#tw: historical racism

[littlesistersti-backupandspam]

Cw: mention of Black slaves

Mr. Rutledge from 1776 musical

Then what's that I smell floating down from the North? Could it be the aroma of hy-pocrisy? For who holds on the other end of that filthy purse-string, Mr. Adams? Our northern breathren are feeling a bit tender toward our Black slaves. They don't keep slaves! Oh, no. But they are willing to be considerable carriers of slaves to others. They're willin' ... for the shillin'. Or haven't you heard, Mr. Adams? Clink, Clink. Mollasses to Rum to Slaves Oh what a beautiful waltz

there's a reason why this villain song is so powerful

most white people during chattel slavery didn’t own slaves, but they happily allowed it to fund their businesses and the building of their homes and their trains and the grocery market and the textile industry and wouldn’t speak badly about their slave owner cousin bc well he’s keeping our funds high and wouldn’t stop befriending the local slave trader bc oh he’s keeping jobs open at auction sites and wouldn’t mind marrying into a plantation family bc oh isn’t the land beautiful and we get free maids! the average majority is often worse than the violent minority bc they will look u in the eye while you get whipped by their brother and justify it with “atleast i didn’t do it” as if that is enough to be forgiven

[aheathen-conceivably]

Twilight was beckoning over the horizon, battling with the sun as it sunk below the mountains. Its rays cast the final streaks of light through the sky, sending all the colors of the desert into one final blaze. Antoine rarely stayed at Abraham’s ranch this late, at least not when Zelda hadn’t taken Violette up the hill to meet him in the afternoon. But tonight Abe had besieged him with coffee and cigarettes in an uncharacteristic display of emotion; so Antoine remained, sitting with him as the first stars began to appear in the sky. 

The fire was crackling in front of them and Abe seemed antsy, as though he was waiting for the comfort of night before he began speaking. Antoine knew better than to ask what the matter was, or even to be the first to speak, because when he got that way someone else’s attempts to draw the words out only made him bury them deeper inside. So he kept dragging on his cigarette, watching the fire dance as the air grew colder and the sky rapidly fell to the inevitable pull of darkness.

But as the final blue of daylight began to give way to a bruised purple above them, Abe threw his cigarette into the fire and brought his hand to a handle of wood near him that Antoine hadn’t noticed before. His fingers trailed on its tip aimlessly as he kept staring into the fire, “I told you my granddad came out here to herd cattle, didn’t I?” Antoine nodded his head in agreement, a gesture that wasn’t really needed for Abe to continue in a gruff voice, “Well he didn’t. Not really. That came after. He came out here to outrun the patrols after he escaped Alabama.”

Antoine kept his cigarette on his lips. He didn’t have to ask for details to know precisely what Abe meant, or the sort of pain he must have felt in saying any of this. He thought of Silver, and how distrustful she was of anyone. Only horse who ever knew my granddaddy, and he always kept her nearby. 

Abe’s finger ran along the wooden handle next to him and a low note escaped it. Antoine immediately recognized it as a B flat, and then realized that Abe’s hand was nervously moving up and down the handle of a guitar, “This was his. Then my Poppa’s. Only Poppa wasn’t content to stay out here. He got some idea in his head that he was meant to be a blues musician. Word after the war was it was better for us up there, so he moved me out to Chicago chasin�� some dream and false promises when I was just a boy.”

Now the words seemed to come more easily, like a song once it started or the faint dissonance echoing from the strings of a rarely played guitar that had the whole story locked inside its cavernous body. “He never gave up. Not when Momma left him. Not when I married Mabel and moved back out here with Grandad. Not ‘til the riots of ‘19 when he was just on the streets, walking alone back from a gig when the crowd found him, riled up on some horrid hatred and set on violence no matter who crossed their path…”

He stopped in his tracks and moved his hand from the guitar to wipe a lone tear from his eye. The faint sounds that had been coming from his hands on the strings settled into the loud silence of a desert twilight, filling in the ending to the story that Antoine didn’t need to hear to know.

Abe seemed to purposefully pull himself back into the moment, redirecting his attention to the guitar beside him. Then he brought it onto his lap and spoke looking directly at it, as though it had a life and a mind of its own, “You know, all his life he had some hair-brained idea that I would be able to play like him; but truth is I’m no better now than when he himself tried to teach me. And if he couldn’t, nobody can.”

He stretched out his hand, offering Antoine the old but clearly well looked after guitar, “I know I haven’t been able to pay you what your work is worth, and you’re always going on about your piano back in New Orleans, so I thought this might bring you some joy. More joy than it ever brought anybody else, maybe.”

Antoine looked down at the extended instrument frightfully, because he knew it wasn’t just some guitar. It was just as alive as his piano had been, because someone had poured their very soul into it. Abandoning it had been like leaving part of himself behind, the part that had been ripped to shreds and then reassembled by the movement of the keys. He yearned for it every day of his life here, no matter how happy he was.

But the soul in the guitar before him wasn’t his memory, or his pain. It belonged to another man, one who had been parted from it in violence and hatred. “I…I couldn’t, Abe. It’s yours. It’s your father’s, your family’s. Surely it belongs with you.”

Abraham stretched his hand out further, the emotion coming back to him for a minute as his voice went raw and he dared to lock eyes with Antoine, “I insist, chap. I want somebody to play it again. Give it life, make it sing. The way he would’a wanted.”

Abe inched the guitar closer to Antoine, and he moved his arms to accept the burdened gift. Because how could he say no to that? He had seen himself in Abe since the day they met, in his humor and the incessant guard he refused to let down. They spent nearly every day together, mostly talking about horses or work, somehow never with the need to show any other side of themselves. Now here he was, without armor or pretense, asking for nothing but to see some semblance of his father’s memory find life and joy again.

As Antoine settled the guitar in his lap, Abe left his hand on its neck for a moment. Then he let it fall away, moving the strings along with him as though it were saying goodbye. With his palm wrapped around them, every echoed sound moved up Antoine’s arm into his soul, as though it were speaking directly to him.

[tyrianludaship]

is it fair to call people like this "hack writers" if the only way they find a relationship interesting is when it involves pedophilia, incest, cannibalism or necrophilia?

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Runnin' Roughshod"

Pairing: Bucky x black female Reader

Rated: Explicit

Tags: civil war, westward expansion, homesteader Bucky, Black!Fem!Reader, slavery, historic AU, forbidden romance, interracial relationship, racism, period typical attitudes, brothel, prostitution

A Bucky x Black!fem!Reader historical AU fic that I decided to bullet point for funsies, and then wound up writing half of the damn thing that way 🙄

You're a slave living in 1860 Missouri, just outside of St. Louis.

You're the property of (and half-sister to) Master Lewis. Lucky for you, Master Lewis Senior is dead, and Lewis Jr.'s young bride Darcilla is kind and agreeable, with progressive notions that she brought along with her trousseau when she came from Maryland to wed Master Lewis.

Life is very good for you, compared to some others. You work in the house, as lady's maid to the new Mrs. Lewis (who insists you call her Ms. Darcy), and sometimes help in the shop in town.

The Lewis's own a handful of other slaves who help run their household and dressmaker's shop, but since the death of your mother you've had no family (well, except for Master Lewis, though nobody counts that). You do your work and keep to yourself. Sometimes you make a little money at the dress shop, which Mistress Darcilla lets you keep behind her husband's back.

You save up every penny, but buying your own freedom is a far off dream. Your whole life, you've never seriously contemplated running away. It isn't worth the risk.

But when tensions in the county begin to rise and you hear rumors of secession, you grow worried. You begin to squirrel away what valuables you can, gain the trust of your mistress, and bide your time.

With the uncertainty of war brewing, Master Lewis announces his plans to move the family deeper south. You can no longer afford to wait. You have to get out now, before your one and only chance is lost forever.

Your money gets you as far as Topeka, where you're forced to stop until you can earn enough to join a wagon train out West. You find work at a saloon, serving drinks and making flirty conversation with the men who come in for a good time.

In the mornings, you begin to learn the piano from "Old Freddie," and during the occasional slow afternoon, Madame Lapierre, the French woman who governs the "upstairs" girls, will play a game of chess with you whilst she tries to make headway in convincing you to "expand your employment opportunities."

Topeka is Free-Soiler territory, but there's always the fear that Master Lewis might find you. And, on the verge of statehood, the Kansas territory has tipped into increasingly violent conflict between anti- and pro-slavery settlers. With conditions worsening and all out war looming on the horizon, you have no guarantee of safety there anymore.

Desperate to raise the funds to go West more quickly, you tell Madame that you're ready to start selling more than drinks and conversation. You become her newest "poppet" prepared to do whatever it takes to get out of town before your luck - and your freedom - run out.

You've never been with a man, but you know the rudimentary facts of life, and with a little help from the other girls and Madame, you prepare to become just another "sporting girl."

Your first afternoon on the job, a roughshod rider comes into town, seeking lodging, drink, and the sort of "company" that you're there to provide.

The white girls get first dibs on clients, but the roughshod asks for you to be sent up to his room. You wish he wouldn't have. Not because you want to put off the inevitable, but because now the other girls will be nasty to you. The man is handsome, and the girls were all eager to get their hands in his pockets.

You're shaking in your boots, but Madame gives you a shot of whiskey, a spritz of her genuine French perfume, and a tiny pewter snuff case for "wetting the way," (whatever that means). She tells you to put it in your bosom and use it "when the time is right."

Terrified but determined to see it through, you head upstairs to the roughshod's room.

It does not go as you expect. First, he demands to know if you're working there of your own free will. You admit that he is your very first client - which you regret doing, because his face goes even stonier when you do. He barks out orders at you, insisting that you leave the room at once and fetch him the house's tub.

He wants a bath - a hot one! - and with soap, and a towel!! You're very happy about that, because it costs a whole sixty-five cents more, and it will also mean extra time spent with you, which leaves you with even more money in your pocket at the end of the day. You're still nervous, but elated at the luck you're having on your very first client!

The other girls are stewing in the hall with jealously and make snide comments about your race and the man's preference for you. They refuse to help you prepare the bath, but you don't care one lick. That's just more time the roughshod will be paying to spend with you, while you haul bucket after bucket of boiled water up the stairs.

Madame catches you in the hallway and tells you not to mind the other girls. She's a bit drunk on sherry, and she jokes that at this rate, you'll probably only have to spread your legs for two or three minutes! (God, you hope so).

The man is filthy, and he's hurt - as though he's been in a fight or fallen from his horse. He asks you to help bathe him, and you get started with your heart in your throat. His manners are as rough as he is, but he isn't mean to you, and he doesn't try to grab you, which is a relief. With shaking hands, you proceed to wash him.

This is your first time touching a naked man's body, and you try not to look down into the bathwater as you wash him. You're embarrassed, but it's not just nerves; seeing and touching such a handsome man has you warming as though you've downed another three shots of whiskey.

You squirm and fight not to let the roughshod see your flusterment, as your belly tightens with the familiar, but never indulged, feelings of lust.

The roughshod stays in the bath until the water's gone gray and cold. You kneel beside the tub and wring out the cloth, but squeak when, all at once, the man heaves himself up to standing, the water streaming down his body and his ... his Johnson right at the level of your face!

He grunts and swings his leg out of the tub - exposing all of his manhood jostling around not even two feet from your face as he does so! You blush and look away, but you can feel him staring at you as he grabs up the towel and dries himself off.

Surely, you think, now he will ask you to take off your clothes and join him on the bed. You know only the basics of what goes where for the act, having witnessed clandestine coitus a time or two in your life. You wait, unable to look up at him, as you expect to hear his gruff voice order you about. And it does.

"Get up."

You stand, trembling. But what he says next isn't what you're expecting: "You know how to rub a man's muscles?"

You look up at him. He's got the towel in hand, making no effort to use it to cover himself. Then again, you think, why should he? You're just another painted poppet (or, soon to be). "R-rub what?" you stammer - quite idiotically. Of course, you know what muscles are. ... You're just not sure if he's using the word as a ... a euphemism.

He rolls his eyes and brings the towel up to dry his hair. "Knew I should'a asked for the China girl," he mutters.

You clear your throat and look steadfastly at his face. "You're hurt," you say, because you've seen every part of his body now, despite your efforts to keep your eyes trained North. And you know he's got bruises all on his legs and back and sides.

The roughshod nods and abandons the towel to the floor. "Yeah." He's not a talker, but you get the impression he's waiting to hear something from you.

You struggle to think of what that might be. "I ... have ... rubbed my mother's shoulders, when they hurt her. Um. And her feet?"

If you're not mistaken, the man's mouth twitches up the barest bit, beneath his beard. "Eh," he says, then turns around, presenting you with his - very manly - ass. "How bad can ya be?" He walks towards the bed, waving you along without looking back. "Well c'mere then."

He climbs up onto the room's bed and lies down, face in his arms. "What're you doing?" he grumps. "I said get over here."

Swallowing thickly, you hurry across the room. With his back turned, you have less trouble letting your eyes rove over his naked body. His back is broad and muscled, going from impossibly wide and tanned shoulders, tapering all the way down to his slim hips and his pale ass. His thighs are hairy and---no. You force your eyes true north again, looking at the bruises that you're increasingly starting to suspect came from a beating. "What happened to you?" you ask.

His head stays pillowed in the crooks of his arms. "Get up on the bed," he grunts. "Sit on my ass and I'll tell 'ya what to do."

Your eyes all but bug out of your head, when he tells you to straddle him. You do, your skirt rustling as you move and get up on him. You're hesitant to put your weight down, but he huffs and tells you to sit.

"Speck like you ain't gonna feel any more'n a feather. Sit."

He talks you through giving him - what he deems a "goddamn lousy" - massage. He grunts whenever you press on his bruises, pained, but once you get the hang of it, he at least goes quiet and doesn't complain anymore, so maybe you're not so horrible at it after all.

You rub his shoulders, his neck and back; your belly coiling tight once again, filling with a swooping feeling at having his warm skin and hard muscles underhand, at the feeling of his body held between your legs. You worry that he somehow knows how you're reacting, but you don't speak and neither does he.

When he eventually groans from pained-pleasure rather than pain, you can't help but smirk triumphantly. You keep expecting him to roll over and declare the massage over and demand for you to touch his Johnson, but that keeps not happening (though he does groan a little more).

You check the clock and see that it's now early evening. The light outside is almost gone. You worry that he's lost track of time and might refuse to pay for the hours he's spent with you, which will get your wages garnished.

So, tentatively, you slide your hands down to his thick waist, the swooping feeling intensifying at watching all the muscles in his back tense and shift underneath the skin.

"Why'd you stop?" he grunts.

"Are ... are you sure ..." You hesitate, not knowing how to seduce a man.

"Spit it out," he says, annoyed.

You lick your lips. "Well I just ... it's been awhile now and ... Are you sure this is all you want?"

"It feels good," he snaps, voice muffled in his arms. "That's what I'm payin' you for, ain't it?"

His uncharitable response should make you relieved, but instead it just leaves you worried and confused. Are you not seductive enough? Is he going to complain to Madame once he leaves here?

You need to speak up, take action, or else you may be in trouble. "Mister," you say, "I--"

"James," he grunts. "S'my name."

You pause, surprised that he wants you to use it, since he doesn't seem to like you very much. "James," you try again. "I want to make sure you're ... um ... getting your money's worth?"

He's silent and still, then drawls, "You don't sound too sure about that."

FOLKS THIS HAS BEEN OUT OF HAND FOR AWHILE NOW. LETS GO BACK TO AN ACTUAL FUCKING OUTLINE:

He has you lie down on the bed, and he regards you tenderly and seems like he's going to finally do it, but his face goes sour when you nervously reach your hand for his Johnson, and he tells you he doesn't need anything else.

"That's enough." He rolls away, comes back with a dollar bill, hands it over and gruffly tells you to go over to the mercantile and buy him a fresh shirt.

Relieved and yet somehow also terribly disappointed, you do so. When you return, his hair is tied back and he's got his pants on again.

You expect him to dismiss you, but he tells you he wants your company in the downstairs, too. He takes you down and the two of you eat and drink together at his behest. As it's now evening, the other poppets work on men nearby, shooting you jealous looks every so often.

James slowly opens up to you, engaging you in conversation over his dinner. You can't help but talk back, the conversation coming naturally and your shoulders relaxing. James is much more likeable after a whiskey or two, and the two of you even laugh and joke together. He decides to teach you a dice game, and the two of you have fun well into the evening, until he goes back up to bed -- alone.

Madame is drunk and very proud--because the roughshod actually pays for the entire time! In one fell swoop, you've made a handsome sum! You begin to hope that soon you'll be able to buy your way onto a wagon train and go West!

But the next day, your fortunes change.

A lawman shows up with none other than Mr. Brooks--Master Lewis' most trusted slave. Brooks tells the lawman that you are the one he's looking for. He has your papers to prove Mr. Lewis' ownership!

Being only tenuously free territory, the lawman has the say so on what happens to you. Just when it looks like he's going to hand you over to Brooks, the roughshod comes downstairs. He claims you're his property and that your name is Pearl. He has no proof, but says that's because he bought you from a 'chief down in Indian country' (the Oklahoma territory).

One of the white girls calls out that that's not true: you work there.

It seems that the lie won't work, but when the lawman asks Madame if that's true, Madame says your name is Pearl and you showed up with the roughshod the other day.

The marshal decides to trust the word of a white man over Mr. Brooks (who looks very angry indeed). He brandishes the papers and promises to come back with Master Lewis.

With no time to spare, you make haste. You have to leave town now, no matter the fact that you don't have the money to make it out West. You stuff your things in your bag and leave with the wages you've earned.

Outside, the roughshod grabs your arm and pulls you in. He demands you tell him the truth, since he stuck his neck out for you.

You confess everything--running away, your plan to set out West for San Francisco. You fear that he's had a change of heart and will take you to the lawman, but he gets stern-faced again and gruffly tells you to come with him back to his home with him.

You're confused, but he is bossy and all but forces you back to his homestead with him. There, he informs you that, after getting into a "scrape" with some locals himself, he has to leave. He offers to take you out West with him, and part ways in California.

You agree.

Sometime, months later, in California:

The country is at war, but it feels far away from where you are now, as do Master Lewis' chances of ever finding you again. James has hope that the North will win and slavery will be done away with, when the two of you arrive in San Francisco. You make him breakfast, and ask: "What now?"

He gets quiet for awhile. "Woman like you?" He says, chewing the last bite of a biscuit. "Sews, can play chess, hard worker, beautiful, and you cook like this?" He sticks his tongue in his cheek and looks away for a moment. When he looks back, there's false cheer in his eyes. "You're gonna make some man a fine wife someday."

You inhale deeply, fighting to keep the sting of that comment from getting to your eyes. "But not you?" you finally say, once you've gathered the breath - and the courage - to do so.

The false cheer bleeds to sadness, fond and regretful, and he shakes his head softly. "No Darlin'. Not me."

(spoiler alert: you wind up together with a happy ending anyway)

IM SORRY IT'S TWO AM WHY DID I DO THIS I NEED TO SLEEEEP 😩

(Will def be writing (more of) this fic in the future though!)

[radi0activesmile]

Once the hair is properly placed, Alastor rests his hand delicately over Gritt's own. His eyes shift back and forth before he leans a bit closer.

This... is not something he openly talks about with anyone-- with the very rare exception of Husker. But Gritt is his son... and a little discomfort is far less a punishment than he deserves for letting him down.

"There was a time when humans enslaved other members of their race because of their skin tone." He explains, clearing his throat. The more he speaks, the more quiet he becomes. "My grandparents were ripped away from their homes, forced into a ship, brought to a different country, and sold... to be a labour force."

"It was deemed unjust just a few years prior to my mother's birth, after quite a lengthy, bloody war." One eye begins to turn black, and he shakes his head in order to set it back correctly.

"Of course, there were still plenty who didn't agree that these humans they b̶͖͖̾ỏ̸͔̻͑ů̵̲g̸̞͌h̷̜̍̿t̴͎͠ deserved to be anything other than property. Groups joined together to hunt down these former s̷̱̀l̵͕̠͋a̴̮̗͆̍v̴̤̦́̃e̷̫͔̽̋s̸͍͛͝ and slaughter them i̵n̴ ̶t̶h̵e̵ ̶s̵t̴r̷e̶e̸t̸s̵."

Ah. He needs to clear his throat again.

"By the time I was born, there was a law put into place, they called it Seperate But Equal." Those last few words come with a scoff. "It was anything but equal. There were schools for white children and schools for... c̶̰̟̀̀̑o̶̼͐̑͠l̵̨̾ơ̷̩͈͝r̸̜̼̉̀e̸͓̦̿͗̑d̴͙̤̂ children. Those schools were smaller, and our text books were the outdated ones the other school was going to throw away. If my mother and I went to see a play, we were forced to sit in the very back of the theatre, where others wouldn't have to l̶̻͕̂̒̾ó̸̼̐͝ȯ̴͉̗̙k̵̨̹̕ ̷̺͖̓̽á̴̘̞̘t̶̙̰͕͒ ̵̰̂ȗ̴͙̦̃͂͜s̵̟̮͝ and ruin their delightful outing."

A few things in the hospital room appear to be glitching in and out of existence. Alastor rolls his neck before going on.

"I was only allowed to work as a radio host because no one could see my face. I learned how to speak in an accent that didn't give away that I was... c̶̖̔́ö̵͕́l̶̡̤̎̾̎ỏ̸̤͉͓̍r̴̖̾̓̒e̷͓̲̽́̓d̶͓̰̬̀͒."

There's a small silence before he gives a soft laugh and a dismissive flick of his hand. The objects that were glitching returned to reality.

"They didn't think I should have been anything other than a labour force either, mon fils."

"That's a magic book... different." Gritt said, he didn't withdraw from the touch though, allowing Alastor to move the hair from his eyes. He definitely looked exhausted.

"... not much. It's a mess, but theres good and bad... hell is pretty influenced by it too." Gritt said with a shrug, which he regretted as he winced.

[blueshistorysims]

Late March 1940, London, England

Before Simon-Elliot returned home for the rest of his spring vacation, he stayed in London for two days, both nights at his aunts’ house since his father’s apartment only had one bedroom. He had been looking forward to seeing his father, mostly since it would be the first time he was doing something with his father alone, but due to his busy schedule, they were only able to have dinner together. He was disappointed but not surprised—his father was always busy.

He went to visit the Leungs for one very important reason: Lydia. They had been writing to one another since his bar mitzvah, and over a year later, he’d mustered the courage to ask her father for permission to court her. He thought it the proper thing to do, and he figured Dr. and Mrs. Leung would approve of him for it. 

“It is strange that I must address a fourteen-year-old boy as my lord,” Dr. Leung mused when they entered his office, decorated with posters and frames of various plant life and Dr. Leung’s various degrees.

Simon-Elliot shrugged. “I think it’s odd too. I don’t like using it. It makes me sound like a right prick if you’ll excuse my language.”

He chuckled. “I assume you wish to speak about my daughter, no?”

The boy nodded. “Yes, sir.” He swallowed and took a deep breath, preparing to speak the words he’d practiced in his head for days. “Lydia and I have been penpals for over a year now, and I’ve come to feel strongly for your daughter. She is lovely and funny, and it’s always nice to have someone who understands what it’s like having annoying younger siblings. With your permission, I’d like to court her.”

Dr. Leung was quiet for a few minutes and any hopes that Simon-Elliot had for approval slowly shattered into pieces as a frown appeared on the professor’s face. 

“...You’re a nice boy, and well, you come from a very, very good family, and the idea that my daughter would be a duchess is certainly a fairy tale dream, but it’s a fantasy. Your people’s society is unforgiving and racist, and as Hong Kongers, we are only treated slightly better than the Chinese because we are a British colony, and we speak English. I don’t want my daughter subjected to that kind of treatment. Your mother already gets plenty for being a non-white Jew. And if you truly feel for her, then you should want the same.”

Simon-Elliot looked down, despair on his face. As much as he wanted to be angry at Dr. Leung, he couldn’t argue his logical reasonings.

“...You’re heir to your father’s title, and that’s a tremendous responsibility. If you were the third or fourth son, perhaps I’d have a different sentiment. I am sorry, Simon-Elliot, but I will not have my daughter subjected to the gossip of society and imperial hogwash.”

“What did my father say?” Lydia asked, ambushing him as he put his cap back on. 

Simon-Elliot sighed and turned around, and based on her action to his expression, it was clear Lydia had her answer. 

“No? He said no?” Her eyebrows knit together. “Why? We did everything right and proper.”

“It’s not me… it’s my family and my social standing. I’m my father’s heir, and you would subject to gossip, the papers, and whatever else. He doesn’t want you to suffer. And the worst part is that he’s right.”

Lydia sighed harshly. “I don’t care what people say. We’ll keep it a secret. From everyone.”

“I-I’m not going against your father’s wishes.”

“Simon-Elliot, don’t be scared of my father.” She grabbed his hand and gripped it tightly. “We’re together, and who gives shit what the world thinks.”

He sighed and squeezed her hand. “You’re a hard girl to say no to, Lydia.”

She smiled.

[deoidesign]

"Is Adam ever going to face racism because like… that seems extremely relevant for some of these time periods lol"

I won't be saying this twice.

No.

I think it's inappropriate for me as a white writer to put him through racism that I am incapable of writing from a personal point of view.

I also find it gratuitous at best to depict "historical accuracy" for racism, when suspension of disbelief is had for homophobia, magic, time travel, and historical accuracy in general.

I don't care about historical accuracy. Sorry. Read a different comic.

[allthecanadianpolitics]

Indigenous people across Alberta are calling Premier Danielle Smith’s tweet “disappointing,” saying it is harmful to truth and reconciliation in the province.

Smith’s video, which was published on Twitter on Friday morning, claimed Indigenous peoples and settlers “united to tame an unforgiving frontier” to ensure the “prosperity of future generations.”

The video has since received intense backlash on social media, with many claiming she is revising parts of Canadian history.

Tanya Harnett, a fine arts associate professor for the University of Alberta, called Smith’s statement “ignorant” and “disappointing.”

Harnett is a member of the Carry-The-Kettle First Nations in Saskatchewan and added that elected officials have a responsibility to know about Indigenous history.

“It’s disappointing and it’s not informed. Anyone who’s in that level of government should really know what they’re talking about,” Harnett said. [...]

Continue Reading.

Tagging: @politicsofcanada, @abpoli

[chronicparagon]

Writing About Historical and Intergenerational Trauma

This is a post I've been thinking about since last night. I won't go into detail about what happened, but it made me think. I wasn't involved (but it came to my dash). It involved how different races, ethnicities, and cultures are represented in media. That includes writing and yes, even rps.

I want to make a post about including People of Color (PoC) in writing and the trauma they faced. This incident was what I viewed as an attempt to be historically accurate but wasn't handled properly. There is nothing wrong with including experiences that PoC characters had or perceptions other people had of these characters, but it must be handled appropriately because it can reinforce stereotypes, trigger people who are very sensitive to these topics, hurt readers who are PoC or otherwise, cause drama, and risk bringing in toxicity in communities.

I thought it may help if I share a bit about how to write about historical and intergeneration trauma, specifically racism, and how it's perceived.

Before I begin, I want to give my positionality. I am Native American (southeastern) and I also work in tribal health and studied Indigenous Health. While I specialized in infectious diseases and cultural competence in medicine, trauma and its impacts on PoC are frequently discussed in my work and with my colleagues. My work includes appreciating Indigenous knowledge and cultures, and how to improve healthcare research by including the knowledge and cultures of Indigenous people as our leaders and partners. Although I am not perfect and still learning, I hope this post will be a resource that serves as a starting point on being careful with writing about historical trauma.

There is so much I want to say about writing about historical and intergenerational trauma, but I will try to keep this brief with the main points for writers to consider.

The topic of this post is about including trauma that PoC face. It is intergenerational trauma, which is also known as historical trauma. I will call these IT/HT for short.

IT/HT means trauma inflicted by generations of abuse. This can happen from cycles of abuse between generations, but it is often used to describe trauma caused by colonization. It refers not only to genocide but also to cultural erasure, such as banning religious practices, banning languages, and forcing the minority to assimilate. Racism also contributes to IT/HT by reinforcing the ideas that caused grave harm.

IT/HT is very real and still causes problems. In fact, it is the root of health disparities minorities like Indigenous people face. It influences social determinants of health, such as poverty, food insecurity, violence, addiction, inadequate health care, and the list goes on.

Although discussing IT/HT can be uncomfortable, it is important to consider when representing PoC characters. This isn't to say the discomfort is invalid. In fact, history should make people uncomfortable so there will be improvements. However, talking about IT/HT promotes change, which is what we need. Addressing IT/HT also gives PoC like Indigenous people time to grieve. Grief is part of the healing journey.

Having said that, including the impacts of IT/HT can be tricky. It is a subject that requires a lot of thought, research, and asking questions. Avoiding stereotypes, and crude terms (such as derogatory terms or descriptors) are important. The impacts of racism and IT/HT should be through the eyes of PoC, and also be specific to the race or ethnicity of the character. This is because every group may not experience the same impacts or severity.

Look up sources about IT, HT, or racism from the perspective of the ethnic or racial group you chose. In my experience, while there are so many resources in Indigenous health and how PoC faced impacts of racism, they are often done with Western academics or medicine. This isn't to say that's bad, but we cannot understand the entire picture, or even address the disparities and trauma unless we include Indigenous people or PoC in the research.

There are books, articles, videos, and interviews of people sharing their experiences like First Nations people retelling their experience in boarding schools. Of course, there are many, many other examples. The main idea is to consider PoC's view of these impacts. Their experiences should guide you in how your character faced the same challenges and not so much on how other characters may perceive them.

Another important thing is to never be afraid to ask questions. Most PoC wants to share their experiences, perspectives, and cultures with others who want to listen.

Additionally, when you write PoC characters, focus on the strengths of the people. While there are some cases when bringing up the disparities, representation needs to focus more on strengths. One example is Indigenous people. They have been researchers for centuries and their knowledge to explore the world. They developed innovations far before other people knew about them. This isn't just Native Americans either. This includes Indigenous groups all over the world.

To summarize, there is nothing wrong with including sensitive topics like IT/HT, but it must be done with great care. That means doing plenty of research, especially on materials that include PoC or minority communities as partners and leaders in research. Also, write PoC respectfully without stereotypes, never use crude terms, include experiences from PoC's perspectives, and include their strengths.

I hope the information here helps. My intention in this post is to help people be on the right path to learning about their character's backgrounds, the people who faced hardships from the same backgrounds, and present IT/HT with respect to PoC with their views, cultures, and strengths in mind.

[the-everqueen]

i can't believe i have to say this but since the fandom didn't get the memo:

DON'T WRITE DREAMLING SLAVE AUS SET DURING THE TRANSATLANTIC SLAVE TRADE

i don't care if the context is "it's a dream," "it's Hob's guilt resurfacing in a freudian meta-narrative," or "but this is the catalyst for Hob's redemption arc." it is incredibly fetishistic and disgusting to use a historic moment of collective trauma that still has repercussions on Black people today for the sake of your white mlm ship. it is incredibly dehumanizing and disgusting to insert white characters into a historic moment of collective trauma that explicitly impacted Black people and continues to do so today.

i don't care about your fictional white man's guilt. my real, flesh-and-blood friends and family continue to experience the devastating consequences of the transatlantic slave trade and other historic instances of global white supremacy.

[llycaons]

mexican gothic is really fucking good huh

[forlibcrty]

frankly this is. so insidious. for reference: this is sam adams telling connor that he should lead their little raid to dump the tea in the harbour. it's phrased innocently enough, they're all pals sticking it to the british! but within both historical and in-game context, it has really awful implications.

on the historical side, white colonists actually did dress up as mohawk people for the boston tea party. they darkened their faces with soot and put on native attire. sources on why they did this seem to vary, but no matter what the motivation, it's still not a great fucking thing to do! all accounts indicate there were no actual mohawk people involved, just colonists using their identity as a tool for their own ends. and here, adams is asking the only actual mohawk man among them — who is seventeen years old at this point, by the way — to be the leader of their attack. feels a bit gross!

and then, within the game context, adams knows that connor was already targeted and blamed for an attack he had no hand in. when connor was only thirteen, he was in the wrong place at the wrong time and ended up blamed for inciting part of the boston massacre. adams was the one who helped him get out of that mess. so adams is fully aware that it's not only possible for connor to be seized on as a scapegoat, it already happened before. and yet. for their fun little raid on the tea ships, he's actively choosing to put a mohawk teenager at the head of the attack while other white colonists smear their faces with coal and put on native attire.

not great, sam!

[priwenshallprevail]

Ꮃisɧl𝜄𝑠✝ : It's not big. Not yet, anyways. For when I get back into the groove of things.

So I flushed out this scenario a bit more. Just tiny bit. Continued off of this Idea.

Destination Pembroke . Aid from the Unholy.

I would love to put that forced into Pembroke over severe injury into play. Preferably when things start to get more chaotic in the West End. When the Great Hunt has already launched. But the scenario is far more human than McCullum cares to admit. The scenario itself is dimed onto the period racism toward Irish immigrants and the brewing war of Irish independence at the underbelly. It's a topic that honestly should have been discussed in Vampyr. Because it was in the heat of it around that time. Felt tremendously in both London, and indefinitely in Ireland. It's a topic I am not shy about exploring. But I will definitely be tagging it as a trigger. Out of respect. During the Hunt he gets separated with the patrol he had meant to accompany and oversee. By giving chase on impulse to an Ekon. He loses sight of the Ekon, only to get caught in a nest of skals. In which it is during this slaying he gets shot by a civilian , the very civilians he is aiming to protect. Turns on him. Shot in the back at that, while ridding the streets of skal. A singular skal , that after the slaughter of it's pack mates, escapes him from their secluded location, to a more open one , fleeing out into the streets. This resident didn't understand the skal was no longer human. So all this man saw, was murder, by an Irishman who was heavily armed. He would raise his firearm on Geoffrey while raging about how Irish Nationalist are among them , the IRA are on their doorstep. If not becoming a ranting lunatic. The man didn't shoot at him just once, either. McCullum was suppressed by heavy gunfire. Forced back, heavily wounded , and leaving a blood trail in his wake. Lucky to not be riddled with gunshot holes. He was hit two times. One bullet in particular being within a compromised location. Extracting the bullet without professional medical aid would result in him bleeding to death in a matter of minutes. Leaving it in longer than a few hours, could easily make him septic. The casing lodged too close to vital organs. The slightest adjustment could easily contaminate and or , worse case scenario, puncture said organs. And his strength would wane fast. His men would find him damn near unable to stand on his own. Dependent on structures around him to remain upright. Yet still refusing medical treatment from Pembroke. So he gets knocked out by one of his men and forced into the very hospital he had vowed to never check into as a patient.

Course, I could be cruel to this man's paranoia and add severe lacerations to his neck region. Oh -- the possibilities. . . I'm such a cruel mun.

[aheathen-conceivably]

Violette had tried not to think about Will’s question for weeks. Still, there were small moments that brought up the confusion she had felt when he asked. They weren’t as common now as they had been in New Orleans, but even people who were friendly had a way of asking one too many questions. She had never had any questions about who she was. They were her mother and father, and that’s all she thought she or anyone else needed to know.

Still, she wanted answers for herself, to root her new-found bravado in some sort of concrete truth. But for all she wanted to ask, she didn’t feel like she could go to her mother or father. Least of all because she was old enough now to see their faces when the questions took on a malevolent tone. Her mother’s small wince before she turned to look at her father, his face now a mask of angry stone. Then her polite but terse answer to try and prevent the situation from getting any worse, even while her father’s arm gripped around her shoulders more tightly.

There were moments when she wanted to speak to her mother like she had once done when these things happened. But Violette had long noticed that her mother had a way of avoiding difficult questions, of getting lost in her thoughts and forgetting to answer, or just responding with a pleasant platitude that made her feel better in the moment but gave her no real answers. 

So she stayed silent, instead thinking that maybe she could talk to her father on the way to the ranch. But she needn’t even look at him to hear his voice descending into the heavy tone that happened when his face grew dark, Who made you question yourself, Princess? Huh? Where are they? Tell me, I’ll take care of them for you. 

She couldn’t quite name it yet, but she could sense fear in their answers: the fear that her life might be more difficult than theirs had been, and that there was nothing they could do to stop it. As she encountered their avoidance and anger, she could sense that this fear would keep her in the shadow of their protection forever, even once she was grown. Only in trying to protect her, they couldn’t see that she wasn’t afraid; she wanted the truth, and she slowly realized there was only one person who would give it to her.

When she entered the cabin the first thing that Violette heard was the sound of cursing coming from the kitchen, “Goddamn bread. Foolproof rise recipe, my ass…”

As she stepped nearer she could hear rustling, like someone was frantically flipping through the pages of a book. "Can you not cooperate for once? Just fucking once! Goddamnit, I'm trying, the least you can do is meet me halfway!" The frustrated voice was replaced by the sound of something heavy hitting the floor and rolling away just as Violette reached the doorway.

Her Aunt Jo looked up at her presence, seemingly talking to herself amidst a messy display of canned products, flour, and half finished attempts at cooking. As soon as she saw Violette she wiped the flour from her brow and tried to cover up the look of frustration on her face. She only succeeded in transforming it into guilt that Violette had seen her outburst, but quickly realized that her niece was too preoccupied to register her emotions anyway.

It took Josephine barely a split second to see that Violette wasn't herself. Her usual long strides and childish bravado had been replaced by sheepishness, and before she could even acknowledge her the words spilled out of her mouth. “Aunt Jo, what–what are you?”

Josephine looked at her quizzically, but she quickly continued in a rush of words too long hidden, “It’s just, Momma doesn’t look like me and Poppa doesn’t look like me but you do, and the kids ask me at school and Billy looks like his Poppa and they all seem to think there’s something wrong with the way I look or with Momma and Poppa together and I don’t understand. Is there something wrong with them? Am I supposed to look like you or like them? Is there something wrong with me, with not looking like either your momma or your poppa…”

Her voice trailed off and a wave of understanding washed over Josephine. She moved around the flour covered table and took her niece's confused face in her hands, “Lottie, look at me. My father looked like your momma too, do you understand? And he looked different from my mother and from me, so I know how they look at you, how you feel and the things they ask. That’s why I told you that you can always talk to me, because you are never alone, okay? You never have to feel like no one understands."

She almost stopped there, wanted to stop there, but Violette was staring at her with her mirrored olive eyes. They seemed remarkably unafraid, perhaps even angry that she had stopped speaking at all; Josephine knew that it was time, just the way she had long ago told Zelda would happen. So she took a deep breath and sunk to her knees next to Violette.

"You need to know there are people who think that others are lesser, simply because of the color of their skin. Those people don’t want to know that people like us exist, or that your parents could love one another. Some of them can’t believe it for all they’ve been told. So they ask and ask to try and make sense of it, because it—we threaten the lie that they’ve told themselves: that black and white people can’t live and love just the same. That one is inferior to the other and so they must be kept separate.”

At her last word, Josephine’s stomach sunk. She knew that part of Violette knew all of this, had seen it or felt it and internalized it to some extent, but to say it so bluntly was another matter. She could feel the nausea rising, so she could only imagine what a child must be feeling, but still Violette’s gaze remained resolulte.

She pushed back her niece’s hair and continued, “Just this, us, the love that your parent’s have and their lives, it threatens these people. So they will try to tell you that there is only one side of you, to put you in a box that fits their prejudices rather than challenge them. They’ve tried to draw a line in the sand that would split you in two; but you are you. You are whole and your parents love each other very much. That’s something to be proud of, no matter what anyone else may make you feel. Do you promise me you’ll always be proud of who you are and how you look, Lottie? Of your parents and the love they have for one another?”

You are whole. It would ring in her ears for the rest of her life. Every time she saw a sign telling her where to sit or someone looking at her parents hatefully. Every time someone stared at her a little too long only for a wave of disgust to wash over their face, or each time someone tried to tell her, whether in words or in actions, you aren’t really one of us. She would hear it in her mind like a refrain, a comfort radiating from this very day when her aunt’s arms were wrapped around her, even when she was long gone and there was no one left standing between her and the world’s vitriol.

I am whole. It lodged itself deep into her brain, creating a connection within her that kept her from splintering even when the world drove the wedge deeper into her psyche and tested the mantra to its limits. But on that day all she could do was nod her head in agreement and try to comprehend everything her Aunt Jo had said as she hugged her.

[blueshistorysims]

June 1932, Henford-on-Bagley, England

Eleora was more than happy to take Adanna out to the town, eager there was a woman her age visiting. While she couldn’t relate to all her problems and struggles, she knew what it was like to be a fish out of water. She’d lived in England all her life, and her last name and wealth gave her access that many women like her did not have, but she still felt people’s stares and coveted whispers, whether due to her skin color or title. 

“Do you miss Nigeria?”

Adanna nodded. “Greatly. There’s no Nigerian community in New York really, and I miss eating my mother’s fufu and Jollof rice. …But at the same time, I know being an American will be better for James and any other child Thaddeus and I have.” She scoffed, waving her hand dismissively. “Big thank you to the Empire for ruining my home country.”

Eleora nodded. “I understand completely.”

“Thaddeus wants to leave New York, but I don’t think he will. He may resent his parents now, but my father-in-law is getting weaker. He’ll be devasted when he dies, no matter what he says now.”

Eleora sighed. “I think Byron’s the opposite spectrum but with a similar sentiment. I suspect he’s quite sick of having his mother around, however, he won’t ever outright tell his mother he’s arranged for her to live elsewhere.”

“I am lucky to have a good relationship with my parents.”

“As am I. I truly do not know or understand my mother-in-law and my husband’s resentment of one another. Neither of them will ever admit it, of course, claim it’s something else. I worry that they will eventually have a large fight.”

Adanna shook her head, smiling sadly. “We are here in England, avoiding Thaddeus’ parents for that very reason.”

[chocobox]

not over seeing someone call iggy an "ugly red flag nickname that only people fetishizing colonization use" baby you know that's like . just what japanese fans call him right. like to this day