I really love your blog and you seem like a really sweet cool person, but I wish you wouldn't post that whitewashed Symmetra skin. It means a lot to a lot of people that Symmetra's brown.
Hi, thanks for the calling me sweet but this is one ask I had to answer right away because I need to set something straight. Lately I’ve noticed on Tumblr there has been a misinterpretation of what whitewashing actually is. Whitewashing is “to play a role that is traditionally, historically, and/or written for a person of color, essentially erasing the poc perspective and experience from the role in favor of a white actor.” Hollywood is no stranger to it, having white people play Egyptian gods and Middle Eastern royalty for example. And I’m sure everyone remembers Scarlet Johansson playing the Japanese lead in Ghost in the Shell. Ugh. There’s nothing like Hollywood wanting everything from other cultures but the people these cultures belong to that makes me angry and tired beyond belief.
But back to the matter at hand. Symmetra’s vampire skin is the one you’re talking about, I presume? I know it’s been the a topic of much controversy and argumentation amongst people. That the vampire skin is racist for lightening her skin and that when people with dark skin die their skin doesn’t turn that color. I completely agree with this except the thing is - I don’t consider Symmetra to be an actual vampire in this skin. I 100% believe this to be a costume of her as a European style vampire with gray skin for Halloween. There’s actually a funny story as to why I never initially considered the skin to be colorist; for three years straight as a kid I was a vampire for Halloween. Really. I had one of those red and black cheap Halloween dresses that came in a plastic bag from Party City and a matching cape from my brother’s own old vampire costume. And I’d do the full face of makeup myself. I thought using the cheap pan of white face paint cream made me look like a horrendous ghost so I mixed it in a bowl with a bit of black costume makeup and painted my face and neck light gray and my lips and eyes black. It’s a hell of a coincidence. So I’m not upset at Symmetra’s gray skin for the same reason I’m not aghast that Hanzo has dark blue skin for his Halloween skin. It’s a spooky fun Halloween costume.
At least, that’s my personal perspective as a proud woman of Indian heritage whose fave American holiday just so happens to be Halloween. But it’s important to have a dialogue about this sort of thing! So in the notes if everyone here wants to have a discussion with each other about it feel free to. Open minds and open hearts are important to changing the world.
Edit: I also should add that a more elaborate Vampire Queen costume would have been a much better skin and Blizzard could have at least given her fangs as well.
this ended up much much longer than i originally intended ;;;; but i love it so i dont mind~~~. here i am continuing to fill out prompts from ages back for an anon and @22shiny22! i hope you like it~
“I’m flirting with you.”
“Yeah, I know. And I’m not interested.”
Minho was used to hearing these kinds of conversations. Three nights a week he worked behind the counter at one of the busiest underground bars in the city district. Men and women alike made moves on people who weren’t interested, said and did things that made everyone around them uncomfortable, especially the poor soul they’d sought to get into a bed that night. Usually, someone stepped in before Minho had to, a friend of the confronted person or sometimes a complete stranger. Sometimes it took their security personnel to drag the offender out of the club. It just turned out that this time Minho was standing right there as he was making a drink for the young man who was currently being talked up by another definitely older man. If Minho was being honest, he wasn’t surprised that the young man had been targeted, he’d thought of asking him out himself, just from his features and manner alone. But it was against company policy to talk up customers so he’d kept it professional.
Pretending to still be making the drink, Minho listened carefully as the conversation began to turn sour.
There was this added panic of getting the phone call, making plans to travel for the funeral…and realizing I owned nothing appropriate. I was right out of college and broke. I owned black button-downs and cheap black pants, worn thin from barista shifts. I owned a few cheap black cocktail dresses, one the remnant of a college Audrey Hepburn costume. My selections were, I suppose, a reflection of who I was at 22: working very hard now that college memories were stuffed in the closet.
But a funeral dress seemed like a worthy expenditure. When I was 12, I’d ruined a beautiful dress by wearing it to my grandmother’s funeral. She bought it for me to wear to the opera. And I wanted to wear it to her funeral, a strange way of honoring how much I loved her…but after that, I couldn’t even look at the dress. It was stained by grief, by sad memories.
What if I specifically bought a good black dress for funerals, though? I can’t ruin it if that has been its purpose all along.
So I drove to the mall, and I remember the fluorescent lights felt directed specifically at me. I stood there blinking, like an alien on a foreign planet. A freshly grieving girl in a world that was still spinning on as usual.
I searched the racks of a Macy’s, and I remember a saleswoman asking if I needed help.
“Yes,” I thought darkly. “But a more psychiatric kind than you are probably qualified to provide.”
“No, thank you,” I said.
I walked away with a really good dress. I’d post a picture of me in it but, of course, there are none. I’ve only ever worn it to funerals. It cost $60.
There was this tiny relief every time the funeral calls came. At least I have something appropriate to wear. At least I don’t have to worry about that one, truly foolish thing when I feel so shaken, so deeply sad.
When I got the news this week, it took me hours to mention to my husband, “I guess I should make sure my funeral dress still fits.”
I put it on this morning. Still fits, if a smidge more tightly. I still feel comfortable in it, confident that it’s appropriate.
And I couldn’t get it off. The zipper snagged against the sheer fabric and stuck. I was home alone. I yanked, I coaxed, I contorted my arms into painful positions. Nothing work.
And I started laughing. I mean, howling. Standing in the bedroom, stuck in my funeral dress, and WEEPING from how stupid and funny it was. It’s the first time I’ve really laughed in a week.
Because isn’t that what grief feels like? Trapped in a mourning dress.
After ten minutes, I accepted it. Hey, guess I’m writing in a formalish dress until my husband or a friend can come help me! Whatever. Worse things have happened. Worse things happened this WEEK.
I sat down at my computer, eyes still teary from laughter. And after a few minutes, I gently tugged one more time. A centimeter. Then another. A few tries spaced out, and I finally felt the whoosh of freedom.
And perhaps this is the way of grief and funeral dresses: Only when you accept it does it finally loosen, bit by bit.