The Three Different Types of Tumblr Blog Descriptions
“This is my tumblr where I post things that I see and like. I mostly reblog posts but sometimes I make them. I blog about my interests, which are food, cute animals, text posts that have 100,000+ notes, [fandom], and pretty much anything else random haha. If I see a post that I like I will reblog it lol. If I see a post I do not like I will not reblog it. I don’t reblog posts I don’t see because I can’t reblog them since I didn’t see them so how would I reblog them. I blog about my interests. Here on tumblr, I blog about my interests. I use my blog as a blog (for blogging purposes). Sometimes my interests are random. Sorry not sorry but you will see a lot of [fandom]. [Fandom] is my LIFE okay I JUST HAVE SO MANY FEELS ABOUT IT”
Me, going into the SU tag: Wonder what’s going on this time?
SU discourse: Rebecca Sugar is racist! Everyone is racist! Shut down the show! Cancel it because of this one drawing that they literally apologized for but that we totally disregarded! Point fingers at them for their mistakes!
Me, already exhausted: Wow. Of course. Why am I not surprised?
The problem is that some of you guys don’t even realize that you’re at fault. You’ll justify Sana being sidelined in her own story because you, as an audience and as fans, continue to sideline her in the show - in a season she’s the main character of - it’s nothing new to you. But Muslim WoC are angry, because we’ve waited for so long to be represented, we’ve waited for so long for our stories to be told and we’ve waited for so long for people to hear us, and when we were finally given that opportunity, our character (and ourselves by extension) were overshadowed by other characters and their story lines. To be frank, it’s quite disgusting. Especially when a clip about Sana struggling to put herself together, struggling with her faith, her friends, her identity, struggling to just exist without crumbling apart - and yet her entire life is basically glossed over. When all you can talk about is Even and Isak holding hands, you’re consciously choosing to ignore a story of equal relevance and importance in favour of your white male characters - their unique struggles don’t strip them of that privilege. This is fiction, it’s a TV show, and this is how we’re treated; white people’s stories still hold more value than our own, even within our own stories. Our struggles are tokenized and God forbid our sadness begins to interfere with the happiness of your favourites. We’re speaking to a greater issue at hand here. Because, we, as a community, as a group of women of faith, are continuously sidelined in our own stories, and you choosing to ignore our narratives, choosing to gloss over our pain, choosing to strip us of our identities and cultures when they don’t fit into your framework, and then justifying yourself and your characters. No. It’s unjustifiable.
The clouds that threatened rain earlier in the day have subsided, bunching themselves cosily near the horizon as though they’re aware that what Laurent needs more than anything else is a good sunset to serve as a backdrop. Laurent sits in the grass near the edge of the headland, looking down onto the dark sand of the beach. The water shades abruptly from turquoise to teal a few hundred metres offshore, a meandering divide that becomes less and less distinct as the sun creeps down.
Part of the reason Laurent has been so strict with the show’s budget is that he’s been determined, all along, to produce a finale that is truly spectacular. Sunsets over the ocean aren’t exactly easy to come by, on Australia’s east coast, and it’s an irony of geography that the nearest west coast belongs to another country entirely.
But that makes it better, Laurent thinks, gazing out over the vista of Te Henga. Crossing the sea. The romance of destination.
“I don’t suppose you’d be prepared to give us a hint,” says a voice from behind him.
Jokaste steps up next to him; Laurent has to tilt his head to take her in. Her hair is braided back, one plait forming a headband and the others looped intricately into a knot at the back of her head. She’s wearing a long flowing dress of pale lavender, just a shade away from overtly bridal, and it somehow manages to accentuate the porcelain of her skin instead of calling out unpleasant pink or yellow tones. Laurent makes a note to give someone in wardrobe a bonus for that.
“You do know who he’s going to choose, don’t you?” she says.