And in two of your TV shows, your actresses really want their characters to be bi/lesbian. Elizabeth Henstridge and Chloe Bennet want Skimmons to happen, and Hayley Atwell and (I believe) Lyndsy Fonseca want Cartinelli. Hayley Atwell openly said, just the other day, that she believes Peggy Carter is bi.
All it takes is for you to go ‘okay’ and TADA! It’s done! You have 2-4 LGBTQIA+ characters! It’s not hard to do that.
At least DC’s doing better than you at this. I have something to watch and see representation, even if they are far from perfect (at least, in Gotham, they are far from perfect, haven’t watched Arrow yet), at least they have some representation.
Though I guess it’s…sort of good that you’ll have LGBTQIA+ characters…eventually.
So, this was not an easy summer for me and my parents, and the last three months were very tough. Now things are slowly getting better, and we decided to celebrate my birthday something like a month and half later, just because we wanted an excuse to be with all our family and friends. I decided to give to all our guests a little framed picture, because, you know: nothing reminds you how to fight better than a powerful female character.
Nynaeve al’Meara (Wheel of Time), Arya Stark (A Song of Ice and Fire), Elizabeth Bennet (Pride and Prejudice). All with imaginary pets. Except for Nymeria of course.
Ever since they’d landed in England, all Crane could talk
about was going home.
Well, that wasn’t quite true. He also talked about how much
better the smog was in London – that seemed impossible to Abbie, who saw black
in the Kleenex when she blew her nose – but how much more uncouth the people
were. But other than that, he’d spoken only of Hartsbridge Manor, its sweeping
lawns, its fine hunting, and its eleven fireplaces. That seemed to be a point
of pride, the fireplaces.
Abbie had a Jane Austen moment as they cruised up the
winding drive lined with stately oaks. You could see why Elizabeth Bennet fell
in love with Pemberley before she fell in love with Darcy if it was anything like
this, all golden stone and impossibly green grass.
Crane sat bolt upright and swiveled his head like a prairie
“Just like you remembered it?”
“Yes. And no.”
He got twitchy the closer they got to the house. Twitchier
than usual. Quiet, too. Abbie knew he was in a bad way when he didn’t even
complain about being charged to tour his own house. He just peered around as
she counted out the funny-colored bills.
An older woman with hair like a cloud led the tour; a couple
from London chattered the whole time in prissy accents while a German family in
sandals looked bored. But Crane didn’t even bitch. He flinched as they entered
some rooms, staring at empty spaces. He ran his hands over carved doorposts and
once bent to touch an ancient stair, its center bowed by the passage of
thousands of feet over hundreds of years.
They wandered huge rooms with what the guide called “stately
prospects” from south-facing windows. They marveled at silver services and
tapestries and spindly furniture, all of it old and all of it ugly in Abbie’s
eyes. They saw eight of eleven fireplaces.
The last room was a hall of portraits. Row after row of
women with skin like milk and men with weak chins. The guide breezed through
the room, only offering a vague wave of her hand to the endless paintings. But
“My mother.” He nodded to a woman painted in a garden. She
had his clear blue eyes and a book in her hand. Pretty. “And my father.” A dude in a powdered wig with Crane’s long
nose. Even through the centuries, she caught a chill from the painting.
“They look nice,” she said carefully. “Where are you?
Shouldn’t you be here?”
“I expect Father removed my portrait when he disowned me.
All the better, really. It was a terrible likeness. Before I grew my whiskers.
Dreadful.” But still he scanned the images, hopelessly hunting for himself.
“I didn’t think. I’m sorry.”
A nod. He used his phone to snap a few pictures, then turned
“Were you happy here?”
He paused. “I was scarce here once past boyhood. Only on
school holidays. And even then I was in Town as often as not, or at a—“
“That’s not what I asked.”
He turned to face her, arms flailing in an extravagant
shrug. “Not often. I never fit here, among gilt frames and impossible
Abbie laced her fingers through his. He stared at their
entwined hands. “I can tell. I thought seeing you here, it’d be like seeing you
in 1781. That you’d stand taller. But as shitty as it sounds like it was to
grow up here, it makes sense you never felt at home. You know why?”
He shook his head.
“Because you were meant for America. Meant for the twenty-first
century.” She curled an arm around his shoulder. “You were meant for me.”
Laughing’s always very bad in women in the past. It’s a sign of sexual availability. You shouldn’t show your teeth. It’s a sign of being garrulous, plebeian, vulgar. But that’s one of the reasons why I like Lizzy Bennet so much, because she does seem to drive the plot with her own laughter. So that’s one of the things… her irreverence, I think, is one of the things that makes her so attractive and easy for modern audiences to digest.
Elizabeth Bennet: “Let me thank you again and again, in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced you to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the sake of discovering them."
Mr. Darcy: "If you will thank me,” he replied, “let it be for yourself alone. That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the other inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your family owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought only of you.”