“Suddenly, in an underground mortuary on a wet night in Cardiff, I hear the song of a nightingale!”
- Captain Jack Harkness -
(In which if you trash talk Martha Jones, we can’t be friends sorry)(but not really)
Honestly, I really don’t get all the hate for Martha Jones. She is one of the new who companions who went through the most (being stuck in two different timelines, walking the earth for a whole year to save her family, the doctor, Jack, and Earth in a whole), and one of the very courageous in my opinion.
She is the one who left the Tardis on her own will because she knew what would be best for her in the long run, whilst many others had stayed until they were forcefully removed from their adventurous lives. And as you can see, leaving a life like that takes a lot of willpower to do so.
Like many other companions the doctor has had, she is strong yet has her weaknesses as well because she is human. And don’t get me started on the hate she gets because she loved the doctor because seriously, who wouldn’t? Isn’t the reason why we love these companions so much is due to the fact that they are so relatable? Because they are just ordinary people like us who’s found a way to shine?
As for me, I like almost every one of the companions that the doctor had (I can’t say all because there are characters I haven’t seen just yet), and I understand why some may not be other’s favorites, but I really don’t like how people tend to trash talk about a certain character due to one little characteristic they don’t like.
A Black Woman Speaks…
Of White Womanhood
Of White Supremacy
It is right that I a woman
should speak of white womanhood.
die for it; because of it.
And their blood chilled in electric chairs,
stopped by hangman’s noose,
cooked by lynch mobs’ fire,
spilled by white supremacist mad desire to kill for profit,
gives me that right.
I would that I could speak of white womanhood
as it will and should be
when it stands tall in full equality.
But then, womanhood will be womanhood
void of color and of class,
and all necessity for my speaking thus will be past.
But now, since ‘tis deemed a thing apart
I must in searching honesty report
how it seems to me.
White womanhood stands in bloodied skirt
and willing slavery
reaching out adulterous hand
killing mine and crushing me.
What then is this superior thing
that in order to be sustained must needs feed upon my flesh?
How came this horror to be?
Let’s look to history.
They said, the white supremacist said
that you were better than me,
that your fair brow should never know the sweat of slavery.
White womanhood too is enslaved,
the difference is degree.
They brought me here in chains.
They brought you here willing slaves to man.
You, shiploads of women each filled with hope
that she might win with ruby lip and saucy curl
and bright and flashing eye
him to wife who had the largest tender.
And they sold you here even as they sold me.
My sisters, there is no room for mockery.
If they counted my teeth
they did appraise your thigh
and sold you to the highest bidder
the same as I.
And you did not fight for your right to choose
whom you would wed
but for whatever bartered price
that was the legal tender
you were sold to a stranger’s bed
in a stranger land
And you did not fight.
Mind you, I speak not mockingly
but I fought for freedom,
I’m fighting now for our unity.
We are women all,
and what wrongs you murders me
and eventually marks your grave
so we share a mutual death at the hand of tyranny.
They trapped me with the chain and gun.
They trapped you with lying tongue.
For, 'less you see that fault-
that male villainy
that robbed you of name, voice and authority,
that murderous greed that wasted you and me,
he, the white supremacist, fixed your minds with poisonous thought:
“white skin is supreme.”
and therewith bought that monstrous change
exiling you to things.
Changed all that nature had ill you wrought of gentle usefulness,
abolishing your spring.
Tore out your heart,
set your good apart from all that you could say,
know to be right.
And you did not fight,
but set your minds fast on my slavery
the better to endure your own.
my pearls were beads of sweat
wrung from weary bodies’ pain,
instead of rings upon my hands
I wore swollen, bursting veins.
My ornaments were the wip-lash’s scar
my diamond, perhaps, a tear.
Instead of paint and powder on my face
I wore a solid mask of fear to see my blood so spilled.
And you, women seeing
spoke no protest
but cuddled down in your pink slavery
and thought somehow my wasted blood
confirmed your superiority.
Because your necklace was of gold
you did not notice that it throttled speech.
Because diamond rings bedecked your hands
you did not regret their dictated idleness.
Nor could you see that the platinum bracelets
which graced your wrists were chains
binding you fast to economic slavery.
And though you claimed your husband’s name
still could not command his fidelity.
You bore him sons.
I bore him sons.
No, not willingly.
He purchased you.
He raped me,
But you fought neither for yourselves nor me.
Sat trapped in your superiority
and spoke no reproach.
Consoled your outrage with an added diamond brooch.
Oh, God, how great is a woman’s fear
who for a stone, a cold, cold stone
would not defend honor, love or dignity!
You bore the damning mockery of your marriage
and heaped your hate on me,
a woman too,
a slave more so.
And when your husband disowned his seed
that was my son
and sold him apart from me
you felt avenged.
I was not your enemy in this,
I was not the source of your distress.
I was your friend, I fought.
But you would not help me fight
thinking you helped only me.
Your deceived eyes seeing only my slavery
aided your own decay.
Yes, they condemned me to death
and they condemned you to decay.
Your heart whisked away,
consumed in hate,
used up in idleness
playing yet the lady’s part
estranged to vanity.
It is justice to you to say your fear equalled your tyranny.
You were afraid to nurse your young
lest fallen breast offend your master’s sight
and he should flee to firmer loveliness.
And so you passed them, your children, on to me.
Flesh that was your flesh and blood
that was your blood drank the sustenance of life from me.
And as I gave suckle I knew I nursed my own child’s enemy.
I could have lied,
told you your child was fed till it was dead of hunger.
But I could not find the heart to kill orphaned innocence.
For as it fed, it smiled and burped and gurgled with content
and as for color knew no difference.
Yes, in that first while
I kept your sons and daughters alive.
But when they grew strong in blood
and bone that was of my milk
taught them to hate me.
Put your decay in their hearts and upon their lips
so that strength that was of myself
turned and spat upon me,
despoiled my daughters, and killed my sons.
You know I speak true.
Though this is not true for all of you.
When I bestirred myself for freedom
and brave Harriet led the way
some of you found heart and played a part
in aiding my escape.
And when I made my big push for freedom
your sons fought at my sons’ side,
Your husbands and brothers too fell in that battle
when Crispus Attucks died.
It’s unfortunate that you acted not in the way of justice
but to preserve the Union
and for dear sweet pity’s sake;
Else how came it to be with me as it is today?
You abhorred slavery
yet loathed equality.
I would that the poor among you could have seen
through the scheme
and joined hands with me.
Then, we being the majority, could long ago have rescued
our wasted lives.
The rich, becoming richer, could be content
while yet the poor had only the pretense of superiority
and sought through murderous brutality
to convince themselves that what was false was true.
So with KKK and fiery cross
and bloodied appetites
set about to prove that “white is right”
forgetting their poverty.
Thus the white supremacist used your skins
to perpetuate slavery.
And woe to me.
Woe to Willie McGee.
Woe to the seven men of Martinsville.
And woe to you.
It was no mistake that your naked body on an Esquire calendar
announced the date, May Eighth.
This is your fate if you do not wake to fight.
They will use your naked bodies to sell their wares
though it be hate, Coca-Cola or rape.
When a white mother disdained to teach her children
this doctrine of hate,
but taught them instead of peace
and respect for all men’s dignity
the courts of law did legislate
that they be taken from her
and sent to another state.
To make a Troy Hawkins of the little girl
and a killer of the little boy!
No, it was not for the womanhood of this mother
that Willie McGee died
but for a depraved, enslaved, adulterous woman
whose lustful demands denied,
lied and killed what she could not possess.
Only three months before another such woman lied
and seven black men shuddered and gave up their lives.
These women were upheld in these bloody deeds
by the president of this nation,
thus putting the official seal on the fate
of white womanhood within these United States.
This is what they plan for you.
This is the depravity they would reduce you to.
Death for me
and worse than death for you.
What will you do?
Will you fight with me?
White supremacy is your enemy and mine.
So be careful when you talk with me.
Remind me not of my slavery, I know it well
but rather tell me of your own.
Remember, you have never known me.
You’ve been busy seeing me
as white supremacist would have me be,
and I will be myself.
My aim is full equality.
I would usurp their plan!
and plenty for every man, woman and child
who walks the earth.
This is my fight!
If you will fight with me then take my hand
and the hand of Rosa Ingram, and Rosalee McGee,
and as we set about our plan
let our wholehearted fight be:
PEACE IN A WORLD WHERE THERE IS EQUALITY.
Kotaro felt a thin line of pain slice across the skin on his back, as he stuck the landing of his back handspring. He could feel one of his heels slip a little on the wet stone path, as his weight settled, but it wasn’t enough to set him off balance.
While infiltration was his specialty, he had been more than a little careless this evening, making a last minute detour on his way home from a mission. He had been able to get close to this random manor without much fanfare, and if he could keep it to only this one slight injury, with only this one guard knowing he was here, he would consider it a success.
He needed what he came for, had to have it.
If he only knew that simply thinking of her would assuage the constant ache in his head– the never-ending thumping of pain hitting against his temples like the harsh twang of a bowstring – he would have perused her sooner. And there was no doubt in his mind that it had to be her.
There could be no other woman who could walk this earth and also love a creature like him. He was as certain of her rarity as he was that the sun would come up in the morning, whether he deemed himself worthy to live for another day or not.
The sun would always rise. Of that, he was certain.
His sainted lady would always have the gravitational pull that her kindness afforded her, to keep him obediently in her orbit. Whether she realized it or not.
Of that, he was certain.
Sliding into a defensive position, Kotaro kicked the cut pieces of his top behind him as he took a slow, cautious step toward the man blocking his exit.
“I don’t know who you are,” the man began, passing his knife from one hand to the next.
‘Kitchen knife. Can’t be a night guard,’ Kotaro gave the man a silent up-and-down assessment as he made his way closer. He could hear the steadily climbing fear in the man’s voice as he tried to sound as in control as possible.
‘An amateur? No. Must have seen me from the window and came running. Got lucky cutting me, then.’
“W-we…all…all of us are prepared to defend our lord!”
‘And if he got lucky, then that means I’m getting rusty.’
“I’m not here for your lord,” Kotaro pulled a sprig of camellias from his sleeve, indicating the bush from which he pulled it, by the garden wall, with a jerk of his chin.
“All I want is this,” he held the small, bendy, branch out with one hand, and displayed his other hand palm out, wiggling his fingers to prove that he was, as far as the man knew, unarmed.
Silence laced itself between the two men, wherein the only things that dared to move were the errant specks of dust as they traveled through the air. Some settled on the ground, twirling toward the grass as they danced in the moonlight, while others rose in a cloud, carried on the night breeze.
“Only this,” he repeated, firmly.
The man before him shifted the knife in his hands again, seeming to consider whether or not this explanation was plausible, but Kotaro didn’t have the patience to wait for his conclusion.
Just as the man lowered his knife, Kotaro rushed forward.
There was a confused moment of motion on the man’s part, where he was unsure of whether or not to throw his hands up in defense or to crouch down and make himself a smaller target, but by the time he raised his head, Kotaro was gone, and he found himself standing alone in the garden with only the moonlit dust wafting in the air as it traversed the inky darkness of the night wind.
martha jones spent a year in hell, watching the earth burn under her boots. martha jones saw whole countries gutted and screaming, saw cities turned into slave camps and countrysides turned into missile silos, saw friend turn against friend and innocent people die for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
martha jones stared death in the face day after day for a year, and never lost her compassion, her sense of right and wrong, her ability to hope that one day things could get better, and her drive to act on that hope.
she had a million opportunities to just lie down, accept it, let the planet crack around her, but she never did. she kept going, kept spreading the doctor’s story, kept that spark of hope alive for the whole of humanity, all while having no reliable backup and no weapons worth a damn.
all the other companions’ moments of glory were spur-of-the-moment things - fleeting meteors of brilliance. martha jones, on the other hand, was the woman who walked the earth, sacrificing her life and future day after week after agonizing month while her family and friends were enslaved and tortured thousands of feet above her head. she burned in order to shed light through the darkness, in order to give humanity a light to find its way home by. in the most literal sense, she is a star.
essentially: don’t you dare insult martha jones in front of me.
he made a 10 minute long video abt how we need to have ~respect for all opinions~ after the p//dpie bullshit and then his weird ass fans took my post meant for lesbians to make it about him and in doing so insulted every butch woman who has ever walked this earth
A friend of mine flagged up something about Doctor Who in a conversation earlier, and wondered if something could be read into it (or whether it's just 'summat and nuthin'). RTD's era gives us The Most Important Woman in the Universe in Donna, and The Woman Who Walked the Earth in Martha. Both said aloud. In Moff's era, we get The GIRL Who Waited and The Impossible GIRL.
I think it’s just representative of the difference in their approach to the titles. Russell T Davies treats those as something the characters achieve, something they grow up into. It’s a mark of maturation for the characters. Whereas for Clara and Amy, it’s their starting point that they have to break away from, seizing control over their own lives in their process of growth. Amy stops waiting and Clara takes control of the impossible rather than letting it happen to her. RTD’s titles are achievements while Moffat’s are reductive things to escape over time.
So I was just asked on my side blog why I find Steven Moffat’s Doctor Who to be sexist. This rant might seem a bit scattered, and I’m sorry about that, but I’m trying to give you all the reasons and I have a lot. I also think he’s generally a poor storyteller, and there are other elements of his storytelling that are kind of :/ but this is a post about sexism.
The Moffat Era and Monikers: “The Girl Who Waited” and “The Impossible Girl” in Context
“Fourteen years since fish custard. Amy Pond, the girl who waited, you’ve waited long enough.”
There exists lot of contention around the use of monikers of Steven Moffat’s female characters on Doctor Who. One of the more fascinating questions relates to how the titles “The Impossible Girl” and “The Girl Who Waited” are bestowed upon Amy and Clara, and what conclusions can be drawn from this. While it is true that they are given to them by the Doctor early in their stories, reading a problematic nature into this is, in my opinion, a mistake. In fact, I would argue that at the basis of this lies a rather simple misunderstanding.
RTD wrote about ordinary people doing extraordinary things and so it is unsurprising that the companions’ monikers represent their shining moment at the culmination of their season arc. The monikers of Moffat’s women mean something entirely else. Amy finishes her story as neither a child nor as someone who waits. The execution and resolution of Clara’s series 7 arc tells us she is so much more than “impossible”. And that, exactly, is the point. RTD era titles signified the final stage in constructing a character, whereas in the Moffat era they represent a character’s beginning and serve as a place of deconstruction.
Neither of these approaches is better or worse, but judging Moffat by the standards of the former is not only wrong. It misses the depth and beauty of his character writing.