i tried something new with this one :0

I hate this, because I want to participate in the #metoo hashtag and all - I’d have stories for days, like most people probably - but I feel so uncomfortable talking about it in this context.

Every single time I’ve tried to talk about it I’ve been dismissed, for various reasons. And I don’t think people realize how much being dismissed like this hurts? When you finally open up about something that’s affected you so deeply, that’s hurt the most intimate, most sacred part of you, and all you get is a “it’s not a big deal, it’s happened to a ton of other people, it was however years ago, get over it”. It’s like a brand new wound right next to the older, still sore one. Nobody wants to hear about it, they tell you plainly at the moment where you dare to be vulnerable. So you shut up, and you don’t say anything for years. Because you’ve had enough of being in pain, and a part of you ends up believing that maybe they’re right, maybe you really are being selfish and pathetic and you should just move on.

And now, for the sake of performative solidarity on the Internet, I’m supposed to hashtag #metoo. And for what? These people who have dismissed me and mocked me and turned me away when I tried to talk about it - they don’t get to decide when it’s acceptable for me to be a victim and when it’s not. They never gave a single shit, and they told me so plainly. What if I say #metoo, what it I copy the hashtag dozens of times, once for every incident that made me feel dirty and unsafe and like my body wasn’t my own? I’ll just be giving them another occasion, dozens of occasions to just dismiss me again, and hurt me again. Because a hashtag’s fine, post a hashtag, everyone’s doing it. A hashtag, especially a massive one like this, is easy to see as a trend and not as individuals - and easy to forget again in a couple of months.

But whenever I made you to acknowledge what happened to me, how it affected me, how it hurt me, you treated me horribly. I’m glad people came forward so these assholes get what they deserve. They were very brave. But unless you acknowledge that this is more than a hashtag, more than a trend, that this is real people with real trauma (and you haven’t so far, never have) I’m just going to keep giving to organisms that actually help survivors.

10

the happiest boy when surrounded by dogs ♡

“I knew my husband very well.  We’d been living together for twenty-one years.  So it was obvious that something was going on.  Suddenly he started playing guitar and writing songs.  The songs were OK, but I read some of the lyrics and they clearly weren’t written for me.  He started wearing cologne.  He started liking new foods that he’d never even tried before.  So I was suspicious.  Then one night he came home crying.  I said: ‘What happened?  Did you kill someone?’  He told me that he’d gotten a girl pregnant.  She’d just had the baby and didn’t want to keep it.  Then he asked me if I would raise it!  I said: ‘Sure, give it to me.’  I arranged to meet the woman in the park, and she handed me the boy.  He was only three days old.  He felt like my son the moment I held him.  I got rid of my husband a few months later.  But I kept the baby.  He’s sixteen now.”  

(Lima, Peru)

The legend herself

10

female awesome meme ♡ [1/10] lead female characters 

riley matthews (girl meets world) - there is no end to my horizon 

during a mission lance gets his vocal cords hurt

either from a magic blast or physical injury


coran concludes that they need to heal naturally for 2-3 weeks before they can do some freaky altean medical thing to them to completely fix them


pidge and allura make some mandatory jokes about lance finally being quiet for a while, which almost don’t hurt lance


turns out, being mute is hard. lance opens his mouth dozens of times a day, wanting to share some story or a joke, and remembers his predicament when no sounds come out


during the first week everyone also have difficulties with remembering it, Shiro demanding verbal confirmation from Lance during training or Hunk asking his opinion on a new dish a few times before becoming irritated at the lack of response


at the end of the second week, no one asks Lance to talk by mistake. just some more comments about the blissful silence without Lance’s chatter.


also at the end of the second week, Lance needs to ask Pidge something. she’s so engrossed in the computer she doesn’t hear him approaching, so Lance has to shake her shoulder


Pidge lashes out for touching her,  'How many times I need to tell you not to touch me? You know I freaking hate skin contact!’


after that Lance tries to draw attention to himself just by things like waving or pointing at something, but… everyone are so engaged in their chatter, no one pays him a mind.


and slowly, gradually, lance realises that no one is actually interested in engaging in talking with him. no one approaches him, no one tries to establish some sort of contact outside of training or battle.


slowly, lance realises that without his voice, without him desperately trying to be noticed… he is just an empty place


another week passes. two. the mark for the operation they set a month ago has passed. no one remembered. lance doesn’t remind them.


he just keeps getting his job done, going into battle after battle, training night after night, and tries not to think about how pointless he has become.

10

I am devastated. I have been staring at my screen for a while now, I just don’t have the words for this. I feel like I lost a good friend. And I know that sounds stupid because how can you say that about someone you didn’t even really know personally? I don’t get it either, all I know is that my heart is broken. I never felt understood, until Chester started singing. I went through some horrible stuff he went through as well and I just.. felt connected to him. And now he’s gone. I’m so sorry. I hope his family and friends get to heal from this terrible loss. I hope he is finally at peace with himself. 

I’m sorry I have been gone for a long time again. It happens too often, I know. I’m still dealing with mental issues myself, I’m not sure if it will ever get better. But for this I had to make an exception. I tried to make something special for him and for the rest of the band. I made a photoset of every chorus of the new album. I hope you guys like it. I know I’m not the best editor, but it was really made from the heart. Rest in peace Chester. 

when i was seven the sea-witch cursed me.

she cursed my great-grandfather, actually, who had spat on the hands of the ocean and disrespected the beating heart of the earth - for what else are waves but a pulse - who was silly and violent and who tried to rip from the water what was hers by rights. we were wealthy, before that, a family of merchants. my mother says in her youth she recalls white horses, the gleam of candles, early mornings with bread baked fresh by a horde of servants.

he didn’t ask permission to cross her. that’s what my mother tells me while she spoons porridge with no flavor into the wood of my bowl. he had no faith in superstition, rode with boats that were more decoration than strength, the folly of a man who was cruel and vain and proud of his own gold teeth. the sky had been blue, so regardless of what the village witch said, he would sail that day. and when his boat sank; their lives turned blue like the sky that day.

my mother says she thinks the curse on the men of our family, even if they come in when they marry, is that they will forever be violent, too foolish to see the storm on the horizon. she whispers this to me on the eve of my seventh birthday, while father is his own storm, thundering around the house, looking for her. later, when i am cleaning the cut by her cheek, she tells me the curse is on the women to forever be unhappy, to wane until they are shadows, to walk into the deep like a sinking ship. 

we don’t burn candles often, they are too expensive. she tells me this in the silk of a dark room. the moon kisses her hair. 

in three days, my mother will walk into the ocean, and my father will be my own problem. the curse will pass onto me. 

my father does not believe in superstition, no curse to conquer him. when he is gone, and i am heartbroken, i go to the village witch. i ask her to teach me about magic, and other things, and about how the ocean can be coaxed, and how to save my father’s soul. 

and my hands rot too, keeping a house by myself with things i barely knew. i learn the art of a good scrubbing, keep my mind full of white horses while i endlessly clean, dream of candles in dark while i make the bread that he will not allow me to eat. he keeps me from the ocean, from visiting the place that took my mom, from following in her footsteps where the water makes women undone.

i am sixteen when i see her in the water of a bowl. she scares me so completely that i drop it, and my father comes in with his hands, and the curse, and i almost forget all about it. it isn’t until after that i realize she is beautiful, and young, which surprises me. 

i think about it every evening. her face becomes distorted to me. i can no longer remember the exact shape of it, only the impression of beauty. 

i turn seventeen and wait for the high moon. i pin safety to my vest in little witch herbs and runes. i put naked toes on the sand and slip closer, closer, to the avenue of my family’s doom. i find a little private beach, small and surrounded by rocks, hidden from my father in the event he ever thought to come looking. at high tide, it is barely the span of my body. at low, it feels empty.

the witch of the land has given me what i need to call in the witch of the sea, but i do not use it. it feels wrong, somehow, standing here in the wind and the quiet pulse of the world. i put down the incense and sage and i sit just close enough it feels wild, dangerous - but not close enough to get caught up in thrill. 

when nothing happens, i go home and i make bread that i will not eat.

for months i do this. i climb down to my beach. i learn to do it when the moon is half, and then when the moon is empty. i learn to do it so well that sometimes i go to sleep in my own bed and wake up by the water. i take to sleeping with warding runes to keep me from being pulled in the rip out to the waiting hands of a hungry sea-witch.

i don’t know when i start talking. more often i sing, because singing in my house is not allowed, and something about the way the rocks echo my voice feels comforting. the older i get, the more i can pretend i hear my mother’s voice, answering me, harmonizing gently. i sing songs about sadness and lullabies about curses. when i have exhausted every song i know, i write new ones about fathers who have never learned how to be kind, about the house i work in but do not love, about mothers who left, and about a sea witch.

i see her sometimes. in a puddle, in the drop of rain, in the strangest places. i never expect it, although i always hope. i am never able to see her for more than the length of a wave, breaking, and each time, it does something new to my heart.

at eighteen i am too much of my father’s burden. he tries to unload me onto other men. the land witch helps me with this. i rub hemlock, burn wolfsbane. we arrange so these men have other women to marry. the news of my curse is bad enough to scare most away. my father is not happy.

after a particularly savage night, i wonder how bad it could be. i could marry some boy from the village who didn’t quite bother me. i suppose they’re not ugly. timothy had always been gentle to me. i think about a life, and how i am cursed to be unhappy. my father would finally be proud of me.

i walk to the beach and i tell the waves about him and how i could convince myself it was love if i just never wanted from him. how i could be okay, if not content, how i could be free, how i already had learned life down on knees.

but i go home and i write a rune of warding. and the years pass and i find reasons each suitor is wanting. and the sea witch i see, sometimes, peeking out at me, staying long each time in the water, looking, watching. i see her in mirrors when my father storms against me. it is bad because he mistakes the cause of my smiling. it is better when she is there the next morning.

and i go to the ocean. when i am too sad to speak, it seems like the ocean is whispering for me. i picture my mother’s voice and tell myself i am happy. i am seven again and we are sewing. i am seven again and the curse has not been given to me. i am seven and she came home after she walked to the sea.

i grow silly, brave, unthinking. i leave behind the herbs and i wade deep. i teach myself the art of swimming. i am bad at it, at first, but something about it feels good to me. like the ocean wants to buoy me. in the day i think of it, guilty. what if there was a rip tide, and the water took me? who would care for my father if i stepped off the beach into a long drop? wasn’t i clever enough to know that the ocean is uncaring?

it is not this that does it. i go out after a rain and i slip on the rocks and suddenly i am in water above my head but without the moon i cannot see the up of it. i kick and i thrash and the water surrounds me. the tide pulls on my body and in the cold i feel my body grow weary. water spills into me. it punches through my body, up my nose and into my lungs and some part of me knows this is what mother felt before she was gone.

i kick ground by accident, reorient, drag myself heaving and spitting into the air. i lie there for a long time, half in and half out of death, enjoying the sensation of breathing and of life.

when i look up, i think i see her, watching me, her brows knit with something like worry. but we make eye contact and my heart leaps and then she is gone and i am left alone with nothing but the dawn breaking.

my father is furious when there is no bread. he finds my hair wet, and the salt of the ocean still smelling on me. and that is it. that day he goes out and pays someone to agree to marry me.

this feels right to me, i think. i’m twenty-one, three times seven, a perfect number for a curse to fully come down on me. i will be wed in three weeks.

the land witch comes to visit me. she looks like she’s sorry for me. she gives me a spell and tells me to put it under my pillow; i’ll dream of love and it will soothe me. instead i dream of the seawitch, and how wonderful she is, and the sight of her, out on the water, worried.

even though it is risky, i go down to the beach. i do not bother with protective spells, i have already seen that the water can kill me. fear alone keeps me from wandering. i sit on the beach and in the sand i draw runes for understanding and i make the small magicks i’ve spent years learning and i close my eyes and i ask the ocean “why do you do this to me.”

i fall asleep. i dream that the sea witch talks to me. i dream she is my age, that she is the great-granddaughter of the first to curse my family. i dream she has spent years watching, learning, finding the truth of me. that she just needs to get the courage to come and speak, that she has fallen in love with my singing, that she knows no curse but the one in her heart that brings her back to a human, to a creature of air and not water, to a mistake in the making.

in the dawn i know it is a dream and no more. i make bread. i pour water out before it can make mirrors. i do not look. i do not like the ache that has filled me, as if i’ve been looking for an answer and the answer only leads to longing.

the man i meet - my husband-to-be - is delighted by the house i keep. he believes a woman should keep in her place, and her place should be clean. he hears from neighbors that sometimes i sneak out to the land witch’s house. laughter barks out of him. not going to allow that behavior, not me. he does not believe in curses. he will pack me up and move me from the ocean to somewhere in the mountains, where i know nobody. and i will, he promises, learn to keep my place, and that place clean.

i tell myself i could love him. he is not ugly. he says i’m pretty enough after whiskey. my father mentions i used to sing. i refuse to perform for these men so instead i make them cookies. they laugh and talk about me, even when i am in the room, as if they cannot even see. they shake hands and talk about how useless a woman is for much else than breeding. it’s very funny. the man meets my eyes and promises he’ll put a baby in me. i look down and pretend the thrill i feel is excitement, not fear brewing in me.

the land witch comes by a week before my wedding. she is smaller these days, aging. her apprentice and i get along wonderfully. the two women stand before me, holding something. 

a small box, so tiny and lovely. “break the curse,” the witch whispers, “learn to be happy.”

i smuggle the box, take it everywhere with me. it is days before i have a moment to slip away, to open it by the sea. i take a candle with me, even though my father will notice and be angry.

by the light of fire i read the spell they have left me inside, and then i am so full of gratitude i cannot stop crying.

it must be a full moon, so i must wait. in the meantime, i walk home, and i bake. 

i do not see the seawitch, even though i look for her. maybe i have wounded her, getting married. my father asks why i keep smiling. i tell him it is because i am finally with a man. he grunts and says to stop looking so silly. 

the man kisses me. i let him. we are married on a night with a full moon, and i poison him and my father in the bread i did not eat. i think of how these men were cursed so they could not see a storm coming. i watch them as they lie there, dying, and then i put all of the things i own into a basket for the land witch. i leave it there with a song i wrote for her, a spell i know will make her happy, will stop the aging of her joints, will give her the kind of relief she gave me. 

i go down to the water. i find myself running, even though i am in no hurry. i know the way so well it is like i wake up there, panting. i ask permission first. i lay out the contents of the box, i organize and practice and when the needle and pain comes, i am ready for it. i am used to pain at night. i breathe into it and walk naked into waters that swallowed my mother.

i chew bitter herbs. i swallow fire. i feel myself drown as i change from land witch to sea witch. 

when it is done, i open my eyes in the deep of a moonlit ocean. and i see her. 

this time she does not flicker. this time when i reach for her, she is there, and she is pushing my hair out of my eyes, and we are kissing with the ocean rejoicing around us, and i am laughing, and i hear her voice as clear as bell inside me.

and we live like this, a whole world between us where white horses are the size of pinky fingers and swim with their thin snouts, where i need no candles because i was raised lightless, where we have no servants but the water takes care of us. i show her the magic of land and she unfolds the magic of water. together we are unstoppable. when i come up to the air to sing little girls a promise that they can survive the madness, she sings with me, and we make a beautiful harmony.

7 Reasons Why

So…. I am currently watching the new tv show “13 Reasons Why” and my mind decided to make a tragically-beautiful connection tooooo can you guess what?? YUP LANCE!! So here are my thoughts once again… hope you enjoy and feel free to comment any other ideas!!
*NOTE* I’m lowkey crying as I’m writing this. My heart isn’t okay. I’m not okay, okay?? *MORE NOTES* So this came out kinda different than the show/book but i hope yall kinda get the idea

  • Lance was dead. Had committed suicide to be exact. And he left his story behind.
  • The tapes appeared from nowhere. No one knew where they came from or where they disappeared to. No one knew that the tapes contained so much in such a small amount of time. No one knew that these tapes would become an ugly part of them.
  • “Hello space pals and gals. Lance McClain (KINDA LOVE THIS LAST NAME) here. Live and in stereo.”
  • Lance starts off by explaining his “7 Reasons Why” (hahaha get it? Cuz he’s the seventh wheel?? *cries*) he committed suicide and his two rules.
    • “Rule number one. You must listen to the tapes. I’m not gonna lie. This is going to be hard to do but you MUST LISTEN.”
    • “Rule number two. When you are done, you must leave them where you found them. And if you, oh lets say, decide to throw them away, tsk tsk tsk…. bad things will happen.”
  • “First and foremost, our mighty and heroic leader, Shiro.”
    • “I wasn’t good enought to be praised by you.” Lance explains that Shiro was a good leader, a great leader one might say. Unreplacable, “unlike me.” So why was it that he never told Lance “great job” or “thanks for the help.” Why did he alway care so much for Keith? Told him “great job out there” and patted him on the back after every battle. Why did he always take his side even when he was in the wrong? Why did he treat Pidge like a little sister? Always taking care of them and making sure they were getting enough sleep. Always being so nice and caring to both. “You were always my hero but why did you not act like it?” He never payed attention when Lance didnt get enough sleep or didnt eat or was sick. Always making him work and train. Always pointing out his flaws without helping him improve them. “Why, Shiro, did you not care for me?”
  • “Can you guess our number two?? Well, I’ll give you a hint. It’s not me this time. *laughs* First time being number two, our excellent number one paladin, Keith!”
    • “Keith my man, I loved you.” (Klangst? WHY TF NOT?!?) Lance always loved Keith, always looked up to him too. He loved to joke around with him, loved to rile him up, loved to bicker with him because thats how he got to talk to him. He knew that they were playing around so why did it hurt so much? “Why Keith, did you always tell me I wasn’t good enough?” Always telling him to leave you alone, always “you’re annoying me” and never “please stay.” Keith always reminded Lance that he was never good enough, never up to his level, never realizing how lance felt. But how could Lance blame him? However, sometimes Keith, you, took it to far to the point where my heart was too broken to put back together. “I’ve always loved you but you made it so easy to hate you, too.”
  • “My favorite green paladin, my little space sister (female pronouns for this), my gaming buddy, Pidge.”
    • “Pidge, did you even ever realize that I saw you as my sister?” Lance saw his little sister in Pidge. He always, like Shiro, did his best to make sure they stayed healthy. He was always fussing over her eating and sleeping habits. So why did she never appreciate him? “Pidge, you never even said thanks you.” Lance just wanted to be a brother to her. So why did she make him a disposable replacement for her missing brother? Always using him when necessary and then throwing him away when it got too much for her? “Leave me alone Lance. Im working.” Pidge sometimes said really hurtful comments to Lance and she never let him help her because why would she let someone “annoying” help? In, reality Pidge was his sister but according to Pidge, “You are not my brother, Lance. Matt is.”
  • “Hunk, my precious beautiful friend. You did nothing wrong but you also did nothing at all.”
    • “Where to start?” Hunk had always been Lance’s best friend but after Voltron things changed. “I noticed that you and Pidge would hang out together, without me.” Lance just wants to be part of their group again. He tried so hard so join, to contribute, to help. But all he got was “you’re distracting us.” Although they didn’t hang out as much, Hunk was the first one to realize that something was wrong with Lance. “You left me alone.” Hunk saw him getting worse and changing throughout the days. He saw but didn’t do anything. “Hunk, why did you not do anything, if you noticed?” Lance wondered why Hunk left him by himself, why he didn’t try to reach out to him, why he didn’t invite him over, why didn’t he? “You could have helped but you didn’t.”
  • “Our beautiful space princess who will save the universe without moi, Allura.”
    • “Sometimes, your pushing for perfection was too much, not just for me but for everyone.” Lance always felt like the odd one out. Everyone was good at something but he never had a “thing” and Allura’s nagging didn’t help. “Keep up Lance!” Keep up with Keith in the training stimulator. Keep up with Pidge’s new machinery. Keep up with Shiro’s battle plans. Keep up with Hunk’s nee inventions. Keep up. “Again.” No matter how hard Lance tried, Allura was never satisfied. Never complementing him, never saying “good job,” never letting him rest, never telling he was good enough. “Why, Allura, did you never see how hard I was trying?”
  • “Lets talk about our seventh wheel, our number one *snickers* sharpshooter, Me! Lance!”
    • “In my opinion, I was the number one at fault for this occurrence.” Lance hated himself. He hated himself for feeling jealous, angry, sad, homesick, depressed. “I just wanted to be like the rest of you all.” Lance wanted to be as good as Keith and as strong as Shiro. He wanted to be as nice and comforting as Hunk. Wanted to be as smart as Pidge and as powerful as Allura. “I wish I wasn’t so selfish.” Lance thought he was selfish. He wished to get “thanks you’s” from the rest. Wished he get praised from Shiro and Allura. Wished Keith would feel the same way. Wished he was home with his famiy. He wished and wished and he hated it. “I wished I was home.”
  • “My favorite alien, Coran, the one who took care of me and who noticed me struggling. Yes, he tried to help but I guess it wasn’t enough since I’m dead now.”
    • “You let me walk away.” Coran tried helping Lance in his own way. But how could an alien understand some Earthly emotions? “We talked but sometimes it was just you talking.” Coran tried to get Lance to open up to him but failed. He always cut off Lance with his own stories so he never let Lance say what was bothering him. “Coran, you were like an uncle to me.” Coran reminded Lance of his uncle and it kinda hurt him. He was constantly reminded of his family whenever he was with Coran. This made his emotions even worse when he talked to Coran because sometimes Coran didn’t understand him. The day Lance died, Coran had told him to just “move on.” Lance just got up and left but he secretly hoped that Coran would come after him. He didn’t. “You wanted me to move on from this and I did.”
  • “I’m sorry.”

***NOTICE***
IDK IF YALL HAVE SEEN THIS AWESOME SNIPPET OF THE REACTIONS…
written by @the-kittens-of-voltron (it was written a looooonggg time ago so, so sorry for the lateness)

Castiel is staring again.

It happens every time they’re apart for more than just a couple of hours and, actually, it’s kind of comforting when you get used to it. A routine of sorts - a look that Dean understands to mean Let me check if you’re not injured, enveloped with a squint if he even dares to claim that he’s fine before Cas’s examination is over.

Nowadays, Dean just sits in front of the TV in his room and doesn’t complain about the pair of eyes fixed on his face. It’s not like Sam is there to see and tease them about it. As it is, he doesn’t mind.

“You’ve met another angel today,” Cas says then, out of the blue. That has never happened.

Dean frowns. What? “How do you—”

“The osculation residual.”

“The what?”

Castiel lets out a huff and squints harder. “They left a kiss on you.”

“Nobody kissed me.”

“I don’t mean your kind of kiss. The angel’s feather must have stroked over your skin. It left a mark on you.”

Dean rubs at his cheek but stops when Cas shakes his head. “What now?”

“It’s not something you can remove,” he explains, pausing to search for the right words. “I believe you call them ‘freckles’.”

No way.

“How can you tell, though? I have so many of them, I’d never notice a new one.”

Castiel simply looks at him and tilts his head. “This one’s not mine,” he says like it’s completely obvious—like Dean himself should have known this all along.

He hasn’t. And now he does. And he does not know what to do about it.

A white guy’s thoughts on “Get Out” and racism

This weekend, I went to see a horror movie. It got stuck in my head, and now I can’t stop thinking about it—but not for any of the reasons you might think.

The movie was Jordan Peele’s new hit Get Out, which has gotten rave reviews from critics—an incredible 99% on Rotten Tomatoes—and has a lot of people talking about its themes.

First of all, I should tell you that I hate horror movies. As a general rule, I stay far, far away from them, but after everything I’d read, I felt like this was an important film for me to see. This trailer might give you some inkling as to why:

Creepy, huh? You might know writer/director Jordan Peele as part of the comedy duo Key & Peele, known for smartly tackling societal issues through sketch comedy. Get Out is a horror movie, but it’s also a film about race in America, and it’s impressively multilayered.

I left the theater feeling deeply disturbed but glad this movie was made. I can’t say any more without revealing spoilers, so if you haven’t seen the movie yet and you don’t want to have the plot spoiled for you, stop reading now and come back later.

Seriously, this is your last chance before I give away what happens.

Okay, you were warned. Here we go.

Our protagonist is Chris Washington, a young black man who has been dating Rose Armitage, a young white woman, for the last four months. She wants him to meet her family, but he’s hesitant. She acknowledges that her dad can be a little awkward on the subject of race, but assures Chris that he means well.

After unnerving encounters with a deer (echoes of The Invitation) and a racist cop, Chris and Rose arrive at the Armitages’ estate. On the surface, the Armitages are very friendly, but the conversation (brilliantly scripted by Peele) includes a lot of the little, everyday, get-under-your-skin moments of racism that people of color have to contend with: Rose’s dad going on about how he voted for Obama, for instance, and asking how long “this thang” has been going on. Chris laughs it off to be polite, though he clearly feels uncomfortable.

There’s a fantastic moment here, by the way, when Rose’s dad offhandedly mentions that they had to close off the basement because of “black mold.” In the midst of the racially charged atmosphere of the conversation, it’s nearly impossible not to take this as a racial remark, and Chris certainly notices, but what could he possibly say about it? Black mold is a real thing; his girlfriend would surely think he was crazy and oversensitive if he said it sounded racist. Chris never reacts to the remark, but that one tiny moment is a reminder to the audience of a real problem people of color often face, when racism can’t be called out without being accused of “playing the race card” or seeing things that aren’t there. (Incidentally, it turns out that the basement is actually used for molding of a different sort.)

There are other reasons for Chris to be unsettled: The only other black people on the estate are two servants, Georgina and Walter (Rose’s dad says he knows how bad it looks, but that it’s not what it seems), and something is clearly “off” about them. Later, more white people show up—and one more black character, and he, too, feels “off.”

By the end of the film, we learn the horrible secret: Rose’s family is kidnapping and luring black people to their estate, where they’re being hypnotized and psychologically trapped inside themselves—Rose’s mom calls it “the sunken place”—so that old or disabled white people’s consciousnesses can be transplanted into their bodies. The white people are then able to move about, controlling their new black bodies, with the black person’s consciousness along for the ride as a mere “passenger.” In a shocking twist, it turns out that even apparently-sweet Rose is in on the plot, and Chris must fight her and the rest of her family to escape.

This isn’t a “white people are evil” film, although it may sound that way at first, but it is a film about racism. I know many of my friends of color will connect with this movie in a way I can’t, so I won’t try to say what I think they’ll get out of it. I do want to say how I connected with it, though, because I think what Jordan Peele has done here is really important for white audiences. 

If you look beyond the surface horror-movie plot, this film actually gives white people a tiny peek at the reality of racism—not the epithet-shouting neo-Nazi kind of racism that white people normally imagine when we hear “racism,” but the “Oh it’s so nice to meet you; I voted for Obama” kind of racism, the subtle othering that expects people of color to smile and get along and adopt white culture as their own whenever they’re around white people.

So many of the moments in Get Out are clearly intended to work on multiple levels. When Chris confronts Georgina about something being wrong and she smiles and says, “No, no no no no no,” with tears streaming down her cheeks, the symbolism is blatant. How often do people of color have to ignore the subtle indignities they face and hide their true emotions in order to avoid coming across as, for example, “the angry black woman/man”? How many times do they find themselves in social situations—even with their closest white friends!—where people make little comments tying them to an “exotic,” supposedly monolithic culture, where they have to respond with a smile and a laugh instead of telling people how stupid and offensive they’re being? 

I can’t tell you the number of these stories I’ve heard from my friends, and I’m quite sure that the stories I’ve heard are only a tiny fraction of the stories that could be told. So there’s something in that moment that speaks volumes about the experiences of people of color in America.

The same is true for so many other moments. The black characters Chris meets at the Armitages’ have all symbolically given up their identities and conformed to white culture; when Chris meets one character, he turns out to be going under a new name, with new clothes and new mannerisms; when Chris offers him a fist bump, he tries to shake Chris’s fist. Again, within the story, there’s an explanation for all this, but every moment here is also about assimilation and culture differences. 

For me as a white audience member, all of these moments did something remarkable: They showed me my own culture—a culture I’m often blissfully unaware of because it’s all around me—as something alien. They reminded me that I, too, have a culture, and that expecting everyone else to assimilate to my culture is just as much an erasing of their identities as it would be to expect me to assimilate to someone else’s culture.

And that’s a big part of what Get Out is about—the erasing of identities, and the power of racism to destroy people. I think it’s really significant that racism is portrayed here very differently from how it’s normally portrayed in movies written by white people. In most Hollywood movies, you know a character is racist because they shout racial epithets or make blatant statements about a certain race’s inferiority. That allows white audiences to say, “I would never do/say that, so I’m not racist!” We really don’t want to think we are.

But notice something important about Get Out’s treatment of racism: This is a film about the literal enslavement of black people—racism doesn’t get more extreme than that—and yet Peele doesn’t go for the obvious by having the white characters admit that they think black people are inferior; instead, they subjugate and dehumanize people by claiming to admire things about them. They turn them into fashion accessories. 

When Chris asks why only black people are being targeted for this procedure, the response is telling: It’s not (supposedly) because the white characters think African Americans are bad, but rather, because they like certain things about them and they want “a change” for themselves. They want to become black—it’s trendy, we’re told!—but without having had any of the actual life experiences or history of African Americans. White people need to see this: to experience the ways in which Chris is othered by people who tell him all the things they like about him—isn’t he strong? Look at those muscles! Does he play golf like Tiger Woods? And he must be well-endowed and have such sexual prowess, right, Rose?

The white people in the audience need to be reminded that just because you’re saying positive things about someone doesn’t mean you’re not being racist, that turning someone into an exotic “other” may not be the same as shouting an epithet, but it’s still taking away someone’s identity and treating them as a commodity.

The film is filled with these kinds of moments. When we realize that Rose’s white grandmother has inhabited the body of Georgina, the fact that she keeps touching her own hair and admiring herself in the mirror takes on a whole new level of significance. (White people, please don’t ask to touch your black friends’ hair.) When Chris connects with a dying deer on the side of the road and later sees a deer head mounted on the wall at the Armitages’ estate, the symbolism is hard to miss. Black people are being turned into trophies in this house. And, oh yeah, they’re being literally auctioned off—as they were in real life in the not-too-distant past.

One day, I’d like to see the film again to pick up on all the ways things read differently the second time through. I noticed several things in retrospect that gain new significance once you know the ending, and I’m sure there’s a lot I didn’t notice. For example, Rose’s dad says he hired Walter and Georgina to care for his parents, and when his parents died, “I couldn’t bear to let them go.” The first time you see the film, it sounds like the “them” is Walter and Georgina. But in retrospect, it’s clear the “them” he couldn’t bear to let go was his parents, so he sacrificed Walter and Georgina for them. Which, again, is an example of how the supposed care of the white characters for the black characters (his care for Walter and Georgina, Rose’s care for Chris) is really all about caring for themselves and treating the black characters as completely interchangeable objects.

The message of the film isn’t simply that the black characters are “good” and the white characters are “bad.” There are presumably—hopefully—many good white people in the world of this film, and many others who wouldn’t do what the Armitages are doing but also probably wouldn’t believe Chris or make the effort to stop it. Peele’s mother and wife are both white, so he’s clearly not trying to paint all white people as villains. 

But I admit, as a white guy, I really, really wanted Rose to be good. I’ve been the white person in an interracial relationship introducing my black boyfriend to my family. I’ve been that. So I related to Rose, and I really wanted to believe that she was well-intentioned and just oblivious; even though she misses the mark on several occasions, there are times that she seems like she gets it and she really does listen to Chris. When a cop asks to see Chris’s ID early in the film even though he wasn’t driving, Rose stands up against the obvious racism, showing us all what it looks like for white people to do the right thing. “That was hot,” Chris says to her later, and I thought, yeah, that’s who I want to be.

So I have to admit, it was really upsetting to me to see Rose, the only good white character left in the film, turn out to be evil. But I realized that part of that is that I really wanted her to represent me, and that’s really the point. Just think how often horror films have only one black character who dies early on, and how many films of all genres have no significant black characters for audience members to look up to or identify with. I think it’s really important for white audiences to experience that.

As I’ve reflected on the film, it seems to me like there are three kinds of popular movies about people of color. There are those that feature POC characters that are essentially indistinguishable from the white characters—as if they just decided to cast Morgan Freeman instead of Tom Hanks without giving any thought to the character’s race. Then there are the movies that deal with racism, but in a way that allows white people to feel good about ourselves, because we’re not like the characters in the film. (This is especially true for movies about racism in the past; some of them are very important films, like Hidden Figures, which I loved, but we need to be aware that it’s still easy for white America to treat it as a feel-good film and think that we’re off the hook because we no longer have separate restrooms.) And finally, there are movies that focus more directly on the lives of people of color but tend to draw largely audiences of color; not many white people go see them, because we think they’re not “for us” (even though we assume films about white people are for everyone).

Get Out isn’t any of those. It’s drawing a broad audience but it’s not afraid to make white people uncomfortable. And if you can give me, a white guy, a chance to have even a momentary fraction of an experience of the real-life, modern-day, casual racism facing people of color in America, I think that’s a very good thing.

6

rwby relationships: ruby rose & yang xiao long

i know my sister like i know my own mind
you will never find anyone as trusting or as kind
i love my sister more than anything in this life
i will choose her happiness over mine every time

Day One Hundred And Thirty-Eight

-A boy tried the classic tablecloth magic trick when handed his change, yanking the dollar bill smoothly out of my hand. The gesture was pulled off perfectly and with a grand flourish. The single fault in his plan, as he swiftly came to realize, was overlooking the importance of a table element. With nothing to catch them, the coins flew into the sky, resulting in a shimmering finale he could not have planned better if he tried.

-I was interrogated by a woman about our Tennessee policies, as she insisted that we were in Tennessee. The last time that I checked, we were still in Virginia, and I was entirely unaware of our relocation, so I am clearly not the one to be asking anything.

-“This is a brand new card,” a woman told me as her card was rejected. “There can’t be something wrong with it.” She tried once more, only to be shut down again. “This card is not that new,” she admitted quietly. “Something is probably wrong with it.”

-A man grew upset with me when I had to inform him that we did not stock bags big enough to carry his new couch. I am equally upset, as I was deprived the knowledge of what his plan would have been, provided the proper tools.

-A woman expressed her disappointment to me that there were no kid-appropriate birthday cards. Instead, she told me, she had to settle for a more mature and risque Spongebob card.

-A young boy was entirely blown away to see yet another Target employee wearing red. His eyes betrayed that he was finally catching onto a pattern, and that his cork board of Polaroids and news clippings connected with a thick red thread is paying off at last.

-I asked a woman if she had found everything alright. She told me that she did not know, and instead called her daughter from across the store to come over and give me an answer. I appreciate this level of devotion towards getting me the truth.

-A Dumbo Tsum-Tsum gel cling was found at the bottom of my register. Naturally, I relocated it to a prominent position directly in front of my eyes, so as to guarantee the proper levels of joy and child-like happiness it was meant to bring me.

-An elderly woman threw a box of coffee onto the counter, narrowly missing my hand. She informed me that she had not meant to do that. Without hesitation, she threw a second box of coffee, this one not missing, betraying precisely what she had meant in the first place.

-I spotted a woman in a shirt sporting a cat in a baby holster so realistic that I took it at first for the real thing. The day I am able to make this shirt a reality is the day I finally have my life fulfilled.

-A pair of parents struggled to keep their child’s energy under control. The boy was thoroughly hyped up about his Trolls backpack, refusing to let it go even for the briefest moment. His mother remarked on how strange this was, as he was not even in school, while his other mother worked to strap him into his new prized possession.

-I overheard a young boy discuss his plans to own a supermarket wherein he would institute speed restrictions on carts, enforced by locking brakes, with the intent of causing children to go flying when they attempt stunts. I knew that if I waited long enough, I would come face to face with my own Moriarty.

-As I entered the bathroom towards the end of my shift, I was met with a man staring me down from over the wall of the handicap stall, body turned at a right angle to the toilet, standing chin above the wall. He spoke no words with his mouth, but far more than needed with his eyes.

SKAM: 4.01 - Am I Late?

Am I late?

 Prayer reminder app: [It’s time for Duhr]

 [Join the theme night in the mosque on Friday, about the woman’s role in Islam]

 [Is Jamilla coming?]

 [Sana]

[I don’t think so]

[I’ll be there <3]

EVAK: [incomprehensible, cute mumbling]

EVEN: Oh, now you’re here?

SANA: Am I late?  

ISAK: We’re done.

SANA: Noooo, sorry, took the tram the wrong way and -

MADHI: Heard that one before.

MAGNUS: Heard what?

MADHI: Took the tram the wrong way.

JONAS: You?

ISAK: Isn’t that what you usually do?

MADHI: Yeah, that’s what I usually do, when I can’t be assed to come to yours.

ISAK: Well, then you can come join me and Even, and help us unpack.

SANA: That sounds like a ton of fun, but I am super busy with the girls.

ISAK: Go on.

MAGNUS: Uh, Sana can you tell Vilde that I miss her? Already.

BOYS: Hæ?

MAGNUS: No, what I meant was, you tell them you miss them and they go aww.

EVEN: Only with girls.

ISAK: You’re cute together.

EVEN: Yeah.  

MAGNUS: Cuter than the two of you.

EVAK: Ohhhhhhhh.

EVEN: You wish.

VILDE: … No, there’s something about the ocean blue color… Yeah.

CHRIS: Ocean blue? Like is it called that blue?

NOORA: Royal blue? No, royal blue is like - [points at Chris’s jacket]

VILDE: No, it’s like Marbella Beach.  

CHRIS: This is royal blue.

NOORA: Marbella beach?

VILDE: Yeah, it’s the kind of beach you see in Marbella.

NOORA: Have you been there a lot?

SANA: Halla.

GIRLS: Hi!

SANA: What’s up?

EVA: Noora has her room back!

VILDE: But what I was going to say was that -

EVA: Pizza?

VILDE: - yesterday we tried a new position that we found on a website -

EVA: We have beef too!

VILDE: - where I sit myself over him just like Cowgirl, but I reverse so it’s reverse Cowgirl, so he sits. It’s a little uncomfortable in the beginning, because I felt like he saw right up, because like his head is like - if we did it right anyway. And that just felt so so good, because it hit something, it hit the g-spot.

CHRIS: There’s no g-spot on the top side.

VILDE: No, I heard that the g-spot is in the anus.

EVA: Isn’t that with guys?

VILDE: It’s pretty normal that you have multiple g-spots. But anyway the point is I’ve never had it so good with anyone before, I’ve never come as much as I do when I’m with Magnus. I just come and come and come and come and come -

SANA: Don’t you have any boundaries for what it’s okay to share?

VILDE: What do you mean?

SANA: Do you have to share every detail of your sex life with Magnus?

VILDE: I understand that it’s difficult for you to listen to because you can’t have sex -

SANA: I can have sex, Vilde. I just choose not to.

VILDE: Yeah, I’m just saying that it’s okay if you get sexually frustrated.

SANA: I’m not sexually frustrated! It’s not as if I go around thinking about boys and sex all the time and feel like I’m missing out. I just think that sex should be something nice between you and Magnus, and not the whole world.

NOORA: Would anyone like some tea?

CHRIS: Yes!

VILDE: Yes, let’s do that.

EVA: Okay, I have to tell you something, but I’m not entirely sure if it’s true. But I heard William has a new girlfriend in London.

VILDE: What? Are you kidding?

EVA: Chris told me. Should I say something to her?

SANA: Of course you should say something.

EVA: But shouldn’t William be the one to tell her?

SANA: Well, yeah, but he obviously hasn’t.

EVA: And I don’t know for sure that it’s true. And I just don’t understand the thing between William and Noora. Are they like together? Or not?

NOORA: What’s up? What are you talking about?

VILDE: Anal sex. Magnus and I are considering trying it. Have you tried it?

NOORA: No.

VILDE: So you and William never -

NOORA: Vilde! No.

EVA: Apropos William, how is he?

NOORA: Good.  

CHRIS: Yeah, we’ve never really understood the thing between you. Like if you’re together or not?

NOORA: I mean, it’ll always be me and William.