#young trans people who can tell I am too and we just… have this subtle stuff

[blowflyfag]

I love my cigarette job a much actually guys I’m probably not gonna be thinking this in like2 hours but I love this place actually

[semper-legens]

66. Proud, ed. by Juno Dawson

Owned?: No, library Page count: 336 My summary: A girl and her phoenix ponder their marriage prospects. A trans boy on a LGBT+ football team face trials on and off the pitch. A choir sings Firework and finds their voice. A pair of girls find love among the graffiti. Tales of young people, tales of LGBT+ people, tales of hope. And above all, tales of pride. My rating: 4/5 My commentary:

This is not my first time reading this collection. The last time was on a train home from seeing my brother, who lived in Birmingham at the time - the trains were cancelled and delayed and cancelled again, and it was a very unexpectedly long journey. I remember that I pulled this out of my bag while on a rail replacement bus for the last leg of the journey, and got weirdly emotional about it at like midnight on a dark road in the middle of nowhere. This reading…made me far less emotional, let's put it that way. While I liked it overall, with a bit more clarity I can see some of its flaws a bit more clearly, which I'll talk about under the cut.

So overall, I liked this collection, but I felt like something was lacking for me. All of the stories felt just a little too 'safe'. Most were about LGBT+ kids who were accepted by their friends and families without fanfare, most were cozy in some way. One that was explicitly about the struggles of coming out acknowledges from the off that the kid's family would not have a problem with it. And I'm not exactly going to be claiming here that all LGBT+ stories have to be all doom and gloom, that there can be no cozy romances for LGBT+ people, because that would be silly. But this collection tended towards the saccharine as a whole, and I think having a few more murky stories among them would have balanced the rest out a lot better. (Then again, I acknowledge that this collection is for LGBT+ teens, and I am 28. So any opinion I have here has to be taken with a grain of salt.) As ever with short stories, I'm only going to talk about some of them in detail, so here we go!

The Courage of Dragons was a rare one set not in the contemporary world but a sort of mythic China, where young women are chosen by phoenixes and the emperor wishes to take one for a bride. The protagonist struggles over this, as she does not want to marry the emperor even though it would represent a great social advancement for herself and for her family. This is resolved when another girl from nearby runs off with her phoenix, which is actually their phoenix, and the two realise their mutual attraction. I liked the playfulness of this story, in particular the silliness of the phoenix's name, as well as the woven-through idea of the two girls' professions, a herbalist and a lantern-maker. It made for some neat imagery, and their story of self-discovery is both interesting and engaging.

The Other Team was a charming story. It's about a trans kid in an LGBT+ football club, full of misfits and outcasts who, on the whole, are pretty bad at football. I liked that aspect of it! The story wasn't a trite heartwarming affair where the scrappy underdogs fought like hell to win the match, it was a more realistic look at a kid playing football for fun with his mates and just wanting to be accepted for who he is. I like that the attitudes of the straight team are changed a little in an understated and subtle manner, and that there is no fairytale ending, but you leave with a sense of satisfaction nonetheless. It was cute, and I liked it.

Love Poems to the City was one of the latter stories in this collection, and to my mind one of the best. It details a girl unsure of herself as many teenagers are who falls for a girl because of the graffiti on the walls telling her to go for it. There was an air of magical realism to it, which I really enjoyed - the graffiti itself goes unexplained, and it's ambiguous as to whether it is actually supernatural or not. It's a cute story which, again, succeeds for having a hint of darkness to it in my mind.

Next…sorry. I swear this is my last bit of FNaF.

[lochsides]

If I Can't Have Love, I Want Power Review

Where do I even begin with 'If I Can't Have Love, I Want Power'? It is such a good album, it's almost criminal. If I had to pick the best album to be released this year, IICHLIWP would be it. Halsey has always been an excellent songwriter, that was never even in question, but it has been proved once again, in case anyone wasn't paying attention. IICHLIWP is an album that covers so much depth in sound and in lyric. The dichotomy of the Madonna and the Whore, as they said in their announcement of the album, is an overarching theme of IICHLIWP and it is articulated so consummately. The references to pregnancies and childbirth are more subtle than I expected but that's what makes them so genius. This is an album where every lyric is intentional.

My favourite songs are ‘The Tradition’, 'Bells in Santa Fe', '1121' and 'Ya'aburnee'. More detailed thoughts on each track are below the cut. Trigger warnings for sexual assault and miscarriages.

The Tradition — This is the first song on the album and Halsey had already fucked me up so there's that. I got full-body chills listening to 'The Tradition'. The production is masterful. There is this darkness that settles in early and ebbs and flows beautifully, not only throughout the song but the album as a whole. 'The Tradition' already sets up so many of themes of this album, but what a way to talk about sexual assault. I am in love with the entire chorus line but I think my favourite lyric is ‘she got the life she wanted but now all she does is cry.’

Bells in Santa Fe — The transition from 'The Tradition' into 'Bells in Santa Fe' was so smooth I didn't even notice that the songs had changed until I looked at my screen. I don't think I could actually describe how much I adore this song if I took up the rest of my life doing so. The production is absolutely God-tier. Everything from the way it keeps building throughout the song to the percussion to the piano on the second chorus and the distortion towards the end is so perfectly done. You will never hear me rave about production this much. What a fucking song! On top of all that, you have the lyrics that are so powerful. When they said 'cause who the fuck would chose this?' it reminded me of my favourite Manicsong, 'Forever... is a long' where they sing 'how could somebody ever love me?' so that stood out to me. I love the cadence on 'secondhand thread in a secondhand bed with a second man's head' but the lyric 'better off dead so I reckon I'm headed to Hell instead' is probably the one that hits the hardest. My escapist, runaway tendencies felt very exposed by the entirety of the pre-chorus.

Easier than Lying — The way she emotes on ‘you lair, you don’t love me’ is fucking everything. I needed to start with that. It’s my favourite aspect of the whole song. And then there is that obvious callback in the bridge. ‘Easier than Lying’ is the punk sound we were promised of IICHLIWP and they delivered. The Grungy electric guitar, the bass, the production!!! This one goes hard and it makes no apologies of it’s anger.

Lilith — ‘I’m disruptive, I’ve been corrupted, and by now I don’t need a fucking introduction.’ I mean what could I possibly say after that??! Honestly, I love the duality of how this line could be about Halsey but it could also be about Lilith, herself. There is a selfishness to 'Lilith' that I love. When you connect that to the mythology of Lilith preying on pregnant women and the context of this album — it's just got so many layers. Halsey's mind!! I love the sound of this song. The production has a classic rock flare to it. Those drums are so clean and the bass accompanies it perfectly. The smoothness of their vocal on this track is very pleasing to listen to.

Girl is a Gun — I'm not going to lie, this song isn't for me. I get it. The message is right up my street but the overall sound of it just isn't what I personally like. I do love their little laugh at the start! The lyric 'it's a shot in the dark, I'm not a walk in the park, I come loaded with the safety switched off' is my favourite.

You asked for this — This song is really interesting because they gave us a pop punk sound, pushed it to the back of the track, really grungey guitar riffs and all, but their voice is so light and delicate almost, very airy in a way that stands apart from the backing track. I really like it. To me, it's like an emphasis of the message of 'You asked for this'. Young women are oftentimes forced to grow up too soon and 'be a big girl.' Society forgets, I would even say purposely overlooks, that they are 'still somebody's daughter,' one of the few things that is used to give value to a woman. We've all heard people throw the phrase "but what if it was your daughter/sister?" into the conversation when discussing women that have somehow been abused by the patriarchy. 'You asked for this' also calls attention to how when we're younger, all we want is to be grown up but how unaware we can be of what it means to be a woman in this world, the trauma that comes with it.

Darling — The guitar in this song and it’s almost-country sound are what sets this song apart from the rest of the album. ‘Darling’ is a lullaby for their child, but it tells a story of their struggles. It is honest in a way that feels private. Motherhood sounds so good on them!! This song is just a collection of things I love in music. 'Darling' is soothing and it sounds like comfort, in both melody and lyric. 'Foolish men have tried but only you have shown me how to love being alive' is perhaps the softest lyric on the whole album.

1121 — I expelled a heavy sigh when I heard ‘1121’ it absolutely took my breath away*.* This song is a truly moving ode to an unborn child. So many people talk about how they had never known what unconditional love really meant until they had a child. Halsey tells it as such: ‘you could have my heart and I would break it for you.’ I love their vocal styling on this song so much, going between their lower register and those beautiful falsettos in the chorus. The overlapping on the bridge of ‘please don’t leave, don’t leave me in the shape you left me’ and ‘I’m running out of time to tell you, I’m running out of things that I regret’ and ‘you’d never, you told me’ really capture all the wide array of emotions felt by pregnant person upon finding out they are pregnant when they’ve dealt with miscarriage. Her voice emotes the fear of losing another child, the regret of the ones she's already lost, the promise, almost desperate, of the opportunity they have right now. All of these feelings are brought to life further by the production of the song. There is so much depth in '1121'.

honey — Pop punk wlw anthem check. Halsey suits this sound so much. This track, the production, the instrumentation, all of it catered to their voice so perfectly. The sound is so refreshing and yet so classic. I adore the melody. It’s unsuspectingly catchy. I wonder if there are links to ‘Lilith’ with ‘she’s mean and she’s mine’ or if I’m just reaching. Either way, a song about a love that is a little chaotic and wild, sign me up!

Whispers — Whispering on a song called 'Whispers' might be obvious but I'm a basic bitch so leave me alone, I loved it. Lyrically, 'Whispers' was the song that I saw myself in the most. When she said 'camouflage so I can feed the lie that I'm composed,' I just felt far too exposed for comfort. Same thing with 'I do not know me.' And that's what art is supposed to do. The instrumental is haunting and dark. The way they create tension by adding in one instrument at a time. The production is amazing. Top 5 shit right here!

I am not a woman, I'm a god — Not only does this song have the catchiest hook, it’s literally ‘I am not a woman, I’m a god. I am not a martyr, I’m a problem. I am not a legend, I’m a fraud so keep your heart ‘cause I already got one.’ That hook right there tells you everything you need to know about this song. ‘I am not a woman, I’m a god’ acknowledges that one needs not be a woman to create life. They are claiming power to their gender identity through relation to Godliness. Even in the other lyrics, they talk about being ‘a different human in a new place’ or ‘a better human with a new name’ (this line in particular draws direct parallels to trans experiences). Both times, they specifically use ‘human.’ The production of this song is designed to be a single. It’s got the signature darkness of this album, tells the listener where Halsey is at sonically, and it’s a total banger.

The Lighthouse — The way this song just comes in swinging right away with the distortion and the heavy guitars is exactly what I expected from this album going into it for the first time. Very modern punk rock. And the lyric doesn't pull any punches either. 'From a tender age I was cursed with rage,' like c'mon!! I love the melody and her vocal inflations throughout the song. This is the longest song on the album but it doesn't drag. The change up right before the outro really helps with that. I find that outro so interesting. The contrast between the instrumental constantly building but their voices staying so far in the back on the track creates so much tension that is relieved in the best way possible with 'Ya'aburnee'.

Ya'aburnee — ‘Ya’aburnee’ is the perfect conclusion to this album. Halsey said in their Apple Music interview that IICHLIWP is about the power to choose and by the end of the album you realise that they choose love. This song perfectly embodies that. It’s familial. The entire chorus talks of seeing yourself in your kin and the circle of life. The second verse is a clear love letter to their partner and it makes me emotional, knowing their romantic history as we do, to hear them sing ‘wrap me in a wedding ring.’ I love how the lyric ‘you will bury me before I bury you’ is not only a statement of their hopes that they don’t have to live in a world without their loved ones, a statement of how parents should never have to bury their children, but it almost sounds like a protective promise that they will do anything to ensure their loved ones are kept from harm so as not to need burial. The softness of the instrumental on ‘Ya’aburnee’ is feels like unwinding from the rest of the record. It’s such a beautiful song.

[oblivious-embodied]

A Miraculous Journey of Self Discovery

Miraculous Tales of Ladybug and Chat Noir: Rewritten, Trans AU. 

A long time ago, I decided to make my own rewrite of the Miraculous Ladybug show, do it in my own way so that things could progress the way I would like, for characters to grow and develop in personality and strength. Write my own way for the miraculous to be empowered, to be a bigger deal, to mean more than what they mean in the show. And, along the way, I saw @wintertundra-art's Trans Adrien and Marinette AU, and I wanted to see if I could incorporate that into this rewrite. And, with her permission and cooperation, I was able to get the first chapter, Origins: Part One completed! I'm excited to see where this goes from here!

So, as a christmas gift to you all, Enjoy a miraculous rewrite, and trans representation! If you haven't already, go check out @wintertundra-art and her wonderful AU! And, if you have any questions, feel free to send me an ask too.

I’ve decided to rate it as Teen and Up Audiences, and you can read it here on AO3! It currently sits at 12,265 words

Origins: Part One

(Summary: Eons ago, powerful artifacts were forged, infused with power that humans can only dream of, they were made to be anchors to beings of immense power. Centuries ago, two of the more powerful miraculous were lost, the Butterfly of Emotion and the Peacock of Soul. Now, the Butterfly has been awoken, and is in the hands of someone who want's to corrupt the Butterfly's power and use it for their own nefarious wants. The only way to stop this from happening is to bring balance, and only the most powerful Miraculous can do so: The Black Cat of Destruction, and the Ladybug of Creation. )

A man opens up a broach, revealing the smiling image of a blonde haired, green eyed woman. His breath hitches just a bit as he locks eyes with her image. With slightly shaking hands, he closes the broach and he looks to a floating, violet creature with big, purple eyes, and a swirl on its head that is the same shade as its eyes. Little butterfly wings extend from its back.

“Nooroo,” his tone is sharp, cold, calculating. Terrifying. “Tell me where to find the other Miraculous.”

“I-I do not know...” the being named Nooroo answers, bowing its head slightly.

The man narrows his eyes.

Several thousand years ago, possibly eons ago, powerful pieces of magical jewelry were forged, each serving as an anchor to beings of extreme power. Beings that are the embodiment of concepts that the minds of simple humans can’t even begin to comprehend, concepts like The Four Elements, The Mind, The Heart, The Soul, The Body, Energy, and even of Destruction and Creation itself.

These jewels were named ‘Miraculous’. They can’t be destroyed; whether that is due to the material they are made from, or the bonds they have with the beings, known as kwami, no one knows.

These Miraculous were created for the sole purpose of aiding the human race. And with their use, myths and legends of large, humanoid creatures, capable of unfathomable feats of strength and power arose.

And according to legend, whoever holds both of the two most powerful Miraculous, the anchors to the beings of Destruction and Creation, Death and Life, will be as powerful as a god.

And with that power, the ability to do whatever they want.

And he must have these Miraculous. He must have the power to become God.

His life, his happiness, all he’s worked for, all he’s done, the fate of his family, it all depends on him getting those Miraculous.

“Very well.” He says finally, but he turns his cold gaze to the poor being. “Tell me, Nooroo, what are the properties of your Miraculous.”

The being named Nooroo looks up at this man, its eyes weary. “That is the Miraculous of the Butterfly. It derives its power from the heart; it will allow you to sense the emotions of anyone around you in a certain radius, and through this you will be able to give others powers and abilities. These people will then become your devoted followers, your champions.” Nooroo straightens back up, puffing out its little chest.

A sickening smile creeps its way across the man’s face. “You are saying, Nooroo, that I can give supernatural powers to the ordinary; and they will, in turn, do anything I tell them to do.” It isn’t a question. It’s a statement. His mind is already circulating with different situations. At this, Nooroo deflates a bit, drooping.

“W-well, no, not really. You can give powers to someone you deem fit, but you can’t really control them. They’ll just be able to communicate with you, and vice versa, and you will be able to help them along the way.”

The smile does not leave the man’s face, “You said your powers are derived from the heart, yes?” Nooroo nods, it’s eyes widening. “I may not be able to control them directly... but I can to some degree.”

At this, Nooroo’s eyes fly open, his mouth dropping open. “Th-that’s-that’s not what the butterfly is intended-“

“I will do what I want!” The man cuts in, his tone forceful, he emphasizes his words with a stomp to the ground. “I am your master. You will do what I say, and you will not disobey me.” Nooroo’s eyes blow wide again, and it opens its mouth to say something, but nothing comes out of its mouth. It is unable to say anything. In it’s eyes, terror is clear. Dejectedly, Nooroo bows it’s head and body. “Yes, Master.”

This brings the man even more sickening joy.

“Nooroo, we will find those Miraculous.” Then man takes a step forward and lifts Nooroo’s chin up. “And we will do it by any means necessary.”

He takes a step back and fastens the broach to his shirt. 

“Nooroo, dark wings, rise.”

Nooroo is sucked into the broach and violet light rushes up the man’s body, transforming his clothes. When the light dies down, the man is wearing black, skin tight, laceless dress shoes. Purple, almost skintight pants. He’s wearing a purple suit jacket and black latex-like gloves. The collar folds up at the front like a paper airplane, the broach sitting in the middle, two black, shimmering, almost rubber like lapels that start just below the paper airplane collar, form around it and go up to protrude from off the shoulders about 25 centimeters. His neck and face, save for the area around his mouth, is covered by a silver material. His eyes are violet. 

“From now on...” he looks at the big metal, circular window cover, his violet eyes glistening with malice. “I will be known as Hawkmoth!”

                                                     --------

Sleeping in the brass horn of the fake record player that houses the miracle box is a small green creature, with a head much larger than the rest of his body, who looks like a miniature turtle. His body is a light-ish green, with patches of darker green. His head has some subtle scales, but is mostly smooth. Its abdomen, and the back of his arms and legs are covered in dark green scales. A turtle shell rests on his back.

Something startles Wayzz from his peaceful sleep in the fake record player’s bell, his eyes shooting open and revealing that they are completely yellow with  dark green pupils. Something pulsates through the air, a powerful, corruptive wave of energy with a hint of something else behind it. 

It’s... an old, familiar energy. It pulsates through the air again before dissipating slightly, then pulsating again. Like a heartbeat. 

One that doesn’t bode well. 

This energy... it’s from Nooroo... but... it’s tainted. It might just be from time apart, that could be why his energy feels... wrong. 

Malicious. Cold. 

Unwelcome... 

But... it could also be something else... something far more terrible than someone accidentally picking up and activating It’s Miraculous. 

It’s an energy that accompanies An unwelcome wielder. It’s Nooroo’s distress call. 

Wayzz bursts from the fake record player’s bell and into Master Fu’s side, jolting him, stilling his fingers on his patient’s back. 

The little old man, wearing a red Hawaiian t-shirt, grey slacks and brown sandals, turns to the little green kwami. 

“What is it?” He whispers, his fingers returning to work at the young man’s back. 

“Master! I felt an odd energy.” 

Master Fu pauses in his work again, furrowing his brows in thought. After another second’s deliberation, he tells Wayzz to hide, then quickly ushers his patient out the door, promising to see him next week. 

With the door closed, he turns back to his kwami. “What kind of energy?” His tone is solemn and wary. 

“Master, it was Noroo’s. It was Nooroo’s distress call. It’s in trouble!” 

The old master’s eyes widen in shock, his mouth hanging open for a second before he sets it into a hard line. “Very well then, Wayzz. We must find him at once!” 

Wayzz winces for a split second, human’s have never understood how one can be referred to by pronouns other than he/him, or she/her, and the Master doesn’t seem to catch on to Wayzz calling Nooroo by It’s preferred pronouns. But Wayzz refuses to not use It’s preferred pronouns. He would never do that to his friend.

The old master stands up straight, holding up his right wrist, his other hand bracing it. “Time to transform... Wayzz-“

‘Crack!’

“Augh, oh...” Master Fu groans as he falls to the ground, muted groans escaping his throat. 

“Master, please be reasonable! You are-“ 

“Still young!” Fu cuts in, “ I’m only 186!...” he grunts as he stands back up. “but I can no longer do this alone... we will need help.” 

He walks over to the fake record player, and Wayzz looks away as Master Fu puts in the code to open up the record player. 

Within seconds, the middle slides open, and a black box with red, ornate, ancient Chinese characters on it is lifted from the cavity in the record player. 

Before he opens the box, he looks to Wayzz; the kwami has been with him for most of his life... they’ve been through a lot together. So, Wayzz is certain that they surely think the same thing. 

Allowing those Miraculous to be out in the open, even if it is just to recover Nooroo from its captor, it’s incredibly risky. But... Wayzz has a certain feeling about this, it may be a risky move, but it feels like the right one. If they are to recover Nooroo, and if It’s had Its powers abused by a corrupted heart, they will need to cleanse and balance it’s Miraculous; and only those of Creation and Destruction can do so.  As Fu takes out those two Miraculous, Wayzz nods his agreement. Hopefully... hopefully this doesn’t go wrong.

                                                   ----------- 

For the next few days, Fu looks for two people who fit the parameters for these two Miraculous. They need to be kind, and selfless... those two traits aren’t too hard to find. But for the Miraculous of Creation, he needs to find someone who has the mind to handle the complexity, the heart to consider the options, the soul to value everyone, the body to meet the physical requirements and the energy to withstand it all.

They need to be of the right age too, for if they are too young, their mind could snap, their heart could burst, their soul could be irreparably damaged, their body could shrivel… just like his did when he was a boy. 

Finding someone who meets all these requirements is grueling, but it’s the only way to make sure they don’t face life long detriments.  

Fu finds himself in a bakery, looking over everyone he can see as he simultaneously looks for what pastry to get for himself. The people he finds don’t fit what this Miraculous needs, and he gets no reaction from the box containing the being who embodies Creation itself. He is about to give up on his search for a suitable wielder for Tikki when a feeling of warmth pulsates through his body, emanating from the box Tikki’s Miraculous resides in. 

He looks up, and is greeted with the sight of the baker’s daughter, a young girl with black hair, Asian features, and beautiful grey eyes. She talks animatedly with the customers, smiling so brightly and with such warmth in her eyes, she makes it seem like she makes friends with everyone she meets. 

But she’s too young, she doesn’t look to be more that 14 years old, he will not put the stress of being the wielder of Creation on a child. His body was crippled when he wore his Miraculous when he was too young, and his Miraculous is substantially less powerful than Creation. He will not the the reason for the death of a child. 

He moves on. 

But Tikki is insistent, if the way the box burns in his pocket is any indication. 

Reluctantly, he turns to his kwami companion, Wayzz, and nods to him, making a mental note to have Wayzz watch this girl. He can only hope that he finds someone better suited for Creation. 

When out of the bakery, Wayzz whispers in his ear, “Are you sure giving a Miraculous — especially one of such magnitude — to a child is a good idea?”

Fu pulls out and bites into a pastry, his facial features dark. “I do not know, my friend. I refuse to give a Miraculous to someone so young, especially one that is so powerful. However, Tikki is insisting on this girl. I hope to find someone who is suited for Tikki, and is older, but we must be prepared for the event that we have to give this girl this responsibility.”

Wayzz sighs, “Alright, Master.” 

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

The next day, Fu makes his way to the bakery  — those pastries are to die for! — but he’s in a sour mood. He hasn’t been able to get Tikki to react to any other person, she is insistent on this bakery girl. He’s keeping an eye out for someone else, but he’s starting to believe he has no other choice. 

Just as he rounds the corner, the box that houses the Black Cat Miraculous of Destruction sends a chilling wave of energy through Fu’s body, and he stops in his tracks. Plagg has sensed someone he wants to choose. Fu starts looking around, going through all the parameters the wielder of Destruction needs to have: They need to have a mind strong enough to resist temptation, a heart kind enough to give mercy to those around them, a soul to see the good and bad, a body to withstand the effects the Miraculous of Destruction has on wielders, and the ability to rein in Plagg’s energy. 

Everyone he looks at is wrong, and they incite no reaction from Plagg, but then he sees a young man with blond hair, green eyes, and fair skin in the park. He’s sitting on a bench, looking crestfallen. To his right, cameras and photographers are setting up around him. There are other children playing at the park, and the young man is staring at them with a longing gaze. 

The hope in Fu’s eyes dies down as he realizes that Plagg’s chosen is one that is, once again, too young, 

He doesn’t want this, he doesn’t want to put them through this, but if Tikki won’t change her mind, Plagg most definitely wont. 

Resigned, Fu turns around and starts going to the bakery, making a note to look into this boy. He looks up and finds himself looking at a poster advertisement for Agreste Fashion, and the boy he was just looking at is on it. 

It seems finding information on this boy will not be as hard as he thought. 

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

As he continues to watch the bakery girl, he sees just how kind and selfless she is. She routinely offers help in the bakery as often as she can. She lights up talking to customers about fashion — apparently, she’s quite fond of fashion, especially the Agreste brand, how fascinating — how she lifts full bags of flour with only a few grunts and wobbles here and there. Fu’s found that she created the design for the bakery sign. As well as the menu board. She is truly creative. And, if his hearing does not fail him, she even bakes some of the pastries from time to time. 

Tikki grows more and more insistent on choosing this girl, and Fu has resigned himself to the fact that he will be putting them through things he never wished to put anyone through again. If he is going to give her the Miraculous of Creation, he must be there to mentor her. He must be able to guide her through all of this. Hopefully she can handle this and he isn’t sending her to her death. 

Now... the young man, the child model... he wasn’t quite sure at first, and he was getting ready to have a long argument with Plagg. He just seemed to be a boy longing for the time to play with others. But, as he continued to pursue knowledge about this boy -- his name being Adrien -- he’s found that he is praised for his kindness, and he’s seen that in video recordings of interviews with the boy. Wayzz has told him that when he has photoshoots at the park, when he sees kids fall down, he twitches almost imperceptibly. As though he wants to go over and pick them up. And when he watches parents with their difficult kids, he seems to want nothing more than to help. 

Fu has seen the way he smiles at his bodyguard, at his scheduler, the photographers, the other models, it seems to be completely genuine. 

He harbors a heart that wants to do good, that wants to do nothing but help, his soul longs for the freedom to be selfless, but it is unable to. And Plagg has latched onto this boy.

He must be able to guide these two young people. He must not allow them to go through this alone. 

Late at night in his apartment, Fu sits before two small pieces of paper on his kitchen table, writing two identical notes to put in the boxes containing the Black Cat Miraculous and the Ladybug Miraculous. 

They are to meet him at the base of the Effiel Tower at 22:00, but in order for this to work, he must give them the miraculous at the same time, which means he must execute his challenges before it is too late. 

Suddenly, Wayzz flies up to his face and bows before speaking. “Master! I just sensed Nooroo transform Its captor! It was powerful, whoever has Nooroo is powerful.”

Fu stops writing and strokes his goatee. If he remembers correctly, the first day of the French school year is in three, almost two days. This means that he doesn’t have much time to issue his challenges to these kids, and even less time to train them. He must act now. “Thank you, Wayzz, we must act soon, before it is too late!”

Fu finishes writing the notes and places them on top of the boxes containing the Miraculous of Destruction and Creation, before he goes to bed.

The next day, Fu makes his way to the bakery. He doesn’t know how to issue his challenge, but it will come to mind eventually. It is the day before the first day of school, and there will be no lack of heightened emotions, and paired with the power that Nooroo has over emotions, who knows when Nooroo’s captor will strike?

Suddenly, Adrien bursts through the bushes, sprinting his way to the school. He has a pleased smile on his face, and hope in his eyes. He reaches the school, and stops, looking up at it, sighing in admiration. 

A car passes by, Adrien whips around, looking at the car, but finds that it is not something he needs to worry about. He relaxes and starts to open the door to the school when three kids burst from the nearby park and speed their way on bikes across the street toward a nearby intersection. He looks at these kids, furrowing his brows. 

Then, a rumbling sounds, Adrien whips around to look, and there is a car coming down their way. And, by the looks of things, the car isn’t slowing down, and neither are the kids.

Fu waits in silence as Adrien seems more confused than ever, looking between the car and the kids, taking a few steps from the school toward the intersection. When it is evident that neither the kids nor the car will stop on their own, he takes action, rushing forward and waving his arms. 

Two of the kids look at him, then at the car coming down the road, and as though it is their first time seeing it, they skid to a stop. But the kid in the middle, a girl with pink hair keeps going, her head turned toward the two kids who stopped, hair whipping around under her helmet. She seems to glare at them and then at the oncoming car.  

Adrien seems to sigh, looking frantically between the rapidly approaching kid and car. 

He looks back to the pink haired girl, and sets his jaw. Clearly set on a course of action. He takes a few long steps toward the street just as she comes by and grabs her arm, forcing her to fall from her bike, but the bike continues onward into the street. 

Where it promptly gets crushed by the car, while the driver looks up from their phone and honks as they drive away.

As the pink haired girl sits there shocked, Adrien stands there awkwardly. But, after a second, the girl stands up and punches Adrien’s arm before seemingly telling him off. All Adrien does is furrow his brows, confused. 

Fu walks away with a small smile. 

He has a feeling this might actually work out well. 

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

An alarm jerks Marinette awake from her dreamless sleep. With a groan, she blindly gropes around her bed to find her phone, but when she finds it, she only manages to push it from her bed down onto the floor. 

The alarm doesn’t stop, and Marinette can’t decide if she should be relieved, or annoyed. 

With a resigned sigh, she slips from her bed, mourning the lost warmth of her covers, and climbs down her ladder. She picks up her phone and inspects it for cracks. 

Somehow, for some reason, it doesn’t have any. Thank the beings that rule the universe, her phone is indestructible! She doesn’t know how many times she’s dropped her phone, but it doesn’t even have a scratch!

Sluggishly, she goes to her closet, trying to decide on what to wear, looking over everything and battling that feeling of unease she feels every time she looks in her closest; but ultimately decides to put it aside, she’ll just eat breakfast in her pajamas. 

She doesn’t even want to look at her messy, black hair, her body, the bags that are surely to be under her eyes. She’s always loved her eyes, her Maman is from China and has grey eyes, while her Papa grew up locally in Paris with blue eyes; but her eyes are amazing, they’re grey with a ring of blue around the pupil. She can’t help but think of her parents when she looks into her eyes. She doesn’t have as much Asian features as she would like, but she has her eyes, her black hair, and a slight Asian facial bone structure. 

Rubbing sleep from her eyes she starts going downstairs, not really wanting to face the day. Not wanting to fight to feel good. 

It’s the first day of school. The first day of Collége. And, for some reason, Marinette has a strong feeling that Chloé Bourgeois is in her class again. 

One would think that the spoiled brat that is the daughter of the Mayor would be in private school. But, for some reason unknown to all but the two Bourgeois and the beings that rule the universe, she still attends public school; despite all of her complaining. And the bullying. 

She really, really does not want school to start. 

With a big yawn, she opens the trap door. 

“Marinette! School starts soon! You don’t want to be late for your first day back at school!” 

Wincing from the early morning yelling, Marinette suppresses another yawn, calling out a small “Coming...” before climbing down the stairs.

When she reaches the bottom, she finds her Maman smiling at her from the kitchen. She smiles back, already feeling the grasp of sleep start to slip away.  “There’s my beautiful girl!” 

Despite the warmth that fills her being when around her Maman, Marinette can’t help but feel uneasy with being called beautiful. It’s probably because of Chloe bullying her, she’ll get over it. 

She gives her maman a kiss on the cheek, leaning down just a bit. When she was younger, she wondered why she was taller than her maman. But, after an awkward talk with her parents, she’s realized that she just inherited the taller genes from her Papa, but got the skinnier genes from her Maman. 

“Good morning!” 

“Yeah...” she grumps, “I’ll bet you anything that Chloé is in my class again...”  she sighs as she sits down at the kitchen table, where her Maman has already set out a cereal bowl, a milk jug, spoon, her favorite cereal, and a bowl of fruit. Uncapping the milk jug, she pours it into the bowl.

“Four years in a row?! Is that possible?” Her Maman exclaims, putting something in the sink behind her. 

“Definitely... Lucky me!” Marinette rolls her eyes, pouring in some chocolate cereal flakes. 

“Oh! Don’t say that! It’s the start of a new year, I’m sure everything will be just fine!” Her Maman says resolutely, brushing a hand against her hair. And who can argue with such sound logic? Not Marinette.

Nodding, feeling her spirits rise just a bit, she places the tub of cereal flakes down. But, with just a slight miscalculation of how hard to set it down, a chain reaction of terrible, ill boding events happens. 

The vibrations send an orange rolling down a conveniently placed bread stick, right to and over another conveniently placed knife. Which then sends the orange into the milk jug, the knife into a bowl of sugar cubes; sending a few flying with such velocity that as it collides with the cereal tub, it tips it over. And, as her spirits plummet, the orange completes its journey by knocking into and tipping over a yogurt cup. She groans dejectedly, closing her eyes so as to block the situation from sight and in turn, her mind.

For a girl whose parents have always called their “lucky charm”, she sure isn’t all that lucky.  

As she cleans up the cereal tub mess, her Maman reaches a hand to her cheek, chuckling. Which, somehow, helps to lift her own spirits.

It’s weird how mothers can do that. “Go get dressed, honey, you’ll look beautiful. I’ve got this.” 

An hour later, Marinette is down in the bakery, dressed in her back-to-school-day clothes: tan/pink flats, pink Capris, white shirt with a flower pattern on her left collarbone, grey blazer and her very own, hand sewn, pink clutch. And yet, despite being proud of her work, she can’t find it in her to be proud of how she looks. 

Her Papa, humming a tune, presents a box of macarons to his daughter. A warm, gentle smile on his face: “There’s my gorgeous daughter!” There’s that uneasiness again...

“Papa! These are so awesome!” She exclaims, bouncing in place. “Thank you, Papa! My class will love them!” She looks up to him, adoration and love filling her eyes. 

“Glad you like them!” He ruffles her hair, chuckling as she smirks a bit under his huge hands, an almost mute “don’t mess up my hair!” coming from her.

“You look beautiful, my darling daughter” Her papa says with small tears in his eyes. 

“You’re the best!” she says, giving him a one armed hug, her smile falling as she tries to figure out how to get rid of the uneasy feeling in her gut. 

“We,” he pulls her close again with an arm, and angles his other in a ‘muscular, show-off’ manner, “are the best.” Marinette can’t help but giggle.

Giving both her parents goodbye kisses, she rushes out the door, intent on not being late for school on the first day. And, in her haste, almost rushes right into the path of an oncoming car. 

Breathing a sigh of relief that she isn’t splattered on the windshield of a car, she slouches a bit, before jolting ramrod straight as she sees an elderly man with a cane in a red hawiian shirt having trouble crossing the road, another car rushing toward the man, not slowing down at all. 

Marinette frantically looks back and forth between the two and decides, after a second, to rush out and save this man from meeting the very same fate she had just narrowly avoided moments before. 

Just as she pulls him to the sidewalk, her legendary clumsiness takes hold of her once more, and she trips onto the sidewalk, taking the man down with her; the box of macarons spilling. And, with horror, she watches as inconsiderate city people step on them, reducing them to nothing more than crumbs. The man’s “Thank you, miss” goes unheard. 

But, his “Oh, what a disaster” does not go unnoticed. Picking up what remains of the box and the macaroons, she tells him: “Don’t worry, I’m no stranger to disasters.” She holds the box to him. “Besides! There’s still a few left.” 

She smiles at this man, as he picks a macaron from the box and bites into it. Letting out a pleased “Delicious!” 

A bell across the street rings, signaling the start of school. Marinette looks to the school, to this man, back to the school and back to him again. While she’d rather not be late to school... well, she had just pulled this man from the street. The least she can do is walk him partially to where he is headed. 

“Go ahead.” The man says, his smile genuine, understanding and proud. ”You’ve saved my life, the least I can do is save you from getting into trouble! Now go!” He waves her off. 

She takes a moment of further deliberation before nodding, bowing, and rushing out “have-a-nice-day-sir!” Then she’s off, rushing to school. 

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

As the young woman runs to the school, Master Fu straightens up, putting his cane behind his back and holding up the box containing the Ladybug Miraculous. The box warms up and spreads warmth all throughout his body, confirming that this young woman is Tikki’s choice to be her wielder.

While he doesn’t want to put this stress on a child, he knows that there is no other solution, no way around this. He just has to be her mentor.

He walks to the bakery, allowing Wayzz to take the box to the girl’s room while he buys pastries for himself and his companion. 

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

Just as the custodian is closing the school’s front doors, Marinette slips in, not breaking from her near sprint. Rushing up the stairs, she bursts into the classroom, stumbling to not lose her balance. She’s hunched over, trying to catch her breath. 

“Nino,” the teacher calls out. She’s a tall woman with fire red hair, teal eyes, and a white pantsuit. Marinette doesn’t recognize her. The boy in question, Nino, has been in her classes for as long as she can remember. He’s a kind hearted, introverted kid with dark skin. He’s always wearing a red baseball cap and grey and orange headphones. 

She looks up and sees that Nino is sitting with his eyes wide behind his glasses from the back of the classroom. “Why don’t you sit in the front this year?” The teacher may have formed it as a question, but it was more of a polite command. 

Nino grumbles and stands up, his back and shoulders slouched. As he walks to the front of the classroom, on the side closest to the door, he groans. Before sliding into his position in the front of the classroom, right by the door. He pulls his headphones down and rests his elbows on the desk; his jaw resting on his knuckles with an annoyed look on his face. 

Though she’s been in the same class as Nino for years, she doesn’t know much about him, and she’s really regretting that now. Maybe this year will be different? 

She takes a moment to deliberate, but ultimately decides to sit on the row behind Nino, in her usual seat. She wants to sit by him but he doesn’t seem to want to talk to anyone. 

Shaking her head, still breathing with slight difficulty, she walks to her usual seat, the second row, left side of the classroom, right next to the aisle. Just behind and over Nino’s right shoulder.

Mylène, a timid girl, sits directly across the aisle from where Marinette’s seat is. She’s a shorter girl, with fair skin and long dreadlocks that are blonde at the roots but fade into multiple colors at the ends.  

Sitting on the next row up, just to the right of Mylène, is a dark skinned boy with a close cut afro hairstyle brown hair, a green polo and glasses. Max is your go-to kid for anything and everything that has to do with electronics. 

Sitting right next to Max is a tan skinned boy, Kim; he’s wearing a red, short sleeved hoodie, and sweat bands on his wrist. His black hair is up in a faux hawk style and he’s lounging back in his chair. He’s the class jock. (He tries to hide it by being a jerk and a goof, but he’s actually a good guy.) 

Kim is always next to Max, tells everyone that they’re best friends, and that he needs Max to help with homework, but Marinette knows better. She can see his eyes.

On the back row, sitting behind Max, is a girl named Rose. She’s a quiet girl, with her blonde hair in a pixie cut. She wears all pink and has an incredibly high voice. 

Just as Marinette sits down and starts to unpack, a pale hand, with yellow, perfectly manicured nails slams down on the desk before her, startling her. “Marinette,” the almost shill voice starts, “Du-pain-Cheng” it sneers her last name like it's an insult to it personally. (Which, if this is who she think it is, it most likely is an insult to her personally.) 

Chloé Bourgeois. The bratty daughter of the mayor. She’s wearing a yellow jacket, white pants, and a large, gold (not actually gold, it’d be too heavy for her skinny, fragile hips to support) plated belt. No wrinkles in sight on her clothes. Her golden locks are pulled into a high hanging ponytail. Blush, eye liner, magenta eyeshadow and pink lipstick on her face. It only serves to make her look that much more bratty. 

Her school bully.  

Marinette slouches, she knew it would happen. A weary, dejected, “Here we go again...” leaves her lips. 

“That’s my seat.” Chloé brings her hand from the desk to her chest. 

“But Chloé, this has always been my seat.” Marinette looks up to Chloé, grey-blue meeting dark, cruel blue. 

Chloe’s face scrunches up. “Not this year!” 

A sudden, but not unfamiliar voice cuts in. “New School, New Year, New seats.” Sabrina, Chloé’s lap dog slides into the desk beside Marinette, her orange/red hair in stark contrast with her teal-green eyes sparkling behind her glasses, and pale skin. She’s wearing a, quite frankly, ugly sweater vest. 

“So,” Chloé sneers again, “why don’t you just go and sit beside that new girl over there.” She turns to point at a girl she hadn’t seen walk into the room. 

She has darker skin like Nino, with long, curly, red-orange locks. She’s wearing a red-orange flannel short-sleeved shirt. At the mention of “New girl” she turns from her phone and her brown eyes glare behind glasses at Chloé. 

“But..” is all Marinette can think of in response. (She’s tired, and already feeling exhausted, she doesn’t want to move or think.)

Chloé turns back to Marinette, her hands on her hips, her face contorted in anger. “Listen, Adrien is arriving today, and since that’s,” she points to the seat beside Nino, “ going to be he— his seat, this is going to be my seat.” Chloé slams her hand down in front of Marinette again, then she turns toward her fully, slamming her other hand on the desk. “Get it?”

Adrien... who is this Adrien? And why is he friends with Chloé?

“Uh, who’s Adrien?” She asks Chloé. 

Two simultaneous gasps leave Chloé’s and Sabrina’s mouths. Then they burst out laughing in that ridiculous, annoying laugh, drawing Myléne’s attention. 

The laughing stops abruptly and Chloé speaks again. “Can you believe she doesn’t know who Adrien is?” She directs this at Sabrina. Then, to Marinette, Chloé scrunches her face in disgust and anger. “What rock have you been living under?” 

“He’s only a famous model!” Sabrina chimes in. 

“And I am his best friend.” Chloé begins again.

Marinette raises her eyebrows at this. None of that helps clarify who Adrien is. And, if he’s a famous model, why would any sane teacher let a man who is probably in his early/mid 20’s come to class with 14-15 year olds?! Why is a man who is in his mid 20’s still in middle school?!

“He adores me.” Chloé looks to Marinette, and scoffs when she sees that Marinette has not moved from her seat. “Uh, go on, move!” She emphasizes this with a thumb pointing toward the proposed seats. 

And all Marinette can think of is, is this Choe’s new scheme to get attention? Who would believe that a 20 something year old is hanging out with a 14 year old? They’d be all over the news. 

Suddenly, the new girl is behind Chloé, her voice strong and brave. A fatal mistake when talking to Chloé Bourgeois. “Back off, Brat.”

Chloé turns to the girl, anger and annoyance taking the wheel. She leans toward the new girl, making sure her tone is mocking and sarcastic. “Ooh, look, Sabrina, we got a little do-gooder in our classroom!” Chloé leans in further. “What’re you going to do, Super Newbie, shoot beams at me with your glasses.”

Marinette cringes, this is why it is best to stay docile around Chloé, if she senses any opposition at all, she’ll only cause a scene. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” The new girl sneers, her voice dark and dangerous. She pushes Chloé to the side and reaches for Marinette’s arm. “C’mon” she says as she grabs Marinette’s arm. Marinette barely has any time to grab her box of macarons and her bag before she’s being dragged from her seat. 

In her haste to steady herself, grab her stuff, and the new girl’s quick pace, Marinette misses a step on the way to her new seat and ends up falling; her box of macarons falling to the floor, where several are flung from the box and are crushed on the floor. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.” She mumbles as she cleans up and slides into her new seat for the year. Chloé’s and Sabrina’s laughing etching its way into her memory. 

“Chill-ax, girl, no biggie!” The new girl says, eyeing Marinette as she’s hunched over her almost empty box of macaroons. 

“Alright, has everyone found a seat?” The teacher asks the class as other kids file in, leaning her hands on the desk. The class speaking up behind them drowning out her voice. 

Marinette straightens up and looks to the new girl, “But I so wish I could handle Chloé the way you do.” The new girl raises an eyebrow, a corner of her lips quirking up. Not threatening, or suspicious, but curious and slightly confused. She reaches for her phone and unlocks it.

“You mean the way Majestia does it.” The new girl pulls up an image of a woman in a skin tight, blue suit, her shoulders, hands and face uncovered. She wears a fire truck red, sleeveless jacket with a ruffled coat tail, two thick, golden, zigzagging lines run across the bust, stars above the lines. Boots of the same shade reach to about her mid calf, the tops lined with the same type of lines as the jacket. “She says: All that is necessary for the triumph of Evil, is for Good to do nothing.” The new girl says proudly. 

She leans past Marinette, wrapping her left arm around her shoulders and pointing to Chloé with her right hand. “And that girl over there, is evil, and we,” she points to herself and Marinette, “are the good people. She has a smirk on her lips. “We can’t let her get away with it!” 

“That’s easier said than done...” Marinette hunches her shoulders a bit, her voice dejected. “She likes to make my life miserable.” 

“That’s easy to fix, girl, you just need more confidence!” The new girl says, conviction strong in her voice. 

Marinette smiles, and takes the last remaining macaron and breaks it in half, extending the other out to the new girl. 

“Marinette.” she says.

“Alya,” the new girl says in response, taking the half macaron. 

With this, they turn to the front, pleased smiles on their faces. 

Maybe... maybe this year isn’t going to be so bad?

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

“For those of you who don’t yet know me,” the teacher says, drawing all attention her way, “I’m Ms. Bustier.” 

As class starts, Chloé leans on her new desk, sadness in her face and eyes. Looking at the empty seat before her. “Ugh, he should have been here by now.” she says under her breath. 

She meant to have annoyance in her tone, and she does, but she can’t hide the underlying disappointment. 

Where is s— he?

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

Master Fu watches as Adrien rushes through the street, pressing against the bushes and trees, looking over his shoulder frequently, searching for something or someone. 

Fu smiles, it seems like this young man has decided to try to get some freedom. But, if the frantic look in his eyes means anything, it’ll most likely be short lived. 

The young man reaches the school grounds, and pauses next to a cologne ad poster that, coincidentally, has him on it. He looks over his shoulder again, and a smile finds his way into his face. He’s beaten the system, it would seem. For the time being.  

This is Fu’s chance to issue his Challenge, to see if he has the ability to wield the Miraculous of Destruction. He has the potential, when faced with no other option, but this will test whether he will choose to help others and not himself. To do what he feels is right, and forfeit what he wants. 

Just as Adrien reaches the steps, Fu launches his plan, clutching his back and falling to the ground, dropping his cane just out of his reach. Crying out in pain. 

This causes the boy pause, and he stands on the steps of the school, frozen in place. Trying to figure out what to do, looking between Fu and the school’s front door. 

Not a second later, he rushes to Fu, bringing his cane to his hands and helping him stand. 

“Thank you, young man!” He says, patting his arm. Adrien’s eyes cringe and he tenses before his entire face lights up. 

Huh, interesting... 

“Do you need help getting to where you’re going?” He asks, his green eyes hopeful. No doubt wanting to help out more. If only so he could get further away from whoever he’s running from. 

“No, I will be fine, but thank you for your kindness! Now, shoo, go to school!”

Adrien nods, the mention of school making his face light up even more. 

He turns and rushes to the steps, and, just before he reaches the door, a silver sedan screeches to a stop, a tall woman clad in a purple suit and red blouse, her black hair fading to red on the left side. “Adrien, please reconsider! You know what your father wants!” 

She walks slowly toward Adrien, as a large man steps out from the driver's seat, walking toward him with her. Adrien turns slowly toward them, his feet frozen in place, fear in his eyes. But only for a brief moment. 

“But this is what I want!” He says, the fear taking a back seat to hurt and anger. “I’m sick of being stuck at home. I want to be like a normal kid!” 

The woman shakes her head. “Adrien, you are not a normal kid, your father can’t afford to have you at public school!” 

Adrien scoffs, “We both know he has more than enough money to afford it.” 

“That’s not what I mean, Adrien. You know he only does this to keep you safe. He’s doing this for you.” 

At this, Adrien’s eyes soften, his posture drooping. “I know... I just... I want to be around others. Please don’t tell Father about this.”

The woman’s eyes soften as she puts a hand on Adrien’s shoulder. “I know, and I’m sorry. But you just can’t. Come, let’s go home.” 

As Adrien is led to the sedan, and is driven off back home, the second box pulsates in Fu’s pocket. 

This boy has the traits that are required for the use of this Miraculous, but he does not have the right life for it. Fu is unsure whether Adrien can handle it. Plagg seems set on this boy, however. And, if Adrien is going to learn and grow, there is only one other Miraculous that will do just as good a job, and he’s already found a match for Creation. 

He’ll just have to watch out for Plagg. With that, Fu swings his cane onto his shoulder and walks away whistling, following the sedan.

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

“Those of you who have P.E., Mr. D’Argencourt is expecting you at the stadium.” Ms. Bustier calls to the class as the bell rings and everyone packs up. 

As the kid named Ivan, A large, fair skinned boy, with short brown hair save for the small tuft of blond in the front, gets up Kim gives him a note. 

“The rest of you can head over to the library.”

A moment later, Ivan bursts out with an angry cry of “Kim!” He lurches toward Kim, an impish smirk on the lankier boy’s face. Ivan is cranking his fist back to slam it into Kim’s fragile face. 

“Ivan! What are you doing?!” Ms. Bustier exclaims, leaning over her desk in shock. Ivan looks to her in confusion, lowering his fist. 

“It’s Kim!” Ivan looks back at Kim, raising his fist again, and, for the first time, Kim is shocked and scared. “I’m so gonna—“ 

“Ivan! Go to the principal’s office!” Ms. Bustier cuts in, pointing out the door. 

At that, Ivan steps away from Kim, growling as he looks back down at the note Kim passed him. With anger rolling off him, Ivan crumples the note in his hand and storms out of the classroom, muttering to himself; leaving Kim to shake in his seat, and Ms. Bustier to wonder if she could have worked the situation out better. 

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

The man known as Hawkmoth stands in a large room, a metal, circular window cover sliding open, letting light pour into the room, sending pure white butterflies fluttering about. 

“Such powerful emotions. Anger. Frustration. Betrayal. And in a school no less, a perfect catalyst to test my limits.” He reaches for a butterfly, and clasps his hands around it. A second later, dark, purple energy seeps into the butterfly, and when he releases the butterfly, it is black with purple cracking apart the black, a violet mask-like pattern on it’s head and back, its legs a dark purple. “Burn a hole into his heart, little akuma, transform his anger into something more!”

The transformed butterfly, now an akuma, flies through the air, tracking down the boy with such anger and frustration with supernatural speed. 

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

Ivan opens the door to the principal’s office, but before he can take a step inside, the principal stops him. 

“Excuse me, young man! Hasn’t anyone taught you to knock?” The principle, a large, overweight, white man with a receding hairline and greying hair exclaims. This shocks Ivan, his anger and frustration building. “Go on, go again.” He says, leaning back in his decked out, rolling swivel chair. 

With a shake of his head and a growl, Ivan closes the door and turns around, raising a fist to knock.

Before he can put his fist to the wood, something stops him. A sound. The sound of something wet twisting and crawling. And suddenly, in his mind, there is a man floating in a grey space, his voice echoing all around his head. The principal’s “Go on, knock!” is ignored. 

The man before Ivan is wearing a dark purple suit, and it shines in a way cloth doesn’t, kind of like rubber. On his chest are two black wing like lapels, which just make whoever this guy is look weird. Covering his head is a grey mask, only his eyes, which are an unsettling violet, and mouth looking normal. He’s leaning on a cane. 

“Stoneheart.” the man says Ivan’s confusion at the name going unacknowledged. “I am Hawkmoth, I am giving you the strength and unstoppable power to seek revenge on those who have wronged you. To prove to them that you do have what it takes. All I need you to do is cause mayhem. Destroy all that you can.”

The power to get back at Kim? To prove that he does have what it takes? 

And all he needs to do is cause mayhem? 

Who can deny such a thing?

“Okay, I’ll do it.” Ivan says, a dark look on his face. 

The man smirks. 

Black and purple bubbles ripple over Ivan’s body, morphing his skin and bones.

When the bubbles disperse, Ivan is no more. Only Stoneheart remains. Standing at 2 meters tall, with cracked stone for skin and yellow eyes. He’s built like an athlete, and literally chiseled. Wrapped around his right hand is a purple fabric, like that a boxer would wear under their boxing glove. On his chest, the stone is jagged and protruding, right where his heart would be, like his heart had exploded. The cracks in the stone glow a faint yellow. 

“Well?” The principal asks, waiting for a response. 

Suddenly, the door is flung from its hinges, the principal only has enough time to move enough so that the door doesn’t slam into his head, but it still collides with his shoulder, sending him to the ground.

With an almighty roar, Stoneheart launches through the window, leaving an echo of “KIM!” behind as the entire wall crumbles to the street below.

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

In the library, a thunderous roar rattles the walls, then the whole building shakes, causing students to tumble to the ground. 

After a few seconds, Alya, Marinette’s new friend, grabs her from the ground and drags her to the TVs in the library, which are showing the security footage. 

A large, probably 2 meters tall, stone golem is walking down the street, the cracks in it’s stone skin glowing bright yellow. It roars in a voice so raspy and stiff, she wonders if it has vocal chords, and if so, how they’re working. 

“Wh-what’s going on? I thought it was an earthquake!” a random kid exclaims.

Alya turns to Marinette, her hands on her cheeks. “It’s a real life super villain!” Suddenly, Alya’s eyes glint and she pulls out her phone. “Battery, 80%, check! GPS, check! I am so outta here!” Then she’s off, leaving Marinette to marvel at her. 

“Wait! Hey, where’re you going?” 

Alya pauses only briefly before turning around and hopping backwards “Where there’s a super villain, there is always a superhero!” Then she’s through the doors. 

This is such a weird day...

Marinette looks back to the tv and jumps as the rock monster collides a car, the car crumbling and shattering. The yellow in the cracks of it’s skin glows brighter and- and she could have sworn it grew! It picks up what remains of the car with ease, and throws it at the school camera, and it goes to static. The building shakes again as crumbling brick and groaning metal reverberates through the school. 

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

Fu stops just outside the gates of a mansion. His eyes glinting with wonder and awe. 

This should provide good living conditions for a being with such a high cost diet. 

He hums in delight, letting Wayzz take the pulsating box up into the mansion.

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

Adrienne *hates* homeschooling. She’s alone, save for Nathalie, and has to stay in one place for at least 7 hours, sometimes more, depending on the lesson. And, most of the time, she’s in the dining hall, the cold, undecorated dining hall. She’s stuck hearing her father, Nathalie, the mansion staff, call her ”Adrien”. Call her a boy. She can’t talk to anyone, can’t have a break. It’s useless. 

“Who was the 1st president of the 5th French republic?” Nathalie walks up and down the length of the dining table. A tablet and pen in hand. 

And all Adrienne can do is lean against her hand, not even able to summon more than a bored, monotone voice. “Everyone thinks it was De Gaulle but it was actually René Coty before the first elections.” 

“Excellent, Adrien!” Nathalie exclaims. Turning around, a… pleased look on her face? ‘When did that happen?!’ Adrienne can’t help but think in shock. She opens her mouth to say something but a cold voice cuts through the room.

“Give me a minute would you, Nathalie?” Adrienne immediately tenses. It’s an involuntary reaction she has no control over. Not anymore. 

Her Father turns to look at Adrienne, his eyes cold, disappointed, disproving. Angry. But his face remains stoic. “You are not going to school. I have already told you.” 

Adrienne’s heart sinks. She looks to Nathalie, her eyes burning. She betrayed her. She- she does know what happens when she disobeys her Father, right?

Nathalie only lowers her head in shame. 

Adrienne looks back to her father. “But, Father-“ 

“Everything you need is right here, where I can keep an eye on you.” He cuts in, tone dark and dangerous. “I will not have you outside in that dangerous world.” 

“It’s not dangerous!” Adrienne tries, standing up from her seat, hands on the table. “I’m always stuck here by myself! Why can’t I go out and make friends just like everybody else?” She asks, pointing out the grand window to her left. 

“Because you are not everybody else! You are My son” Adrienne flinches, her body flinching as her gut falls. She hates it when he sounds like that, it makes her feel so small. She has to bite her tongue to keep herself from shaking at her father’s deep, angry voice. He’s using the tone that suggests that he will not allow for any more words to be said. 

Adrienne stands up straight, bowing her head, holding back tears that threaten to form. 

Always her... it’s always Adrienne who makes things difficult. Who makes Father angry. All Adrienne does is antagonize him. 

With that, Gabriel leaves, and Nathalie steps forward. “We can leave it there if you wan-“ 

Before she even finishes, Adrienne takes off running, hiding her— his face. Hiding his reddening eyes. 

As he runs to his room, he catches a brief glimpse of a painting of him, his father and his mother. 

But he can’t look at it for so long. It brings back too many bad memories. 

Once in his room, he lays down on his bed, Letting his pillow soak in all the tears leaking from his— her eyes. From her eyes. 

Why is Father like this? The thought bounces around in Adrienne’s head, it makes her dizzy. Why am I like this, if I’m really- if I’m really a girl, I wouldn’t revert to using those pronouns, to using “Adrien” when I’m stressed, would I? I wouldn’t do that when I anger Father, would I? How the hell am I a girl-

He doesn’t understand, Adrienne’s mother’s voice cuts through her spiraling thoughts. He probably never will. Your father is a stubborn man, and closed off in many ways. Just remember who you are, and that I’m here for you, my beautiful daughter.

This only makes Adrienne sadder. She isn’t here anymore. How can Adrienne keep going if she isn’t here? 

Suddenly, something shakes the mansion, sounding like a stampede. 

Curiosity takes over, and Adrienne takes off to go find out what’s happening. 

She opens the front doors of the mansion, and a large (probably 4 meters tall) rock person is stomping its way toward a police blockade. 

When the monster is within 10 meters, the police officer standing on top of a police car yells: “F-ire!” His voice cracks with fear and all the surrounding police officers fire off their guns. 

The rock monster holds up it’s arms, but instead of the bullets doing any harm, they make the cracks in between the monster’s skin glow brighter, and it grows to be 2 meters taller! The police officer that was on the car scrambles down and tries to get away, but the monster grabs the car the officer was previously standing on with one hand, shouts out an unintelligible word, then throws the car with ease at the police officer; who only just barely manages to get out of the way. 

Whatever this thing is, they sure are very, very angry. 

Adrienne sprints back to her room, and vaults over her sofa, turning on the TV to the news. 

“I’m asking all Parisians to stay inside until the situation’s under control.” Mayor Bourgeois says into the microphone, and Adrienne lets out a snort. Having everyone stay inside is the right call, don’t want anyone getting in the way... but, the man would be more than happy if he were the only one that stayed inside. And with the way that the situation is being handled, it isn’t going to be solved any time soon. 

Then it switches to the TVi news station, where Nadja Chamack reports. “As incredible as it seems, it has been confirmed that Paris is, indeed, being attacked by a monster. The police have been struggling to get the situation under control.” Up in the right corner, a camera still reports what the monster is doing. Which, by the looks of it, is picking up cars and throwing them at buildings, trees, and other cars, destroying buildings and otherwise just causing mayhem, carnage and... and death. 

It switches to another news camera, and it shows the police officer that was on the car in front of the gates, he’s getting his arm bandaged by a firefighter, speaking to an interviewer. “Be confident! The strong arm of-“ he cuts himself off as a painful crack is heard from the officer’s broken arm, his face contorting in pain. The firefighter then eases the arm down, and admonishes him for using his broken arm. “I meant to use the other arm...” the officer mumbles.

Blinking and shaking her head, Adrienne looks away, trying not to be too ashamed of Paris’s police force. From the looks of things, this monster is absorbing kinetic energy and using it to grow stronger. 

Then, out of the corner of her eye, something catches her attention. 

It’s a small box, with Chinese characters she doesn’t recognize on it. 

She diverts her full attention to this box, a confused: “What’s this doing here?” Leaving her lips. 

She picks it up, weighing it in her hand, moving it around and shaking it. It makes no noise. Shrugging, she opens it and finds a folded piece of paper. When she picks up the paper, she catches sight of a black ring, the corners of the face have silver raised points.

Suddenly, a bright green light glints off the ring, and a ball of green light bursts from it, temporarily blinding her, making her drop the paper, and box. 

When her vision returns, there is a small, black being laying down in the air. It has a body covered with smooth, black fur, with a slight green sheen to it. It has a puff of fur on both cheeks, with two long, black whiskers poking out of each puff. There are similar tufts of hair on the bendy points of its limbs and back where the limbs connect to it. It has an aura that surrounds it that makes everything seem darker around it. Light seems to bend around it, like a black hole. It has two long, thin, puffy tails. It has two little ears that are currently drooped lazily, and little wisps of hair poke out from the inside. It has a tiny nose and snout. It... looks like a small deformed cat. And is absolutely adorable!

Suddenly, it uprights itself, stretching its arms and legs, little claws extending from it’s limbs, and releases a huge yawn. Upon closer inspection, each limb ends with a little paw. Its mouth reveals tiny, tiny fangs and an emerald green hue on the inside of its mouth. It’s ears perk up. Once it’s done with the yawn, the ears drop down again, and it opens its eyes to reveal two neon green eyes with black, slitted pupils. 

“No way!” Adrienne exclaims. “This is so cool! You’re like the genie in the lamp!” She reaches a finger up to rub the little cat-genie’s forehead. 

The little cat-genie launches back. It’s eyes going wide, with…. fear? But the cat-genie quickly schools its adorable little face into calm, uninterested, unimpressed neutrality. 

“I met him once, so he grants wishes, big deal, I can do so much better and I'm personable!” The cat-genie crosses its nubs over its chest, claws extending slightly, spreading its leg nubs, like it’s pouting. Clearly trying to look intimidating, but Adrienne can see that it’s trying to gauge her reactions. 

Huh, so the cat-genie speaks... it... it’s awfully squeaky and nasal. 

It looks up to Adrienne, its eyes piercing into her soul. “Plagg, nice to meet ya.” 

With the one sided greetings out of the way, The cat-genie known as Plagg zooms into a swirl before zipping off to explore the room, startling Adrienne some. 

It lands on the foosball table, “Ooo, swanky!” Then it chomps down on a figure’s head, ignoring Adrienne’s “Don’t touch that!” by saying “Nope, not eatable.” 

Just as Adrienne is about to grab Plagg, it takes off again, Adrienne’s ”Hey! Get back here!” going unnoticed as it locks eyes on an arcade’s joystick. “It’s so shiny!” Plagg lands on the joystick, uttering a curious “Can you eat this?” Before clamping its mouth down on the joystick ball. 

Plagg turns away from it in disgust as it finds that it cannot, in fact, eat the joystick. “No, you can’t.” It says slightly dejectedly, then locks into something else and zooms away from Adrienne’s hand, leaving behind an excited “Ooh, what about this?”

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

Marinette hates back to school days. She makes sure to tell her computer screen just that as she watches the news. 

At the moment, Sabrina’s father is talking to a news reporter, having his arm wrapped up by a firefighter. “Be confident! The strong arm of-“ he cuts himself off as a painful crack is heard from Officer Roger’s arm, his face contorting in pain. The firefighter then eases the arm down, and admonishes him for using his broken arm. “I meant to use the other arm...” he mumbles. 

Marinette shakes her head. Officer Roger can be a... a special type of person sometimes. 

She glances down to her mouse to click away from the news station, but finds a black box with Chinese characters she doesn’t recognize. 

Picking it up, she opens it, and finds a folded up paper. When she removes it, she catches a glance of two red earrings with black spots on each stud before a bright red/pink light glints off of them and she is temporarily blinded. 

When it fades, Marinette’s jaw drops. So does the box and paper. 

Floating before her, with its head bowed, is a giant scarlet/pink, ladybug-like bug, with a head much larger than the rest of its body. It has two antennae coming from its forehead and droop toward its back. It has a large black dot on its forehead. On its back is a scarlet ladybug shell, with five small black spots. From this shell are some pink, translucent wings that aren’t moving. The light around it seems to be…. brighter. Its limbs are little, sectioned, black nubs. 

Suddenly its head shoots up, the light glinting off it’s large white eyes that have rings of blue in the center. 

“Haaweeelllp!” The word leaves her mouth in a shriek as she jumps back, tipping over her chair, getting as far away from this- this- this giant bug! “It’s a giant bug!...”

The bug, no not a bug, a mouse… “A mouse!”

No, a-a bug-mouse, “Bug-mouse!”

it slowly floats its way toward her. 

It continues to get closer. 

“A- an alien!” She almost shrieks. 

“Everything’s okay! Don’t be scared!” Its voice is high pitched, super high pitched, and slightly squeaky.

Marinette’s terrified, she does the only sensible thing. She grabs something behind her and chucks it at the bug-mouse-alien, eyes going wide, and it dodges her projectile. “Bug-mouse can talk! Bug-mouse talks!” She continues to throw things at the bug-mouse-alien, her terror only growing as it continues to dodge all of her projectiles. 

“Listen, Marinette...” the bug-mouse-alien continues to speak. “I know everything is strange...” 

As it talks and gets closer, Marinette can’t help but release terrified squeaks and whimpers as she gropes around for something to trap the bug-mouse thing under. 

Suddenly, her fingers find a cup, and delight shoots through her as she lunges at the bug-mouse, slamming the glass cup down around the little —giant?—   thing. She absently wonders why the glass didn’t shatter. 

It looks up at Marinette, its expression and eyes calm. “Okay, If this makes you feel safer.” 

It has no qualms about being stuck?! What can this thing do that makes it so that it isn’t scared of being trapped under something?! 

Marinette keeps the glass firmly on the ground. “What are you? How do you know my name?” She asks. 

“I’m a kwami,” the bug-mouse puts a nub on its chest. “And my name is Tikki!” it perks up as it says it’s name. “Now, just let me explain.” Its voice is slightly muffled by the glass. It makes the bug -Tikki- sound even weirder. 

“MAMAN, PAPA!” Marinette shouts, inching her way to her trap door. 

“No, no, no!” Tikki tries to warn her, pressing against the glass, but Marinette still ignores it. She puts a hand on the trap door and Tikki calls out again. “No!” It tries again, pushing against the glass, but Marinette keeps ignoring it.

 “MAMA-“ 

“Shhh, No!” Tikki cuts her off, phasing through the glass and floating in front of her face. “I’m your friend, Marinette, you can trust me.” 

Marinette narrows her gaze,

“Marinette?” comes the worried voice of her Maman, and Tikki and Marinette stare at eachother in tense silence. 

“...It’s nothing, Maman, sorry”

Marinette turns to Tikki, the talking bug-mouse-alien-- ahem, Kwami. “Explain.”

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

In such a big room, filled with so much stuff, the kid doesn’t even have any food to eat! Plagg’s tried so many things. Still, nothing edible! 

He could just use atrophy and siphon off some energy, but that requires effort, and he did not wake up from 250 years of being dormant only to have to do things as soon as he is activated! 

Plagg is zipping around this human child’s room and finds a semi-promising rectangle. Hopefully this works! 

He bites down, only for his fangs to meet hard, foul tasting material. Ugh, he should just Cataclysm this whole room... 

He drops the remote, and raises a paw, but the human-child drops from the ceiling and wraps her feeble, insufficient, human fingers around his body, which does not make him release an embarrassing yelp. Nope, not at all. It’s funny, how the human thinks she can keep him in place with just her fingers wrapped around his body, which is made from the very essence of chaos, destruction, bad luck and most importantly, if he does say so himself, death! 

...Eh, he’ll let the child have her victory. 

“Listen, I still don’t know what you’re doing here.” The child says, her tone stern. 

Ha! As if a human can intimidate him! 

This is really getting old, he just wants sustenance! Even mushrooms will do! Birds and fish are better, but they taste weird. Cheese is preferable, and Camembert is exquisite.

“Look, I’m a kwami. Kwamis grant powers.” Plagg narrows his eyes at this, this uninformed child. “Basic gist of mine is Destruction. Got it?” 

“Nuh-Uh.” The child shakes her head, her blonde locks swaying. The locks of hair that grab the light just right... that are probably super soft locks... Locks that would make for an amazing be—

Plagg shakes his head. No time to get distracted. He needs food. 

“Good.”, He looks around before looking into the child’s eyes and not the attention grabbing hair that looks like such a great spot to sleep in. “Got anything to eat, I’m starving!” 

The child narrows her eyes, staring at him. Plagg stares back, keeping his expression neutral. 

“Father’s pranking me, right?” The child stands up, leaning her massive, disgustingly proportionate, head over him. Plagg looks away, he does not want to see up that nose, no matter how clean it is. It’s gross. 

“Wait... that’s not possible, Father doesn’t have a sense of humor.” 

Plagg pulls himself from the human’s surprisingly tight grasp, spreading his limbs out wide. No matter what he thinks of this rule, the last time he didn’t obey it, Tikki ignored him for 500 years and his wielder caused Vesuvius, all because Tikki’s wielder, by extension, also ignored him. “Your dad must never know I exist. Or anyone for that matter.”

Adrienne tilts her head. Furrowing her eyebrows. “Plagg, I’m pretty sure Father already knows other humans exist...” 

Plagg raises his eyebrows. This kid might actually be fun to be around. “I meant no one else can know that I exist.” 

“Oh, yeah, that makes more sense.” 

“Anyway,” Plagg zips into the kids face. “Where. Is. The. Food?” The kid looks at him with the weirdest expression. 

“I only get to eat at breakfast, lunch and dinner. No snacks.” 

Plagg narrows his eyes. “That’s no way to live!” 

“Well It’s how I live.” 

Plagg drops his tone a bit. “It’s not a way that anyone should ever have to live.” 

The kid’s eyes go wide

Plagg stares into her eyes, cocking his head. “Well, time to get this out of the way.” Plagg suddenly zips from in front of Adrienne, and into her bathroom. “I’m a kwami, and I can grant you the ability to destroy anything you touch!” 

Plagg stops before a roll of paper, hanging above a , quite frankly disappointing, porcelain throne. He grabs and *nearly* lets out a delighted gasp. Such an amazing invention! He drops it to the ground before landing on it and it starts to unravel. FUN! 

“All you need to do is put on the ring! To be able to do anything, you call out “Claws Out” and to activate your power, call out Cataclysm, you’ll be able to destroy anything you touch!” He explains as he runs around the room on this roll of super soft paper. (Well, actually the powers that he can grant are much more than a mere Catalclysm, but the kid isn’t ready for that yet. Plus, Tikki’d kill him if he were to tell her that.)

“I can do that?” 

“Psssshhh, no, I can do that, I just allow you to be able to do that.” 

“What do I say again?” 

“Claws Out.” 

“Claws out?”

The ring sucks Plagg in and he’s getting ready to meld with the kid. Create what she wants subconsciously. In a flash, he’s inside her mind and he’s ready to shape her body to the way it’s supposed to be, but stops. It would make her happy, but she isn‘t ready for anyone else to know yet, she’d have a break down. And, probably worse. So, he lets her mind create her suit in accordance to what she wants right now.

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

Looking in her mirror, Marinette puts on the earrings. “So, you’re saying, you can give me the power to…. create anything—“ 

“At random, you won't be able to choose it!” 

“—and restore damage—“

“Only if you cast Lucky Charm! And it only restores damage dealt to people caused by a specific event that has happened recently.” 

“Okay, so, you can transform me into a ladybug styled superhero, with increased physical and mental capabilities-“ 

“Mental only in the fact that you’ll be able to take in more information and take it in faster, other than that, it’s all you!” 

“And I can create a random object by calling out Lucky Charm and restore damage dealt to living things caused by a specific event by calling out Miraculous Ladybug?” 

“Yep!” 

“And I can become this Ladybug by….” 

“Calling out ‘Spots On” Tikki looks into Marinette’s eyes, he doesn’t know it yet, he hasn’t realized it yet. 

Hopefully he will. She really doesn’t want Marinette to go through more of his life in unknown misery. Luckily, when the time comes, she can help! 

“Spots On?” 

“Wait I forgot—“

Melding with his mind, Tikki ignores the urge to shape Marinette’s body the way she knows he feels subconsciously like he should. He doesn’t know yet, and she doesn’t want to put that stress on him. But Sugar cookies she forgot to tell him about the ability to purify things! And that the way to take down this thing is to destroy the corrupted object, or that there is a corrupted object. Well, he’s her wielder, he’ll figure it out. 

Technically Tikky can give her wielders so much more power, but this is the first time being her wielder, so she’ll have to ease Marinette into this. 

[This is the image I used to base Nooroo’s, Tikki’s and Plagg’s designs on, I have also used it to alter Trixx’s, Wayzz’s, Pollen’s and Duusuu’s designs.] 

[wirsindkrieg]

Fuck it. Rant time.

I’ve recently discovered the term KFF (“kin-for-fun”) for describing people who appropriate otherkin terminology to describe things which have never actually fallen under the “otherkin” umbrella. Things like roleplaying, identifying with a character (as opposed to as the character), and voluntary identification, among other things. This group also has a trend of telling existing otherkin, including those who have been in the community for some time, that we’re “taking kinning too seriously” and that we need to chill out and let them do what they want. This isn’t a new phenomenon, but it’s getting way out of hand.

I’ll admit to being a relatively new face in the community, having only properly joined in mid-2017. I’ve been otherkin my whole life, though, even before I had the vocabulary to describe my experiences. Gaining that vocabulary, and being able to connect with people who have similar experiences, has been incredibly good for me. It helps me find my center, to understand myself and how I perceive and interact with the world around me. Being non-human is central to my identity because it influences almost everything about me, and there is no way to separate myself from my alterhumanity that wouldn’t be incredibly harmful to me.

As much as people seem to hate this comparison, imagine you’re a young trans person. You’ve just been introduced to the LGBT community, and you’ve managed to find one or more labels that describe your experiences and help you understand yourself and your place in the world. Now imagine a group of cis people who do drag coming along and telling you that you’re taking being trans too seriously, and that being trans is all about presenting as a gender, rather than being that gender. I’d like to think we can all agree that would be an incredibly shitty thing, both in that it’s shitty to try redefining the trans experience that way, and in that it’s incredibly hurtful to any trans people dealing with it.

A small aside to head off anyone wanting to jump to saying “It’s not hurting anyone to say kinning is [insert new definition here]!” There is a distinction between “harmful” and “hurtful”. It may seem a subtle distinction, but it is there. While trying to redefine “otherkin” may not be inherently harmful, it can still be hurtful, in that it hurts to be told that we don’t belong in our own community, one that was built on a certain type of experience that we all share, and which is excluded from the (attempted) new definition.

The otherkin community has always been stigmatized, in a manner not dissimilar from the stigma surrounding the furry community. Otherkin have been treated as “cringe”, told we’re delusional, and generally treated like we deserve to be shit on for having non-human experiences. Now we’re being told that we should abandon the terminology we built to help us find people with similar experiences, so that we can share those experiences and better understand ourselves. We’re being told that we’re taking our identities too seriously, that we should let people push us out of the spaces we built for ourselves because people want to have fun with our labels. And yet even when we put it in those terms, we’re treated like we’re the assholes, told that we’re “gatekeeping” by telling people not to misuse our lexicon.

Another small aside: There is a distinction between “oppressed” and “stigmatized”. Otherkin are not oppressed, in that we aren’t treated as lesser or pushed aside by society for being otherkin. That doesn’t mean we can’t be stigmatized, though. We still get shit on for our identity, and the fact that “anti-kin” is even a term says something about the volume of hate our community receives. Not to mention the number of blogs dedicated to making jokes at our expense, or in some cases bullying otherkin who are seen as too “weird” or “cringe”. If you want to try denying that otherkin are stigmatized, you’re free to try justifying it to yourself, but the evidence is incredibly clear on this one.

Now, I’m willing to give the benefit of the doubt on a lot of this, and work under the assumption that the root of this problem is some combination of a lack of information, and the presence of misinformation. “Always assume a mistake before assuming malice”, or my preferred variant “cock-up before conspiracy.” And I’m a firm believer that the solution to ignorance is education, because without information about how things need to change, it’s difficult at best to change in a positive direction. The problem is that many members of the community have tried educating, have tried pointing out that the terminology being misused already has an agreed upon definition (which has been agreed upon for quite some time), have pointed to other, existing terms that actually match what’s being described. And time and again, those attempts at education are dismissed and ignored. We’ve tried being diplomatic and kind, and clearly that’s not getting us anywhere.

Anyways, the point of this rant is to say this: I am sick and tired of being told I have to redefine my identity because some people have decided that they want to take over an established community. I’m done hearing people tell me that I take my identity too seriously, and that I need to be okay with losing a community that has done me a lot of good. And I’m very, very pissed off that people are, intentionally or not, making it harder for people with serious non-human identities to find other people like them, to come together and have the kinds of discussions that help us understand ourselves and our place in the world. Make your own terminology, form your own community, and get our words out of your mouth.

And if that makes you feel attacked, like you’re being called out? I want you to stop and think, and I mean seriously think, about why being told to stop redefining someone else’s experience is so important to you. And if after that thinking you still want to argue? Feel free to start something. I’m always happy to educate.

[raleighliving]

Raleigh Apartment Culture

So I'm of the mind that Raleigh is a great place to live. It has my favorite things, my favorite people, and I'm too broke to move anywhere else.

Raleigh works for me, but I recognize it doesn't work for everyone. Some people had less than ideal childhoods and wanna escape the state ASAP, some just want to live closer to their dream jobs or have new opportunities. That's all fine, but what if this describes where you are now?

What if, for the sake of argument, you're outside of NC and wanna move in? Moving is expensive, time-consuming, and risky at the best of times; so you wanna make sure that wherever you're landing is at least as good as where you started 90% of the time

"But RL," I hear you say, "you make Raleigh sound like an idyllic dreamscape populated with parks and a diverse kumbayah of peoples living in harmony"

I do talk about Raleigh in a positive light but, like a life saving medicine flavored like ass, sometimes you have to take the good with the bad.

So before you spend thousands of dollars on moving vans, boxes, and grits; here's a crash course on what it's like living in a Raleigh apartment, coming from someone whose majority of Raleigh Living (heh) has been in apartments.

First off, location. Any realtor will tell you that location is 80% of the sale to sound profound, and as anyone who has lived in the middle of ass-backward nowhere can tell you: It sucks having to drive 30 minutes to go anywhere.

Good news: With the Raleigh Beltline and connecting roads, there are very few places in Raleigh where your trip will last longer than thirty minutes one-way. Bad News: where you set down still matters because cutting down on travel is important for car and mental health.

North Raleigh is different from south Raleigh is different from northwest Raleigh, and the locals aren't the only difference you'll find between locations. Each segment of Raleigh has something to offer, with easier access to some attractions than others and neighboring cities for when you need something outside the RDU area.

Using downtown as the center of our wheel, people generally divide Raleigh into North and South Raleigh (with distinction given for NW, SE, NE, etc when needed). N.Raleigh is considered generally more upscale, a slice of suburban living interspersed with plenty of shopping centers for families and the moderately wealthy; but it's boring as all hell.

Want some fun? Excitement in the evenings and a more traditional urban experience with bars, night clubs, strip clubs, and more? South Raleigh is your best bet, at the cost of being the "sketchy" side of Raleigh. That kind of place where you'll see a bunch of auto shops that look abandoned but haven't been closed in the past 5 years and there's at least one customer from time to time.

Of course, this is a lot of generalizing but you'll find that it's still mostly accurate. The main exception in this is Capital Blvd, a highway cutting across north and south Raleigh on the eastern half of the city; a high crime corridor that's undergoing some changes in the northern half that have (somewhat) reduced crime but most people will still associate that area with the majority of Raleigh's crime and debauchery.

More importantly, is the distinction Raleigh citizens put on inside the beltline versus outside the beltline. The I-440 and 540 highways that wrap around Downtown form the mythical beltline, and to a degree what you have access to. Inside the beltline is the majority of workplaces, stores, and shopping centers; while outside you'll still have these things just to a more... dispersed extent.

North Raleigh actually kinda exemplifies this perfectly. Living inside the beltline, you have access to places like North Hills, Crabtree Valley mall, and Triangle Town Center. Live outside the beltline, like I currently am, and you're looking at 10 to 15 minutes to the nearest sheetz for that late night double hot dog fix.

So for point one: How important is it that you're near things? The majority of apartments and rental properties are in or around the belt-line, but if you want to save some cash on rent checks the cheaper properties are gonna extend your trips a bit.

Next, what can you expect in terms of neighbors? Does Raleigh have a hip party scene full of teens renting cheap apartments and blasting trap music at 3AM?

Depends on where you live

I swear not every point is going to be this, but there's an important distinction this time that affects the type of people your complex will likely have surrounding you; are you in North or South Raleigh?

North Raleigh has a ton of pre-schools, k-12 public schools (Leesville, Hillburn, Lead Mine, just to name a few), and office complexes that make up the job market. As a result the majority of apartment renters in north Raleigh tend to be families with a few small kids or so.

As a result, living off of Glenwood North and Edwards Mill I never had any noise problems from neighbors, the worst being kids playing outside at 3PM sounding like they were being murdered (which apparently is a common thing and I apologize to any neighbors I frightened with ghastly shrieks).

What I did have a problem with, however, was the typical Karen's you hear people complain about online. Renting a property now, we have access to our neighborhood's NextDoor page and it's hilarious sometimes to go on and read the comments, but living at a certain property we had a sort of mini-Facebook for residents

That thing was always full of either people who were moving out looking to sell their furniture or people passive-aggressively challenging each other/the apartment managers with comments about things happening around the complex.

Once I logged in to see one man accuse another, without ever actually accusing someone specific ("I know who did it and they should be ashamed" type post) of putting glass beer bottles under the tires of his truck to try and puncture them. Everyone acts civil in public, but then online they'll stir the pot harder than a chef with a hand mixer.

South Raleigh, you have the schools like Shaw University, Meredith, and NCSU; so the people renting down there are typically college kids. You'll see more apartments that cater towards them like University Village or University Woods, but sometimes these places will cater to both college kids and working adults

Avoid these places like the plague, because despite sometimes having a lower cost to live there the neighbors and their shenanigans will drive you up the wall (unless you're the type to join in, then go wild).

I've had friends stay at places like University Village and The Proper (formerly The Vie, formerly Wolf Creek) who've shared horror stories. 3AM parties ending in property damage or vomit in inconvenient places, drug deals not even trying to be subtle, and maintenance workers doing nothing because regardless of the apartment conditions; no school's gonna pull their contract with them unless news articles start getting written.

http://www.technicianonline.com/news/article_898ddf34-82f5-11e7-b3d8-07059d248619.html

https://www.wral.com/vie-at-raleigh-residents-finally-able-to-move-into-clean-units/16887833/

http://www.technicianonline.com/news/article_ea8ed7aa-a092-11e8-a2af-e70af36566d0.html

Otherwise, south Raleigh apartments are largely like north Raleigh apartments; except the crime rate tends to be a little higher and you'll run into more singles and people working full time.

Otherwise, Raleigh apartment culture is like apartment culture anywhere else in the country. You have a mix of apartments catering to those just looking to live versus more ostentatious luxury apartments with fancy pools, exercise facilities, and tech packages to draw people in.

If you're renting in Raleigh, however, do try to get a roommate or two if you can manage. Even with a decent job paying 800+ on a one bedroom one bath apartment can be exhausting at best, but with even one other person that can functionally halve your expenses

So if you're a young professional, or a student, or even if you have a small family, I can safely recommend renting in Raleigh. There's plenty of places that'll accommodate you, and cater towards your needs.

But what about everyone else? Are there people who shouldn't rent in Raleigh?

No

But there are groups who I'd seriously ask to consider their other choices before picking Raleigh as a destination for their new home.

For instance, are you a member of the LGBT community? A trans or non-binary individual? Well then, first off, I want you to know that you're loved and valid. I'm accepting of who you are and appreciate everyone's right to identify how they choose, but I'm not everyone.

Raleigh's bluer than other parts of North Carolina, as I've stated in other blog write-ups, but it's still part of North Carolina unfortunately and as a result, you'll face some challenges.

I doubt anyone's gonna burn a cross in your yard or knock over your mailbox, but Raleigh doesn't offer LGBT protections for housing, jobs, or credit/lending discriminations according to the Movement Advancement Project's website.

We have support organizations for LGBT and NB individuals, plenty of high schools and colleges have Gay-Straight Alliance clubs, and there are numerous businesses downtown that cater specifically to those individuals... but we're also the state that got into a lot of hot water because of a stupid bathroom bill, and our politicians are trying to pass anti-trans sports legislation (because they now magically care about the integrity of womens sports).

By that measure, but to a lesser extent, if you fall outside the Liberal/Conservative political spectrum then be prepared to have no one to discuss your politics with outside of a few sparse networks like the DSA.

Additionally, if you don't have someone to room with or a significant other to split costs with; you may want to try searching somewhere a little cheaper.

I've said it before and I'll say it again, Raleigh housing prices aren't terrible for a major metropolitan city, but we're not the best prices in the world.

You can get prices on apartments and rentals lower than say, California or New York. However, compared to other parts of NC like Greensboro or Garner; rentals are still a bit much.

On average, a Raleigh apartment can run you about $900 for a single bedroom and a single bathroom. You can find cheaper, but often times there's some risk associated (Crime levels, quality of the room, quality of the property manager, etc.) Looking for a two bedroom? Then your average price is gonna jump up to around $1,200, and this is all before utilities and cable come into play.

It's true a lot of companies around here will pay more than the $7.25 minimum wage, but most low-skilled jobs will pay around 10-11 an hour.

I guess though, that's kind of an obvious statement. "Don't live in Raleigh if you can't afford to live in Raleigh."

I might expand on these thoughts at a later time, but hopefully for now I've given you some food for thought; or at the very least an entertaining read for a few minutes.

I love my city, and I love the friends I've made in it, but the sad truth is that nowhere is perfect for everyone; leastways Raleigh. If Raleigh sounds like the kind of place you'd like to live in, at least take a day trip to come visit and see how things go that way. Visit some stores, meet some locals, and form an opinion off of more than travel blogs and youtube videos.

[glenngaylord]

OUTFEST 2020 FILM REVIEWS:  The Rest Of The Fest

As the curtain closes on another Outfest, this one presented under extremely unusual circumstances, I sit in awe of the filmmakers and of the staff who put together not only a great group of films, but managed to creatively bring them to its audience online and at drive-in screenings.  Typically, you find yourself having to choose one film over several others, but with this new format, you have a great chance of seeing everything you want.  In past years, I found myself lucky if I saw 15 films.  This year I saw 23 features and 4 shorts programs out of the 160 on the schedule.  

As it’s impossible to get full reviews submitted for everything while the festival is still chugging along, I wanted to write capsules of the remaining films not covered at TheQueerReview.com .  Please visit the website for all the other reviews I wrote as well as those by my colleagues.

THE OBITUARY OF TUNDE JOHNSON ★★★★★

Melding a Groundhog Day-style concept with police violence against black people, this stunning film could not be more prescient and emotionally overpowering.  A black gay teenager relives his moment of murder over and over again, with slight shifts in the narrative taking us to someplace unexpected and earned.  Director Ali LeRoi directs his first feature as if he’s been doing it all of his life and has interpreted Stanley Kalu’s ingenious script with a great cinematic approach.  Gorgeously framed, beautifully acted, written, and directed, this is one of the most powerful films of 2020.

TWO EYES ★★★★★

I can’t form sentences here so I’m gonna vomit out words:  Instant classic. Glorious. Set over three centuries seamlessly melding a triptych of stories about gender identity.  I’m a blubbering mess.  Fantastic and very funny last line.  Travis Fine is a very gifted filmmaker who screams love child of Terrence Malick and Kelly Reichardt.  Heartbreaking. Inspiring. Unforgettable.  Montana is so beautiful.  Barstow is not.  A perfect film for anyone who wants to find their place in the world. I wouldn’t complain if TUNDE and TWO EYES both received Best Picture Oscar nominations.  

DRAMARAMA  ★★★★

Theater nerds rule in this incredibly endearing, early 90s set film about a group of high schoolers discovering themselves in one night at a ridiculous Murder Mystery-themed party.  Hilarious script, vivid and wonderful performances, and the opposite of a “Coming Out” movie in the best possible way.  Jonathan Wysocki has given us The Breakfast Club for air-kissing, mid-Atlantic accented freaks and geeks. 

CICADA ★★★★

What happens when a traumatized, bisexual man who has more sex partners than any standard montage can contain slows things down to concentrate on one kind but also traumatized young man?  This elliptically told film has a fun, flirty side but carries its heaviness with great ease.  A terrific feature debut for director/writer/editor/lead actor Matthew Fifer. 

THE STRONG ONES (LOS FUERTES) ★★★★

From Chile comes this sexy, moving story of two men at cross purposes who form a beautiful bond.  Set against some stunning scenery and mining the chemistry between its two leads for everything it has, I am half-jokingly calling it Brokeback Andes.  It’s so much more than that trite, hackneyed comparison.  

MONSOON ★★★1/2

Director Hong Khaou’s followup to Lilting sets its sights on modern day Vietnam as Henry Golding’s character visits to find a suitable place to distribute his mother’s ashes.  It’s a terrific mediation on a gay man finding a sense of belonging in a place he’s never been and Golding proves himself to be a subtle, compelling actor.  Perhaps a little too quiet and reflective, the film makes up for what it lacks in narrative drive with its awe-inspiring cinematography and immersive qualities.  

P.S. BURN THIS LETTER PLEASE ★★★★1/2

What an unexpected surprise.  Michael Seligman and Jennifer  Tiexiera’s documentary about a treasure trove of letters dating back to the 1950s brings us into the world of drag queens from almost 70 years ago.  With many of its subjects not only alive but in fine form telling their stories and the dishiest voiceover readings ever to grace a film, I was not only thoroughly entertained, but I didn’t expect to weep like Laura Dern at the end.  Oh, this is so so so so good. 

MINYAN ★★★★

Eric Steel’s feature debut has its own unique tone and a star making performance by Samuel H. Levine, a spitting image of a young Al Pacino/Sylvester Stallone hybrid.  With its 1980s Jewish Brighton Beach backdrop, this powerful yet subtle film about a young man coming to terms with his sexuality as well as his place within his religion, it’s a stunning debut.  Ron Rifkin is stellar as Levine’s charming grandfather and Alex Hurt (William Hurt’s son) has his father’s intensity.  Fantastic, lived-in production design which feels like its decade without resorting to the usual candy colored tropes and a evocative score makes this a memorable experience.  Reminiscent at times of On The Waterfront, this film puts a fresh new spin on a coming of age tale and finds so many moving moments from first sex to an elderly gay couple hiding in plain sight.  A must-see. 

SHIVA BABY ★★★★

Writer/Director Emma Seligman must have studied Rosemary’s Baby quite a bit with this angsty story set mostly at a memorial service.  Rachel Sennott is fantastic as a young lesbian who moves from one cringe-worthy moment to the next in an attempt to avoid as much conflict as possible.  The great supporting cast includes Polly Draper, Fred Melamed, Dianna Agron, Molly Gordon, and Jackie Hoffman, all note perfect.  Less a comedy and more of an emotional horror story, Seligman knows how to make the best of a cramped space and throw up an endless variety of obstacles.  You just want Sennott’s Danielle to get her goddamned bagel with lox and cream cheese, but the fates have something else, something better, in store. 

COWBOYS ★★★★

Steve Zahn gives a career best performance in this moving story of a father with mental health issues and his trans son escaping into the Montana wilderness.  Sasha Knight makes an impressive debut as Zahn’s son and Jillian Bell expertly walks that fine line between villain and empathetic character.  Its comparisons to Butch Cassidy And The Sundance Kid are not coincidental.  Not perfect by any stretch, it may feel fairly conventional, but it’s tackling a vibrant subject matter.  Extra points for giving Ann Dowd a role where we don’t hiss at her. 

BREAKING FAST ★★★

Solid romcom with a Muslim backdrop, this very tight, deceptively simple script provides just the right amount of sparks between its charming leads, Haaz Sleiman and Michael Cassidy.  While structurally not breaking new ground, the entry point into a world we don’t see enough of on screen coupled with food porn for days makes this a fun, funny, goes down easy delight.

ASK ANY BUDDY ★★★1/2

Q: Daddy!  Daddy!  What were the 70s like down at the Piers in NYC?   A: Oh shut up and watch this movie.  

An experimental collage of vintage gay porn and archival footage from the disco, pre-AIDS heyday gives this film a mesmerizing, museum installation quality.  While technically without a story, you feel like you’ve gone on a journey nonetheless.  Would pair well with William Friedkin’s Cruising. 

DRY WIND ★★★1/2

Slow cinema meets voyeuristic gay porn in this one of a kind Brazilian exploration an arid small town, a workers’ union crisis, and a man obsessed with the Tom Of Finland drawing come to life who motors into his life.  Overlong and a little too obtuse as it goes along, it’s worth watching this Alice In Wonderland takes a quaalude, gets a very hairy back, and has a lot of sex in the dirt. 

NO HARD FEELINGS ★★★★

This year’s Teddy Award Winner at the Berlin Film Festival, Faraz Shariat’s film uses its backdrop of a refugee camp in Germany to tell the story of Iranians and Irani-Germans searching for a better life.  Its three leads bring a spark and youthful energy to a story with devastating undercurrents.  A wrenching glimpse into the emotional effects an oppressive culture has on its people, yet told with a driving pulse. 

LILY TOMLIN: THE FILM BEHIND THE SHOW ★★★

A look behind the scenes as Lily Tomlin and wife Jane Wagner workshop their legendary 1980s Broadway show, The Search For Signs Of Intelligent Life In The Universe.  It’s great to see these two at the top of their game and get a glimpse of their creative process, but this documentary is almost devoid of incident and feels more like a sweet gift to the fans than a fully realized film. 

SHORTS: WHAT A BOY NEEDS ★★★1/2

A mixed bag here of people searching for excitement, I found a couple of gems here nonetheless.  Not to take away from the shorts I don’t mention, I want to single out two exceptional films. Ruben Navarro’s Of Hearts And Castles looks great, has a beautiful vibe, and shows us a lovely connection forming right before our eyes.  Kiko’s Saints proves highly original as we follow a female Japanese artist on assignment in France become obsessed with a gay couple who have a lot of sex on the beach.  Combining animation with fairly explicit sex, I loved seeing the male gaze from a female perspective. 

THE CAPOTE TAPES ★★1/2

I love Truman Capote. I grew up at a time when smart authors found themselves on talk shows and were treated like superstars.  I’ve read his books and always have been in awe of his ability to be himself.  Featuring never-before-heard tapes of Capote’s friends being interviewed by George Plimpton, unfortunately, I don’t think this repetitive documentary gave me anything all that new.  It’s still touching at times and for the uninitiated, this is a great overview of his life, but I was watching the clock. 

OUT LOUD ★★★1/2

A moving look at the Trans Chorus of Los Angeles as they prepare for their first public performance.  With its ticking clock storyline, director Gail Willumsen expertly interweaves storylines of its founder and members.  As such, you really learn what’s a stake and what it means to them.  I was lucky enough to see the chorus perform David Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust a few years ago and basked in the power of its mere existence…and was also ridiculously entertained. 

TWILIGHT’S KISS (SUK SUK)  ★★★1/2

This quiet charmer form Hong Kong shows us something we almost never get to see on film - two elderly gay men meeting and falling in love.  The fact that both have been married to women doesn’t stop them from exploring their feelings.  A little to gentle by half, I still was in awe of this rarity.

[southeastasianists]

From the iconic films of drag legend Divine to the campy classics The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, and To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar; the essential documentary Paris Is Burning to the groundbreaking TV series Pose; and, of course, the popular herstory-making franchise of RuPaul’s Drag Race. There’s a plethora of content from drag culture that can comfort the weary during these confusing times.

Drag, in its basic sense, is about transformation. It’s a reaction to society’s standards and expectations. However, albeit entertaining at first glance, drag, like any other art form, has always been political. From half a century ago’s queens of Stonewall riots to today’s digital queens, drag has always fought for the downtrodden – all the while wearing seven-inch rhinestone-studded heels.

In celebration of Pride Month, INQUIRER.net talked to six of the country’s fiercest queens about the importance of drag in this period of turmoil.

The art of drag

I always knew I like creating things, whether it’s dressing up our Christmas tree or dressing up for Halloween. When I first transformed in drag, it was like an epiphany. I knew this is something I would do for a long time. It was love at first drag…

As much as the pandemic has taken away the physical interaction that we used to enjoy during our parties, it also opened up more opportunities for the art of drag to be seen and appreciated. In the past, local drag queens and performers can only be seen inside nightclubs and LGBTQ establishments, and a lot of enthusiasts and artists don’t have access to such places, especially minors and those living in the provinces.

Nowadays, I still get to do drag, but more on hosting and co-producing online shows and parties. In doing so, I’m able to gather people and provide platforms for other drag artists to be seen and perform. So far, the reception has been good, especially since online e-numan is slowly becoming the new normal for our patrons in the clubs…

Drag is dynamic, evolving, and very diverse. Here in the Philippines, most people are familiar with drag through impersonators and our trans sisters donned in impeccable gowns. But there are also drag artists with occult or alternative aesthetics, or unpolished makeup skills, or garbage as part of their brand, and those who tell stories onstage that some may not like.

I, for one, am a storyteller. What I do is I incorporate current events or matters of public interest in the songs I perform. By carefully listening to the lyrics of a song, I weave its meaning to my stand on social issues. People may say it’s a political agenda, or that I’m biased or off-putting, but that’s what art does. It’s meant to provoke and challenge ideologies…

Human rights should never be a collateral damage. It is not the law itself that puts the people at risk. It’s the integrity and morality of those enforcing it that predisposes people to danger and makes them fear for their lives. Why would we trust such absolute power to this government?

-- Eva Le Queen

Mascots of the LGBT community

I started doing drag as an escape from reality. Just like any other art form, it’s a vehicle for the expression of my alter ego. My drag persona is an extension of who I am as a person.

I see it more as a hobby than work. I tell myself that I will stop doing drag once it starts to feel like work. During this pandemic, it’s so heartwarming to see all these queens, young and old, come together during these hard times…

There’s a Chicago drag queen named TRex who said, “As drag queens, we are the mascots of the LGBT community.” That resonated with me because we have a responsibility to amplify the voices of our community. Just because we’re entertainers doesn’t mean we don’t have a say on political issues.

In this country, those who criticize the government get silenced. That’s why as part of a community of outcasts in a society that conforms deeply to tradition, we make it a point to speak out without fear or reservations. Because at the end of the day, we have to be echoes that will remind our countrymen that we are the generation that never forgets…

It’s crazy. “I am the law.” That’s what’s happening in our country right now. It’s no longer about the law of the state. That’s why the Terror Bill is wrong. If the government can abuse the law against journalists who are only doing their job, they can surely do it to anyone.

The problem is, supporters of politicians act like fandoms. It shouldn’t be that way. They hold their positions because the people put them there. But, really, what can we expect from this government? You elect a clown, expect a circus.

-- ØV CÜNT

Disturbing the comfortable

Drag is a matter of creating your own reality, and in creating your identity, you get to choose the traits that you want to embody. I believe that it’s a melting pot of everything I’ve learned in life, especially from theater and the arts.

As drag queens, we get to break the social norms, and we do it with more power and confidence than we ever thought we had.

Drag is art, and art in general is meant to comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable. It’s a fun way of looking at what’s happening in our society and of doing checks and balances. Drag queens have always been integral in the LGBT movement, and removing politics from a drag queen is the same as removing that person’s identity…

Ever since the lockdown, more newbies have joined the scene, and they even get to perform with the more veteran queens. People aren’t that busy so we get to interact with each other. Queens from different clubs and cities finally get the chance to collaborate. Everyone gets a level playing field.

At the same time, it’s also challenging because it’s still a live show, so you still have to put in the effort. There’s no assurance of a talent fee, and the attention span of netizens is so short, especially with so many things competing for their attention online. It’s a different stage, too. We’re constricted to the screens of other people’s devices…

I always try to make my drag fun, but it depends on the mood, the sound, and the message. Same with crafting any other performance, there has to be a story. You should get the audience hooked and there has to be an escalation and climax. Whether you make it subtle or literal, the message always has to come across.

For me, the message is often about coming together as so-called deviants and telling people who we are and demanding what is ours, or telling people that we are not a sin and that being ourselves is good enough.

-- Mrs. Tan

Drag is unbreakable

I did drag for the first time by joining Drag Cartel back in November 2017. It’s a competition for aspiring drag queens. Category for the night was “Disney On Ice,” so I came as Prince Charming in drag. That night, I won, and from there, my love for drag just bloomed.

I do it because it makes me do things that I’d normally just fantasize about. It’s a realization of the things that give me inspiration. The look, the makeup, the attitude. Even though it takes a lot of time, effort, and money, and even though my face breaks out and I get physically hurt while performing, living that fantasy is still the best feeling…

“Keep drag alive” is what we always say, and that goes for togetherness. For drag queens, drag enthusiasts, and drag lovers to maximize the power of social media and uplift queer artists to keep pushing, and to show that this pandemic is not a reason to stop doing what you love…

Drag is a middle finger to all forms of hatred, homophobia, discrimination, social injustice, and stigma…

What’s going on in our country is so overwhelming that I’m often left speechless. Every day I scroll through my feed and I see one issue after another, and it makes me feel sick. I’m disgusted by the people responsible for all this mess.

I just hope people will take note of those in power who haven’t done anything good for this country. I hope that come election season, the people will remember what’s going on now and who’s responsible. I hope they vote for the right people. That’s all we can do as Filipinos.

—PRINCE

An image of hope

I started doing drag April of 2019 when I met a few drag queens (now my drag sisters and best friends) who helped me build my drag persona. I have always been very flamboyant and effeminate growing up, and drag opened up the possibilities for me to express those traits even further. Before, I was just doing it for self-discovery, but now, it’s for the community as well.

Drag is about finding the courage to create an image of hope and fulfilment for yourself that could later on affect other people’s lives…

The local scene has been very resilient when it comes to this pandemic. This is a living proof that drag is possible even without clubs and big venues. Just like wild grass, it’s bound to find a way to grow on its own no matter what…

Drag has always been political, and expressing my thoughts on socio-political issues through performances, public posts, online protests, and family and peer conversations is a way for me to maximize my drag as a political medium.

With everything that we’re facing right now, I think a lot of people are scared for their own safety more than ever. Aside from the unresolved coronavirus crisis, it’s really frightening to witness the recent displays of abuse of power and the questionable decisions of this government.

As a member of a community that has long been experiencing inequality, discrimination, and unlawful acts, I am deeply saddened with how all of this misconduct diminishes my hopes for a country free from oppression.

—Marina Summers

On the right side of history

Drag is my art, my craft, and my passion. Without it, I’m incomplete. It’s an alternative persona but it’s also part of my identity. It is the Juliet to my Romeo.

My interest in drag started after I saw the film To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar. The glitz and glamour was so fascinating, and I immediately wanted to be part of that world.

People may see us as glamorous toads with a million rhinestones in 7-inch heels but, girl, it’s not as easy as it looks. Drag is not just crossdressing. It’s a transformation.

Drag queens are probably the most resilient and most creative people I know. Drag is thriving even on lockdown. There are a lot of online shows for all to see. We figured out a new way of showcasing our chops. We will survive this…

Drag is political. It was, it is, and it always will be. Periodt. I am a full-grown adult man dressed up to the nines, looking like Joan Crawford after losing the Oscars. It’s a big middle-finger to toxic masculinity and misogyny.

I like to think I have a considerable amount of following, which means I have a platform. I always have a choice, just like everybody else. One can choose to stay quiet, which effectively means choosing the side of the oppressors. Or I, a drag queen, can choose to be part of a positive change and help inspire a new generation of people who are not afraid to express themselves, political or otherwise.

I want to end on the right side of history. As a drag queen, I believe I can do that.

—Dee Dee Holliday

[mortuarybees]

human au: how did aziraphale come out to crowley?

short answer: he didn’t, crowley came out to him

long answer:

It looks like this:

Crowley has asked Aziraphale out twice now, and it hasn’t gotten any easier.

“You want to go to dinner?” They’re standing outside the English & Philosophy building, and he shifts nervously beneath the imposing sycamore tree, struggling to hold his stack of books. It’s overcast (isn’t it always?), and in the shade of the tree, it’s dark, almost intimate.

“You’re sure you don’t want me to hold those?” Crowley asks doubtfully, catching a thin paperback as it falls off the top.

“I’m–” he blushes, and Crowley beams at him, gesturing for the stack. He hands some of them over, and–alright, yeah, they’re heavy, but whatever. “Thank you.”

“‘Course,” he says. “Where are we going?”

“Ah,” he frowns, looking at him inscrutably. “I was going to go to my dorm room?”

“Lead the way,” Crowley says, waiting until Aziraphale takes a few apprehensive steps to fall in beside him. “Anyway, yes, I–” he ducks his head, wishes he weren’t holding the books so he could fidget with his glasses or tuck his hands in his pockets, “I had fun, last time. And seeing Romeo + Juliet.” He throws him a sideways look to find him staring openly at him, and he turns his eyes forward, clears his throat, cheeks turning a deep red. This is a victory, as far as Crowley is concerned. “Did you?”

“I did,” he says in a rush. “But you…want to do it again?”

“Said I did, didn’t I?” Crowley says impatiently. “Listen, if you don’t want to, you can say so, won’t hurt my feelings.” It might. Okay, it will, but he’ll put on a brave face and just go back to his dorm and listen to the Smiths and cry for a while, like everyone does.

“I want to,” Aziraphale says slowly, as if he’s afraid Crowley’s somehow leading him into a trap but he hasn’t spotted the spring yet. “If you do. You don’t have to, you know.”

“We’ve already covered this, I want to. If you want to, it’s a date,” he says, warmth blooming in his chest like the sun emerging from the clouds. He likes Aziraphale too much, he knows; it’s strange how much he likes him, completely mad. They hardly know each other.

“A date,” Aziraphale murmurs, almost to himself, with a pleased and barely-there curve of his lips, and Crowley smiles at him. Maybe that’s why he likes him so much. He can admit it to himself: he doesn’t smile terribly often, anymore, but Aziraphale brings it out in him, with wonderfully, naively optimistic declarations in class, jokes he tells with a wince as if he’s anticipating ridicule, his odd, circular logic and how he mouths words along as he reads, sometimes even traces a finger beneath the line like some kind of hunched monk in a dim abbey.

“A date,” Crowley agrees.

(It looks like this:

Crowley won’t meet him until the first day of the one class they’ll share, but he notices him at freshers week. He looks like he stepped out of Dead Poets Society or Oxford in the 1950s, in tweed and honest-to-God wingtips, and he’s like Crowley. Well, broadly speaking.

His pale curls are cut unevenly, as if he did it himself, and he wears clunky glasses too big for his cherub–no, they call them something else, putti, maybe–whatever, his round and frankly angelic face. He clings to some huge paperback like a lifeline, gnawing anxiously at his plump lower lip.

Crowley takes a drag of his cigarette and meets his eye through the exhale of smoke. He holds it for a long moment, and lifts the cigarette to him, in a way that’s an invitation, and a greeting, and a subtle gesture to the rainbow pin on his own lapel. There’s a bright flash of recognition in his eyes as he sees.

And then he turns away.)

Aziraphale is not, as Crowley anticipated, in the nice building with central air and heating. Instead, he’s in the big, historic dorm, which he should have expected. If he’s learned anything at this point, it’s that Aziraphale is committed to a certain aesthetic, and modern architecture and carpeting is not part of it.

“I’ll take my books,” he says, gesturing for Crowley to put them on the top of the stack, and though something in his chest leaps at an opportunity to help, insists that he offer to take them up, he understands Aziraphale doesn’t want to bring a guy he hardly knows up to his room, so he hands them over.

“Are you free tonight?” he asks eagerly, shoving his hands in his pockets. He was, in truth, planning to wait until his next paycheck to ask him out again, but he can’t. It’s a Herculean feat of effort to keep from asking him out again the moment their date ends, or as soon as he sees him in class. It’s quite restrained of him, he thinks, to have only asked him out three times in two weeks.

“I am,” he says, the tips of his ears turning pink, and fuck, if that isn’t endearing; but then his face closes off, and he straightens his shoulders as best he can with the books in his arms. “Crowley, you…you know I’m not…”

“You’re not?” Crowley prompts when he doesn’t continue.

He bites at his lip, then says quite suddenly, “Crowley, you are…gay, aren’t you?”

Crowley throws back his head and laughs.

(It looks like this:

He sees him around. He’s not looking for him, persay, but it wouldn’t be accurate to say he doesn’t keep an eye out for him, either. There’s a rainbow pin on his lapel, now, small beside his little Stratford-upon-Avon souvenir and charmingly inoffensive Books Not Bombs pin. He could be a lesbian, Crowley supposes, but he doesn’t think so. Sometimes, you can just tell. Lesbians have a boldness about their person that this young man simply does not. Besides, lesbians travel in packs of other sapphics and very occasionally pet straight women they’ve taken under their wings, and he doesn’t seem to have any friends. Wide-eyed and beguiling as he is, he would’ve been adopted by now.

He’s like Crowley. Broadly speaking.)

“Crowley,” Aziraphale admonishes peevishly, after several moments.

He bites down on his smile, and pulls his carton of cigarettes out. Aziraphale shifts uncomfortably as he lights the cigarette, and Crowley raises his eyebrows. “Sorry, I should’ve asked first. Do you mind?”

“No, no, go ahead,” he says. “Just. The books.”

“I can hold them,” he says.

“No, I’ve got them,” he says, after a moment. His face is turning very red, and after he takes his first drag, Crowley notices his eyes have taken on a wounded, watery quality. He clears his throat and straightens his shoulders again, avoiding Crowley’s gaze. “Ah, sorry, I suppose, I just thought, your pins, and–”

“Yeah, angel, I’m gay,” Crowley says gently, and Aziraphale ducks his head; the nickname, employed ever since they left the theater, never fails to make him blush. “Almost exclusively.”

“Almost–”

“You’re the exclusively,” he says. “I’d think that’d be obvious.”

“It’s not,” Aziraphale says, his voice soft, and Crowley’s chest squeezes painfully at that. “You know I’m a man, right?”

“'Course I do,” he says. He takes a nervous drag, flicks ash to the sidewalk.

“You’re sure? Because I–”

“Angel,” he interrupts. “Listen, I promise, I know you’re a man. I probably wouldn’t be asking you out if you weren’t.”

Aziraphale brightens at that. “Probably?”

“I prefer men,” Crowley shrugs. “Can’t really say only, but mostly.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, satisfied.

“And you?” Crowley asks, as nonchalant as he can manage.

“Mostly,” Aziraphale echoes. Crowley smiles, knot in his chest loosening.

“Besides,” he says, kicking at a tuft of grass so he doesn’t have to meet his eyes.

“Besides?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowely hesitates.

The thing is, Crowley’s never really talked to anyone about it. Not really, not in so many words.

It’s a hard thing to verbalize, even when you’ve read Butler and Boswell and Bland and de Beauvoir and all the rest of the goddamn alphabet of people like Crowley who never stop asking questions, even when it makes his head hurt.

It feels like it would be an underwhelming statement. I feel like a man, but only mostly. Sometimes almost completely, sometimes only tangentially, really, it depends on how I look at it.

He thinks Aziraphale will understand, though. He hopes he will.

(It looks like this:

Crowley is Antonio is their production of Twelfth Night. He’s in the audience of three of their productions, watching with a rapt attention and delight that makes Crowley forget his lines when he looks at him for more than a beat. Crowley wants to believe his eyes linger a little longer on him than they do the other actors, but he’s not sure if he’s…projecting. If he wants it to be true, so he’s fooling himself into thinking there’s a moment after Crowley’s finished saying his lines and the student playing Sebastian has begun saying his that he keeps looking at him, those blue eyes noticing him, over and over.

He’s like Crowley. He’s confident of it.)

“I understand,” he mutters.

“You understand,” Aziraphale repeats, confused. “You understand what?”

“The whole,” he waves the hand holding the cigarette, ash falling. “Gender. Thing.”

“Gender thing?” He says, and understanding dawns in his eyes. “You’re trans, too?”

Crowley makes a noncommittal noise. “I dunno. Sort of? Not really. Just…don’t feel,” he gestures, broadly. “All…not-that.”

“Are you a trans woman?” Aziraphale asks, and he shakes his head, sighs, shifts.

“No, not like a woman, just, sometimes, not like a man,” he says. “A little? Sometimes a lot. Sometimes not really at all. Does that make sense?”

Aziraphale tilts his head, considering. Crowley appreciates this about him, he really does, that he’ll really think about what you say to him, turn it over in his mind, but right now, he’s kind of having a moment, a big one, and he’d really like some immediate, instinctive gratification. “It does,” he says finally. “I understand what you mean. Genderqueer, yes?”

Crowley stares at him, at the nakedness of his expression, the bare knowing, and he knows he does understand. He feels a tidal of relief crash over him. “Yeah,” he says, a crooked smile finding its way onto his lips. “Yeah, that works.”

Aziraphale smiles back, and there’s something like relief in his eyes too. “Still Crowley, then? And–the same pronouns?”

He nods. “Yeah. That part doesn’t matter so much, to me.”

“So, ah,” he shifts, and Crowley grimaces; this was really all he had to say, he really doesn’t know what else he could articulate, exactly, doesn’t know that he’s going to have answers and worries that Aziraphale will stop looking at him with that understanding, that relieved you’re like me. “Dinner? Tonight?”

Crowley grins. “Is seven alright?”

“Seven is divine, dear.”

(human au masterpost)

[bitchmilsky]

pick me up

a/n: HERE IT IS YALL, OVER A MONTH IN THE MAKING!!! i started this story bc i wanted to use the mans am in something bc i had just figured out that it was a joke on trans am and then it turned into this whole mess jdkjhgkhd. uhhhh i had a friend kinda proofread and he said it was good?? but obvs if something is like SUPER bad feel free to tell me bc i LIVE for feedback hehe. ALSO the only context i have for high school parties is the media so if its like super exaggerated thats why ahfsg

tags: @mambofivehargreeves @kiddangers @coolies326 (if anyone else wants to be tagged, lemme know!!)

summary: henry goes to a party and gets mixed in with the wrong crowd. 789 words

TW: underage drinking and drug use

The gentle hum of the Mans Am was enough to lull Henry to sleep. He looked over at Ray, who had zoned out as soon as they got on the highway, only making subtle adjustments when needed. He was in his pajamas, and his hair was a mess. I guess I woke him up, Henry thought. He felt guilty for calling Ray in the middle of the night, but he didn't know who else to call. He had snuck out, so he couldn't call his parents or Piper, and Charlotte would just say "I told you so". Jasper couldn't even drive, and Lord knows where Schwoz was. So, he called Ray. Ray, who dropped anything and everything whenever Henry needed something, anything. Ray, who cared more for him than his own father. Ray, who just needed some goddamn sleep. A wave of guilt rushed over Henry, who once again realized Ray was half-asleep. Trying to push the guilty feeling out of his mind, he thought back to what brought him here.

~~~~~

"Hey Henry, you coming to my party tonight?"

"Oh, h-hey Kendra. Uhh, yeah, I can make it," Henry said, blushing.

"Great! See you there." She gave him a once-over before walking off. Henry couldn't help but stare in awe.

"Henry, snap out of it! Are you actually going to Kendra's party?" asked Charlotte, concerned.

"I heard shes bad news bears. Don't go, Hen," added Jasper

"I'll be fine, guys. Besides, she's cute." Henry had a loving look in his eyes. Jasper and Charlotte looked at each other.

"Henry, she's known to get into some bad shit. Seriously, don't go. I worry about you sometimes," Charlotte told him. Henry frowned.

"I can take care of myself. I don't need you on my ass all the time," he snapped. Charlotte sighed.

"Just be careful, alright? Make good choices," she said, before grabbing Jasper's hand and walking off. Jasper resisted her pull for a second, until she gave him A Look, and he followed. Henry slammed his locker shut and went home for the night.

~~~~~

"Henry, your mother and I are going to a play tonight and we need you to stay home and watch Piper," Mr. Hart said, adjusting his tie. Henry stood up in protest.

" Dad, I can't! I have a party tonight!"

"Hah! As if. Your nerd friends wouldn't have a party," Mr. Hart pointed out, slightly mean.

"Hah. You're a nerd," jeered Piper, from the other room. Henry glared at her.

"No for reals. This girl, Kendra, she invited me to a party tonight," Henry insisted.

"Don't care. You, young man, are going to watch Piper and you are going to LIKE it!" Mr. Hart left in a huff, and Mrs. Hart left soon after.

"There's no way KENDRA invited you to her party," said Piper, looking at her phone.

"She did! It was wack," said Henry, gazing into the distance.

"Well I'm having my friend Marla over and we want you out of the house. Do you need a ride?"

"Nah, I'll be fine. Hey, if Mom and Dad get home before me, can you cover?"

"Duh. Go have fun." Piper pushed him playfully, and he walked out the front door.

~~~~~

"Henry! Glad you could make it," Kendra said, putting her hand on his arm. She smelled like booze. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"N-no thanks," said Henry, somewhat uncomfortable. "Is everyone, y'know-"

"Drinking? No, not everyone. I know I saw Bianca with a cup, but I know Bilsky's not. But he has a joint so that's probably why." Henry frowned. "You sure you don't want any?"

"I'm sure. I have uhhh, work tomorrow and I can't be like, hungover or anything." Kendra shrugged.

"Alright. Suit yourself." She grabbed his hand and led him towards the kitchen, where a couple people were, including Mitch Bilsky. "You have fun, I'll be riiiight back," she said, planting a kiss on Henry's cheek before walking off.

"Hart! Did Kendra really invite YOU?" Mitch looked almost happy to see him. He was oddly chill. "D'you wanna hit?" That explains the chill, Henry thought.

"I'm good, Mitch."

"Whatever. Hey, where's those other two?" Mitch questioned. "Y'know, the bucket fucker and the know it all?"

"You mean Jasper and Charlotte? They uh, couldn't make it." Henry thought back to his friends, and how worried they were about him. They wanted the best for him, and he treated them like shit. He considered leaving, until Kendra came back. She took his hand and led him to a more secluded area of the house. She pushed him onto the couch, climbed on top, and shoved her lips onto his. Slowly, he accepted. She tasted like the Man Cave air after a bad fight. The Man Cave. His friends - his family really. Jasper, Schwoz, Ray. And Charlotte. He recalled what she had said that afternoon - make good choices. He felt horrible about the way he had treated her. She was watching out for him, like she always does. She looks out for her boys, and in return she only gets Henry's bullshit. Henry realized that this wasn't something he wanted, he wasn't with the people he cared about - the people who cared about him. He quickly pushed Kendra off, to her surprise.

"What the hell, man?" She looked pissed.

"I uhh, have to go to the bathroom," Henry lied. She rolled her eyes.

"Down the hall and to the left. But don't take too long," she added, winking.

"Uh-huh." He ran to the bathroom and quickly locked the door. Trying his best to not break down, he hurriedly tapped the name he'd called so many times before. The phone only rang twice before he heard a familiar, sleepy voice.

"H'lo?"

"Ray! Oh thank God, I'm at a party and they're all drinking and Mitch Bilsky brought weed and I think I saw someone with Adderall or something and I just... I don't wanna be here. Can you please pick me up?" he said, on the verge of tears. The line was silent for a minute. "I didn't wake you up, did I?"

"Nope," Ray said through a heavy yawn. "Text me the address, I'll be there ASAP." Henry breathed a sigh of relief, and waited in the bathroom until he got the glorious "I'm here" text from Ray.

~~~~~

A hard swerve of the car broke Henry from his thoughts. Ray mumbled something under his breath, and his eyes were halfway shut. Henry once again felt guilty for waking him up and making him drive all the way to get him. He finally spoke up.

"Ray, I'm so-

"Don't apologize, kid. I'm glad you're okay." He put his hand on Henry's shoulder. "You're my kid, and your safety is my priority."

"No, really, you haven't slept in days

I could've Ubered, or stayed there, or called Piper, or anything. I shouldn't've woken you up."

"Henry, let me tell you something. When you love someone, whether it's platonic, or familial, or romantic, you would drop anything for them. You're my kid and I love you. Besides, we'll be back to the Man Cave in no time. Oh sHI-" Ray narrowly avoided another car after drifting into the other lane and quickly flipped the bird. Henry cringed.

"Look dude, you need sleep. I could've called someone else." Ray sighed.

"Henry, when you became my sidekick, you swore an oath to obey my orders, and right now I order you to stop worrying about me." He cracked a smile, and Henry felt better.

"Thanks.... Dad." And slowly but surely, Henry began to cry.

"Kid, it's okay, I promise, don't worry about me," Ray reassured him.

"It's not that, it's just... oh God, gimme a minute..." Henry said, wiping his eyes. "Whew... it's just... my dad's always leaving for DAYS at a time and my mom's like... GONE. I mean she was here tonight, but otherwise I don't really see her that much and I don't even think they WORRY about me... Piper was in the tubes for like a day and a half and he didn't even care until someone told him to. But when I call you to pick me up, you just come and pick me up and say you care and it’s just... it feels good to be loved by this." Ray was silent for a minute.

"Henry, anything you need, EVER, I can do for you. If you need a pick up, I can do that. If you forget your lunch, I can get that. And Henry, God forbid you need a place to stay? The Man Cave is always open to you. Piper, too. Now get some rest, we'll be there soon. Love you, kid."

"Love you too, Dad." The gentle hum of the Mans Am was enough to lull Henry to sleep, and so, basking in the love he felt, he fell asleep.

[teenagebeautyqueen]

[Image description: a young person holds a mobile phone with a blue case and a paper on the other. the paper has a drawing of an umbrella colored with the trans pride flag. we can only see their upper body. they are looking down and to the left of the image. they're smiling without showing their teeth, and look relaxed. they're wearing a black, loose hoodie and some shorts can be seen at the bottom of the picture. they're also using black nail polish. on the background there is a door and a star wars poster. the other image is a close up of the paper. end ID]

🌈ʜᴇ/ᴛʜᴇʏ🌈

happy trans day of visability to all my fellow trans*!! here is me and my project for peace's day... i personally love it. it's on spanish, but i'll translate it for y'all.

the text on the left says "cada persona que conoces está luchando una batalla de la que no sabes nada. sé amable. siempre", which is the translation of that quote that goes like "every person you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about. be kind. always".

the one on the right says "¿qué sentido hay en pelear? ¿por qué insistimos en sabotearnos mutuamente? Todos caminamos por el mismo sendero embarrado, todos nos dirigimos al mismo final." its translation is something like "what's the point on fighting? why do we insist on sabotage each other? we all walk the same muddy path, we are all headed for the same end."

and above the umbrella there's words like "odio", "acoso", "ignorancia" & "discriminación", which mean "hatred", "harassment", "ignorance", and "discrimination".

yeah i'm very subtle.

i've decided to share my story with the world. but i got kinda carried away. it's not s fairy tale, so don't read it if you're sensitive to themes like bullying, mental health issues, and toxic people.

——————————————————————

it's been... one ride of a journey, to say the least. i've said a few times that i started to question my gender around summer. but that's not quite true.

growing up, i never was fond of... anything that i associated with femenine, really. this included, but wasn't limited to, any color that wasn't blue (pink and purple get a special mention, i despised them), flowers, clothes too loose or too tight, shorts if they weren't from some sport, etc. i think you get the idea.

this collided with me being afab (aka a girl for everyone including myself) & neurodivergent. i wanted nothing to do with those things. but society wanted me to love them.

5 yo me said she didn't like Monster High. 5 yo female classmate said i was a weirdo. 7 yo me loved football. 7 yo male classmate said i couldn't play because i was a girl. 9 yo me hyperfixated on minecraft. 9 yo pretty much every classmate called me a geek.

so i stoped trying. for a while, i loved pink, wanted to have rapunzel's hair, watched disney channel, etc. but i already was the weirdo. i remember being three and friends with all of them. i remember playful fights for the toy rocket and reading books with the only other boy who could read, to ourselves, each other, and the whole class. but people grow up, and they change. so yeah, i was bullied. always the last one to be chosen, left alone on the bus rides, on my own at the playground.

and you'll be thinking "that sucks, but pao, how is it related to you being trans?"

you'll see, i didn't have many friends. i was kinda alone until i turned 7. then two new kids came to my class. let's call them eva and john. i made friends with them asap. i loved them so much!! they were my first friends since kindergarden. so i allowed myself to let go. i was already hated by most of my peers. why wouldn't i be myself with those who didn't despise me? (i was 7 when i thought this. 7 years old, and i thought that out of 20 people, 18 hated me. and then people wonder why i've got self-steem issues lmao. i'm tryna make the point that bullying in primary school isn't just some mean kids calling you names. i'm currently in high school and it still has its mark on me. but that's for another moment.)

so yeah. i went "wild". eva has adhd too (noice, right? i mean she has her diagnosis becaise she's primarly hyperactive, while i'm primarly inattentive, but we understood each other way quickier than with neurotypicals– even if i didn't know why yet), and john was kinda shy & corpulent (he wasn't fat, but he didn't look slim either), just like me. so we became friends. and i slowly opened up a little, while still playing my role of "the freak kid". i knew i was seen as that AND as the smart kid. double pressure, double bullying. but i had my small circle. it evolved until my current friend group, in which, god bless, there's a trans girl!! (eva's still on it– she's my best friend and i would die for her, no doubts. john can go fuck himself, the goddamned fascist).

but it ain't that easy. it never is. i'm 14 and afab. shit happens. y'all get it.

my first period happened while i was on a school trip (bad), on a hotel with no pads avaliable (very bad), on another country so i couldn't call my mum unless i had wifi because politics & stuff– and i did not have wifi (really bad). cue a lot of dysphoria (even if i didn't know it was that) + not being able to contact anyone. add the fact that i was the second one to have it, and it was some kind of taboo– it meant the other girls wouldn't leave me alone, and the result is clear: one of my worst panic attacks ever, on a tiny bathroom of some shitty hotel room.

from there it went downhill. my body started to become femenine, and the football short didn't make my hips smaller. my face, my oh so alarged face, suddenly became rounder. puberty hit me not only physically, but emotionally. and if that wasn't enough, we, as a class, were entering what's called here "the turkey age", a.k.a. teenagerhood, where looks become even more important. it didn't take long until i hated my body.

[WARNING: from here, this gets hard. mentions of eating disorders, depressive episodes/thoughts, toxic enviroments, homophobia/transphobia (both internalized and external), anxiety attacks, and thoughts of self-harm]

i thought "it's big, it shouldn't be big, it's fat. besides i don't want it to grow so fast. i want to make it stop growing. how? well, i grow up by eating. no eating=no growing".

yeah. eating disorder. when i think about it, i want to laugh. because it only took a few comments and "jokes" for me to be so angry at myself when i should be mad with them. i'm big. always have been, very likely always will. i've been told that i could make a very good rugby player. i probably would. i shared my cantine table with people (😔). and they wouldn't shut up. "[deadname], the rest wants to eat too!", "look at [deadname], she's gonna eat it all!". things like that. i stoped eating. i would pick up the smallest amount of food i could, even if my stomach was begging me to please eat something. eventually, my mum found out. and she helped me to grow out of it. i sometimes releapse, but never for that long. because i went on a whole year like that. and it sucked.

so, last year. socially anxious neurodivergent girl with several doubts on her sexuality gets to eight grade.

i play basketball. since i was little. i used to enjoy it a lot. we weren't a team– we were a family. loved 'em so much, 1000/10 one of the best things of my life. BOOM. now you're old enough & good enough to be on the "good" team. in the good time there's the cool kids. i am not a cool kid. oops. i was left behind, they all laughed at my back, no one cared about me (except one girl, but she was in the group and was scared to act until almost the end of the year. love her for that tho). i felt like shit. i was too scared to go to train. the sight of a ball scared me, because i couldn't help but think everyone was talking shit about me. we went to a national championship and when they went out to the city, they didn't tell me, then sent a pic of them having fun to the groupchat & delated it saying "oops it was for the other group". i had several breakdowns on my room that night. it was such a bad experience i can't even hear the name of the city without tearing up.

not to count that a new girl decided to make my life a living hell. now i know how to deal with her, but then i didn't, and i ended up curled up on the bathroom floor crying.

all while i discovered my own identity. i was so scared of being non-straight i hated myself for it.

it was a tough year and there were times where i would wish i'd never existed. it was too much for me to deal with, and i was just miserable. but i got out of it. remember the trans girl i mentioned? she's closeted, and she told me just this october. but even before that, she was my friend. she bought a new life to it all, a fresh one. i owe her a lot, including accepting myself as i am.

she is here, despite everything.

i am here, despite everything.

you are all here, despite everything.

some of us aren't here. they are the ones we remember. each one of us has our history. i shared mine with you all. it is not an easy road. you know that. it's hard, and it's tough, and it's difficult, and it's unfair.

but we are here, despite everything. the ones who made it, the ones who didn't, the ones who are halfway through it, and the ones who are to come.

we are here. we are trans. and we won't be erased.

[void-official]

“Micro-identities/’Mogai/ya’ll literally just be making shit up now” OK. i’m sorry im stuck on this and this is the last i’ll talk about it today bc fuck it. I’m gonna be Real for a second. And it’s going to be awkward, and it’s going to be long, and I’m gonna Lose Follower bc defending micro-labels is Cringe. Whatever. I get it. go ahead and unfollow. The rest of you who actually care. and in the spirit of Pride Month, as someone who feels like they’re almost never allowed to express Pride in who I am? Here we go.

I’m bi. Most of you can probably tell, im not exactly subtle about it.

I’m bi. But

my actual interest in dating or having sex with Anyone has been pretty much negligible for my entire life. I just don’t Care. I never have. Dating and sex seem like a hassle to me and I don’t feel like i’m particularly missing out by not taking part in them. It doesn’t negate my enjoyment of peoples bodies necessarily, nor does it mean I never get crushes on people it just means at the end of the day, my desire to go out there and find people to have sex with and/or date has always been like. really really low. Even if the opportunity was there. And i’ve come to terms with this. I accept this about myself.

There is actually a great deal of overlap between bi and ace identity. all those ‘weird little terms’ like ‘demisexual’ you guys hate so much were originally created for people like me, who feel like they are fundamentally not allowed to call themselves something straightforward like ‘bi’ (or straight/gay/lesbian) without people inevitably screaming at them for Doing It Wrong. So they can describe how they feel in a brief word, instead of having to go through the pains of explaining the complex relationship they have with sexual attraction to every fucking person who asks what their sexuality is.

saying ‘well you should just be able to say bi and leave it at that’ doesn’t actually account for the experiences i have when i Just Say i’m Bi. Even me Just Saying ‘im bi’ i’ve always gotta deal with harassment from people whoget weirdly agressive about -why- i’m not out there fucking or dating the people i claim im attracted to. Am I a prude? a Tease? Just an ‘Acey’ lying for brownie points? Am I Actually Just Traumatized? (They ask in a really aggressive condescending way, like thats actually how you should talk to someone you think is potentially traumatized) But by the standards of this discourse, i’m not allowed to call myself ace either, because then people are going to yell at me that if I experience the tiniest smidgen of sexual attraction or romantic inclination sometimes, or post pictures of sexy video game characters, clearly i cant be that either  I literally can’t win. there is not a thing I can call myself that won’t earn me the ire of LGBT people on tumblr who think they know me and what i should call myself better than I do. And believe me i hate talking about this More than you do. I’d rather just shut up and let people Assume i’m whatever they want me to be sometimes but then mutuals i thought i trusted will inevitably openly make fun of the people who outwardly call themselves demisexual or whatever microlabel is trendy to shit on currently, and usually i bite my tongue cause at the end of the day its Just Words, right? I don’t even use that word, right? Its just words and some words can be interchangeable and not everyone knows what they mean which can feel alienating and unnecessary to people who don’t understand them. I -get- why people ‘cringe’ when they see like 10 terms they don’t understand in someones bio. why do you think i don’t even list anything about my sexuality in mine other than my pronouns?

but I always remember like. just bc that label isnt For Me, it doesn’t mean there might be someone in a similar position to me who doesnt feel comfortable just calling themeslves bi, and prefers the label ‘demisexual biromantic’ who feels like that phrase puts them in a place of peace and contentment, and I wouldn’t argue with them about it. Bc thats their fucking choice. Them being happy with who they are takes priority over my personal opinions of the language they use. same with gender nonconforming people who dont want call themselves trans or nonbinary. Thats fucking Fine. I’m not telling you to have to use the same words as me if you don’t feel like they’re necessary or accurate. I literally don’t give a rats ass what words you use to identify yourself so long as they’re not being used to hurt other people. I just want to be able to have Words, for myself, that describe how I feel, that don’t result in people treating my entire identity like some shitty discourse Meme. And right now I have none. No matter what I call myself, people choose tell me it’s not accurate, or its too complicated.

As for all these shitty fucking posts about people ‘forcing’ young people to take up labels. This. This doesn’t actually happen? (OK I won’t say it doesn’t happen ever on an individual level? but that its not something enforced or encouraged by any group as a practice, and that distinction is necessary, bc saying it happens on a large scale literally implies predatory intentions from a massive group of people instead of members of the group behaving poorly as individuals)

Demisexual people as a whole have literally never told me i had to call myself demi just bc my sense of how i experience attraction might be similar to theirs. Ace people as a whole don’t usually tell people whose lack of sexual attraction is caused by trauma or who havent developed enough to experience sexual attraction that they -have- to call themselves ace. Most Bi or Pan people are fine with the fact that their labels have a lot of overlap and that the line between these things can be murky, they arent actually constantly ready to tear each others throats out over whose terminology is correct. All of this shit is made up by hateful people, or people taking a few examples of poor behavior out of context as an excuse to shit on everyone else, and well meaning people keep falling for it bc it -seems- helpful to be. reactive. I guess? to people you’re constantly told are hurtful to the causes of marginalized people. but im telling you. its not true. literally nobody forces you to call yourself any of these words, they just Exist out there in case you want them, and if you think thats somehow a threat to other peoples identities or to Minors just like, conceptually, for existing, for being Too Specific, im sorry but what other word is there for your reaction than phobic? If an individual derails a conversation about Y to be like “You didn’t include _X_” or tries to force their views on a minor who hasn’t developed a stable sense of identity yet, that is an Individual behaving in an inappropriate manner, not an invitation for you to throw the whole group under the bus. I hate to tell you but if you’re using examples of individuals on tumblr who say stupid shit, everyone on tumblr says stupid shit and butts in conversationally where they’re not welcome. Universally. It’s how tumblr is formatted. Trust me, I have like 4 viral posts going right now.

i’m just tired of it at this point. im not cool with people who stretch to make fun of micro-labels all the time and think they’re being woke allies or w/e to the ‘real LGBTs’.  Even if a lot of the time I personally don’t care for all the labels and wouldn’t choose them for myself, I still feel like If you can’t treat people like individuals and assess their character on a case by case basis, i don’t trust you. I don’t like people who stereotype and LGBT people are not immune to this behavior. Like i don’t say it often but it fucking hurts, and it hurts other people I’m close to who I know have similar complicated identities and struggle coming up w/words to describe themselves that the whole of tumblr LGBT+ will approve of and agree with (clearly an impossibility because there are still people who don’t want bi and trans to even be in there). I might tolerate the constant jokes and not block on principle of knowing not everyone has ingested and thought about this discourse in the same way I have, and im a big tough adult, ultimately i can take it. but inside i know no matter what i call myself, if i were earnest with some of you about how i feel I’d probably be just another ‘special snowflake Delusional mogai creep’ to you, and i can’t deny that fucking hurts to think about. I try not to talk about it openly bc it embarrasses me, bc i dont think my sexuality should have to be battle ground for discourse for people who are supposed to be on my side. But there it is. I think most of this discourse is Trash, and clearly not for the reason most people on here say its trash, not bc theres ‘too many specific words, y’all just be Making Shit Up’ but because so many of you are more caught up in the words than the substance of the arguments or the needs of people whose experiences might have a lot of overlap with yours regardless of what word they’re using to describe it.

Anyway. happy pride to LGBTQA+ people who still dont really feel pride in themselves or their identity. I’d say you’re valid, but you don’t need my validation or anyone elses to understand that you’re a person deserving of respect and compassion. You exist as who you are, and you have to come to terms with who that is, regardless of whether or not you feel like you’re accepted for it. if not pride then, settle for confidence in who you are.

[khadij-al-kubra]

I’m Still Here (a songfic oneshot)

Pairing: None (maybe Moxiety if you squint)

Characters: (Human AU) Virgil, Logan, Patton, Roman, Dr. Picani, Duncan (Deceit), Jamal, Dariana, Alma (OC)

Warnings: mentions of considered suicide, self hate, abandonment

Summary: A year ago, Vigil couldn’t have imagined himself being alive, let alone accepted as he was and happy. But here we was, and on the anniversary of the day he decided to start truly living, he plans to show it to his little corner of the world.

Author’s Note: Hey friends! I’ve had this idea in mind for a while and really just wanted to get it out there. I’ve always loved the film Treasure Planet and the main song from it, but it wasn’t until recently when I heard the song again that I realized it could tell another kind of story. I tried to do as much justice as possible but I am not myself trans or part of the lgbt community. So if I got anything wrong or could’ve done anything better please let me know. As always feel free to leave a comment in the messages or reply if you have any notes or constructive critiques. I’m always open to writing advice. Enjoy! 

AO3

Knowing who you are and coming to terms with it is one thing. Actually getting to be who you truly are without fear and loving yourself is a whole other, much harder thing. As far back as he could remember Virgil had always known two things about himself with absolute intuitive certainty: that he was an anxious mess and that he was a boy. Even without being consciously aware of what gender was specifically, he always felt that way on the inside. It wasn’t until he was five or six and his mom kept forcing him to wear too tight pigtails and poofy dresses that he realized the rest of the world didn’t see him that way; that his outside didn’t match the inside. He hated it and himself.

As he got older he allowed himself small acts of defiance. He insisted on wearing pants when he could and cut his long black hair short. He always insisted on people calling him ‘V’ instead of ‘Victoria.’ His parents weren’t trilled about their child being an introverted sarcastic tomboy that played guitar all day instead of a polite, sweet, studious young lady, but they still loved him. Or rather, they loved Victoria. Virgil learned to hide who he really was, got good at keeping quiet and playing the part as long as it kept his parents happy and himself safe. It was a miserable time in his life. He hated his body, hated his mind, and hated himself; that he longed to have the simple luxury of being his true self, knowing it was impossible. One day, Virgil decided he didn’t want to live this way anymore.

That had been two years ago.

“Yo, Virgil! You still with us man?” Jamal asked, breaking Virgil out of his thoughts.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry ‘bout that dude,” he said to the keyboard player.

“No worries. You just don’t usually get all spaced out like that during rehearsals.”

“Guess I’m trying to channel my inner Ziggy Stardust,” Virgil said, smirking at his band mate.

“That’s not exactly our usual sound,” said their drummer Dariana. She was sitting in Jamal’s lap, lightly scratching the back of her boyfriend’s fro. “But hey, I guess it kind of works for this particular song.”

“Just make sure your head stays in the music,” Duncan droned as he adjusted the strings on his bass. “After all, you’re the one who insisted we do a cover of this song for the talent show instead of one of our own songs. Or begged is more like it.”

“Easy Duncan,” Jamal warned the other musician. “I’d like to get through one rehearsal without you two going at each other.”

“I’m just saying the talent show is this Friday. If our fearless leader is going to make us learn a whole new song in so short a time,” Duncan threw daggers at Virgil with his brown and green eyes, “the least he can do is stay focused during rehearsal.”

Virgil fought the urge to hiss at the Nirvana t-shirt clad teen. The guy was a sarcastic snake in the grass at times, but there was no denying his musical skills. He was an important part of the band, so he tried to keep the peace most days. And to be fair, he wasn’t wrong in this instance. Virgil has been so adamant for them all to learn this song in time for the school talent show. The least he could do was put 110% of his focus into practice.

“Yeah, yeah. I gotcha. No more daydreaming ‘till we’re done.” Virgil promised.

“And hey! We’ve nearly got it finished,” said Dariana as she returned to her drum set. “And it’s only taken, what, three hours?”

Virgil smirked at her subtle call-out to him. He knew she was tired, as was he. Still, his anxiety at possibly being off key or hitting a sour note the night of the show made him push them all to practice even more than usual. This performance was too important to him.

“Alright, let’s pick it back up from the bridge, run through the song two more times and then we’ll call it quits.” said Virgil.

“After we do our ritual for good luck,” Jamal said. “It is the night of the full moon. Gotta get as much of that good energy as we can from Gaia.”

“Of course,” said Virgil. He already had the three spell candles, quarts and incense in his backpack. “Can’t forget that.”

He waited for Dariana to count them in. She clicked her drumsticks together, “One-two-three-four!”

Virgil lost himself in the music as he always did, giving his band mates full attention. After the four Wiccan teens completed the small ceremony they went their separate ways. Well, save for Duncan, since their rehearsal space was in his garage. Yet another reason Virgil tried to keep things civil with him. It wasn’t his fault their personalities clashed harder than a cymbal.

On the long bus ride to the apartment he now called home, Virgil put on his large headphones to block out the rest of the world. It was the easiest ways to relax and not let the anxiety of being in a crowded public vehicle overwhelm him. As the music played and the streets passed him by outside the window, Virgil found himself looking back on where he’d started. He almost couldn’t believe it sometimes. Two years…Two years since the night he wanted to end his life and the same night where a chance encounter had convinced him not to…

…That night Virgil had waited till his parents were fast asleep. Not that he thought they’d miss him (he was never the daughter they wanted him to be) but still, he wanted to spare them the unpleasant sight. Sometime between the witching our and 3am he snuck out the bedroom window and made his long walk to the high wooded hill on the borderline of their small town. He didn’t go there anymore, but at the time that had been Virgil’s safe retreat where he could go to think or cry. He and the occasional summer potheads only ever occupied it. It had been a crisp autumn night and the stars were in their full radiant splendor. He’d at least wanted something beautiful to see in his last moments on Earth.

When he got the top of the hill, the last thing he’d expected to find was someone else already there. It was some guy around his age, and he had been sitting just a few feet away from the cliff’s edge. In all honesty, at the time, Virgil was both surprised and thoroughly pissed. He had been trying to avoid witnesses. Virgil must have stepped on a branch or something, because suddenly the guy was alerted to his presence. When he turned around Virgil froze. Even with only the light of the half moon he recognized the dark hair, piercing blue eyes and glasses. It was a classmate of his from school. Since he was still just a freshman Virgil had never plucked up the courage to talk to him, or anyone else really for that matter. Plus the guy always seemed to be stuck nose deep in his studies. Yet there seemed to be a look of recognition in the others’ face.

“Good evening,” he said, like some figure straight out of a gothic novel.

“Uh…hey,” said Virgil. He pulled up the hood of his purple sweater.

“I hadn’t expected anyone else to be out here tonight, let alone know about this spot,” the guy said, pushing up his glasses. He didn’t seem annoyed however. If anything he sounded curious, yet there was something soothing about his deep voice. “Would you like to join me?”

Virgil watched him pat the spot next to him. It would’ve looked weird if he refused, since he clearly came up there with a purpose. So Virgil opted to sit down for the time being. Besides, given how late it was, the guy was bound to leave at some point.

“You’re in my chemistry class, right?” he asked.

“Uh, yeah,” said Virgil.

“I thought so. Yet I don’t believe we’ve ever properly spoken before. I’m Logan Sanders. And you are?”

Virgil looked down at the held out hand. How could a guy come off as so formal yet open at the same time? Not wanting to be rude, Virgil took his hand, cold from the night air.

“I’m Vic—“ He gulped. Well, if this was gonna be his last night, might as well let himself be honest for once. What’s he have to lose? “…Virgil. Virgil Yang”

Logan didn’t let go or look at him in disgust, but his eyebrows did shoot up. Virgil pulled his hand back, not aware of the softening look on Logan’s face.

“Ah. I see. Well then, pleasure to make your acquaintance, Virgil.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I don’t look and sound like a typical guy—“

“Perhaps your biology may not match your gender. However that doesn’t negate how you perceive yourself to be on a soul level. If you say you are a boy, which I assume so given the masculine name, unless you are non-binary, then frankly it’s no right of mine to refute it,” Logan said matter-of-factly.

There were a lot of words there, a few of which had confused Virgil at the time. But the basic gist he gleaned was that he had been honest about who he was, and instead of receiving disgust or hatred, Logan had taken it in stride. No one had ever treated Virgil that way before.

“I’m a guy.” It felt like such a stupid response, but saying it out loud had felt like a boulder being tossed off his chest.

“Well then there it is.” said Logan with a small smile.

Virgil swallowed the lump in his throat. “Y-yeah I guess…Thanks.”

“Of course. So I realize this is none of my business, but out of curiosity might I ask what brings you up here tonight?”

Jeez, he really did speak too old for someone his age. “I should be asking you the same thing.”

Classic deflective technique. Logan scrutinized him but didn’t press. In his eyes, there was almost a silent yet pained understanding.

“Fair enough. I happen to enjoy coming out here from time to time to look at the stars and wait to make my pre-dawn prayers. It’s quite relaxing to do so in nature, especially before the weather becomes too cold.”

“Pre-dawn prayers?” Virgil asked.

“Indeed. My faith requires Muslims like me, although mind you I am only a recent convert, to perform five daily prayers so as to facilitate a constant mindfulness of God in our daily lives,” Logan explained.

“No offense but I wouldn’t have pegged you as the religious type. Not that I’m judging or anything!” Virgil added quickly. “I mean, it’s not something I vibe on myself, but if it’s your thing, that cool I guess. You just seem all scientific and logical and stuff.”

“Valid assumption, but false. On the contrary, it is possible for science and spirituality to go hand in hand, so to speak. After all, science is the study of the structure and behavior of the physical world around us, even to the unseen subatomic level, and adequately submitting to it. And what is faith other than the study of and submission to an unseen divine force greater that oneself?” Virgil caught the gleam of excitement in Logan’s eyes as he spoke. “Additionally, some of the greatest scientific minds emerged from the Islamic world. For example, did you know that one of the greatest astronomers in history was a Muslim?”

Virgil perked up at that part. “Astronomy?”

When he told Logan that astronomy was his all time favorite subject, the guy went into full-on nerd mode. They started talking about their favorite constellations and the stories behind them. Logan talked about his favorite astronomers and Virgil listened with wrapped interest, captivated by the other’s enthusiasm. Somehow this led to Logan telling Virgil about his theories on how God was actually a They/Them/Their and not an all powerful cis-white He or even a She since God was beyond the human concepts of gender, race, or sexuality. It was so out there and beyond anything Virgil had ever been exposed to, yet it was just so damn wild and interesting to listen to Logan ramble on about it. The more they talked the less Virgil thought about the reason why he’d gone up there in the first place.

Even when Logan stopped to pray, using the small rug he’d brought with him, Virgil didn’t move from his spot. He watched Logan pray or looked back up at the stars. They really had been beautiful that night. Not even that, however, compared to the otherworldly beauty of when the sun finally started to rise. It wasn’t like Virgil had never seen a sunrise before, but something about that one was different. Like the volume on the world around him was turned up yet there was a comfortable silence to it all as well. It broke the walls inside of Virgil’s heart and released the toxic black flood that had been swelling up inside of him for years.

When Logan, having been long done with his prayers, saw Virgil cry he didn’t say anything. Didn’t try to cheer him up or pull back in confused discomfort. Instead he placed a still yet gentle hand on Virgil’s shoulder and sat with him until he’d cried himself out. Even after Virgil calmed down Logan didn’t try to get him to open up about why he’d suddenly started sobbing. Instead he only asked if Virgil felt better. He had. Then Logan offered him a ride back to town on the back of his bike. To his surprise, Virgil took up the offer. He no longer felt as tired as he had on the climb up, but he had felt physically exhausted. He longed for his bed and a good breakfast of rice and eggs with some kimchi. Virgil had taken one last look at the cliff before following Logan down the hill. He could always try again if he needed to, he had reasoned. Death wasn’t going anywhere.

It was because of that one chance encounter that he’d lived to see another day, and more to come.

After that night on the cliff Logan started to talk to him more at school. As nervous as he was at first, Virgil slowly allowed the logical nerd into his small world. They sat together at lunch in comfortable silence, or occasionally got into debates that were admittedly pretty fun. They were both freshman so they had a lot of the same classes. They’d hang out in the library after school or do homework at Logan’s house where his mom would invite Virgil to stay for dinner. Sometimes when Virgil was having a panic attack Logan would be able to help calm him down. They never brought up the cliff again, yet Virgil knew without asking that –if he wanted him to–Logan would be there to listen. One day Logan suggested, albeit in his straightforward way, that Virgil join him at the school’s LGBTQ Club meetings after school. That was also the day Virgil learned his Muslim friend was Bi. The club was also where Virgil would meet his other soon to be two best friends, Patton (the pansexual club president) and Roman (the gayer than the Yule Tide vice president). 

It was because of Logan that he’d found a community and his first real friends.

The more Virgil went to the LGBTQ Club meetings, the more he got to understand the part of his identity that he’d tried to hide away for so long. Virgil was especially drawn to Patton, who’d been the first to welcome Virgil with open arms. Not only was the guy super frigging cute (not that he’d ever admit it out loud) but also the curly haired freckle faced boy was so incredibly warmhearted! Everything about him radiated comfort and kindness and understanding. Perhaps it was because he’d been born blind, but Patton had a way of seeing people (a pun the guy used way too often) for who they were beneath the surface. He slowly got Virgil to open up more about his parents and himself. Patton was an ever-patient listener. The practicing Buddhist had even started teaching Virgil meditation as a way to help calm his thunderstorm mind, and it did help. Later on Patton convinced Virgil to talk wit his father, who also happened to be the school’s guidance councilor, to see if maybe he could help with some of the things he had been dealing with for so long on his own.

It was because of Patton that he’d found hope.

Roman had taken longer to warm up to, since there were both so similar and different at the same time. However, once they got past the snarky banter and discovered a mutual love of Disney and Sondheim, they’d become great friends. When he officially came out as FtM transgender, Roman had been his biggest supporter. Anytime some idiots gave him a hard time in school or threatened him, Roman was there to defend him and tell the others off. He’d convinced his parents to let Virgil stay at his house the first week after being kicked out. Granted, Roman hadn’t told his Sephardic Jewish parents why his skinny goyim friend from school needed a place to stay (he wasn’t exactly ‘out’ at home yet), but they didn’t press. All they knew was that their son’s friend needed help and lots of big meals. So they welcomed Virgil until he’d found a more permanent place to stay. After that, Roman and Virgil had become brothers. Later on the actor introduced him to other musicians, artists, books and plays that were all LGBT centric in an attempt to help him through his trans journey. (“It’s important to keep up with fellow gay icons, especially when you plan to be the next NPH.”) For the first time Virgil saw himself in other’s, saw that he wasn’t alone. He began to think that, hey, if other people made it through okay –had even made an impact in people’s lives– maybe he could too.

It was because of Roman that he’d found his self worth.

Once the drama king had learned of Virgil’s interests and talent in music, he convinced him to be part of the band for the school’s musical. That was where he’d met Jamal, Dariana and Duncan. After learning they all shared a love of punk rock music and were each practicing wiccans, the four teens decided to form their own band. Of course Virgil had been nervous at first and never failed to get stage fright before performing. Yet whenever he got up behind a microphone, guitar in hand and started to sing, he felt a strange sense of calm. When he performed, Virgil couldn’t be anywhere else but in the now and he loved that. On top of that, because he had not only a good voice but also a fairly low one for someone of his, uh, biology, he passed easier as a boy in the audiences’ eyes. Over time the Children of Hecate found their sound and became local favorites. Sure they’d only played at school dances and local open mic nights, but it was a start. This one guy Remy who owned a coffee shop down town even paid them to perform twice a month to get in a younger crowd.

It was because of their band that he’d found his voice…

…The shuddering jerk of the bus shook Vigil from his memories. Good thing too, or else he would’ve missed his stop. Really gotta work on not zoning out on public transportation. The last thing he wanted was to end up in some part of town that wasn’t familiar. His nerves would never survive.

The apartment was only a block away form the bus stop. He climbed up the stairs (elevators freaked him out too much), got to the door, took out his spare key and went inside kicking off his boots. The smell of garlic pasta and cookies welcomed him, as did the sound of jazzy Studio Ghibli music renditions. The Picani household never ceased to be a warm and inviting safe haven for him.

“I’m home,” Virgil called out.

“Hiya Virgil!” Patton said, popping his head out from the kitchen.

Virgil noticed he was wearing an apron. Must’ve been helping his Ren out in the kitchen again. It always made Virgil nervous thinking about Patton being in the kitchen when he couldn’t properly see the appliances or the stove. Yet Patton insisted, and admittedly has proven, that he’s perfectly capable of cooking so long as someone else is with him.

“Hey Patton. I’m at the door,” said Virgil, letting the other boy follow his voice.

Patton didn’t need his cane when at home, and he maneuvered around the apartment like a pro. He reached out to Virgil and enveloped the young musician in a big hug.

“How was band practice?” asked Patton when they broke apart.

“Went pretty well. The song’s coming along good and Duncan and me only snapped at each other once. New record.”

“Helloooo nurse!” Shouted Dr. Emile Picani as he popped in from down the hall in all his pink haired glory. “Glad to see ya got home safe Virgil.”

“That makes two of us Doc,” he said.

Virgil set his bag and guitar case down before letting himself be caught in a big hug from the school guidance counselor. Even his hugs were as animated as the cartoons he loved.

“Did I hear you two talking about that new song you’re planning for the talent show? I hope it’s the Disney one you were obsessed with a while back?”

It had been sometime last month when Virgil, Patton and Picani had sat down for one of their Disney movie marathons. They’d put on Treasure Planet, which until then Virgil had never seen. Not only did he love the protagonist, story, and animation, but also the song just spoke to him. Even though the lyrics weren’t about the struggles he’d gone through necessarily, they still spoke to Virgil on a personal level. He’d listened to it on repeat for weeks. That’s how he got the idea to sing it with his band for the talent show after he found out the date.

“Yep. The very same.”

“Exellent,” said Picani in a semi-good Stewie Griffin voice. “Such a great song from a highly underrated movie. I mean seriously, it’s about pirates in SPACE! HOW is that not more popular?!”

“Oh dear,” said a bright voice from the kitchen. “When my partner starts going on a Disney rant is when I come to the rescue.”

Patton’s Ren came out of the kitchen, wiping their hands with a dishrag. Virgil squinted to see the pronouns necklace they wore. Today was a ‘she’ day. As much as she teased the grown man about his cartoon obsessions she really was no better. The long blue winter skirt, black legging and white cashmere sweater she wore made her look practically like Belle incarnate. Save for the cropped curly blonde hair that Patton shared.

“Hello Vigil, welcome back,” she said, pulling him gently into a hug.

“Hey Alma,” said Virgil, returning the embrace. The Picanis were the only people that Virgil let hug him. “Dinner smells great.”

“Thank you! Should be ready soon. If you could help me set the table after you wash up I’d really appreciate it.”

“No problem,” he said. Helping out was the absolute least Virgil could do.

“Oh I can’t wait to hear your band play this Friday!” Alma said. “I’ve got the perfect suit to wear for your special night and everything. Even found myself a nice galaxy tie to go along with your space song’s theme.”

“I’m sure you’ll look killer Alma.”

“Don’t forget, Roman’s gonna be in it too,” said Patton. “We’ve gotta show him our love and support also.”

“Well now that goes without saying sweetheart.”

Suddenly Patton started sniffing the air. “Uhh Renny, did the timer go off? ‘Cause I smell smoke.”

“My cookies!” She rushed back to the kitchen. Virgil, Patton and Picani barely held back their giggles.

Virgil really owed the Picanis more than he’d ever be able to repay. When Patton finally convinced Virgil to start seeing his dad for counseling about his anxiety issues, it opened up a new door for him. The hilarious, fun loving, yet surprisingly wise Dr. Emile Picani had given Virgil tools to help manage his mental health issues. Not only that but over time he gave him even more. His office became a safe haven when he had panic attacks or just needed quiet. Picani got Virgil to open up more about his sexuality and body dysmorphia after revealing he was non-binairy (although he tended to favor he/they pronouns). Pretty soon Virgil saw the man as a second father figure. After Patton had told his dad about how Virgil’s parents kicked him out and he was temporarily staying with Roman, Picani immediately told Virgil to pack his things and that he was more than welcome to stay with them. No room for arguments. His partner had been equally as welcoming to Virgil after hearing his story. She even went out and bought Virgil his first binder for his birthday. The Picanis went the extra mile to researched ways for him to get testosterone shots after he revealed he wanted to start transitioning. They gave him a roof, food, comfort, and a place of belonging.

It was because of them that he’d found his freedom.

They spent dinner with the usual boisterous chatter and laughter, Virgil chipping in with his own quieter comments every now and then. Afterwards he and Patton cleaned up and worked on homework together. Then they watched cartoons with Picani before Alma told them to get to bed. All three of them. They whined but did as they were told.

Virgil lay on his futon and stared up at the ceiling thinking. In just a few days it will have been a year since Virgil came out. A year since he started transitioning; now he was more than halfway through the treatments. A year that he found himself happier than he ever would’ve dreampt possible. He fell asleep repeating one thought in his mind like a prayer...I’m Still Here…

*    *    *    *    *

The next day at school went by as usual. Virgil and Patton got a ride there with Picani, Virgil tried to stay awake during his first two periods, and Logan nudged him awake during third and fourth period classes. To all of their delight Logan, Roman, Patton and him shared the same lunch period this year, so the four juniors sat at their usual table. Logan and Roman got into some debate or other, Virgil sat back to enjoy the show, and Patton threw in a couple of puns while also reminding Virgil to actually eat his lunch. Then they split up and Virgil went to spend his free period with Picani in the councilors office. Afterwards he spent the last two classes with Roman. All in all, it was a pretty solid day. That is, until the last bell rang.

“Oh come on! Okay, I’ll admit you have a point about the dark undertones of Sleeping Beauty and Peter Pan and Snow White, but it can’t be possible for ALL of the Disney films to have sinister hidden messages.” Roman said, slamming his locker next to Virgil’s for emphasis.

“Come on Pricy, have you ever read the original fairy tales those movies are based off of?” Virgil asked as they walked down the hall. “It’s some seriously dark shit!”

“I’m telling Patton you said a bad word,” Roman said in a teasing sing-song tone, dramatically draping his red letterman jacked over one shoulder.

“Don’t you dare rat on me to Patton.” Virgil gave his best black eye-lined glare.

“Aww what’s the matter chemically imbalanced romance, afraid of getting on his bad side?” Roman teasingly ruffled Virgils purple dyed hair, knowing he hated it.

“If he even has one,” Virgil muttered, smiling softly at the thought of his sweet and wholesome friend.

“You know Virgil, one of these days you’re really going to have to tell Patton that you like—“

Roman shut up suddenly. Virgil was grateful for it, because Patton and Logan were both coming their way from the opposite hall. Logan’s black and blue flannel clad arms were loaded with three our four books and Patton was tapping his walking cane along the hall.

“Uh-oh! Guess you’d better start calling me Beetlejuice, ‘cause I swear I heard my name three times,” Patton beamed. “Hi Roman! Hi Virgil!”

“Salutations again you two,” said Logan.

“Hey guys.”

“’Sup?”

“Did we interrupt your conversation?” asked Logan.

“Nah, just the usual banter,” said Roman.

The four of them walked out the school together, talking about nothing and everything at the same time. The leaves had already turned a multitude of red and orange colors. There was a slight chill in the wind that felt sharp in Virgil’s lungs every time he breathed. He was grateful for his usual attire of skinny jeans and his favorite hoodie.

“Jeepers, I’m gonna make myself a nice hot chocolate when I get home,” said Patton to Virgil. “My knees are freezing!”

“I told you it was too cold for a skirt today Pat,” said Virgil.

As usual Patton was clad in one of his soft slightly oversized sweaters. However, instead of his usual jeans, that morning he’d opted for one of the knee length skirts he occasionally wore. Ordinarily Virgil enjoyed seeing Patton in a skirt every now and then (even if it did make his gay brain short circuit), but this time around it was definitely not weather appropriate and he was worried about Patton catching a cold.

“Well it was pretty warm this morning, and I really felt like wearing something cute and comfy that I could twirl in,” said Patton. “I didn’t think it’d get so cold.”

“On the contrary Patton, it shouldn’t be all that surprising given that it is currently 53 degrees out and mid-October,” said Logan, adjusting his glasses.

“Sheesh Logan, you can’t ever let me skirt around a subject, can you?” They all laughed save for Logan, who groaned at all of Patton’s puns.

“I keep telling you, listen to the weather reports the night before,” Roman said.

“I guess, but why bother when it’s easier to just stick my head out the window every morning?” asked Patton.

“Because that’s how you end up with cold knee caps,” said Virgil.

They all laughed good-naturedly at that. Patton tried to pout but he could never keep from smiling very long and laughed along with them. Virgil soaked up every second of it, never letting himself forget just how close he’d come to missing out on moments like these. He smiled at his best friends.

“You’ve been in a rather good mood today Virgil,” said Logan.

“Yes, I noticed that too,” said Roman. “Far less brooding than usual.”

“Guess I’m just looking forward to this Friday,” he shrugged.

“Ah yes, the talent show! I myself shall be performing in it as well,” said Roman. “I plan to do a dramatic reenactment of Lewis Caroll’s brilliant poem The Jabberwocky. It shall be epic!”

“I’m sure it will,” Logan said, rolling his eyes. Virgil snickered.

“And of course I’ll be back in the audience in time to see you and the other Children of Hecate perfume Virgil.“

“As will I.”

“Yep! I can’t wait. Dad and Renny are gonna be coming too don’t forget. So save us some seats.”

“Will do Pat.”

“Speaking of performances, I’d better get home so I’ll have time to practice before my mom and nana rope me into helping her cook again,” said Roman.

“Hey tell Nana Reina I said ‘hi’. Oh, and that I miss her cooking,” said Virgil.

“Will do. Farewell friends,” said Roman, heading towards the buses.

“Speaking of parental units, I’d better be going,” said Logan. “My father should be here to pick me up soon. He’s promised to take me to the planetarium after school before he leaves for his business trip. Farewell.”

“Bye Lo!”

“Later.”

Virgil was happy to see his nerdy friend so excited, but the mention of quality bonding time with a parent made him cringe. When was the last time he’d ever had quality time with his own parents, even before that painful night.

He only came out to him because the LGBT Club and sessions with Picani had filled him with foolish courage and hope. After all, they were his parents and loved him. They’d never been unkind or strict unless it came to school. He didn’t expect they would understand, but maybe they would still accept him. How wrong he had been.

Not only had his parents looked at him like a stranger, like a thing, but his dad told Virgil he’d have five minutes to pack his things and leave. That Virgil was no child of his. Virgil could still remember tasting his own salty tears and the stone-cold tight-lipped glare on his father’s face. His mother hadn’t said anything against Virgil; she hadn’t said anything. But she didn’t defend Virgil or stand up to his dad either. Only looked at him with confusion and disappointment. That was enough. Did they even ever miss him? Of course not. They hate you, otherwise they would’ve invited you back home a long time ago. Virgil sighed, knowing that the thoughts in his head were probably right this time.

“You okay Virge?” asked Patton, his brow creased with worry.

“Yeah Pat. Stellar. Come on, let me walk you to the car. Your dad’s probably waiting for you there,” said Virgil, gently holding the other’s elbow.

“Aww that’s sweet of you Virgil, but don’t you have to get to band practice?”

“I’ve got a few minutes to spare.”

They walked to the parking lot together in comfortable silence. That is, until Patton spoke up again.

“Alright kiddo, what’s really eating at you? And I know something is. I hear you sighing,” said Patton.

Virgil sighed. “I can’t hide anything from you, can I?”

“I might not be able to tell when your lying the way Toph can with her feet, but I’m not as blind to you as you think.“

Virgil rolled his eyes. “Ugh. You’ve been hanging around your dad too much.”

Patton giggled, but then grew somber. “Seriously though Virgil, what’s wrong? Is it about your parents?”

Virgil stopped in shock, nearly tripping up Patton. He turned to his friend, looking into his light milky blue eyes. “H-how did you—“

“I heard you sigh the first time after Roman and Logan started talking about their families. And I know Friday is the anniversary of the day you came out to them. Wasn’t hard to piece together after that.” Patton gently reached for Virgil’s hand and gave a squeeze. “Are you still thinking about inviting them?”

Virgil let out a groan/sigh combo. He immediately regretted telling Patton about that. It had been the briefest of thoughts. It was weird and painful because, as much as he never wanted to see his parents again, Virgil also missed them. They were his family after all. And he thought, maybe if they came they would change their minds. Or at the very least he could spite them. But two weeks had gone by since telling Patton about that and Virgil still hadn’t emailed either of them an invite.

“I don’t know Patton. Maybe it’s a bad idea. It was stupid of me to want…”

“I understand Virgil. I know that they hurt you, and I’ll be honest…I hate them for that.” That caught Virgil by surprise. “But even so, I know you still miss them. I hear you crying for them in your sleep sometimes down the hall. So maybe…maybe at least extending the olive branch would do you some good. Give you some peace of mind again.”

“Maybe you’re right. But I just…don’t know if I can forgive them. They don’t deserve it.”

He turned and saw Patton giving him a pained look of sorrow. He was guiltily glad that his best friend couldn’t see him cringing beneath that look.

“Maybe not,” Patton said after a moment. “But you do.”

A staccato car horn oddly in the melody of the Spongebob theme song sounded from a distance. They both turned to the source. No surprise, Virgil saw it coming from a volxwagon. Picani waved to them from the window.

Patton sighed loudly. “That’s my dad. We’ll see you at home later. Well, they’ll see you at home. I’ll hear you. You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah, i’ll be fine. See you Pat,” said Virgil.

Patton gave him one last hug before heading off. His dad met him halfway and guided him to the car, helping him fold up the cane and buckle up. Virgil watched them drive away. Then he pulled on his headphones and blared the Treasure Planet theme song before going to meet Jamal, Dariana and Duncan at the bus stop. He needed to escape into some music.

Rehearsals went really well. Virgil was actually feeling pretty confident, and they still had two more nights left to rehears. On the bus ride back home however his mind circled back to what Patton had said. Forgive them for yourself… Maybe it was the healthier way to go but honestly, Virgil didn’t want that. He wanted to stay angry and bitter because that kept the sadness at bay. Or at least covered it up. It hurt to still feel that way and, frankly, he didn’t know if he was strong enough to forgive his parents even if he wanted to. Let alone send them an invite. It was easier just to stay bitter and angry. Virgil spent the rest of the bus ride doing his meditative breathing exercises. The last thing he needed was a panic attack in public.

When Virgil got back to the apartment after practice he was met with the usual welcoming arms. He didn’t join Patton and Picani in the tv room for cartoons, insisting he had a headache. Alma seemed like they’d wanted to talk to Virgil, but ultimately gave the teen his space. Virgil went to the rooftop with his backpack, hoping to distract himself with schoolwork. No luck there. He tossed the notebooks aside (he could get the notes he needed from Logan the next morning) and instead opted to give reading a chance to take his mind off things. He pulled out the worn out copy of Angles in America that Roman had let him borrow. He was nearly through Peretroika and it was getting good. But when he got to a line by the drag queen Belize he paused. Virgil sat up straight and re-read the lines about nine times. Then on the tenth, he read them aloud:

“’He was a terrible person. He died a hard death. So maybe…A queen can forgive her vanquished foe. It isn’t easy. It…It doesn’t count if its easy…It’s the hardest thing.” Virgil swallowed the lump in his throat before reading on. “Forgiveness. Which is maybe where love and justice finally meet. Peace, at least…”

He just sat there staring at the words on those yellowing pages, all to aware of his own breathing. Virgil may not have believed in some singular all-powerful God like Logan did, but he sure as hell believed in signs. After several long moments Virgil’s jaw set firm. He grabbed his things, went back downstairs to the Picani’s family computer, and typed out the hardest email of his life.

*    *    *    *    *

Friday rolled around and with it came the night of the high school’s talent show. Big surprise, Virgil was really anxious. Even the band’s pre-show ritual and meditation with lavender incense hadn’t helped to steady his nerves. They were dressed in their usual all black attire for performances but Virgil had kept his purple hoodie wrapped around the waist. He was fidgeting with the sleeves so much his fingers were starting to hurt.

“Virgil, relax! That pacing is making me dizzy,” said Dariana as she fiddled with the small crystals braided into her afro.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m just—“

“Nervous,” said Jamal as he checked that their equipment was ready to go. They were the last act but the musician liked to be prepared. “We know. You always get like this before a gig, and we always kick ass anyway.”

“Yeah, and it’s not like we haven’t been rehearsing for weeks,” said Duncan. Yet even he cast the emo guitarist a sympathetic glance. “We’re bound to at least not suck.”

Virgil took a deep breath. “Thanks Duncan.”

“Whatever.”

It wasn’t just the usual pre-show nerves this time though. Virgil had done the unthinkable. He actually invited his parents to the show tonight. He honestly hadn’t expected them to show up (that had been his one consoling thought) but low and behold, he saw them in the audience from backstage. At least, he was pretty certain it was them. There weren’t exactly a lot of Korean parents in the audience, so who else could it have been? His mom had been shifting nervously in her seat, and beside her was his dad. Arms crossed and stone faced, yet there seemed to be hints of annoyance that shone through the chips in his armor. Yeah, not exactly thrilled about this either dad, Virgil thought bitterly. Still…they’d come.

As had the Picanis and Logan. They were all sitting together in the audience. Logan was reading through the cheaply printed playbill, Patton has his head slightly bowed so he could better listen to the different performances, and both the Doc and Alma had their eyes glued to the students on stage. It was as though they were proud parents of every one of those kids even if they weren’t their own. He could only imagine how they’d be when it was his turn. It warmed Virgil’s heart and made him smile for the first time all day.

Virgil was just finishing tuning his guitar when he heard applause from behind the curtain. Guess they really liked Roman’s enactment of that poem after all. To be fair, the guy was a gold star performer. Virgil had caught glimpses of it from backstage and it honestly was a pretty cool show.

“Children of Hecate, your on deck,” said a kid with a clipboard and wearing a Steven Universe t-shirt.

Roman burst through the curtain and came straight to Virgil. “Virgil! Did you see that? I had the crowed eating out of the palm of my hands.”

“Great job Roman. Seriously,” he said.

Roman’s smile faltered when he saw how nervous the rock musician looked. He placed a firm yet warm hand on Virgil’s shoulder.

“Hey, don’t sweat it Virge. You’re going to do great! I know it.”

Virgil smirked and clapped him on the back. “Thanks man.”

“I’m going to head into the audience. Hopefully Logan saved he a seat. Break a leg!”

He watched Roman go and then went back to his breathing exercises. The next act went by but was cut short when the kid tripped on his own juggling balls. At least whatever we do won’t be worse then that. Finally, they were up.

“Alright guys, gals, and non-binary pals,” said the kid from backstage.

Virgil saw his dad cringing at that line. Screw you too.

“Here is your final act of the night. Give it up for Virgil, Duncan, Dariana, and Jamal; a.k.a. the Children of Hecate!!!”

The younger audience members who’d seen them perform before gave the loudest cheer (Roman was loudest of all). The other adults and strangers gave a polite applause. Virgil’s parents hadn’t even bothered with more than two or three stiff claps. Virgil stepped up to the mic and took a shaky breath. He did a test strum letting the strings vibrations ground him. You got this Virge. Remember why you’re here. Do it for you. He took one last breath before signaling Dariana to count them in.

Then, they played. The drums were like a steady grounding heartbeat, the rhythm of the base like a pulsing metronome in his mind, and the keyboards flowing melodies like the blood in his veins. His own guitar strings felt like thick blades of grass against his calloused fingertips, their music gently rooting him in the moment. When they played through the intro Virgil got close to the microphone and sang.

“I am a question to the world

Not an answer to be heard

Or a moment

that’s held in your arms.

And what

do you think you’d ever say?

I won’t listen anyway.

You don’t know me

and I’ll never be what you want

me to be.”

Virgil’s anxiety faded away into the music. He felt the vibrations coming off the state through his boots. Could hear his fellow band mates getting caught up in the swing of the performance, just as they always did. The muse of music was certainly with them all tonight.

“And what

do you think you’d understand?

I’m a girl, no, I’m a man!”

Virgil thumped his chest in emphasis on this line. It took a lot for him to make that small change to the lyric, but he was glad he’d decided to after all.

For the next part of the verse, Virgil looks directly at his parents. He pours all the hurt and betrayal built up over the past two years into the next lines.

“You can’t take me

and throw me away.” His dad’s face remains stony as ever, but Virgil catches his mom’s wince.

“And how

can you learn what’s never shown?

Yeah, you stand here on your own.

They don’t know me

‘Cause I’m not here.”

Virgil couldn’t bear to look at their faces anymore. So, he turned back to the audience as a whole, losing himself in the music.

“And I want a moment to be real.

Wanna touch things I don’t feel.

Wanna hold on

and feel I belong.

And how

can the world want me to change?

There the ones that stay the same.

They don’t know me

‘cause I’m not here.”

He turned towards where Roman, Logan, Patton Dr. Picani and his partner were sitting in the audience. Virgil knew the blind boy couldn’t see him, but he hoped that his friends could still feel him through the music. Moreover, he hoped Picani would understand how grateful Virgil was to him for everything the man had done for him.

“And you

see the things they never see.

All you wanted, I could be.

now you know me

and I’m not afraid.” Not anymore.

“And I

want to tell you who I am

Can you help me be a man?

They can’t break me

as long as I know who I am!”

Virgil did know who he was. That’s what got him this far, and even though it was hard, he hadn’t let the world break him. It came close, but thanks to the new friends in his life Virgil emerged stronger than the world. It’s like Picani was always telling him: Self-love is the greatest form of defiance.

“And I want a moment to be real.

Wanna touch things I don’t feel.

Wanna hold on

and feel I belong.

And how

can the world want me to change?

There the ones that stay the same.

They can’t see me

but I’m still here.”

Everyone could see him now for all that he truly was. And sure, there were still bigoted haters and idiots. Yeah, he was still pretty terrified a good 25-60% of the time. Even so, he wasn’t alone anymore.

Virgil gave the signal for Jamal and Duncan to get ready for the key change coming up after the bridge. That had been Dariana’s suggestion, since Virgil actually had the vocal range to pull it off, even with the testosterone shots shifting his voice. He took a breath to steady his nerves before picking the song back up again.

“They can’t tell me who to be…” Duncan played a short bass solo.

‘Cause I’m not what they see…” Dariana killed her drum solo.

Yeah, the world is still sleepin’ while I keep on dreaming for me…” Jamal rocked his short sharp chord progression.

“And there words are just whispers

and lies that I’ll never belieeeeve!”

Virgil couldn’t fight the smile that climbed up his face now. Not only had they nailed that key change, but also nearly the whole auditorium was cheering now. For a moment Virgil felt like he was standing on the edge of eternity, but instead of falling he was flying. He was happy. So impossibly happy! Virgil felt the tears slipping down his cheeks but managed to hold it together for the finish.

“And I

want a moment to be real.

Wanna touch things I don’t feel.

Wanna hold on

and feel I belong.

And how

can they say I never changed?

There the ones that stay the same.

I’m the one now

‘Cause I’m still here.” Virgil played a few quick yet slick guitar licks.

“I’m the one

‘cause I’m still here.

I’m still here!

I’m still here!

I’m still heeeerrre….”

The song ended. He was in tears and no doubt his eye shadow was kind of a mess (although it probably added to the goth punk aesthetic). His heart soared even higher when the whole audience stood up in a wild applause and cheers. He spotted his friends and Picani being the most exuberant cheerers of all. Even Logan had abandoned his usual composure out of pride for his friend. The only ones who weren’t cheering so much were his parents. In fact, they weren’t even in their seats anymore. Virgil looked to the back of the auditorium and saw them talking to each other at the door. Virgil looked away. Yeah, it stung. But honestly, he didn’t care. He was happy. So unbelievably happy because he had done this even though it was hard.

“Well, guess we know who won the show,” said Duncan over the applause.

Virgil rolled his eyes but nodded in agreement, even smiling at the guy. They all took a final bow before the Steven Universe kid (oh right! That was Thomas from drama club) closed out the show. Virgil clambered off the stage and was immediately caught in a patented Patton hug.

“Virgil that was AMAZING!!!” Patton said with a squeal.

“We’re super proud of you buddy,” said Picani, joining in on the hug.

“You are kicked butt up there, sweetie,” said Alma as they added onto the hug.

“Thanks guy…but uh…need to breathe!”

“Oh, sorry!” They all said letting go.

“Seriously though Virgil, you sounded amazing,” Patton said as he squeezed Virgil’s hand, “I could practically hear how happy you were up there.”

“Patton,” Virgil held the boys hand in his own, grateful that Patton couldn’t see him blushing. “That may just be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Patton gifted him with the warmed of smiles. Virgil practically melted.

“Honestly Virge, I’m not even mad that your band won the show instead of me,” said Roman. “You all gave an Oscar worthy performance. Grammy? Either way, you kicked ass.”

“Language,” said both Patton and Alma.

“Indeed. While I don’t quite understand theatrics that was undeniably a fantastic performance,” said Logan. He clasped Virgil on the shoulder and gave a rare soft smile. “Tremendous job Virgil. You’ve really come so far.”

Virgil smiled back. “Thanks Logan. All of you, I—“

Someone cleared her throat and stepped into there little circle of light and love. Virgil stiffened, holding tight to Patton’s warm hands to ground himself.

“Mom?” he said, voice trembling.

“Hello Vic—Virgil,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Yang. Are you all Virgil’s friends?”

“Indeed ma’am,” said Logan, his eyes cold.

Roman took a protective step in front of Virgil. Patton, having now picked up on the sudden shift in the air, seemed to get the gist and did the same. He practically held his walking stick like a spear.

“Hey, hey, hey. Hakuna matata boys. I’ve got this,” said Picani.

He stepped in front of the teenagers and put on polite yet icy smile. Meanwhile Alma stood behind Virgil, their hands resting protectively on his shoulders. Picani extended a stiff hand towards Mrs. Yang.

“Do you how do? My name is Dr. Picani. I’m the school’s guidance councilor and, for the past year or so, your son’s guardian.”

To Vigil’s surprise, standing before the other adult, his mom looked…small. Not height wise but like on the inside. To her credit she politely, albeit awkwardly, shook his hand.

“I’m glad to know that my child’s been looked after,” she said.

“Well someone had to,” Alma said. Virgil had never heard so much venom coming out of their mouth before.

“May I speak with Virgil alone?” she asked. “Please?”

After a pause and a loud breath, Picani said, “Of course.”

“Dad!” Patton said.

“Come on fellas, lets give these two some privacy,” said Picani, corralling the reluctant teens away from their friend. “Virgil, we’ll be right over by the bake sale table if you need us.”

Virgil nodded to him, still a bit in shock. “Thanks Doc.”

Alma kissed the top of his head before going over to join their partner. Now that they were alone together Virgil felt the bitterness starting to creep back into his heart again. Despite this, he couldn’t help noticing just how nervous his mom looked. She was even fidgeting with her fingers in the same way he did. When did that start happening?

“You were wonderful up there,” she said finally. “I’ve never seen you so happy.”

Virgil scowled. “Yeah well, you haven’t exactly seen me in a while.”

She winced at his words. He hated how it made him feel both guilty and glad at the same time.

“I thought you were leaving with dad,” said Virgil.

At the mention of him, she stiffened her spine. There’s the mom he remembered.

“I told him he was free to leave on his own. I also told him that he should leave with his things and that he’s not welcome to come back home. Not until he was ready to live under the same roof as you.”

That took Virgil by surprise. “W-wh-what?”

“I want you to come back home Virgil,” she said, a sad smile on her face. “Everything’s already made up the way it was before. I mean, I-I added a few more, um, male intended furniture and re-painted the room so that it wasn’t so, uhh, pink. You still like purple, right?  I didn’t expect you to say yes right away. I’ve been planning it for a while but I never—I-I didn’t know—but after seeing that email you sent I hoped…I even cleaned your room up today just in case…”

Virgil was speechless. Someone might as well have dropped kicked him in the gut, he would’ve been less surprised. He swallowed the cotton ball in his throat and managed one shaky word.

“Why?”

“I-I told you, I want you to come—“

“Why now!” Virgil seethed. It cam out sounding more sad than angry. “Why now?”

He hated just how desperate he sounded. Then again, his mom looked just as desperate, if not more. Hell, she looked about ready to cry. That quelled some of the embers in his temper.

“Because I’d rather have a happy son than a suicidal daughter! I miss you Virgil. Ever since that day the house—my life—has felt so empty without you in it. I admit, when you told me about…you…I was confused. I didn’t understand it, and quite honestly I still don’t. But you’re my child and I love you more than anything. I’m willing to bend and try to understand. I made a mistake and I’ll be spending the rest of my life trying to make it up to you. Virgil, baby, p-please come home? C-can you ever f-forgive me?”

For the first time ever, Virgil saw his mother start to cry. He tried to ignore the stinging in his own eyes, just barely keeping a straight face. He took a deep breath, looked her in the eyes, and nodded his head yes.

Relief painted his mother’s face, as did a fresh wave of tears. She stepped hesitantly forward, arms open, and he filled the space between them. Virgil hadn’t realized how much he missed being held by his own mother. That did it.

“I’m still mad at you,” Virgil cried, “but I love you mom.”

“I love you too Virgil,” she wept. “My son.”

They held each other for the longest time. Over her shoulder Virgil looked at where Picani was watching concerned. He gave the councilor a thumbs up and the grown man visible sagged with relief. He nodded and smiled proudly at Virgil before talking to the others. Virgil would fill his friends in later. For now, he just wanted to be in the moment.

It wasn’t going to be easy starting over with his mother. Then again, when had anything in his life ever been easy? Even so, no matter what the world threw at him, Virgil had proven himself stronger.

He was alive, he was happy, and he was still here.

Tag list:

@justisaisfine @the-pastel-peach @altruistic-skittles @queer-human-being @phlying-squirrel @thekeytohappiness-is-you @canadian-crofters @patchworkofstars @ab-artist @ravenclawangst @pink-and-purple-flowers @forrestwyrm @beautifully-terribly @lizaelsparrow @fangirltothefullest @romanamongthestars @ierindoodles @logically-asexual @icecoldparadise @bluebloodstains @purpleshipper @hissesssss @axyzel @jynxlovesluck @thatsanswitch @6tick6tock6 @hanramz-the-fander @azlinne @helplesscreator @thestoryofme13 @bibbidi-bobbity-booyah @accidental-sanders @smokeyrutilequartz @madly-handsome @puns-and-patton @notveryglittery @eequalsmcscared @safesandersides @lizziepopanime @anxiously-unsatisfied-world @moonstone-fox

[manifestoonmoralmanlove]

Soulless Riffing: Brainless Ch. 2

I got a supernatural action/romance book series as a gift that’s just riddled with stuff that I hate….and as a steampunk Victorian London action romance story filled with werewolves and vampies…it’s yeah gonna be easy to poke fun at.

I just want to say, it’s totally cool if you like this story or ones like it!  It’s certainly a better caliber than a lot of what I make fun of….however…I can’t help but want to make fun of it.

Over here for the 1st chapter

SO FUCK IT HERE GOES!

Chapter 2

An Unexpected invitation FOR ME TO RANT ABOUT EXPOSITION!

Before I get into the meat of this chapter, allow me a bit of ranting time about some exposition we get in both chapter 1 and 2 here.

Even though Alexia was told she’s a rare and super cool SOULLESS when she was 6 years old. NOBODY IN HER FAMILY knows she’s Soulless. And I’m sitting here like…

????????????????????????????????????

There’s no fucking way any 6 year old can keep the secret that they have cool powers for longer than 10 minutes.  Especially if they weren’t told it was something to keep quiet about, and especially, ESPECIALLY if you’re telling a girl who grows up to be an out-going woman who’s confident about defending herself.

It’s as if there is some dramatic reveal on the horizon where her family finds out and is mean to her for being born BADLY.

SPEAKING OF BEING BORN BADLY this bit of characterization burns my biscuits a big one.

Alexia is considered unfuckable for a few reasons.

1.)    Big Nose, face isn’t considered traditionally pretty. – Okay that’s a good addition

2.)    She’s too STRONG-WILLED – Okay sure

3.)    She’s half Italian.

Woah hold up there…

Sorry, not sorry, but I hate this cowardly, cynically pandering horseshit.

Can that make sense in this pseudo-bullshit historical setting? Sure.  But we also have fucking werewolves and vampires.  The fact that they chose for her ~lower status~ to be tied to the fact that she’s A DIFFERENT KIND OF CAUCASIAN is deliberate and pathetic. They author wants to pander to women who feel like they’re…

“NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS” but at the same time don’t want to risk the book not selling if HEAVEN FUCKING FORBID there was a BLACK AND/OR FAT AND/OR TRANS AND/OR LIVES WITH A DISABILITY woman on the cover.  It’s just pandering to that extra shitty part of white people that’s like, “I’M A SECOND CLASS AMERICAN CITIZEN BECAUSE MY HERITAGE IS IRISH AND A LONG TIME AGO THE IRISH WERE TREATED SHITTY!”

Were the Irish and the Italians treated shitty in historical contexts?

Oh absolutely!  

Problem is this woman published a Victorian styled book that’s full of steam punk, yiffable supernatural vampires, in 2009. When you write it in the modern era and it’s full of fantasy bullshit and you want to make commentary about discrimination and prejudice? Don’t try to jam that in with a leading woman who’s an upperclass, straight, able-bodied, neruotypical, white, skinny, cis-woman but like THE BAD KIND OF WHITE!

Is it a book written from a problematic perspective? Not necessarily, but it’s fucking cowardly and you can get the hell out of my face with that gutless trite.

I have a feeling this is going to be an on-going theme too. People being discriminated against EVEN THOUGH THEY’RE COOL!  This chapter already implies that Vampires, Werewolves, Scottish People and YES even Scientists (for reasons) are discriminated against even though ALL OF THE ABOVE are well represented in the upper echelons of high society.

Can you be rich and respected but still be discriminated against? Yes, of course, but…it’s very hard for me to picture any of these groups as hugely oppressed when they’re dripping in money and good social standing. I’m so dreading the scene where somebody says something blatantly and maliciously racist about her powerful, wealthy werewolf boyfriend and Alexia stands up and GIVES THEM WHAT FOR cause she TOO knows what racism feels like cause a dude she asked out once was like, “Eww ur half-Italian no way lawl.”

I’m white, but Jesus Christ, fucking white people.

So with a page of me bitching about exposition out of the way….Alexia, her mother, her 2 half-sisters, and her step-father are all gossiping it up at the breakfast table. And boy howdy is it apparent what the author and by extension, what she thinks her audience would find shitty.

YES YOU GUESSED IT! Her younger half-sisters are

PRETTY BLONDE GIRLS!

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH HOW COULD THEY!?!?!??!?!?

But they do have the negative trait of being SHALLOW!

Yes Alexia stand in judgment of those women who care about how they look.  Let’s ignore how every outfit you don, is lovingly described in detail, and that there were at least 3 separate situations last chapter where you fussed about how you looked.

Just to be clear, I’m not saying that there’s anything wrong with the author happily describing elaborate, Victorian outfits, or a woman fussing over her looks. I’m saying it’s bullshit that she snidely calls them shallow and insipid from atop her ~NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS~ throne while engaging in the same fucking behavior.

GO TO HELL ALEXIA!

So,

There’s an article in the paper about the dead vampire but there is no mention of Alexia in it. When asked if she knew anything about it she derails into huffing about how she wished she said more mean shit to Lord Macaron. When like…I’m sorry? You both said some sassy stuff, but HONESTLY? You violently killed a man at a ball, and got out of that REALLY FUCKING EASY, and while Alexia insulted Macaron to his face the worst he said to her was she was as covert as a sledgehammer and immediately apologized for it. (BTW, he said this in response to her DEMANDING to be given a job that doesn’t exist but she will get one like it in t-minus 5 chapters.)

Shouldn’t you be…I don’t know…a bit more concerned that a mysterious man attacked you last night, and there could be more like him out there RIGHT NOW rather than you didn’t have enough witty one-liners on hand? Get over yourself Alexia.

So let’s settle a bit.

She goes out huffing on a walk with her Bff Ivy Hisselpenny to calm herself down.

Even if Ivy is also an outcast due to voluntarily wearing SILLY HATS!  I’m calling it now she is a cinnamon roll that must be protected from Alexia’s “I’m best girl” narrative.  May I say I find it a gross misuse of time to use a paragraph to explain the difference in French/English Fashion by their introduction but spend 2 words, “Hideous bonnet” on describing the silly hat? FOR SHAME!

Thankfully Alexia doesn’t’ incessantly tease poor Ivy…yet.  On their walk they are stopped by Mable Dair who tells Alexia her Vampire Matriarch, Countess Nadasdy, wishes to see her.  

Everything about that situation screams bad fucking news for her.  Again, thankfully, Alexia has enough brains to try to determine HOW BAD that situation could be.

So she sees token gay and vampire friend Lord Akeldama.  The author makes no qualms about characterizing him as the floucniest priss that ever ponced a sissy.  Now, I’ll confess, I have a guilty pleasure for fictional gay stereotypes that bleed into problematic territory. 

EH-HEM!                        

Yet Lord Akeldama is not doing it for me.  It might be the fact that since this is kinda Young Adult territory that you can’t be subtle. But I can’t help but feel condescended to with the tons of IMPLIED nods to how gay he is. I’d almost rather she just come out and say, “THIS MAN IS SOOOOOOOOOOOO GAY…HE IS A DICK WITHIN A COCK WITHIN A PENIS! HE’S LIKE A TURDUKEN BUT IT’S A DICK-COCK-IS!” Instead I’m tapping my fingers going, “Oh this new line of dialog now makes it the 67th new cutsey flower-based nickname he’s calling Alexia by! Thanks cause, I missed all the previous 66 of them!”

To be honest, I might be being a bit too judgmental here.  Like with all things I love a lot, I can be a bitter opinionated bitch about what I consider good and bad versions of it.  So anyway Akeldama doesn’t have much to add besides

“Create more sexual tension with that Hunky werewolf wiener”

BOY HOWDY AM I LOOKING FORWARD TO MORE SEXY AND ROMANTIC DIALOG LIKE…

“UR A BIG STINKY FART-FACE!”

“I KNOW WHAT YOUA RE BUT WHAT AM IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII? NEH!”

Say something Nice Faps:

Lord Akeldama being interested in Alexia makes some sense due to her soulless ability. The author makes a point about how he likes holding her hand and feeling human. So even if Alexia is insufferable or nothing special otherwise it makes sense that this vampire would enjoy her company for that at least.

They describe Mable as both chubby and very good looking. CAUSE TURNS OUT YOU CAN BE BOTH!

As I said, Alexia at least has enough brains to get some info before driving straight into the fire here.

[areasontobreathe]

To any of my followers who spent their holidays being judged by strangers and family who can’t take the time to even know you, I just want you to know, you aren’t alone.

On every single social media platform I am on, I try very hard to spread positivity.  And I get it, it comes off a little saccharine at times - You aren’t just thinking I am trying to hard sometimes.  I am literally trying too hard sometimes, because I have had such a crummy day/week/whatever that I want to put some ‘nice’ in the world in case someone else is going through what I am going through, or something even worse.

Because, honestly, I wish someone was there to be nice to me.

However, the travesty of a holiday that I recently experienced must be said.  This is your last chance: if you click below, there is profanity, mention of homophobia, mention of someone wishing rape on another individual, discussion of Christianity in both positive and negative light, and you’ll probably leave thinking I am crazy.  And that’s okay - I know it sounds nuttier than squirrel turds, but it’s a harmless kind of crazy, which you’ll see if you read on.

Oh, and this is 100% not made up.  Which is even weirder.

Christmas is usually my absolute favorite holiday.  I get an excuse to wear silly sweaters and buy silly and/or thoughtful gifts.  I get to cook for people I love and their families.  Deck the house out in lights, cinnamon scented everything. I just love it.

2018 conspired to change that, apparently. In the lead up between Thanksgiving and Christmas, my spouse and I had a huge fight.  The reason? Their family decided that ‘we’ were doing Christmas at my spouse’s uncle’s house. The misogynist, racist, homophobic, Christian zealot uncle’s house.

Umm... How about nooooooooooo.  I refused to go, because this man has successfully pissed me right the fuck off every holiday for the last 7 years.  I am not letting him ruin my Christmas this year. No.  So, fight ensues, because my family is staying with us, and my spouse currently cannot stand the sight of my mom and wants to spend time with his family.

Eventually, the decision is made that the in-laws are coming to my house for Christmas instead (what on earth did I sign up for?).  I made 2 things abundantly clear:

1) My family does an appetizer-buffet style Christmas, so that’s what I’m making, because I just made an enormous, traditional Thanksgiving dinner a month ago.

2) If Uncle Douchenozzle acts out of line, I’m kicking him out of my house. End of story.  I’m a big believer in forgiveness, but that doesn’t mean I have to let him be rude to me.

Spouse agrees, in laws are coming to my house. Sigh.

Day of Christmas, I’m busting my butt getting food prepared, because my kitchen is too tiny for assistance, really, and everything has to be timed properly, whatnot.  All other family members are sick and can’t make it. Okay, fine, leftovers for days.

Oh, But Uncle Douchenozzle makes it over to my house.  He insists we all stop eating so he can pray over the meal before he eats.  He talks at the top of his lungs and drives literally everyone but my spouse and I out of the room, and I’m squishing a panic attack as hard as I can to avoid being rude.  Finally, time to exchange gifts, which means we can usher him out soon. He hands my spouse a wrapped package, and me a card.  It’s a pretty typical Christmas card, doves and peace and joy and all that.

And a little note:

Go ahead. Look those verses up.  I’ll wait.

.

.

.

Yeah.  You did not misread those.  This man came into my home, at my reluctance, ate at my table, and gave me Christmas card with a message that says, essentially, that I’m going to Hell.  I’m sure he meant well, in his judgmental way: he has made inferences that my spouse and I don’t know God and he would really like us to get saved, etc, so on, so forth, for several years now.  But the thing is? He has no idea what our leanings on faith/religion are.  He has never bothered to ask, he just assumes we are Atheists or something because we disagree with him a lot of the time.

Well, yeah dude.   You disowned your daughter when she came out to you at 18, and literally said you hope she gets raped as punishment from God for her homosexuality.  I’m gonna disagree with you, hard.

And this is where things get kind of hysterical: I do, actually, believe in God.  I’m saved. Have been for over 20 years.  Then again, I don’t think Uncle Douchenozzle and I believe in the same God necessarily, sooo.... And honestly, I would never say I am Christian, because WBC is ‘Christian’, Uncle Douchenozzle is ‘Christian’, and I agree with half of one fact that I have heard from either of them - Yep, There’s a God.  After that, it’s a lot of ‘nope’.

Where I start to sound madder than a box of frogs:  The reason I don’t believe in any of the same things they do.  It’s because I am, believe it or not, a child of prophecy.

Wait!  Hang on!  I’m not joking!  Just listen a sec, okay?

When I was 14, I was a Church Camp (which is a thing), and the pastor at the camp prophesied over me between lunch and dinner one day (If you have ever spent a lot of time around Fundamental Christians of the Protestant Flavor, this is a really normal thing, I swear).  Nothing flashy, no booming harmonics or funny lights or suspicious fog machines.  But I will never forget what he told me, especially because it came out of pretty much nowhere.

He said that I was called by God to be a Servant (be patient...).  Not to serve and grovel at the foot of man, but help and aide others without hesitation, to love without judgement, and to forgive completely.  And that, while my name would be forgotten, as all servants in the Bible were (even the Angels who opened Jesus’ tomb had no names) my kindness and unwavering support of people would change lives.

He said this.  To a 14 year old girl.  Who was eight years into being abused by her own brother, and only stopped being abused by her grandmother because the grandmother fucking croaked.  I did exactly what you think I did.  I said “oh, fuck this dude, he’s nuts.”  And I spent the next several years avoiding being kind to people, just because no one was there for me when I needed it.

Oh, my, gosh.  I was miserable.  Then, God got a little impatient and a lot less subtle about this shit: My boss asked me to help her organize a food and gift drive for underprivleged teenagers who aged out of Toys For Tots but were still young enough that it sucked not getting Christmas presents.   I had actually been one of those kids before, minus the toy drive, so I attacked this thing with a vengence. My team spoiled those kids rotten, gave them good food that you actually want to eat.... everything for Christmas dinner but the main meat course.  I did God’s work out of spite because no one was there for me like that.

It was the gateway good-deed, my friends.  I was genuinely happy for the first time in years. And it slid from there: Being nice to people, volunteer events and fundraisers once a month, 6 different gift and/or food drives at Christmas, you name it.  And I feed people.  Oh my gosh do I feed people.  It’s like a compulsion: if you are at my house and it gets dark, I assume you are staying for dinner and will cook for you.

But other things have come to mind over the years: I have never in my life judged someone for their religion.  Honestly, I’m pretty sure we all believe in the same higher power, we just use different names (which, technically, Christianity does say there is only one God... And if they’re all the same higher power, then yeah, that’s true).  Being a jerk about it, yeah I judge, but I let them prove they’re assholes before I call them one.  I have always been genuinely nonplussed when people come out to me. Cool, I’m very glad you trust me enough to tell me.  I will literally never tell anyone, because that would not be cool of me. Okay. Good talk. And I am actually that person who sees a challenge when someone decides they don’t like me as a person. Oh, for real fam?  We gon’ be besties.  Just you wait. (One person I did this to actually brags out how ‘insidiously friendly’ I am)

Then we circle back, and that Bible verse is jotted in my Christmas card.  I sobbed for 2 hours, could not calm down.  Like, dude, you don’t even know me.  I am literally doing what God told me to do! 

So yeah, if you had someone hate you for religion, or sexual orientation, or being trans... if you had to hide yourself and listen to them disparage people like you, I am so so sorry.  But I’m here for you.  Because you read this entire beast of a post, so you were there for me.  We need to be there for each other 💜

[tommyomalley]

Overstated Harm

I have been thinking lately about harm—when it’s real, and when it’s exaggerated for political reasons. And as harm escalates, at what point does it require us to intervene on behalf of ourselves or others?

Yesterday, I recorded a conversation for my podcast Theater Fag with playwright Isaac Gomez. We met in the offices of Steppenwolf Theatre Company in Chicago, where his new play “La Ruta” is currently finishing a sold-out run. “La Ruta” is about the women of Ciudad Juárez, a Mexican border city that suffers one of the highest crime rates in North America, if not the world. Disproportionately impacted by the violence in Juárez are women, who regularly go missing without any hope of being found.

Obviously the situation in Juárez is an example of real harm. Like gay men with AIDS in the 1980s—like trans women of color in the United States today—the women of Juárez are dying preventable deaths at an insane rate, and nobody in the dominant culture gives enough of a shit to make it stop. Isaac’s play, “La Ruta,” is a tortured cry for mercy, one belonging to a theatrical tradition that includes plays like Larry Kramer’s seminal AIDS polemic “The Normal Heart” and “Twilight: Los Angeles, 1992,” Anna Deveare Smith’s verbatim account of the Los Angeles riots (in which Congresswoman Maxine Waters is a character, by the way).

In our conversation, Isaac and I discussed the roots of violence in Juárez, which Isaac attributed to toxic masculinity and failed US policy. Of the former, Isaac elaborated that he can draw a straight line from small acts of gendered insensitivity—microaggressions such as a man interrupting a woman to explain a point she was in the middle of making—to more grandiose expressions of violence, such as rape or murder. My impulse in the moment was to disagree and question the equivalence I thought Isaac was making. But after a night’s sleep on the matter, I think agree with Isaac’s general point—unchecked privilege corrupts, and if we don’t intervene when violence presents itself, it will escalate.

The women of Juárez are in a daily fight for their lives. The stakes for them could not be higher. That’s why, when people start to talk about feeling “safe” and the stakes fall somewhere short of life or death, it’s important to pause before offering our support and validation. Unfortunately, not all claims of victimhood are intellectually honest, and sometimes, folks who identify as victims are actually perpetrators. These situations require a different kind of intervention.

This week, the boys from Covington Catholic high school in a Kentucky have been all over the news, after a viral video clip in which one boy wearing a MAGA hat—Nick Sandmann—stared down an indigenous veteran named Nathan Phillips, who was seemingly just banging his drum. Since the release of that initial video, dozens more clips have surfaced, some of which show that Mr. Phillips intentionally walked into the Covington Catholic group, and others of which show an unrelated group of Black Israelites screaming nasty shit at every person who passed them, including the Covington Catholic boys and Nathan Phillips.

Some people claim these videos exonerate the Covington Catholic boys. Others say they implicate Nathan Phillips as a provocateur. What’s compelling to me is the immediacy with which reactions split along party lines. Lefties are Team Phillips, righties are Team CovCath. I have way too much trauma surrounding Catholic schoolboys of my youth to be impartial, but what I will argue is that the Covington Catholic boys are not victims here. I don’t want them destroyed, but I want to see some accountability. And when I see a lot of white adults minimizing their actions, I feel compelled to intervene.

The fact remains that Nick Sandmann stood aggressively close to Nathan Phillips, his posture and smirk fixed with a rigidity familiar to anyone who, like me, has been physically threatened or assaulted by a Catholic school meathead. Regardless of the aftermath, this was not a boy who was standing by innocently. He was full of the all the bravado an underdeveloped pre-frontal cortex allows, and that—to my eye—is undeniable in any of the videos I’ve seen so far. It’s an expression of the toxic masculinity Isaac mentioned in our discussion of “La Ruta.”

Part of the PR campaign the Covington Catholic community is waging involves blaming the Black Hebrew Israelites, a group of absolutely wild bigots that stand in public spaces and say naaaaaaaasty stuff about gays, women, etc. The reason for this PR move, I believe, is that Covington Catholic knows on some level that truth seekers will look at Nick Sandmann in those videos and see a young man eager for conflict, not peace. To avoid this murky discussion, they instead point to the Black Israelites as the instigators. “Look, these folks said faggot, that’s way worse.” Unfortunately, these two unrelated wrongs don’t change the interaction between Sandmann and Phillips on that video.

I was once a teenage boy, and I remember what a brutal period of self-discovery those years were for me. I made so many mistakes and treated folks around me with tremendous disrespect. To say the least, I’ve spent a lot of my adulthood making right the wrongs of my youth, and I am so lucky that every single fucking person wasn’t armed with a recording device when I was 16. I share this because I truly wish the best for the Covington Catholic boys—that they may overcome this moment, emerging on the other end with renewed faith and commitment to peace. I don’t see that happening, however, because as Nick Sandmann told the Today Show’s Savannah Guthrie, his only regret is that he didn’t walk away from Nathan Phillips (a subtle suggestion that Phillips was the aggressor), and he does not feel that he has anything for which to be sorry. If the only offense the Covington Catholic boys committed that day was Nick Sandmann glaring disrespectfully at an elder, then that would be enough to warrant an apology. Unfortunately, Nick Sandmann and whatever crisis PR firm is handling his case do not agree. (If you do not think Nick Sandmann’s glare was disrespectful, then let me ask you this: how would you feel if you saw him standing that way before your mother, father, grandparent?)

The problem is not so much the Covington Catholic boys as it is the adults who thrust victimhood on them. (And unrelatedly, I can’t help but imagine, if society cared this much about gay boys as it does about these Catholics then Bryan Singer would’ve been dealt with decades ago. But that’s another story.) The community that has built around Covington Catholic is absolute—the boys were not wrong, and any assertion otherwise is an attempt to ruin children's lives. Their supporters are misrepresenting the stakes in order to argue that MAGA folks are under attack. An attack on these boys gives MAGA supporters a chance to transfer their own feelings of victimhood, and so the amplification of their stories has created a deafening “poor me” echo chamber.

Speaking of poor me, in December I got into a Twitter fight with a playwright named Jeremy O. Harris, whose “Slave Play” was a controversial hit for the New York Theatre Workshop. The controversy wasn’t so much about the play as the playwright himself. I haven’t read or seen Slave Play, so I can’t speak to the piece’s merits, but I can speak to the way Jeremy behaves on social media, which seems to be carefully cultivated.

The initial buzz around “Slave Play” was huuuuge. As Jeremy himself said, the play went viral. The reviews from white NYC theater critics were overwhelmingly positive, with a few notable exceptions. On Twitter, however, criticism began to mount from a surprising corner: other black theater makers took serious issue with the way black women in particular are treated in the play. Some folks went as far as to say that Jeremy’s play was its own sort of violent act against black women, and they used things he’s said and tweeted publicly to support this. I won’t quote any of them, but it’s all there for you to find, if you want to.

All I can honestly say about Jeremy Harris is that I do not believe his social media persona is authentic. While “Slave Play” was enjoying an often sold-out run, he began tweeting about all the death threats he and his cast were receiving. For sure, horrific shit got hurled at Jeremy and his collaborators. At the same time this was happening, producers were looking seriously to bring the show to Broadway. Jeremy took to Twitter and called attention to the tweets and emails, claiming the threats he and others received numbered in the hundreds. I called bullshit on that number, and I wondered whether every mean tweet he received was actually a “death threat.” I suggested Jeremy was performing victimhood to engender sympathy that would distract from his critics and/or help facilitate a transfer, and perhaps that’s a leap too far. But I tweeted what I tweeted: I do not believe Jeremy Harris received “hundreds” of credible death threats over a play at an off-Broadway house. (For the record I never @ mentioned Jeremy on Twitter, he found my tweets on his own.)

In my back-and-forth with Jeremy, I made the mistake of roping critic Elizabeth Vincentelli into the discussion. Wasn’t really fair of me, because I don’t know her. But she was one of the only mainstream dissenting voices in her assessment of “Slave Play,” which she said ripped off better plays like “An Octaroon” and “Underground Railroad Game.” Elizabeth responded on Twitter to tell me that her problem was with the play, not the playwright, and she sort of scolded me for making inferences about Jeremy’s personality based on his tweets. Jeremy, who loves to herd critics on social media, jumped back in after EV’s capitulation, letting her (and me) know that “we stan critics.” The “we” referred only to him. Lol.

The funnier thing is that, two weeks later, on her podcast “Three on the Aisle,” Elizabeth did exactly what she admonished me for doing on Twitter—drawing conclusions about Jeremy the person—and she used much harsher language than anything I tweeted. She doubled down on the derivative nature of “Slave Play,” describing it as “a play that is embarrassing in its self-satisfaction and the way it revels in this empty provocation that is not really provoking, because people are just expecting it.” She elaborated:

“It’s is also written in an incoherent, smug manner that I found really, really annoying. Just the ineptitude of the writing was confounding, I felt. This play should’ve stayed in the oven, it was not ready to be pulled out… Reading the script afterwards, it annoyed me even more. The script is a window into the way this playwright’s mind works that is not really all that interesting.”

She later described anyone who was shocked by an event that happens in Jeremy’s play as “a target sitting still.” Harsh words for an artist and his audience. I wondered why she would be so brazen on a podcast yet conciliatory on Twitter. It made me wonder if she was afraid to bring the full weight of her position to Twitter, in writing, before Jeremy. And if that’s the case, then what positional power does she perceive that he has over her? Could be generational. Jeremy and his social media followers are presumably savvier to the medium than EV, which I imagine she would understand, so perhaps that’s part of the reason. Regardless, my question now, in light of everything, is: do we still stan critics like Elizabeth? (FWIW, I do. EV is one of the greats among NY’s theater critics.)

My beef with Jeremy truly isn’t so personal, although his personality seems challenging based on our Twitter interactions. That’s not real life, though, I know that. Jeremy and I have never met, only battled from our phones. Theater is the art I care most about, and I’m interested in who holds the power to create it.

Jeremy is a power-holder, despite repeatedly trying to position himself as an outsider. As far as I can smell, Jeremy is disingenuous in these claims, as he was when he overstated the number of actual threats he and others received. I believe that doing so helped bring attention to his play. Of course I have absolutely no concept of what it’s like to be a queer black person in America, but I do know that Yale Drama School—where Jeremy is finishing up his MFA—is the nerve center of NYC’s theater establishment. You cannot graduate from Yale Drama School and call yourself a theater outsider. Sorry. It’s just not honest. And when we allow dishonesty, for whatever reason, we allow injustice to escalate. And we stan only what’s just.