#will make comments about mine that demean their own? which makes me feel terrible even though ive worked really hard to get to where i am

[nillawafer]

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[ffamranxii]

I just finished Fruits Basket Another and I have some Feelings, okay? Under the cut, because spoilers.

THE CHARACTERS

Hoooo boy let’s unpack here. Furubana is about Sawa Mitoma, a nervous first year in high school. She firmly believes that she’s basically human trash, and resolves to take up as little space in the world as possible, and that’s not even me paraphrasing. She says within the first few pages she wants to take up as little space as humanly possible. We find out that she’s the daughter of an extremely abusive mother - emotionally abusive. Sawa’s mother never hits her, but she’s also never once nice to her in any of her appearances. She isolates Sawa from any and all friends, she constantly drags Sawa down, and she’s rarely even at home, even back when Sawa was a little girl. How long has Sawa been looking after herself? Sawa is what Tohru could have become if Kyoko had been involved with a gang member rather than Katsuya. 

The main trio of characters is rounded out by essentially the same trio as before: Mutsuki Sohma as the son of Yuki and Machi and Hajime Sohma as the son of Tohru and Kyo. Visually, they look nearly identical, which is why I chose that ^ picture. But they could not be more different. Sawa is every Sohma insecurity rolled into one, and the Sohmas are what their parents could have been without the curse and the constant abuse. Hajime is one of the oldest of the cousins, smothered with love and affection by his entire family, and is lovingly referred to as Dad and Papa (which annoys him), being one of the few in the family who cooks, cleans, or is, y’know, responsible. (Good job, Kyoru! Teach your boy right!) He is unwillingly elected student council president, and manages it easily. Unlike his father’s life, things come easily to Hajime, but he doesn’t let that make him conceited. He’s a down to earth character who trades biting remarks with Mutsuki. Mutsuki, on the other hand, I love. I adore. I want to erect a shrine to this boy. Poor Yuki, his wife hath birthed him a miniature Ayame. Mutsuki is trouble under a beautiful exterior, subtle snark and gentle teasing, but over the top in other aspects (like his thing that was once a desk and complete inability to do the most basic of tasks like buy laundry detergent, his utter willingness to let other people do things for him). He is also a deeply caring individual, and has an extremely close relationship with his cousin Shiki which is the complete opposite of his father’s relationship with Shiki’s mother that I nearly cried right there while reading volume three.

Kinu Sohma is the daughter of Hatori and Mayuko (a pairing of which I am not fond), and I actually was not fond of her until volume three, at which point she became a treat. A college student, Kinu seems to have no real ambitions or life goals (much like many college freshmen), spends much of her time sleeping, and only really sweeps in at the last chapter to comfort a very distressed Sawa in the way only a fellow woman can, delivering a wonderful speech right up with Kyoko’s Words Of Wisdom about how no one has the right to treat you badly, even your own family. No one has the right to abuse you, demean you, hurt you. That is a curse. She actually uses the word curse, and it makes me wonder what her parents told her of the Sohma curse, if Hatori ever mentioned how Akito used to be, or how Shigure was such a piece of shit about the seahorse, and it made me love Hatori all over again, for teaching his daughter such a powerful thing. Volume three also gave wonderful interaction between Kinu and the entirely deranged (but perfectly appropriate) Hibika Sohma, the daughter of Ayame and Mine. Just like Hatori is the only one who has any sort of control over Ayame, Kinu is the only one who can reign in Hibika. I believe these two are the oldest, out of all of the cousins, because in volume two, Hibika just fucking jets off to Paris with no warning, at the top of one of her tiny tophats instead of setting up her parents’ second store, because she needed inspiration to create new dresses. I don’t think a high school student could do that. Hibika may possibly be the oldest (Kinu is still a minor at 19 [Japan’s age of adulthood is 20]), because I don’t think a minor could do that either. She’s obsessed with Sawa and playing dress up with her, something Kinu is able to reign her away from doing with ease. She’s only the tiniest bit toned down from Ayame. I love her.

Michi Manabe is the daughter of Kakeru and Komaki and is sometimes at odds with Hajime. My biggest complaint with Furubana is that she is not in it enough!! Despite not being a Sohma proper, Michi is included in nearly all Sohma activities and all the Sohma cousins know her. She and Mutsuki were raised as siblings and address each other as such, which is precious because awww, but also because Kakeru has a deep sibling bond with his half sister as an adult, Komaki (who I view as another Tohru in a way, from how she was introduced) made an effort to keep Yuki and Machi in their lives and comfortable, and Yuki and Machi both created a family unit with the one family member who wanted Machi around, a bond so strong that their children saw each other so much growing up that they refer to each other as siblings. How precious is that?? Poor Hajime is probably the only voice of reason Mutsuki ever had in his life because you know Michi is to Mutsuki what Kakeru would be to Ayame. God I need a Kakeru-meets-Ayame-centric episode right now. Yuki would DIE. Riku Sohma is one half of the twin siblings born to Haru and Rin, and while he looks like Haru, this boy is a lot like his mother. He doesn’t have the anger issues his parents have, not really (except for instance of punching out Hibika’s brother), but he can be a bit spacey, he’s very serious and literal, and he likes to sleep. Everywhere. This family and their sleep. It kills me. He also gets himself a cute little girlfriend, and because of his crush on this girl and his watching of her, he notices her wanting to reach out to Sawa, and Sawa makes her first friend (mostly) on her own in nearly her entire life! On the other hand, Sora Sohma, his twin sister, is cute and spacey, a bit ditzy, and looks like their mother but is 100% Haru. She has nicknames for everyone in the family, and never calls anyone by their actual name. She’s my second favorite character after Hibika. Sora reminds me very much of Usagi Tsukino: instead of seeing a person, Sora sees a friend.

Poor Chizuru Sohma should��ve been Yuki’s kid. Honestly I’m surprised Ayame and Mine don’t have more kids, given how passionate I’m sure they are. And while Chizuru loves his father, he does declare the man crazy (as does every other character, minus Mutsuki, who says he’s “the most terrific of all uncles”) on more than one occasion. Chizuru is the more responsible of the Ayame/Mine Sohma children, setting up the Ayame II shop essentially on his own until Mutsuki offers Sawa’s help as a part timer (because remember, Hibika decided to go to Paris for the week).  He hates that others view his family as eccentric and him as normal and especially hates when they comment on it, and he tends to be a bit foul-mouthed and outspoken. A bit like Hiro. Poor kid. Rio Mosca is Saki Hanajima’s boy and he is NOT KAZUMA’S SON AND THIS MAKES ME SO SAD. His parents’ love story is rather cute, however. His father is a foreigner (Italian, given that his surname is Mosca), and the two met on a plane, making this a cute little callback to when young Megumi prayed for a someone for Saki to “get on a plane and meet her.” Mina Sohma is the most precious baby and is the daughter of our boy Momiji! Although, look at her - could she be anyone else’s child? She is sweet and cute and seems to be without Momiji a lot - Momiji inherited his father’s business (which seems to be international?), and he travels all the time. Mina has a great talent for batting and rather than be privately tutored and follow her father all over the world, she stays behind in Japan to play baseball for her school. Her dream is to take over the family business from her father like he did from his. It seems Momiji’s terribly tragic story ended happily, as it seems he reconciled with his father enough to inherit his business... (more on this later). And then we have Shiki Sohma, who is surprisingly the son of Shigure and Akito! :O Shiki seems to inhabit two worlds, much like the Sohmas of Furuba. On the one hand, he is part of a generation who was raised by those healed by Tohru Honda. Loving, caring parents who love and adore their children. He has friends who care deeply for him - his best friends, despite all being in different grades, are Chizuru and Rio, and they all play Go together in the school club. His family are all deeply committed to him - Mutsuki especially is close to him, as seen in the first volume where Shiki was teased at but not seen, as Mutsuki called him to come to the house where he, Hajime, Kinu, and Sawa were having a hot pot with Michi, Riku, and Sora.  His parents both are and aren’t the Shigure and Akito we know from Furuba - Shigure is still the immature jokester and Akito is still the serious head of the family, but they both love their son immensely, totally and completely in a way that Akito remembers being loved as a child by her father, in a way that Shigure’s parents probably loved him. On the other hand, in volume three, it is shown that, being the son of the head of the family, and living in the Sohma compound, with the old servants, the “old timers,” and Ren, subjects Shiki to some truly horrific abuse the likes of which no other second gen Sohma child has had to go through. Shiki would greet guests who would give him gifts, only to find that within those gifts were notes badmouthing his mother. Ren attempted to stab him as a small child, something the old Akito would and has attempted on the first gen Sohmas, and it’s implied the only reason was because Shiki was Akito’s child. Akito threw herself in front of Ren’s knife and took the blow for her boy. Shiki is a quiet and withdrawn child, one foot in each of these worlds, and seemingly paralyzed over how to act. Much like Sawa, especially once she meets the Sohmas.

Remember I said we’d come back to Momiji’s happy ending? See that woman in the top left? That’s Momo Sohma, Momiji’s sister. In Furubana, Momiji has reconciled not only with his father, but with his sister as well! Momo appears to pick up Momo from the Sohma house; she is Momiji’s assistant and Mina seems to stay with her sometimes when Momiji is out of the country. Momiji has his family back!!! Speaking of families, Hinata Sohma, Hiro’s little sister, is all grown up and makes her own appearance in the third volume (and is a slight alcoholic, lol). She also mentions brothers - did Hiro did another sibling after his curse broke?? Megumi Hanajima makes an appearance as a teacher at Kaibara High School, and this is my second complaint about Furubana - there is not enough Megumi!! He grew up sexy! Second best glow up in the series after Momiji! It’s Megumi who tells the romantic story of how Saki met her husband on the plane. Also making an appearance is Makoto Takei, former student council president, unwilling witness to Haru’s natural hair color explanation. He is now a teacher as well, and Sawa and Riku’s homeroom teacher. He’s also still in love with Yuki, and lets Mutsuki get away with anything. He is often at odds with Ruriko Kageyama, the daughter of Motoko Minagawa of the Prince Yuki Fan Club. Ruriko has inherited her mother’s obsession, though unlike Motoko and Makoto (god those two would’ve made a great obsessed couple), Ruriko loves ALL Sohmas. I don’t understand how the worship of an entire family to stalker levels is an official school club but whatever. Ruriko is actually pretty cool, and while she’s pretty strict, she’s also on somewhat friendly (like, “person I talk to at school but nowhere else” type friend) terms with Sawa. 

THE STORY

I feel this can best be summed up in five sentences and in reverse: When Sawa was little, she fell down the stairs. She was found by Shiki, who simultaneously called an ambulance and fell in love with her. Her piece of shit mother sued Shiki because he was rich as shit. Ten years later, no Sohmas harbor any grudges against Sawa, her mother is still a piece of shit, the Sohma children are full of Tohru-and-Kyoko wisdom passed down from their parents, and try to help Sawa. And also they all hardcore ship Shiki/Sawa. The end. 

No seriously, that’s the story. It’s beautiful. I wish there was one or two more volumes, a cameo featuring the adults, it would be perfect. Could you imagine the terrible awkward jokes Shigure would make? “Honey look, Shiki’s in love with the girl he pushed down the stairs as a kid. Was marrying her one of the terms of the lawsuit? Hahaha.” And Akito would just be like “....baby, you and Sawa go outside while I smack your father, you don’t need to see this.” And the two go outside and we then see Shigure fucking fly through the paper door and a loud “YOU FUCKING MORON” follow him out with the classic -_- “did I say something wrong?” Shigure face. And Shiki is just a fascinating color of ruby fire about the cheeks and mumbles, “so yeah... that’s my father....” and Sawa is a similar color and staring at her shoes like “he seems nice...” and Akito opens the ruined door as though she didn’t just beat the shit out of her husband and calls out to them, “come and have tea, your father had to step out for a bit. Sawa, dear, I’d love to hear more about you. would you prefer jasmine tea or green,” because Akito has done a complete 180 and become a decent human being since becoming a mother and Shiki is EVERYTHING to her and if her son loves this girl then GODDAMNIT SO DOES SHE. 

[trcubledycuth]

burning family legacies.

WHO → Daenerys Targaryen & Harry Osborn. @blacxlotus

WHAT → Modern madness tearing up their horrendous father’s legacies.

NOTES → legit from 5000 billion years ago, but the prequel to this thread.

DAENERYS:

“They say your father was just as sane as mine.” Daenerys quips calmly, tea cup held a ways down from her chin, eyes peering over at Harry. It’s been YEARS since she’s seen him, but the familiar face has her lips curling into a content smile that has some true happiness to it. The TARNISHING of the Targaryen name was not one that escaped the scrutiny of headlines around the world. Targaryen Industries suffered a definite hit when the public psychotic break happened, thus Oscorp SOARED and now years later, she was shuffled into Daddy’s footsteps, trying DESPERATELY to bring the family’s name and now HER legacy back to golden standards she was proud to uphold.

So lunch with Harry Osborn, their fathers no longer looming over them. Business, time with old friends. Things that never mixed, but Dany thought it best to get the GIANT ELEPHANT out of the room, especially when her time in New York was meant to be BRIEF. That meant getting what was necessary out of the way first. Hair curled to perfection, her smile breaks into something GENUINE as she sits back against the chair, eyes still having not left the DASHING man in front of her. “How horrified do you think they’d be to know they’re once again being mentioned within the same breath, all these years later for this?” After all the good they’d accomplished, after all the BAD they’d done? “I think the universe is having a laugh on them.” Dany admits, her emotional ties scarred and severed, it’s more a coffee table picture book than a tell all memoir.

“I’m happy to see we’ve eluded it this far.” A moment passed, her cup raising to her lips before a small laugh. “For now anyways.” Genetics could be a bitch after all.”

HARRY:

A genuine grin and a laugh coming from Harry Osborn? That was certainly new. “A polite way to put Norman Osborn lost his fucking mind, huh?” he responded, never one to play games or skirt around the truth. It didn’t suit him. At any rate, if anyone was allowed to make quips about his father, it was Dany. For all the shit she’d been through, however, here she was, looking more perfect and speaking with more confidence than he could ever remember her having before. If he were to guess, they both likely changed quite a bit from the last time they saw one another. He supposed the difference was while he was off in boarding schools taking full advantage of the perks that came with having the Osborn name, she was in a family that was trying and failing to pick up the pieces of their bat-shit leader. What were the odds that he’d be dealing with the same thing only a few years later? Now that he was back in New York, and the company was- for all rights and purposes- his, what was supposed to be competition felt more and more like camaraderie in their unusually similar paths.

Having lunch with Daenerys was a little bit like being transported back to his childhood, despite the fact that this was supposed to be a business meeting, and he was certain the rest of the corporate world was waiting with bated breath to see how this went. An amusing thought. “Knowing that they’d shit themselves is half the reason I came.” Not true. “Maybe less than half,” he added as an afterthought, sipping unashamedly at a glass of scotch. If it was inappropriate, he clearly didn’t care.

At her comment, Harry’s eyes narrowed playfully. It was a disconcerting look for most of the members of his board, as it was usually followed by a subtly snide comment, but his response took a notably different and more amiable tone when he responded to her. “Have you eluded it, though? Most people probably think you’re insane for even suggesting we meet like this.”

DAENERYS:

“I’m nothing if not polite.” Dany teases, mocking her own REPUTATION and how her name has been dragged through the mud, despite everything. Even if not following in her father’s footsteps, being a woman in a man’s world like this industry, being demeaned and scrutinized, and held to an entirely different standard… That was something in it’s own she never allowed herself to fall to. “Though I feel they both lost their minds long ago.” Dany adds on, a sad amusement pushing her opinion deeper. She’d been quite VOCAL on what she did and did not agree on and that have given her a REPUTATION she didn’t necessarily deserve. When men stated what they thought and wanted, they were being assertive, yet when she did it, she was being an immature little brat.

The world had much growing to do. But she was trying to make that change HOW she could; which lead her here. With Harry… But it didn’t FEEL like business which only added her shoulders in relaxing, her smile growing ever so slightly into a grin. A LONG and tedious eye roll silenced as she sipped quietly from her cup, trying to HIDE her amusement. “Less than half?” Dany questions, amusement now fully quirking her brow high as she lowers her cup, settling it to the table. “Most people aren’t worth my time.” Daenerys offers, a satisfied and relaxed expression that sits with POISE.

“You on the other hand. Well, I’ve always had a soft spot.” Oh if only their fathers could see what they’d ACCIDENTALLY created. All the galas and functions, dinners and meetings, two opposing companies coming together, even if only to attempt to ONE UP the other. Properly behaved children shoved together, bored out of their minds while the adults talked, and talked. Children that grew into teens that became more cynical, the veil of innocence slipping beyond the point of return. “Then again, you DID accept my invitation.” Her words are coy, the insinuation tossed back at Harry, perhaps HE was the insane one. “So perhaps that just says we’re MUCH better off than our fathers.”

HARRY:

Harry shouldn’t have been smiling so much, it felt unnatural on his face for how little he’d been doing it lately, but god had she grown fierce over the years. That paired with her always perfectly smooth words and deceivingly coy mannerisms?  She was a force to be reckoned with. He didn’t know how the rest of the world didn’t love her yet. He’d been following her career closely ever since her father stepped down, and it’d been nothing short of a brilliant rise to power. Perhaps he was foolish for admiring her so much, but it’s not as if he could forget the hours they’d spent as children during countless meetings (more like petty territorial fights between their fathers) as their glorified servants watched over them, him convincing her to rebel against them so they could be free for a few hours. He didn’t have a lot of fond memories from his childhood, but those were certainly some of them.

“Less than half.” Harry asserted, more definitely this time. He didn’t bother to elaborate. She knew what he meant. He snorted into his scotch glass, narrowed eyes rolling to the side as he drank more. He wasn’t even buzzed for the tolerance he’d built up for the stuff. “Well, it’s good to know I’m at least somewhat worth your time. If only for old time’s sake.” His smile shrank into something more secretive, eyes trained on the window in the private room they reserved in some fancy ass restaurant downtown. “Every single waste of space on my board advised against me accepting, you know?” he turned back to her, expression hardening.

“They clearly don’t know shit. I think you’re right. And if I can’t be better than my father, then put a bullet through my brain now and be done with it.” Harry normally didn’t make a habit of speaking about Norman Osborn so openly, but he knew Dany more than understood. She was probably the only person who did. “He was brilliant. Once. A terrible father, but Oscorp wouldn’t be where it is without him. I can’t ignore that fact. But how the fuck are we supposed to grow when all anyone can worry about is this damn rivalry between us?” For all the faults of his father, he was one of the few who recognized Harry’s intelligence, if not only when he was insulting him for wasting it. He watched her for a moment, believing she might be one of the few who saw it too, as he saw her’s. “I get the feeling I’m not the only one who sees the potential in what we could do together.”

DAENERYS:

The smile was impossible to wipe from her perfectly painted lips. Perhaps this was the best thing she could have done. “I think we both know somewhat isn’t generous enough a term.” Daenerys corrected. Harry had always been in the back of her mind, but he’d slip in and out from time to time… This however, this fueled the looming sensation of NOSTALGIA, an old friend with a special little bond not many others could relate to. In some senses, Harry Osborn represented what could have been associated with THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY. Not because there had ever been any talk of such things, but because there was ALWAYS something about ‘what if’ lingering in silence between them.

Both far too mature, too jaded to act.

Or was that it at all? “Are any of them under the age of fifty?” Daenerys questioned, amusement evident in the fact she assumed not. All sculpted by Harry’s father, to act in his absence should he ever no longer be there to lead Oscorp. Harry however, well Harry had the ability to override everything and crush whatever had once been.

“Well, I’d drink to that.” She offered, a small huff forming into a laugh at the thought. Being like her father. She knew the man, the stories, the tales. The monster. “What rivalry?” Dany questioned, already summarizing her viewpoint on THAT. There were many things that could be done to progress, but chomping at the bit to up one another when it could all be focused? Driving faster to their GOALS, offering substantial growth?

The appearance of the waiter had Dany ordering a glass of wine deciding that while BUSINESS and liquor never mixed with her as a rule, this was going far better than she could have ever hoped, completely blinded what it felt like to be in the presence of an old, unlikely friend. When they were alone once again, amethyst eyes found Harry’s a relaxed and CONFIDENT expression resting on her features. “I propose Targaryen Industries and Oscorp Industries merge.”

                     ONE WEEK LATER.

HARRY:

Harry knew better than to try and predict what Dany might've been thinking when she requested they meet, but nothing could've prepared him for what she proposed. Years of tense competition and unstable meetings where their father's drew capricious territory lines had been leading to what many thought would eventually be a takeover of one company over the other. First Dany's father lost his mind, leaving Norman Osborn to reap in their misfortune. Before he could begin to think about buying them out, however, he got sick, and his mental state deteriorated as well. Some kind of sick fucking joke, as much as he might've deserved it.

The fact that each respective company now rest in the hands of their children, both of whom had gotten along despite the odds in their youth, might've been a gift more than a joke though. Targaryen and Oscorp Industries merge... what an idea. He'd been stricken silent when she said the words, but the mere memory still made him smile for her boldness. It left a lot up in the air, and it amused him to think that even considering her proposal would likely make his father put out a pricey contract on his life (if he didn't simply kill him himself), but he needed to think about it. He was often reckless, even careless, but he couldn’t be about this.

Realistically, Harry knew this might be the solution he’d been looking for, albeit not the one he’d been hoping for. Having just stepped out of the shower, he stared at himself in the mirror, eyes landing on the ugly mark along the side of his neck sporting a sickly green hue. He poked at it, and felt a tremor of pain throughout his body.  Retro viral hyperplasia. I never told you that it's genetic. The words his father spoke before he died with unsettling amusement. He hadn’t told anyone, never even stepped foot into a doctor’s office when he already knew the truth. He was going to die, it was only a matter of time. He’d never have kids. Someone was going to have to take this over. Who better than the person who actually earned it?

Harry didn’t trust anyone with the information, for the most part too afraid to even admit it to himself, but tonight would be the last night Dany was in town and he had finally made up his mind. He couldn’t go out to some swanky New York restaurant this time, though. He needed something without pretenses, something that felt like it could be them. The way it used to be, or at least some semblance of what they used to have. He spent a lot of time building up his persona as Harry Osborn, the heir who could do as he pleased, but he needed to let go of that at least a little if he was going to do this.

When he changed, it wasn’t in his usual designer wear. A black t-shirt and matching jeans paired with a leather jacket- worn. He hadn’t put any sort of dress code on the occasion, but he assumed she would be the complete opposite, stunning as usual. He had asked Dany to meet him at his place for drinks that night, something easy before her flight home. He rarely got nervous, but his skin was crawling with it now, and by the time her arrival was announced via a speaker by his front door, he was instinctively building that barrier back up. Maybe he needed some of it. Vulnerability never came naturally to him.

Already on his third glass of scotch, Harry prepared a glass of what he knew to be Dany’s favorite wine so that the moment she was settled politely in his overly extravagant condo overlooking the city lights, he was properly astute. Handing her the glass silently after exchanging pleasantries, he sat across from her and spoke. “I know you want to know what I’m thinking about your proposal. But I think I should get something important out of the way first. Something I haven’t told anyone yet- but if we’re going to move forward with this, you should know,” he smirked, and continued, “that I’m dying.”

cont here. x

[moneyhighschool]

Mutual Parasitism, Chapter 2

Enjolras is capable of being terrible, but it’s a lot more complicated than that.

This is the second chapter in a prior fic but it can easily be read without reading the first chapter if you’re less into the hurt and more into the comfort

Word count: 2,649; very minor discussions of eating disorders; see full tag list on ao3

Grantaire does not want to break their embrace, but Enjolras’ choked voice alarms him. Slowly he pulls away, holding Enjolras out at arm's length to inspect his face. Enjolras’ eyes, blue with startlingly clear whites that Grantaire sees in his sleep, are flooded with tears, and the whites are struck with red. He did not know that Patria could cry.

A gust of wind blows over the pair, and the chill causes Enjolras to shiver.

“Let’s talk somewhere else,” Grantaire suggests. Enjolras nods and swallows thickly, eyelids flickering quickly in attempt to call back his tears.

“My apartment…” Enjolras says, struggling to keep his voice steady, “Combeferre and Courfeyrac—”

“We’ll go to mine,” Grantaire says. “We won’t be interrupted there.”

Enjolras nods again. How quickly Grantaire can already read his mind, predict what he is going to say. Grantaire still has his hands on Enjolras’ shoulders, and when Enjolras glances at them Grantaire quickly withdraws, shoving his fists deep into his pockets. “Follow me, fearless leader.”

Their walk takes Enjolras down a path he has never been, into a borough infamous for crime and squalor. He had never thought about where Grantaire lived; it is a tiny detail that, at the time, Enjolras found inconsequential, unnecessary to learn, but now he wished he had known sooner. Grantaire walks two paces ahead of him, neck bent forward to stare at the ground, silent. For the first time, Enjolras notes the unruly state of Grantaire’s hair, the thin layer of grime on his neck, and the frayed threads loosing themselves from his jacket. Sure, he had known that Grantaire was not rich, but he hadn’t realized the state he had been living in.

The pair approaches a slanted brick building with a front door that appears to be off its hinges. “Careful with that,” Grantaire says, confirming Enjolras’ suspicions as he carefully removes the door from the frame. Noticing Enjolras’ expression, he adds, “The landlord won’t fix it.”

“This is his property and you’re his paying tenant, it’s only right that he repair the front door!”

Grantaire laughs, not unkindly, but in the way he sometimes laughs when Enjolras accuses him of being drunk. “The landlord lives five blocks away. He still gets my money and he knows I’m not going anywhere, so he doesn’t give a shit.” As Enjolras steps inside, he places the door back into the doorframe. “I’m upstairs.”

They pass by a door on their way to the stairs, which are rickety and feel as though they will crumble beneath Enjolras’ feet. They ascend the stairs and at the first door, labelled 611, Grantaire produces a key and unlocks the door, which he then has to ram his shoulder against a few times before it swings open.

The doorway is incredibly narrow. Grantaire ushers Enjolras inside ahead of him, and Enjolras has to enter shoulder first in order to fit through the frame. Grantaire tries his best to shut the door quietly behind them, but the level of the building is uneven and the door sticks in the frame, so he has to shove it closed with a small thump. Enjolras looks around the cramped living room, noting the liquor bottles littered on the floor along with assorted art supplies and canvases both completed and half-finished. Electing to ignore the bottles, Enjolras says, “I didn’t know you were an artist.”

Grantaire scoffs. “A con artist, perhaps.”

Enjolras takes a second look at the canvases. The art styles are varied, but the use of color is striking and he cannot help but think that the palette is patriotic. “They’re stunning,” he says, and means it.

Grantaire ducks his head by way of reply and tosses a dirty shirt off of the couch before sitting down. “I would offer you food, but I have none.”

The mention of food reminds Enjolras of what brought him here in the first place, and his stomach churns with anxiety. “Thank you for allowing me to come over,” he says, sitting down on the other end of the couch.

Grantaire nods. Despite the unusual nature of the request, Grantaire would have done, has done, and will always do anything for Enjolras. Nevertheless, he can’t help but be unnerved by the sight of Enjolras in his home, on his couch, looking at him with a depth in his eyes that makes him seem as though he is searching for something. Grantaire has never seen him like this before; if he didn’t know better, he would say Enjolras looks hesitant, unsure. But certainly Enjolras has never been either of those things.

Then what can he make of what Enjolras said? We will help each other. His voice plays back again and again, in a fashion Grantaire is not unfamiliar to – though the positivity of the phrase is new. What could Grantaire possibly help Enjolras with? Why would Enjolras want his help to begin with? Enjolras thinks little of him, Grantaire knows, both in that he doesn’t think highly of him as well as that he spares little thought for the immoral cynic. Grantaire cannot fathom a world in which he could be of any assistance to a god such as he.

But Enjolras is here anyway, in his apartment, sitting feet away from him, looking at him in a way that is half expectant and half trepidant, and he seems, for not the first time this evening, at a loss for words. And since Grantaire is not one for uncomfortable conversations nor for expressing emotions, he elects to ignore the situation that brought them here.

“So, what brings you to my humble home? Certainly not the ambiance, though you do grow fond of the rats after a while.”

Enjolras considers a few potential replies, but all of them seem to be demeaning at worst or superior at best, so he decides against a comment on Grantaire’s living situation. He doesn’t want to say anything to hurt Grantaire, even in the slightest, ever again – heaven knows he has said more than enough for a lifetime. He came here for a reason: to confide in Grantaire. That’s what he must do.

“You call me fearless, but that isn’t true.” Grantaire is silent, his expression patient and open, inviting Enjolras to continue. He has never spoken these words aloud – not to Courfeyrac, not to Combeferre, not even to himself – but something about Grantaire gives him the feeling that he could say anything in this moment and not be criticized. He continues slowly. “I fear that the People will not stand with us at the barricade. I fear that France shall never be free. I…” Enjolras looks away. “I fear death.”

Death. A thing Enjolras fears and invites in spades. It's ironic, his fear of death, given his inclination for self-destructive behavior. His stomach pangs in retaliation, as though reprimanding him for his sins.

Grantaire hardly hesitates before replying. “Heaven may call for its lost angel but you will not heed the cry. Do not fear death. Death should cower at your feet.”

Enjolras cannot ignore the allusion to holiness, yet another reminder that he is weaker than the vision others hold of him. “Death fears no one.”

“Then you must become Death.”

“You must not believe anything I’m saying,” Enjolras says harshly. This seems ridiculous, suddenly, like the dreams that feel real while you sleep but outrageous once you wake. “You think that I'm perfect.”

“Not for the first time in your life you're wrong, Enjolras,” Grantaire says.

“You liken me to marble.”

“Marble has its blemishes.”

“You call me Apollo.”

“Perhaps you are not a god, but you carry his bow and arrows. You fight for France and protect her people,” Grantaire says gently, a manner of speaking which Enjolras thought impossible of him. Enjolras finally looks up, and he sees that Grantaire's eyes are again brimming with tears. “If only I had known how much my words hurt you. I would take it all back if I could.”

A stabbing pain strikes through Enjolras’ heart, and he takes Grantaire's hands in his. Grantaire's eyes shoot down to the touch as Enjolras speaks.

“It's no more your fault than mine. I goaded you. One cannot insult a man so frequently and expect him to not fight back.”

Grantaire looks up again and his eyes are gentle on Enjolras’ – firm with intent, yes, but mixed with a note of love that Enjolras is beginning to understand. He realizes that he wants to – needs to – confide his secret in Grantaire. Grantaire would understand. Grantaire would know what to say.

However, try as he may, Enjolras can not admit to his failure. Yes, it's failure that Enjolras fears; it is a failure to care for his own body, and how may he care for France if he can't even care for himself? This is why he has never told his secret to a single soul; he cannot bear the weight of the truth that he is not a good enough leader for his friends or for his country.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire murmurs, and Enjolras snaps out of his anxious thoughts. There's something in Grantaire's voice that brings Enjolras both comfort and strength in equal measure. His tone is as soft as that of a mother's lullaby, soothing and reassuring.

Enjolras steels himself, looks away from Grantaire once more; he can't bring himself to look him in the eye. It feels as though his body is physically rejecting the words, shunning the admission of guilt. He opens his mouth.

“Sometimes I starve myself.”

It's harder to say than Enjolras expects, but once it’s out it feels as though he’s purged. Irrationally, he expects Grantaire to gasp, to stare with mouth agape, to yell, to shame him for what he has done to himself.

Grantaire does none of these things.

Instead, Grantaire nods – not as a presumption of understanding, but as an acknowledgement of comradery. “And I drink for every meal of the day. Different poisons, similar goals, I think.”

Enjolras studies Grantaire’s expression, looking for anything that betrays disgust or disappointment, but none of that is there. All Enjolras sees is compassion.

Grantaire hesitates for the first time in the conversation. His bushy eyebrows knit together briefly, but his features smooth before he speaks. “Enjolras, do you think your life matters?”

Enjolras’ breath catches in his throat, unprepared for the question. He looks away, something akin to shame heating the tips of his ears. Does he, Enjolras, the individual, matter? No. What matters is the spirit of liberté and Révolution, not the bodies of its servants. “Our lives alone count for nothing,” he says.

Grantaire doesn’t respond immediately. Enjolras looks up, surprised to see that tears have returned to Grantaire’s eyes. In retrospect, he thinks, perhaps this was not the best thing to say to someone who suffers from issues of self worth, but as he opens his mouth to explain himself Grantaire speaks.

“You matter, Enjolras,” he says, his voice firm despite the tears pooling in his eyes. “Where would France be without you? She would be voiceless, suffering.”

“She would have found her voice through another–”

“Where would your friends be without you?” Grantaire interrupts as though Enjolras hadn’t spoken. There’s an edge to his voice similar to the tone he adopts in their debates – hard and righteous. “You speak so often of unity and of sharing a common blood for the cause, but how can you say those things and doubt that you are the stitch that brings them all together?”

“Someone else would have risen to fight, I am not the sole unifier of the revolution–”

“Where would I be without you?”

Grantaire practically shouts the sentence, the speed at which he speaks making it sound as though he had to force it out from the bottom of his throat. For what seems like the tenth time that day, Enjolras has no reply. Does he really matter that much to Grantaire? How can that be so, when, by all accounts, the majority of their interactions are coarse and argumentative? When Enjolras consistently shuts Grantaire down with insults? When Enjolras uses their debates to sharpen his proverbial sword, when every point he makes is target practice?

And yet tears are running down Grantaire’s cheeks, and his face is red – perhaps from shame, perhaps from anger, perhaps from embarrassment. He tries to pull his hands free from Enjolras’, but Enjolras holds his hands even tighter.

“And where would I be without you?” Enjolras says, having not considered the question until this very moment but realizing, now, that the answer is more significant than he ever could have imagined. Grantaire, the unrelenting cynic, the one always challenging Enjolras and forcing him to consider views outside of his own; of course Grantaire matters to Enjolras, more so than he ever would have thought.

“And where would our friends be without you?” Enjolras says, thinking of Grantaire’s kindness to Jehan and his brotherhood with Bahorel, of Grantaire’s amiability with their friends, of the way he makes them laugh and feel at ease.

“And where would France be without you?” Without Grantaire to challenge Enjolras, to force him to think and reconsider and vary himself, France would not have as ardent a leader as she has in Enjolras. And while he has never considered it until right this moment, sitting across from Grantaire, he realizes: “Without you, Grantaire, I would not be me.”

Enjolras hadn’t noted Grantaire’s expression since his first reply, his thoughts too sudden and deep and revelational, but now he looks at Grantaire and sees shock staring back at him. Grantaire is motionless, even his tears ceasing to fall and settling back into pools in his eyes.

“You are my second half, and I've realized I do not know much about you,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire swallows thickly, blinking his eyes rapidly and forcing a heavy breath out through his nostrils. “There isn't much to know.”

“Nonsense. I have spent so much of our time together arguing with you and not enough time listening. Tell me your story.”

“I have no stories other than yesterday's last call.”

Grantaire’s lack of self worth agonizes Enjolras. He decides that he must make sure Grantaire sees his own value; he must find Grantaire a reason to live.

“Tell me something you believe in.”

“As you've said, I believe in nothing.”

Again, Enjolras’ words come back to haunt him. He is ashamed of his past behavior, wishes he could take every moment of it back, if only to spare himself from the look of pain that crosses Grantaire’s face when he repeats Enjolras’ words. “Every man believes in something. I was a fool and a hypocrite for taking you as an anomaly. Tell me one thing, anything, that you believe in.”

Grantaire hesitates. Starvation and doubt are Enjolras’ biggest secrets, but the answer to Enjolras’ question would expose the secret Grantaire has spent most of his energy to hide. If Grantaire confides this in Enjolras, their relationship can never be the same.

Then again, today Enjolras has shown a new side of himself to Grantaire, and Grantaire thinks that maybe everything has changed already.

He replies.

“I believe in you.”

***

Months pass. Les Amis notice the tight bond that manifests itself so quickly, so surely, so steadfastly between the two.

They still debate during their meetings, but at home Enjolras will whisper assurances into the shell of Grantaire’s ear that he has so much more value than he gives himself credit for, and Grantaire will remind Enjolras of his value to the cause, to their friends, and to him.

Enjolras eats a little bit more. Grantaire drinks a little bit less.

***

When Grantaire asks permets tu and the rifles take aim their way he is not asking permission to die for the cause, but permission to join Enjolras in the next life.

Enjolras takes Grantaire’s hand.

[lj-writes]

In which I read Rey/Kylo Ren meta so you don’t have to

A trip through the Rey//lo meta posts today had me alternately cringe-laughing and needing about ten showers. And look, let’s make this very clear, I have no intention of harshing on anyone’s joy and no one, as a general rule, deserves moral sanction just for what they ship. Besides, some anti-Rey//lo rhetoric has a strong undercurrent of “lol them dumb bitches,” and the sort of assholes who use supposedly feminist media critique as an excuse to be misogynistic to living, breathing women can fuck right outta here thanks.

So I don’t mean to argue with anyone’s love, especially in a way that demeans people for what they like. You know what I can argue with? Arguments. Moralistic disapproval of what people like is as futile as it is intrusive, but one can examine the assumptions underlying the like and see if there are any currents that flow out of larger trends. That’s why I was looking in the meta.

What do the meta posts on this pairing say about the assumptions that gird their ship? Sadly the reports are true–there is almost no argument for this ship that I’ve seen that does not depend on a) romanticizing a war criminal and murderer’s mistreatment and creepy obsession with the heroine, or b) erasing and hijacking the character who did in fact have a great, redemptive character arc and a deep and meaningful bond with Rey. What was his name, Winn, Tinn? It’ll come to me.

Again I must emphasize that this isn’t an argument that people should not ship Rey and Kylo Ren. If that is what makes them happy, more power to them. Rather my argument is that the assumptions and arguments underlying this pairing are creepy in their romanticization of toxic and possessive behavior and racist in their consistent erasure of a major Black character. (Linn? Kinn?) That the arguments for the ship are bad, however, doesn’t mean the people who ship it are bad. Let’s make that distinction very clear. We like what we like for complex and often subconscious reasons. The goal of critique should be to examine and confront those reasons, not to blame and harass people.

Here’s a highlight of major arguments that fall under “romanticization of mistreatment” and “erasure of a major Black character (what was his name?).”

1. Torture and other courtship rituals

Out of necessity much of the interactions that shippers so obsessively analyze involve kidnap, incredibly scary and violative interrogation, and a pitched battle for the heroine’s freedom and the life of the boy she adores (whoever that is). If it sounds creepy to romanticize these scenes, hell yeah it is. Let me run through some of the big ones:

Kylo Ren believes in the right of the strong to rule the weak, and Rey is his equal. That’s love!

Actually that’s fascism. This was in one of the first posts I read, too, so it gave me a taste for the kind of arguments I should be expecting.

Kylo and Rey are Force-bonded because they were in each others’ minds.

He tried to violate her mind and she fought back, and that’s romantic? Is barfing in my mouth also romantic, I’d like to know, because that was my reaction to all these “Force bond” posts.

Kylo’s interrogation of Rey only hurt her because she resisted. He didn’t mean to hurt her!

To be fair, the author of this meta all but pleaded that this statement not be read in a sexual or victim-blaming way. To be even fairer, it doesn’t fucking matter whether it’s a commentary on rape or not. In case the author doesn’t realize, blaming people for being tortured or mind-probed is still victim-blaming.

Kylo told Rey he could take what he wanted from her, that comment can be read in a sexual way and hints at the nature of their relationship.

……?!!

Kylo tortured Poe much so harder than Rey, so she must be special to him.

So let me get this straight, the argument that a torturing, murdering war criminal would be a good match for Rey is that he’s worse with other people? Yeah, he sounds like a keeper!

Kylo watched Rey while she was sleeping so-

I regret to inform you that Star Wars Episode VII: Twilight was not a thing.

He was sooooo obsessed with her and wants her to be his apprentice! It’s incredibly romantic!

So he kidnapped her, caused her actual pain trying to probe her mind, and badly wounded her friend? Mmkay, sounds legit I guess.

She’s going to redeem him with the power of their epic romance.

Yeah because that’s such a great message, that criminals who mistreat women are actually secret romantic heroes and would totally change, honest, if you just gave him another chance baby.

It’s yin and yang, they’re going to bring balance to the Force together.

That is not how yin and yang fucking work. I picked this one out because the misuse of Eastern philosophy in this fandom is a peeve of mine. Let this one stand in for all those reach-till-you-dislocate-a-joint analyses of lighting colors, clothing colors, mythology, naming etc.

2. Erasure and hijacking of what was his name again?

FINN! I knew it would come to me. Man, for all he came up in these posts he might as well have been a walk-on and not a protagonist.

And I’m not such a stan that I’m salty he doesn’t pop up in pairing discussions that aren’t about him, except in this case the shippers themselves bring up his character and story constantly–except they don’t call him Finn, they call him Kylo Ren. It got surreal after a while:

Kylo Ren is a misunderstood and flawed hero.

Actually that would be the guy who was so afraid of the First Order he ran like hell, and lied in the process about who he was? Also I seriously hesitate to put the name “hero” to a mass-murdering war criminal, and I think others should be, too.

Kylo Ren probably didn’t do anything wrong, and to the extent he did he was under Snokes’ influence.

You know, I can think of a character from that movie who refused to commit crimes against the innocent despite a lifetime of conditioning, and his name is not Kylo Ren.

Kylo Ren is going to redeem himself in a big way.

As opposed to Finn who already redeemed himself in a big way? Oh you mean you want to see a genuine war criminal who destroyed and hurt countless people make his victims’ pain and deaths all about himself while he whines about how terrible he feels? Nah I’m good.

Kylo Ren grew up in an abusive situation like Rey, they’d be perfect for each other.

Yeah, it’s not like the movie had another character who grew up with abusive conditioning and had actual chemistry with Rey as opposed to terrorizing and violating her.

Kylo Ren is the first person to show affection for the lonely and traumanized Rey.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME. Firstly, that is not affection. Repeat that 100 times. Secondly, you are literally describing Finn while conveniently forgetting he ever existed.

Kylo Ren's and Rey’s character arcs intersect and complete each other’s.

That would be Finn. This couldn’t be clearer, she gave him the courage to believe he was better than what he was molded to do, while the immense risk he took for her showed her that she was indeed not alone in the universe. They changed the course of each others’ lives and set each other on the path to healing. Again, stop cutting Finn out of his own story and photoshopping in the Space Nazi kthx.

These posts were actually draining to read. I know for a fact that not everyone who ships this pairing makes these obnoxious arguments, but it appears these types of arguments are the ones that float to the top in terms of popularity. (I just couldn’t keep going after skimming or reading 104 posts by my count. Finnrey meta has 17 posts. *cries*)

[skylersus]

“Oh, So You’re a Jew?

Religion. “A specific, fundamental set of beliefs and practices generally agreed upon by a number of persons or sects.” However, this definition does not include that it is a heated topic of debate in today’s society, a sensitive subject, and the root of my identity struggle. I was forced to confront my religion, Judaism, at a young age because of people in my neighborhood and school. I was targeted because of it for the majority of my life, especially coming from the predominantly Catholic side of my neighborhood. People were outwardly mean or accidentally offensive. Regardless of the circumstances, both groups made me feel like an outsider in my own communities.

I was never super religious. We celebrated Hanukkah and my mom made a big dinner for Rosh Hashanah and Passover and it ended there. However, I did go to Hebrew school for a few years in elementary school, and knew a decent amount of Hebrew. My mom always says it’s too expensive being Jewish, and she was right. Temple tickets were insanely pricey. Deep down, I always secretly wished we were more avid followers. I loved reading the prayer for Hanukkah, finding the matzah, and just the culture in general. Excited to learn more Hebrew every week, it was the highlight of my week. I absolutely loved going there and my teachers really liked me. However, as time progressed, I became less pumped for it, and instead dreaded it. Unfortunately, I started to become embarrassed about my religion. Why? Because of the anti-Semitism I was surrounded by. Eventually, I stopped attending.

Around this time, my insecurity seed was planted. The Catholic school boys I knew from my baseball league in my neighborhood were pretty direct with their comments. They were racist, sexist, and, of course, anti-Semitic. They would point out I was Jewish, make fun of my appearance or ask me questions in a condescending tone to put me on the spot.  “Oh, you’re a Jew?” Sometimes they would shout demeaning things in the street. Most of them were younger than me, and I felt stupid for letting them bully me. From a young age, I learned to avoid the topic of religion and keep mine a secret, as a means of protecting myself from the mean neighborhood boys.

This continued up until middle school, but eighth grade was its own experience. I transferred to a local Catholic grammar school, St. Gabriel’s, in September 2012 when I was 13 years old, from a public school in Manhattan, called Manhattan East. Riverdale, my neighborhood, better known as the “White Bronx,” is a mixture of the city and the suburbs. It is geographically apart of the Bronx, but not culturally.

It was weird seeing my former elementary school classmates who went to the public middle school watching me walk around in a uniform when I was originally a public school kid. I was embarrassed about it. I left M.E because I wanted to go to school with my little sister, Kolby, who was 11 at the time, and entering sixth grade. I am thankful I transferred because it led me to my high school, which became a second home to me and gave me my best friends for life, but I always wonder about the “what ifs?”

Besides the obvious change from public to catholic school, the dynamic was completely different. I forgot what it was like to attend a neighborhood school. In Manhattan East, I was the minority, and now I wasn’t once again. For the obvious changes, I had to wear a uniform now. I can clearly recall how uncomfortable I felt walking to the bus stop for the first week of school. I felt like a stranger in my own body. There was only one class per grade, compared to having at least three in middle school. Walking in first day, multiple prayers were thrown in my face, and I was stumbling through them, attempting to keep up, while the rest of the class glided through them. It was awful.

The most awful part, however, was the wrath of my classmates. It was somewhat paradoxical; I was pretty popular, outgoing, well- liked, and making a lot of friends, yet I was also being ostracized. I already knew some people at St. Gabe’s, including one of my elementary school bullies, who I started talking to before I transferred, and she was one of the main culprits.

Catholic schools and their faculty unintentionally isolate the non-Catholic kids. In my class, people were caustic. They made Jew jokes, assumed stereotypes, put me on the spot and asked me weird questions about being Jewish, or would just be very offensive. I remember someone asked me “Did any of your family die in the Holocaust?” and laughing afterwards. They also knew how sensitive I was, and that I could not defend myself. I was weak, and they took advantage of that. Even my “best friends” made sure to make me feel terrible about myself. Basically, they treated me like a zoo animal on display. I never understood why. I wore Uggs and PINK (because I felt forced to), liked the same music (One Direction, Justin Bieber, Miley, Cyrus, Drake) and TV shows as them, although I had different style than the other girls in my class, and enjoyed some indie music they would not be caught dead listening to, like the Arctic Monkeys and other rock bands. I felt restricted to only liking what my classmates approved of. Overall, I did not look like a foreigner; I was white with brown eyes and skinny. Besides my big nose (which they made sure to point out and connect it to my religion), I looked normal, didn’t I? I did not understand it.

St. Gabe’s became a home to me, due to the closeness of the community, but it was also a source of torture for me. Being Jewish was hell for me, and I figured I would be in this predicament for the rest of my life; being targeted for it. Being Catholic was like being in a special club I was not allowed to join. I constantly questioned myself and wondered why I had to be born Jewish. It just isolated me and did not do anything for me. I felt worthless and ugly. I prayed that one day, hopefully I would be able to convert or something. I once told my mom I wanted to convert and I will never forget the hurt on her face. My self-esteem was at an all time low. I genuinely hated myself. I did not know who I was, only who I wanted to be- Catholic and normal like my classmates. This fostered from my younger years, and grew into something much greater. Making sure to not let people know I was Jewish, I was basically hiding a part of me. It’s hard for me to look back on now, to realize I was so ashamed of myself. My family was disappointed when I shared my feelings with them, but understood people were terrible. All I wanted was to stop being Jewish and start being Catholic, was that too much to ask?

I found myself dealing with the same identity struggle in the beginning of my freshman year at Saint Vincent Ferrer High School on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. A few girls from St. Gabe’s went as well, but by the end of our four years, we were not really friends, and it was for the best. In freshman religion, my teacher would mention confirming freshmen quite often, which made me wonder about possibly converting. I even asked her about it one day, and she told me it is very possible and my school would be so excited for me to do so. She told me to keep in touch with her about it.

However, I never did, and I am thankful for that. As the years went on, I stopped being as sensitive, started sticking up for myself, and made sure everyone knew exactly who I was. I was not unsure of my identity; I made my own identity. Nobody could tell me anything. I even defended other people. I used my struggle to become socially aware, and advocate for inclusion, not just for Jewish people, but for all races, genders, and religions. My experience, although grueling and painful, has helped me tremendously, and encourages me to help others who feel as I once did. I would never wish that on anyone; feeling clueless, vulnerable, and scared in your own body. At Syracuse University, there are many Jewish people, and we have bonded over similar situations. It is so refreshing to finally be surrounded by people who relate to me after being around mostly Catholic people for so long. Although I do not identify as Jewish anymore, I am proud of my heritage and background. And to anyone who has a problem with that- you have a problem with me.

[uni-life-tips]

PSA - How to deal with an Asshole Professor

"I don't care--I'm going to retire soon!"

Yeah, but that's not an excuse to be an asshole.

I'm baffled by how many of my friends have terrible professor stories. These aren't the standard "they gave me a B-! That paper was totally worth an A- at least!" etc. This isn't about a professor that schedules your exam on the Saturday of a long weekend. This isn't about professors who are terrible at teaching and should stick to research. This isn't about professors who express their political views and bash other views. This isn't about professors who don't make class worth going to--you paid thousands in tuition and now some old geezer decides to use 75 minutes of your life to ramble on and on about his favorite cake--dick move, but not grounds for termination of employment.

No--this rant is about professors that use their tenure or their "retirement" as an excuse to be rude, to demean students, and to not apologize. This rant is about what you, students, can do should you encounter a professor exhibiting unprofessional and/or offensive behavior.

A friend of mine told me how one of his professors shouted a racist comment at a student of foreign descent. He humiliated the student by loudly calling them out for touching their phone in class. Asking students to put away their devices is fine--pointing out a student that is still doing it is bordering on harassment in the form of public shaming. This professor went even further than that. He started picking on the student, "what--did I make you uncomfortable?!" student nods. "So? You going to bomb the school now?"

Not. Okay.

According to my friend, when confronted about his comment the professor not only refused to apologize, but shouted that he didn't care if he got fired--he was retiring.

Students--if you ever find yourself in a situation where your professor is an asshole, there are some things you could do. Even if they act like they do not care about being fired, they probably do. Retiring on good terms is great and if they need to go back to work in the future because the economy is bad then they may be welcomed back with open arms; if they are fired then they basically burned those bridges. Also, being fired might mean they get less money from "retirement" etc. not sure how that works but getting fired is never a good thing. Should one of your professors ever do something that warrants being fired, here's what you should know as students.

Step 1) Talk to the professor--explain why what they did was offensive etc. Do this in groups if you're afraid of retribution because you will have a witness.

Step 2) If the professor refuses to apologize or rectify their offensive behavior then it's useless talking with them. Go above their head. Report them to the university Human Resources department or to the Dean--the professor's boss.

Now, how do you phrase things so that the administrators don't just gloss over your complaint and tell you to talk to the professor? There's some buzzwords and key phrases you can utilize to help your case.

"Unprofessional conduct", "offensive remarks", "refusal to apologize or rectify behavior/salvage the situation"--all good phrases to mention. At this point try to ensure that at least 3 students in the class back you up--that the 3 of you report to the proper administrators together or separately (e.g. if at least 3 students send an email reporting the same professor then the administration wouldn't be doing their jobs if they didn't at least look into it.

Next--if things escalate in such a way that some students no longer feel safe in class with the professor there is something you could do. If the professor gets mad and shows signs of taking his rage out on your marks then guess what? In most universities that is grounds for termination of employment.

If there's 1 thing I have learned from my professors over 4-5 years in university it is this: there are 2 things a professor must do in order to remain employed at the university. 1) they must submit research/proof that they're still doing their own research. 2) their grading practices must be valid. Most of my professors have told me this, "it doesn't matter if the admin know I'm snorting coke on my breaks or if I show up to class completely hung-over--heck, it doesn't matter if I decide not to hold class or office hours at all. Those things aren't grounds for termination of employment. The one surefire way to get a professor fired is to prove that their grading practices are invalid. If professors do not submit grades on time or half-ass them--e.g. everybody gets 50%--then their grading practices are audited. Should it be proven that the professor's grading practices are faulty--out they go."

Now, how do grading practices tie in with a racist professor? Simple--"The professor has displayed unprofessional conduct in the form of racist remarks made toward students in class. Some students have called out the professor on these racist comments and now fear academic retribution. We/some feel that the professor is/will purposefully give lower grades to the students that challenged him/her/them and/or give lower marks to people of foreign descent/obvious ethnicity/the ethnicity being discriminated against. We ask that the administration take our concerns seriously and take steps to make this course/university safe for all students, regardless of ethnicity."

Ensure that at least 3 students--more is better--express the same concerns--not in the form of a form letter, but just that they contact the proper administrators with the same concerns about the same professor.

Should administration decide to turn a blind eye, the news is an option. There's plenty of news stories of teachers busted for giving out 0s or sexual misconduct--a racist professor is definitely more of a problem than a 0. If the issue makes it to the news then the University will likely give the professor the boot just to avoid bad publicity. Heads up though--should you seek legal action against the professor/university institution or appear on the news you may find your academic career in danger at that institution. Even if the professor gets the axe you may still face discrimination from other faculty and staff.

Yes, it's easier to turn a blind eye and let the offensive comments be forgotten--however, that is not right. If students continue to let it slide then professors, or at least the bad ones, will continue to have an ego about their behavior--nobody challenges them so they go on spreading their hate-speech. It doesn't matter if you are the one the professor directs these comments at or not--just hearing them is offensive and really makes you question the character of the professor--which in turn leads to you questioning their grading practices. All students--including those being discriminated against--paid money to be in that course. They paid for a service--to be taught the stuff required for their degree. Should a professor exhibit unprofessional conduct in the process of delivering said service, you may complain. Should the situation escalate into one where your grades are being threatened, the professor can be removed (if not outright fired). Request another professor or a full refund because continuing under a racist bigot is not safe and not okay.

Students--you have power, you need to know how to use it. Professors aren't allowed to do whatever they please just because they are the ones at the front of the room. Stand up for your fellow classmates. Stand up for what is right.