, say the bi's, was clearly the next hurdle in the steeplechase toward total erotic freedom. Bisexuals also cite the influence of gay liberation in preparing us for this new phenomenon: first, by lessening the stigma of homosexuality; then, by undermining the old stereotypes depicting gay people as desperate, lonely misfits.

Still, while the new bisexuals view their sexuality as "natural" evolution, they fail to acknowledge that no matter how radical the psychosexual climate is now, many of us do manage to resist its influence. Ultimately, personal rather than social factors impel people to join the third sex. Some men and women turn to gay relationships after a series of discouraging heterosexual love affairs, then switch to bisexuality when they realize certain of their emotional and physical needs can be met only by the opposite sex. Others may follow hedonistic friends into group-sex encounters, only to discover the real turn-on isn't the group but the experience of making love with somebody of their own gender. still others try bisexuality in a naïve attempt to relive a pleasurable homosexual encounter experienced during adolescence - or in an effort to "work through" the fear that they might secretly be gay. And while for some the experiment ends with one or two encounters, others make a more sustained commitment to the bisexual life-style.

Oddly, a heterosexual man who has no interest in a homosexual encounter himself often encourages a woman friend to try lesbian sex - perhaps because he finds the idea of "girls together" erotically appealing. Witness the experience of an artist friend of mine whose husband persuaded her to have a lesbian experience. "Jack is one of those men who think that gay and bisexual women know all the erotic secrets," Paula explains. "He never openly suggested that I sleep with another woman but, from time to time, we'd be lying in bed and, as he caressed me, he'd suddenly whisper, 'You know, a woman could be doing this to you.' Then he'd spin out erotic fantasies about an attractive woman we'd both seen somewhere, asking me to imagine how I'd feel if I were touching her breasts or stroking her skin and hair."

Possibly because she was intrigued with the idea of making love with another woman, her husband's provocative talk made Paula angry, and she told him she had no intention of starting up a gay affair just to please him. "He stopped the bedtime stories immediately," Paula remembers. 'Maybe because he sensed that even if I wouldn't admit it, his campaign had already succeeded." One night when her husband was away on a business trip, Paula went to a gay bar, convinced she'd go home repelled by actually viewing scenes that had begun to be uncomfortably enticing in her imagination. Instead, when the bar closed, she found herself inviting the woman she'd been dancing with to come home with her. The two women talked all night, made love in the morning and spent most of the next week together, in and out of bed. "She was bisexual and an impish, adventurous free spirit. She was also very young," Paula stresses. "And I think she liked the idea of enlightening me."

By the time her husband returned, Paula's intense physical affair had ended, but the encounter permanently changed her sexual style: "I felt really opened up - uninhibited - more aggressive and confident in bed. I also development a new appreciation for Jacks big, rough, muscular body. I wanted his oppositeness and, to be blunt, his mal genitals. But most important, I saw that my sexuality didn't depend on a man... or, for that matter, on a woman. I felt much more in tune with my own body and in control of my responses - I stopped being afraid of letting go and started following my instincts without worrying if it was 'feminine' to make so much noise or take this or that position."

Paula told her husband about the encounter, and while he seemed pleased by her newly relaxed attitude, he didn't press for details about the affair nor urge her to repeat the experience: "I think he knew this was an area I wanted to control, without an prodding from him." Occasionally, Paula felt tempted to sleep with another woman, but resisted these impulses for several years. "Then," she says, "I became heavily involved in

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BISEXUALITY [continued]

the women's movement and finally straightened out my feelings toward bisexuality and other women. It was only then that I realized how emotionally sterile my first lesbian affair had been. I'd had all the wrong reasons for making it with my first female lover. I used her - as a sexual experiment, as a way to please my husband and as a way to improve my view of myself." Since then, Paula has been to bed with two other women: "They were friends first, and the sex evolved naturally, as an expression of the interests and sympathy we shared. That first encounter may have liberated me sexually, but the women's movement taught me that bisexuality has to involve your head and heart, not just your body."

While some older feminists bristle at the charge that Women's Liberation has fostered bisexuality or lesbianism, many younger women in the movement seem perfectly willing to embrace their gay and bi sisters. At a two-day women's weekend I attended recently in San Francisco, the workshop on "Loving Women" was by far the most popular seminar. Many of the women present had already experimented with homosexual affairs and simply wanted to discuss their experiences, while some seemed keen to argue gay politics, and a few, like me, were there out of curiosity about ourselves. I had never before questioned my own heterosexuality, preferring to view my occasional flashes of erotic interest in other women as an unavoidable response to the advertising industry's constant use of gorgeous, alluring females to sell products. I was ready to explore my own reactions now.

Mary, the group leader, was a husky woman with close-cropped hair and sneakered feet splayed carelessly in front of her chair: she looked so outrageously, militantly "butch" that many of us made a determined effort not to stare at her as we waited for the meeting to start. Still, we all listened eagerly when she began to speak of an early marriage which had left her feeling "that if a man couldn't satisfy my emotional and sexual needs, I couldn't imagine who could and, for a while, just resigned myself to being lonely and frustrated." Before our speaker had finished chronicling her gradual discovery that she was gay, several women interrupted to ask how she felt about bisexuality.

"I'm not trying to convert anyone to an exclusively lesbian life-style," Mary said. "But I do think bi's have chosen the most difficult sexual stance. Both straights and gays can identify with them just enough to feel tempted and threatened by the possibilities they represent. And the easiest way to resolve that ambiguity is to insist bisexuals are sick - and react to them with shock and disgust."

Mary paused, and a young, vividly pretty blonde interrupted. "everyone overemphasizes the problems we bisexuals have because they're afraid we might be onto something positive," she declared. Even though her own affair with a woman friend had started out as "silly, giggly adolescent horseplay," it had ended, the blonde said firmly, "as by far one of the most satisfying sexual encounters I'd ever had.

"We didn't plan it," she explained, "although I think we both knew it would happen eventually because we were always talking about sex and men and what aroused us... and wishing we could tell men what turned us on as easily as we could tell each other. One night we just started touching each other and saying, 'Do you like this,' or 'How about that?' We were both laughing and scared, but I was so entranced by the soft, delicate feeling I got from touching her that I knew I wouldn't stop. I suddenly understood what it must be like for a man to make love to me. But with my friend, sex was gentler, more tender, and much, much slower. Gradually we built us the most explosive climaxes either of us had ever had.

"The affair went on, with both of us expecting to feel guilty. Instead, we were elated by the discovery that women were capable of fulfilling each other sexually and giving each other love, without the same scrambles and conflicts that happen in man/woman affairs. Then came the real surprise - by learning to trust women, I started to grow up emotionally and I found myself trusting men. The desperate feeling that I couldn't survive without a man was gone, and I got the courage to start communicating honestly with men instead of always being coy, sweet, guarded. Sure, I alienated a few men, but the ones I really cared about were relieved to have me share my sexual and emotional feelings with them. That meant they could open up to me and we could try to understand each other.

"I've also learned more about my own sensuality and I've begun to use what I know with men. It's more important to me now to slow down and enjoy sex. Very little turns me off about any human body - male or female - though I guess I am more excited by men. Now, when I make love to a man, I want to touch and kiss and explore every part of him, even it if takes hours. Men don't expect that, although they want it as much as women do, and they really dig it. I've never had a man tell me to stop being so tender. And the more warmth and love I give, the more I have to give - and receive," she concluded.

"Beautiful!" several voices chorused, impelling the rest of the group to relax and begin exchanging experiences. Later, as we disbanded, I began thinking about the remarkable sense of self-assurance the bisexual women present had conveyed. Nor was I the only one who noticed this. "What's scary for me as a heterosexual," I overheard a woman say as we all left, "is the feeling of strength I get from these women. I can't help thinking that they aren't confused at all about their sexual identities - that they've somehow discovered an extra emotional resource in themselves that give them the guts to try relationships I only fantasize about."

After that, I began to notice that while many of the bisexual men I talked with looked upon their experiences merely as exciting forays into the forbidden, the women spoke of their relationships with understanding and honesty. It was impossible not to take these women seriously. Gradually, as I was impressed again and again by their warmth and obvious acceptance of themselves and of other people, I found my initial prejudices against bisexual women ebbing, replaced - disturbingly enough - by a strong desire to experiment with a lesbian encounter of my own.

After discussing these feelings with my women's group, I was surprised, but comforted, to learn my temptation was far from unusual. Six members of our heterosexual group said that they, too, had considered making love with another woman and the other three already had. In talking to many other "straight" people, I soon realized my conflicts about bisexuality were a far-from-unique consequence of the sexual whirlwind of the '70s. At the risk, then, of sounding hopelessly inhibited to some, and overly impressionable to others, I think my fears of and attractions toward bisexuality are worth exploring here, as one more way of explaining why this new possibility appeals to so many people.

Intellectually, the concept of bisexuality attracts me - not because I have any great humanitarian urges to make love to the whole world - but because I suspect that, given the freedom to choose a partner of either sex, men and women might come together out of posi-

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tive appreciation for each other, rather than out of stereotyped social, economic and physical needs. The idea of bisexuality takes on a more gut-level appeal when I begin to think about my own relationships with women. All my adult life, I've received indispensable emotional support from six or seven close female friends, all of whom would be depended upon to offer help, advise or simply a sounding board. I can't claim that these relationships have been free of petty jealousy and silly arguments, but they have lasted and deepened, despite physical separations, good and rotten marriages and sometimes bizarre political, intellectual and spiritual changes. Whenever I've felt as intensely about a man as I have about these women, I've wanted to express that love as strongly and physically as I could, and sex, then, had always been positive - a way to close the gap between two psyches and create a powerful closeness. Could a woman friend and I dissolve the barriers between us and achieve this same magical intimacy if we allowed ourselves to make love together?

The answer is I don't know and may never know. Fear prevents me from finding out. Not the obvious fear of lesbianism, since I'm too attached not only to men but to the ideal of establishing healthier, more direct communication between the sexes ever to exclude men from my bedroom or my life. Still, irrational anxiety overwhelms me when I think of making love with a woman - a fear that I'd be pushed over the brink into a hell of decadence so all-consuming that I might never again enjoy simple, one-to-one heterosexual sex, might always need greater and kinkier stimulation - orgies, chains, four-legged beasts, Brueghelesque scenes of chaos and malevolence. Absurd, of course, but so are most of one's darkest apprehensions.

More sensibly, I'm afraid my feminist consciousness has soared so high these dats that I'd be led to take another woman's emotional requirements too seriously. I'd feel so compelled to make up for past deprivations as female lover had suffered, so determined to offer all the sensitivity and compassion I possess, that I'd be absolutely incapable of denying her anything, and would soon end up feeling drained, violated and much more of a woman-hater than the most resolutely piggish male. With this fear goes the suspicion that I've always felt comfortable with women precisely because the air between us is not twanging with sexual tension. This sense of ease may well depend on our willingness to suppress whatever erotic feelings exist between us. Still, however dishonest such an unspoken agreement may be, it provides us with a safe space in which to forget our bodies and think about other parts of ourselves - and I'd have to sacrifice this if I were to start viewing women as sexual possibilities. Finally, I've worked too hard conquering all my old bugaboos about sex to risk introducing any new guilts into my life.

I discussed these conflicts with Dr. Daniel Goldstine, clinical psychologist and co-director of the sex-therapy program sponsored by Cowell Memorial Hospital at Berkeley's University of California. "For most of us," he said, "the biggest problem with any form of sexual behavior is the group of enemies in our head - the little voices that say you've done something terrible and make you feel guilt. Bisexual activity can be dangerous for those people who feel that a single homosexual act might define them forever after as homosexuals. For them, guilt can sometimes produce severe panic. But otherwise, any therapist who tells you that bisexuality is bad or wrong is reflecting his own personal bias, although he might also be saying, perfectly validly, that if you buck convention in any way, it's going to be hard on your life."

Dr. Goldstine observes that he has "certainly been seeing a lot more women lately... and perhaps a few more men... who are either considering having homosexual affairs or have already had them." And while his male bisexual patients tend to be people who are willing to "try anything," the women "are often coping with a major shift in their lives - a divorce, a decision to change jobs. some, too, are simply angry at men."

One cannot, the doctor believes, discount the influence of the women's movement: "Because of it more support and enthusiasm for female bisexuality exists now than before, and a lot of perfectly ordinary heterosexual women are getting swept up in it. I think many women are experiencing a genuine desire to feel closer to each other and avoid ego games, and they try sexual relationships with each other as a way of finding real mutual acceptance. That's fine, but it's realistic to wonder, as you did, what happens if you get into that kind of relationship, do all that giving and find that it doesn't work - that it's no more fulfilling than a man/woman involvement. The basic problem in any sexual relationship is learning to ask for - and get - what you want. There's no guarantee that two women or two men can resolve that problem any more successfully than a man and woman can."

Most of Dr. Goldstine's bisexual patients haven't yet experienced any serious identity crisis. "Most of them go through some conflict about it," Dr. Goldstine says finally. "But that doesn't mean they're sick. It simply means that they know their bisexuality isn't acceptable to everyone - however much more acceptable it may be now than it was in the '50s or '60s. Patioents will come in and ask if their bisexual behavior is O.K., and my answer usually is that if you really like it and don't feel guilty about it, who is anybody to tell you not to?"

Many psychiatrists now share Dr. Goldstine's liberal attitude toward those who engage in homosexual activity. Recently, the American Psychiatric Association joined two other major health groups to declare that homosexuality in itself will no longer be considered a mental illness. Dr. Robert L. Spitzer, a member of the APA committee that made this pronouncement, also says, "Bisexuality will also no longer be regarded as a mental disorder per se - unless, as with homosexuality, the individual is in some way disturbed by it or in conflict with it." This means bisexuals who don't want to be converted will find it easier to locate a sympathetic psychiatrist; thought, of course, individual therapists may continue to hold the Freudian view that bi's and gays are sexually immature - or to espouse any of the other countless theories that attempt to explain why the human child, born with the capacity to respond erotically to both sexes, should learn to limit itself to the opposite gender.

Despite such psychiatric support, it is not always easy to love both men and women. "Bisexuality isn't all pleasure," says Gerri, a bubbly, hyperenergetic divorcée who lives with a man and also has a female lover. "Heterosexuals may be titillated by the thought of going to a party totally open to the idea of picking up whomever looks attractive - man or woman. Except it doesn't happen to be that simple. Most bisexual people are living with someone or attached to someone. So, if you lead a bi life-style, you have to be able to cope with several people at once - your male lover, yourself, your female lover and whomever she may be involved with. The situation can be difficult to handle. First, you have to decide that you want to sleep with a woman, then you have to have a man who understands, and only then do you hope you'll meet a woman you'll like and who likes you and who also happens to be gay or bisexual."

Given all these complications, Gerri explains, bisex-

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BISEXUALITY [continued]

uals are not the promiscuous creatures many heterosexuals believe them to be. "My male lover is the only man I sleep with," she says. "He satisfies most of my physical and emotional needs, and we've worked really hard to create a close, stable relationship that doesn't stifle either of us. But, just because he is a man, there's a certain kind of immediate, intuitive understanding he can't give me." Gerri looks for this kind of support from female lovers, and since bisexual ladies don't wear big scarlet B's on their bosoms, she must take certain risks to find out if another woman is willing. This "preliminary approach" has to be delicate - rather like the way a man "tests" to see if a woman is physically interested - only more subtle, since no generic sexual attraction can be assumed.

"I'm not aggressive and I don't like the idea of upsetting anyone," Gerri emphasizes. "So I go carefully. Usually, though, I don't find myself attracted to another woman until I've know her for a while. I don't automatically respond to any particular physical type, male or female, although I do tend to look for the same emotional qualities in a woman as I do in a man - warmth, a sense of humor, self-confidence. When I do get to know someone who appeals to me, I find myself touching her hand or her shoulder - I gesture a lot when I talk, anyway. If I see her eyes shift or she moves away a little, I know she's uncomfortable and I stop immediately. It's not a conscious technique - most women learn to judge whether a man is interested in them by the way he talks, touches and looks at them. I've attuned myself to a woman's responses and, if I feel she's attracted to me, I'm honest about my bisexuality and see how she reacts. If she seems uneasy, I just drop the whole topic. If not, we might meet again privately to talk and touch more intimately."

For male bisexuals, finding a partner of the same sex is far easier than for women - if they're willing to settle for speedy, anonymous, Midnight Cowboy-style encounters. Plenty of male prostitutes sell their favors, and men who don't want to pay can find casual pick-ups at gay bars and clubs. For men who want more than a one-night stand, though, finding a lover becomes more difficult. Those bisexual men who are not promiscuous are not likely to broadcast their erotic identities. Two men I interviewed had delayed sleeping together for years, primarily because neither could be certain the other was erotically interested in males. Finally, Ralph, a powerfully built physicist in his late thirties, tentatively "declared" himself by telling his younger friend Michael about a homosexual encounter he'd had. This disclosure prompted the two men to begin an on-again, off-again sexual relationship that's lasted several years. Still, both Ralph and Michael are quick to stress they're not in love with each other. "Going to bed together has let us be much more open, honest and relaxed with each other than men friends usually allow themselves to be." Ralph maintains, "but our relationship's more like a close friendship than an affair. We're both more interested in our women than in each other."

Ralph's wife reacted positively to the news of her husband's sexual involvement with men: "Eric knew I'd had homosexual fantasies for a long time and that I was afraid I was a closet case. When I told her I'd had sex with a man I'd picked up in a movie theater - and found, to my incredible relief, that I preferred women as sexual partners, Erica said she wished she could be equally free. She approved of my affair with Michael, too, partly because she knew he was no real threat to her, but also because I think she realized that exploring my homosexual impulses might help me get over anxieties about my masculinity. She seemed to realize it would make me a better lover for her - that I'd quit being so macho and tough in bed, and become freer to indulge my tender, feminine side."

Michael's girlfriend is somewhat less understanding than Ralph's wide and prefers not to be told much about her lover's bisexual activities. "She knows I wouldn't leave her for a man, so she simply accepts that my erotic needs are different from hers," Michael says. "I view sex as physically exciting and fun, so I've never seen anything wrong with going out and making it with someone on a no-guilt, no-commitment basis. And, while I hate to sound chauvinistic, it's much easier to find a man who'll agree to that than a woman. My relationship with Ralph works on the premise that we don't make demands on each other."

Right now, Ralph and Michael say they don't have time to pursue the sexual side of their friendship, "But," predicts Michael, "we'll probably make it with each other again. I don't foresee ever giving up sleeping with men. I see my bisexuality as positive - it's taught me to respond to people without getting hung up on traditional roles. And once you've opened up new areas of awareness, there's no going back.'

The women bisexuals I interviewed appeared more willing than men to admit the part love plays in their relationships. Two of the women I spoke to had been lovers for several years, and their relationship has progressed from passionate a attraction to sustained commitment. Both Elena and Jill had satisfying marriages before they met three years ago, and though they agreed husbands and jobs had to come first, their affair has lasted and deepened. "We'd each had experiences with women before, but it was still hard to accept that we were falling in love," Elena says. "We had to resolve all sorts of problems - how committed we'd be, how much we could trust each other, how much time we'd spend together, how our feelings toward our husbands might be affected and how they would feel."

Elena, a tall, athletic-looking woman with the sleek body of a flamenco dancer, was less threated by her husband's possible disapproval than Jill. "Elena and her husband had been married a long time, and he felt secure enough to accept and support her relationship with me," Jill explains. "but I was newly married and my husband was jealous - a problem I'm still coping with, even though he realized I need the balance, and I guess the tension, of being emotionally and sexually involved with both a man and a woman."

Jill emphasizes that her affair with Elena is free of competition and jealousy: "One of the greatest pleasures of this relationship is that nobody's trying to be boss. Neither of us expects the other to leave her family, give up other friends or try to fulfill every need. And both of us seem to have an uncanny sense of when the other needs reassurance or jut to be left alone to enjoy her husband. If we constantly had power struggles or hurt each other, there's be no point in being together."

A bisexual, Elena adds, can view women not as competitors, enemies or pawns but as worth love partners. "And even though bisexuality might be a fad right now for some people," she says, "it has to have a profound effect in the long run. People are beginning to realize that they can enjoy a wide range of sexual behavior. We're not predestined to be homosexual or heterosexual."

Whether or not we're all predestined to be bisexual remains in question. Still, whatever happens in the future, I've concluded that, right now, for the many who've tried it, bisexuality offers a satisfying - and often loving - way of life.

thinking again about the 1970s cosmo article about bisexuality where according to the bisexuals interviewed the biggest problem facing the bisexual community is finding someone to have gay sex with you when you’re already married. girl i know

[theprideful]

important!!!

transcript:

A person with a somewhat masculine voice says in a higher pitched tone, “Blue hair is weird!” They then change their voice to their regular tone, and say, “I’m gonna teach you this how I would teach a child. I don’t know your life story, but for the sake of making this an educational video, I’m gonna use stereotypes, so only take what resonates with you.

One child is born in a seemingly functional, to their awareness, loving family, while the other is getting quite the opposite. You can’t choose that you’re born with it, so you’re put out in this world and the majority of your peers are like you, and the majority of your teachers, parents and authority are like you, and the majority of the media out there is showing people like you. So all of the kids that are not depicted by this media feel erased and different immediately from the time they’re born, how they are born. You may feel too feminine as a boy, too masculine as a girl, like you’re in the wrong body, like you don’t think exactly neurotypically as everyone else, you’re too thin, you’re too thick, you’re too dark, you’re not dark enough. Kids like this immediately understand the struggle of not being accepted by the majority, and if it’s not the peers doing it, keep in mind they have the same authority and media only depicting the majority of one type of person.

So both the outcasts and the masses are gonna ask the same question of how do I fit into society, and the majority of the authority and media is gonna be saying things like “God is the answer,” “man marries woman,” “girls are this way, boys this way.” You have a set amount of rules that if you have no reason to question, you’re not gonna disagree with. But when this world has taught you it’s not for people like you, you’re gonna ask, “why is it that way?” which brings us to, “who is teaching us this?” Oh, people from this era or earlier, who’s making this stuff, people in this era or earlier, “Let me do my research on who taught them that stuff.”

A common flaw with human beings is that they accept societal norms that are only in place for a little bit over their lifetime because they never lived to see a reason to question it. When you are born in a world that’s seemingly against you, you have reason to research why these traditions are in place, and you say, “Wow, if I happened to be born in the 1900s, pink was for boys and blue was for girls, and cheerleading is for boys and heels are for men, and the bible was changed to be anti-gay”. It’s almost like what we are taught is unreliable and not inherently factual, and in the time this was being taught, no one in the masses was disagreeing.

Everyone’s born in a box, but we weren’t all born with default settings, so we learned that humans can express themselves however they want. The way you think that only natural hair colors is normal, or how you dress is the right way, or blue hair automatically makes you weird, or pronouns equals liberal, that is taught to you. If this existed in the 1900s, this would be awesome [he points at blue hair], and this would just be english language [he points at pronouns]. When you’re wildly accepted by the masses, I see why you wouldn’t want to step down, you’re at the top of the pyramid. But the reason that we dye our hair blue is that the only people that wildly accepted us are other people who weren’t afraid of being different.

Now listen, maybe you just like authentically being a part of the masses, maybe your true self likes this stuff, that’s fine. But you also have to acknowledge that you were taught to avoid anything that would get you bullied or a negative reaction by the masses. So therefore, who’s really the top of the pyramid? [He flips the pyramid drawing upside-down].”

End transcript.

[godofsexdrugsandrocknroll]

Come As You Are

Blake: [To Sun] I still don’t think this is necessary.

Sun: C’mon, babe-a-licious, it’s perfect! You’re the life of the party!

Blake: *Raises eyebrow*

Sun: Okay, well you were the life of the party but that’s not your fault.

Yang: Yeah partner, it’s pretty hard to compete with [gestures at her body] all this!

Blake sighed, choosing to ignore that comment and glanced down at herself. They were at a “come as you are” party celebrating something (though it seemed like with the death of the Grimm Queen and the rapid downspike in Grimm activity, plus a collective loss of intelligence in the Grimm, that people didn’t need a an actual reason to party) and the theme was obvious.

So Blake had eventually caved to Sun’s pleas and was busy wearing what was effectively lingerie. A black bandeau top with a cartoonish hole shaped like a cat head (basically a circle with two triangles about where the ears would be) that left little to the imagination as to the size and shape of her boobs and a short black skirt, a studded belt and hanging from the studded belt was a black cat tail. Her ears were on display, she’d drawn whiskers on her cheeks and blackened the tip of her nose but she’d drawn the line at wearing cat paw gloves and slippers and had opted for a sensible pair of heels.

Sun had basically stripped down to a furry yellow speedo and a pair of flip flops and was carrying a bunch of bananas, his own tail swishing back and forth happily.

Yang on the other hand was technically wearing more but it hardly mattered. She’d somehow managed to fit her excessive curves into a skintight bodysuit that was somewhere between a leotard and a corset, her rump barely fitting in the back while Yang’s breasts were all but spilling out of the top. It was sleeveless, she wore no stockings as she was happy to show off her legs and she wore a pair of four inch black pumps and atop a head filled with lightly curled blonde hair was a pair of bunny ears. And as if to prove her statement right, Yang had had eyes on her all night, not that it mattered to the very taken brawler.

Three guesses what she’s was supposed to be and the first two don’t count, Blake thought.

Blake: Such modesty, Yang.

Yang: Pfft, modesty schmodesty. If you got it--

Blake: Let it all hang out?

Yang: *Snorts* You see anything hanging?

Sun: [Uncomfy] Hey, uh, isn’t Jaune supposed to be here? I mean you two did say you were gonna match outfits.

Yang: Yeah, well, lover boy changed his mind last second and refused to share with his loving girlfriend what he was doing.

Blake: You put him in a headlock and demanded he tell you again?

Yang: *Blushes* No! I haven’t done that in years!

Blake: *Waits*

Yang: [Sighs in defeat] I may have tried to smother him.

Blake:*Crosses arms*

Sun: With your--

Yang: With my tits. [Grumbles] I think I’m using them too much if he’s actually developing an immunity.

Blake: [Pleased] There we go.

Still, Blake couldn’t help but smile at the grumpy and still slightly red faced form of her partner even as Sun coughed and tried to pretend that he suddenly found something interesting about Oscar’s exaggerated farmer costume of heavy brown boots, heavy duty dark blue jeans and the black-and-red plaid shirt he had tucked into his jeans with the sleeves rolled up, one hand carrying an actual hay fork.

Blake looked around and saw Ruby in track shoes, track pants and a sports bra with goggles resting at her hairline. She was busy talking to a group of admirers alongside Weiss, who was in a smart pure white pantsuit with a pale blue blouse beneath that really was no different from her everyday wear as the CEO of the Schnee Dust Company. The only additions being a clipboard and a pair of fake eyeglasses to sell the look, her hair dun up in a bun.

Nora was wearing a horned helm of some sort, sleeveless chainmail that left her biceps open to admire and brown leather bracers on her forearms. She wore studded black leather pants that showed off an equally powerful lower body and furred boots. A red cape was tied around her neck and the young woman had Magnhild over her shoulder and was darting about excitedly, other partygoers ducking to avoid getting smashed over the head by the low hanging hammer.

Blake wasn’t sure what she was supposed to be, but the same went for Ren who wore poofy white pants, black flats (slippers? She didn’t know) and a green jacket that was similar to his first outfit, but he could hide his hands in his sleeves and rather than buttons, there was a length of white rope that tied it together. He was busily following Nora, trying to ensure she didn’t cause any brain damage in her hyperactive state.

Otherwise Neptune was wearing a toga and a golden circlet of equally golden leaves native to Mistral with strappy brown leather sandals. Sage was across the room wearing a ceremonial robe that was unfamiliar to the Menagerie born faunus with a wooden staff and Scarlet was both dressed as a stereotypical pirate and was clearly flirting with Yang’s uncle, who’d been lazy and added a small top hat and wraparound shades and was drinking liberally from a flask.

There were others they knew but the only others she could see at the moment were Fiona Thyme in what looked like wool footie pajamas and Maria Calavera in a hooded cloak, upside down and...doing a kegstand with two men near her age holding her feet, wearing what looked like a gimp suit, the other in slacks, suspenders, a bow tie and nothing else!?

Blake’s head snapped back to Yang who was staring, disturbed, at the same scene. Blake shuddered. Sun shrugged.

Sun: At least the old lady’s having fun.

Yang: Yeah. Kinda wished her fun didn’t make me wanna bleach my eyeballs though. [Grouchily and quiet] Where is he? I swear, if he’s skipping out on me...

Blake: I’m sure he’s just--

A ripple of laughter cut her off and Blake blinked, looked and--

Blake: [Disappointed] Late. *Big sigh* Oh boy.

Sun: [Breaks down into snorting laughter, turns away to avoid potential Yanger]

Yang: [Spins] What’s--

Jaune had arrived, but instead of whatever he’d agreed to wear with Yang he was wearing a large, stereotypical trash can around his torso with his bare arms moving awkwardly at his sides, his bare legs waddling slightly in the clanging and clunking costume. On his brightly grinning head was the top to the trash can, held in place by a strap that went under his chin.

Yang: [Sputtering incoherently]

Ruby: [Distantly] Yang, that’s so mean!

Yang: [Distressed] I didn’t--

Weiss: [Distantly] For shame, Yang Xiao Long.

Yang: [Upset] Nooo, it’s not--

Partygoer: Wow. Poor guy. [To his girlfriend] Please don’t ever do that to me. [Girlfriend hugs his arm]

Yang: [More upset] I swear--

Scarlet: [Finally looks over] *Squawking laughter*

Yang: [Even more upset] Stop, it’s seriously not--

Qrow: [Disappointedly] Firecracker. We raised you better.

Yang: [Can’t decide whether to cry or explode; pouts at Jaune while trying to glare] Baby, we talked about this!

Jaune: [Happily smiling] You talked. I ignored. Besides, everybody’s perfectly in character! Who am I to deny my nature!?

Yang: *Unhappy teakettle noises*

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dragonslayer’s probably my favorite RWBY ship, Black Sun’s leagues better than Bumblebee (IMPO) and I really couldn’t help myself here.

[teamhappyme]

a series of promising events (1/5)

aaron hotchner x female! reader

word count: 7.9k :)

a/n: hello hello hello! this is my first hotch fic, and the first of three parts (edit: it’s actually 5 now lolol). it’s going to cover 8 (maybe 9?) events over the course of several years, so it needed to be broken up in the most rational way possible. this is my baby, and has been in the editing process with my lazy brain since september. please, please, please, let me know if the timeline or anything is confusing to you! i have a tendency to under explain things (as my profs will testify to), and i don’t want y’all to be confused. i hope whoever stumbles across this enjoys!

also, big shoutout to @winterscaptain, you are a gift to the world, tali. i am in love with the ajf universe, and that shit inspired me to polish this piece up for the tumblr verse to see. 

alright friends, here we go.

link to part 2: here

**** 

June 2005

You wouldn’t forget your first day in the BAU for as long as you lived. It was forever ingrained in your memory, the good, bad, and embarrassing moments all stored away. Stored away that is until Derek Morgan decided to dredge it back up as you passed your six month mark on the job. 

Derek, Prentiss, Reid and yourself were finishing up paperwork in the bullpen after an unusually slow friday. You were usually the first one done, earning a groan from the doctor across from your desk. They all envied your English degree and professional writing skills. 

“Hey bobo,” The nickname Derek had assigned to you was named after your alma mater, and extremely annoying. “Remember your first day, when I tricked you into doing Prentiss and my paperwork for almost two weeks?” You shook your head, not having to look at Morgan to be able to hear the smirk in his voice. “Do you think I could trick you again?”

7:47. Thirteen minutes earlier than you needed to be. Yet the room full of agents you were supposed to join was already filled. You liked these people already, they were punctual and functioned in the morning. 

You pushed one of the glass doors open with your ballet flat, juggling your box of office supplies while keeping your crossbody balanced on your shoulder. The sound of fingers pounding on keyboards, phones ringing on loop welcomed you into the BAU. Along with a shove to your back, causing you to lunge forward. You felt something cold run down your back, cursing yourself for wearing a white blouse.

“Are you alright?” You looked up to find a tall mop of brown hair and big brown eyes looking down at you. “Well, I’m a little damp.”

He nodded while looking at your box full of sticky notes and pens. “You must be y/n l/n. I’m Dr. Spencer Reid. We’ve been taking bets on what time you’d arrive. And you beat us all with your extreme punctuality.” You laughed. “Sorry to let you down. It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Reid.” You extended your hand for him to shake, but he just stared at your extended limb.

“Yeah, he doesn’t do that sort of thing.” The new voice came into view, shaking your hand that was meant for Reid. He was tall like Spencer, but was lean with a smile on his face. Confident. “I’m Derek Morgan. When JJ told us the new recruit graduated with an english degree, I expected someone with tweed elbow patches and big round glasses.” 

“You’re an english major? Statistically speaking, only three percent of the agents that have been recruited for the BAU didn’t have any background in law enforcement or field experience.” This wasn’t the first time you’d been questioned at the FBI for being a liberal arts degree profiler. Your english degree and your fresh age of twenty five left many people to dismiss you through your time in the academy. But you got used to it. 

“Sorry to disappoint your stereotypical profile of an FBI agent,” You started, shifting your weight between your feet, now uncomfortable and a little embarrassed in front of your new co-workers. 

“Oh I didn’t mean it as an offense. I-” “He’s a genius, but he lacks some social cues. You’re the first girl he’s been around that’s his age in the workplace.” Morgan added and Reid elbowed his ribs. You covered the smile on your face as the two of them started to quietly bicker. 

“Let the poor woman go and settle in at least before you harass her.” A brunette woman in a black pant suit came walking toward you. She had a stern face while looking at the two men, but when she turned to you, her face softened into a smile. “Special Agent Emily Prentiss. You do not understand how happy I am to have another woman out in this bullpen.”

You laughed as she led you to the empty desk across from Dr. Reid’s. “Welcome to your new home.”

“Thanks.” You placed your box down before taking the place in. “I’m supposed to meet with SSA Hotchner,”

“Agent l/n,” All heads turned to the man descending the stairs into the bullpen. He was taller than the other two, and that was saying a lot since they practically towered over you. He had a clean boys haircut, paired with a suit and tie. No question that this was the unit chief you were to report to. “I’m SSA Aaron Hotchner. Welcome to the BAU.” He shook your hand before looking at the others. “JJ’s ready to debrief in the conference room.”

And just like that, the three agents sprung into action, leading the way to the board room. “We can go over the particulars when we get back from Nebraska. You ready for your first case?”

His face didn’t change, no change of tone in his voice. He lived and breathed for the BAU. Until you noticed the wedding band on his left hand. It was always the first thing you looked for when you met someone new. It was shallow and patriarchal, you knew, but it was instinct. And it put you at ease knowing there was someone out there he was doing this for. Someone he didn’t have to hold this demeanor around. 

“Ready.”

“Funny. But if you have any other insults to give, direct them to the head of the english department at Bowdoin. Mention that you’re talking about y/n l/n, with the 4.0 GPA.”

Prentiss led a slow clap as Derek shook his head. 

“I think that’s what the kids are calling a ‘mic drop’.” Spencer added and you couldn’t help your laugh. “Alright kid, why don’t you get out of here before we inevitably find ourselves back.”

You turned off the lamp on your desk and grabbed your crossbody and backpack. “Have a good weekend guys. And Reid,” He looked up, and you laughed as he pushed his hair out of his face. “Please recite the old testament for these two if they mock me while I’m gone.” He gave you a mock salute as Prentiss flipped you off on your way to Hotch’s office. 

In the six months you’d been here, these three people you shared the bullpen with had quickly become the siblings you never had. Morgan acted as your annoying older brother, constantly picking on you and Reid. Not only were you the newbie, but you were now the youngest, only a year behind Spencer. Emily Prentiss on the other hand, was the protective older sister you always dreamed of. She was confident and held her own against the male dominated team, but knew when to be soft spoken and caring with victims and the team when needed.

And then there was Dr. Spencer Reid. The smartest person on the planet, in your book. Sure, he was a little socially awkward and didn’t know when to stop listing off all the stats he knew, but you understood. He was consistently the youngest and smartest person in every classroom he walked into. There weren’t many people that wanted to get to know him without bullying him or picking apart his eidetic memory. Despite the problematic first encounter you shared, the two of you stuck together considering your combined intellect and young age. He taught you the ins and outs of the BAU, and helped you get accustomed to D.C. Although, Spencer himself hadn’t really ventured out into the city in the four years he’s been here. So the two of you tried to see as many things as you could in the rare weekends that you weren’t working a case. You worked your way through a third of the smithsonian's, and saw the Declaration of Independence. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t get a little emotional while looking at it. Spencer had called you a nerd, and you didn’t mind one bit. 

You walked up the steps to Hotch’s office, case reports in your hand from this week. The blinds were open, you could see him working through the stack of files on his desk. Despite the exhaustion written all over his face, his sport coat was still on, tie still impeccably tight around his neck. Even when he was in private he kept up the put together facade.

You knocked on the door, and heard a quiet ‘come in’ as you twisted the door knob. “L/n,” “I have my case reports from this week.” “Just place them on my desk.”

“How much longer are you here for?” He let out a sigh while closing the file in his hand. 

“Another hour or two.” You opened your mouth to respond, but he beat you to the punch. “And before you offer to stay and help me, I don’t need any help.”

“You just don’t want to listen to me singing Coldplay under my breath.” He huffed out a semblance of a laugh. A month into your bout here, Morgan had accosted you on the jet on the way home from Milwaukee. None of you had slept in three days, and you were currently enthralled in your new mp3 player and Coldplay's newest album ‘X&Y’. After the third song, a paper cup was thrown at the back of your head, followed by a ‘I’m trying to sleep, bobo’ from Derek. It was a habit of yours that you had yet to kick. 

“That’s part of the reason.” “I knew it.” He opened another file, and you took that as a cue to wrap up the conversation. You rummaged through your purse, looking for the blue envelope you sealed this morning. 

“Um, I also wanted to drop this off. It’s for Jack, you mentioned he was being Christened this weekend.” You placed the card on top of the pile of paperwork, your cursive handwriting on top. “I was going to get him a stuffed animal or some type of toy, but he’s only three months old and wouldn’t know the difference. This check may be the penny that helps you guys afford Harvard.”

A real laugh escaped his lips now, as he picked up the card. “Thank you, y/n. You didn’t have to do this.” You smiled. “I know, but I wanted to. He’s a cute kid.” 

He looked at the framed picture of Jack on his desk, then back up to you. No one else had mentioned the Christening after Hotch first brought it up. He was quiet, and only liked to talk about his family if he initiated the conversation. You could tell you were the only person who had reached out like this, with a simple gift. 

Hotch had been the hardest person to get to know in your time here. Despite Morgan saying there are no secrets kept among the team, you knew these people had their demons. And Hotch certainly had enough both professionally and personally. You didn’t want to push the professional boundaries, but you always wanted to be present in the lives of people that you shared time with. To let them know you were thinking of them, and cared for them. It was probably your most damaging personality trait.

“I’ll let you finish your work so you can get home at a reasonable hour. Tell Haley I said hi.” He nodded. “I will y/n. Have a nice weekend.”

****

December 2005

You pride yourself in the fact that you haven’t shot your weapon in the year you’ve spent with the BAU. It meant that you were successful at connecting to these people’s emotions, despite the asterisk next to their name labeling them as a serial killer or sadist. Guns were there to protect you, and they were always the last result. But as you pulled up to a log cabin in the middle of nowhere Pennsylvania, you had a feeling your record was going to be broken.

The team was working a case where six bodies, two adult males and four teenage males, were found mutilated, along with a cut from sternum to belly button. It was the first case you worked that had no female victims. A small victory, in your mind. But, it was also the first case you worked that the profile of the unsub fit a sixteen year old girl, who had most likely been assaulted as a young child. When children were involved, the team acted differently. They were failed by the people that were supposed to care for them, they were consistently hurt with no one to turn to. And as a result, they would spend the rest of their lives paying for it. 

You, Prentiss, and Hotch got out of the suburban, strapping the bullet proof vests onto your bodies. Thanks to Garcia, you had found the unsub’s location once she turned her cell phone back on. A cruiser pulled up behind you guys, two more cops falling out. 

“Prentiss, you take the two officers down with you to the exterior basement access. L/n and I will take the main floor.” Hotch ordered as he pulled his gun from his holster. 

You could feel the anxiety rising in your chest, but there was no time to calm it down. You barely had enough time to strap on your vest. 

“Ready?” Hotch looked at you before taking another step toward the cabin. You nodded, pulling your own gun from it’s holster. “Ready.”

You followed him up to the front porch, announcing yourselves before kicking the door in. You cleared the living room as Hotch cleared the dining room and bathroom, leaving you both to meet up in the kitchen. 

That was where you found her. You saw her first, hiding half of her face behind the rifle that she had pointed at you. She was trembling, dried tear streaks left on her cheeks. She was petrified. 

“Stephanie Moore?” Her grip on the gun tightened at the mention of her name as you heard Hotch’s footsteps get closer. “My name is Y/n L/n, I’m with the FBI. I don’t want to hurt you Stephanie, but I need you to put the gun down.”

Hotch joined you on your left, both of you directing your weapons toward the young girl. “I did what I had to do to survive. They took everything from me, every last shred of dignity I had. I wasn’t going to let them kill me.” You never thought it would be possible for your heart to break while listening to an unsub. But this tiny girl standing in front of you, with her whole life ahead of her, it just hit you too hard. 

“I know you did, Stephanie. You were so brave and so strong. Not many people could survive what you did.” She started to loosen her grip on the rifle, you were getting through to her. “I’m here to help you. I want to put an end to all of this.”

You glanced at Hotch and he gave the slightest nod, giving you the okay to take a step forward together. “I couldn’t let them get away with it.” Ever so slowly, the gun started to lower in her hands. 

“You’re doing great. Just a little lower and this will all be over.” Before she could completely lower her weapon, you heard the storm door to the basement slam shut. 

Stephanie jumped, raising her weapon back up in her hands.

“You said you were here to help me!” She exclaimed, the gun pointed at you as Hotch took another step forward. “I am Stephanie, but other members of my team are trying to help the boy you took.”

Fresh tears started to fall down her cheeks and you knew you were losing her. “Y/n,” 

He whispered to you and she moved the gun from your chest to Hotch’s. “Shutup!”

“Stephanie, hey, look at me,” She shook her head, continuing her stare at Hotch. “He’s in on it, he has to be!”

“He’s not! He’s my boss, trust me, Stephanie.” You heard the safety go off, and before her foot landed as she took her first step towards Hotch, you emptied two rounds into her chest. He rushed forward as she fell, kicking away her gun and checking her pulse. Nothing. 

You lowered your gun as your breathing increased, looking at the lifeless sixteen year old lying in front of you. A hand covered your mouth as you realized what you’d done. 

You killed her. 

You remembered what it felt like to be sixteen. Struggling to find your identity, wanting so desperately to be noticed by someone. For anyone to reach out and help you. 

But you took that away from her. You ended her life before it even began.

“Are you guys okay?” You heard Prentiss come up through the basement, but your eyes were closed as she entered the room. “We’re good. Y/n took the shot.”

Hotch stood up and dared a look at you, taking in your grief stricken state. “Did you find the boy?” 

“Yeah, he’s gonna be fine.”

Before Emily could greet you, you ran to the corner of the room, heaving up whatever was inside your almost empty stomach. Your throat burned as you threw up for a second time, vaguely registering two people calling your name.

“You’re okay, y/n,” Prentiss approached you, gently resting a hand on your back. You coughed a few more times before a towel was being rushed to your side. “It’s okay.”

The whirring of more sirens forced you to open your eyes and straighten up from your sick position. Prentiss had eyes filled with concern, not letting go of you until you gave her a slight nod. She handed you a water before she exited the house, letting two uniforms in. They went straight to Hotch, asking questions and looking over the body before their eyes landed on you. You felt exposed, like you were the one lying lifeless on the ground for all to see. You took a few deep breaths to get your breathing under control, and tore your gaze away from Stephanie. 

Hotch finished his conversation with the officers before walking over to you. “Hey,” He rested a hand on your shoulder, and you couldn’t help but flinch. “It was a clean shot, but protocol states they have to take your gun and badge as well as give a statement to IA.” You nodded, taking your badge from your pocket. “They’re gonna take you back to the station and do an interview. This should all be wrapped up in a few hours. We’ll meet you back there, alright?”

You glanced up at his big brown eyes, warm as they bore into yours instead of their usual slanted nature. “Okay.”

The two officers escorted you to their patrol car, taking your badge and gun before you got in. You felt naked without them, like you were a nobody wandering the streets looking for someone to help, or looking for someone to help you.

It was a good thirty minute ride to the station from the cabin, and when you got there a detective from IA was already waiting for you. They led you into an interrogation room where they already had Section Chief Strauss hooked up through video call. Great. 

The questions they asked were pretty straight forward, nothing that couldn’t be answered by a crime scene report from the technicians. But the government insisted on interviewing cops involved in shootings, just in case it wasn’t legal. As if anyone wanted to deal with the psychological repercussions of taking another’s life. 

It took them nearly an hour and a half to get through the interrogation. In part due to you almost throwing up a third time as Strauss asked you to repeat the moment you shot Stephanie. They gave you a few minutes to regroup, some ginger ale and crackers from the vending machine to help settle your stomach. They took your fingerprints last, letting Strauss finish up with the bureaucratic discussion.

“That’s all for now Agent L/n. We’ll debrief tomorrow morning when you’re back in Quantico.” “Yes ma’am. Thank you.”

They led you out of the interrogation room and back through the lobby leaving you at the conference room your team had been set up in the last three days.

The white boards were still littered with images of the victims, crime scenes, and the unsub. Piles of evidence were scattered along the table, and you tried to resist looking through them again. You knew if you went through the images of the mutilated boys again, you wouldn’t survive the emotional turmoil. But you needed to know that you made the right choice, the only choice to prevent more families from going through the same pain and suffering as the Corbins. 

You turned to the white board, glancing at the first victim. Connor Corbin was fifteen years old, on the varsity soccer team, and involved in musical theatre. He was cousins with the teenager that abused Stephanie. She targeted all the men in her abusers life, letting them know what he did to her. Wanting them to understand the pain she’d had to endure because of their ignorance.

You looked through the rest of the victims, the abusers two younger brothers, father and uncle were among those killed. The boys were only twelve years old. You brought a hand up to cover your mouth, remembering meeting their mother on the first day you were here. JJ was the one to speak to her, as the communications liaison, most people trusted her with being the most empathetic. That fact was up for debate, in your opinion. She was a wreck, and JJ needed help comforting her from Morgan. But you understood, boy had you understood. Her whole family was killed. 

“Y/n,” You jumped, startled by the new voices in the room. Hotch, Spencer, and JJ had arrived back at the station. “Did they clear you?”

You nodded as Spencer walked over to you. “Yeah, Strauss just wants to debrief again tomorrow morning.” “Of course she does.”

Section Chief Erin Strauss is a hardass and not the biggest fan of the BAU. “Did they give you your piece back?” Your hand immediately flew to your left hip, void of your gun and holster. “No, I completely forgot about it.” You went to move toward the door, but Spencer laid a hand on your forearm. “It’s okay, I’ll get it.” He gave your arm a comforting squeeze before leaving the conference room. 

You spared a glance at Hotch as you started cracking your knuckles. “JJ, why don’t you call the airstrip, tell them to get the jet ready.” “Yes sir.”

In an effort to keep your mind busy, you started to take down the pictures from the white board, erasing all Reid’s notes in his barely legible handwriting. The boy had three PhD’s, yet couldn’t figure out the concept of penmanship. 

“Are you alright?” “Fine.” You pulled an empty manila folder out, stuffing Connor’s pictures in. “You don’t have to clean this up for them.” “I know.”

He sighed. “Y/n, stop.” His voice was stern now and you dropped the files. “I asked if you were alright.”

“Why wouldn’t I be alright, Hotch?” You crossed your arms over your chest, letting a breath out. “We found her, we saved her from hurting anyone else, and we brought closure to Mrs. Corbin. Case closed, the BAU gets to go home.”

Your eyes started to water but you refused to bring your hands up to wipe them away. You wouldn’t let them fall. “We’ve all been where you are right now.”

“I’m confident that you’ve never felt what I’m feeling before.”

“Try me.” He didn’t flinch, his hands remained in his pockets, stare heavy on your own. 

“When JJ presented this case to us, that two teenage boys and their fathers had been murdered, it was a no brainer for all of us to take it. Two twelve year old boys dead, two more teenagers missing, how could we not take it? But then we got here, and we met with the victims' families, we learned the boys' backgrounds, the unsub’s profile.” You scoffed, not sure who you were angered with at the moment. “This girl was raped by a seventeen year old boy and his father for two years, and we’re still supposed to treat her like a monster, like Tim Vogel?” You shook your head. “I’m not condoning what she did, but, can you blame her? And then we went in, and she had a gun raised at us. I would’ve been able to talk her down, I know I could’ve saved her if she didn’t have the gun.”

“But she had a gun.” You nodded. “She had a gun and it was raised at you. And I didn’t even flinch to take the shot. All it took was two seconds for me to forget her pain, her trauma, and reduce her to a sick serial killer.”

Even though that’s what Stephanie ultimately was, you didn’t want to accept it. Because she was a person before she went through all that pain, she was someone’s daughter, who was involved in gymnastics and softball, and had stuffed animals scattered across her bedroom. God, were you ever going to forget what she looked like?

“Feeling guilty about taking someone’s life is a good thing. It means your human, that you care.” Hotch freed his hands from his pockets, taking the file you packed out of your grip. “You’re not like them, y/n.”

You dared a glance at him as you felt more tears spring to the surface. Those big brown eyes could tell a story all on their own, and right now, they were pleading for you to believe him. You would try. 

“Got the goods.” Spencer came back in, your gun and credentials in hand. “They really had the audacity to I.D. me, as if we hadn’t just worked a case with them the last seventy two hours.” 

He got you to laugh, which served you enough cover to wipe your eyes dry. And out of the corner of your eye, you thought you saw a rare smile cross Hotch’s face. 

But Aaron knew there was more to your guilt than just this little girl. He was the leader of this team, it was his job to know the people he was in charge of like the back of his hand in order to keep them safe. And in the year that you’d been here, he noticed how reserved you were. Too reserved and too broken for a twenty-six year old. How you took on the giver persona to hide the fact that you were terribly closed off to others and your emotions. You would be the first to offer help, to be a listening ear, or lend your shoulder to cry on. But you never accepted it from anyone. Not that you had to, until today. 

When Hotch started to notice you and Spencer growing closer at the three month mark, he was excited. Proud, even. He knew you were struggling with the gruesome cases (he knew you threw up after every crime scene, despite your best efforts with barf bags and travel size mouthwash) and hoped you could share your burdens with the young doctor. But it seemed like they only grew in time, like the smile on your face. Hotch just hoped you knew your limits.

“Gather whatever else you guys need for Quantico. Wheels up in thirty.” Reid nodded for both of you as Hotch left the conference room, presumably to find JJ. 

“Everything okay in here?” He asked as you continued to empty the white boards, this time at a faster pace. Of course he had noticed the red rim on your waterline and the red tip on your nose. Spencer could read you better than anyone else, regardless of being a profiler or not.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Just talked through the case.” His feet stayed nailed to the ground, yet his eyes continued to stick to the back of your head. You sighed and stopped moving, turning to face him. “Spencer, I can feel you boring holes into the back of my head.”

He had a sheepish smile and ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry. We have copies of all this back at the office, I already faxed it over to Garcia. Why don’t we spend the next twenty eight minutes searching for a good burger before the flight home.”

You smiled. “Okay. As long as I can get a vanilla shake, too.”

****

May 2006

Growing up, you always wanted an office job. A boring nine to five with your own cubicle, a script to follow when your phone rang and a customer needed help. You’d have a generic wall calendar pinned on the particle board, sticky notes littering your monitor screen, and maybe a few pictures of pets and future family. It was safe, predictable, and what you were constantly told all you would be capable of.

Now, as you’re sitting on the FBI owned jet with your six special agent coworkers, you can’t imagine living that life you once dreamt of. 

It was nearing two a.m., and you were two hours into the flight home from Los Angeles. Reid was passed out on the couch, Prentiss and JJ in the same state of mind in the cluster of four chairs, legs spread out. Morgan and Rossi were sitting across from one another, each listening to their own playlists. And by the way Rossi was tapping his fingers against the arm rest, you knew it was some genre of opera. 

This left you in the back of the jet, staring out the window as you passed over Nebraska. You always had the map up on your screen, wanting to know every state you passed over. No matter the case, you always looked forward to the plane ride. It calmed you, oddly enough. 

“Not tired?” Hotch took the seat across from you, handing you one of the two cups of tea. “Plane rides are too exciting for me to catch any sleep.”

You took a sip of the hot drink and your face scrunched out of instinct. You never liked tea, but you tried it again and again when people assured you that it would calm you down. It never worked. 

“You could just say no,” He added and you smiled. “I know. But my taste buds may change one of these times.”

He took a sip out of his own cup, no change of expression on his face. You couldn’t help the chuckle that left your lips and his eyes narrowed on you. 

“What?” 

“Well, you may enjoy the taste, but it seems like it’s calming chamomile effect has never worked on you, either.” “We’re not supposed to profile each other.” 

“Then don’t even think about rattling off excuses of why I’m not sleeping.”

He looked down at his cup, slowly nodding his head. “Well if you don’t want to talk about what’s really bothering you, because I know it’s not sleep, I can bore you with Jack’s sleep routine we have to stick to.” You smiled. “You know that I’m the only one on this team that would actually be interested in Jack’s sleeping routine. Hell, anything with that chubby little baby would interest me. Bring it on, Hotch.”

It was no secret that Jack Hotchner was your favorite person on the planet. Not only was he the chubbiest little nugget you’d ever seen, he was the result of two of the strongest people you knew. 

The first time you met Haley, she was six months pregnant with Jack, begging Hotch to leave the office early for a date night. You made the afternoon walk up to his office, dropping off some files for him to sign when you first saw her.

“Come on, Aaron. This baby is going to be here before we know it, and who knows the next time we’ll have any alone time will be.”

Before he could respond, you knocked on the open door. Both of their heads snapped over to you, and a red blush of embarrassment spread across your cheeks. “Sorry to interrupt, sir. Just dropping off some reports for you to sign off on.”

You smiled at the petite blonde woman while placing the files on the desk. “It’s okay l/n. This is my wife, Haley Hotchner. Haley, this is Agent y/n l/n, she started about a month ago.” She smiled back at you, extending a hand to shake. 

“It’s nice to meet you, y/n. I’ll leave the agent part out, it makes you sound like a robot.” She said and glared at her husband before placing her hand back on her growing belly. You laughed once you heard Hotch let out a breath, knowing he wasn’t offended with her joke. 

“It’s nice to meet you too.” The smile only grew on your face as you looked at her, admiring her own belly. “Congratulations on the baby. It’s always exciting to bring a baby into the world.”

“Thank you. If only my husband thought going out with me was half as exciting, he would’ve been gone a half an hour ago.” “Haley!” He was more than surprised that she would speak so cavalierly while at the office, especially around someone he had barely gotten a chance to know yet. But the two girls only shared a laugh.

“Hotch, why don’t you go. I can hold things down around here.” “Y/n, it’s not your responsibility to. And quite frankly-” You dropped a file to the desk, boldly interrupting your bosses statement. You were only acting like this because you knew his wife deserved half the attention he gave to this place. “It’s a friday night, and your beautiful, pregnant wife is asking you to go to dinner with her. JJ and I will be here if anything comes up, I’ll even redirect your calls to my desk.”

“I like you.” Haley said with a smile, gently squeezing your shoulder. “She means business.”

Hotch let out a sigh, reluctantly grabbing his briefcase and punching a few buttons on his phone to make sure his calls went to you. “You or JJ call me immediately if I’m needed.”

“Promise. Now go have fun.” He gave you the smallest smile as he grabbed Haley’s extended hand to him. “Thank you, y/n. I owe you one.” Haley said as they exited his office. But you weren’t looking for a favor in return. You did this to make them happy, and you always felt better when those that surrounded you were at their best.

But Haley did end up paying you back. She asked you to babysit the first night her and Hotch went out after the baby was born. Apparently, she was impressed with your background in social services that Rossi had drunkenly let slip at the office christmas party. And only you would get excited to babysit a poopy baby, for free. And you continued to do it as many times as they needed you to.

You earned a smile from the reserved unit chief, and raised a fist in the air. “I’ll have to add that to the team tally sheet. I’m now tied with Reid for the lead in making you crack a human expression.” “Doesn’t matter who’s in the lead, you’re all behind Jack.” He quipped back and you returned his smile.

You looked back out the window of the jet, the view of any terrain was quite literally clouded. You could see the moon reflecting on the puffy clouds, and you knew then and there you could be converted to a night person if you could look at this view every night.

“I wanted to check in with you, about Randall Garner.” You looked back to your boss, eyes glued to your own, an earnest gaze in them. “With what happened last time-”

“Last time it was a sixteen year old girl. This time it was a psychotic father who was torturing his child. There’s a broad spectrum.”

“So you don’t feel guilty about taking his life?” The way your stomach flipped at the mention of your actions merely hours ago should have worried you more than it did. 

“Of course I feel guilty.” You quipped back, and quickly looked around to make sure you didn’t disturb anyone else. Hotch didn’t even flinch. “I didn’t take this job to play God. I wanted to help people, I wanted to stop people from getting hurt. To be on the other side of the heartbreak.”

Before transferring to Quantico, you worked as a social worker in Brooklyn for three years, straight out of college. You saw first hand the horrors and trauma that came with being in the foster system, and you wanted to help children going through the same situation you had. 

This became your life, even after you escaped it. And one day, it became too much. You needed a fresh start, to make a change and help people from a different platform. And with your degree in English, and minor in psychology, the BAU seemed to be a perfect fit for a new career. 

“Why did you leave DCFS?” It irked you to no end how his voice stayed so calm when he was clearly agitated. Especially since the silky smooth tone had talked you off an emotional ledge one too many times.

“Why are you interrogating me? Strauss said it was a clean shot, that she was proud to have a man like that dead and accounted for.” A direct quote from the ever emotionless section chief. If only she had any field experience, she would understand what this job was like. “Besides, I’ve been here for a year and half. You should have my file memorized by now.”

“Half of your file is sealed. Strauss must have a soft spot for you.” You actually laughed at that. Strauss most certainly did not have a soft spot for you. She was however under orders from the Attorney General of New York to keep my file sealed, no matter my employer. 

“My sealed file has nothing to do with the actions I took tonight.” You uncrossed your legs now and turned your body to face him. This conversation wasn’t ending any time soon. “If I needed help grieving this process, I would ask for it, Hotch. I’m fine.”

He wanted to believe you. More than anything else, he wanted to believe that you had found a routine that helped you forget the daily horrors you saw. But he knew that you were the last to leave the office every night, he knew you drove home with the light on in the backseat of your car every night. Deep down, he knew you weren’t fine. 

“We don’t ever truly know the people we work with. Despite the fact that we say there are no secrets in this unit, we all have our own demons we hold onto. I know you’re not fine, y/n.” You let out a strained laugh as you started tapping your foot anxiously against the ground. 

“I do though.” For the first time tonight, Hotch had no idea what you were talking about. His furrowed brow only made your throat tighten. “I know every single one of these people’s secrets. They confide in me because they know about my past with DCFS. Everything I knew was confidential, and it ate me up inside not being able to tell anybody the horrors these children go through.” You ran a hand through your hair; the flood gates were open. You feared there would be no turning back now. “It started out as me just wanting to get to know them. I wanted to be liked, and I wanted to trust my coworkers. And then overnight, I became Father l/n, sworn to secrecy by the Parish of the FBI. I’ve become a suggestion box, papers filling me up to the top and no one is coming to empty me out. 

“But I can’t even be mad at them,” I said as my eyes started to water, remembering what Spencer said to me two months into our friendship. “Spencer told me I’m the only person that’s ever listened to his problems without suggesting that he see someone to talk to. He said I was the only person that’s ever laughed at his stuffy jokes without making fun of him. I can’t be mad at them for confiding in me in their time of need. But I’m just,” You tried to smile as a tear rolled down your cheek. “I’m just really overflowing.”

Aaron Hotchner was lucky enough to have never experienced a heartbreak in his life. He met Haley his junior year of high school, she was his first and only girlfriend, hurling him into a life of love and happiness, sparing him any pain from loving someone too much. But as he watched you break in front of him, feeling so overwhelmed by the responsibility to be everyone’s rock, to be everyone’s source of light, he experienced his first heartbreak. And he was sure he never wanted to feel it again.

“So confide in me.” You didn’t think his tone could become any softer. His baritone voice had already been strained to keep from waking the others, and he somehow became even softer. But you shook your head, quickly bringing your hands up to wipe the tears that fell down your face. “Why not?”

“Because you’re the boss. You have all of us to worry about when we’re in the field. You have Strauss breathing down your neck, waiting for one of us to screw up.” He rested his elbows on his knees, slightly leaning toward you. “Most importantly, you have Haley and Jack that need you to be their confidante. That beautiful family needs you to be there when you’re not here.”

“Y/n, if you can’t come talk to me when you’re drowning in your own thoughts, I’ve failed you as a boss.” He sighed at your continued silence. “I can’t force you to open up. But I can’t watch you give and give and give without earning a reprieve of your own.”

So the two of you sat there, in a deafening silence, as you counted the seconds passing by. You were both too stubborn to pull away first, because that would be admitting defeat, and this conversation would end then and there. You counted to one hundred and eighty seconds, three minutes, when you finally got tired of staring into the endless brown eyes of Aaron Hotchner. 

You thought carefully about what you were going to say, what you would reveal in the magic that covered the two a.m. air. And no matter how hard you tried to in those one hundred and eighty seconds, you could not keep your eyes from watering.

“I grew up in foster care.” You started, scanning his face for any judgements. You weren’t going to find any. “The last, and most permanent foster parents I had were horrible. It was basic shit that happened to every kid in foster care, nothing scandalous enough to get them to be turned in. But their birth son,” You swallowed, trying to resist the urge to pick your fingernails. “He moved back in with them when I was fifteen. He was a loser, and he started to take a share of the subsidy checks. I heard him in the living room one night with Charlotte, one of the younger girls that lived there. She was only twelve, and I found him pinning her to the couch, a knife to her throat. And I just snapped. I lunged at him, knocking him off of her. It’s all blurry now, except for when I stabbed him in the throat.” My hand scratched at the side of my neck, subconsciously finding the spot I stabbed him. “He died before the ambulance got there. Charlotte and I both gave statements, and it was ruled as self defense. But the statement still lives in my file, and with some convincing, I got Strauss and DCFS to keep it sealed.”

In all honesty, Hotch didn’t know what to expect when you decided to open your mouth. But he never would’ve guessed this. Not from the doe eyed kid that never forgot a birthday, that got everyone a donut and coffee on Monday mornings. Not from the kindest person he worked with. 

“You know that took a lot of courage to get out, so it would be nice if you could say something.” You started to panic, wondering if he saw you as a monster, as a killer.

“You were the oldest one there, weren’t you?” Your eyes widened, how did he know that? “You grew up quick and took on the role of the parent for those younger kids. You wanted them to be safe, stay innocent for as long as they could.”

You finally tore yourself away from his gaze, starting to become too strong. Baby steps. 

“None of us had a family. I tried my hardest to shelter them from those people and make a family out of the five of us. And it worked. Because all four of them still reach out and tell me how successful they are.”

“But they don’t feel like your family.” You had a sad smile and looked back up at him. 

“Do you ever stop profiling?” He mirrored the smile you gave him. “No, they don’t. But I was old enough to understand that they needed each other more than I needed them. Besides, I found a pretty weird family to take me in.”

You earned another laugh from Hotch as you made a check mark in the air, referencing the team tally. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, searching through the cash and cards he had in there. 

“What are you doing?” He pulled out a thin wallet picture and turned it over to you. It was of him, Haley, and Jack on his first birthday. “You’ve got more than one weird family to belong to.”

He extended the picture to you, but you shook your head, the anxiety forming a pit in your stomach. “Hotch, this is your family. I can’t,”

“You can. And this family wouldn’t be half as happy as they are in this picture if it weren’t for you and everyone on this team.” You smiled down at the picture, Jack had frosting from his birthday cake all over his face. You reached out and took it between your fingers. “You’re a giver, y/n. You wear your heart on your sleeve and exude more empathy than we know what to do with.” You let out a laugh as you pulled out your own wallet now, tucking the picture in one of the plastic sleeves. “It’s time you learned how to accept the love you give.”

It was deep, too deep to be coming from your boss on the private jet at two in the morning. But he was more than just your boss, and they were more than just your team. And this job, boy this job was so much better than sitting in a cubicle, answering questions from a recited list.

****

[gingermintpepper]

Not to be off topic on the main here but as a pretty boy enthusiast and a fan of Guilty Gear; I've gotta say, I'm not entirely thrilled with the decisions made for the Strive designs.

Guilty Gear's always been kinda unique in that it's a fighting game that has a lot of variance in the body types of its characters. Well, specifically its male characters - there's a bit of variation in the female body types as well but this is undermined by the fact that the women of Guilty Gear are all well endowed with a few exceptions like Ramlethal and May but honestly, that's a discussion for another time. In any case, fighting games have historically been a genre where the male characters are either grotesquely buff or slender anime pretty boys and there's little in between.

Guilty Gear managed to pretty admirably give a lineup of men who, while they were all muscular, did not have what I lovingly call Street Fighter Syndrome in that they were all the same degree of Totally Jacked. For a few examples just look at the differences between Sol Badguy and Axl Low (I'm going to be using their Xrd/Rev designs)

Sol is top heavy; he has a very defined chest and arm region - which reflects his fighting style as a character whose main weapon is a sword that's much more bludgeoning weapon than anything sharp - and has a notably slender waist with similarly slender hips, legs etc. His 'hourglass' figure's been a part of his design from as early as I can remember but with the turn of Xrd, the artists were able to exaggerate his body type to what I like to think is what was supposed to be its natural extreme.

Contrast that with Axl Low

Who isn't actually particularly muscular but rather just possesses a very average male figure with especially defined legs. Axl isn't buff, he isn't thin, he doesn't look like he exercises religiously outside of maybe being someone who runs/does marathons - but that's okay because it's still an acceptable body type for some random breadass british dude who's having a grand old time figuring out his place in the world. Axl just looks like a guy.

All of that is to say, Strive does away with all of the nuance of these great, varied designs to just make everyone the same flavour of 'stereotypically fighting game buff' and I absolutely despise it. And here's what I mean.

Enter Ky Kiske.

Ky's as generic slender anime pretty boy as you get. Even if he's similar in build to Sol in that they're both more defined in their chests and arms than they are in their legs, Sol is obviously the broader and more muscular of the two. Ky looks, well, pretty. His arms are particularly thick, his neck isn't particularly defined, he has very delicate facial features - thin jaw, fair hair, flowing clothing that accentuates his grace and technique as a swordsman more than it serves to intimidate or display his body. And Ky has always been designed like this. This is his Xrd design, but here are a couple of his older looks as well:

Man had always been a slender figure with his belt pulled a bit too tightly and his general figure loose and unfocused on his non-existent musculature. So, please, please for the love of god tell me why Ky looks like a completely different character for Strive?

THERE IS SO MUCH WRONG HERE I COULD WRITE A BOOK - but the spark notes version:

Why is his body so much fuller?? Ky has been a twink since inception, one cannot change their body structure/type to spontaneously develop a broader waist/hip when for the past 20 years, Ky's been sporting notable disparity with these measurements.

Getting rid of the loose flowing silohuette is troubling enough considering that's just kinda the look he's had for a hot minute, but his colour scheme is so wildly off. Black and greys are Sol's colours - and as Sol's contrast character limiting that to just the coat hanging over his shoulders is clever I guess but it is in no way enough to visually discern Ky from Sol from a distance or, indeed, when they're fighting and shit starts getting crazy. Ky's always sported a white and blue motif and if y'all were gonna give him waist fillings the least you could've done was keep his colour palette consistent.

I hate the way they phoned in his cross motif. Ky is a pretty devoutly religious man and that was openly obvious in prior designs. Now his cross motif is limited to the shape of his sword's hilt/guard and two pitiful dark blue crosses above the hem of his pants which aren't even noticable because his pants are fucking dark grey--

HE'S INDISTINGUISHABLE FROM HIS FUCKING SON

And this, ultimately is the big problem I have with the new designs for Strive. Guilty Gear has always had very striking and recognisable silohuettes and designs which made liberal use of things like body type to distinguish and characterise its characters from one another. This sort of bombastic and detailled designwork stopped the characters from blending into each other and it did wonders for keep track of characters when there was a lot going on - even if they mirrored each other or were literally based off of another character from the series.

Ky Kiske and his son, Sin are visually very, very similar. Their physical differences are the only thing we have to distinguish them since they share a colour palette and the character designers for Xrd took advantage of the fact that Ky was much more on the slender side to create visual contrast between him and his son who looks like this.

Sin has a stocky build. He's heavily muscled, his design is built around showing off how jacked he is. He barely has a waist, has arms for days, you could slice cheese on his abs - and because he has short hair, in Xrd, they did a pro gamer move and had Ky grow his out.

Now, however, in Strive - how are you meant to tell the two of them apart? Not only has Ky cut his hair short again, but his body type is no longer slender but rather is the same stocky, heavy set/buff build that Sin has - something that really doesn't suit the aristocratic swordsman that Ky's always been.

By beefing up the characters, the designers for Strive have erased a vital, vital part of the character of their characters and it's a damn shame because Guilty Gear was one of the few fighting games left that had genuine variety in muscular body types and forms without fetishising or exaggerating the human form to disfiguring degrees.

[claudiafekete]

This is another ordinary story of “how xxx fandoms changed my life” -

- or maybe not. you decide. I want to write it down.  trigger warning for politics, discussion of sexual violence, mild gender dysphoria It’s also horribly long. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. 

When I first came to tumblr, I had just graduated from APH. Short for Axis Power Hetalia. I learned about it in the form of manga. For years it was my everything - I learned what fanfic or fanart meant and I learned the basic online etiquette. As I grew in years, it accompanied me.

Until it didn’t.

Shortly after I fell into solangelo.

It’s a fun story, how I picked up PJO years after years of absence. My brother was whining about something written in Magnus Chase. “What do you think the Norse Gods were going to do to Percy that Annabeth was crying?” He demanded. I expressed my confusion. He kept on with his different theories and I made the decision to look it up online later.

My online search of Percy Jackson’s fate soon revealed something unknown to me before: solangelo. The first canon gay ship I ever knew. Therefore, at the ripe old age of 19, I threw myself into this endless hole called “tumblr” for the first time.

It was the most LGBTQ+ friendly place I had ever been. I joke you not. It was also the place where I was taught not only how a healthy relationship should look like, but also how sex should or could be like.  You don’t learn anything healthy about sex in Chinese or Mandarin using fandom, at least during the years I was in them. There were rigid 攻/受(roughly translated as top/bottom) stereotypes that everyone rushed to squeezed their characters into them. A lot of time though both person might ship A with B, they wouldn’t interact because one thought A should top and another thought B should top. Their different topping designation resulted in depictions of the characters’ personalities so dramatically differed that you couldn’t recognize them as the same characters.  Other than the refreshing relationship dynamics, Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard offered me a chance to take a look at my gender identity. I had known that theoretically non-binary people existed outside of binary gender, but I hadn’t known how one might live as one or describe themselves as one. I’m not trying to claim that Alex Fierro’s story is the only story of non-binary people. I’m trying to say that it was the starting point for me to make exploration and find the label  “agender” for myself.

I stayed in APH for 6 years. I had expected to stay in solangelo for longer.

Entered June 2019 with its whispers and anxious demonstrations. Entered folks pouring into streets in Hong Kong. Entered tear gas and facemasks and sticks and a bullet scarcely missing the heart and journalists beaten by police. Entered young students not of age disappearing mysteriously. Entered people dressed in white attacking citizens and not arrested by police. Entered dead bodies that were probably “被自殺 (being suicided)”.

Entered a city falling into the hands of tyrants next to your door, and you didn’t know how to help. You didn’t know what to do with yourself with your clean and spare hands. You were so far away from the frontline, you were angry and helpless and hopeless for that.

It was the first time I witnessed, first-hand, how the Chinese government directed the discussion online, so that it seemed as if there were random mobs who were disturbing the peace of Hong Kong and possibly taking money or being trained by US.  “Bullshit. Would there still be so many kids hurt on street if we have received any kinds of training for this?“  Of course, the majority of Chinese people inland wouldn’t hear that. Hong Kong is a former colony. Any calls of outrage toward the present government must be made by disillusioned young people who were unaware of colonization and imperialism. 

That was why I took refugee in Good Omens. I needed to run some where to stop myself from scratching myself to blood. I needed to some works for these clean and spare hands to do so that they wouldn’t pick up something destructive, such as a knife.

If the PJOverse fandom had felt the best place on earth, well, the Good Omens fandom lifted me into paradise. 

I’ve never seen so much kindness being showed under one tag. The creators and actors were all kind and interacted with the fans in their own ways. We were encouraged to do everything, anything, to build art with it however we liked. We as fans were recognized. We were seen. We were ... cared for. It was overwhelming, in a good way.  For that, I would be forever thankful to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett and Michael Sheen and so many others in the production. I would be forever thankful to artists who liberated body types and freed the ties between gender expression and genitals. I would be forever thankful for the fantastic creators out there.

Would it seem as if I’ve only cherished the mutuals I met in Good Omens fandom? It wasn’t my intention. There are friends I keep in touch long after I fell out of love with APH. There are mutuals I got to know through solangelo and I feel, I hope that we are friends. Everyone who has chat with me I do my best to remember. (Though I do left conversation in weird places, become so ashamed of my incompetency that I do not continue them.)

What I’m trying to say is, as good as the solangelo fandom was, I still ran into biphobic posts here and there. It was only once or twice – but it was a constant reminder that being bisexual didn’t seem “valid” to some of the other LGBTQ+ members out there. Who cares what cis-gendered, heteronormative people said? Bullets that shot from friendly fire hurt the worst.

Besides, with a large and vibrant fandom like Good Omens, it’s easier to feel less alone and more… seen.

Damn right. Even after writing more that 5000 words in English it is still so easy to fall back into the comfortable nest of mother tongue. I can read simplified Chinese characters as well as the traditional Chinese characters I grow up using. There probably will never be getting the accent right but soundlessly devouring words in front of a screen? I excel at that.

That was what’s happening when the days rolled into January, 2020. I flew to US as an exchange student and exchanged long letters with a young Chinese woman I met in Good Omens fandom. I’ve never felt so alone in life. English as in creative writing has never come more naturally for me. The words burst in my head and arranged themselves freely on screen or on papers. I’ve never felt more hopeful about my writing ability.

The days rolled into March, 2020.

The first time my mom told me to come home over home, I laughed. The second time, I frowned. Before she pleaded me for the third time, I had grabbed a ticket.

I hadn’t imagined the disease plaguing China and its neighboring countries would affect the whole world.

You lived the rest of the story. I fled back to Taiwan.

 That was where Doctor Who came in. Or David Tennant. Such a strange time. For fourteen days I was the only living human in the house. I watched Casanova – or was it later? Hamlet definitely came before that. Then I could live with my family again. I handed in my homework and wrote in a different language than the people around me were speaking. My parents were working. My little brother was in school. When there was no one to talk to me I either read or watch Doctor Who to pass the time. I fell for Thirteen. I fell for twissy. Falling fast and hard and completely won over by their glamour.

I started internship. There were some small breaks where I could catch an episode or half, but never as much time as before. I dipped into fandom wiki and found that no matter how much research I did, there would always be details I overlooked simply because I could not afford hours watching all the episodes. No matter how hard I squeezed my schedule for time, no matter how much I devoted myself to the series, it would never be enough.

So I gave up, and let it go. For the first time in quite a while, I willingly gave up something for the simple reason of “I want to live a more comfortable life”.

 Came summer. Damp air combined with biting heat and piles after piles of biochemical terms made life agonizing. An ordinary kind of pre-pandemic “agonizing” which felt like a luxury in a world that was ending.

Hong Kong fell.

It was bound to happen. Once I heard protestors fought their way into the legislature I knew, for almost an year I knew, nothing good would come out of this. CCP would never allow its subjects acting out of hand. With such open despise to the authority, CCP would take nothing but a full conquest at the end of it.

See where we are now. As long as you’re “interfering” the political climate “inside” China, it doesn't matter which nationality you hold or where you were or how long it has been since you made the statement. “According to the law”, China can come for you. No, better, it can tell your country to hand you over. What a clever empire. What a graceful empire.

What a horrifying empire.

With the news I spiraled down fast. I kept away from the young Chinese woman I was exchanging letters with, I kept away from any kinds of Chinese social media, and the worst of all, I kept away from Good Omens, for it was sweet and kind and hopeful, for it reminded me of a time where fighting seemed to make a difference. I was empty and exhausted and a husk. Something must come out to fill the void. Someone needed to paint me in colors so that the world wouldn’t notice I was fading away.

I was surprised at who took the brush.

 After ten years, the first man I ever have a crush on strolled back into my life.

He was over thirty, but I always pictured him in his early twenties. Dark hair, eyes of grey or silvery blue. Loud laughter that sounded like a bark. Swift and elegant. Intelligent. Prideful. Stubborn. I embraced him as I’ve done ten years ago as a little child.

When I looked past him, I saw someone else.

Worn, weathered, with wry humor. Attentive and considerate. Tortured by the world yet never stop giving out kindness. Countless scars. Grey hair unfitting to his age. I didn’t pay him much attention ten years ago. This time, I looked.

Let me introduce you Sirius Black and Remus Lupin, my very first crush and the man who is too much like my last crush.

 2020, a month before Fall semester started, I trekked cautiously, timidly back into Harry Potter fandom.

The fandom of August 2020 was very different from fandom of 2010. The lack of author, for one – it became mandatory to denounce the author’s transphobic statement and other bigotry setting. I’m glad that everyone is doing their best to make it a friendly place for minority groups. Though I’m afraid, by making it a white or black situation with short statements and no discussion, it wouldn’t really help people understand why she is wrong in this. However irrefutable the author’s guilt seems to us, it is not something obvious to those who are unfamiliar with the subjects.

But it does feel good to see blogs and fics with the introduction such as “If you support the author’s transphobic bullshit this place does not welcome you”. It feels reliving.

The second was, I found the type of work I’m actively pursuing changed.

Back when I was young – when I was so little I didn’t even know what the word “fandom” meant – I read Character x OFC and some M x M. During the APH period I read an alarming amount of M x M and countless historical AU. When digging through solangelo, beside the canon divergence stories, simple AU like coffee shop grabbed my attention. Coming out stories were my comforts. The best of Good Omens fics were either in canon verse discussing desires, bravery, humanity and mortality, or setting in an AU with the promise of sweet, fluffy endings. Doctor Who almost always focused on Time and Space. Love was twisted and so often tainted by anger. Monster and god were very alike.

I came a full circle back to the Marauder era, and found myself not looking for heroes, but for young fighters struggling desperately in a seemingly hopeless war. I looked for people who were frightened but never, never ever going down without a fight.

I used to find characters and events unfolding in foreign places, now I want  characters who are close to what I am or what I want to be.

---

So, that’s it, my grand journey through multiple fandoms and basically a journey of self-discovery. It’s messy, sometimes painful, but always with so much joy blooming along the way.

Something doesn’t change. I’m still obsessed with words. I’m still a sucker for happy ending. I’m still wishing someone will come and love me the way I need to be loved.

Something does. I stop imagining that some magical power will come into my life and solve everything. I stop looking for others to save me from myself. I start believing that though wounds hurt, some of them do teach us to be a better person.

Long ago, I saw my friends and I as rabbits, without proper weapons to defend ourselves. That wouldn’t do. I thought. For my friends I’ll grow into a snake with fangs to protect them. Maybe I have grown into a snake. Maybe I haven’t. But I do hope I won’t stop fighting for those I love, with those I love.

I hope I won’t give up.

[thenightling]

Umm...  Uh...  Umm... uh... (The Dreaming related...)

I’m a little disappointed right now.  I’m trying to embrace the parts I like but I’m a nerd and I am compelled to whine about the parts that annoy me.  ‘Tis the nature of Nerdom.

  Warning, here there be ranting and it might be hyperbolic.  

Can someone else take over writing this thing, please?

I don’t know which is worse.  The poor characterization of the old Dreaming comics of the late 90s and early 2000s or the hamhanded allegories in the new The Dreaming.   Poor Merv is now literally a Straw Man about bigotry.  And the Lucien narrations aren’t... good...

I know everyone wants to bring their own flavor to The Sandman Universe and only Neil Gaiman can and will sound like Neil Gaiman but this doesn’t even feel like the characters.   This feels like a self-righteous Marvel comic from a year and a half ago...  And yes, I know that Vertigo is a division of DC, I’m just making the comparison. 

And why the Hell has poor Merv been turned into a thinly disguised Trump Supporter stereotype?  He was always an ass but he was an equal opportunity ass.  WHY would you even WANT to use the blue collar, pumpkin headed scarecrow as your bigot metaphor?  You just made a LITERAL strawman.  This is almost as bad (if not worse) than using Cain to represent misogyny.  

Much like a certain late 90s / early 2000s version of The Dreaming I sense no love for these characters.  It feels like resentment or a belief that they can be used to represent anything at all and to Hell with consistent characterization.  

The Dora-needs-sex scene in issue 1 of The Dreaming felt so pointless other than “Look at us! We have adult content!  Wheee!” It’s like counting all the F bombs in Spartacus: Blood and Sand and realizing most of them were used as filler and or just to remind you that you were watching Starz.

  Some dialogue is just unpleasant to read.  (“Get thee behind me, Creeper.”)   First, Dora, you were created in the 90s.   Creeper wasn’t the usual term in mid-90s. It was usually just creep. I guess she could have picked up on the word from a dreamer so it’s not that bad but she still dresses and wears her hair like the 1990s. 

 Also, Dora, you just slept with this demon and now you’re threatening to crush this being’s testicles for suggesting a bear (which is literally an extension of himself) take part and how dare he still be horny!  As gross as that is, you’re not dealing with a normal bear or normal place and this scene doesn’t “empower” me as a woman.  Anyone else feeling “empowered” by this?!?  Threatening a horny demon immediately after sex with him doesn’t give me a “girl power” feel.  Actually I was never a fan of that slogan because I remember when it was just a marketing gimmick for the Spice Girls.  I wish we had a better woman’s strength slogan.  

Another line that stands out was “Malignant penetration”.   

That was was such an inorganic and forced line, I groaned as soon as it appeared, knowing it was just there for innuendo.   What the Hell!?  This is lazy!  I expect better from The Sandman Universe. 

Way to phone-in witty suggestive dialogue...

 At least they know Brimstone smells like a fart...

Why is it every “empowered” female character has to be edgy, angry at authority, and with a chip on her shoulder now?  It’s turning into a tired cliche.   Do we need to be angry and resentful to be “empowered”?    I’m starting to hate that world, “Empowered.”   It feels contrived and when you sit and think about it, it has a pandering quality that suggests we had no power to begin with.  But that’s a tangent for another day.   

I’m also starting to get annoyed with being smacked in the face with constant reminders that Dora is “Different” and “Dora is special” and “Dreams aren’t supposed to be able to do that” ect...  How many times are you going to tell us how unique she is? 

Also this is getting so blatant.  Lookie, they’re still forming.  They need to be educated.  They’re innocent and still taking shape.  And they’re not really blank after all.   But they can barely speak the language.  And they’re being rounded up by someone who doesn’t care or understand them and kept in pens.  These are children in detention centers.  For God’s sake!

Merv is creating detention centers for children... 

And they are refugees that need sanctuary.  This isn’t symbolic.  This is blatant.  And I feel like I’m being treated like an idiot that is having every little metaphor (and it’s more allegory than metaphor) explained to me.    I don’t mind when writing can make me feel like an idiot (Like discovering the cat in Sandman: Overture was Desire all along) but I don’t like being treated like an idiot who needs everything explained to them.   

And I am dreading what they are going to do to our favorite Jack-o-Lantern and his personality for the October / Halloween issue.   

This is not Merv.   “Make The Dreaming great again” should NOT be a thing.   You have taken the blue collar construction worker type and turned him into an obnoxious allegory.  As I said, Merv was always an ass but he was OUR ass and he never acted quite like this.  This is one of those obnoxious over-the-top political statements that made me wander from Marvel and be embarrassed that I’m a liberal.   

This is also teetering on classism that the only character that can be classified as blue collar worker is the one being used as an ignorant bigot.   Merv had his likable moments in the original Sandman.  This is bordering on offensive.

Also, could someone kindly tell the new writer that unless Daniel manipulated the Griffon’s memory to make him think he was a gift from The Greeks, the Griffon is not of The Dreaming and there for should NOT be changed by the weirdness going on.  He was a gift from the Greeks.

At first I thought The Griffon looking like that was a result of the weirdness going on in The Dreaming and then I was like “Wait a second.  Either Daniel tricked the re-created Griffon into thinking he wasn’t of The Dreaming or he is, as The Wake told us, a gift from the Greek Gods.)

And now Daniel is being messed with and he’s not even in this!  Here, I’ll show you how...

Lucien, disguised as Daniel (and The Dream entities somehow fall for this...) tells Merv to teach The beings and to care for them.   And somehow this is supposed to be out-of-character for Daniel.   Uhh... Why? 

Why do people keep thinking Daniel is supposed to be cold?!    Daniel is supposed to be the warmer, kinder aspect of Dream. 

And yet, here’s Morpheus during his douchiest phase.

Why is it whenever someone other than Neil Gaiman writes Daniel he comes off colder and meaner than Morpheus at his darkest?    I wrote a post a while back explaining my theory as to why this happens but it still baffles me...

https://thenightling.tumblr.com/post/175624611158/theories-about-why-dc-writers-have-not-handled

WHY is the “Care for them” something he wouldn’t say, exactly?!

And poor Lucien.  The constant monologue is weird and yet people are acting like he’s always done this.  Uh... Since when?   It was Morpheus who did most of the narration in the early Sandman and in Sandman: Overture.    Granted there was the weird talk bubble in Dark Night’s metal that made Lucien’s text look like Morpheus’.  It’s enough to conceive a new and weird conspiracy theory.

I’m not really comfortable with poor Lucien’s forgetfulness.  I’m afraid that like the illegal immigration / refugee allegory in that this will be a poorly handled alzheimer's metaphor.      

Okay, I’ve bitched enough.  Now for things I actually like to try to make this post a little less angry and aggressive.  

I like that there’s something mysterious building but I’m afraid it’ll be a let down and something as mundane as Starro again...

I like that now there’s actually a reason Daniel isn’t intervening. 

I love the artwork.  

I haven’t entirely given up on Dora’s potential.   I’m still curious enough to want to know what’s going to happen. 

There are parts actually written well and interestingly, almost like Neil Gaiman, himself. 

And I am still glad that there is new Sandman content but this wasn’t a great first taste of The Dreaming.  I had liked The Sandman Universe 1 well enough but this (The Dreaming 1) ... not so much... 

Anyway, that’s my review of the new Dreaming comic.  Ultimately it wasn’t as good as I hoped and I’m not thrilled with the preachy feel of parts of it.  And Doria’s interesting quality from The Sandman Universe is starting to wane in favor of a cliche chip-on-her-shoulder “empowered” trope and that bugs me because I want to like her.

Anyway...  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_O1hM-k3aUY

@deathlyendless @zalemoonshadow @sorry-for-the-chocolate  @endlessemptynight @minxymojo @vagaryhexxx @thejediviking @fortmarmorus @winterbirdybuddy  @treebrooke79 

[jockedguy]

Distraction

Summer explodes.  The heat, the sun.  The green on the trees.  And in its aftermath, things slow down some.   After winter’s cold, dark hand bosses everyone down the streets, people want to stop and take in the warmth.  It’s no longer necessary to hurry or scuttle through the wind and snow, coats tugged tight against faces - now there are long, luxurious strides, more skin bared with the passage of every June day.

And with it, comes the inevitable douchebags.  Showing up and showing off, right down Main Street, chests proud and arms swinging, lats spread beneath the thin white strings of tank tops.  Basketball shorts.   Somehow brand new looking sneakers, no matter the day, or maybe slide sandals.  They do it to be seen, to be watched.

On the outside, Ethan watches, sees.  He is scornful, in passing conversation.  Sometimes laughs at a meme he sees online, scrolling through Facebook, with a close approximation of that type.  Let’s be honest, he thinks.  It’s the jock stereotype.  The dumbass, muscle-obsessed, sports-ardent jock.  And the jocks are on parade.  Behind the wheel of shiny, glinting cars with music hammering the air.  In uniforms, sometimes, black eye-paint streaked and pants muddy, cleats half-unlaced.  Their fresh, aquatic colognes painting the air with invisible, heavy brushstrokes. 

And yet, for all his disdain, Ethan watches them.  He didn’t always.  And in the winter, it almost feels like he gets a bit of a reprieve - but still, his eyes travel, involuntarily, towards them, whenever he sees a Jock.  At work, stocking shelves, he sees a Jock go by, and there goes his attention.  He sees the baseball cap - Red Sox! - fitted, dark gray, bright red B, flat-brim, over short, dark hair and dark eyes that sort of suck light into them.  Red tank-top, showing off smooth, taut biceps and deltoids rounding slowly higher, still works in progress, but growing.  Basketball shorts - gray with a bright Nike swoosh like a blinding white grin down the thigh.  His calves lead down in tight diamonds to his Nike Roshes, also flame-red, the outsoles nearly sparkling, clearly well-maintained

Ethan’s face matches the Jock’s sneakers as he rips his gaze away from the bro.  Fuck, he thinks to himself.  It happened again.  How long this time?  He shakes his head back and forth to clear it of cobwebs and sets back to the task at hand.  

But still, he thinks to himself, how fucking cool would it be to have a body like that?  Being a Jock aside - he’d never dress like that, no way - just being fit, being in shape.  Being in tune with the body, being agile, being corded with muscle.  It makes a sort of practical sense, really.  He wonders why he doesn’t go to the gym, actually. 

(The Jock bro is crossing the parking lot, his shadow thrown back behind him like a long, thick sword.  A brief smile dusts the corner of his mouth, and then he reaches up to curl the earbuds into his ears.  Music swells up, the same thud and shout that accompanied his lifts not 30 minutes earlier.  He stops at the edge of the parking lot, hikes himself up onto the top of the picnic table, head bowed, knees spread, nodding to the music.  The Jock bro checks his G-Force watch, chunky and black against his tanned forearm.)

The Jock was wearing a lot of cologne, Ethan notes idly to himself.  He doesn’t hate it.  It doesn’t smell expensive, but it doesn’t smell cheap, either.  The only words that come to Ethan’s mind are swimming pool, locker room, weight room, high school, mall.  A splash of color and sound.  The cologne is fresh, sharp, clean.  That’s it, he thinks.  It smells clean.  Transparent, almost, like fresh glass.  Like ... like a mirror.

Ethan blinks and looks around.  He’s in the bathroom.  Must’ve wandered in here, he thinks to himself.  And there in front of him is the mirror over the sink.  “Gonna have to get these blackouts checked,” he says to himself, murmuring, chuckling.  Ethan blinks at himself.  Not scrawny.  Wiry.  Dark hair, a little curly, a little fluffy.  Time for a cut.  Long legs, long arms.  Squat torso.  Size 10 sneaker, currently a battered, low-top Chuck Taylor, the laces variegated with years.  Black-rim glasses and a well-maintained goatee. 

He flexes, then, pulls a double bi, right there in front of the mirror.  He holds it.  He puffs his chest out, he sucks his stomach in.  He tenses all of his muscles in the vain, pathetic attempt to somehow envision his biceps inflating, suddenly popping out like found baseballs - or softballs, even! - seeing the veins fill and surge and rise out of his skin like fleshy worms ...

The disappointment is nearly intoxicating, along with the rush of vertigo that hits directly after Ethan relaxes the flex.  No, he isn’t fit, muscled.  He’s got some wire under the skin, but so little mass. 

Need to eat more, Ethan muses, the smallest trickle of a stream of consciousness beginning to flow beneath his thoughts.  Protein would help the muscles grow.  But because those thoughts are so foreign - they almost don’t seem to belong to him - his brain rejects them as important on a surface level.

Ethan shakes his head.  Work, that’s what he was doing.  And life outside of work, well, that’s going okay, isn’t it?  Nothing too crazy.  School, with its accompanying homework, all the flipping of textbook pages and the quick pace of keyboard fingering, face lit by the screen, crafting essays.  Of course, sometimes it isn’t as quick a pace.  Sometimes, it’s an argument with speed.  He struggles.  Everyone struggles from time to time.  Just need more coffee.  And he always has coffee after a good, hard workout.  And that’s why he’s tired, of course.  Balancing school and work and his workout routine is exhausting, sometimes.

Ethan feels himself slump a little as he turns to exit the bathroom, feeling a dull ache in his shoulderblades, in his neck.  He reaches up to rub at them, digging in with his fingers, and issues an involuntary moan, a deep, throaty sound that verges on indecent.

(The sun is setting.  The Jock bro cracks his neck from side to side, feeling the pull in his lats, his traps.  He tilts his head to look up at the rapidly darkening sky.  The first hot breath of night-wind skirls across his face.  He tilts to one side, digs in the pocket of his shorts, and pulls out his phone.  His fingers tap over the number pad, and he lifts it to his face, skin bathed in the eldritch, electronic blue)

“Fffffuuuuuck,” Ethan judders out, his upper teeth clenching against the lower, his lips pressed tightly together in order to stifle the noise he makes as he bucks back & forth in the bathroom stall.  One hand has flung out against the tiles to keep himself steady as the other one jerks himself off, pumping wildly as his seven-inch cock, engorged in his hand, becomes like steel.  Ropes of saliva spray from his mouth, his head flung back in the crescendo of the orgasm.  It doesn’t once occur to him that he is fucking jerking off in the bathroom at work.

Ethan’s phone rings.  At least, he thinks its his phone.  Who else would have Turn Down For What as a fuckin ringtone?  Well, him and Justin.  Shit. 

“Yo.”  His voice sounds so far away as he picks up the phone.

“Bro!  What the fuck, you get lost?”

“Uhhhh ...”

(The Jock bro is laughing silently, knee-slapping.  He fuckin loves the first Uhhh.)

“Well, hurry the fuck up.  I’m waitin out in the parking lot.  Pick me up some eggs, wouldja?  I forgot em.  Oh, and chocolate milk.”

“Uhhhh ... okay.”

Ethan takes the phone off the side of his face and adjusts his backwards-facing hat.  The bathroom is filled with the smell of his cologne, which - even though he’s been told that one spray is enough - he has sprayed on at least five times this morning before leaving the house, and another before work started.  Now, of course, it mixes liberally with the strong, earthy musk of his cum, which has splattered all over the toilet and the floor.  Ethan stares at it, confused, and then remembers, and a horking, jerking laugh spills up out of his throat and into the air.  He turns on an immaculate, white and gray, Nike AirMax Wright, and leaves the bathroom without either cleaning up or washing his hands. 

The night air is cool around Ethan’s bare arms.  Still too skinny, he thinks to himself.  The trickle of his stream of consciousness has suddenly become a whitewater rapid.  A constant rising static, flooding out his other thoughts.  Need more mass. 

“Yo!”

It carries from across the parking lot.  The dark has fully descended now, like an eyelid shutting on the world.  Ethan feels his Nike Elite basketball shorts swishing around his knees.  “Yo!”  He cries back, and the sound carries a lot further than he thought it would, surprising even him - but only for a moment.

“Ready, bro?” 

“Fuckin course I’m ready.” 

“Gonna fuckin hit it tonight.”

The world is breaking up into kaleidoscopic colors.  Ethan rubs at his eyes, lifting his Ray-Bans to do it.  Something feels wrong.  Like two super-imposed images have become suddenly unmounted, and he is looking looking through through a haze of exhaust smoke.  “Uh, hang on ...” 

Deep down, in the dark miasma of his brain, sullen red Klaxons have surged to life, and the alarm is cranked up to full volume.  The clothes on his frame feel suddenly alien, the hat feels too large, the sneakers, too big.  He feels like a kid, playing dress-up in an older brother’s clothes.  His heart rate surges, and his eyes dart from shadow to shadow.

“Sup, bro?”  The Jock bro is looking back at him, vacant eyes slightly curious, mostly bored. 

“I’m not your ... bro.  Bro.”

The Jock bro moves closer.  Ethan would, instinctively, move back, but he doesn’t, not quite, he doesn’t think he does, anyway.  The Jock bro is standing so close now, so close that he can smell the entirely unnecessary aftershave under the cologne, so close that he can smell the residue of iron on his fingers, the rasp of slightly fruity pre-workout on his breath.  His hand comes up, grasps Ethan’s bicep.  His eyes fix, anchoring on something far down inside. 

“Bro.”

The anchor is being reeled back in, up through Ethan’s body.  He feels giddy, dizzy.  It is not an entirely unpleasant sensation, Ethan would reflect later - if he were able to reflect, later, beyond flexing in the mirror ... and well, let’s be honest, every reflective surface ...

“Come on, bro.  Let’s go.”

An invisible cloud grows around Ethan as he nods, just once, and then grins, slightly vacantly. “Hey bro.” 

“Yeah bro?”

Ethan flexes, as hard as possible, his muscles standing out in relief against his short, broad frame.  The night flees from their laughter as they throw arms around each other’s shoulders and head towards the gym.  And behind them, trailing a sweet, fresh, clean scent; mildly intoxicating, definitely distracting.

[theaveragekenyan]

Blinded by your Grace...

In terms of Europe’s best looking Women (Fittest Birds), this is how I would rate them within a top 5.

1 = Sweden (standard stereotype, but essentially any of those Nordic Scandinavian hotties)

2 = Republic of Ireland (the jet black or fiery red hair and the feckin accent)

3 = Italy (oodles of class and they can knock up an amazing salad in seconds)

4 = Great Britain (not the ones faggin it outside school waiting for their kids)

5 = Australia (Eurovision Song Contest Rules)

Of course, the above list is shamefully discriminatory and sexist, it’s not even a bit of fun anymore #metoo, I just I enjoy the stereotypical nature of it all, #bantz I believe is the excuse these days.

I just did a Google search of the above topic, except I widened it to ‘worldwide best looking women’ and the top hits include the above 5 countries within their lists, except new countries like Brazil, Philippines, Venezuela, Thailand and USA are added, well done to those countries, excellent DNA’ing.

So, something I’d like to point out, NO African countries feature in the lists.

Ok, there was one list that included Angola, but that was the only African country featured in just one list from many.

In the featured countries, NO black faces represent their beauty, Brazil is about as dark as you’re going to get, but essentially there was no recognition of diversity from their respective country. Each country’s ‘most beautiful face’ is depicted by a “typical” comfortably indigenous (whatever that represents) white looking woman from their country, sorry Archie, Naomi and Nathalie, but you’re not the considered look of Britain and that also is same for any other country with diverse genetics.

The world has proliferated so much these days, so for example, what does a British woman look like? That’s of course my liberalism shining through, but unfortunately for the majority of people in the UK, they still consider Victoria Beckham or Fiona Bruce as their default British Women, sorry no blacks, browns or yellow’s please, we’re British.

When I’m back home in the UK, I especially like to study the Black women I see, I like to see how they compose themselves, how they talk and especially how they look. I know this sounds super creepy, but this is of course as I live in Kenya, so I like to see how the women compare to what I have here.

The main reason for this is that Kenyan women are truly beautiful.

Now I come from a very small village in the UK and from the three schools I attended, they all represented very typical demographics for rural England.

Primary School = 40 children - 0 BAME.

I was the brownest in the school, although we did have three children of Indian origin move into the village, but not in my school year, they took over the village shop, obviously.

Secondary School = 500 children – 3 BAME

Upper School – 1000 Children – 10 BAME

In each case, roughly about 1% were, you know “one of them”

Now I know times have changed and that area has become more diversified, but back in the late 80’s, I grew up with pretty much no other interesting faces other than pale zitty white ones.

It wasn’t until I moved to London in 1997 that opened my eyes to such a variety of faces and furthermore when I moved to Johannesburg in 2011 when I saw the full concentration of South African Women, and it was an eye opener to say the least.

I remember walking around Sandton City Mall and thinking to myself, in such high concentration, this must be where the best looking African Women on the continent are. Then I moved to Kenya and realized there are beautiful looking women everywhere you go.

I’m think it’s fairly safe to say, without any research or any factual evidence sought that my next assumption is correct. Kenyan Women’s beauty stems from a gene pool that, on the whole, has had little genetic dilution.

For many years, most of the reproduction has remained inter-tribal and only in recent years has outer-tribal reproduction become more acceptable. So, identifying features and characteristics have remained particular.

You see a lot of defining tribal looks and characteristics, that with a keen eye, can determine where the person originates, whether it be Western, Coastal, Central, Northern or Southern. This is a game my wife loves to play. 

Yes, this happens in certain cities in England like Brighton, Liverpool, Bristol etc, but it’s largely down to make-up, clothes and style defining a look, rather than a type of nose or eye shape, I mean perhaps a “big gob” in Newcastle, but that’s about it.

It was only until I came to Africa that I noticed how many different skin shades there are. From Albino right through to dark blue-black, there’s a colour for everyone.

Sadly though, many Kenyans believe a lighter skin is more beautiful, so skin lightening creams and treatments have become a thing and have generated an overall negative effect on skin tone empowerment.

Most of the billboards here, featuring ladies, are almost white. They are presented with a polished skin, highlighted and dodged, removing just about all of their darker tones.

Therefore, darker girls grow up thinking they’re not as attractive, they’ll have less career opportunities, they won’t get the best men and so on. This then creates a troubling discriminatory outlook, which occurrs on a daily basis, not just in Kenya, but throughout Africa.

However, when it comes to Kenyan Women being attracted to men, there’s one particular skin tone many find appealing, the white one.

There are plenty of white men in Kenya, myself included who’ve seen the Kenyan beauty and thought, Well Jambo!

I’m not being modest when I say that my partner and I have an equal amount of attractiveness, (she’s way hotter than me) we’re of a similar age and have all the classic similarities to have fallen in love, but when looking around in Kenya you start to see many other couples where their...well...their similarities must be very unique to them.

I’m talking about “Sugar Daddies”, of course I am. 

I love to see these couples as they are clearly so happy together.

He has a smoking hot-assed chick pushing his shopping trolley, whilst she can add into that trolley whatever the freak she wants, because she ain’t paying, PARTY!!!

It's so blatant and obvious what the arrangement is, yet many people find it embarrassing or jocular. People definitely like to judge and be jealous, I prefer to just give a little condescending nod and wink showing nothing but pure respect.

We’re talking 70-80 year old men with 25-30 year old women. The men are wearing their cardigans and orthopedic sunglasses, whilst the women are dressed like an extra from a Jay-Z promo, when in fact, of course, she should be wearing a nurse’s uniform. You’ll see them in restaurants staring into space as he sips on his Tusker, whilst she’s avoiding eye contact from all the younger playboys drooling over her.

Of course, it’s not just the white blokes that get to play Sugar Daddy. Many young Kenyan women find attraction in older men with a closer skin tone to theirs.

Again, for the women, this is purely down to the money and for men the sex, the perfect arrangement, everybody wins.

The older men are called “Sponsors” and they provide anything from Cars and Houses to Ugali and Cheap Booze and there exists a variety of financial classes within. It’s the polygamous society of Kenya that flexes its muscle, and I find it fascinating how it completely goes against everything the average Kenyan preaches in church, but then again the average Kenyan is just as big as the biggest hypocrite in the world.

Kenyan’s love stereotypes, that’s because for the majority of the time the stereotypes are completely correct.

The stereotypically looking Kenyan woman for a white guy is slim, petite, peachy butt-ocks, anti-gravity boobs, not too short and bearing mildly western facial features.

This type of woman is known as “Muzungu Bait”.

It’s not clear how the Kenyan women discover they are “Muzungu Bait”, perhaps there’s a “Finishing School” for this type of lady, but make no mistake there is a look and any lady possessing such features knows they have a permit to flirt with white men.

In the opposite stereotype, It can be said that, Kenyan men generally prefer a heavier lady. 

I feel sorry for the chubbier, larger girls, I can only assume they have no right to flirt with white guys and they are the ones who can only be taken by the Kenyan men.

One comment I regularly hear, is that white men come to Kenya and steal the best looking women.

Steal, STEAL???, like the women have been kidnapped and are being held hostage. It’s such a ridiculous and humungous insult to women, it’s shocking.

I mean the fact we can cook, clean, and tell stories about mid-nineties heavy metal should never be overlooked.

I think what is it though, to the average Kenyan, Women are considered property, something that’s purchased. I know this has a lot to the doury marital system of buying women with animal livestock, but mostly women are treated as property, or 6 cows and 4 goats in most instances. So perhaps when a white man talks to a lady on her own level and doesn’t feel the urge to treat her in such a proprietary way, then I’m sure it has to have an appeal.

There is a downside though and a fascinating murder case is currently in the news and it’s not the first time such a murder has taken place. Now though, Kenyan media outlets can see views, likes and share values in real time therefore they can quantify a news story and suck it until it’s dry, so that explains why the current ‘Praying Mantis’ story is so accessible, because everybody wants a piece of it.

Unlike the Kenyan News agencies, I won’t go down the illegal route of naming and shaming and spilling out every detail rendering any Jury Court irrelevant, but this is how the story went.

Rich White Man murdered by his younger Kenyan Wife with possible involvement from her associates.

This is not the first time this has happened and not the last time.

It happens enough for it to be almost like another air strike in the middle east, erm yes, how many properties? which tribe was the woman? how much money is involved? where do they live? Sadly, the taken life of the man is overlooked and the story just fades away until the next replica story comes along. It’s not just Rich White Men though, Rich Black Men disappear as well, you see the connection? Let’s just say their are many wealthy Kenyan widows getting away with murder. 

Sadly, the average Kenyan has a different outlook to women, it is changing, but still, women are viewed here as second class, need to obey, generally a subordinate creature. Yet, they are the baby makers, the food providers, the water carriers, the planners and the total backbone of Kenyan society.

I think the average Kenyan needs to be far more respectful and understand just how beautiful the women are in this country. I can 100% vouch for that, all I got to do is hope I don’t end up hidden in a septic tank one day.  

[unsung-heroesofmobius]

Verse: Sonic with Star Wars Influence Date: 7/8/2018 Full Name: Jerard Kal Pronunciation: (Jeh-rahr Kah-l) Nickname/Alias: Jerard, J Meaning: Jerard was a name he gave himself, but his sur name, Kal, means knife, and it’s the name of his clan Origin: I liked the way Gerard sounded but I wanted to use a different letter. Title: Self-Proclaimed Warlord of Mandalore Pet Name: N/A ID Number: N/A Signature: A bit of a messy scrawl. He doesn’t practice writing much so it’s hard to understand sometimes. Gender: Male Gender Role: Masculine Orientation: Demisexual Real Age: (Biologically 45, Mentally 82, Chronologically 15,000+ due to stasis) Age Appearance: Older hedgehog but physically fit and healthy, albeit shorter than most.  Birthday: 41 BBY Deathday: N/A Birthplace: Corellia Astrological Sign: N/A Zodiac Sign: N/A Immediate Family: Somrad Kal (Adoptive Father), Dux Magnum (Friend/Brother), Deix Kal (Adopted Son), Alreidz Kal (Adopted Son) Distant Family: Nareen Magnum, H’Racca, Fate, Suzz Parenting: In the Jedi Temple, it was rather cold and distant. When he joined his adoptive father’s family, he was a very warm, jovial person who was considerate and paid very close attention to Jerard’s needs. Upbringing: Honor, Glory, Integrity, and Compassion were above and beyond the greatest tenants that he was raised with, putting great value in family and loyalty to his word. Infancy: Jerard had a very basic neutral infancy, being taught basics in Jedi Daycare. Childhood: Jerard struggled with his emotional spontaneity in an environment that preached control and discipline, making his childhood very difficult for him as he clashed with the doctrines of the Jedi.  Adolescence: It was around this time he ran away from the order to find his own place in the galaxy, finding the Mandalorian people and quickly finding his place among them as his emotions and desires matched extraordinarily well with their values and ethics. These were some of the happiest times of his life. Adulthood: Jerard developed as a leader after his father died, taking up the mantle of leader of the clan and leading them into various wars across the decades, going through emotional highs and lows where he truly developed as a person, suffering as much loss as he did victory. He grew harder, but he never grew cold to those around him. Coming of Age: When Order 66 was executed, the person he loved was slaughtered in front of him, forcing him to confront an even harsher galaxy than he could imagine, growing harsh, distant, and depressed for years, lashing out until being defeated by Darth Vader and realizing how foolish he’d been to dwell on his loss rather than mourn and move on. Evolution: He grew up from a brash young boy to a cunning young man, analyzing situations with more scrutiny and approaching answers from different angles. However, he is not used to mundane life and cannot stay still for too long. Settling down is a challenge for him. Species: Formerly Human, now Mobian Hedgehog Ethnicity: Corellian, Mandalorian Blood Type: O+ Preferred Hand: Ambidextrous Facial Type: Rectangular formerly, now round Eye Color: Blue Hair Color: Blonde Hairstyle: Plain short brush back Skin Tone: Fair peach Complexion: Pale and rough Makeup: N/A Body Type: Mesomorph Build: Well-toned muscular arms and legs, not focused on weight training. Height: Formerly 5′2″, now 3′0″ Weight: Formerly 194lbs., now 82lbs. Cup Size: N/A Facial Hair: N/A Shoe Size: 10 Birthmarks/scars: Scars littering his torso from body blows during training, duels, and desperate battles for survival. Distinguishing Features: His hair has two grey stripes going from his forehead to the neck, becoming more prominent as he grew older. Health: Very Healthy Energy: High Energy Memory: Excellent Memory focused on friends, family, and war stories. Senses: Better sense of hearing than any other senses naturally. Allergies: N/A Handicaps: No normal handicaps. Muted Force Sensitivity due to experimentation. Not as strong as it used to be. Medication: N/A Phobias: Loss of Family, Organic Weaponry, Cults and Zealous Religions, Feeling Helpless. Addictions: Alcohol Mental Disorders: N/A Style: Simple casual, leather jacket. Mode of Dress: Tucked in but loose Grooming: Messy and dirty Posture: Proud and straight Gait: Even pace and proud normally. Can fake other gaits if needed. Coordination: Athletic and quick, good reflexes. Habits and Mannerisms: Crosses arms often whenever thinking, tilts head forward and to the right slightly. Raises eyebrow whenever he hears something interesting or concerning. Scent: Slight smell of soot and sweat. Usually a weak scent. Mood: Jovial Attitude: Cocky and open, normally friendly Stability: Low stability. Fakes good stability to assure others he is ok despite not being ok. Expressiveness: Expresses Joy openly. Anger and sadness are hidden. When Happy: Boisterous laughter When Depressed: Isolates himself and stay away from others. When Angry: Grits teeth, some glares, possibly isolates self or, if very angry, attacks the aggressor. Note: These are generalizations. Different situations will create different reactions. Current Residence: Small two bedroom domed home. Community: Kind and open community. Very friendly. Family: Volt (Brother), Speedy (Brother-in-Law), Harmony (Niece), Atlas (Nephew) @projectlightfox​ @needf0rspeed​ Friends: Zapper (Astromech and Friend) Enemies: Ultimate (Archnemesis), Ixis Serena (Witch) Bosses: King Elias Followers: Geoffrey St. John Heroes: His father Rivals: N/A Relates to: Volt @projectlightfox​, Hark @keepinganimmortalworld​ Pets/Familiars: N/A Wardrobe: White shirts, khaki shorts, and a leather jacket, or his armor (temperature suit, armor plates, gauntlets, sports shoes, and helmet) Equipment: Disintegrator Pistol, lightsaber, specially forged iron sword, explosives, emp grenades, medical supplies, maps, communicator, and food stuffs. Accessories: N/A Trinkets: Holoprojector with images of his family Funds: 900,000 Rings Home: Simple round domed house with a living room that is open to the kitchen, messy sectional with a wooden coffee table and two windows. Kitchen has marble tops and wooden cabinets with steel sink, oven, stove, and refrigerator. Rooms are simple with wooden nightstands and basic cotton bedsheets. Both have a single window. Neighborhood: Passive friendly people, very open and calm with newcomers. Transportation: Walking for the most part, speeder bike, or jetpack License Plate Number: N/A Collections: N/A Most valuable possession: His armor, not only is it sentimental, it’s impervious to most weaponry on the planet, skyrocketing its value. Prized Possession: His Armor. It’s as important to him culturally as it is sentimental. Lovers: Skalaya (Human Crush/First Love, Now deceased) Marital Status: Single Sex Life: Low to N/A Type: Storge/Agape Turn-Ons: He’s not sure himself, but he appreciates someone who cares for him and he cares for them. Nothing physical. All based on an emotional connection. Turn Offs: Signs of toxicity, disloyalty, infidelity. Position: Switch Plays: N/A Fetishes: N/A Virginity: N/A Element: Earth Occupation: Private Contractor, Blacksmith Work Ethnic: Very Strong Work Ethic. Works hard to get job done well and fast. Rank: N/A Income: Varies depending on work. Usually 10,000 Rings per job. Wealth Status: Upper but lives Middle/Low Experience: Mercenary Work, Blacksmithing, Farming Organizations/Affiliations: Republic of Acorn/Freedom Fighters IQ: 115 Education: Strong Education in various technical fields, such as mechanics, combat, mathematics, tactical skills, and history and culture. School: Formerly Boarding School-like, then Homeschooled Grade: N/A, Pass/Fail System Special Education: Often Fell behind in early school due to lack of understanding of concepts. Social Stereotype: Punk Degrees: N/A Intelligence: Intrapersonal, Linguistic, and Logical Extracurricular Activities: Hunting Religion: None/Mandalorian Culture (Not sure if it should be called Religion or not) Morals: Values Honor, Glory, Integrity, and Family above all else. Killing is ok so long as it is not done in violation of your word. Most crimes are not considered morally wrong in and of themselves as long as the end goal is nobel. Crime Record: If the law exists outside of Mandalorian Culture, it was probably broken in one way or another. Amnesty granted due to previous war record in favor of the New Republic. Motivation: Love, Family, and Glory Priorities: Family First above all else. Philosophy: Justice must triumph over evil and tyranny by any means necessary. Political Party: Liberal-Moderate Etiquette: Normally informal, but will act properly in formal settings due to experience. Culture: Mandalorian culture has many different aspects that value practicality over ceremony. Marriage can be done in a private setting between two people when they speak a specific phrase to each other, and adoption is equally simple. Family is given priority and therefore, the formation of family is streamlined. Funerals are also short and simple, normally consisting of a daily remembrance of the dead rather than a formal ceremony.  Influences: It takes a very powerful and respectable person or a grand event to cause Jerard to change in some way or another. Relates to: He relates to Volt due to their shared history of being experimented on. Traditions: Jerard carries all of his Mandalorian traditions with him, from the food to the way he conducts himself and his work ethic. Superstitions: N/A Main Goal: To live a good life with family and to find his place in the world. Minor Goals/Ambitions: Getting rid of Ultimate and doing a good job as a Freedom Fighter. Career: Mercenary Desires: Family, love, and to explore this new galaxy. Wishlist: Some more beskar to forge. (Likely impossible, so he’ll settle for gems.) Accomplishments: He got a family and he’s a mercenary. Greatest Achievement: Helping to win the Yuuzhan Vong War, and going Super to beat down Dark Gaia. Biggest Failure: Failing to save Skalaya. Secrets: Most of the more unsavory things he’s done in the past. He doesn’t let others know what he’s done. Regrets: Accepting jobs that led to the death of innocent people. Worries: He worries about losing who he is, so he holds on even tighter to his past. Best Dream: Being able to have both his families live together happily. Worst Nightmare: Losing everything (Has happened) Best Memories: Teaching and training his kids and the next generation. Worst Memories: Losing control of himself in his emotions, nearly hurting those around him in his rampages. Hobbies/Interests: Hunting and smithing Skills/Talents: Swordsman, Marksman, Tactician Likes: Food, partying, playing, camping, fighting Dislikes: Liars, cowards, awkward silences, zealots Sense of Humor: Gallows and Dad humour Pet Peeves: When someone stutters too often. Superstitions/Beliefs: No Superstitious beliefs. If you live like a good Mandalorian, when you die, your spirit goes to the Mandokarla. Dreams/Nightmares: More nightmares than anything, regarding loss and death. Quirks: He likes to put his feet on furniture. Always seems to have a wry smile at some point. Savvy: Mechanically savvy. Can't understand: Taking away someone’s ability to choose. Closet Hobby: Carving Guilty Pleasure: Those fun little cartoon shows they show on the TV. Strengths: Calm under pressure, determined Flaws: Too Proud, Stubborn, Blunt Perception: It can be cold but there’s always something worth finding. Conflicts: He’s alone in the world, and his culture clashes with everyone else’s on the planet, making it difficult for him to fit in. Instincts: Exploration and action. Lures: Fighting Soft Spot: Kids Cruel Streak: When someone hurts kids, friends, or family. He gets very violent when these happen. Powers/Abilities: Enhanced senses and reflexes, minor electrical prowess, empathic abilities, minor telekinesis. Origin: Born with them Source: Considering the nature of the power, all he needs to do is focus, but it requires more focus for more intensive powers. Ability: He’s trained to improve specific powers more than learning many, so he is more adept at the powers he does normally use, but is very poor at trying new ones. Weaknesses: Using these powers require a certain amount of focus, so breaking his focus will keep him at a normal individual’s level. Immunities: N/A Restrictions: Must Train to maintain or improve these powers. Alternate Forms: Nothing he can do on his own. Extra Anatomy: N/A Favorite Colors: Gold Favorite Animals: Strill Favorite Mythological Creatures: Hydra Favorite Places: Mandalore Favorite Landmarks: Mt. Stormtop Favorite Flavors: Pineapple Favorite Foods: Pizza Favorite Drinks: Ti’haar Favorite Characters: He’s liking that Duo Maxwell character from the TV. Favorite Genre: Action-Adventure Favorite Books: Detective/Mystery Favorite Movies:  Action Blockbusters Favorite Games: Character Action Games Favorite Shows: Action or Comedy Favorite Music: Rock, all the Rocks of all kinds. Favorite Bands: Queen, Iron Maiden, Guns and Roses Favorite Songs: His World by Zebrahead, Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen, Sweet Child O’ Mine by Guns and Roses, Enter Sandman by Metallica Favorite Sports: Football Soccer, Rugby, Hockey, Wrestling, Boxing, MMA, Judo, Karate, Tae Kwon Do, Baseball Favorite Stores: BEARS (Mobian Sears) Favorite Subjects: History, Science, Math Favorite Numbers: 4 Favorite Websites: N/A Favorite Words: Osik, Shebs, Dikut Favorite Quotations: Ke Nu Jurkadir shaa Mando’ade. (Don’t mess with Mandalorians) Least Favorite Colors: Lavender  Least Favorite Animals: Ants Least Favorite Mythological Creatures: Cyclops Least Favorite Places: Senates Least Favorite Landmarks: Statues to fake heroes Least Favorite Flavors: Tobacco Least Favorite Foods: Black Licorice Least Favorite Drinks: Sambuca Least Favorite Characters: Trieze Marquis Least Favorite Genre: Romantic Drama Least Favorite Books: Romance Novels Least Favorite Movies: Chick Flicks Least Favorite Games: Bad games Least Favorite Shows: Reality TV Least Favorite Music: Reggaeton  Least Favorite Bands: Justin Beaver Least Favorite Songs: Baby by Justin Beaver Least Favorite Sports: Tennis Least Favorite Stores: Victorian’s Secret Least Favorite Subjects: Home Ec Least Favorite Numbers: 3 Least Favorite Websites: N/A Least Favorite Words: Eggman Least Favorite Quotations: “You have to crack a few eggs to make an omelete.” Languages: Basic(English), Mandalorian, Corellian, Huttese, German Accent: American Voice: Even Pitched, errs towards lower pitch sometimes Speech Impediments: N/A Greetings and Farewells: “Su’Cuy Gar!” State of Mind: "I’m doin’ Fine.” Compliment: "Lookin healthy as ever.” Insult: “Your face looks like an ass.” Expletive: “OSIK!” Laughter: A Loud boisterous laugh. Tag Line: “Well-” Signature Quote: “Today’s a good day for someone else to die.” Reputation: Not much, he’s not really in the public eye. First Impressions: Odd, quirky, insane. Stranger Impressions: An absolute nutcase. Friendly Impressions: A Friendly nutcase. Enemy Impressions: Don’t fuck with this nutcase. Familiar Impressions: We love him, but he’s a nutcase. Compliments: He’s a heroic nutcase. Insults: He’s an ass, and a nut. Self-Impression: I’mma boss. MBTI Personality Type: ENFP-A Temperament: Sanguine  Enneagram: The Challenger Ego/Superego/Id: Id The Self: The Warrior The Shadow: Selfishness The Anima/Animus: Sophia Persona/Mask: Fortune Role: Rival Fulfillment: Well Significance: He’s had a great impact on current world events. Alignment: Chaotic Good Comparison: Spartan/Viking Symbol: Knife Song: Bad Luck Charm Vice: Pride Virtue: Diligence Defining Moment: When he made the choice to join the Rebel Alliance and become part of something far bigger than just his clan leader. Tropes: He can be stereotypically hot-headed more often than not, getting into fights or confrontations with ease. Originality: His value on family and fatherhood sets him apart from most mercenaries, warlords, or bounty hunters. He is not a lone wolf and hates to be alone too long. One Word: Determined Character Sheet © Character-Resource

[gyrlversion]

JAN MOIR: My heart sinks just a little at this BBC Girl Power

For the first time, a flagship BBC politics programme will be fronted by three women. Emily Maitlis, Kirsty Wark and Emma Barnett are the all-female presenting team on BBC2’s Newsnight.

‘Boom. Let’s do this,’ Emma said when the news was announced.

This gave the impression the plucky threesome were girding their loinettes for some kind of battle, when the truth is the war has already been won.

In Beeb Central, the Time of Men — the old order of broadcasting patriarchy — is going, going, gone; replaced with furious alacrity by an illustrious regiment of women.

Leading men across all spheres, from showbiz to politics, are falling like kneecapped dominoes.

Emily Maitlis (pictured), Kirsty Wark and Emma Barnett are the all-female presenting team on BBC2’s Newsnight

There is a female Doctor Who and a toothsome female duo presenting Strictly Come Dancing, the Beeb’s most popular light entertainment show. Female DJs have replaced Chris Evans and Simon Mayo on Radio 2, while the golden but entitled Age of the Dimblebys is crumbling into dust.

BBC1’s Question Time David has been replaced by Fiona Bruce, while the successor to Radio 4’s Any Questions Jonathan has yet to be announced, but the smart money is on A (for Any) Woman — quite possibly Woman’s Hour’s Jane Garvey, or Fi Glover of the station’s The Listening Project.

From now until for ever, it seems every high-profile onscreen appointment will be given to a her, not a him, in this brave new broadcasting She-domain.

My heart should sing at this display of raw female power yet, instead, it sinks. Just a little — a dip, not a plunge. But the trajectory is definitely downwards.

It’s not that I object to the promotion of this trio of talented Newsnight women, each at the top of her game in myriad brilliant ways. 

No, it’s more that the BBC’s response to accusations of gender imbalance and its protracted gender pay-gap dispute has been so clumsy, so silly and, ironically, so devoid of fairness and equality.

For there is nothing positive about positive discrimination. All these well-meaning attempts to end discrimination simply end up with more discrimination.

Andrew Neil, by far the best political interviewer across the BBC network, will step down from his BBC1 This Week programme in July

At the BBC, a sometimes flawed meritocracy has been replaced by something far, far worse; blunderbuss gender politics in a workplace where white, middle-class males are treated like lepers.

Take Andrew Neil, by far the best political interviewer across the BBC network, who will step down from his BBC1 This Week programme in July — probably in exasperation at being continually shuffled off into a late-night ‘graveyard slot’.

BBC Director of News Fran Unsworth then cheerily said she would axe the show because ‘we couldn’t imagine it’ without Neil.

If she’s such a fan, why has the old bloodsucker been kept in his late-night coffin all these years?

Neil is still appearing in his lunchtime Politics Live show. Yesterday, he ticked off the voluble Remainer MP for Broxtowe, saying: ‘This is not the Anna Soubry Hour. I think you have had more than a fair say.’ Authoritative yet still polite, a first-class act in a second-class slot.

Elsewhere, a traineeship scheme for Radio 1’s Newsbeat is only to take black, Asian, mixed ethnicity or lower socio-economic applicants. 

This means applications from ambitious middle-class white girls — and particularly boys — would go in the bin. Fair enough, you might think. 

Perhaps it’s time for men to suffer and understand what it feels like to be marginalised, sidelined and overlooked just because of their sex.

Imagine how Emily Maitlis must have felt on discovering that fellow Newsnight presenter Evan Davis, a broadcaster not fit to clean her over-the-knee boots, was paid a third more for doing the same job.

Clearly there has been a gender pay imbalance at the BBC, just like the one in society. Maybe it is true that, for too long, power and equality were denied to women at the BBC. Yet certain kinds of privilege and bias still have their place.

Imagine how Emily Maitlis must have felt on discovering that fellow Newsnight presenter Evan Davis, a broadcaster not fit to clean her over-the-knee boots, was paid a third more for doing the same job

For Emily, Kirsty and Emma are a certain kind of BBC woman. Shiny of hair and blue of stocking, they are all good middle-class gels who went to posh schools (two of them fee-paying), then good universities.

Most importantly, I’ll wager they are all Left-leaning liberals with Guardianista sensibilities running through them. And if any of the trio isn’t a dyed-in-the-cashmere-wool Remainer, I’ll join the Brexit Betrayal March myself.

Which suggests BBC bosses are keen on diversification in all its forms, but only in areas where it suits them.

It would be impossible to imagine a Right-leaning, Brexit-supporting female broadcaster — Julia Hartley-Brewer, for example — even being considered for a Newsnight job.

And when I interviewed Sky TV’s Kay Burley recently, she said that as a working-class girl from Wigan who left school after her O-levels, she ‘didn’t have the right accent or education to work at the BBC’.

Have things changed? In every way, but also in no way whatsoever.

The broadcasting regulator Ofcom is reviewing the BBC’s news and current affairs output to ensure it remains relevant and trusted in the capricious, polarised and challenging world of multi-sourced news.

The new Newsnight team will give them much to ponder over. But in the meantime, let me stop you right there, as Emily would say, and ask: is one woman’s equality another man’s injustice?

Ade, you lazy lump, congratulations! EuroMillions winner deserves all the happiness his huge windfall will bring   

Middle-aged, overweight, sad owl face, lumbering dolt, usually Scottish. If it’s true that all lottery winners look like the same person and fit this particular profile, how come I haven’t won yet?

Despite ticking all the above boxes, yet again it’s not me, it’s him — Ade Goodchild, a singleton 58-year-old factory worker from Hereford.

No, Ade doesn’t hail from Scotland like most Lottery winners seem to. But in every other aspect, he seems to fit the stereotype perfectly.

He is corpulent, dazed, bears a slight resemblance to a giant thumb and, unusually, insists that his mega-win will change him. 

According to one report, EuroMillions winner Ade Goodchild never lifted a finger to do any chores in the house or work in the garden

Twice-married Ade scooped £71 million on the EuroMillions this week, a fantastic sum. His two ex-wives have already said they don’t want a share of his money. Good for them.

His first wife said it ‘couldn’t have happened to a nicer man’, while the second insisted that she is ‘happier without him’. Still, it is prospective wife No 3, whoever she may be, who will reap the lottery windfall.

Ade seems like the kind of lazy, useless husband any woman would be well rid of. According to one report, he never lifted a finger to do any chores in the house or work in the garden. Even after they were divorced, his second wife said she still had to go round and walk the dogs.

Yet Ade is self-aware enough to joke that he’s no more attractive now he’s a winner than he was before, but that his wallet is getting more than a few admiring glances.

He says he will look after members of his family and is going to spend the money on wine and women, then waste the rest.

Can you find it in your heart to wish him well? I do, I do, I do. 

Paul pogos to the bank: Court case reveals Clash punk rocker’s millions 

Back in the 1970s, the Clash were sexy revolutionaries whose punk music was thick with Left-wing ideology. 

The song White Riot urged alienated white youths to riot like their black counterparts; London Calling sent an apocalyptic message to strengthen the kids’ resolve before the onslaught of Thatcherism, boo.

Well, that was then. Now, Clash bassist Paul Simonon has won a £5 million legal fight with his second wife, who managed some of the band’s financial accounts. 

She wanted to change the terms of their original divorce settlement and sell her share of Clash royalties to an investment firm, but the judge ruled against her.

In the initial settlement, they each kept a London home, while sharing the cost of their sons’ education fees. The couple’s legal bills for the new hearing were more than £60,000.

‘You think it’s funny, turning rebellion into money,’ they once sang, the old hypocrites.

Next, you’ll be telling me The Who’s Roger Daltrey is a Tory-supporting Brexiteer.

A rare black-and-white print of The Scream, by Edvard Munch, will soon go on display at the British Museum.

How very prescient, for the painting seems to sum up the national mood over Brexit precisely. Head in hands, hair torn out, mouth open in a soundless yell of despair from the very marrow of one’s being.

Of course, debate still swirls around the famous image. Is Munch’s figure emitting a scream or listening to a scream? And is that scream real or psychological?

Who knows, but altogether now . . . aaargggh.

TV presenter Lorraine Kelly has won a big case against the taxman by arguing that she appears on TV not as herself, but as an entertainer

Awww, that’s fantastic! TV presenter Lorraine Kelly has won a big case against the taxman by arguing that she appears on TV not as herself, but as an entertainer portraying a super-cheery, empathetic wee character who doesn’t actually exist.

‘I am a McFake,’ is what she appears to be saying, but didn’t we know that anyway? Ms Kelly (above) told the tax tribunal she was an entertainer because she played ‘a version’ of herself on her ITV show. So the Lorraine Kelly who appears as Lorraine Kelly on Lorraine is not the real Lorraine Kelly but a theatrical construct.

She won her appeal against a £900,000 tax bill and £300,000 National Insurance demand. That’s the real drama. Take a bow, Lorraine, whoever you are.

‘When is the real Prince Harry coming?’ a schoolboy asked the Duke of Sussex during a visit to a London primary school.

Indeed! Over the past few months, as Harry has chuntered on about living the dream, shining the light, all the blades of grass and the raindrops and your ‘own true north’, it is a question I have often asked myself. Hullo clouds, hullo sky? Really, Harry?

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[melodrama-and-bouffant-blog]

Vintage Beauties

Fashion has always been an integral and inseparable part of Bollywood. The 50s, 60s and 70s are remembered as the glamour decade. Ravishing divas dominated the decades with their scintillating presence on screen and impeccable style quotient. While some of them rewrote the vogue, others broke the stereotype and became icons for generations to come. Following are a few trendsetters who threw the gauntlet for style statements that could never be matched.

Madhubala

 Source: Filmykeeday

For her mesmerizing beauty, Madhubala was known as the Marilyn Monroe of India. Her signature style – dark lips, hair locks falling over her resplendent face and dark smouldering eyes – made her a timeless beauty queen.

Source: The Better India

She sported mid length dresses and teamed her skirts with shirts (Life magazine, 1951) with aplomb. She had no qualms about wearing clothes that perfectly highlighted her curves. A common motif in her apparels was of floral prints. Madhubala made a statement by tucking the pallus of her bright saris to the right side (Chalti Ka Naam Gaadi, 1958). Sonakshi Sinha sported the cult look in Lootera (2013).

Source: Shemaroo

As Anarkali, she popularized the flowing blue and red suit in Jab Pyaar Kiya Toh Darna Kya (Mughal-e-Azam, 1951) and the short choli that adorned the kameez became a fad. These angrakha styled suits had vibrant hues, embellished with zardosi and crystals. Heavy gold jewelry (intricate hathkamals, ear-cuffs, chokers, kamarbandhs, bajubandhs) and a tulle/organza dupatta finished her look. These suits are called the Anarkalis today.

Madhubala’s sense of style was dramatic, feminine, liberated and elegant.

Sharmila Tagore

Source: Daily Bhaskar

The ethereal Sharmila Tagore revolutionized film fashion by donning a blue one-piece swim suit in An Evening In Paris (1967). A year later, she graced the cover of Filmfare wearing a monochrome bikini and was hailed as the ‘hottest actress of her time’.

Source: Pinterest

She popularized bouffant hairstyles, arched eyebrows and winged eyeliners, a trend that marked its return among contemporary fashionistas. She became a trendsetter by sporting knotted blouses in Waqt (1965), tight-fitted kameez and silhouettes that accentuated her curves. Tagore made the quintessential Bengali look familiar even before Aishwarya Rai’s Paro did. Her look as a Bengali woman donning a cotton sari, gold jewelry and gajra in Amar Prem (1972) made her the ultimate glam queen.

Source: Rediff

Known to have a refined and elegant sense of panache, her signature style statement is a pastel coloured floral chiffon/georgette sari. She couples it with minimal make-up and light jewelry such as sleek bracelets, pearl studs and drop earrings that drive up the chic factor several notches higher. Sharmila Tagore is élan incarnate.

Zeenat Aman

Source: Pinterest

Winner of Miss Asia Pacific (1970), actor Zeenat Aman rocked the 70s and the 80s with her bold and bohemian fashion statements. She defied the traditional cliché of chiffon saris and heavy hairdos, and went on to sport plunging V-necklines, body-hugging silhouettes and open waves (Satyam Shivam Sundaram, 1978).  Known as India’s answer to the west, Aman popularized headgears (Ali Baba Aur Chaalis Chor, 1980) and bandanas (Samraat, 1982) back in the day.

Source: Vagabomb

Vibrant colours and quirky prints cemented her as the ultimate sultry heroine. She aced androgyny with collared shirts and bows. She redefined the urban woman with front-tying shirts. Ever since she started donning crop tops (Ajnabee, 1974; Pukar, 1983), they became a fad. Draped in a white sari under a waterfall in SSS, she made a statement that became invincible and thus became a true trendsetter.

Source: Vagabomb

Aman’s Hare Rama Hare Krishna (1971) proved to be a turning point in her career and it changed the face of film fashion. With saffron kurtas, rudraksh neckpieces, oversized shades, red bindi and hoop earrings, she came to be hailed as a feisty and rebellious diva. Minimal make up and nude lips upped her oomph factor. Zeenat Aman will remain a timeless fashion icon for generations to come.  

[thedeliberatewanderer-blog]

BEING A WOMAN IS FUCKING HARD

Today I want to talk about something that’s been profoundly affecting my visit since I’ve been here. I encountered it from around day 2 or 3, maybe since day one with out knowing it.

The first time it happened, I didn’t really register the situation for what it was, but it certainly left me frustrated and disgruntled until I realized why. The second day I was here, Mohanad took me to Yarmouk University to register for my classes, but first I had to meet with the director of the language program. Aside from the usual condescending tone I typically experience from people in academia, he mocked my small attempts at my broken Arabic - mostly because I had been taught in the Lebanese dialect, which varies in certain, and sometimes drastic, ways from the Jordanian dialect. That was fine, I guess, I normally deal with that from my family and just graduated from a five year experience at a university, but I was unsettled about what happened next. Mohanad briefly left the room to tend to something. The director was across the room, behind his desk, and I was sitting in a chair with its back against the opposite wall. He had a piece of paper in his hand that had course descriptions for their Arabic Institute. First he asked me if I could read, and I said yes - my ability to read Arabic and understand it was and still is phenomenally better than my ability to speak it and understand it when it is spoken. Despite this, he got up from his chair, came over to where I was sitting, and stood less than a foot away from me - with his crotch in my face. He began reading the paper and pointing to each word as he read it. Not only had I already told him I could read it and understand it, but after he read it, I definitely knew that I could’ve without his help, and even if not, there was really no reason for him to not read it from where he was sitting behind his chair. Also, tf, why did he come at me only after Mohanad left the room?  

I left that room disconcerted. I was perturbed by it for two weeks and couldn’t shake the hate. But then I suddenly realized: Oh my God. I experienced blatant sexism.

And I feel that literally everyday. I’m told it’s not impolite to stare in this culture, but I constantly notice more eyes on me than when other women grace the streets. I stick out like a sore thumb with my blonde hair and blue eyes, so if I go outside I’m guaranteed to be cat called at least once and piss off some people because some asshole clogs up traffic, slowing his car to get a better look at me. My taxi rides are uncomfortable more often than not. 3/4 of them propose to me, just think they have a right to my attention, and demand - not ask, demand - for my number and address. One time it was so bad that I just got out of my taxi in the middle of a busy intersection. I am now accustomed to saying “I don’t want to talk” when the men get too pushy. Sometimes I have to double back on my walk home because some creep is following me. On some days it keeps me from going outside because I just don’t have the energy to deal with it. 

My experiences with male English instructors at the Academy aren’t much better. I’m a native English speaker and therefore find the language intuitive and understood more by context than grammatical rules. When one of them asks if I know something or other about English, and I say no, they take it upon themselves to start lecturing. Like, o wow, thanks, I’m so much richer for this useless knowledge you have bestowed upon me. Like, no thanks. I did not ask for an explanation. I do not need to be intellectually coddled.

But my experience at the Academy yesterday was particularly insulting on a variety of levels. After my first class (which went semi-well, I will elaborate in another blog post), I sat down with the director, his friend, and had some tea. He asked me about my focus in anthropology as an undergrad. I told him about my pursuits advocating for Muslim American rights, interning at an NGO, my thesis, etc, etc. So, of course, I told him in particular I was interested in Muslim American hijabi female identity, and we began having a discussion about that. I told him that, rather than the typical American stereotype of the hijab being inherently oppressive, I generally found the opposite to be true. Most Muslim American hijabis feel immensely empowered by covering, and I had and have not met one that does not wear a hijab out of her own volition. In fact, in some instances their parents tried to dissuade them from wearing it, because they were worried about the potential discrimination they might face. Since American society reduces a woman’s value to her looks and equates female liberation with bearing more skin, in some ways covering is a consciously defiant choice against American patriarchal standards. By preventing people from reducing them to objects in this way, they take power back into their own hands.

Before I go on, let me just preface this by saying that, here, I have too often been assumed to be pro-Trump, anti-Islam, etc. Only on a handful of occasions have political subjects have been a topic of discussion. But, unfailingly, every time, the other party either starts off with discrediting something Trump has said or denying x, y, or z stereotype many Americans have against Muslims, Syrian refugees, etc - both of which immediately let me know what they think I think. I have also by and large been assumed to be Christian. Seldom is there a conversation about Islam in which there are not efforts made to compare or compliment it with Christianity or Biblical references.

What I thought was supposed to be an attempt to alleviate the aforementioned presumptions from influencing the conversation was still perceived by the director as an attack on his Islamic beliefs and interpretations, but for much different reasons than I anticipated or even realized until some time after. He replied first by insisting that Christian women wear the hijab in church, and that American women used to cover their hair, arms, and legs in the 40s. I told him that the former is definitely not so, unless referencing nuns, but they are a pretty stark minority of Christian women. I know there are still some sects of Christianity and non-Muslim cultures where women cover, but, again. Very stark minority. Nonetheless, he took my mention of nuns me conceding to his perception that most Christian women cover in church (I don’t know if he actually knew what nuns were, then? Or Roman Catholicism?). I also tried to inform him that, yes, American women historically dressed more modestly and covered their arms and legs, but hijabs were never, like, a thing in America, lol. He kept insisting that it was, that in the 40s they wore “pieces on top of their heads” and I was like hats? Those were fashion statements worn randomly, not attempts at modesty. But still, there he was, smirking and nodding and apparently tuning out after I said the word “hats.”

I tried again from the historical angle he brought up. In America, women wore less clothes the more social freedoms they had. That’s why there’s a cultural conception that links bearing skin with freedom, and a cultural bias saying women are liberated and empowered this way. But we’re also not allowed to be sexual, so we’re basically expected to be empowered by nakedness under the condition that it’s sexualized and controlled by men. But that’s why the hijabi women I’ve met felt empowered by doing otherwise. They have control over their sexuality, it’s their choice, and I think that perspective is unique and pretty cool.

His retort was something like, well do they say that’s the only reason they cover?  And I was like, well no, of course not. There’s parents, cultural pressures and expectations, etc. But I would say, for the majority that I’ve met, yes. And that’s not to say people who don’t cover are more wrong or right. American women in general have some authority and control over their sexuality, including hijabis. 

“What about whores?” His tone was clearly insinuating disgust. 

We were both disgusted at that point. I got pretty blatant after that. I said something like:

Terms like whore and slut are considered sexist where I’m from. There’s nothing about a woman that says she’s more or less worthy because of what she wears or how many people she does or doesn’t sleep with. Even if she has one partner for her whole life or twenty in a week (at this point he shook his head, stuck his tongue out, and closed his eyes in a clearly disgusted face), she’s allowed that without shame because it’s her body.

Then he asked, “what about Christian women who convert to Islam that cover?” 

“What?”

“What about Christian women who convert to Islam and wear the hijab?”

“I don’t understand why you’re asking that right now,”

“What. About. Christian. Women. Who. Convert. And. Choose. To. Wear. The. Hijab. What does that say about the hijab and Islam?”

“That she’s read the scripture and decided covering feels right in her heart.”

He looked annoyed at that point and kept asking me if I knew this famous person or that famous person that were Christians that converted to Islam. As politely as I could, I just said, “no. I’m not a religious person. I don’t spend my time looking into stuff like that.” He showed me another. And another. It took me a few times of repeating what I had said for him to understand that a few Christian people converting to Islam is meaningless to me. Or, at least didn’t mean what he had expected it to mean to me. 

The conversation kind of ended with me saying the reasons I love anthropology so much and am grateful that it was my major. It taught me that you can’t quantify the human experience, that people aren’t numbers, blanket statements are never applicable to everyone, and human life and culture is complicated and conflicted. It leaves room for nuance, and it acknowledges relativity in cultural beliefs. He waved me off, looking for another video. I nonetheless looked at it patiently, nodding and acknowledging it before giving it back, and again reiterating my stance on my personal beliefs.

When I eventually and finally got it in his head that there’s nothing for me to convert from he did get quiet and stopped being patronizing and argumentative, though (which means one of his goals wasn’t purely to attract me to Islam, but merely to say it is superior to Christianity). I guess no religion is better than being a Christian? Either way, I think in the end he understood that I acknowledge and respect religious perspectives regardless of which one, but that doesn’t mean I ascribe myself to one or think one is more valid than another. His presumptions didn’t allow him to prepare for an anomaly, though, so I don’t think he had much of a choice but to stay silent at the end.

People convert from Islam to Christianity all the time, too. Or, I don’t know, to Buddhism to Paganism. It doesn’t mean that one religion is inherently better or more correct than another because of that conversion, as he was clearly trying to get me to conclude. Which, when you think about it, is pretty sinister. If he assumed me to be Christian, then his goal was to get me, as a perceived Christian, to invalidate my beliefs or say Islam is a better faith.

I realized the next day (today lol) talking to Nada, though, why my initial comments insulted him in the first place when I completely meant the opposite. The idea of a woman being in control of her sexuality and how she expresses it was inconceivable to him. When I said, “because SHE feels it is right in her heart,” the answer wasn’t satisfactory enough for him. He went tight-lipped and halfway rolled his eyes. And when he said, “is that the ONLY reason they say they wear the hijab?” when I expressed Muslim American women’s common feelings of empowerment from covering, he said it dismissively, waving his hand, talking over me, like he was searching for the answer he wanted to hear (Islam is better/women are meant to be covered) and didn’t care about a woman’s say in covering or not even though it’s her body.

Because he didn’t. To him, women cover because they are not allowed to be anything but modest. They are not allowed to be sexually expressive regardless of how they feel about, because men here expect it. Individual female empowerment doesn’t matter. Their agency is irrelevant. If she expresses any semblance of the power choice, she is devalued and dehumanized, likened to a "whore." What was intended to be a way to show respect for Islamic practices unintentionally came across as a threat to his male privilege. And I'm okay with that. 💁🏼

To some extent, Muslim American women do have the luxury of choice. Their agency is integral to whether or not they wear the hijab in most instances. Not to say they don’t get shit for wearing it or don’t experience sexism, racism, and oppression in other ways. They certainly do. But in a greater respect than what I’m observing in Jordan, their say matters, and wearing the hijab can, indeed, be a source of empowerment. But I can’t for sure say the same thing about women here. Many of them tell me that they choose to wear it. And, granted, a small number of women here do not. But do they really choose to wear it when it’s the norm and what’s expected of you from your family and peers? When men scoff at the idea of them having a voice or choice in the matter? Is there any sense of empowerment when there’s no rebellion in showing less skin rather than more since less is already the standard? Does the questioning of a woman’s character if she doesn’t sway her opinion? Is it really, fully, and completely her choice in that instance? 

Also, Nada told me that, last summer when she still covered, she was still hounded in the streets of Jordan. Even though she did as what was told would make her a respectable woman, she was still not respected. She was still objectified. There is no rest for women even if they’re compliant with Islam. If men staring is a norm in Jordan, then I guess the Islamic tenant of "lower your gaze" doesn't mean shit, either. Therefore, rather than the issue being a question of Islam, it's an issue of a patriarchal culture. The director had confused his sexism with his religiosity.

And, you know, I really fucking hated the idea of writing this. Because I’m essentially throwing Orientalists and anti-Muslim people a bone for their racism. And it makes it sound like Jordan is a terrible place and that all its men are sexist assholes. Let it be known that Fareed and Mohanad are nice, lol. And that I have enjoyed and treasured my time here in a lot of ways. And of course I think of the American way as better. I’m a God damn American. Ethnocentrism is a thing. But even so it doesn't make my experience okay. I have never experienced sexism like that. Never have I felt so devalued in a place because of my sex. I know sexism is a problem in America, too, both at the individual and institutional level (a “clash of patriarchies” as some scholars have argued). There is no question about that. But it is still not fashionable to be sexist in America. You do not want to be called sexist in America. That doesn’t make it go away, though. It just makes it more covert. But here, it’s so overt that it’s right up in your face, shoved down your throat, and pulled out your ass. Either way, whether covert or overt, it's not okay, and the experience was deeply insulting to me and women everywhere. 

I’ve been reading some blogs about other white women’s experience in the Middle East, and a handful said the visit made them question their values. I’m very grateful for my education in anthropology, because no doubt, otherwise I would probably be doing the same. 

Last thing, the director has a PhD in linguistics, a subfield in anthropology, like tf???! How does he not know this shit????

Kbye:) ~ NewKat