I can’t reblog the post because op blocked me but there’s a post going around to the tune of “this women’s march was organised by black, latina and palestinian women activists but white women just wanna be cissexist and talk about their pussies” and I’m actually furious.
1) Do you honestly think woc don’t have vulvas? That we are somehow unaffected by anti abortion laws and laws making it harder to access birth control? Do you think that our activist struggles are somehow unrelated to the exploitation of our bodies and reproductive labour? Do you honestly not think that a single woc has ever held a “get your rosaries off my ovaries” sign? lmao
2) Sentiments like these show a clear lack of knowledge (or maybe simply a lack of care) about our histories with regards to slavery and colonialism. There is a very long and painful history of black women’s bodies being used as a means of economic production during slavery, of native women being raped to further colonialist expansions in the americas, of poor immigrant latinas being sterilised in prisons. Our oppression differs from that of our men because of the exploitation of our reproductive capabilities so to act like any discussions of this is a “white thing” is so incredibly insulting especially considering the pain of our foremothers.
3) This is just neoracism. Racialized misogyny with an approved progressive stamp. It’s clear that our experiences, our histories and our realities mean nothing to these people as we are merely a prop in their antifeminist attempts to silence women and obscure the realities of our oppression.
feeling the pull to the light side once again, searches the dangerous
deserts of Jakku late into the night to rescue his old friend, PoeDameron. At first he finds the jacket, but no pilot– devastated, he redoubles his efforts. He knows he’s alive, he can feel it.
In the force awakens Poe can’t remember what happens after the TIE
fighter crashed, he wakes up safely in the middle of nowhere… convenient or was BEN SOLO there to rescue you!?
Simon wasn’t sure why he decided to go out that night. God knew he had other things he should be doing—the essay he’d been putting off for weeks, a flat that was in desperate need of a good cleaning. But Penny had insisted, and in the end he had given in.
Embers was a nightclub in the heart of London. It was small but always packed with people. Simon wasn’t sure why. It was just like any other nightclub, he supposed. The lighting was dim, broken only by periodic bursts of colored light. Smoke hung thick in the air, permeated by the strobe lights. There was a blood-red marble dance floor and a small stage where the dj seemed to be lost in her own world.
Penny pulled him through the crowd, her hand dug deep in the fabric of his jumper.
“Come on!” she yelled over the music.
“Why do we have to go to the center?” complained Simon. People pulsed around him in waves, and he imagined that that was how it felt—waves crashing against him.
“It’s just what you do, Simon,” said Penny, turning to look back at him just long enough to roll her eyes. Simon decided to take her word for it.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like nightclubs—it wasn’t that at all. He liked certain aspects of them. He liked the unity of strangers all coming together to dance. He liked the music so loud he could feel it in his bones. He even liked the scent of cigarette smoke cocooning him. (He never told Penny this. He knew she wouldn’t understand).
But he didn’t like people tugging at him, trying to dance with him. He didn’t like strangers circling him like he somehow belonged to him. That the music and the dim lighting somehow warranted attention.
He didn’t like that at all.
“Dance with me, Simon!” said Penny as they reached the center of the dance floor. She turned to face him, bobbing energetically to the music. Her purple hair rose and fell as she jumped, and her smile was almost bright enough to cut through the dim lighting.
Simon found himself smiling (really, Penny’s smiles were contagious), and before he knew it, he was dancing as well.
Baz wasn’t sure why he went to this particular nightclub. He had been there before of course—everyone in his year had gone. It was basically a rite of passage. But that didn’t mean he liked it.
True, there were certain things he fancied about Embers. He liked the music, and the smoky lights and feeling like he was part of something. What exactly that that something was, he wasn’t sure. But he liked it nonetheless.
He wasn’t sure what he was looking for when he went to the club that night. He wasn’t sure what he would find.
But then again, he never did.
“You dance like an old man,” said Penny, a laugh bubbling from her throat. She spun like a top.
“I thought you liked the way I danced,” said Simon.
“I do,” said Penny breathlessly. “You dance like an old man in the best possible way.”
“How is that supposed to make me feel?” asked Simon, feigning irritation. “You know it makes me self-conscious—”
His voice caught in his throat when he felt the slightest pressure on his waist. He turned to see a boy there, looking to be about the same age as him.
“Sorry,” he said, taking his hand away. Simon felt like the place he’d been touching had caught flame. “Would you like to dance?”
Simon blinked (rather stupidly, he thought) and glanced over at Penny. She gave him a sideways smile and a shrug before disappearing into the crowd.
Simon turned back to the stranger. He was taller than him, he noticed, by about three inches.
“Uh—yeah,” he stuttered.
Normally he would have declined. He didn’t know why this time was different. A voice, whispering from a far corner of his brain decided to pitch in. It’s because he’s hot, Simon. That’s why.
“Why do you look so confused?” asked the boy. “Has no one ever asked you to dance before?” Simon couldn’t read his expression.
“No. No. Just not—a boy,” said Simon. He felt himself blushing, but miraculously the lights flickered off. He felt rather than saw the stranger stepping closer, placing his hands on Simon’s waist.
“What’s your name?” he asked, bending down to speak into Simon’s ear. Simon shivered.
“Simon,” he said. “You?”
“Baz,” he said.
“Strange name isn’t it?” asked Simon, struggling to keep his sentences coherent. It was difficult—much too difficult—with Baz pressed against him, close enough that Simon could feel the warmth of his skin, could smell the heavy scent of him. He smelled like smoke and musky cologne. It was overwhelming.
“I suppose,” said Baz. One of his hands left Simon’s waist, trailing up to his shoulder and then along his arm. Simon imagined that embers followed Baz’s fingertips. Hell, it felt like it.
Baz’s fingers found his. His hand was curiously cool to the touch, his fingers long and slender.
“Is this okay?” asked Baz.
Simon nodded, blinking quickly.
The music slowed to a dull throbbing pulse, and Baz moved against him, his dancing almost…silky.
What the hell is wrong with you? Simon thought to himself. Someone can’t dance silkily.
However, it was becoming ever-clearer that Baz wasn’t just anyone.
He had never danced with anyone that made him feel like this—like he was drowning in the sensation of them. Like his skin glittered with sparks.
He hadn’t meant for this to happen. Truly, he hadn’t. Usually he danced with strangers. It was…interesting. Almost like an experiment. It never meant anything. It didn’t need to.
He wasn’t even sure what had compelled him to ask Simon to dance. Simon was plain. Nondescript. Christ, he’d come to a nightclub wearing an oversized jumper. But there was something about him. Something that made Baz feel dizzy. Like he was being swept away.
He liked it.
He liked Simon, and he didn’t bother to question why. All that was important now was this—them, moving together as one, their fingers interlaced. Simon’s breath on his neck, raising goosebumps.
The song ended, but Simon didn’t want to step away. It seemed as if Baz didn’t want to either.
“Do you want to go outside?” asked Simon suddenly, without thinking.
Baz blinked. It the dull light his dark eyes seemed to burn.
“I’d love to,” he said.
Baz led the way, and Simon followed. The crowd parted easily around Baz. His presence was a sharp knife—beautiful in a dangerous sort of way, impossible to ignore.
Outside it had begun to sprinkle, the city shrouded in mist. They walked around the side of the building, where a few people milled about, talking or smoking. The pair of them went unnoticed.
“You’re a good dancer,” said Simon. He felt a flush of embarrassment but forced it down.
“Thanks,” said Baz, a smirk occupying his lips. “You’re not too bad yourself.”
“Yeah, well Penny says I dance like an old man,” said Simon. He pulled a hand through his tangled curls and leaned against the wall.
“Penny…your girlfriend?” questioned Baz, raising a single dark eyebrow.
“No. Best friend,” corrected Simon. He realized at that moment that he had completely forgotten about Penny. “I should probably get back to her soon—”
“Well, if you must go, take this,” said Baz. He fished around in his pocket for a moment before retrieving a pen. He took Simon’s hand (gently, so gently) and began to write.
“What’s this?” asked Simon.
“My phone number,” said Baz with a devilish grin. “Text me, yeah?”
“S-sure,” said Simon. Baz took a step backward, then, as if thinking better of it, stepped back and placed a kiss on Simon’s cheek.
Before Simon could even process what had just happened Baz was gone, like a plume of smoke scattered by a gust of wind.
All Simon was left with was a number scrawled on the back of his hand, and the lingering ember of Baz’s kiss lighting his cheek aflame.