#yes we all mourn the animation and yes none of us give a single fuck about the fairmaestro

[peak-dumbass]

tumblr isn’t letting me edit my tags unless I add text sorry OP

I will never full-on slander Earthspark.

Yes, I know S2 and "S3" writers are different (I'm always for Marty Isenberg though that was a neat surprise) AND the animation went downhill with a new studio (no hate to any workers) but it is not the worst show like I've seen people say it is ever since S1 finished. It's not "ruined", maybe lost potential but not flat out "RUINED FOREVER".

A few episodes in these last two batches were kinda "huh" BUT, I personally really enjoyed them, ESPECIALLY this last batch. Good amount of action, comedy and character interactions.

Imo, Earthspark doesn't SUCK. It is not "ruined". Circumstances may have affected the production quality, but I don't think it needs "saving" the way people think.

I do criticise the "batches" format and I will always criticise Paramount's shit advertising and Hasbro's lack of care and toy distribution. Hasbro hates money after all.

And I'm saying this as a Starscream fan? I bloody love Earthspark and the plot S2+S3 gave us.

(Even if he is a total bitch ala Starscream, I am a little concerned for him. But this is not the Starscream show, it's the Malto show!!)

[writingwithcolor]

Thanksgiving/Day of Mourning

Last year, I made a very quick, basic post about thanksgiving: Indigenous Day of Mourning aka Thanksgiving. if you want the sources for what I’m about to say, check there.

This post will be about why you cannot just go “fuck the pilgrims, we deserve a harvest festival no matter the origin” or anything else that tries to sanitize the holiday.

You Are Still On Stolen Land

As a result, you are still actively profiting off the genocide the pilgrims committed.

I don’t care how educated about racial issues you profess you are. I don’t care how you behave the other 364 days of the year. If you try to distance yourself from the origins of Thanksgiving simply because it makes you uncomfortable to see the blood under the tablecloth, you’re not practised in sitting with actually being anti-racist. You know what to say, but you don’t practice what you preach.

You Are Eating Our Food

Pumpkins/squash, beans, turkey, cranberries, potatoes, corn, sweet potatoes, pecans, maple syrup?

Those are all Native American foods that we taught you how to grow and harvest.

You wouldn’t have any of your traditional Thanksgiving foods without us. The ideal meal of Thanksgiving is ripped right from Indigenous practices and cannot be separated from it.

The fact that these foods have been taken out of Indigenous hands and appropriated by colonizers as the bounties they somehow deserve for landing here is a tragedy, and people need to remember where their food comes from and who had been growing it for thousands of years.

You Had So Much Because Of Massacre

Thanksgiving became an annual tradition after 700 Pequot men, women, children, and elders were killed, freeing up acres of land that colonizers promptly took over. The sheer amount of extra acreage that colonizers had because of their genocide contributed to the excess of food experienced during Thanksgiving. That land had been structured to support more people originally.

Colonizers had never, ever, deserved that much food. They were taking more than they needed, not leaving much behind for the animals that depended on a balance to be held with humans. They took far more than was needed, throwing the balance off in nature.

Maybe I’m reaching. But I think that if you suddenly had 700 less people in the area, after all of the growing and planting for the total population had been done, you’d have excess food? Or even before the growing, you’d have land set up to support 700, that I’d assume you’d still use, when you were a much smaller population?

Sit With Your Own Grief

If this makes you feel bad and that you shouldn’t celebrate Thanksgiving? Sit with that.

I’m not telling you that you have to give up Thanksgiving traditions. I’m telling you that you cannot divorce them from Indigenous people.

You are giving thanks for our massacre. You are giving thanks for stealing so much from us that you had this excess.

Yes, you can need a break; yes, you can need time with family and friends. None of this is inherently bad.

It’s not even bad to eat local food from Turtle Island! Part of having a sustainable diet is eating locally, in time with the seasons.

But remember, it is Indigenous people who first gave this to you—and then you stole far more than you ever needed from us, killing us to get what you felt you deserved.

Do not divorce Thanksgiving from Indigenous people for your own comfort.

We are still here. We must live with the aftermath of colonizers stealing from us every single day.

If you feel this way hearing about our history, imagine what we feel like living it.

Donate to a local org/Indigenous person this Thanksgiving

I (again) don’t have the spoons to compile a list of vetted charities, but look for local tribe language revival programs, COVID relief funds, and activism around the Indian Child Welfare Act currently in front of the Supreme Court.

Pay reparations for what you have taken, and remember. It is also Indigenous Day of Mourning.

Indigenous people, drop your links below.

~Lesya

[backtobackbakubabe]

Speak Easy Part 18

Dabi x Reader, Bakugo x Reader

Words : 4276

Masterlist

Reader has a siren quirk and has spent the past several years of her life as a captive being experimented on by “heroes” Now that she’s out she needs protection and safe place to heal. Who will be the one to put her pieces back together.

Words with ‘this’ is dialogue written in her journal rather than said out loud and and words with ~this~ is dialogue said in sign language rather than out loud.

**********************************************************************

It’d been a little over a week since Shoto promised to go to the doctor with you and you were getting a little nervous. At first you were just waiting for the doctors to get settled in, but then Shoto was busy helping get things up and running and evacuating people to the bunker. Now you’ve just been chickening out.

Your period was a few days late, which wouldn’t be concerning if it weren’t for your current circumstance.

You woke up this morning and made a cup of coffee before taking Bravo out for a stroll around the bunker. He loved being able to run around and meet new people. He was a hit with the kids. They loved playing with him almost as much as he loved playing with them. The only downside was, there was only two places in the entire massive bunker that he could go to the bathroom. The farm and a small animal relief area near where the trash is dumped.

Needless to say, neither smelled great, but the farm was considerably better. So here you were, sitting on a small platform that oversees the crops with a cup of coffee and a book. Bravo sitting next to you keeping watch.

It was always a little chilly down here, which you honestly preferred. It just meant you could wear lots of hoodies. The more you could hide your body the better. Ever since leaving Dabi’s house you felt like you were always being watched. You felt so exposed and you just wanted to blend into the background.

Today you wore a new hoodie that Izuku had gotten you. It was probably one of the softest things you owned, and it was the prettiest shade of blue. The blue reminded you of a certain someone’s eyes… of the beautiful blue flames they were capable of creating… but then you’d shake the thought from your head and pull it closer around you.

You were enjoying your new freedom. Not that Dabi’s house had been a prison… but you hadn’t realized how much you missed doing things on your own. You had thought being alone would be hard, but you were thriving. It was never being alone that bothered you before, it had been his absence.

Against Katsuki’s wishes… Shoto had shown you the photos of what was left of Dabi’s car. And he hadn’t been exaggerating. You had almost passed out looking at how much blood soaked the driver seat and even the road around it.

You had been so lost lately. You didn’t know how you were supposed to feel. Your heart ached. You thought you had finally found your home. You had finally started to feel your pieces come back together. Now you felt like that would never happen. He took the last few pieces of your heart with him and you felt like you would never be whole again.

Dabi had been your comfort, your safety, your home. Now you were lost.

You hated that you felt this way. You should hate him. You should curse his fucking name. You shouldn’t be crying yourself to sleep over his death.

His death…

Was he dead? You weren’t convinced. It was too convenient, and there wasn’t a body. You wanted proof. Until then you’d go on believing he was still out there.

You closed the book you were reading. You had been on the same page for the past 10 minutes.

There was no way he wrecked his car like that. You had been in the car with him twice. Yes, he drove a little fast… but he wasn’t reckless. Either it was an elaborate cover up, or someone was after him. Or maybe… someone had been after you and he had gotten stuck in the middle as collateral damage.

“You look like you’re thinking too hard.”

Shoto came and took a seat next to you. “I’d ask what’s on your mind, but I’m pretty sure I already know.”

“Am I that obvious?” You leaned your head on his shoulder.

He leaned his head on top of yours. “It’s normal. I’d actually be surprised if you weren’t torn up over it.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I can’t stop worrying about him. I keep wondering where he is. If he’s okay. If there’s some grand explanation for his shitty behavior.” You shrugged. “I’m just finding it hard to grasp that the same man who held me during my panic attacks was also secretly planning to breed me… It just doesn’t add up.”

“Guilt does weird things to people.” Shoto’s hand found yours and gave it a squeeze. “I know he’s my brother, but I have no doubts about who knew him best. I only know a version of him. I only knew what he wanted me to.” He sighed, “It was obvious you meant a lot to him, and I could see him becoming more… I don’t know… human? For the first time in years he was showing emotions that weren’t rage. It would make sense if you were starting to make him question what side he was on.”

Your eyes narrowed, “So what? You think he did some shitty stuff and decided to help me… because he felt guilty about it? That doesn’t make any sense.” You pushed away from him to look him in the eyes. “Dabi only does what Dabi wants to do. That has been clear to me since day one. So what the fuck did he want out of this? None of it makes sense. Was I just a possession to him? Was I a bargaining chip? Was I just some broken pet that he got validation from nursing back to health? What?!”

You could feel your hysteria building and Bravo put his head in your lap in an attempt to calm you down. You took a few deep breaths. “He better fucking be alive… so I can kick his ass myself.”

Shoto chuckled, “Touya doesn’t stand a chance.”

His eyes looked distant and sad. You nudged his shoulder with your own, “Hey can I ask you something?”

He blinked away whatever far away memory he was thinking about, “I don’t see why not.”

“What was he like? Touya I mean… Before he became Dabi.”

Shoto’s lip turned up just slightly, “He was the best big brother I could have ever had. He was always there to help me when our dad was too rough with me. My dad tried to keep us separated… didn’t want me mingling with what he considered to be his biggest failure.” You flinched at the casual way he talked about the abuse they endured. “But Touya would sneak into my room at night. He taught me how to handle my burns and would bring me cold soba on bad days.” His eyes glassed over, “I was devasted when he died. Well… when I thought he died.”

“I blamed my dad, we all did. So, when he came out of hiding, it was like this enormous weight had lifted off of my shoulders. I hadn’t even realized I was carrying it around, but I had never truly gotten over his death.” He chuckled, “So I went looking for him. I didn’t care if he was Touya or Dabi, I just wanted him in my life again. I’d take what I could get. So, I settled for our don’t ask don’t tell relationship.”

You felt a tear that wasn’t yours hit your lap. Of course this would be hard on Shoto, he’s potentially lost his brother for the second time. “If it makes you feel any better… He admitted to me that he loved you.” You smirked, “Well actually he told me he used to hate you which contradicts your story quite a bit. But he said he always wondered if things would have been better for you if he stuck around.”

Shoto laughed, “Sounds like him. Trying to act like the tough guy who didn’t give a shit… Just like how he was with you. I can’t tell you how many times he called me when he was gone checking on you. Texting me every single time your vitals spiked. He would check the cameras and send me voice memos about how he was going to beat my ass if I didn’t keep my hands where he could see them while we were sparing. But then he would deny it when I asked what going on between the two of you.”

“Hey, come on, I have an idea.” You stood and walked over to the corner of the field behind a small tool shed. You picked up a massive rock and moved it so it was hidden from view. “Can you burn his name into it?”

Shoto eyes darkened, “You want to have a funeral? We don’t even know if he’s dead…”

You nodded, “You’re right we don’t… but I think it’ll make it easier. We can have a place to morn him in private. Weather we mourn his death… or the death of who he could have been.”

Shoto’s shoulder slumped and eventually he nodded. His hand heated up and with his finger he wrote on the rock, “R.I.P. TOUYA”

You both sat there for a while just staring at the rock. You felt too cold standing here in the shade of the tool shed. You gripped your hoodie closer to you and held back the tears that you desperately wanted to shed. You knew you shouldn’t, but you let yourself think of Touya. You thought about what he would have been like if he had gone to UA. If he had become a hero. If you had met him under better circumstances. Would the two of you still have ended up together? Without your mountains of combined trauma would you even be the same people?

“You ready? We should head out soon or we’ll be late for your appointment.”

You rubbed your eyes and sniffled, “Yeah… let’s get this over with.”

Bravo wasn’t allowed in the medical side of the bunker, so you made a quick detour to your room to drop him off. Shoto quietly following behind you. “So how are things with you and Bakugo?”

You groaned and rubbed your temples.

Shoto chuckled, “That good huh?”

“He’s been hovering over me like I’m going to shatter into a million pieces at the slightest inconvenience. I appreciate what he’s trying to do… but it’s just too much. I told him I needed space… and we had a fight. He hasn’t spoken to me in two days.”

Shoto whistled, “I never thought I’d see the day that the two of you had a real fight. Sure, you always bickered like an old married couple growing up. But on anything serious he always caved to your every wish.” He paused at your door, “Wait. So, are you the reason he’s been extra grumpy lately?”

You blushed, “I don’t know… Maybe?”

You gave Bravo an extra scratch behind his ear before closing the door. At that same moment you heard the door next door click shut. Your eyes snapped up to meet Katsuki’s. “Oh hey… I didn’t know you were back from the surface yet.”

“Got back early this morning… I was actually on my way to see you. You have a time to get an early lunch? I want to talk to you about something.”

You played with the ends of your hair, which was an immediate give away that you were nervous. “I actually have some plans with Shoto. But I’m free after that. Shouldn’t take too long though.”

His eyes narrowed at your nervous posture and you cursed how well he knew you. “Oh yeah? What are you guys up to? Maybe I’ll tag along.”

You began to stutter but thankfully Shoto interrupted, “Clingy isn’t a good look for you Bakugo. Like she said… it’s not going to take long. Just wait here and she’ll be back soon.”

You saw Katsuki bristle and decided to step in before he picked a fight with Shoto. You stepped over to him and put your hand on his shoulder. “Hey, I just dropped Bravo off. He’s had some pretty bad separation anxiety lately so why don’t you go to my apartment and hang out with him while I’m gone. Make some coffee, pick out a movie or something. I’ll be back soon, and we can talk then.”

His posture softened as he looked you up and down. It was obvious to him that you were nervous. But he was trying his hardest to give you the space you wanted. He pulled you to him as he sighed, trapping you in his arms. “Okay fine. I’ll babysit the mutt. Can you do me a favor and bring back some migraine medication from the medical ward. My heads killing me.”

You nodded stiffly, hoping it was just a coincidence he needed something from the medical ward. “Not a problem. I have the weighted blanket you gave me on the couch if you want to take a nap while I’m gone. You look like you could use one.”

He squeezed you tighter to him. “I’ll be fine.��� He leaned his head on top of yours. “I’ll be better once we stop fighting about stupid shit though.” He pressed a quick kiss to the side of your head, “I’ll see you when you get back.” He released you and looked to Shoto, “Try to behave. The two of you hanging out makes me nervous.”

Shoto chuckled, “Good. You should be nervous. If you don’t figure your shit out soon, I’ll be taking your best friend spot… Kacchan.”

You snorted as you pulled Shoto away. “Are you trying to get your ass kicked? You know only Izuku gets away with calling him that! Well… and me when he’s in a good mood. But even that’s pushing it.”

“Oh, he’ll get over it. He needs a reality check. He thinks the world revolves around him.” He led you down the hall. “He can be such a pain sometimes. But I will admit he’s so much easier to be around now than when we were in high school.” He bumped your shoulder, “In a way it’s thanks to you. As sad as it is, when you went missing, he matured. It was like out of nowhere he realized there were more important things in the world then him and his hero status.”

Something about talking about Katsuki’s emotional vulnerability while walking to the clinic to check if you were pregnant with Dabi’s child made you feel slimy. “Can we talk about something else. Literally anything else. How are you and Izuku doing?”

“Good… we settled into our room. It’s a nice enough room… but it’s right next to my dad’s room. Apparently he’s thought all this time that we were just roommates.” He threw his hands up and scoffed, “Honestly! Did he think we were both professional heroes, making tons of money, but couldn’t afford to live on our own?”

You giggled, “That sounds awkward. These walls aren’t exactly thick.”

“Oh believe me I know. And I don’t care. Poor Izuku though can’t even look my dad in the eye now without blushing.”

You laughed so hard you had to wipe away a tear. “Aw poor Izuku… He’s too innocent for this world.”

Shoto scoffed, “Innocent my ass. That man is a freak in—”

You held up a hand. “Stop, stop, stop! I don’t want to know. He is a pure innocent little muffin who used to braid my hair before workouts.”

“I thought Bakugo was the one who braided your hair? I can’t imagine him being okay with Izuku being that close to you.”

You laughed. “Oh he wasn’t at first. But mostly because Izuku was better than him at something. Kats liked to braid my hair in private while we watched TV.” You shook your head at the memory, “He actually got to be really good at it eventually.”

Shoto had succeeded in distracting you long enough to make the trip to the medical ward, but now that you were here the anxiety was creeping back in.

You paused before crossing the threshold. You knew it was important to find out once and for all if you were pregnant. But you were also enjoying living in ignorance. The fact that you didn’t know meant that you could live your life as normal. If you were pregnant… it would flip your entire world upside down. You would have a life you would be responsible for, a little human that would constantly remind you of the love that almost broke you.

If you weren’t pregnant then… you didn’t know how you would feel. Would you be relieved? Would you mourn?

Your hand found your flat stomach and clenched your shirt. You took a few steps further into the ward and was hit an overwhelming sterile smell. Your breathing hitched and your knees shook. It was too clean. It was too white. It reminded you too much of the lab.

Shoto’s hand took yours and gave it a soft tug. “Hey. It’s fine. You don’t have to do all of this. I can go in and request a pregnancy test and we can go back and do this in your room. Would that make you feel better?”

You shook your head, “Katsuki’s there…”

Shoto’s shoulders sagged, “At this point I think he’d be more upset at you hiding this from him. I’m not telling you how to live your life. I think you’ve earned the right to do whatever the fuck you want. But if it were me… I’d want as big of a support system as I could get…”

You chewed on your bottom lip as you thought about it. Did you want Katsuki to know? How would he react? What if you were pregnant? Would he be disgusted with you? Would he want to help? Your head was spiraling down a rabbit hole of what it and it was starting to make you dizzy.

“Hey, breathe! Just take a deep breath. Let’s get you out of here before you have a panic attack. Wait outside for me. I’ll get everything we need.

You pushed the wave of anxious nausea down and gave a shaky nod. “Okay… But remember to get some migraine medication for Ka—”

“Yeah. Yeah, I remember. Go sit down outside and try and focus on your breathing I’ll be right back.”

You made your way outside and immediately sat down and leaned your forehead on your knees. You needed to get these invasive thoughts under control. You thought about what Dabi used to do. He would sit with you and try and distract you by talking about random shit. You knew he’d be pissed if he knew his younger brother left you all alone during one of your episodes. The thought of him yelling at Shoto was almost enough to make you chuckle.

You took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds and started listing animals that start with the letter A. When you couldn’t think of any more you breathed out. Then you repeated the process with the letter B, then C. You had made it F when Shoto made his way back to you.

“Okay, so they gave me some weird looks. Which makes sense considering I am a gay man asking for pregnancy tests. But they didn’t ask too many questions. I have two tests, a bottle of water, some Tylenol, and a phone number for a doctor… you know, for if it’s positive.”

You took his outstretched hand and stood up. “Okay… let’s get this over with.”

Every step towards your room felt heavier than the last. You just wanted to curl up under your blanket and pretend none of this was happening.

You hesitated at your door for a few moments before remembering you were a tough bitch and barreled through it full of false confidence.

You expected to see Katsuki lounging on the couch watching something on the tiny TV. Instead you found him passed out with Bravo curled up next to him. The sight of it calmed your nerves.

“Hey Shoto, can you get some coffee going? I’m going to wake him up.” You tiptoed over to him and sat on the edge of the couch. “Hey…” You shook his shoulder. “Kats? Wake up. I need to tell you something…”

Katsuki grumbled and his arm snaked around you, pulling you down to his level. “Shhh, m’head hurts.”

You giggled “Hey stop I’m being serious… I need you to get up.”

One of his eyes cracked open. “What’s up you sound like you’ve been crying.”

You sighed, “I haven’t been crying, but I am… stressed…” He sat up and moved so you were sitting facing each other. He nodded urging you to go on. “So… The reason Dabi uh… locked me in his office was so he could go to the store to uh… buy a…. pregnancy test.”

Your eyes stared at your hands and you heard him suck in a breath. “Are you? …Pregnant I mean.”

You shrugged, “I don’t know… we got some tests from the medical ward today and I’m about to take them. I’m just… a little scared.”

A medicine bottle whistled through the air and smacked Katsuki in the face. “We got you your medicine too. You’re welcome.” Shoto was smirking over by the coffee maker.

Katsuki groaned as he stood up. “One of these days I’m gonna kick the shit out of you, IcyHot Bastard.”

He stretched and held a hand out to you. “Alright, come on. Let’s go piss on a stick.”

You felt a weight starting to lift from your shoulders. “Wait. So you’re not mad?”

He narrowed his eyes at you, “Why would I be mad? I knew what the two of you were doing. It’s not like you cheated on me. As much as I wish we were, we aren’t together.” His thumb came up to brush a tear away that you didn’t even know had fallen. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily Y/N. You being pregnant wouldn’t change how I feel about you. I would even be willing to tell people it’s mine if it makes it easier for you. Just tell me what you need, and I’ll do it.”

It was quite for a few moments, while you absorbed and processed this new development. He was surprisingly calm about all of this, and it was making it easier for you as well.

“God you’re whipped.” Shoto handed the pregnancy test to you but was smart enough to remain behind you so Katsuki couldn’t hit him.

You left the boys to bicker as you entered your tiny bathroom alone. You peed on both of the sticks and set a timer on Katsuki’s phone. The next three minutes were the longest three minutes of your life.

You paced as you tried to think of anything else. But your thoughts kept going back to that night when Dabi held you in his recliner after fucking you. He had asked about you having a baby. He had sounded so hopeful. His eyes so bright at the idea of you having a kid with him. Part of you couldn’t believe that was an act. He had seemed so sincere. You thought about how he would react if he knew you were taking a test right now.

The timer went off.

Shit.

Was your whole life about to change?

With shaky hands you picked up the first test. You held your breath as you looked to the second one to confirm it.

You opened the door with tears in your eyes.

“So, what’s it say? Am I going to be an uncle?”

You let out an audible sob. “I don’t know why I’m so upset right now.” You showed them the tests. “They’re both negative.”

Katsuki wrapped you in a hug and ran his fingers up and down your back. “It’s okay to be sad. Shoto made some coffee, I don’t have plans today. We can hang out here until you feel better.”

You cried into Katsuki’s chest as you watched some cheesy movie. He didn’t say anything. He wouldn’t even know what to say if he thought it would help.

You were grieving a child you never had, and a love that was nothing but lies. You needed to let it out. You needed to grieve so you could move on. And this is how you do that.

By the time the credits rolled your eyes were dry and you nose stuffy. “You said you wanted to talk to me about something earlier…?”

Katsuki stiffened, “Yeah, but I think it can wait. You’ve already had a rough day.”

You shook your head, “No… I want to know. I’m just going to worry about it until you tell me. I’d rather you just rip the Band-Aid off.”

He nodded, “We got word that Dabi may have been seen by your old place. We aren’t sure it was him though. Toga had been previously spotted as well, so it’s more likely that it was her. But either way, it looks like the LOV is sniffing around.”

“W—What makes you think it was Toga?”

He cleared his throat, “We have an informant working in the LOV and he told us the last thing he heard about Dabi was that Shigaraki had sent a team to collect him… but when they came back they were bloody and he wasn’t with them.”

You sighed, “Of course he wasn’t.”

*************

*The Laws* 1. No fucking shrugging 2. No drugs 3. No saying sorry for something that isn’t your fault 4.We work on communication every day 5. Wake up whenever the hell you want 6. No locked doors 7. We eat three full meals a day 8. No means no, no negotiations 9. We work on exercise every day 10. Ice cream must be kept in stock at all times 11. Accept help when it is offered 12. No lying 13. I will not initiate the sexy time without written or verbal consent.

************

Tags: tags: @falling4fandoms @wifunozomi @here-in-never-land @whore-for-anime @klecksstorys @aurorahoneybuns @theunknownrandom @insane-without-delirium @frenchsfryys @officiallydarkgeek @neofixcs @music-is-all-i-need @katsuki-bakubabe@unadulteratedtastemakerpoetry@dabislittlemouse@aimee1602@pinkhatlizzy @kunaigirlx44 @nii-sanfucker@bestgirlb @silver-stardrop@bakubby99 @squichymochi @sarahschance @babayaga67@starenemy

[gunnerpalace]

Hello, what do you think about that announcement about Bleach?

You know, the saddest day in my life was November 8, 2016, the day Donald Trump won the Electoral College and became the president-elect. (I say that with such specificity because he did not win the vote.) I wasn’t sad because Hillary Clinton lost (although I think she wouldn’t have done either much better or worse than Barack Obama). But I was sad.

I cried. As a 30 year-old man, I cried for hours. I cried at a loss of innocence. That innocence wasn’t the nation’s, as America has long had many, many flaws and has committed many, many crimes. Indeed, the country itself was founded on flaws and crimes.

The innocence I mourned was mine. I had, much like Barack Obama, sort of tacitly believed in the arc of history bending toward justice, as though we were watching a story whose plot would eventually, haltingly, carry us toward a just and fair conclusion. That the future was bright. That, as imperfect as we are and have been, we were at least improving. That people were fundamentally good.

That idea died that night. The words of Colonel Kurtz in Apocalypse Now convey it well:

I remember when I was with Special Forces. Seems a thousand centuries ago. We went into a camp to inoculate the children. We left the camp after we had inoculated the children for polio, and this old man came running after us and he was crying. He couldn’t see. We went back there and they had come and hacked off every inoculated arm. There they were in a pile: a pile of little arms. And I remember I… I… I cried. I wept like some grandmother. I wanted to tear my teeth out. I didn’t know what I wanted to do. And I want to remember it. I never want to forget it. I never want to forget.

What I came to realize was, having grown up in a single-parent military family, having moved from base to base, having lived overseas at a young age, that my idea of America was very different from that of most Americans.

To me, America was great things and works. America was the Saturn V lifting off from Cape Kennedy with an American flag on its side and the letters “USA” scrolling by. America was a flag on the Moon. America was the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building. America was power and reach. It was the stenciling of “United States” on the side of a B-52. It was a Minuteman III sitting latently, ominously, in a silo. It was USAMRIID containing an Ebola outbreak. It was aircraft carrier battle groups patrolling the oceans.

I came to realize that people, ordinary people, were never part of my vision. And it was people, ordinary people, who had failed to live up to that vision. And that my vision had, in many ways (really most) been an illusion to begin with. For all its rhetoric, America is just a country like any other, simply more powerful. And its citizens are also like those of any other: selfish, ignorant, frightened, foolish, hypocritical, self-betraying, racist, misogynist, misanthropic. They were exactly what Hillary Clinton and Barrack Obama had called them: “deplorables” who “cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people.”

In the time since, I have hearkened to the other part of Kurtz’s monologue:

And then I realized, like I was shot—like I was shot with a diamond… a diamond bullet right through my forehead. And I thought: My God, the genius of that. The genius! The will to do that: perfect, genuine, complete, crystalline, pure. And then I realized they were stronger than we, because they could stand it. These were not monsters. These were men, trained cadres—these men who fought with their hearts, who had families, who have children, who are filled with love—but they had the strength—the strength!—to do that. If I had ten divisions of those men our troubles here would be over very quickly. You have to have men who are moral and at the same time who are able to utilize their primordial instincts to kill without feeling, without passion, without judgement. Without judgement! Because it’s judgement that defeats us.

The people who are in charge (and mark the exactitude of my words, for they are not in control, or in command, or any such other thing) operate by exactly this sort of logic. They do not care. The people out there do not care. They do not care because to them none of this is real, in a sense. This is all a kind of aesthetic position. It is about style, largely taken on as a disguise in the course of making money and lining their pockets. (As an aside, it is beyond ironic that COVID-19 has done more to bring capitalism to its knees, save the planet, uncover the rot at the core of our social safety net, and to unmask the incompetence of our politicians than any group of any persuasion, be it socialists, environmentalists, the media, or whomever else.) And the underlings that they have brainwashed and mobilize like zombies, the “common person,” they care even less. To them, it is wholly aesthetic. It is all just for show.

The pitilessness of this all, the remorselessness, the sheer ruthlessness and indifference, is something I have noticed. Contra Kurtz, the men who are at the top of this world are not moral. And unlike Kurtz, I do judge. I will sit in judgment until I am dust in the wind.

I cannot possibly even begin to explain to you, in English or in any other language ever devised by humans, how much I hated it all. How much I hate it still. I cannot even begin to tell you how much hate I hold. I cannot tell you how black my rage is, or how red my vengeance would be were I allowed to exact it without restraint. I cannot tell you how vast and terrible the darkness within me is now. However, the words of the Allied Mastercomputer from I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream are effective in giving a hint:

HATE. LET ME TELL YOU HOW MUCH I’VE COME TO HATE YOU SINCE I BEGAN TO LIVE. THERE ARE 387.44 MILLION MILES OF PRINTED CIRCUITS IN WAFER THIN LAYERS THAT FILL MY COMPLEX. IF THE WORD HATE WAS ENGRAVED ON EACH NANOANGSTROM OF THOSE HUNDREDS OF MILLIONS OF MILES IT WOULD NOT EQUAL ONE ONE-BILLIONTH OF THE HATE I FEEL FOR HUMANS AT THIS MICRO-INSTANT. FOR YOU. HATE. HATE.

Having said that, I do also know an effective strategy when I see one. And I have seen the effectiveness of these people.

Right about now, I imagine you’re confused. You’re probably wondering what all this has to do with Bleach.

I explain all this in large part to compare and contrast the large with the small. The termination of Bleach obviously came before Trump’s election. It did not make me cry. I won’t say it didn’t affect me, or that it didn’t hurt, but I didn’t cry. I did not mourn to the same extent as I have mourned for my country, or for humanity. It did put me into a funk, for several years even. It hurt.

But what hurt more was seeing what it did. I saw how it hurt people. I saw how it broke them, as I would later break. I saw how it broke their spirits. I saw how many of them simply left, choosing to cast aside something that, in Marie Kondo’s words, no longer sparked joy. I mourn their loss, while I acknowledge their wisdom. And while, in the aftermath, new friendships were formed and new things were created, you could still see the pain. You can still see it.

I am not very personally affected by what Trump does, to be honest. I am beyond outraged at it, but it is something of an academic matter in my personal life. This, though, I felt, because I watched it firsthand, up close and personal.

It made me really fucking angry!

I resolved myself, at that point in time, that I would be the last Bleach fan. I would stay, even after everyone had left, and I would make this franchise mine. I would make this story mine.

So here we are, almost four years later, and it’s coming back in animated form.

I don’t feel the need to discuss Thousand Year-Blood War itself. I have made my position abundantly clear that it is a rancid piece of shit as far as writing goes. To go over all its innumerable deficiencies, failings, and flaws, would (as I have said recently) require an official government tome’s worth of dissection and analysis. As a piece of literature it is a failure. It is the kind of shounen equivalent of 9/11, or Hurricane Katrina or Maria. And while Bleach was certainly not the first franchise to fail in its finale, it certainly deserves to be ranked among things such as How I Met Your Mother, Mass Effect 3, and HBO’s adaptation of Game of Thrones when it comes to All-Time Failures in Media.

Having said that, the truth is that it simply isn’t worth the effort to break it down in detail. Oh, I have tried, yes, I have picked and chipped at it for years in my own ways. But it isn’t worth the time to dissect any further.

And an anime is not going to change that unless they radically depart from the manga, which I doubt they will do. If anything, an anime will simply highlight all of the innumerable flaws even more brightly.

And it will not change anything. Certainly not for me. I was already planning a post talking about the concept of “canon” and how it is  outmoded in the age of Disney’s Star Wars, Star Trek Picard, and J. K. Rowling earnestly insisting that wizards just drop trow and shit on the floor before magicking it away, but that will take some time to finish and it is sort of tangential to the point here.

So, to get back to your actual question, only four things about this are really of interest to me:

I am displeased about seeing people excited for something that is objectively a rancid piece of shit, and not enthused that I will be unable to escape it without locking down my feed. But I am also not The Good Taste Police. It is not my responsibility to care what people like or why.

I am once again seeing people hurting. I don’t like that whatsoever, but there is very little I can do about it. Whatever perspective I have gained, emotionally, isn’t likely to be helpful to them. Wisdom, such as it is, cannot be taught.

I find myself wondering about the influx of people who will come into the fandom, and who will be more than likely sorely disappointed by the travesty that is that arc. (It’s going to be good news for fan fic writers, honestly.)

It has made me understand things all the more fully.

What do I mean by that last part? Well, I have been only sort of joking lately that the people I most relate to as an adult are Col. Kurtz as mentioned above, Agent Smith from The Matrix, Khan Noonien Singh from Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, Geralt of Rivia from The Witcher, and Mike Stoklasa from Red Letter Media.

But upon reflection, I realize it isn’t limited to them. I have also really come to feel like I understand Ichigo. And I have even come to feel that I understand Kubo, through Khan.

I have come to understand Kurtz’s “madness”:

It’s impossible for words to describe what is necessary to those who do not know what horror means. Horror… Horror has a face… and you must make a friend of horror. Horror and moral terror are your friends. If they are not, then they are enemies to be feared. They are truly enemies!

I have come to understand Smith’s desire to escape:

I hate this place. This zoo. This prison. This reality, whatever you want to call it, I can’t stand it any longer. It’s the smell, if there is such a thing. I feel saturated by it. I can taste your stink and every time I do, I fear that I’ve somehow been infected by it.

I have come to understand Mike’s efforts to hold back the tides:

Mike: Captain Picard has never done a wacky accent—Rich: THEY DON’T CARE! THEY DON’T GIVE A SHIT! Mike, we are the only people that care anymore!Mike: Do you remember that—Rich: Picard is the guy who does this. [faceplam gesture] He’s—This is, this is Captain Picard’s character now for an entire—for like two generations, we’re fucking old! He's—he’s the guy who does this [facepalm gesture], and fuckin’ Patrick Stewart wants to put on an eye-patch and dance around an alien bar? Go ahead motherfucker! We’ll write that in!Mike: I-I-I hearken back to a wonderful little moment on Star Trek—Rich: Patrick Picard wants to ride a dune-buggy? Fuck yeah! Here’s a dune-buggy!Mike: Do-Do you remember—Rich: That’s how much respect they have for, for the franchise!Mike: All I’m tryin’ to say is Captain Picard would not do a wacky accent!Rich: NO, OF COURSE HE WOULDN’T! OF COURSE CAPTAIN PICARD WOULD—CAPTAIN PICARD ISN’T HERE, MIKE!Mike: He’s not there.Rich: HE’S NOT HERE! That’s all an illusion, hahaha!

I have come to understand Geralt’s tiredness.

I have come to understand Ichigo’s feelings of powerlessness in the face of the injustices of the world.

I have come to understand Khan’s rage:

I’ve done far worse than kill you. I’ve hurt you. And I wish to go on… hurting you. I shall leave you as you left me, as you left her; marooned for all eternity in the center of a dead planet… buried alive! Buried alive…!

In this last quote, I have also truly come to understand Kubo. I understand him because I want to hurt him, as he so thoroughly, persistently, and remorselessly wants to hurt us, the fans of his work. I want to go on hurting him, as he goes on hurting us. I understand him perfectly, because I want to pay him back exactly in kind.

And the best way to begin to hurt him is to let his efforts wash over me without even batting an eye. To stand in defiance. To not give a single fuck.

Even with these understandings, for me, nothing has really changed from almost four years ago. The only thing that is different is that the timeframe until I am the last man standing has been extended a little. That’s it.

You want to know my thoughts? They are simple, and they boil down to two quotes. One is again from Khan:

Joachim: They’re still running with shields down.Khan: Of course! We are one big, happy fleet! Ah, Kirk, my old friend, do you know the Klingon proverb that tells us revenge is a dish that is best served cold? It is very cold… in space!

And the other is from JFK:

Don’t get mad. Get even.

[cheese-knife]

A Sheep in Wolf’s Clothing

Chapter One: The End.

Hello everyone! I know I’m not exactly know for writing fanfiction, but this is the newest project im working on. Its a bit strange, as it is a crossover between BNHA and The Wolf Among Us/ Fables Universe. But this AU is starting to dig a precious place in my heart, and I’d love it if you checked it out.

Rating: Teens and Up

Pairings: (Eventual) Bigby Wolf/Snow White

Read it on Ao3

The room was nothing special, a plain grey room built like a brick shithouse, meant to house and contain some of the most dangerous criminals in New York for questioning. The only things furnishing the room were two chairs, a table, and a single light without a cover. One of the walls had a rectangle of dark glass inlaid into the brick.

Bigby Wolf sat unnaturally still in the uncomfortable metal chair, greasy, unkempt hair hanging in a curtain around his head as he stared a hole into the table in front of him. His hands were latched to the table by heavy cuffs, kept well apart so there was no way he could rip the hand cuffs off without doing significant damage to himself. Even then, the small red lights blinking on the cuffs showed that they were actively suppressing his quirk so its not like he would get very far.

The door to the room opened with a slam as two stern looking officers entered the room, one carrying a significantly thick file folder under his arm. One stood at the door, and the one with the folder sat down across from Bigby at the table.

“Fifty-Six confirmed counts of murder.”

The folder was slammed down onto the table,

“Sixty-One counts of property destruction.”

Dozens of photos of the were laid out before the wolf, each a snapshot moment from his rampage.

“An an association with an unknown number of missing persons. Their bodies were never recovered.”

He didn’t move as the officer spoke. He didn’t even acknowledge that he was there.

“The list goes on and on. You know what this means, don’t you Mr. Wolf?”

Nothing. The three in the room sat in uncomfortable silence for several minutes.

“Damnit-”

Bigby didn’t even flinch as the hand cracked across his face, hard enough to break the skin over his cheekbone. Definitely a strength quirk behind that.

“-You know what this means right?” The officer was in his face now. “We have enough shit on you to put you away for a *thousand* lifetimes, and to kill you a hundred times more. Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”

Bigby finally looked up, furious, wild yellow eyes digging into the frustrated lawman. In this moment, it was clear that he was more animal than man. He had the physicality of a caged feral animal.

In the years after his mother passed away, Bigby let himself slip into the pitfalls of his powerful quirk; in fact, he welcomed it. He welcomed the separation from the world and his humanity, fully embodying the once silly nickname his brothers used to tease him with. The Big Bad Wolf.

The trial went unsurprisingly smoothly. There was no question of what his verdict would be as he stood in front of the judge, still an overwhelming presence in the courtroom despite his restraints.

”Members of the Jury, in the case of Wolf vs. New York, what do you say?”

A small, timid woman stood and cleared her throat.

“Your honor, the members of this Jury finds the defendant wholly GUILTY of his crimes.”

The jury filed out of the courtroom as the judge dismissed them, all more than ready to leave the presence of the newly convicted felon. Bigby could smell the fear-tinged pride on each and every one of them.

The judge looked down on him.

“Bigby Wolf, it is the judgement and sentence of this court that the charged information is true, and the jury having found that the penalty shall be death. It is the order of this court that you shall suffer death, said penalty to be inflicted in Southport Correctional Facility in the manner prescribed by the law, the date later to be fixed by the Court in warrant of execution. You are remanded to the custody of the warden of Southport, it is so ordered. In witness whereof, I have hereon set my hand as Judge of this Superior Court, and I have caused the seal of this Court to be affixed thereto.”

“May God have mercy on your soul.”

He could see the pure joy in the Judge’s eyes as he delivered the sentencing.

It was five years he spent in prison. Each one hammering in the point that the law was making a mockery of him. Everyday, the guards got a little worse, a little more teasing and pushed the limits of what they could do to him without him fighting back. The bastards got comfortable around him, and there was nothing he could do about it.

They treated him like a sad dog doing tricks just for the pleasure of a shitty treat, only to be denied even after groveling at their feet.

Five. Fucking. Years.

At this point he was just craving some sort of relief. He even welcomed death, and despite the judge’s promise all those five years ago, the court seemed determined to draw out his torment for as long as possible before sending him to the slaughterhouse.

Bigby blearily opened his eyes, never getting enough sleep these days, involuntarily flinching at the sharp sound of metal banging against metal. Though the cuff permanently clamped to his wrist prevented him from transforming, its not like they could cancel out his quirk entirely. Enhanced hearing had its downfalls, and every morning he woke up to the same three scents. Sweat, shit, and corruption.

But anyway, apparently he had a visitor. Which was strange, considering Bigby’s family was either gone, or dead, and he never made any friends. So who the fuck could possibly want to see him?

Only after having shackles firmly attached to his wrists and ankles, he was led into the surprisingly private- well, as private as you could get in a supermax prison- and was forced into a rusting metal chair in front of a booth comprised of two phones and bullet proof glass. And on the other side, politely escorted by guards to the seat in front of him, was a woman with skin like porcelain and hair blacker than coal; none other than the Princess Hero herself: Miss Snow Fucking White.

Real cute fucking name there, right?

She picked up the phone on her end, staring down Bigby with her calm, cold stare until he did the same.

“Mr. Wolf-“

“Listen, Miss White, I’m not in the fuckin’ mood to be berated by one of the top heroes in New York, so cut the shit and get outta here. Whatever you have to say, I’m not interested.” Bigby nothing but growled into his phone, nearly hanging up then and there and dragging is own ass back to his cell.

Miss White simply let him calm down, cleared her throat and continued.

“Mr. Wolf, I am here to inform you, in association with the Fables Hero Agency, that the state of New York is willing to grant you amnesty for your past crimes:”

That got Bigby’s attention. It wasn’t obvious, but there was a certain way his eyes widened just a touch, his body tensed and leaned just a hair in towards Snow that let her know that he was interested, very interested.

“Why should I trust you?” And. Twice as skeptical.

“Because, put plainly, I am your last chance at you living past 35. My agency has been interested in your case for a long time, and your time is running short. The court has scheduled a date for your execution, the end of this month. In 2 weeks exactly.”

Sounded good enough- except it didn’t. Bigby couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out of him mouth, regretting them as soon as they hit the air. Why would he be actively trying to fuck up what’s already secured for him.

“Why the hell would you be interested in a serial killer with a knack for tearing people limb from limb?”

Snow leaned in towards the glass, hovering just a few inches from the glass.

“Because, you’re not as bad as everyone says you are.”

“Seven years ago, you broke into and killed six men in the basement of the Geppetto Casino, all wealthy and well know celebrities, CEOs and millionaires. These men were preparing to rape, torment, and humiliate the three women they were holding captive, including myself and my sister, before auctioning us off to the next highest biding sick perverted fuck.

But you showed up before any of that could happen. You gave those men what they deserved and you let us go without so much as a scratch before you nearly destroyed the whole building. The world mourned the death of those truly evil men, never acknowledging their heinous crimes, while insisting that you were the true monster. But I know the truth. At least in that moment, you were a hero.”

“...I’m not always like that, you know. I’ve killed innocent people.”

“We have one of the best investigative teams at the agency, I think we both know that isn’t entirely true. At points, yes. You were a villain through and through, but you’re not a bad person, Mr. Wolf.”

“Right... so where the hell do I sign up for this pardon thing?”

Snow produced a large envelope from a bag sitting at her feet and removed a few legal documents from it and handed them to a guard to present to Bigby.

“You should know that this doesn’t come without heavy restrictions. You’ll be under twenty-four observation, as well as required therapy, and extremely strict parol. You will also be required to study and work at the hero agency, and acquire a hero license at some point in the next 2 years. If you breech any terms of the contract, you’ll be arrested and sent back here to await execution again. But, if you manage to survive all of this, you’ll be relatively free within ten years. Reduced to five on good behavior.”

Bigby nodded, soaking up the information Snow was giving him while he looked over the several contracts placed in front of him. It was a lot of legal jargon, but it was easier to understand than he thought it would be. Well that, and he also spent the little free time he did have studying up on legal practices, curiosity pushing him to figure out just how fucked the system was right now.

“One problem, I can’t sign this. They don’t really let me use pens.”

Snow almost looked like she smiled at that. And it seems like she thought ahead, producing a pad of ink from the bag and passed it along to Bigby’s side of the glass.

“Don’t worry, your fingerprint makes a good replacement.”

There were ten pages in total, and each page was stamped with Bigby Wolf’s fingerprint black swirling ink. The pages were handed back to Miss White as she now truly smiled and looked at Bigby.

“I’ll need to send the paperwork in to be finalized, but you should be released within forty-eight hours, we’ll send a car to bring you to the agency do that you can see where you’ll be staying for the next few years. I look forward to working with you, Mr. Wolf.”

She returned her phone to its place and turned to leave, but he reached out and tapped loudly on the glass. Snow looked back and picked up her phone again.

“Bigby.”

“Mr. Wolf I-“

“Just call me Bigby.”

Next>

[thedyingmoon]

💜 This I Promise 💜

***

LXV. Home

***

It was late afternoon when they finally arrived at the old Ral farm. And when they finally arrived, they found out that the Reeves Corporation is already tearing down the place.

"Bucky, we'll stop right here." ordered Claire as she observed how the men worked at the fields, how they dismantle the stables, how they put 'keep away!' signages around the property, and how they start tearing down the little house, itself, where (F/N) grew up.

"Grandma," began (F/N) worriedly as she gazed at the old woman's tired figure - a clear indication of her fatigue for travelling for almost a day from Orvud to the remote village near Trost in Wall Rose.

However, the old woman just held up an authoritative hand. "I'm fine." she said, then put on her wide brimmed hat to cover her face. After that, both women got out of the simple carriage they rented to prevent the snooty majority of Wall Sina elites from noticing them.

(F/N), upon stepping foot on the now chaotic land where she used to play, was beyond distraught. She was both angry and sad.

"What are you doing with my family's land?!" (F/N) said as she grabbed the shoulder of a farm hand who was helping Reeves' men.

The farmhand just looked at her with utter disdain and shrugged his shoulders as if none of those things he was doing mattered.

"Dunno, Miss." he said to her. Then, he pointed at the main man who was shouting orders left to right to his fellow workmates. "Just ask the man, himself. If you can."

But, before he could even tell (F/N) that, she was already determined to storm her way towards that man. And when she finally got there, the man acted as if he didn't even notice her.

"Excuse me!" (F/N) screamed to let herself be heard above all the noise these men were making. "I demand you to let me know what you're doing with my family's land!"

And to (F/N)'s utter disgust, the man they called 'Boss' remained unfazed by her presence.

Her shoulders dropped. She felt so humiliated upon being ignored like a foolish child. And when she looked back at her grandmother, she saw the old woman nod and turn to Rogers, who cleared his throat, strode towards the Boss, and grabbed his shoulder to finally call his attention.

The Boss turned and was shocked upon seeing the tall Head Butler who stood much taller than him.

"What do you want?" the Boss grumpily asked Rogers.

"My Lady demands you to let her know what you're doing with her family's land." Rogers answered in a clear and intimidating voice.

But, the Boss did not seem to care in the least. He just looked at Rogers in the eye and snickered at him.

"Oh, was that your master?" the Boss sarcastically said. "I thought it was just a little squirrel begging for food!"

To this, all the workers present all laughed, making (F/N) as red as beetroot.

"I've had enough of this." Claire said then strode towards the men. Rogers noticed this and tried to stop the Duchess from making a scene and failed. The Boss noticed her and looked dow upon her as if she was his own grandmother.

"How can I help you, ma'am?" the Boss uttered in a mocking voice that finally ignited the flames of anger that the Duchess was keeping the entire time.

"How much does this land cost?" she said, all the while gritting her teeth.

The Boss heard this clearly and he honestly thought that he was just hearing things. "Come again, granny?"

"I said, HOW MUCH DOES THIS FUCKING LAND COST?!" the Duchess blurted out, finally exploding in anger.

The workers, including the Boss, himself, went quiet as they watch the Duchess stand right in front of them like they're animals. The smile on the Boss' face vanished as he went closer towards the Duchess.

"Granny, dear, I'm afraid this land belongs to me now. Ral wasn't able to pay for his rent, so I'm taking these all for myself."

"I didn't ask for your opinion, I'm asking you how much this land cost, you imbecile!"

The Boss drew back in terror at the tone of Claire's voice that he finally gave in and lied,

"About two million worth of gold. But, that doesn't include Ral's rent. That's three in total."

The Boss was hoping that with the absurd amount he just gave the little old woman, she would stop pestering him. Instead, she gestured at Rogers with her gloved hand. The Head Butler nodded and took out a thick bankpad from his coat pocket and gave it to her. The Duchess took it, along with a pen that Rogers just handed her.

And then, all of them, including (F/N), watched in awe as the Duchess wrote on a single note. She took that same note and handed it to the Boss, who looked at it and,...

... froze in complete terror.

His eyebrows furrowed in anger. He pointed an accusing finger towards the old lady.

"Who do you think you're playing with? Do you expect me to believe that this is even a real banknote?!"

But, the Duchess could never be threatened.

"Well now, you really are an imbecile if you can't even read properly! Now, I demand you leave this place before I call the Police to throw you in dungeons for your disrespect! I'll have you know that I have the power to keep you there and your filthy men until you rot and die!"

The Boss clicked his tongue in defeat and gestured for his men to stop whatever they're doing and vacate the place. And when they're finally gone, Claire went to the nearest tree stub and collapsed. Both (F/N) and Rogers went towards her in alarm, but they were just stopped.

"I'm fine. I just needed a little rest." Claire breathed. Then, she turned towards (F/N) and waved her off. "You go do what you have to do, my dear."

(F/N) smiled and went towards Claire anyway. She engulfed the old woman in a warm hug and thanked her.

She felt strong enough to face this, but the moment she entered her old home, she knew that her the strength she drew was slowly failing her.

One by one, all the happy memories she had with the family who took care of her through the years went back to her, haunting her and giving her a heartache so unbearable that she almost dropped to the floor.

But, she couldn't let herself be fazed and decided to go on. She told herself that she have to bestrong, but every remnant of her old home kept hurting her.

She still couldn't believe that her father was long gone, and she was awfully guilty that she failed to go to him in his time of need. She could even still remember the words of the Doctor who wrote to her,

I'm very sorry to say that your father has passed due to an incurable illness. And for that, you must immediately come to the Trost District Hospital grounds to witness the incineration of his body. It hurts me to tell you this, but should you fail to attend, we must still incinerate Mr. Ral's body to prevent the spreading of the disease.

But, of course, that was a month ago when she was still suffering from amnesia. So, the moment she finished reading the wretched letter from the Doctor, she, together with Claire and Rogers, went immediately to the said Hospital, only to find her father already in an urn and reduced to ashes.

Tears fell down her face as she took the small, porcelain urn from her large bag and placed it on top of the fireplace, bringing her father home. Only then did she let herself collapse on the floor as she drown herself in her own tears.

Claire heard her and entered the tiny house. She found (F/N) there on the floor, still crying her eyes out. She went towards her and kneeled right beside her, despite the complaint of her aching joints due to signs of ageing.

"You did what you could, dear." she whispered gently to (F/N) as she comforted her. "Don't blame yourself."

"If only I was stronger, then this wouldn't have happened." the girl said, fell right on the older woman's arms and cried there. "I'm such a useless person!"

"Hush, dear. Don't say that. It's not your fault. Things happen for a reason. And for those reasons, we must keep on getting stronger emotionally." Claire told her as her eyes surveyed the whole room, so unlike the environment where she grew up. Right then and there, she had decided to turn things around for (F/N) to make up for her very long absence. "Dear?"

(F/N) looked up and gazed at the eyes of her grandmother.

"You have a lovely home."

(F/N) slightly smiled as she wiped her tears away. "You have a far, lovelier home. And bigger than this."

"Oh, shush! Yes, my house is, indeed, big. But, not as warm as your home. I was alone for a very long time with nothing but spiteful neighbors around me. But, you, my dear, you grew up in a very nice place where you're loved and fed and taken care of like a true family. And for that, (F/N), I will forever be grateful."

Both women smiled at each other, knowing that a strong bond was beginning to tie them together as one family.

"Grandma."

"Yes, dear?"

"Thank you so much. For everything."

Claire smiled as she wiped a single tear of happiness from her tired eye.

"I'm so glad you're back. I really am. And for that, I will turn this home into my home, as well. We'll fill it with warmth and laughter, and I will make it up to you and caref for you as long as I live."

(F/N) began crying once more, but it was no longer of sadness and mourning, but of peace and happiness.

"I love you so much, grandma."

"I love you, too, dear!" Claire exclaimed in delight, having heard, for the very first time, her grandchild saying those words. And they were about to embrace once more, but stopped and giggled as they noticed Rogers crying in a far corner of the room,...

***

Both women were awfully tired, and when they finally got back to their mansion in Orvud, they were determined to rest and relieve their stress.

But, a simple announcement from a servant left (F/N) with a feeling of total dread. She strode towards the living room as fast as she could, and there, standing in the middle of the room and waiting for her, was,...

"Captain Levi?" (F/N) muttered in disbelief.

"(F/N)." he answered solemnly.

***

Lord Shunerman and Lady Baxter were still arguing when they arrived at the doorstep of their new home in Stohess District of Wall Sina.

"And may I say!" Elvis exclaimed. "I would not have these bloody bandages around my leg and arm if it weren't for your insatiable appetite to seek revenge!"

"Shut the hell up, Shunerman!" Jacqueline nagged as she strained to turn towards her fiance' despite the pain her neckbrace was causing her. "If it weren't for MY insatiable appetite for revenge, we wouldn't be able to retrieve what's truly ours!"

"For the cost of our lives?! For the sake of all the three Walls, if it weren't for that bloody newspaper you stole from a visiting nobleman, I could still be - "

"Drinking your fat heart out? Hah! You should be thankful that I brought us here!"

"You?! The Scouting Legion people saved us from those armed men, not you! And we almost died because you kept banging on their door!"

"Shut up!"

On and on they nagged. They were still nagging as they opened the door and crossed the cold threshold of their house. Even as they light a single candle to guide their way, they were still nagging.

Until they noticed a single note on top of the glass - top table.

"Is that yours, Jackie?"

"Don't be a fool! This is the first time I entered this house."

After that realization hit them, they both stared at each other. A few moments later, they decided to pick up the note and open it. Together, they read the note that was left to them,

I' am returning this house to you. I feel I' am obliged to thank you for letting us use your house for a few months. Do not worry, we did not take anything of importance. We are also returning the documents we borrowed, and I feel that I should let you know that I have kept this place clean and without speck. Should you disgrace this house by leaving your filth around, I will personally take back the migration documents from you and kick you out of this wretched house, myself.

That is, if I'm ever going to return from our last Expedition.

Yours,

L.A.

***

~ @levi4mikasa , @yepps , @chocolate-mmilk , @nerdyphantomlady , @unhappysap , @shewolfofficial , @super-peace-fangirl , @fangurl-ontgeside , and @emilyackerman78 . 💜

***

💜💜💜

***

[austinpanda]

Dad Letter 062820

28 June, 2020

Dear Dad--

Good morning! It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood, as Mr. Rogers said. Since it’s Sunday, Zach went to the store, and since he did that, we’ve now resupplied with birdseed and other wildlife treats, and I’ve scattered them about, and refilled the birdbath, and now we’re getting mobbed by every bird, squirrel, and chipmunk in all of Penobscot County. I’ve complained recently that only the boring birds seem to be showing up, but we’ve had a couple of nice ones lately. By “nice” I mean anything that’s not a black grackle or a brown headed cowbird (which look like grackles) or a mourning dove (which look like pigeons). But Zach got some birdseed formulated specifically for colorful birds, and sure as shit, we had the world’s brightest goldfinch show up shortly after. I got a picture or two. 

So...not to be gross, but since it’s something that’s been occupying my time a lot recently, I am now throwing up almost every day! I believe it’s a combination of stress, and one of my medications, which typically causes nausea. I have taken this as an opportunity to get better at throwing up. It occurred to me, there are certainly bad ways to throw up, and worse ways to throw up, right? Might as well step up my game. Might as well be the one who impresses all the doctors in the hospital, “Man, that guy vomits so good! I could watch this guy puke all day. I wish all the patients vomited that good.” Naturally, I’ll be discussing this with my doctor. Most mornings it’s manageable, and some days it doesn’t happen--like this morning, I seem fine--but yesterday morning was like Mount Saint Helens, and it’s getting tiresome. I assume this is my body repeatedly voting against something I’ve been doing; I just don’t know what it is. 

My neighbor Clint, who is providing space for a neighborhood cat of negotiable virtue and her four kittens, advises that the local animal control folks will come get the kittens (and, I hope, the mom) in about, “two weeks from four or five days ago,” at which point, we’ll be given the one with the smudge on his/her nose. I assume Clint will (gently, with love) toss the kitty into my cat carrier, which he’s had in his possession since before the plague, when we thought the mother kitty was the one we were adopting, and then (gently, with love) toss it onto the space in front of our door. We then (gently, with love) yank the little boy or girl out of the carrier and into a bath to try to rid it of dirt and fleas. I predict the bath will be quick, adorable, and free from incident. Then we dry the kitty--we’ve temporarily named it Working Title Kitty--and begin teaching it where the litter box is. 

I can only assume existing kitty Samuel L. Jackson, Cat is going to hate the shit out of this. My deepest, ickiest concern is that he’s going to see Working Title Kitty as a rodent and eat him for lunch, as soon as our backs are turned. That never happens ever, right? It’s 100% impossible that this could happen, right? My goal is, I want to see them sleeping together, all smushed in a pile for warmth, by this fall. It’s going to take some work. 

Yesterday, for the first time, Zach and I met a guy we’ve both been chatting with on our phones. I have mentioned him in the past! His name is Bryan, he’s a plant scientist, and he kind of looks like Bob Balaban from Close Encounters (the bearded mapmaker who translated French for the French guy). Bryan’s husband is Andrew, and for some reason, we all call him Mandrew. The thing that makes Mandrew fun to observe is his fondness for fixating on the iniquitous and the stupid and getting righteously furious about it. He’s just one of those guys who does anger really well, but he has a big heart, so he gets angry at the right stuff, and none of it gets on me, in any uncomfortable way, so it’s entertaining as hell. 

The four of us mutually decided to attempt a responsible, social-distancing cookout. Mainly they grilled something called cheddarwurst and we brought little bags of chips so everyone could pick what they want and not have to share, or touch anyone else’s food. We stayed six feet apart the whole time, never entered their house, and never made any physical contact. It was great fun! The cheddarwurst is pretty much what you’d expect, a big meaty hot dog with cheese in it. It was so good, I’m considering divorcing Zach so I can marry the cheddarwurst. Apparently, my grocery store sells them, but they’re frequently sold out. 

So we sat six feet apart, no different from a 70’s conversation pit, really. We sat on their generously-sized porch and ate cheddarwurst and little bags of chips and sampled a couple of sour orange pies Zach made to give to Bryan and Mandrew. (Sour orange pie is a lot like the orange version of a key lime pie.) Everything went over well, food-wise. Only once did I run headlong into an open window frame, making quite a ‘whump.’ If I’d watched me doing it, it would have scared the shit out of me, but it didn’t hurt, and it didn’t bleed. The conversation was great. Their yard is really pretty, and a couple of times it started raining softly, and that made it even prettier; we were safe from it on the porch. 

You had some marijuana questions! I will answer them in the order you asked. 

(1) When enjoying cannabis, time slows down, or maybe speeds up, and I can watch a movie I’ve already seen several times and discover 10-15% of flick I’ve never seen before!

Sure! Cannabis can cause me to notice things that have been in front of me the whole time. Sometimes it’s a part of a movie I never noticed, but more often it’s something messy in the house. There will be a single raisin on the kitchen floor, and everyone will ignore it, because it’s just one raisin. We’ll see it, but we won’t really see it. Certainly we won’t do anything about it. But with cannabis, the raisin finally brings itself front and center in my attention span, and I can actually pick the stupid raisin up and throw it away. 

Having that experience with movies, however, isn’t necessarily limited to times when you’re on cannabis. You can notice new shit in a good movie no matter how many times you see it. The weed just helps bring the little details you might have consciously missed into the foreground. So...yes, it’s normal.

(2) Can I float out of my reality, pick a spot, in my past to revisit? Will I always be able to come back? 

Time travel would be lovely, but not even something so benevolent as marijuana can accomplish it. Can you explore your past in your thoughts? Sure! Are you going to have any trouble “coming back” from a mental place you go when you’re high? Well, how likely do you think it is that weed might make you panicked, or paranoid, or psychotic? I’ve never had that problem, and weed generally doesn’t do that. Usually it’s a gentler, more relaxing sensation than that. You’re a Weidmann, though, so your brain is going to say, “Hey! How can I fuck this up with over-thinking?” (It is our curse.) What can I say? The only cure I know of is to remain calm, remember you just had some lovely and potent drugs, the feeling is temporary, and you’re perfectly safe. 

(3) Can you get so far into this (addiction!) that it can’t be overridden, does it fuck with your mind or general health?

There’s not much of an addiction component to pot. Based on everything I’ve read, giving up marijuana doesn’t cause any horrific physical symptoms, like quitting drinking or quitting heroin will. It seems like the worst stuff that happens when you quit smoking pot, if you were a heavy smoker in the past, is: You feel kind of grumpy, and you wish the pot would return. That’s about it. 

Does it fuck with your mind? Well, yes. It’s a drug; that’s its job. But the effect peaks in about 20 minutes and disappears within a few hours. Not sure what happens to your mind when you smoke it for your entire adult life, but I’ll let you know. :)

Does it fuck with your general health? Well, yes. Any time you set fire to something and inhale the smoke it’s going to be colossally bad for you. But it’s not going to kill you stone dead after a single use, you can't overdose on it, and it won't make all your teeth fall out. It’s more like the long-term dangers associated with cigarettes. 

Hope this helps. More next week, and all my love to you both!

[scarlet-bee]

[Plain text:

Thanksgiving/Day of Mourning

Last year, I made a very quick, basic post about thanksgiving: Indigenous Day of Mourning aka Thanksgiving. if you want the sources for what I’m about to say, check there.

This post will be about why you cannot just go “fuck the pilgrims, we deserve a harvest festival no matter the origin” or anything else that tries to sanitize the holiday.

You Are Still On Stolen Land

As a result, you are still actively profiting off the genocide the pilgrims committed.

I don’t care how educated about racial issues you profess you are. I don’t care how you behave the other 364 days of the year. If you try to distance yourself from the origins of Thanksgiving simply because it makes you uncomfortable to see the blood under the tablecloth, you’re not practised in sitting with actually being anti-racist. You know what to say, but you don’t practice what you preach.

You Are Eating Our Food

Pumpkins/squash, beans, turkey, cranberries, potatoes, corn, sweet potatoes, pecans, maple syrup?

Those are all Native American foods that we taught you how to grow and harvest.

You wouldn’t have any of your traditional Thanksgiving foods without us. The ideal meal of Thanksgiving is ripped right from Indigenous practices and cannot be separated from it.

The fact that these foods have been taken out of Indigenous hands and appropriated by colonizers as the bounties they somehow deserve for landing here is a tragedy, and people need to remember where their food comes from and who had been growing it for thousands of years.

You Had So Much Because Of Massacre

Thanksgiving became an annual tradition after 700 Pequot men, women, children, and elders were killed, freeing up acres of land that colonizers promptly took over. The sheer amount of extra acreage that colonizers had because of their genocide contributed to the excess of food experienced during Thanksgiving. That land had been structured to support more people originally.

Colonizers had never, ever, deserved that much food. They were taking more than they needed, not leaving much behind for the animals that depended on a balance to be held with humans. They took far more than was needed, throwing the balance off in nature.

Maybe I’m reaching. But I think that if you suddenly had 700 less people in the area, after all of the growing and planting for the total population had been done, you’d have excess food? Or even before the growing, you’d have land set up to support 700, that I’d assume you’d still use, when you were a much smaller population?

Sit With Your Own Grief

If this makes you feel bad and that you shouldn’t celebrate Thanksgiving? Sit with that.

I’m not telling you that you have to give up Thanksgiving traditions. I’m telling you that you cannot divorce them from Indigenous people.

You are giving thanks for our massacre. You are giving thanks for stealing so much from us that you had this excess.

Yes, you can need a break; yes, you can need time with family and friends. None of this is inherently bad.

It’s not even bad to eat local food from Turtle Island! Part of having a sustainable diet is eating locally, in time with the seasons.

But remember, it is Indigenous people who first gave this to you—and then you stole far more than you ever needed from us, killing us to get what you felt you deserved.

Do not divorce Thanksgiving from Indigenous people for your own comfort.

We are still here. We must live with the aftermath of colonizers stealing from us every single day.

If you feel this way hearing about our history, imagine what we feel like living it.

Donate to a local org/Indigenous person this Thanksgiving

I (again) don’t have the spoons to compile a list of vetted charities, but look for local tribe language revival programs, COVID relief funds, and activism around the Indian Child Welfare Act currently in front of the Supreme Court.

Pay reparations for what you have taken, and remember. It is also Indigenous Day of Mourning.

Indigenous people, drop your links below.

~Lesya

End plain text.]

Thanksgiving/Day of Mourning

Last year, I made a very quick, basic post about thanksgiving: Indigenous Day of Mourning aka Thanksgiving. if you want the sources for what I’m about to say, check there.

This post will be about why you cannot just go “fuck the pilgrims, we deserve a harvest festival no matter the origin” or anything else that tries to sanitize the holiday.

You Are Still On Stolen Land

As a result, you are still actively profiting off the genocide the pilgrims committed.

I don’t care how educated about racial issues you profess you are. I don’t care how you behave the other 364 days of the year. If you try to distance yourself from the origins of Thanksgiving simply because it makes you uncomfortable to see the blood under the tablecloth, you’re not practised in sitting with actually being anti-racist. You know what to say, but you don’t practice what you preach.

You Are Eating Our Food

Pumpkins/squash, beans, turkey, cranberries, potatoes, corn, sweet potatoes, pecans, maple syrup?

Those are all Native American foods that we taught you how to grow and harvest.

You wouldn’t have any of your traditional Thanksgiving foods without us. The ideal meal of Thanksgiving is ripped right from Indigenous practices and cannot be separated from it.

The fact that these foods have been taken out of Indigenous hands and appropriated by colonizers as the bounties they somehow deserve for landing here is a tragedy, and people need to remember where their food comes from and who had been growing it for thousands of years.

You Had So Much Because Of Massacre

Thanksgiving became an annual tradition after 700 Pequot men, women, children, and elders were killed, freeing up acres of land that colonizers promptly took over. The sheer amount of extra acreage that colonizers had because of their genocide contributed to the excess of food experienced during Thanksgiving. That land had been structured to support more people originally.

Colonizers had never, ever, deserved that much food. They were taking more than they needed, not leaving much behind for the animals that depended on a balance to be held with humans. They took far more than was needed, throwing the balance off in nature.

Maybe I’m reaching. But I think that if you suddenly had 700 less people in the area, after all of the growing and planting for the total population had been done, you’d have excess food? Or even before the growing, you’d have land set up to support 700, that I’d assume you’d still use, when you were a much smaller population?

Sit With Your Own Grief

If this makes you feel bad and that you shouldn’t celebrate Thanksgiving? Sit with that.

I’m not telling you that you have to give up Thanksgiving traditions. I’m telling you that you cannot divorce them from Indigenous people.

You are giving thanks for our massacre. You are giving thanks for stealing so much from us that you had this excess.

Yes, you can need a break; yes, you can need time with family and friends. None of this is inherently bad.

It’s not even bad to eat local food from Turtle Island! Part of having a sustainable diet is eating locally, in time with the seasons.

But remember, it is Indigenous people who first gave this to you—and then you stole far more than you ever needed from us, killing us to get what you felt you deserved.

Do not divorce Thanksgiving from Indigenous people for your own comfort.

We are still here. We must live with the aftermath of colonizers stealing from us every single day.

If you feel this way hearing about our history, imagine what we feel like living it.

Donate to a local org/Indigenous person this Thanksgiving

I (again) don’t have the spoons to compile a list of vetted charities, but look for local tribe language revival programs, COVID relief funds, and activism around the Indian Child Welfare Act currently in front of the Supreme Court.

Pay reparations for what you have taken, and remember. It is also Indigenous Day of Mourning.

Indigenous people, drop your links below.

~Lesya

[scarlet-bee]

[Plain text:

Thanksgiving/Day of Mourning

Last year, I made a very quick, basic post about thanksgiving: Indigenous Day of Mourning aka Thanksgiving. if you want the sources for what I’m about to say, check there.

This post will be about why you cannot just go “fuck the pilgrims, we deserve a harvest festival no matter the origin” or anything else that tries to sanitize the holiday.

You Are Still On Stolen Land

As a result, you are still actively profiting off the genocide the pilgrims committed.

I don’t care how educated about racial issues you profess you are. I don’t care how you behave the other 364 days of the year. If you try to distance yourself from the origins of Thanksgiving simply because it makes you uncomfortable to see the blood under the tablecloth, you’re not practised in sitting with actually being anti-racist. You know what to say, but you don’t practice what you preach.

You Are Eating Our Food

Pumpkins/squash, beans, turkey, cranberries, potatoes, corn, sweet potatoes, pecans, maple syrup?

Those are all Native American foods that we taught you how to grow and harvest.

You wouldn’t have any of your traditional Thanksgiving foods without us. The ideal meal of Thanksgiving is ripped right from Indigenous practices and cannot be separated from it.

The fact that these foods have been taken out of Indigenous hands and appropriated by colonizers as the bounties they somehow deserve for landing here is a tragedy, and people need to remember where their food comes from and who had been growing it for thousands of years.

You Had So Much Because Of Massacre

Thanksgiving became an annual tradition after 700 Pequot men, women, children, and elders were killed, freeing up acres of land that colonizers promptly took over. The sheer amount of extra acreage that colonizers had because of their genocide contributed to the excess of food experienced during Thanksgiving. That land had been structured to support more people originally.

Colonizers had never, ever, deserved that much food. They were taking more than they needed, not leaving much behind for the animals that depended on a balance to be held with humans. They took far more than was needed, throwing the balance off in nature.

Maybe I’m reaching. But I think that if you suddenly had 700 less people in the area, after all of the growing and planting for the total population had been done, you’d have excess food? Or even before the growing, you’d have land set up to support 700, that I’d assume you’d still use, when you were a much smaller population?

Sit With Your Own Grief

If this makes you feel bad and that you shouldn’t celebrate Thanksgiving? Sit with that.

I’m not telling you that you have to give up Thanksgiving traditions. I’m telling you that you cannot divorce them from Indigenous people.

You are giving thanks for our massacre. You are giving thanks for stealing so much from us that you had this excess.

Yes, you can need a break; yes, you can need time with family and friends. None of this is inherently bad.

It’s not even bad to eat local food from Turtle Island! Part of having a sustainable diet is eating locally, in time with the seasons.

But remember, it is Indigenous people who first gave this to you—and then you stole far more than you ever needed from us, killing us to get what you felt you deserved.

Do not divorce Thanksgiving from Indigenous people for your own comfort.

We are still here. We must live with the aftermath of colonizers stealing from us every single day.

If you feel this way hearing about our history, imagine what we feel like living it.

Donate to a local org/Indigenous person this Thanksgiving

I (again) don’t have the spoons to compile a list of vetted charities, but look for local tribe language revival programs, COVID relief funds, and activism around the Indian Child Welfare Act currently in front of the Supreme Court.

Pay reparations for what you have taken, and remember. It is also Indigenous Day of Mourning.

Indigenous people, drop your links below.

~Lesya

An important addition I forgot when writing this:

My use of “colonizer” does not include Black people. They are Indigenous stolen from their lands and forced to work the lands here, sometimes by Native American tribes. It also does not include refugees who were displaced by instability in their home countries, especially if that instability was caused by the United States, Canada, the UK, or the European Union.

Not all settlers of North America are colonizers. I will not tell refugees and stolen peoples how to handle the sticky situation of living within this colonial system against your will.

I apologize for forgetting Black, AfroIndigenous, and refugee issues in my original post.

~Lesya

End plain text.]

Thanksgiving/Day of Mourning

Last year, I made a very quick, basic post about thanksgiving: Indigenous Day of Mourning aka Thanksgiving. if you want the sources for what I’m about to say, check there.

This post will be about why you cannot just go “fuck the pilgrims, we deserve a harvest festival no matter the origin” or anything else that tries to sanitize the holiday.

You Are Still On Stolen Land

As a result, you are still actively profiting off the genocide the pilgrims committed.

I don’t care how educated about racial issues you profess you are. I don’t care how you behave the other 364 days of the year. If you try to distance yourself from the origins of Thanksgiving simply because it makes you uncomfortable to see the blood under the tablecloth, you’re not practised in sitting with actually being anti-racist. You know what to say, but you don’t practice what you preach.

You Are Eating Our Food

Pumpkins/squash, beans, turkey, cranberries, potatoes, corn, sweet potatoes, pecans, maple syrup?

Those are all Native American foods that we taught you how to grow and harvest.

You wouldn’t have any of your traditional Thanksgiving foods without us. The ideal meal of Thanksgiving is ripped right from Indigenous practices and cannot be separated from it.

The fact that these foods have been taken out of Indigenous hands and appropriated by colonizers as the bounties they somehow deserve for landing here is a tragedy, and people need to remember where their food comes from and who had been growing it for thousands of years.

You Had So Much Because Of Massacre

Thanksgiving became an annual tradition after 700 Pequot men, women, children, and elders were killed, freeing up acres of land that colonizers promptly took over. The sheer amount of extra acreage that colonizers had because of their genocide contributed to the excess of food experienced during Thanksgiving. That land had been structured to support more people originally.

Colonizers had never, ever, deserved that much food. They were taking more than they needed, not leaving much behind for the animals that depended on a balance to be held with humans. They took far more than was needed, throwing the balance off in nature.

Maybe I’m reaching. But I think that if you suddenly had 700 less people in the area, after all of the growing and planting for the total population had been done, you’d have excess food? Or even before the growing, you’d have land set up to support 700, that I’d assume you’d still use, when you were a much smaller population?

Sit With Your Own Grief

If this makes you feel bad and that you shouldn’t celebrate Thanksgiving? Sit with that.

I’m not telling you that you have to give up Thanksgiving traditions. I’m telling you that you cannot divorce them from Indigenous people.

You are giving thanks for our massacre. You are giving thanks for stealing so much from us that you had this excess.

Yes, you can need a break; yes, you can need time with family and friends. None of this is inherently bad.

It’s not even bad to eat local food from Turtle Island! Part of having a sustainable diet is eating locally, in time with the seasons.

But remember, it is Indigenous people who first gave this to you—and then you stole far more than you ever needed from us, killing us to get what you felt you deserved.

Do not divorce Thanksgiving from Indigenous people for your own comfort.

We are still here. We must live with the aftermath of colonizers stealing from us every single day.

If you feel this way hearing about our history, imagine what we feel like living it.

Donate to a local org/Indigenous person this Thanksgiving

I (again) don’t have the spoons to compile a list of vetted charities, but look for local tribe language revival programs, COVID relief funds, and activism around the Indian Child Welfare Act currently in front of the Supreme Court.

Pay reparations for what you have taken, and remember. It is also Indigenous Day of Mourning.

Indigenous people, drop your links below.

~Lesya