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wanderingnork · 2 years

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So, tldr for the folks who don’t know: what edda is asking about here is the issue of the Tanis site in North Dakota. The geology of the site may record the actual minutes to hours of events that occurred right after the asteroid impact that ended the Cretaceous Period (the KPg or KT extinction). In the last few days, accusations of falsified data related to the Tanis site have been leveled at a major figure involved with its description and excavation. That’s the Drama and it is…not good. We’ll hit that at the end.

Since I started yelling about it to edda and everyone else who’d sit still long enough to hear me thank you all for your patience I love you all, I’ve been reading as many papers as I can get my hands on related to the Tanis site and the extinction event in general. I’ve cited the most accessible-to-average-readers and key papers under the cut below. The story is...incredible.

The asteroid that caused the KPg extinction struck the earth off the Yucatán Peninsula, at the Chicxulub impact crater. Ten kilometers in diameter, leaving behind a crater a hundred and eighty kilometers across which is still intact today, the asteroid set off an instant apocalypse. Megatsunamis, firestorms, and earthquakes, and debris falling from the sky were followed by clouds of dust that dropped temperatures around the world. Oceans acidified and plants couldn’t photosynthesize. Evidence of this impact is found all over the world, from seafloors that fossilized with the ripples of tsunamis still intact to layers of charcoal and soot left behind by wildfires. (For a comprehensive review of all this, including a response to counterevidence, see the Kring 2007 paper specifically, that citation links directly to a PDF with no paywall.)

Most importantly, though, the impact left behind a clear, visible boundary line: a layer of iridium-rich clay found worldwide. That’s an element rare on earth, but not nearly as rare in extraterrestrial bodies. Above that layer, there are no non-avian dinosaurs. It marks the KPg extinction boundary. Wherever you find it, you know exactly what you’re dealing with.

At the Tanis site, this iridium layer is directly above a dramatic bone bed and a cluster of geological features that also align with other signs of the Chicxulub impact. The site is described in “A seismically induced onshore surge deposit at the KPg boundary, North Dakota” by DePalma et al. 2019; the citation I’ve included takes you directly to the article, open access. If you don’t feel like reading the entire article, here’s the most relevant piece from the abstract:

“Associated ejecta and a cap of iridium-rich impactite reveal that its emplacement coincided with the Chicxulub event. Acipenseriform fish, densely packed in the deposit, contain ejecta spherules in their gills and were buried by an inland-directed surge that inundated a deeply incised river channel before accretion of the fine-grained impactite. Although this deposit displays all of the physical characteristics of a tsunami runup, the timing (<1 hour postimpact) is instead consistent with the arrival of strong seismic waves from the magnitude Mw ∼10 to 11 earthquake generated by the Chicxulub impact, identifying a seismically coupled seiche inundation as the likely cause.” (DePalma et al., 2019)

In simpler terms: the site is located directly under the iridium layer and full of debris thrown up from an impact. Sturgeons and other fish, which are packed in a deep river channel, have tiny spheres of ejected glass in their gills and were buried by a surge of mud and water coming upstream in the river. The timing of it (determined by methods that are beyond my limited understanding as a highly enthusiastic amateur) indicates that the surge was triggered by massive earthquakes caused by the Chicxulub impact.

So we are almost completely certain at this point that this site is a record of the hours and minutes immediately following the asteroid impact. The current mess surrounds two papers released last year and this year, both of which have claimed to determine the exact season in which the asteroid hit. Please note that, although I’ve cited both papers for the sake of comprehensiveness, I would at this moment believe Melissa During’s claim that the discovery is hers and her paper from 2022 should be considered valid, not the DePalma paper from last year (which has been accused of falsified data to “scoop” the story before During could publish). The DOI links for both papers will take you to open access versions of the papers where you can read them in their entirety.

It was spring in the northern hemisphere on the day of the impact.

The bones of the sturgeons and other fish, when closely studied, reveal growth patterns consistent in all other relatives with seasonal dietary fluctuations. The growth records in the fossilized bones indicate that they were still in the middle of the springtime feeding season. The speed of their death froze the growth of their bones in time, preserving that moment to be seen millions of years later. No matter how this conflict surrounding the papers shakes out...it was spring.

Did you know that flowering plants evolved during the Cretaceous period? In North America, there were flowers of the same order that includes heather, phlox, and primroses. There were magnolias and buttercups. Even the ancestors of roses.

There were flowers blooming in the moment that the asteroid struck.

Alvarez, Luis W., Walter Alvarez, Frank Asaro, and Helen V. Michel. "Extraterrestrial cause for the Cretaceous-Tertiary extinction." Science 208, no. 4448 (1980): 1095-1108. http://www.jstor.org/stable/1683699

DePalma, Robert A., Anton A. Oleinik, Loren P. Gurche, David A. Burnham, Jeremy J. Klingler, Curtis J. McKinney, Frederick P. Cichocki et al. "Seasonal calibration of the end-cretaceous Chicxulub impact event." Scientific reports 11, no. 1 (2021): 1-9. https://doi.org/10.1038/s41598-021-03232-9

DePalma, Robert A., Jan Smit, David A. Burnham, Klaudia Kuiper, Phillip L. Manning, Anton Oleinik, Peter Larson et al. "A seismically induced onshore surge deposit at the KPg boundary, North Dakota." Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 116, no. 17 (2019): 8190-8199. https://doi.org/10.1073%2Fpnas.1817407116

During, Melanie AD, Jan Smit, Dennis FAE Voeten, Camille Berruyer, Paul Tafforeau, Sophie Sanchez, Koen HW Stein, Suzan JA Verdegaal-Warmerdam, and Jeroen HJL van der Lubbe. "The Mesozoic terminated in boreal spring." Nature 603, no. 7899 (2022): 91-94. https://doi.org/10.1038/s41586-022-04446-1

Friis, Else Marie, K. Raunsgaard Pedersen, and Peter R. Crane. "Cretaceous angiosperm flowers: innovation and evolution in plant reproduction." Palaeogeography, palaeoclimatology, palaeoecology 232, no. 2-4 (2006): 251-293. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.palaeo.2005.07.006

Henehan, Michael J., Andy Ridgwell, Ellen Thomas, Shuang Zhang, Laia Alegret, Daniela N. Schmidt, James WB Rae et al. "Rapid ocean acidification and protracted Earth system recovery followed the end-Cretaceous Chicxulub impact." Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 116, no. 45 (2019): 22500-22504. https://doi.org/10.1073/pnas.1905989116

Hildebrand, Alan R., Glen T. Penfield, David A. Kring, Mark Pilkington, Antonio Camargo Z, Stein B. Jacobsen, and William V. Boynton. "Chicxulub crater: a possible Cretaceous/Tertiary boundary impact crater on the Yucatan Peninsula, Mexico." Geology 19, no. 9 (1991): 867-871. https://doi.org/10.1130/0091-7613(1991)019%3C0867:CCAPCT%3E2.3.CO;2

Kring, David A. “The Chicxulub impact event and its environmental consequences at the Cretaceous–Tertiary boundary.” Palaeogeography, Palaeoclimatology, Palaeoecology 255, no. 1-2 (2007): 4-21. http://www.ela-iet.com/EMD/Kring2007ChicxulubK-TReview.pdf

Nixon, Kevin C., and William L. Crepet. "Late Cretaceous fossil flowers of ericalean affinity." American Journal of Botany 80, no. 6 (1993): 616-623. https://doi.org/10.1002/j.1537-2197.1993.tb15230.x

Pope, Kevin O., Kevin H. Baines, Adriana C. Ocampo, and Boris A. Ivanov. "Energy, volatile production, and climatic effects of the Chicxulub Cretaceous/Tertiary impact." Journal of Geophysical Research: Planets 102, no. E9 (1997): 21645-21664. https://doi.org/10.1029/97JE01743

Schulte, Peter, J. A. N. Smit, Alexander Deutsch, Tobias Salge, Andrea Friese, and Kilian Beichel. "Tsunami backwash deposits with Chicxulub impact ejecta and dinosaur remains from the Cretaceous–Palaeogene boundary in the La Popa Basin, Mexico." Sedimentology 59, no. 3 (2012): 737-765. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1365-3091.2011.01274.x

Schulte, Peter, Laia Alegret, Ignacio Arenillas, José A. Arz, Penny J. Barton, Paul R. Bown, Timothy J. Bralower et al. "The Chicxulub asteroid impact and mass extinction at the Cretaceous-Paleogene boundary." Science 327, no. 5970 (2010): 1214-1218. https://doi.org/10.1126/science.1177265

Vajda, Vivi, J. Ian Raine, Christopher J. Hollis, and C. Percy Strong. "Global effects of the Chicxulub impact on terrestrial vegetation—review of the palynological record from New Zealand Cretaceous/Tertiary boundary." Cratering in marine environments and on ice (2004): 57-74. DOI: 10.1007/978-3-662-06423-8_4

#nork rants #this was emotionally exhausting to write #worth it though

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eac-cheat-download-1d · 2 years

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eac cheat download 100% working LYM!

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Just good, fresh content! Alternatively, you can donate through PayPal or Buy us a Coffee. We do often include affiliate links to earn us some pennies. See more here. Valve has now expanded the developer documentation noting how Easy Anti-Cheat can be hooked up with Proton: Proton supports Easy Anti-Cheat without requiring any recompilation, but it does require you to manually enable support for your build by following these steps in order: Go into the EAC settings on the EAC partner site and enable Linux support from the dashboard. Lastly, on the Steamworks site, publish a new build of your game containing the new depot contents. You don't have to make any changes to the game executable, just include the new files in the depot contents. About the author - Liam Dawe. I am the owner of GamingOnLinux. After discovering Linux back in the days of Mandrake in , I constantly came back to check on the progress of Linux until Ubuntu appeared on the scene and it helped me to really love it. 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blackwoolncrown · 4 years

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”This essay has been kicking around in my head for years now and I’ve never felt confident enough to write it. It’s a time in my life I’m ashamed of. It’s a time that I hurt people and, through inaction, allowed others to be hurt. It’s a time that I acted as a violent agent of capitalism and white supremacy. Under the guise of public safety, I personally ruined people’s lives but in so doing, made the public no safer… so did the family members and close friends of mine who also bore the badge alongside me.

But enough is enough.

The reforms aren’t working. Incrementalism isn’t happening. Unarmed Black, indigenous, and people of color are being killed by cops in the streets and the police are savagely attacking the people protesting these murders.

American policing is a thick blue tumor strangling the life from our communities and if you don’t believe it when the poor and the marginalized say it, if you don’t believe it when you see cops across the country shooting journalists with less-lethal bullets and caustic chemicals, maybe you’ll believe it when you hear it straight from the pig’s mouth.”

>>Copied here in case anyone gets paywalled when they click the above. The full article is...a lot.<<

WHY AM I WRITING THIS

As someone who went through the training, hiring, and socialization of a career in law enforcement, I wanted to give a first-hand account of why I believe police officers are the way they are. Not to excuse their behavior, but to explain it and to indict the structures that perpetuate it.

I believe that if everyone understood how we’re trained and brought up in the profession, it would inform the demands our communities should be making of a new way of community safety. If I tell you how we were made, I hope it will empower you to unmake us.

One of the other reasons I’ve struggled to write this essay is that I don’t want to center the conversation on myself and my big salty boo-hoo feelings about my bad choices. It’s a toxic white impulse to see atrocities and think “How can I make this about me?” So, I hope you’ll take me at my word that this account isn’t meant to highlight me, but rather the hundred thousand of me in every city in the country. It’s about the structure that made me (that I chose to pollute myself with) and it’s my meager contribution to the cause of radical justice.

YES, ALL COPS ARE BASTARDS

I was a police officer in a major metropolitan area in California with a predominantly poor, non-white population (with a large proportion of first-generation immigrants). One night during briefing, our watch commander told us that the city council had requested a new zero tolerance policy. Against murderers, drug dealers, or child predators?

No, against homeless people collecting cans from recycling bins.

See, the city had some kickback deal with the waste management company where waste management got paid by the government for our expected tonnage of recycling. When homeless people “stole” that recycling from the waste management company, they were putting that cheaper contract in peril. So, we were to arrest as many recyclers as we could find.

Even for me, this was a stupid policy and I promptly blew Sarge off. But a few hours later, Sarge called me over to assist him. He was detaining a 70 year old immigrant who spoke no English, who he’d seen picking a coke can out of a trash bin. He ordered me to arrest her for stealing trash. I said, “Sarge, c’mon, she’s an old lady.” He said, “I don’t give a shit. Hook her up, that’s an order.” And… I did. She cried the entire way to the station and all through the booking process. I couldn’t even comfort her because I didn’t speak Spanish. I felt disgusting but I was ordered to make this arrest and I wasn’t willing to lose my job for her.

If you’re tempted to feel sympathy for me, don’t. I used to happily hassle the homeless under other circumstances. I researched obscure penal codes so I could arrest people in homeless encampments for lesser known crimes like “remaining too close to railroad property” (369i of the California Penal Code). I used to call it “planting warrant seeds” since I knew they wouldn’t make their court dates and we could arrest them again and again for warrant violations.

We used to have informal contests for who could cite or arrest someone for the weirdest law. DUI on a bicycle, non-regulation number of brooms on your tow truck (27700(a)(1) of the California Vehicle Code)… shit like that. For me, police work was a logic puzzle for arresting people, regardless of their actual threat to the community. As ashamed as I am to admit it, it needs to be said: stripping people of their freedom felt like a game to me for many years.

I know what you’re going to ask: did I ever plant drugs? Did I ever plant a gun on someone? Did I ever make a false arrest or file a false report? Believe it or not, the answer is no. Cheating was no fun, I liked to get my stats the “legitimate” way. But I knew officers who kept a little baggie of whatever or maybe a pocket knife that was a little too big in their war bags (yeah, we called our dufflebags “war bags”…). Did I ever tell anybody about it? No I did not. Did I ever confess my suspicions when cocaine suddenly showed up in a gang member’s jacket? No I did not.

In fact, let me tell you about an extremely formative experience: in my police academy class, we had a clique of around six trainees who routinely bullied and harassed other students: intentionally scuffing another trainee’s shoes to get them in trouble during inspection, sexually harassing female trainees, cracking racist jokes, and so on. Every quarter, we were to write anonymous evaluations of our squadmates. I wrote scathing accounts of their behavior, thinking I was helping keep bad apples out of law enforcement and believing I would be protected. Instead, the academy staff read my complaints to them out loud and outed me to them and never punished them, causing me to get harassed for the rest of my academy class. That’s how I learned that even police leadership hates rats. That’s why no one is “changing things from the inside.” They can’t, the structure won’t allow it.

And that’s the point of what I’m telling you. Whether you were my sergeant, legally harassing an old woman, me, legally harassing our residents, my fellow trainees bullying the rest of us, or “the bad apples” illegally harassing “shitbags”, we were all in it together. I knew cops that pulled women over to flirt with them. I knew cops who would pepper spray sleeping bags so that homeless people would have to throw them away. I knew cops that intentionally provoked anger in suspects so they could claim they were assaulted. I was particularly good at winding people up verbally until they lashed out so I could fight them. Nobody spoke out. Nobody stood up. Nobody betrayed the code.

None of us protected the people (you) from bad cops.

This is why “All cops are bastards.” Even your uncle, even your cousin, even your mom, even your brother, even your best friend, even your spouse, even me. Because even if they wouldn’t Do The Thing themselves, they will almost never rat out another officer who Does The Thing, much less stop it from happening.

BASTARD 101

I could write an entire book of the awful things I’ve done, seen done, and heard others bragging about doing. But, to me, the bigger question is “How did it get this way?”. While I was a police officer in a city 30 miles from where I lived, many of my fellow officers were from the community and treated their neighbors just as badly as I did. While every cop’s individual biases come into play, it’s the profession itself that is toxic, and it starts from day 1 of training.

Every police academy is different but all of them share certain features: taught by old cops, run like a paramilitary bootcamp, strong emphasis on protecting yourself more than anyone else. The majority of my time in the academy was spent doing aggressive physical training and watching video after video after video of police officers being murdered on duty.

I want to highlight this: nearly everyone coming into law enforcement is bombarded with dash cam footage of police officers being ambushed and killed. Over and over and over. Colorless VHS mortality plays, cops screaming for help over their radios, their bodies going limp as a pair of tail lights speed away into a grainy black horizon. In my case, with commentary from an old racist cop who used to brag about assaulting Black Panthers.

To understand why all cops are bastards, you need to understand one of the things almost every training officer told me when it came to using force:

“I’d rather be judged by 12 than carried by 6.”

Meaning, “I’ll take my chances in court rather than risk getting hurt”. We’re able to think that way because police unions are extremely overpowered and because of the generous concept of Qualified Immunity, a legal theory which says a cop generally can’t be held personally liable for mistakes they make doing their job in an official capacity.

When you look at the actions of the officers who killed George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, David McAtee, Mike Brown, Tamir Rice, Philando Castile, Eric Garner, or Freddie Gray, remember that they, like me, were trained to recite “I’d rather be judged by 12” as a mantra. Even if Mistakes Were Made™, the city (meaning the taxpayers, meaning you) pays the settlement, not the officer.

Once police training has - through repetition, indoctrination, and violent spectacle - promised officers that everyone in the world is out to kill them, the next lesson is that your partners are the only people protecting you. Occasionally, this is even true: I’ve had encounters turn on me rapidly to the point I legitimately thought I was going to die, only to have other officers come and turn the tables.

One of the most important thought leaders in law enforcement is Col. Dave Grossman, a “killologist” who wrote an essay called “Sheep, Wolves, and Sheepdogs”. Cops are the sheepdogs, bad guys are the wolves, and the citizens are the sheep (!). Col. Grossman makes sure to mention that to a stupid sheep, sheepdogs look more like wolves than sheep, and that’s why they dislike you.

This “they hate you for protecting them and only I love you, only I can protect you” tactic is familiar to students of abuse. It’s what abusers do to coerce their victims into isolation, pulling them away from friends and family and ensnaring them in the abuser’s toxic web. Law enforcement does this too, pitting the officer against civilians. “They don’t understand what you do, they don’t respect your sacrifice, they just want to get away with crimes. You’re only safe with us.”

I think the Wolves vs. Sheepdogs dynamic is one of the most important elements as to why officers behave the way they do. Every single second of my training, I was told that criminals were not a legitimate part of their community, that they were individual bad actors, and that their bad actions were solely the result of their inherent criminality. Any concept of systemic trauma, generational poverty, or white supremacist oppression was either never mentioned or simply dismissed. After all, most people don’t steal, so anyone who does isn’t “most people,” right? To us, anyone committing a crime deserved anything that happened to them because they broke the “social contract.” And yet, it was never even a question as to whether the power structure above them was honoring any sort of contract back.

Understand: Police officers are part of the state monopoly on violence and all police training reinforces this monopoly as a cornerstone of police work, a source of honor and pride. Many cops fantasize about getting to kill someone in the line of duty, egged on by others that have. One of my training officers told me about the time he shot and killed a mentally ill homeless man wielding a big stick. He bragged that he “slept like a baby” that night. Official training teaches you how to be violent effectively and when you’re legally allowed to deploy that violence, but “unofficial training” teaches you to desire violence, to expand the breadth of your violence without getting caught, and to erode your own compassion for desperate people so you can justify punitive violence against them.

HOW TO BE A BASTARD

I have participated in some of these activities personally, others are ones I either witnessed personally or heard officers brag about openly. Very, very occasionally, I knew an officer who was disciplined or fired for one of these things.

Police officers will lie about the law, about what’s illegal, or about what they can legally do to you in order to manipulate you into doing what they want.

Police officers will lie about feeling afraid for their life to justify a use of force after the fact.

Police officers will lie and tell you they’ll file a police report just to get you off their back.

Police officers will lie that your cooperation will “look good for you” in court, or that they will “put in a good word for you with the DA.” The police will never help you look good in court.

Police officers will lie about what they see and hear to access private property to conduct unlawful searches.

Police officers will lie and say your friend already ratted you out, so you might as well rat them back out. This is almost never true.

Police officers will lie and say you’re not in trouble in order to get you to exit a location or otherwise make an arrest more convenient for them.

Police officers will lie and say that they won’t arrest you if you’ll just “be honest with them” so they know what really happened.

Police officers will lie about their ability to seize the property of friends and family members to coerce a confession.

Police officers will write obviously bullshit tickets so that they get time-and-a-half overtime fighting them in court.

Police officers will search places and containers you didn’t consent to and later claim they were open or “smelled like marijuana”.

Police officers will threaten you with a more serious crime they can’t prove in order to convince you to confess to the lesser crime they really want you for.

Police officers will employ zero tolerance on races and ethnicities they dislike and show favor and lenience to members of their own group.

Police officers will use intentionally extra-painful maneuvers and holds during an arrest to provoke “resistance” so they can further assault the suspect.

Some police officers will plant drugs and weapons on you, sometimes to teach you a lesson, sometimes if they kill you somewhere away from public view.

Some police officers will assault you to intimidate you and threaten to arrest you if you tell anyone.

A non-trivial number of police officers will steal from your house or vehicle during a search.

A non-trivial number of police officers commit intimate partner violence and use their status to get away with it.

A non-trivial number of police officers use their position to entice, coerce, or force sexual favors from vulnerable people.

If you take nothing else away from this essay, I want you to tattoo this onto your brain forever: if a police officer is telling you something, it is probably a lie designed to gain your compliance.

Do not talk to cops and never, ever believe them. Do not “try to be helpful” with cops. Do not assume they are trying to catch someone else instead of you. Do not assume what they are doing is “important” or even legal. Under no circumstances assume any police officer is acting in good faith.

Also, and this is important, do not talk to cops.

I just remembered something, do not talk to cops.

Checking my notes real quick, something jumped out at me:

not

fucking

talk

cops.

Ever.

Say, “I don’t answer questions,” and ask if you’re free to leave; if so, leave. If not, tell them you want your lawyer and that, per the Supreme Court, they must terminate questioning. If they don’t, file a complaint and collect some badges for your mantle.

DO THE BASTARDS EVER HELP?

Reading the above, you may be tempted to ask whether cops ever do anything good. And the answer is, sure, sometimes. In fact, most officers I worked with thought they were usually helping the helpless and protecting the safety of innocent people.

During my tenure in law enforcement, I protected women from domestic abusers, arrested cold-blooded murderers and child molesters, and comforted families who lost children to car accidents and other tragedies. I helped connect struggling people in my community with local resources for food, shelter, and counseling. I deescalated situations that could have turned violent and talked a lot of people down from making the biggest mistake of their lives. I worked with plenty of officers who were individually kind, bought food for homeless residents, or otherwise showed care for their community.

The question is this: did I need a gun and sweeping police powers to help the average person on the average night? The answer is no. When I was doing my best work as a cop, I was doing mediocre work as a therapist or a social worker. My good deeds were listening to people failed by the system and trying to unite them with any crumbs of resources the structure was currently denying them.

It’s also important to note that well over 90% of the calls for service I handled were reactive, showing up well after a crime had taken place. We would arrive, take a statement, collect evidence (if any), file the report, and onto the next caper. Most “active” crimes we stopped were someone harmless possessing or selling a small amount of drugs. Very, very rarely would we stop something dangerous in progress or stop something from happening entirely. The closest we could usually get was seeing someone running away from the scene of a crime, but the damage was still done.

And consider this: my job as a police officer required me to be a marriage counselor, a mental health crisis professional, a conflict negotiator, a social worker, a child advocate, a traffic safety expert, a sexual assault specialist, and, every once in awhile, a public safety officer authorized to use force, all after only a 1000 hours of training at a police academy. Does the person we send to catch a robber also need to be the person we send to interview a rape victim or document a fender bender? Should one profession be expected to do all that important community care (with very little training) all at the same time?

To put this another way: I made double the salary most social workers made to do a fraction of what they could do to mitigate the causes of crimes and desperation. I can count very few times my monopoly on state violence actually made our citizens safer, and even then, it’s hard to say better-funded social safety nets and dozens of other community care specialists wouldn’t have prevented a problem before it started.

Armed, indoctrinated (and dare I say, traumatized) cops do not make you safer; community mutual aid networks who can unite other people with the resources they need to stay fed, clothed, and housed make you safer. I really want to hammer this home: every cop in your neighborhood is damaged by their training, emboldened by their immunity, and they have a gun and the ability to take your life with near-impunity. This does not make you safer, even if you’re white.

HOW DO YOU SOLVE A PROBLEM LIKE A BASTARD?

So what do we do about it? Even though I’m an expert on bastardism, I am not a public policy expert nor an expert in organizing a post-police society. So, before I give some suggestions, let me tell you what probably won’t solve the problem of bastard cops:

Increased “bias” training. A quarterly or even monthly training session is not capable of covering over years of trauma-based camaraderie in police forces. I can tell you from experience, we don’t take it seriously, the proctors let us cheat on whatever “tests” there are, and we all made fun of it later over coffee.

Tougher laws. I hope you understand by now, cops do not follow the law and will not hold each other accountable to the law. Tougher laws are all the more reason to circle the wagons and protect your brothers and sisters.

More community policing programs. Yes, there is a marginal effect when a few cops get to know members of the community, but look at the protests of 2020: many of the cops pepper-spraying journalists were probably the nice school cop a month ago.

Police officers do not protect and serve people, they protect and serve the status quo, “polite society”, and private property. Using the incremental mechanisms of the status quo will never reform the police because the status quo relies on police violence to exist. Capitalism requires a permanent underclass to exploit for cheap labor and it requires the cops to bring that underclass to heel.

Instead of wasting time with minor tweaks, I recommend exploring the following ideas:

No more qualified immunity. Police officers should be personally liable for all decisions they make in the line of duty.

No more civil asset forfeiture. Did you know that every year, citizens like you lose more cash and property to unaccountable civil asset forfeiture than to all burglaries combined? The police can steal your stuff without charging you with a crime and it makes some police departments very rich.

Break the power of police unions. Police unions make it nearly impossible to fire bad cops and incentivize protecting them to protect the power of the union. A police union is not a labor union; police officers are powerful state agents, not exploited workers.

Require malpractice insurance. Doctors must pay for insurance in case they botch a surgery, police officers should do the same for botching a police raid or other use of force. If human decency won’t motivate police to respect human life, perhaps hitting their wallet might.

Defund, demilitarize, and disarm cops. Thousands of police departments own assault rifles, armored personnel carriers, and stuff you’d see in a warzone. Police officers have grants and huge budgets to spend on guns, ammo, body armor, and combat training. 99% of calls for service require no armed response, yet when all you have is a gun, every problem feels like target practice. Cities are not safer when unaccountable bullies have a monopoly on state violence and the equipment to execute that monopoly.

One final idea: consider abolishing the police.

I know what you’re thinking, “What? We need the police! They protect us!” As someone who did it for nearly a decade, I need you to understand that by and large, police protection is marginal, incidental. It’s an illusion created by decades of copaganda designed to fool you into thinking these brave men and women are holding back the barbarians at the gates.

I alluded to this above: the vast majority of calls for service I handled were theft reports, burglary reports, domestic arguments that hadn’t escalated into violence, loud parties, (houseless) people loitering, traffic collisions, very minor drug possession, and arguments between neighbors. Mostly the mundane ups and downs of life in the community, with little inherent danger. And, like I mentioned, the vast majority of crimes I responded to (even violent ones) had already happened; my unaccountable license to kill was irrelevant.

What I mainly provided was an “objective” third party with the authority to document property damage, ask people to chill out or disperse, or counsel people not to beat each other up. A trained counselor or conflict resolution specialist would be ten times more effective than someone with a gun strapped to his hip wondering if anyone would try to kill him when he showed up. There are many models for community safety that can be explored if we get away from the idea that the only way to be safe is to have a man with a M4 rifle prowling your neighborhood ready at a moment’s notice to write down your name and birthday after you’ve been robbed and beaten.

You might be asking, “What about the armed robbers, the gangsters, the drug dealers, the serial killers?” And yes, in the city I worked, I regularly broke up gang parties, found gang members carrying guns, and handled homicides. I’ve seen some tragic things, from a reformed gangster shot in the head with his brains oozing out to a fifteen year old boy taking his last breath in his screaming mother’s arms thanks to a gang member’s bullet. I know the wages of violence.

This is where we have to have the courage to ask: why do people rob? Why do they join gangs? Why do they get addicted to drugs or sell them? It’s not because they are inherently evil. I submit to you that these are the results of living in a capitalist system that grinds people down and denies them housing, medical care, human dignity, and a say in their government. These are the results of white supremacy pushing people to the margins, excluding them, disrespecting them, and treating their bodies as disposable.

Equally important to remember: disabled and mentally ill people are frequently killed by police officers not trained to recognize and react to disabilities or mental health crises. Some of the people we picture as “violent offenders” are often people struggling with untreated mental illness, often due to economic hardships. Very frequently, the officers sent to “protect the community” escalate this crisis and ultimately wound or kill the person. Your community was not made safer by police violence; a sick member of your community was killed because it was cheaper than treating them. Are you extremely confident you’ll never get sick one day too?

Wrestle with this for a minute: if all of someone’s material needs were met and all the members of their community were fed, clothed, housed, and dignified, why would they need to join a gang? Why would they need to risk their lives selling drugs or breaking into buildings? If mental healthcare was free and was not stigmatized, how many lives would that save?

Would there still be a few bad actors in the world? Sure, probably. What’s my solution for them, you’re no doubt asking. I’ll tell you what: generational poverty, food insecurity, houselessness, and for-profit medical care are all problems that can be solved in our lifetimes by rejecting the dehumanizing meat grinder of capitalism and white supremacy. Once that’s done, we can work on the edge cases together, with clearer hearts not clouded by a corrupt system.

Police abolition is closely related to the idea of prison abolition and the entire concept of banishing the carceral state, meaning, creating a society focused on reconciliation and restorative justice instead of punishment, pain, and suffering — a system that sees people in crisis as humans, not monsters. People who want to abolish the police typically also want to abolish prisons, and the same questions get asked: “What about the bad guys? Where do we put them?” I bring this up because abolitionists don’t want to simply replace cops with armed social workers or prisons with casual detention centers full of puffy leather couches and Playstations. We imagine a world not divided into good guys and bad guys, but rather a world where people’s needs are met and those in crisis receive care, not dehumanization.

Here’s legendary activist and thinker Angela Y. Davis putting it better than I ever could:

“An abolitionist approach that seeks to answer questions such as these would require us to imagine a constellation of alternative strategies and institutions, with the ultimate aim of removing the prison from the social and ideological landscapes of our society. In other words, we would not be looking for prisonlike substitutes for the prison, such as house arrest safeguarded by electronic surveillance bracelets. Rather, positing decarceration as our overarching strategy, we would try to envision a continuum of alternatives to imprisonment-demilitarization of schools, revitalization of education at all levels, a health system that provides free physical and mental care to all, and a justice system based on reparation and reconciliation rather than retribution and vengeance.”

(Are Prisons Obsolete, pg. 107)

I’m not telling you I have the blueprint for a beautiful new world. What I’m telling you is that the system we have right now is broken beyond repair and that it’s time to consider new ways of doing community together. Those new ways need to be negotiated by members of those communities, particularly Black, indigenous, disabled, houseless, and citizens of color historically shoved into the margins of society. Instead of letting Fox News fill your head with nightmares about Hispanic gangs, ask the Hispanic community what they need to thrive. Instead of letting racist politicians scaremonger about pro-Black demonstrators, ask the Black community what they need to meet the needs of the most vulnerable. If you truly desire safety, ask not what your most vulnerable can do for the community, ask what the community can do for the most vulnerable.

A WORLD WITH FEWER BASTARDS IS POSSIBLE

If you take only one thing away from this essay, I hope it’s this: do not talk to cops. But if you only take two things away, I hope the second one is that it’s possible to imagine a different world where unarmed black people, indigenous people, poor people, disabled people, and people of color are not routinely gunned down by unaccountable police officers. It doesn’t have to be this way. Yes, this requires a leap of faith into community models that might feel unfamiliar, but I ask you:

When you see a man dying in the street begging for breath, don’t you want to leap away from that world?

When you see a mother or a daughter shot to death sleeping in their beds, don’t you want to leap away from that world?

When you see a twelve year old boy executed in a public park for the crime of playing with a toy, jesus fucking christ, can you really just stand there and think “This is normal”?

And to any cops who made it this far down, is this really the world you want to live in? Aren’t you tired of the trauma? Aren’t you tired of the soul sickness inherent to the badge? Aren’t you tired of looking the other way when your partners break the law? Are you really willing to kill the next George Floyd, the next Breonna Taylor, the next Tamir Rice? How confident are you that your next use of force will be something you’re proud of? I’m writing this for you too: it’s wrong what our training did to us, it’s wrong that they hardened our hearts to our communities, and it’s wrong to pretend this is normal.

Look, I wouldn’t have been able to hear any of this for much of my life. You reading this now may not be able to hear this yet either. But do me this one favor: just think about it. Just turn it over in your mind for a couple minutes. “Yes, And” me for a minute. Look around you and think about the kind of world you want to live in. Is it one where an all-powerful stranger with a gun keeps you and your neighbors in line with the fear of death, or can you picture a world where, as a community, we embrace our most vulnerable, meet their needs, heal their wounds, honor their dignity, and make them family instead of desperate outsiders?

If you take only three things away from this essay, I hope the third is this: you and your community don’t need bastards to thrive.

RESOURCES TO YES-AND WITH

Achele Mbembe — Necropolitics

Angela Y. Davis — Are Prisons Obsolete?

CriticalResistance.org — Abolition Toolkit

Joe Macaré, Maya Schenwar, and Alana Yu-lan Price — Who Do You Serve, Who Do You Protect?

Ruth Wilson Gilmore — COVID-19, Decarceration, Abolition [video]

#acab

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widgenstain · 3 years

Photo

I remembered this photoshoot/interview from 2015 (TIME FLIES) the other week, but couldn’t find a full version on my blog and since it’s behind a paywall, I’m posting the full article here under the Read More.

It’s as I remembered, James Eloquent Bastard McAvoy gets to talk a lot and make great points about the art, while Andrew is a bit more in the background (with comments about his “skinny legs”, oh boy) but the video on the original article is lovely, it shows that they’re really all in the pic together and that my Celtic faves were actually talking to each other yusssss (also the description of Rory Kinnear cracked me up).

The drama kings

Theatrical tantrums or male bonding – what happened when Britain’s leading men got together for our photoshoot?

Ben Machell

Saturday April 04 2015, 6.58pm BST, The Times

What’s the collective noun for a roomful of actors? “A whinge,” says Russell Tovey.“A babble,” offers Tim Pigott-Smith. “A resting,” says Mark Gatiss, who then immediately changes his mind. “An ambition. No, a thrust! A thrust of actors!” he eventually decides, laughing.

Keeping one eye on his peers, he leans in conspiratorially. “Can you smell the testosterone?” We’re in a photographer’s studio in north London and the actors – suited, booted, ready for their close-ups – sit around a long table, chatting, drinking coffee and cooing over Tovey’s French bulldog, Rocky.There really is no testosterone to smell. The atmosphere is relaxed and convivial, as if I’ve accidentally walked in on a poker night arranged for some of the best leading men of the British stage. It’s friendly. It’s fun. “Actors tend to be quite good at getting on with people,” says Bertie Carvel, who is tall, dark and thoughtful. “If you’re an arsehole, people don’t want to work with you. You won’t get hired.”Wait, hang on … actors can’t be arseholes? “Well, there are a few arseholes,” he concedes, but insists that none of them is here today.

New faces wander into the studio and warm greetings are dispensed. Andrew Scott – an Olivier award winner in 2005 for his performance in the Royal Court’s A Girl in a Car with a Man – bear-hugs Carvel, himself a 2012 winner (Best Actor in a Musical) for his Miss Trunchbull in Matilda.

James McAvoy – three Olivier nominations and counting – arrives with his motorcycle helmet under one arm and gives out high-fives, while Rory Kinnear (two Oliviers, including Best Actor last year for his Iago) is more subdued, smiling and nodding at people in polite recognition, like a man at his wife’s office party.

A few moments later Michael Sheen walks in and mimes surprise at seeing Gatiss across the room. It transpires the two had arranged to meet for dinner tonight and then take in a show, but that neither had known the other was going to be here today. From a punter’s perspective, I say, there’s something quite nice about learning that.“Well, Mark and I have known each other for a long time,” says Sheen, explaining that, often as not, actors genuinely do end up being mates. “If you’ve spent six months doing the same theatre production night after night, and trying not to go insane, then that does bond you.”It’s been a bumper year for juicy male roles on the British stage, and those performances will be celebrated at next weekend’s Olivier Awards. Looking at these leading men, it begs the question: why, in 2015, do we have such a glut of theatrical talent?

To answer this, we first need to understand how the theatre has changed. Pigott-Smith, up for an Olivier for his lead role in King Charles III, has been working on stage for almost 50 years. “The profession is radically different today. All those old-fashioned images of the old actor laddie in a fedora with a trace of eye make-up have gone. When I started, it was much more hierarchical. Older actors were afforded a great deal more respect. But since then there’s been a democratisation that is very healthy.”

In other words, there is now less dead wood taking up space that could otherwise be filled by talented younger actors. This is in part because British theatre has been forced to become leaner, less complacent. “There’s not as much theatre around now,” says Pigott-Smith. “Which means there’s much more competition for less and less work.” This competition, in turn, raises everybody’s game. The result?A virtuous cycle of effort and ability.

Mark Strong talks about the undercurrent of competition that exists between actors. “It’s a complicated dynamic, a really odd balance,” he says. “Because you form these very, very tight relationships with people. They’re your pals, but then you’re also competing with them for work. There are a lot of us chasing a few jobs.”Strong – up for a 2015 Best Actor Olivier for Arthur Miller’s A View From the Bridge – suspects this competitive streak informs every performance he gives. “To be honest, I think I perform for my peers first and foremost. I don’t mean to belittle the audience, but it’s the other actors’ evaluation of my performance that I’m most interested in. We’re doing it for each other. We’re always trying to outdo each other, always trying to impress each other.”

I stand in the corner of the dressing room while some of them try on suits and have their hair and make-up done. Andrew Scott pulls a pair of trousers over his skinny legs and then frets about their length in the mirror. Gatiss charms the girls who are looking after the wardrobe and briefly flashes broad, hairy shoulders while changing shirts. Sheen sidles in carrying a slight paunch. He looks at the suits. “Anything that fits, I’m happy with.”

The hair and make-up people set about Sheen, McAvoy and Kinnear, who sit in a row, like three men at the barber’s. Sheen and McAvoy recently played on the same celebrity Soccer Aid football team, a team that happened to be coached by José Mourinho. It’s pretty obvious both men share a major man crush on the Chelsea manager. “I love him,” says McAvoy. “He texted me on Christmas Day,” says Sheen. Kinnear chips in: “What was he saying? ‘Stop texting me’?”

I grab McAvoy. For some reason, I can imagine him being a nightmare to play football against, niggly and ruthless. In person, he is confident and intense, especially when talking about the theatre. “I think it’s your job as a leading man to be first in, last out,” he says. “To work as hard as you possibly can. To identify the actor who is working hardest, and then work harder than them. Just to set the tone.”McAvoy – Olivier-nominated for his role as paranoid schizophrenic the 14th Earl of Gurney in The Ruling Class– has a theory about the enduring appeal of the stage.“The source of theatre is human sacrifice,” he says, looking me in the eye. “The first time we killed someone in front of a crowd to make the gods like us better, that’s where we got our theatre. And I think there’s still an element of that, when it’s frightening and electric, and you’re watching actors who are giving themselves in such a committed way that they are almost sweating blood. And that’s what I always try to do.”That sounds a bit extreme, I say. But then, he flashes, that’s his point. “I’d rather people went out twice a year to see a really good, dangerous piece of theatre in which they were genuinely concerned for the actor on stage, rather than just going to see loads of dead-easy bourgeois f***ing pieces of s***, the dead-easy stuff that gets put on just to sell out quickly.”

Bad theatre seems to physically upset McAvoy. “If you watch a bad film, you kind of just forget about it. It’s not such a headache. But a bad play? When I watch bad theatre, I feel like I’ve been hurt. I feel like someone has really annoyed me. Badly.” If this strikes you as a bit much, it’s nothing if not heartfelt. And it only reflects something that everyone I speak to emphasises, which is that actors – or these actors, anyway – genuinely love doing theatre work. It sounds like a luvvie thing to say, but then they are, in the nicest possible way, a bunch of luvvies. And besides, they all have their reasons. Matthew Macfadyen, for example, talks about appearing in Jeeves & Wooster in Perfect Nonsense last year. “I felt like I was doing a proper job.“I know that sounds ridiculous,” he says gently. “But I sort of felt nicely anonymous. You go in, you do your job, then go home. You’re not babied as much as you are in the TV business. You run into lots of people you’ve done jobs with in the past.” I say that makes it sound a bit like working on a building site. “It really is, yeah!” he says. “It’s lovely. I adore it.”

Nicholas Pinnock loves theatre work because of how close actors and audiences can get to one another, particularly given the present popularity of studio productions and theatre in the round. He’s currently starring in The Royale at the Bush, based on the story of early 20th-century African-American boxer Jack Johnson. “The other night there were two women on the front row crying,” he says. “Just because of the stuff we were doing on stage. It’s nice to be able to actually see those kinds of reactions. It gives you a different energy.”Does he ever worry about sounding a bit, well … thespy? He grins. “I got to a certain stage in my life when I stopped giving a f*** about what people thought. I can talk about acting all day long. I love it. It’s my job. Sometimes we fall into that cliché. But so what?”

One man who can’t talk all day about acting is Ralph Fiennes. He is the last actor to arrive at the studio, and his minder says that he has two minutes to answer questions. Everyone else hangs around, waiting for the final group shot, while Fiennes stands apart, looking out of the window.

So, I ask, what is it like when a load of actors all get together like this? He frowns. “I think it’s just like any group situation. You know you’re in the same business. But with a sense of recognition and common purpose,” he says in a voice that sounds a bit like the Prince of Wales. “Some of these people …” he starts, and then looks over at them. “I know Mark [Strong] a bit and I know Tim [Pigott-Smith] a little bit. But usually it’s a sense of easy camaraderie.”I ask him: what does looking at these people make you think about the present quality of British acting? “I think if you’re in a profession, you’re in it. It’s not often you’re taking a step back to think about it. That’s your job. A job for the critics and the journalists,” he says, and gives a tight laugh. Does he have any views on these other guys at all? “They are all actors I really admire,” he says, before being led across the studio to take centre stage in the shoot.

After that I speak to Russell Tovey, who’s been in a few Olivier award-winning plays, notably The History Boys. He is lovely, with all the offhand openness of an Essex hairdresser. So, I ask, what it’s like when a load of actors get together like this? “We like to sit around and have a bitch and a whine about things.”Really?“ Yeah! Actors like to sit down and have a good moan. But that’s because we’re dramatic. Obviously, that’s not happening today,” he adds quickly. “We’re all happy. We’ve all got these lovely suits on. We’re all over the moon!”

He says that, at the end of the day, every actor here knows that he is very fortunate. “We’re in that rare percentage of guys who can turn down work and feel secure that something else will come along. I still s*** myself whenever I turn down a job because I’ve got so many actor mates who aren’t working at all. But I’m so lucky. I’ve bought a place. I’m paying a mortgage. I can go out and buy a pair of shoes and not worry about it.”But it’s not really about the shoes, he continues. It’s just that he’s completely in love with his job. And I think that, deep down, the same is true of everyone else in the room. They may be a bunch of luvvies but, lucky for us, they’re bloody good ones, too.“At the end of the day I love pretending to be someone else,” says Tovey. “I mean, in what other job can you scream and cry and then, at the end, have someone pat you on the back and say, ‘Well done’? I do it because I need it. I think we all do,” he says. “Psychoanalyse that.”

The 2015 Olivier Awards, presented by Lenny Henry, will take place at the Royal Opera House, London, on April 12 (olivierawards.com)

The line-up: who’s who

Standing, from left:

Mark Gatiss, 48.

About to star in new Donmar show The Vote with Dame Judi Dench and Catherine Tate, from April 24.

Tim Pigott-Smith, 68.

Nominated for Best Actor in 2015 for King Charles III at the Almeida and Wyndham’s theatres.

Julian Ovenden, 38.

Currently starring in Olivier Best Revival-nominated show, My Night With Reg at the Apollo until April 11.

Bertie Carvel, 37.

Won Best Actor in a Musical in 2012 as Miss Trunchbull in Matilda; about to star in Bakkai at the Almeida, with Ben Whishaw, from May 29.

Matthew Macfadyen, 40.

Starred in 2014’s Olivier Best New Comedy Jeeves & Wooster in Perfect Nonsense

Nicholas Pinnock, 41.

Playing a heavyweight boxer in The Royale, at the Bush Theatre until April 18.

Iwan Rheon, 29.

Won Best Supporting Actor in a Musical in 2010 for Spring Awakening.

Rolan Bell, 31.

Nominated for 2015 Olivier Best Actor in a Supporting Role in a Musical for his role in Memphis the Musical at the Shaftesbury Theatre.

Seated, from left:

Rory Kinnear, 37.

Won Best Actor Olivier in 2014 for Othello at the National. Stars in The Trial at the Young Vic from June 19.

Mark Strong, 51.

2015 Olivier Best Actor nominee for A View from the Bridge at the Young Vic. Run ends April 11.

Ralph Fiennes, 52.

Starring in Man and Superman at the National Theatre until May 17.

Russell Tovey, 33.

Starred in Olivier-winning play The History Boys, and The Pass at the Royal Court in 2014.

Andrew Scott, 38.

Won Outstanding Achievement Olivier for A Girl in a Car with a Man at the Royal Court in 2005.

James McAvoy, 35.

Nominated for Best Actor at the 2015 Olivier Awards for The Ruling Class which closes on April 11.

Michael Sheen, 46.

Has been nominated for a total of four Olivier Awards – for Amadeus,

Look Back in Anger, Caligula and the Donmar Warehouse’s 2006 production of

Frost/Nixon. Played Hamlet at the Young Vic in 2011-12.

Jamie Campbell Bower, 26.

About to star in Bend It Like Beckham, playing the coach, Joe, at the Phoenix Theatre from May 15.

THE SHOOT

Styling

Jane Taylor-Hayhurst.

Grooming

Nicky Weir at Sarah Laird using MAC.

Hair

Craig Taylor at One Represents for Hari’s Salon SW3 using Kiehl’s.

Ralph Fiennes

Nathalie Eleni using MAC and Braun.

James McAvoy

Jennie Roberts at Stella Creative Artists using Paul Mitchell.

#james mcavoy #andrew scott #michael sheen #mark strong #russell tovey

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thatjayjustice · 3 years

Text

Your Life Has Value Beyond Measure: Disability and Poverty In the United States

This is a story about why it’s so important to get medical help, even if you can’t afford it. It is so hard to break the habit of ignoring our own pain because poverty won’t let us get help. Because we have to.

The number one killer in the US isn’t heart disease. It’s capitalism.

I have been permanently disabled and chronically ill since I was a child. I live with severe chronic pain and debilitating damage in my entire body. I am also on SSDI, which means that I am not allowed to earn more than $15k a year or I lose my disability insurance. This makes medical care unaffordable.

The combination of extreme, constant pain & the knowledge that healthcare is unattainable, leads to not getting help until it is too late. It is a trap that has taken countless lives. People who deserved to live but were told that healthcare was only for the privileged. Not us.

Because I couldn’t afford treatment, I didn’t try after the first huge medical bill. I ignored headaches, vision & hearing loss, & periodic paralysis. I crowdfunded a wheelchair. I tried my best to survive. And then I fell in love with someone who forced me to get an eye exam.

I moved in with my girlfriend. She immediately noticed how massive the fonts on my pc are & asked if I had ever considered glasses. I hadn’t, because that involved going to the doctor and that was for rich people. She would not take no for an answer. So off to the doctor I went.

The first doctor I saw was alarmed at the amount of nerve damage in my eyes and referred me to a colleague. The second doctor I saw was very alarmed at the massive amount of swelling in my eyes and brain, as well as nerve damage & asked how quickly I could get to a top neuro-ophthalmologist he knew.

I knew this would be expensive, but I was now being told that there was a very high risk for stroke, blindness, and/or death, so away we went. We were at the hospital for over 24 consecutive hours. My eyes were dilated twice because the dilation wore off before they could finish all the tests. So many tests.

The neurology team discovered that I had over 4x the amount of pressure on my brain that a person is supposed to have, & they did their best to relieve it. The cause is still unknown. I have been prescribed medication to treat the condition, but the optic nerve damage is permanent. My eyesight will not improve.

The doctors say that if I had not gotten treatment when I did, I could have died. Without ongoing treatment, I am still at risk of dying. I have to be extremely diligent with my new medication to prevent this. Medicare refused to cover it so I had to pay out of pocket. 1 month of the generic version of the prescribed medicine costs $260. That is over 1/3 of my SSDI check.

I have several more medical follow-up apps & neurological procedures and all of this is mandatory for my survival but costs more money than I am legally allowed to earn. The US Government’s mandate to permanently tie disability status to income limits is killing disabled people.

Millions of people are living with the uncertainty of inadequate healthcare coupled with inescapable mandated poverty. Medical care shouldn’t be a privilege. It should be free. Instead, it’s denied to those who need it most & gatekept behind a paywall thousands of dollars high.

All of this is why I avoided treatment for over 20 years until it was clear that I had no choice. Regardless of your ability to pay, you deserve to live. Poverty is not a moral failing. Your life has value beyond measure. If you are in pain, please get help before it’s too late. Medium article for this post: https://jayjustice.medium.com/your-life-has-value-beyond If this post helped you and/or you'd like to support my work: jayjustice.net gofundme.com/justice-on-wheels http://www.patreon.com/ThatJayJustice http://www.ko-fi.com/thatjayjustice https://www.venmo.com/ThatJayJustice https://cash.me/$ThatJayJustice

#disability #medicare #SSDI #poverty #this country is a mess

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mrs-nate-humphrey · 3 years

Note

Love that last ask about the reboot and your response! I do like the writing from the original series but why can’t they do that but make sure there are people from marginalised groups within the group of writers too so that things don’t get...icky...? I dunno the right word. Also, I feel like it’s too early to have a reboot...like the original only ended 11 years ago...maybe give it like at least 20 years since it finished before doing a reboot? It’s also gonna hurt my bi heart and soul knowing that the poc and queer characters are gonna be...republicans...I want that from the awful white straights (who we still kinda love but also kinda hate) from the 2000s not these gen z kids who are fluid and don’t know what a landline is! I also kinda don’t want the reboot at all...like I’ll watch it and if it’s good then that’s great but I don’t want it...I want GG to stay as it was - pretty crappy with kinda awful characters (except Jenny & Eric!) but you watch the show anyway bc it’s nostalgic and you kinda like it...you know?

haha, i'm glad you liked that response! i saw you reblogged it and i was like :D

i thought they did, actually? a few months ago i remember seeing an article about safran wanting a more diverse writers' room and giving a woman of colour (i think a black woman, but im only about 60% sure) a very senior position or something along those lines - which is one of the reasons i was like 'oooh im excited', haha. but a few days ago i was looking for that article because i wanted to send it to someone and i ...... couldn't find it?? so i have no idea what happened - i'm pretty sure i didn't imagine it or make it up, but it's weird that the article isn't there anymore. maybe it was a tentative thing, or maybe she wasn't REALLY a part of the writers room and was a consultant/sensitivity reader kind of person. or maybe the article just got paywalled. like i have no idea what's happening behind the scenes for the reboot - it could be a super inclusive and fun environment! but that doesn't change the way safran's the one calling the shots, or like, the fact that he is the person we all know is in charge, or whatever. (i have such a limited understanding of how tv shows are written, despite a friend spending actual hours telling me the ins and outs of it all, RIP.)

also GOSH what you're saying about the reboot and gen z kids reminds me a little of some meta i saw about the propaganada in the falcon and the winter soldier. that is not my fandom, but it IS something my sister's into, and since she lets me talk to her about gossip girl even when she'd rather be doing anything else, im always down for her to tell me stuff about media she likes even if it's not something im super into. but basically i was looking up TFATWS so that whenever my sister watches it, i can follow that conversation if she wants to talk about it, and i saw this REALLY GOOD POST about how marvel is essentially using their movies to advertise to the viewerbase. and it made me go, "shit, isn't gossip girl doing that too?"

gossip girl literally CHANGED trends in the late 00s. fashion was shaped by it. designers were so excited to send their stuff to the show for blair and serena to model. what is that if not an advertisement!! what is this show if not a vehicle for capitalism!! and obviously, i think you can still have fun watching it and still go "ooh i want to dress like blair waldorf" or whatever and there's no harm in it. but i think it's just a thing of like, the way the show is built is going to actively try and cater to kids who are currently in high school, because that's what gossip girl has always been and likely will always be. and we're sadly too old to naturally get it. if kids on the reboot are using tiktok i'm going to stare at myself in the mirror and wonder when i became 50 years old, lmaoooo.

but i think that's a big part of what isn't doing it for me: the pop culture of it all! i would've HATED watching gg when it was airing. keeping aside that i would've been too young to engage with it the way i do now (i bet nate/jenny would've been my otp or something, which, no shade at people whose otp is NJ, just saying this to say that i have changed as a person so much over the years, hahaha) - keeping aside that obvious thing, i love watching gg now and being like, 'oh this show is so dated' every time one of them smack their little flip phones shut. i can't take blair and chuck's wedding seriously because the moment "it's time" starts playing i'm like "oh wow this is so 2012 hahahaha" which.... is obviously not how it would've felt if i'd been watching it while it aired.

anyway. i watch gossip girl the way people watch period dramas; all "ah, times long past, wow, this is redundant now." i watch gossip girl, watch the flip phone shut, and go, "oh, how much things have changed."

#it's been exactly one year since i watched this show #and i think it came to me at the PERFECT time #awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce #long post #i was considering putting a read more but that would've been weird #firstly: where #secondly: this is not an essay. it's just an overly verbose response #reboot #personal #because this is very much an About Me kind of response LMAO #oh okay not one year since i FINISHED - one year since i started

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aye-write · 4 years

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Summary: Research student Isla Reid has been fascinated with the legend of the Kildonian Chessmen - a trio of mythical Pokemon rumoured to have lived centuries ago on the remote region of Kildo - for as long as she can remember. So, when a museum exhibit on the Chessmen is set to open in Kildo’s Hydrogate City, coinciding with her independent research project, she packs herself and her trusty partner Furret onto the long ferry journey bound for this new region.

However, when she arrives in Kildo, thoughts of her research, new friends, and an entire Pokedex’s worth of new Pokemon, are quickly dashed. Kildo is a troubled place, beset by natural disasters and fierce rivalries among its people. Isla suddenly finds herself at the centre of a centuries-old plot to invoke the wrath of the Chessmen, and is set on a race against time to stop them, before it spells destruction for the entire region.

Other Links: Read it on Ao3!

Tags: OC Pokemon journey, OC region, Fakemon region, bisexual main character, found family, ace main character.

If you are not interested in these posts, especially as I know Pokemon journeyfic is fairly niche, please blacklist the tag #Checkmate. Most of the story will be put under a Readmore anyway!

Author’s Note: If you’re interested in more information, exclusive updates, character art, and teasers for this fic, please consider following its sister tumblr @kildo-pokedex!

This was another chonker chapter at 4.5k that I didn’t anticipate being this long at all! The joys of plantsing, eh? I had hoped to reveal the starters this chapter, but that’s being bumped to next update. In the meantime, please enjoy the reveal of Brootser, and the partial reveals of Weldeon, Ampster and Coastrot!

*****

Chapter Three

Despite everything, night rolled over the Whispering Pine Croft.

After hours battling insomnia, Isla stole downstairs not long after the clock in the hallway chimed midnight. Goosepimples erupted on her skin, the air chilling her to the core. Clicking on the floor lamp, she cast her gaze around the living room. A rickety bookshelf took up most of one wall, covered in dust and trinkets. It didn’t take her long to strike gold.

The Etymological Dictionary of Old Kildonian, 1981 Edition.

Sitting at the old coffee table, she spread out her books and copies of the Old Kildonian script until there wasn’t an inch of space left. Then she opened the dictionary and started to read. She read, moving between dictionary and text, until her eyes strained in the dim light of the lamp, and the words on the page turned into incomprehensible squiggles. Just keep going, she told herself, as she marked off another decoded word. Just keep going. Just keep going. Just keep—

“Isla?”

Isla slammed the book shut. The noise seemed to echo forever in the quiet of the living room. The intruder snapped on the main light and Isla blinked foolishly as everything illuminated around her. It was Blair at the door, swaddled in an enormous red dressing gown and a pinched look on his face.

“What are you doing down here?” he asked, pulling his dressing gown tighter. “You’ll catch your death of cold.”

“I’m… I’m not doing anything,” Isla said, trying to collect the papers together, position her body over them, anything to hide them from sight.

“Really? You look like a student trying to panic revise a whole subject the night before an exam,” he chuckled, plopping himself in the seat opposite. “Come on. What’s up?”

Isla sighed. What was the point in lying? “I’m just trying to make some sense of these texts.”

Blair glanced at the clock above the fireplace. “At half two in the morning?”

“I couldn’t sleep. This presentation is doing my head in.” When Blair frowned, she added, “My supervisor asked me to update them with all the “progress” I’ve mad so far. Of course, I haven’t made any yet.”

“So, you’re trying to decode all these old books with…. an out-of-date Kildonian dictionary?”

“I found it in the bookcase. I thought it might help.”

“I’m pretty sure that book is older than me. Please don’t tell me you’re taking it word-by-word.”

“More or less.”

“You’ll be there months trying to sort all that lot.”

“I don’t have any other choice,” Isla’s voice cracked. “Everyone is hounding me. I can’t let this come undone. They’ll pull approval of my project and fail me if I don’t keep jumping through all their hoops.”

“Why is the legend of the Chessmen so important to you?”

Isla hesitated. It was an innocent enough question, but the thought of answering it felt like ripping her chest open and exposing the beating heart underneath. “Well...” she started, cringing at how stupid it all sounded in her head. “When I was little, I was kinda lonely. I didn’t have siblings. Or friends, really,”

Blair made a sympathetic noise.

“No, it’s okay. I wasn’t that bothered by it,” Isla lied. “But because I didn’t have many friends, I naturally leant towards books instead. And I loved fiction, like adventure stories and that, but I felt so much more connected to things that were actually real.”

Blair nodded. “Understandable.”

“Anyway, one Christmas, I got this book. I think it was called Myths and Legends of the Pokemon World and it had all the origin stories of all the legendary Pokemon from like… every region in the world. God, I ate up every single story - how Arceus created the world, the theory that all Pokemon came from Mew in some way, how Groudon and Kyogre created the land and sea. I was absolutely hooked. Then, right at the end, there were a couple of small articles devoted to a place called Kildo.”

“Typical,” Blair muttered. “Always playing second fiddle to the big guns.”

“The book explained a little bit about the legend of the Chessmen. I was just… amazed at how these Pokemon brought humans these gifts of technology and arts and whatnot and how advanced the region was for its time. And then when I read what happened next, well… I just wanted to know why. Why did the Chessmen take away what they gave the humans? What happened to them after they became dormant? I was obsessed. When I was younger, I had this stupid dream that I would like… Oh, it sounds so cheesy now, but… like solve the mystery of what happened all those years ago.”

“It’s not cheesy, Isla. Dreams are never cheesy.”

Isla bit the inside of her cheek. “I know that. It’s just… well, this legend has been everything to me for years. I’m not bigheaded enough now to think someone like me could ever solve it. But I’d love to find something. Even if it’s just standing in the same place these Pokemon stood once, all those years ago. But now it feels like it’s slipping away from me. I won’t be able to do anything unless I get these texts translated.”

“They’re well-known texts, right? Haven’t they already been translated?”

“The only translations that exist are locked behind online paywalls,” Isla sighed. “Not exactly within my budget. The originals were family owned. I suppose you can’t blame them for wanting them kept safe.”

“Could the university not pay for you to access them?”

“Not my department. They already think the project isn’t worth the time. They’re usually into social changes, modern day life, that sort of thing. Mythology doesn’t get a look in. Even though I changed my project a bit – focusing more on how the mythology influences modern life, with the Chessmen more of like a case study – the department still don’t want much to do with it.”

“Well, that’s their loss. Your project sounds fascinating just from what I’ve seen of it.”

“This little bit you’ve seen might end up being all it ever amounts to. With Nana Morag in the hospital, my options for translations are limited, and these old texts are all I have to help me piece together where the Chessmen might be.”

Silence unfurled around them. Isla stared down at her lap, her legs shaking and her mouth dry. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d ever talked so much about herself and she found that she couldn’t quite bring herself to look Blair in the eye.

“I think I might know someone.”

Isla pricked her head up. “Really?” she said, hope throbbing in her chest.

“I have a friend who lives in Inverbrook. It’s not a huge city, but they do have a subsect of Tideburgh University there. He’s doing a Masters in Language and mentioned being involved with an elective on Old Kildonian. I can contact him for you. He might be able to help.”

Something surged through Isla like she’d just taken a shot of adrenaline. “Oh, Blair, thank you! That’s amazing!”

“No guarantees, of course!” he said, spreading his hands hastily. “He might not know enough of it to be a proper help. But he may be able to put you in touch with some other folks who can help, if that makes sense.”

“It does. A lot of sense. Thank you again.” Isla paused. “Where is Inverbrook?”

“Pretty much directly south of here. About forty odd miles or so. Following routes 29 through 26 pretty much leads you right there. Public transport is crap, though, so you’re better walking most of it. Shouldn’t take much more than a couple of days if you’re…”

He paused. Isla knew what he wanted to say. If you’re fit. Women like her weren’t supposed to be fit. And even though the thought of days of walking filled her with equal parts apprehension and dread, she forced a look of determination onto her face.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I can handle it.”

Isla shared the news that she would be leaving in the morning as they sat down at the kitchen table. Kenneth and Skye stayed quiet, barely reacting to the news, but Rhona’s face crumpled.

“Oh, chick, are you sure?”

“I think it’s probably for the best,” Isla said. “I don’t want to be a burden, especially with you guys having your hands full with the croft and Nana Morag being ill. Having a guest is too much on top of everything. I really do appreciate everything you’ve all done, but I think it’s best that I head towards Inverbrook and start my research properly.”

A strange expression passed over Rhona’s face, one that Isla couldn’t make sense of. For several terrifying moments, she thought she’d offended her.

“You wouldn’t be a burden on us, Isla,” Rhona eventually said, her eyes brimming. “We’d happily have you here for as long as you want. It’s been lovely having you.”

Isla felt something in her heart buckle.

“We do understand that your studies have to come first. But… you said you wanted to go to Inverbrook?”

“Yes. Blair is going to put me in touch with a friend of his there that might be able to help me with some translations.”

“It might not be as easy as you think, chick. I’ve just been watching the local news. There was flooding down south. The river that goes through Route 27, which connects Port Glen to Inverbrook, burst its banks. The whole route is submerged. No-one can go through. It’s completely impassable.”

You wouldn’t have said the entire of Port Glen had only just recently been battered by a storm, Isla thought, as she set off down towards the harbour after a filling breakfast. The morning sky pinkened gently, like a mother’s embrace, and golden threads of sun drifted through soft, watercolour clouds. A cool wind kept the worst of the heat at bay as she walked. All in all, it was a fairly pleasant experience. Well, as pleasant an experience as walking would ever be.

It was Rhona that had suggested trying the ferry. She couldn’t be sure what passenger routes they ran from Port Glen, or if they only did international and goods shipments, but it was a better option than waiting the potential weeks for the Inverbrook route to be cleared or taking the (extremely) long way around the whole region.

Breathing heavily and sweating despite the brisk ocean breeze, Isla stopped to catch her breath as she arrived at the harbour. She cast her gaze around hopefully. It was quiet. Too quiet. Not a good sign in the least. Aside from the occasional sailor pacing the docks, and the sharp, cutting cry of seabirds, the place was still and silent.

The thought of asking someone to help sent panic crashing through her like waves in a storm, but there was no other choice. The best option rested with a nearby sailor, busily looping ropes and picking apart complicated knots. A Pokemon stood at his side. Squat, muscular, with short brown fur, flecked with white, and cut into a stout triangle pattern, it was another one that Isla didn’t recognise. Every now and again, the sailor tossed it a particularly difficult-looking knot of rope, which the Pokemon expertly shredded with sharp, curved claws.

“Brootser, the Pelting Pokemon. The evolved form of Brogue. With incredibly sharp claws and powerful jaws, Brootser are highly aggressive and territorial. Even against much stronger foes, it won’t back down easily,” her Pokedex chirruped.

Isla’s hand tightened around Soba’s Pokeball as she read more details. A Fighting type. A second evolution. Being a Furret, Soba wouldn’t stand much chance in a fair fight, much less an unfair one. While she did generally feel more comfortable approaching a fellow Pokemon owner, she probably could have stood to pick one with a less terrifying partner.

All the same, she approached the sailor, keeping herself primed like a coiled spring. “Excuse me? I was wondering if you could help me with something?”

The sailor had a strong, lined face, but he didn’t seem anywhere near as intimidating when he relaxed into a smile. “Sure,” he boomed. “What can I do for you?”

“Are there going to be any sailings from this port in the next few days? Anywhere that lands near Inverbrook?”

The Brootser, distracted from its work with the knots, pressed its wet nose against Isla’s hand. Isla let out an involuntary squeak.

“Brootser, stop that!” the sailor said firmly. “Sorry, miss. He’s obsessed with leather. Have you got leather in your handbag or anything? Your shoes? I swear, he can sniff it out within a mile. I have to keep him distracted at work otherwise he’d never leave people alone. Here, Brootser, go and do this for me.”

The sailor tossed a section of rope a few feet down the docks. The Brootser growled, a deep throaty rumble, before dropping to all fours and pursuing. Within moments, the rope was ripped to little more than fibres.

Isla searched for something to say. She eventually settled on, “He’s cute.”

“He’s a menace is what he is,” the sailor said, wiping his brow. “Anyway, you were asking about the ferries? Unfortunately, the passenger ferry was badly damaged in that storm two nights ago and won’t be running any routes for a while.”

“How long is a while?” Isla asked nervously.

“We’re waiting for some metal workers to come down from Hydrogate. They’re delayed because their Weldeon team were exhausted after a big job in the ironworks. Currently we’re looking at about a week.”

“A week?”

“I’m afraid so. If you go to reception and leave your details, they’ll be able to contact you as soon as we know when the sailings will be going ahead.”

“Aren’t there any other options?”

The sailor considered. “Not here. But if you’re set on sailing and you could get to Dewbrae Town, I think they’re still running sailings.”

“Where’s Dewbrae Town? Is it close?”

“It’s up past Aberdrip City, which is an hour’s drive north of here. Then you have to pass through Aberdrip Forest and that brings you out just at Dewbrae. Maybe a couple of days walking if you keep a steady pace,” he paused, and Isla felt his eyes rake her body. “Maybe a couple more. But, if you’re in a hurry, it’s better than waiting around here. Everything’s very up in the air at the moment.”

Isla thanked the sailor, trying to ignore the heavy feeling that came over her. Why was this so difficult? She’d encountered disaster at every turn so far and, in her darkest moments, she couldn’t deny wondering if it was even worth it to keep going. Nana Morag ill, no passage to Inverbrook through Route 27, no ferry from the Port Glen docks, now she had to go all the way to Dewbrae – wherever that was – on nothing more than a possibility?

But what could she do? What other options did she have?

Rhona would know what to do, Isla decided. She had a way of sorting things out, an uncanny level-headedness her own mother didn’t have. That’s what she’d do. She’d head back to the croft and take stock of the situation. She started walking, thoughts whirling through her head like the flapping of birds’ wings. Maybe there was another way to Inverbrook. They knew the region better than she ever would. Maybe they could—

“WIIIIING!”

Isla gasped and swore as her foot trod on something soft. With a gust of cold air, the offending thing burst upwards and pain erupted at the top of her head. Sharp, pointed talons dug into her scalp and she yelped in pain.

“Gull! Gull!” her assailant screeched; each squawk accompanied by a swift peck to the head.

Isla’s hands closed around her attacker’s soft wriggling body. With all her might, she tore it from her head and tossed it as far as she could manage. But the Pokemon swooped back into the air, seemingly unharmed, fixing Isla with a glare that sent a tremble down her spine.

“Gull! Wingull!” it shrieked.

Recognition dropped into Isla’s belly like a stone. It was a Kildonian Wingull. The same Kildonian Wingull that had attacked Rhona the day Isla got off the ferry. At least, it certainly looked like the same one – she could hardly call herself an expert on them – but it was roughly the same size and had the same high-pitched squawk. And didn’t the Pokedex say that Kildonian Wingull only attacked people who had food? Isla didn’t have a single crumb on her. So what other motive could it possibly have for attacking her?

Isla reached for the Pokeball at her waist, panicked fingers scrabbling for the catch. But the Wingull screeched again, diving into a tackle. The impact came low in her stomach, knocking the air from her lungs and leaving her doubled over. The second blow sent her off-balance and stumbling, eventually crashing to the ground where the pain came in sharp spikes. With a fury of feathers, the Pokemon ripped Isla’s bag away from her.

“Hey!” She wheezed. “There’s nothing in there for you!”

Her protests were rewarded with a face full of frigid water.

By the time Isla had sluiced the water from her face, the Wingull had unhooked the bag’s clasp and was digging around in her things. Hairbrush and deodorant were both ignored, the coin purse in the shape of a Quagsire got an inquisitive gnaw but ultimately left in favour of a pen, which lasted a whole thirty seconds until it splintered and was promptly spat back out.

Every inhale felt like she was being stabbed underneath the ribs, but she still forced herself to move. “Leave my things alone! There’s no food in there!”

Wingull had wriggled itself right into the bottom of the bag and had pulled out an old emergency kit that Isla had nearly forgotten about. Most of the items had already been used or dumped over the years she’d had it, leaving only a couple of travel sized Potions, a Repel Kit, and a Poke Doll, wrapped up in a worn-out bag. The Wingull squawked indignantly and decapitated the doll in one fell swoop. Then it turned back on the travel bag, scraping around and tearing at it with its beak.

Something dropped out. Isla’s heart plummeted to somewhere near her feet.

It was a Pokeball. An old Pokeball scratched and grimy with age. A Pokeball that Isla had all but forgotten about ever since she made the decision to train just Soba all those years ago. A Pokeball that was now right in the Kildonian Wingull’s line of sight.

She saw it happening before it actually did. The hungry Wingull viewed the Pokeball as nothing more than a shiny, tasty snack. It darted forward, opened its beak wide, and engulfed the old capsule. Isla prayed that the ten year old ball would turn out to be too old to work anymore, and the worst thing to happen would be the Wingull hacking it back up again. But the Pokeball made a shrill shiiing noise as it made contact with Wingull’s beak, and the Pokemon disappeared in a flash of blue light.

The Pokeball shook. Once. Twice. Three times. Then it was still.

And Isla had caught a Kildonian Wingull.

Isla told the story of her accidental Wingull capture to an appreciative audience when she got back from the docks. And then again over sandwiches at lunchtime. While Soba curled up in the corner next to the radiator, oblivious to this new teammate, Isla released Wingull for the nerve-wracking job of introductions and feeding time. Rhona’s eyebrows rose so high that they practically disappeared into her hairline, but she didn’t protest.

“I can’t believe it’s the same one,” Rhona said, eyeing her half-eaten sandwich she was planning on saving for later. “Most try their luck once and then move on.”

“I think it’s young,” Blair said, lifting its wing to get a better look. “Perhaps separated from its mum too early. Maybe it doesn’t know any better.”

“I didn’t mean to catch it,” Isla sighed. “I’d forgotten all about that old Pokeball. We were always told to carry an extra one or two, even if we never intended to catch Pokemon, like for emergencies and that.”

“It must have been starving if it thought a Pokeball was food. Or maybe just exceptionally stupid.”

“Jury’s out on that one,” Isla said, as the Wingull pecked at a Tauros shaped pepper shaker.

“Kildonian Wingull are incredibly food oriented,” Blair lifted his plate to avoid the Pokemon’s frantically flapping wings. “Most of the bird Pokemon around here are.”

“Why is that?”

“Competition. Because there’s so many, they all compete for the same natural resources. That’s part of why people think Wingull adapted for Kildo the way they did. They couldn’t compete for most of the natural food, so they evolved to take food from humans instead. Problem is, they end up thinking all food is fair game. Hey, watch it! No! That’s mine!”

Isla suppressed a chuckle as Wingull lunged for the crusts on Blair’s sandwiches. In the kerfuffle of squawking and feathers, Isla looked over at Skye, who hadn’t said a word through the entire of lunch. Her face was screwed up.

“Skye? Are you alright?” Isla asked.

Skye made an odd strangling noise, pushed herself back from the chair, and ran for the stairs, each one thudding under her feet. A moment later, a door slammed.

“Did I say something wrong?” Isla said, horrified.

“No, not at all,” Rhona said, rescuing a glass of juice that had been upended when Skye left the table. “She’s just a bit upset. We were supposed to be going up to meet Professor Spruce tomorrow to get her trainer’s license and first Pokemon. But because Nana Morag is in hospital, I have to be here in case something comes up on short notice, and I just can’t spare the time to take Skye up to Aberdrip City. She’ll only be delayed for a few days, but the poor lass was so looking forward to it. Especially when she’s had to wait so much longer than everyone else.”

“Why’s that?”

It was only after she asked the question that she considered it might have been rude. Or none of her business. Too late to save herself now, though. Rhona’s face tightened, her mouth puckering like she was sucking on a sour lemon.

“Sorry,” Isla looked down at the table. “I shouldn’t be nosy.”

The kitchen fell quiet. Rhona let out a deep, juddering exhale and sat back down, folding her hands into her lap, the kitchen suddenly feeling about ten degrees colder. Isla took a sip of water, her mouth and throat turning to chalk.

“Skye had childhood cancer.” The words didn’t even get a chance to settle before they were tumbling out again, like Rhona was trying to get them all out at once. Like they couldn’t hurt her as much that way. “She spent most of her childhood in hospital with leukaemia.”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” Once again Isla found herself cursing both her mother and herself for not bothering to find any of this information out beforehand.

Rhona shook her head. “It’s alright, chick. We don’t talk about it much. Besides, she’s been in remission for a year now. But she’s missed out on so much school and she gets tired so easily.”

There was nothing Isla could say that would be enough. She had to settle for, “I’m sorry to hear that…” and hope Rhona could somehow understand just how much she meant it.

“There was a time when she was being treated that she became very low and very depressed. It was frightening. I’ve never been so worried in all my life. We were scared she was just… giving up. Then, one day, they had some Pokemon trainers visit the hospital. A lot of children there would never be able to go out training. Some wouldn’t even… you know, live to see their next birthday.”

Rhona’s voice wavered. Blair put his hand over hers and squeezed. “Easy, Mum. Don’t go upsetting yourself now.”

“One of the trainers was assigned to Skye,” Rhona continued. “But she was so quiet and so withdrawn that we didn’t think the trainer could get through to her. The trainer had this Pokemon with her – Ampster, I think it was – and it was like a light turned on behind Skye’s eyes when she saw it. I saw glimpses of my daughter again. This trainer stayed with her for hours. Just talking. She’s wanted to be a Pokemon trainer ever since. And I hate that so many things keep getting in her way.”

Rhona sunk her head into her hands. Her shoulders quivered.

Isla felt terrible. No wonder Skye had been quiet during the whole of lunch. How stupid had she been? Skye was being kept from her dream of being a Pokemon trainer and she’d waltzed into their kitchen showing off a Pokemon she hadn’t even meant to catch? It made Isla’s toes curl just thinking about it.

“Could Skye not make the journey on her own?” she asked.

“No,” Rhona lifted her head again, looking pale even at the thought. “She’s not fit enough. We were going to rent a car and drive her, but…”

“Could I take her?”

The offer slipped past Isla’s lips before she knew what she was doing. Rhona looked at her in mild shock, her mouth slowly gaping open.

“I mean, I’ll be passing through Aberdrip anyway!” Isla continued. “One of the sailors said I could get the ferry from Dewbrae Town which is just past Aberdrip, right?. I could take her along with me.”

“Gosh, that’s very kind of you, chick. And I’m sure Skye would love it,” Rhona said, nervously glancing at the stairs. “But I’m not comfortable with her making the trip back on her own. Or even just the amount of walking she’d have to do.”

“I could go with them,” Blair said.

Rhona looked at her son like she’d only just remembered he existed. “What’s that, honey?”

“I could go with them,” he repeated. “We could put Skye on Coastrot. That’s my partner Pokemon,” he added for Isla’s benefit. “He’s strong enough to carry her and we can keep her nicely bundled up. Then once Isla heads off to Dewbrae, I can take Skye back.”

“I don’t know,” Rhona said. “We need you here too.”

“Mum, it’s a day. Maybe two, tops, if we let Skye rest overnight. You and Dad can manage that long, right? You could ask a couple of the lads from the market to pitch in if you really need to. I’m sure they’d work for a hot pie and some cash in hand. And you don’t need to worry about us. We won’t do anything silly. We’ll just get Skye her Pokemon, check in for the night, see Isla off to Dewbrae the next morning and head back ourselves. Easy-peasy!”

Rhona still didn’t look convinced. “It’s such a long way, though. She’s not been away overnight in such a long time.”

“It’s a few hours of travelling, Mum. You said it yourself, Skye’s already missed out on so much. It might not feel like much for us, but for Skye, it’s her whole life. One delay after the other. And with everything the way it is right now, what if there’s just more delays? More reasons not to take her? You have to let her.”

Rhona went very quiet, her face pale.

“I’ll look after her, Mum,” Blair said. “She needs this.”

“I know you will. And I know she does,” Rhona heaved a sigh. “She’s not my little baby anymore. She’s growing up.”

“I’d like to go.”

Everyone jumped at the voice that came in from the doorway. Rhona wiped her eyes. “Oh, Skye, honey, sorry. I didn’t hear you come down. Are you okay?”

“I think I can do it,” Skye ignored her mother’s question. Her voice was louder this time, but still hesitant, like she was testing out its limits. “I want to go get my Pokemon and I’d like Blair and Coastrot to take me. And Isla,” she added, and Isla felt a smile curve onto her face. “If that’s okay with you?”

Silence widened like a chasm between mother and daughter and for one horrible moment, Isla half-expected Rhona to turn away, to start shouting, to deny her flat out. But then tears spilled out of Rhona’s eyes and her whole face softened.

“Yes, honey,” Rhona said, her voice little more than a whisper. “Yes, that’ll be okay with me.”

As they hugged, Isla felt a stray tear prick at the corner of her eye. The emotion surprised her. Yes, it was touching to see a mother and daughter hug and reconcile, but something told her it went deeper. As she looked out at the dying sky, strewn with deepening orange and slicks of black, something unsettled itself in her heart.

Tomorrow she would be leaving Port Glen. Tomorrow she would leave behind a family unit where she felt accepted. Tomorrow she would start her journey to Inverbrook.

She didn’t know which one felt scarier.

#checkmate #pokemon oc fiction #pokemon fanfiction #fakemon #fakemon fanfiction #long post #fanfiction

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classicajays · 4 years

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I was reading some parts of a brand new article from the New York Times today where they interviewed Lorne Michaels. Right now, I’m pretty much moved on from the point of having Jim Carrey play as Biden, I did want Sudeikis in the role but whatever, it is what it is I guess. I love Jim, so I guess we’ll all see if he’s good in the role or not. I’m not so focused on that as I am more about the COVID regulations that will be going on with the show. I’m still not thrilled over the idea of having a “limited audience”. Lorne did say in the article that if any cast or crew member tests positive, the show would shut down for two weeks. But I don’t know (because I couldn’t read the full NYT article due to it being paywalled) if they’ll also be testing audience members. Even if it is limited audience, they do a dress rehearsal and a live show, so you’ll still have a good amount showing up. The other option I guess would be a laugh track and I and everyone else do not want that at all. And how will a limited audience sound on TV? Will they make enough noise? I can only hope everyone stays safe, but I also won’t be surprised if a few episodes get canceled because someone tests positive.

#Saturday Night Live

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allthecanadianpolitics · 5 years

Link

The Star asked the leaders of Canada’s major political parties to talk about the issues that move them deeply. In the first of the series, federal NDP Leader Jagmeet Singh identified the challenges faced by today’s youth as the cause he wanted to talk about. Singh spoke with the Star about why he chose the topic and what he’s going to do to address the issue:

Why are young people and the challenges they face so important to you?

All the major crises we’re faced with, they’re the ones feeling it the most. Young people are the ones who are priced out of the (housing) market, can’t imagine ever buying a place. It was not unattainable for their parents and grandparents.

So, they really embody all of the poor decisions that have been made by governments in Ottawa. Young people have that look of hopelessness. They have this fear, this uncertainty, and I want to replace that look in their eyes with one of hope and positivity and optimism. I really believe young people have gotten a raw deal. And that’s why they need a new deal. I want to now revert to making decisions that actually put young people — and by doing so, people in general —at the heart of the decision-making.

How is being a youth today different from what it was like when you were growing up?

The challenges are just a lot worse. I kind of remember what that’s like a bit. Because my father was ill and couldn’t work, and because of his addiction, it meant that he lost his ability to continue practising and we fell into debt. So we ended up losing our home and not being able to keep it, which meant that I felt that anxiety about having a home. But that’s otherwise something I didn’t think about. Like, I wasn’t in high school worrying about housing. That’s why what I went through is really different from what young people are going through now.

I wanted to find a way out of my financial difficulties by going to school. And, for me, school was kind of affordable. Undergrad was in the $2,000 range, and going to law school was $8,000 a year. Even in my difficult situation, it was something that I could see my way around. I got some loans and I was able to pay my tuition.

But for young people now, they’re faced with economic uncertainty and they want to take university or other courses to upgrade their skills, or, if they want to go to professional school, it’s really limited for those who don’t have the means. It’s so expensive that it could be scary and maybe even just a barrier that’s not surmountable.

Full article below read more (due to paywall):

Why do you think you’re the right candidate to tackle these issues?

(Prime Minister Justin Trudeau and Conservative Leader Andrew Scheer) don’t have the courage to take on these issues. They’re kind of like the old boys club. It’s in their best interest to maintain the status quo. They’re not really going to bring in the change that people need. They’re just maybe going to tamper around the edges, tinker here and there. They’re not going to bring in a new deal. I’m proposing a bold new deal, a new way of looking at the way we should be prioritizing people over the wealthiest and the people at the very top. And I know it’s achievable. I really care about making life better for people, and I’m not afraid to bring in the changes.

Why focus on young people when many of them can’t vote, and the ones who can often don’t bother?

When I got elected in 2011, I got elected because I had all these young volunteers and many of them couldn’t vote. I was 32 and I was the oldest person in my campaign by far. We had all these young, passionate people that work hard, and they care, and they got me elected.

I really think young people shouldn’t be counted out because they have parents and they have grandparents. For some people, that could be as many as six people they can influence and say, “hey, this is my future, if this matters to you, please care about this issue or vote this way.” So, I see immense power in young people. Though they can’t vote right now, I still think they can really influence the outcome of the next election.

How will you convince the next generation, and all Canadians who care about climate change, that it’s a threat to their future that you take seriously?

Since being elected, I’ve taken really fierce positions on the environment. We are the only official federal party that has opposed things like the Trans Mountain pipeline. We’ve taken strong positions on environmental issues historically as a party and I’ve taken on that and taken us to the next level with really bold announcements and really concrete commitments. I want to end fossil fuel subsidies, something that I know a lot of people are really frustrated by. I think my track record of positions that I’ve taken, the boldness of our vision and our plan, really speaks to the fact that we take this seriously and I’m committed to doing something about it.

Students who graduate from school can no longer rely on that degree to land them stable work. In today’s gig economy, many end up doing internships, contract work, part-time work or freelancing for years without any prospects of stability ahead. What will you do to help young people in these precarious situations?

People used to be able to get a job to get benefits. Now in the gig economy, people don’t have those benefits. That’s why it’s more important than ever that our health-care system step up and provide that head-to-toe coverage that includes dental care, medication for all, eye and hearing care and addiction and mental health services, so that all the needs that someone has for their health are not something they have to depend on the job for.

Right now, employment insurance is basically not something that self-employed or precariously employed or a freelance person can have access to. I want to change the way we look at employment insurance and modify it so that it does cover people who are working in these precarious positions. The new vision I see is cumulative hours — I propose 360 — and looking at someone’s best 12 weeks as the way we set someone’s employment insurance. I want to extend our parental leave to allow self-employed people to take advantage of it.

I also want to continue to fight for good pay and good jobs. For federal regulated jobs, I’m pushing for a $15-minimum wage and also changing the labour code so we offer better protection, set a better standard for what a job should give to workers and hopefully inspire other provincial and territorial governments to follow.

Owning a home or even being able to comfortably afford a place to rent feels like a pipe dream to many youth today. How will you make housing more accessible and affordable for this generation?

Really boldly invest in building new homes. What I’m imagining is 500,000 or half a million new homes over the next 10 years. The focus is going to be rental, cooperative, non-market housing so that people can have a place where there’s a confidence in knowing they can live there and that it’s affordable.

We want to waive the GST on bills where private developers build affordable housing to encourage the building of rental or affordable housing. To reduce the cost of housing, we want to end money laundering, which is driving up speculation. We want to impose a federal foreign buyer’s tax, which would get at the foreign investment that’s actually driving up the cost of housing.

For first-time homebuyers, we want to double the tax credit that’s available now and we also want to expand the mortgage to a 30-year mortgage which would lower the monthly payments so that someone can actually afford to buy a house.

This interview has been edited and condensed.

#jagmeet singh #NDP #cdnpoli #canada #canadian politics #canadian news #canadian

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dirtyfilthy · 4 years

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The Betrayal Of Chelsea Manning By The Coward Adrian Lamo

I have only participated in “cancel culture” once that I can remember. Once, over the broad course of my life, and that was when Adrian Lamo sold Chelsea Manning out to the authorities. Motherfucker has the sheer gall to call himself a hacker, and then rats someone out — not because of his principles, but from a constant desire for pure narcissistic supply -- and all this from a position of trust no less…

I was real angry, and I wanted to put the boot in, any way I could. There was a special circle of hell reserved for people like Adrian Lamo… and as it would turn out, he was already in it.

Amongst petty vendettas like stuffing his wikipedia page with all the well referenced dirt I could dig up, along the way, and kind of by-the-by, I ended up doing a lot of research on the guy, and then, well, the picture of Lamo that emerged…

Jesus.

He’s been a hardcore benzo addict since his twenties. If you know what to look for you can tell in some of his interviews, slurring his words and looking very spacey. He never really had a real job, never broke into the industry he was aways on the fringes of. It’s kinda crazy, if you search for “homeless hacker Adrian Lamo” you can still see what the mass media thought of him before he turned in Chelsea.

He’d kind of weaselled his way into popular consciousness by being a shameless self-promoter, and then managing to get caught in that spectacular “rebellious teenage hacker” vs. “huge faceless corporation” way that tends to capture people’s imagination.

There were whole articles about him in Wired. Multiple in fact. Here’s one of earliest from 2004 (unfortunately now behind a paywall), “New York Times vs The Homeless Hacker”. The first few lines can still give you the gist, however

A self-styled security expert and serial self-promoter, Adrian Lamo made headlines as a grayhat hacker. Then the Gray Lady came down on his head. Not long ago Adrian Lamo was exploring an abandoned gypsum processing plant in West Philadelphia with two friends, when a police cruiser drove slowly by. Lamo’s friends were high on methamphetamines…

https://www.wired.com/2004/04/hacker-5/

Even during this phase of his life, a lot of people in the scene didn’t like him. At least, there were people complaining on hacker boards about him stealing exploits and then burning them for the publicity. In the end he got off with probation and home detention, and that was the end of blatantly hacking into shit. Any more and he would certainly end up in prison. Attitudes were changing, the authorities had stopped seeing hacking as just high-spirited teenage hijinks. and the increasingly severe penalties could land you some serious time.

After this, he just sorted floated around. He never got job in the industry like the rest of us, and I suspect he may have been basically unemployable for one reason or another. The next time he popped up in my news feed was in 2010 with a strange article from ex-hacker turned journalist and friend of Lamo’s,, Kevin Poulsen — “Ex-Hacker Adrian Lamo Institutionalized, Diagnosed with Asperger’s”

The first paragraph or so reads:

Last month Adrian Lamo, a man once hunted by the FBI, did something contrary to his nature. He says he picked up a payphone outside a Northern California supermarket and called the cops.

Someone, Lamo says, had grabbed his backpack containing the prescription anti-depressants he'd been on since 2004, the year he pleaded guilty to hacking The New York Times. He wanted his medication back. But when the police arrived at the Safeway parking lot it was Lamo, not the missing backpack, that interested them. Something about his halting, monotone speech, perhaps slowed by his medication, got the officers' attention

— (https://www.wired.com/2010/05/lamo/)

The article claimed Lamo had been arrested for acting strangely and then institutionalised, basically claiming the police had arrested him because he was autistic. At the time, I didn’t really give this a second thought, “oh well, ho-hum”. As itt turned out, this was a case of the most spectacular kind of “spin” I think I’ve ever seen; the only place the article actually intersected with general consensual reality was in stating Lamo had been arrested and placed on psychiatric hold.

The real story, which is entirely far more pathetic, was that Lamo’s family had become worried about his benzo use (“prescription anti-depressants”) and had cut him off. He totally lost the plot at this point and stormed out of house. Concerned about his mental state, and with fears for his physical safety, it was actually his own family that called the police to try and find him.

When confronted about this fairly massive discrepancy, Lamo claimed he hadn’t exactly “lied” as such, and had simply withheld some facts due to personal privacy concerns.

It was at this point I finally began to see the whole tattered trajectory of Lamo’s entire life — trace the greasy path of his rainbow with my fingertips, and watch as the once bright twine became increasing gray and frayed as each thread began to curve back towards it’s inevitable impact with the earth, when, at which point, everything important would begin to totally unravel around him.

At his core, Adrian Lamo was a narcissist, and so Adrian Lamo absolutely believed in the Adrian Lamo narrative, as only a narcissist can. Near of beginning of his tale, this was easy to do. He was a wandering Daoist sage, a renegade techno-monk character in a Neal Stephenson cyberpunk novella, and anytime he wanted to see his own reflection he could simply look in any of the major newspapers.

After his arrest and release, the rest of the world moved on. His peers all settled down to well-paid industry gigs, and you couldn’t just pop the New York Times through an open proxy any longer — well, at least: not most of time, anyway. His own sword, never the exactly the sharpest in the first place, was beginning to show some signs of a serious structural rust.

Without the constant assurance of people telling his own story back at him, what was he exactly? What did the mirror portray to him now? An unemployed, semi-homeless drug addict, a hacker who couldn’t hack his way out of wet paper back with pick axe, the tired punch line to any number of bad jokes...

Of course, the many similarities to my own life were not exactly lost on me. I was basically a case of being a few near misses and unlucky hits away from sitting in his exact position. I had made the transition to an industry career successfully, but I was still a drug addict with mental heath issues. I had gone through my own narcissistic stage when I was younger, but thankfully grew out of it, the old moons no longer pulled on my tides the way they used to.

The essential Lamo pattern had began to emerge. Still chasing the same bright stars that had long since sunk beneath the horizon line of the ocean; Lamo would begin to feel irrelevant — Lamo would get then his name in the media in some fashion. A momentary peace was then achieved, then came a brief period of post-orgasmic. cosmic serenity.

But of course, the wheel of karma will not stop spinning for anyone, and so, soon enough and all-to-quickly, the entire process of personal renewal, would have to, you know….. begin anew.

A few other case studies were observed. An unreleased, permanently unfinished documentary featuring Lamo was mysteriously leaked on the internet. Of course, Lamo himself had leaked it. And there was always appearing on various morning television shows, Good Morning America, Fox News & the like.

But then the mother of all opportunities just dropped into his lap.

Chelsea Manning needed someone to talk to.

Chelsea knew Lamo was Bi, so he was at least in the LGBT community. Adrian was a hacker too. He’d fought against the system in his day, he was certainly someone who would “get it”, she was very sure of this. And when she did reach out, he was indeed very sympathetic. Honestly, it seemed like he really cared. Just a genuine human being, reaching out across the vast emotional void to provide a sense of empathy to someone who really, really needed it right now..

He was very sympathetic when Chelsea told him all about her struggles with gender identity, and he was very sympathetic when she said she was leaking gigabytes of information to Wikileaks…. But behind his sunglasses, Lamo eyes had already morphed into a marquee LED matrix endlessly scrolling his own name. Think of the news coverage!

This was big. This was very big.

It would, in fact, turn out to be fucking huge. Of course, within in the hacker scene, and to a certain extent, even outside it, everyone just fucking loathed him now. Eventually even the news moved on, nobody wanted any more interviews, and in the end, when everything has already been all said and done: you are ultimately left with only yourself….

… a pathetic drug addict. Of course, I have to keep telling myself that one point of intersection does not an entire venn diagram or an actual equality make. But I can’t shake the feeling that, perhaps, maybe we weren’t really all that different. Maybe my own betrayals have had the simple luck of being a lot less public.

Perhaps my own sins were just as ugly, but far less ambitious.

Adrian Lamo died alone, from a drug overdose, in a private unit in an aged care facility in Wichita, Kansas. He was 37 years old. An autopsy showed his kidneys were already failing.

I guess Sartre got it wrong. Hell isn’t other people, it’s being left totally alone, with nothing else around but the tedious company of your own terrible self, and of course, the fucker won’t stop talking...

So obviously there was nothing more I could do to hurt Adrian Lamo, nothing that Adrian Lamo hadn’t done already. He had long since locked himself away in a prison cell of his own making. I do wonder if maybe one too many silent 3am’s hadn’t come crawling around the clock face when he was there & awake to witness it, lying in bed & staring at the ceiling and trying not to think about things.

Like I’m doing.

Shit, I hope don’t go out that way.

#adrian lamo #chelsea manning #nonfiction #creative nonfiction

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ckret2 · 5 years

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Godzilla Recycles

It’s been more than a month since the reawakening of the titans. In that time, they’ve been a constant fixture in the world’s news headlines. But... generally not for the expected reasons. More for things like starring in YouTube language lessons, stealing cars, and recycling their plastic.

This is part of an ongoing series of Rodorah one-shots. It’s not ABOUT Rodorah but mentions of the ship are made. If you don’t wanna read the others... tbh this sorta sums up a lot of the stuff that’s been going on in them, just from the perspective of the humans who have no idea what’s going on. All you really need to know going in is that Ghidorah (grudgingly) yielded the fight before he otherwise would have killed Mothra. Half of the fic is a sum up of the bizarre crap the titans have been up to; the other half, is, indeed, the promised Godzilla recycling. Fic hasn’t been proofed yet because this sonuva took me almost two months to write and I want to get it out already. EDIT: now proofed!! Links to the other fics are in the source at the bottom of this post.

###

HEART OF MONARCH FOUND ALIVE

Throughout the titans' mass awakening, every news station, site, and paper in the world was filled with towering headlines screaming about the monsters crawling and careening across Earth's vast landscapes. Each and every individual titan had hundreds of live streams in both video and text, constantly updating the terrified world on the latest actions of the monsters storming through their cities.

The greatest number of cameras stalked Ghidorah and Godzilla's every dread-inspiring move, not just because anything that happened to the United States east coast always seemed to get disproportionate coverage, but also because someone had leaked intel revealing that Ghidorah had awakened the rest of the titans and appeared to be commanding them. Anyone dealing directly with a titan attack tracked their own beast's news, of course; but for the parts of the world situated between the attacks, watching clouds roiling far too fast overhead and listening to their homes rattle from earthquakes hundreds of miles away—their eyes darted between news about whatever nearest creature might menace them and news coming out of Boston about the titans’ supposed ringleader, waiting to see what was going to happen next.

In the aftermath of the fighting, for days there wasn’t a major paper or station that had a story that didn’t somehow feature titans, whether directly or tangentially. Every eye in the world was gazing fearfully into the distance, waiting fearfully for some several-hundred-foot-tall beast to lumber over the horizon.

And so it was somehow both amazing and completely understandable that the news totally ignored that Serizawa Ishiro had been found alive in Boston.

He was located the second morning after the fight. He was unconscious on the northern shore of Spectacle Island in Boston Harbor, within easy sight of the spot where the final titan battle had been fought. He was evacuated to the nearest operational hospital to receive treatment for exposure, dehydration, and what a week earlier might have been misdiagnosed as one bitch of a sunburn but which by then the doctors could unfortunately easily identify as radiation burns. It was another day before he was identified, and from there only a few hours before the room was full of balloons and flowers sent by dozens of Monarch employees. He hadn't woken up yet, but he was stable and expected to recover, and when he did wake up he was going to know he was appreciated.

Monarch had no idea how he'd survived. Godzilla must have saved him, everyone agreed; the leading theory was that Godzilla had stuck Serizawa in his mouth moments before the bomb exploded, driven some unknown godzillish instinct, to release him somewhere safe when he arrived in Boston just before attacking Ghidorah—and that was only the leading theory because nobody could come up with any others. (Rick Stanton's proposal that the explosion had opened up a vacuum-powered tunnel between Godzilla's lair and Boston was rejected out of hand.) Serizawa couldn't explain as long as he was unconscious, and Godzilla himself certainly wasn't going to tell them anything. But whatever had happened, they were grateful it had.

Serizawa's survival didn't make headlines; who was Serizawa to the world but another one of the many talking heads that sometimes spoke for Monarch, and not even the most frequently seen one at that? Only a few articles were devoted to his miraculous discovery, and most of them were in more specialized publications geared toward biologists, environmentalists, or titanologists. In most places, he was a two-sentence comment near the end of a longer article about Monarch's response to the tragedies or Boston's clean up efforts.

But the world was still reeling from the damage, struggling to sift through the rubble for any little signs to reassure them that this could have been a lot worse and that from now on, things could start to get better.

For Monarch, finding Serizawa alive was their sign.

GHIDORAH ROOSTS OFF EAST COAST OF MEXICO, AVOIDS FURTHER DESTRUCTION

For many others, their sign was Isla de Mara.

After the battle in Boston, when Rodan and Ghidorah began their slow flight south, Monarch was sure that they were going to head to Isla de Mara. Monarch operatives were surrounding the island when they arrived. The titans’ trajectory had been calculated, their arrival anticipated, and—although Monarch had no idea what they could actually do when the titans arrived—Monarch was sure to be there, all the same. If for no other reason than to document.

The town was still all but empty—under quarantine by the Mexican government. Rescuers were working their way through town, looking for bodies or survivors that hadn't joined the initial evacuation, in toppled buildings or buried by pyroclastic flow; but nearly everyone who could be removed from the island had been.

All the same, there was a perceptible tension over the quiet radio lines as the two titans descended into view through the clouds of volcanic ash. Just their arrival stirred tumult, kicking up clouds of previously-settled ash and rubble. Monarch and the few rescuers in the town braced themselves for hurricane-force winds to blow through what was left of the town, knocking over already-damaged buildings.

They didn't.

Although the ash on the volcano churned in the air around the two titans, not so much as a breeze stirred in the town below.

Then the titans were settled, Rodan sinking into his crater as comfortably as a vacationer into a jacuzzi, Ghidorah clinging to the side of the volcano like a bat.

And when the news got out, the world let out a tense sigh of relief. That was the sign everyone had been waiting for: the sign that, at least for now, this was really over.

PRELIMINARY FLUID DYNAMIC ANALYSIS OF AIR CURRENTS IN JOINT LANDING BETWEEN TITANUS RODAN AND MONSTER ZERO

It took days of analyzing Monarch's footage of Rodan and Ghidorah landing before a pack of fascinated aerodynamicists with expertise in computational fluid dynamics could run a proper simulation demonstrating how their wings affected the air. What the simulation revealed was that Rodan's landing should have blown devastating wind into the town below. However, Ghidorah's landing, facing directly across from Rodan and wings tilted at just the right angle, had pushed the air currents back the other way—effectively turning the force of Rodan's flaps out to sea.

And furthermore, they said it wasn't accidental. They had abundant footage now from the first time Ghidorah had landed on Isla de Mara, from his various takeoffs and landings in Boston, and from the few times he'd left and returned to Isla de Mara without being accompanied by Rodan. That wasn't how Ghidorah usually landed.

It was, however, what he had done when Rodan landed; and it was what he did in subsequent days every time Rodan returned to his volcano, until Rodan began habitually landing on the north side of the volcano instead.

The paper was released as a messy rough draft directly online, bypassing journalistic publication entirely to make it as easy as possible for everyone who might be concerned to get to the findings; in the aftermath of the titan attacks, the authors had the patience neither for peer review nor for the slow publication process and paywalls blocking off most of their usual journals. To everyone who read the preliminary paper—mainly titanologists and other aerodynamicists—the thought of a flying creature so consciously and precisely manipulating air currents like that was absolutely mind-boggling.

Even more mind-boggling was the thought that Ghidorah had bothered to do it.

Why?

TITANS EXPLORE LANDSCAPE: MOST HUMAN INTERACTIONS PEACEFUL

Over and over, they were discovering just how alarmingly clever the titans were. More than once, Kraken had camouflaged itself as a capsized ship, tentacles pressed together in the shape of a hull, just to splash any boats that came close to investigate and disappear beneath the sea, like it was playing a game with humans. Behemoth, on his way back down from Boston to Rio de Janeiro, had stopped in Guatemala to observe a construction site, waited there until the panicked workers decided he wasn't going to attack and returned to work, and then, after watching them a bit, had started doing the crane's job by picking up steel beams and putting them in place.

As articles about the damage, the deaths, and the global response to the tragedies began to receive smaller and less dire headlines, the articles about the titans' frightening and fascinating intelligence began popping up—usually not making front page news, but popping up regularly on page 2. Cell phone videos racked up millions of views.

Scylla had etched deep grooves in strange shapes in Death Valley before heading north; a few days later, the MUTO passed through, stopped and studied the grooves, before turning north as well. Which meant they were, what, a map? Instructions? It at least indicated that titans were capable of communicating with abstract symbols—that was ninety percent of the way to writing. It further suggested that the titans had language, mutually intelligible language.

Many of Monarch's employees already suspected as much; the titans vocalized at each other so much, it was completely plausible that they'd developed the capacity for speech.

They didn't expect the theory to be confirmed so blatantly.

"LANGUAGE OF THE BIG BIRDS"? MONARCH RELEASES TITAN LANGUAGE LESSONS STARRING RODAN, GHIDORAH

Outpost 56-B, which had been cobbled together within hours of Ghidorah's landing on Isla de Mara, consisted of five permanent employees, three trailers, two porta-potties, eleven (and decreasing) drones, forty cameras, one satellite, and one big red button to radio the Armada de México in case of dragon-shaped emergency. Along with the full-time employees, they had fifteen part-timers they'd hired from among the people slowly returning to town: fourteen to help monitor the titans through the cameras 24/7, and one to bike in from town with lunch each day. The outpost was stationed just north of the still-standing portions of the town of Isla de Mara, near the very edge of the volcanic rock that had been spilled when Rodan emerged. (They used to have four trailers, but the one that had been standing on volcanic rock had been kicked into town by Ghidorah. They took that to mean they weren't allowed to step on the rock.)

Outpost 56-B was surpassed for Monarch's most pathetic outpost only by Outpost 75-B, which consisted of two motorboats, a pair of walkie-talkies, a generous Airbnb stipend, and a rechargeable flashlight with a cord that, they'd discovered too late, wasn't compatible with Sudanese power outlets.

And yet, for what a ramshackle little operation Outpost 56-B was, it had been the one to provide proof of titan language. And god, what proof! They had recorded evidence of a giant pteranodon giving language lessons to a three-headed alien dragon. Slowly, and carefully; gesturing to each object or performing each action before giving the word; saying each word clearly, several times; using them in simple sentences based on previous vocabulary, each word kept separate and distinct.

Consequently, Monarch was learning Rodan's language alongside Ghidorah. So far, they had eighteen nouns, seven verbs, five adjectives, a catch-all question word that seemed to mean "who," "what," "when," and "where" all together, the words for "yes" and "no," and one interjection that seemed to mean "look at me" or "pay attention." They knew that Rodan had words for compass directions—two of them, anyway—and that his language conflated the concept of "west" with "up" and of "east" with "down" into only two words. They had Rodan's name for Ghidorah—and Rodan's name for himself, a three-part carrying "Rrrr-DAAA-nnn" cry that they immediately identified as the probable source of the remarkably consistent name that cultures around the world assigned members of Titanus Rodan. Had this one Rodan been spotted in so many locations? Or had he given Ghidorah his species name rather than his personal name? Did members of Rodan's species have personal names?

Very soon, they might be able to ask him.

Outpost 56-B started a YouTube channel, titled it "lenguaje de los pájaros titánicos (para principiantes)" and started uploading videos with both Spanish and English subtitles for anyone who couldn't work out the translations just by watching Rodan. (When Monarch HQ emailed to complain that 56-B had to ask before declassifying that kind of material, they kept posting videos, blurred out the extremely easily identifiable titans' faces, and emailed back to request a third porta-potty.) There were human beings, alive today, all over the planet, learning alongside a literal alien how to understand a titan's language.

Over the next couple of weeks, while every titan's face battled for screen time on every major news station, Godzilla's and Ghidorah's gradually appeared less and less on North American stations as the recently-averted apocalypse became old news and full-blown sapient speaking life found off the coast of the Mexico-U.S. border became the new hot story. Between his face flashing on every major news station over headlines about titan language as talking heads speculated about the possibility of complex titan civilizations, and a wave of Tamaulipeco defenders eager to claim Rodan as a state symbol who were ready to point out that most of the damage on and around Isla de Mara had actually been caused by the U.S. military, Rodan was now the most popular titan on Earth.

And then he made a trip to Infant Island.

INDONESIAN INFANT ISLANDERS VINDICATED: "GODDESS" MOTHRA COMES HOME

Many articles mentioned the fact that after the battle, Mothra had retreated to a small island in the Indonesian archipelago. Some of them even mentioned the name Infant Island.

Very few outside of local and specialist publications discussed that the Infant Islanders were reveling in the fact that their previously derided "local folkloric" claim to having been the home of a goddess had been very recently validated when Godzilla ferried Mothra straight to their island, where she settled down into a well-worn groove in the middle of town square as though she'd never left it. One reason this news was under-reported probably had to do with the fact that they refused to let reporters on the island, fearful that it would become trampled as a new tourist destination; and the threatening psychic weight of Mothra's mind pressing down on any presumptuous reporters approaching in boats hoping to be the exception deterred those who tried to defy the ban. Instead, they arranged for interviews off island or online, and provided any requested pictures of Mothra—when she agreed, of course.

The only outsiders who had been allowed on the island had been the Chen twins, accepted as valid representatives for Mothra. Although their island still had descendants from the line of twin sisters that Mothra had gifted them, they had no living twins from that line. Mothra had already promised them that their next generation of children would have twin daughters. In the meantime, visiting twins from another of Mothra's nests were... well... acceptable, the Islanders supposed. They hastily established rules about how much the Chen twins could report to outsiders about the island and its people and culture, which they faithfully followed. (Even as much as it killed legend collector Ilene to not immediately ask a million questions about what stories they'd passed down about Mothra.)

They were, however, allowed to transcribe any of Mothra's telepathic conversations with visiting titans into Mandarin as long as she herself permitted it—and she did continue to permit it—and so it was when Rodan arrived to have a long, apparently one-sided conversation with Mothra.

TITANIC ROSETTA STONE? MONARCH TRANSLATES RODAN, MOTHRA CONVERSATION

It wasn't quite as cut-and-dry as Rodan's accidental language lessons; especially since there were parts of the conversation where Mothra had sought out information straight from Rodan's mind that the Chen twins couldn't make any sense of—except that Rodan’s thoughts had something to do with a very interesting hug-like display on Isla de Mara from the day before, and that they were rotten with fear.

(The “hug” from Ghidorah to Rodan—if that was what it was—was already infamous in Monarch. The 56-B team had eagerly circulated it throughout Monarch yesterday in the form of a several-second video that was set to the cheesiest pop song they could find and covered in heart emojis. Shortly before they’d uploaded the same video—without authorization—to their official Twitter and TikTok accounts. Stories about Rodan were beginning to pop up not just under news sites' World sections, but also under Entertainment. It was a jarring sight, considering how many of those stories also featured an alien dragon that had recently tried to destroy the world.)

But despite not having a word-for-word translation, Rodan's conversation with Mothra and its Mandarin translation did offer the possibility of a rosetta stone with which they could decipher far more about his language. Comparing his language lessons with Ghidorah to his conversation with Mothra was like comparing day one of a college Spanish 1 class to Don Quixote. It was a huge leap forward toward the day—which now seemed not like a possibility but an inevitability—when they would be able to pipe sentences in Rodan's language through a speaker and have a real conversation with him.

Rodan's trip to Infant Island should have been the most noteworthy titan news of the day.

But noteworthy news was nearly impossible to predict.

GHIDORAH RETURNS TO BOSTON, LIVE UPDATES: ONE INJURED. EXPLORES RUBBLE, INTERACTS WITH HUMANS.

Two hours before Rodan's conversation with Mothra, the eyes of half the planet had been glued to a constant live news stream coming out of the United States, as one local station after another trained its cameras toward the skies, following Ghidorah as he headed north. The world dreaded that the moment Rodan left him unsupervised, he'd decided to pick up exactly where he'd left off. It seemed that he’d even returned to Boston specifically to continue his apocalypse.

Instead, he stole a speaker and a car, made fun of the U.S. Army, complied with some demolitionists' request to help them take down a building, and went home.

After that, the far more academic matter of a new jump forward in titan linguistics was relegated to a small article on Monarch's official titan tracking website.

MONARCH ISSUES RED ALERT: GHIDORAH AND RODAN MOVING SOUTH OVER ATLANTIC

Another example of the unpredictability of newsworthy items:

Rodan—along with Ghidorah—was back in the news later that evening for what the 56-B crew was insistently calling a "lovers' spat," a brief skirmish that ended with Ghidorah literally storming off to Antarctica and Rodan charging into the hurricane after him.

For several hours, the world was braced, yet again, for the potential end of the world.

But before the next morning, it was clear that the skirmish was going to end with no further loss of human life—even the four Monarch employees stationed in what was left of Outpost 32 had evacuated long before Ghidorah had arrived to sweep the ruins into the very hole he'd emerged from. Coasts in the southern hemisphere on both sides of the Atlantic were hit with vicious waves as Ghidorah's hurricane passed by, but nothing that threatened seaside homes, and the worst they got in the way of weather was strong drizzles and stiff breezes. Satellite monitoring, a few absurdly far-off jets, and the evacuated Antarctic Monarch employees squinting through the blizzard caught fuzzy lightning-lit glimpses of another terrible titanic battle; but by the time anyone was close enough to record the fighting properly, it had ended with the two titans sitting on the coast of Antarctica together, having another language lesson.

(Outpost 56-B demanded that HQ send them the footage so that they could update their YouTube channel. HQ refused to do so until they'd reviewed the footage themselves. A traitor within the ranks sent 56-B the footage anyway, and the world was graced with the knowledge of Rodan's word for "snow.")

But despite the fact that the turbulence from Isla de Mara ultimately ended up having all of the newsworthy appeal of celebrity relationship drama, it still received far more coverage than the real breaking news happening halfway around the world:

GODZILLA RECYCLES

In the town of Kuta, on the island of Bali, in Indonesia, was the Ngurah Rai International Airport.

Godzilla had been harassing it for the last two weeks.

The airport crossed nearly the entire length of a peninsula, its runway jutting out into the sea to the west and to the east only separated from water by a strip of trees hardly a fifth of a mile wide. Kuta Beach stretched out along the coast both north and south of the runway. Located an equal distance away from the outposts that had contained titans "Typhon" and "Bunyip," Kuta was untouched by the recent attacks; but the beaches were still oddly barren, as the tourism that would usually be ramping up this time of year was reduced due to the vast swathes of the human population that had to instead turn their resources to recovering from the recent attacks. Still, there were some tourists out on Kuta Beach—enough that, when Godzilla's dorsal plates rose out of the ocean to the west, the wave of people running east to avoid him could be veritably classified as a stampede.

As Godzilla approached the Ngurah Rai International Airport, every airplane that hadn't taken off was grounded and those coming in were frantically redirected to nearby islands. He lumbered straight up to the side of the runway, feet still in the water of the beach as he leaned over the runway, dropped a massive pile of nets, and promptly turned around and returned to the ocean.

The airport shut down all operations and called Monarch.

As Serizawa, the world's only true Godzilla expert, was still in a coma, Monarch had to guess at what he'd say about Godzilla's strange behavior. They decided that Serizawa would probably say he was trying to restore Earth's natural order, which probably included dealing with its pollution; so Godzilla was returning human detritus to whom it belonged—the humans—so that they could properly clean up their own mess.

So the airport waited a day, removed the nets with a hazmat crew, and the next day was cautiously back in business.

And a day later, Godzilla was back with another delivery of nets. When he reached the spot where he'd dropped his first pile, he paused, looked around, and then climbed onto the runway and stormed along the length of it, apparently looking for his original stash. He pushed aside airplanes and bent over to peer into hangars and terminals, where terrified travelers who thought they'd be safer inside stared back at him. Eventually he gave up and, with a roar of frustration, sank back underwater.

This time, Monarch decided they were pretty terrible at roleplaying as Serizawa and advised the airport to leave the nets be.

They pushed the nets to the very corner of the airport grounds, near where Godzilla had left them and still out in the open but off of the runway itself. They stank. Apology signs were posted on the nearby beach and the tourists moved further south.

The third time Godzilla visited, he graciously accepted their relocation, added his new nets, and left in peace.

After several more such trips, he showed up in the middle of the night with a new piece of cargo: Mothra, riding on his back, her wings—one whole, one tattered since the battle in Boston—raised high.

A monarch ship, with the Chen twins on board, followed close behind, ready and eager to find out from Mothra just what in the hell Godzilla was doing with the nets.

Whatever the titans talked about on their way to Bali, Monarch had been too far away to hear. But now that they were on land and speaking to each other, in roars and in telepathy, the Chen twins began translating and transcribing their conversation:

"It's ugly," Godzilla said, "But I think it will work."

Mothra had climbed off of his back and onto the airport grounds, and was prodding at the pile of nets with one leg. I'm not so sure.

"We can try it! It'll be fine."

Why are we so close to humans? Mothra turned toward the airport, which was one again closed. At least at this time of night there were far fewer travelers. They're nervous.

"This is the only place with flat enough ground." He jerked his head toward the runway. "Lay down with your wing on the flat strip. I'll trace it."

Someone had produced some spotlights—Monarch didn't know who, they weren't working with them—and pointed it at the titans. Mothra had gestured for them to point the light down at the runway instead. Although whoever was behind the lights apparently didn't have enough sense to not shine a giant flashlight in a couple of city-destroying monsters' faces, they did at least have enough sense to listen when the less destructive one made a request, and pointed the light down. It shined off of Mothra's good wing as she maneuvered herself onto her back and lay it flat on the runway.

Godzilla knelt next to her and very carefully traced around the wing with a claw, scraping a gouge into the concrete. "I've melted the humans' floating weeds before," he said, and Mothra silently clarified to the Chen twins that he was referring to the nets. He did have a word for nets, but the word didn't convey his disdain for them the way "floating weeds" did. "If you get enough of it together, when it cools, it makes a solid layer. We just have to make a barrier around the outline and melt the weeds in it. The hard part is making a barrier that won't melt or catch fire. I still don't know what to use, but we can probably find something nearby. Maybe we can make glass on the beach."

Why don't you make a flat layer from the floating weeds without a barrier and then cut a wing shape out of it?

Godzilla stopped halfway through tracing Mothra's wing, looked at the gouge he'd already carved into the runway, and said, "I guess that would be easier."

As they dragged the nets onto the runway, Mothra said, Rodan visited today.

Godzilla's head jerked up. "Has the freak tried to kill him yet?"

No.

"Is he being mind controlled?"

I'm not sure. I don't think so—he doesn't think so—but I don't know.

Godzilla let out a low, displeased grumble. "What's going on over there?"

And Mothra didn't know—not for sure—so, for a moment, they were both silent. They finished piling the nets together in the middle of the runway. Godzilla's dorsal plates began glowing—not their usual piercingly bright blue, but a very dull glow that flickered near the bases of his plates like he was trying unsteadily to keep his power low. The light traveled far slower than usual up his back. He opened his mouth halfway as the light neared his head.

Finally, uncertainly, Mothra said, I think they might like Rodan.

Godzilla's plates flashed nearly white. He hacked out a ball of blue light, then let out a cough that rattled windows.

Sorry.

"Timing!" Godzilla looked at the bit at the edge of the nets that had been incinerated, whined, and started gearing up for another, more controlled burst. To the Chen twins' surprise, the conversation continued; apparently either Godzilla was also telepathic, or could simply think thoughts that Mothra could translate as easily as his usual speech. What do you mean, "like"? As a mate? As a meal? As something to beat up?

(Someone on the Monarch ship made a mental note to call up Mark and tell him that Godzilla also wasn't sure whether Ghidorah was looking to Rodan for food, a fight, or a fuck.)

As a mate, Mothra said. Or a friend? Something positive. Something social. Either they like him, or they're trying to trick Rodan into liking them—and if it's the latter, I don't know what they're after.

If it's not the latter? This time, Godzilla got it right. His atomic breath looked more like the flame of an oversized bunsen burner: translucent blue, mostly steady, faintly flickering. He began slowly melting down the massive pile of fishing nets.

If they really do like him... then I still don't know what they're after. I have no idea what someone from another world thinks mating is for.

You'll have a better idea than any of us. You're the only one that's been to other planets.

(Ling Chen clapped both hands over her mouth and let out a long, quiet, high-pitched noise. The Monarch employees, watching an automatic google-translated English copy of the conversation going up on the ship's main screen as Ilene and Ling typed it up in Mandarin, each silently flipped their shit in their own personal ways. One shouted "No!" Someone else just slid out of her chair to the floor, quietly repeating, "Oh my god." Another kicked over a waste bin, laced his hands in his hair, and stared at the ceiling, overcome with emotion. )

I've never been to their planet, Mothra said. I don't know what to expect. But, I think that it means that we're safe. For now.

For now. The nets were now a massive greyish-orange-teal ooze stretching out along the runway. Godzilla shut his mouth and straightened up. The grass sizzled where the nets ran over the side of the runway. "For now—as long as the freak stays interested in Rodan. And as long as Rodan doesn't turn him down. And as long as another Rodan doesn't hatch and try to mate him. And as long as Rodan remains alive."

(Ling made notes differentiating between the two different words Godzilla was using that she and her sister were both putting down as "Rodan" in their transcriptions: "Rodan (personal name; untranslatable?)" versus "Rodan (species name; 'volcano bird/pteranodon')." Ilene came back and changed "volcano bird/pteranodon," with a tiny smirk, to the English "volcanic roc.")

More or less, Mothra said.

"Then we should kill him while he's got his guard down."

Rodan will defend them.

"Then we get backup before we go."

You don't want to have to kill Rodan.

"No! I don't! But if it's between him dying or our whole world, I'll rip his head off!" Trees trembled with the force of Godzilla's roar. "If it's only a matter of time before the freak wants to destroy the world again, then we shouldn't wait around until he decides to. We can't let him make the first attack. It only takes him a few seconds to seize every mind on the planet. What if he gets me next time?"

I'd save you, Godzilla.

(Although Ilene wrote "Godzilla" in her transcription, she almost absent-mindedly included a parenthetical translation for the name that Mothra was really calling him. The watching Monarch employees were once again thrown into paroxysms of shocked disbelief.)

Godzilla was silent for a moment. "I know you would," he said. "That's not the point. The point is, we lost to him last time. We might not be able to beat him unless we take him by surprise. But you don't want to, do you? Why?"

Mothra didn't reply immediately. Instead, she lay back down, laying her wing along the length of the solid sheet of nylon on the runway. Godzilla started tracing around it with a claw tip again. What if they can change? she finally asked. Maybe we don't have to fight them again. Maybe this is a chance to get them to integrate into this world. Maybe they'll have a chance to heal.

(Underneath the word "heal" was this sense of massive, dark wounds, damage that felt as deep and ancient as Earth's very tectonic plates—something broken in Ghidorah's psyche that still ground together painfully inside him, spawning earthquakes and jagged mountains and chasmic trenches and volcanic explosions in his soul. The feeling was so strong and so dark that Ilene briefly had to stop typing, pressing a hand over her aching heart. Ling did her best to transcribe it, but ended up with only a string of characters that translated vaguely like "pain break scar wound darkness psychic hurt trauma?")

"Healing is the exact opposite of the thing I want to help him do."

I know. But if we can—wouldn't that be safer for the world? If we fight again, even if we win, people will die.

"Only small people."

Mothra ignored him. And that's if we win. They probably would have won last time if they hadn't gone to Rodan. If we don't have to fight them at all, wouldn't that be better for keeping the world safe?

Godzilla made a low growl that the Chens couldn't figure out how to translate any way other than "Noise of grudging resignation." He straightened up. "Okay, your new wing's cut out."

Mothra rolled over, Godzilla pried the wing off of the runway with a creaking cracking sound, and turned it around to hold it up to the remains of her injured wing.

How are you going to attach it?

Godzilla broke off another piece of plastic from the runway, held it on the other side of her damaged wing, and said, "I'm going to melt it a little bit to seal around your wing."

For a creature without anything in the way of human facial muscles, Mothra pulled off a very convincing look of utter disbelief.

"It might burn a little," he told her.

Okay, she said, resigned. Fine. I guess it can't make it worse. Do it.

She let out a long, shrill hissing noise as he melted the end of the new wing and the opposite piece of plastic together around the remains of her damaged wing, and both Chens' faces screwed up in pain. When it was done, Godzilla held her wing until it had completely cooled, and then stepped back. "Okay," he said. "Try it out."

She moved her new wing up and down slowly. It's light, she said. She attempted to flap it.

On the second flap, it snapped in half. Mothra and Godzilla both watched as the tip arced high in the air, flew off into the distance, and landed half a mile away standing up in the sand of Kuta Beach.

They looked at each other.

"We'll figure out how to fix it tomorrow," Godzilla said.

Mothra climbed onto his back. He trudged over to the broken wing, handed it to her to hold, and sank back into the ocean to swim Mothra back to Infant Island.

Although Godzilla's plastic-recycling jump into the brave new future of environmental conservationism was all but ignored by the media, in several days, one tiny detail out of the Chen twins' transcription of their conversation caught the fickle eye of mass media. A new headline dominated countless news sites' front pages:

GODZILLA'S REAL NAME: "SWEET FISH"?

Most of the articles were accompanied by an image of Godzilla photoshopped next to a pile of red Swedish Fish candy.

###

(Replies/reblogs are welcome & encouraged! Check the “source” link below for my masterlist of KOTM fics and Rodorah fics in this verse, as well as my AO3 and Ko-fi links.)

#godzilla #mothra #rodorah #rodan #king ghidorah #ghidorah #kotm #my writing #fanfic #('so why did you decide Serizawa survives??' because somebody asked me 'what if... you made Serizawa survive' and I was like 'ok')#(also im now inordinately fond of the Outpost 56 B crew)

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evtranslations · 5 years

Text

A forward and a gay man

Janne Puhakka reveals what it’s like being a gay hockey player in the Finnish Elite League, Liiga. He is the first to have the courage to speak about the matter publicly.

Source.

[T/N: The article is behind a paywall. I will call SM-liiga/the Finnish Elite League “Liiga” for the remainder of the article.]

TL;DR:

Janne Puhakka, 24, retired professional ice hockey player

Played one season (40 games) in the Finnish Elite League in 2015-2016

First Finnish pro hockey player to come out, fourth globally

Janne Puhakka played in the Espoo Blues and Espoo United in 2015-2017.

The surnames of Janne Puhakka and his boyfriend are written on a mail slot in an apartment building in Helsinki.

Puhakka’s handshake has strength. He asks me to come in and says that their move isn’t quite done yet. Some of the furniture is missing, and a light hasn’t been mounted on the ceiling.

Nonetheless, Puhakka is ready to give an interview that will go down in Finnish sports history. He is the first hockey player who has played in Liiga to publicly, with his own name and face, say he is homosexual.

Puhakka says he isn’t particularly nervous. He contemplated the matter for a long time, for his active career’s last three years.

But in the conservative and partly closed-minded Finnish hockey community, Puhakka’s surprise statement can be unique. For the first time, someone breaks the taboo: can a gay person play hockey?

Puhakka takes a breath. The topic is simultaneously important and frustrating.

“In an ideal world we wouldn’t have to talk about this. But as long as it’s kept quiet, we have to.”

In 1995, the Puhakka family had their youngest child, Janne. Mom, dad and two big sisters had moved to the metropolitan area from Oulu.

At around five or six years, Puhakka saw advertising leaflets for the local hockey club at his day-care and got interested. He announced that he wanted to go to hockey practice. He started two hobbies: ice hockey at Espoon Kiekkoseura and soccer at FC Kasi-ysi in Espoo.

Puhakka was a sporty kid. The kind that learns to skate quickly and gets balls and game equipment to obey him. For many years, he did the two sports in parallel, but at 13 years old, hockey won the day.

“I had more friends in hockey.”

Janne Puhakka returned to his home arena Espoo Metro Arena.

As a small boy, Puhakka liked playing as a winger and identified as some kind of a power forward whose game was founded on good skating and a hard shot. Later, he admired the Russian stick handling virtuoso Pavel Datsyuk and tried playing as a center like his role model.

There were many gifted hockey players among Finnish boys born in 1995. Juuse Saros and Artturi Lehkonen play in the NHL these days. Kevin Lankinen, who made saves last spring to help the national team to a gold in the IIHF World Championships, also belongs to the same age group. The generation’s brightest diamond is Aleksander Barkov, one of the most skilled players in the world.

As a teenager, Janne Puhakka competed side by side with these promising players. At 15 years old he got invited to an annual camp that brings together that year’s best players. There Puhakka realized that the level of his top contemporaries wasn’t unreachable.

“At that point the whole thing became serious in a way.”

Puhakka began training in earnest. School, practice and game journeys were scheduled carefully.

The next big step was coming at 16. The cream of the crop would get their first invitation to the junior national team. At that age many teenage boys will start to wonder if their hockey hobby could be more than a hobby. Would their skills be enough one day to cut it as a professional?

The thought excites - and brings pressure.

“For many, not making the junior national team is very tough,” says Puhakka.

Puhakka made it. In 2013 he was in the national under-18 team that won bronze at the U18 World Championships in Russia. That was one of Puhakka’s hockey career’s finest hours.

Puhakka had been thinking about his sexuality since reaching adolescence. However, the thoughts remained in the background for a long time. Being able to train, play, go to school and spend time with friends was enough.

On Saturday morning, 19th of September, Puhakka received surprising news from his morning skate coach: that same night, he would be playing his first Liiga match wearing an Espoo Blues jersey.

He got to play for roughly six minutes against Tappara of Tampere. Victory on home ice, the great feeling and an impressive goal scored by Tappara’s rookie star Patrik Laine stuck in his mind.

In the 2015-2016 season Puhakka played 40 games in Liiga. He was now part of the select few whose skills and motivation had carried over from the first practices in day-care through the junior years all the way into the Finnish Elite League. He played hockey for a living. Got paid. Dreamt of bigger leagues and the NHL.

However, Puhakka noticed he had to push a part of his identity aside while walking to the rink. He adds that he understands it is normal: it’s a workplace, the main purpose is not to shout your own matters from the rooftops.

Still, not being able to honestly say he was gay bothered him.

In the locker room his teammates spoke about what they’d done with their wives and girlfriends.

“Many times someone asked if I had a girlfriend. I waved the question off and always afterwards wondered why I couldn’t tell them about it.”

Why?

“There were mental blocks.”

Puhakka describes how he put on sorts of emotional defenses at the rink. The secrecy was also difficult on his relationship. Puhakka dated during his years of play and was forced to think about how he would introduce his boyfriend to his teammates, should they bump into each other out on the town.

“That sort of thing puts a strain on everyday life and is difficult for your partner.”

Locker room talk is its own whole world. Puhakka says you can’t make it in an ice hockey team without self-irony.

“Everyone who’s ever been in a locker room knows that there are all sorts of jokes thrown around. It’s sometimes racy, and gay jokes can be part of it.”

Puhakka says he never intervened in questionable jokes or took them personally. They went in one ear and out the other.

But Puhakka knows not everyone is like him.

“Some other guy might take it personally and retreat into a shell.”

In potentially awkward situations Puhakka was helped by support from his friends. In the locker room they’re teammates, but out of the teammates some can additionally be close friends. Puhakka found people from his teams to whom he could naturally talk about his sexuality.

The courage was worth it. When someone told a gay joke in the locker room, Puhakka could throw a glance at these trusted friends and exchange looks. They could laugh together at the shared secret.

“That eased my mind and made the situation more relaxed for me.”

One of these trusted friends was Kim Hirschovits, captain of the Espoo Blues and one of the most well-known Liiga players of the 2000s.

On one roadtrip Puhakka told Hirschovits that he was dating a man.

“Hirso replied ‘cool, congratulations’. You don’t really even need to reply anything else.”

Kim Hirschovits (on the left), former Blues captain, was among the players to whom Puhakka dared to talk about his gayness.

The old attitudes and regularities of the sports world have been coming apart in recent years. Greater appreciation and support is being demanded for women’s and disabled people’s sports. The by-products of sports are being tackled more intensely as well.

Efforts have been started to get rid of racism in audiences as well as playing fields and rinks. The fights in hockey rinks, everyday occurrences in the NHL in the past decades, are almost completely gone. The self-governed world of sports has been forced in many ways to clean its act up so that it could stand up to outward scrutiny.

Homosexuality has been one of the last big taboos in sports. Only in recent years has the atmosphere shifted into one where a number of known athletes have openly had the courage to share their belonging to a sexual minority. NBA basketball player Jason Collins, swimmers Ari-Pekka Liukkonen and Ian Thorpe, American football player Michael Sam and many others have taken their turns coming out of the closet.

It has been more quiet in ice hockey, widely perceived as a ‘macho’ sport. In the whole world, only a handful of players that have done what Janne Puhakka did. The Danish goalkeeper Jon Lee-Olsen came out of the closet only some days ago. As far as is known, he is the only player to dare speak out during his active career.

Puhakka has been reading the news. Lee-Olsen’s gayness has been received well in Denmark.

Puhakka’s own experiences of Liiga are attached to one hockey club and 40 games. After that, he played one season in Mestis. [T/N: Second highest hockey league in Finland.] His experiences of locker rooms aren’t horrifyingly homophobic.

“But the hockey world is somehow behind. We wouldn’t have to spell this out over and over if everyone could naturally be themselves in the room.”

In Finland the conversation about gay hockey players has been agonizingly difficult. At times it has circled in downright tragicomic twists. Ex-goalkeeper and congressman representing the National Coalition Party Sinuhe Wallinheimo said in February 2014 that a gay player should hide his gayness in the locker room, so that the matter wouldn’t mess with the team’s chemistry and turn against the team.

At that time, Wallinheimo was the president of the Finnish Ice Hockey Players’ Association. He received much criticism for his statement, and apologized. The issue is made strange by the fact that only a year earlier, it was Wallinheimo who had encouraged athletes to come out of the closet.

Former national team captain Juhani Tamminen said in the autumn of 2014 at a panel talk that in his multiple career decades he had never seen a gay person in the locker room. He also added that “little mice” wouldn’t make it in the sport. Later Tamminen added that he thinks gay people are welcome to the sport.

Now, the leading role in hockey’s “gay conversation” is taken by 24-year-old Janne Puhakka. He is making it calm, and is not looking for conflicts or cheap brownie points.

He does not want to comment Juhani Tamminen’s statement.

“I don’t know the origin of Tami’s comment or what he meant. But the idea of there not being queer people in locker rooms is silly.”

There are hundreds of players in Liiga. Statistically, there are several, even dozens of gay men among them. None of these players have chosen their sexual orientation, and gayness doesn’t affect their skills as hockey players, emphasizes Puhakka.

Puhakka doesn’t recognize Sinuhe Wallinheimo’s idea of gayness disturbing the atmosphere in the locker room, either. His own experiences say otherwise. Whenever he has told his friends of his sexuality, the reception has been positive without exception.

“And then, they might tell me something about their own life that was below the surface. That strengthens a team.”

An element of danger and even violence that’s missing from other sports has always been part of ice hockey. As late as the 1990s, the game would at times resemble warfare. Especially in the NHL, bone-crushers and goons dominated the rink.

Janne Puhakka’s contemporaries made lots of reforms in the hockey world. Along with rule changes, the sport has become more fast and skillful. The modern top player is a dexterous virtuoso, not a trouble-making macho. Gradually, the atmosphere and image of the sport are changing too. The internet’s highlight reels are comprised of impressive goals instead of heads rolling off bleeding.

Masculinity itself is more varied than before in the younger generation’s men. In the spring, people admired Kevin Lankinen’s reading hobby. Patrik Laine is a feared goal-scorer as well as a teetotaler. When the young national team won Junior World Championship gold in January of 2016, no player was caught making trouble drunk in public. Basketball player Lauri Markkanen has said he avoids eating red meat.

Janne Puhakka is gay. To his contemporaries this is no longer taboo. It isn’t necessarily even that interesting of a matter.

Still, Puhakka’s statement is only the beginning. Puhakka thinks it strange that he doesn’t know any other gay players who played in Liiga.

“I can imagine that there are players who want to talk about it, but don’t dare to, because they’re afraid for their job. Especially players outside of the top lines might feel uncertain.”

Puhakka himself had wanted to talk about his sexuality during his active career. He dreamed of breaking through and becoming a public figure. He mulled it over for three years.

“But I wasn’t that good of a player, that I could’ve been sure of keeping my job. That brought uncertainty.”

And Puhakka’s career ended earlier than he’d thought.

At some point Puhakka noticed, that some of his friends were heading into the NHL and the KHL. Puhakka played one season in France, and trained one more summer with the thought of finding somewhere fitting to play. A young player always wants to believe that one or two good seasons can change their whole career.

Eventually, he wanted to see what else he could do in life.

Now, he studies international business in Helsinki at Haaga Helia University of Applied Sciences and works in the fashion industry. His boyfriend works as a vet employed by the Norwegian salmon industry.

As a high-schooler Puhakka spent two years in Canada in QMJHL. At the same time he was doing his upper secondary school studies. The experience has been helpful later in his life.

“I learned self-discipline then. You can study alongside playing hockey, if you have the will and the energy for it.”

Puhakka told his own family about being gay at 19 years old. Their reception was straightforward and easy. Last June, he published a photo of himself and his partner on his Instagram account.

“A burden fell off my shoulders. I hoped that any hockey player would have contacted me. It would be cool to talk to someone who’s been in the same situation.”

Puhakka thinks it would be best if other players would come out after him. The bigger the names, the better. He wishes that no player would question their own talent because of their sexual orientation.

“If even one junior or adult player wrestling with this took something positive from this interview, I’m happy.”

#janne puhakka #lgbt hockey #liiga #hockey #you can play #idk how to tag this but it's a good read #article #warning though this article is LONG AS FUCK #so i made the tldr pointers before the cut lol #it's about his story and reflections about hockey and sports

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