Or how as much maternal love Agatha has to give, she’s still a woman with emotions and feelings. I know I play Agatha with a very warm and big mothering spirit, but that is not her sole purpose. She doesn’t exist as a love machine, dispensing affection to your muses when you need it. She’s not here for your muse to cry on when life gets tough then walk away. She’s a human being, and I expect the same love that she gives to be given back.
It’s a very popular thing, I’ve noticed, for non-black and white muses to come to Agatha when they’re distressed. If their muse is upset or has had some severe trauma, it’s up to Agatha to listen and console them. If things are terrible for them, they would drop by the shop and eat while she spoke soothing Spanish to them.
Black female muses don’t exist to be Mammies, and I’m genuinely angry that so many times Agatha gets stuck in these positions. If she doesn’t coddle your muse or isn’t completely pleasant all the time then she’s a bitch. Or worse! She’s a complete asshole because she didn’t woobify your muse even after they hurt her.
And it’s gross. It’s literally disgusting and I’m sick of playing threads like that. I did not create Agatha so she could rub the backs of white people. I did not make her for the sole purpose of making tea and handing out advice life your everything Magical Negro. The amount of misognynoiristic tropes you may unintentionally pass off are still misogynoir and it still hurts. I’m tired of playing Agatha as everyone’s mother, as everyone’s sister.
She’s a woman. She’s been traumatized and hurt so badly that for thirty years she wouldn’t let anyone get close. Just as she listens and pays attention to your muse, I expect you to listen and pay attention to her. Ask her about her story. Stop giving me halfassed excuses when Agatha is giving your muse everything and more.
Stop expecting Black female muses to perform ridiculous amounts of emotional labor with no pay off. It’s disgusting and gross and I’m tired of it
“In her biography, ‘The Story of the Trapp Family Singers’, Maria describes her potential rival as the Princess Yvonne (Baroness Elsa Schraeder). This lady was an Austrian noblewoman who had an abundance of wealth, and (apparently) a fondness for Captain von Trapp.
The oldest von Trapp daughter, Agathe, later penned that the Princess was not only a Vienesse countess, but actually a cousin of Georg’s first wife!”
i. when she’s sixteen, she finds one of her father’s discarded porn magazines. it’s in shreds, pulverized and glared at by her angry mother. there is a conflict on interest, she realizes, when she sees that all of the women are either light or white and terribly submissive. her father had eyes for lightskinned girls with straight hair, small mouths and even smaller words. he liked his women tied up and begging and beaten.
her mother was dark. her words were bigger than her mouth andher hair was coiled tight. as she flipped through the pages, she begins to understand how black women are damned from the moment they first draw breath.
ii. shards of a woman, scattered across the mosaic tile of men and impossible beauty standards. she wishes she had a story to tell that didn’t end in blood. and tears. and parts of her that are raw and hurt. she wishes she wasn’t so damaged. she wishes that she didn’t miss a baby she was never intended to have. she wishes, she wishes and WISHES.
at what age, she wonders, did her wishes become desperate pleas?
iii. she knew how white supremacy worked before she was old enough to drink away the pain of it. she knew they would rob her of her magic, her sanity and her strength. they were thieves of peace, of families. she knew they would take her brothers, her parents. she knew, she knew, she knew.
she didn’t know they would rob her of choices.
iv. “miss garcia, we have some news for you. you might want to sit down. are you aware that you –” buzzing so loud and urgent they drown out anything else. “it seems as if someone-” a drowning sensation she can’t fight. “infertile. we can’t reverse-” static from an unseen radio that seems to loop her mother’s gentle singing voice.
v. when she’s thirty, she learns how to fake smiles. she learns how to build walls that can’t be scaled and how to seal herself off. she learns not to cry because she is a faulty dam, and the smallest of cracks can lead to flooding. she learns to patch the wounds with sugar and baking powder. drown the bitter tastes with egg and milk mixtures. she learns to become big laughter and a shoulder for others to cry on.
i. She tries to remember that she was once a small girl. She tries to remember that she wore frilly dresses and bows in her hair. She chased, screaming and shouting, after her brothers. She’s only three and she’s holding onto Wale’s pant leg, gripping it tight as she follows along. Never knew where they were going or what they were doing, but she does remember being picked up and swung around. In quick flashes she sees her brother’s face; lips, eyes, hunting scar on his nose.
It takes less time to remember that he’s probably dead.
ii. When she was a teenage, she sat in her mother’s room. Her mother would paint her face and pin up her hair, manipulating her daughter to become a mirror of herself. She can sit in her mother’s room now and imagine that it is forty years early. Wafts of jasmine, the heavy smell of damask canopies and overstuffed pillows. On the vanity now were still too many perfume bottles and tubes of lipstick to count. Her mother had star charts taped up next to the mirror, next to news clippings and pictures of friends. When Agatha moves her hand to admire a photo of a long-dead companion, her wrist jingles like her mother’s did.
Agatha looks into the mirror and sees Salawa
iii. In the kitchen of her new, old home she thinks about what she’s lost over breakfast. In the chipped china that once belonged to her mother, she sees shadows. There are angels in the steam. Agatha feels as if she is living in a museum. Everything is hers to touch but she feels a bizarre need to keep it exactly the same.
i. Her past is a blur of color and sound. She sees her mother’s face through shards of broken glass, distorted by time and faded by memory. A glimpse of hair, a flash of brown eyes. She never saw her mother clearly.
ii. She’s always been a daddy’s girl. Big, brown hands lifting her up. A smile that mirrored her own. The charming gap in his teeth. He had the type of magic that warmed rooms and humored babies. She sees herself through his eyes. Spectacular. Unending.
iii. You are never safe. Not really. Watch your magic and keep your mouth shut. Of all the memories these are the ones that shine. In the great coat of darkness that is her past, they are pockets of fire. She burns with anger at what was lost, what was stolen and what she will never get back.