#also can russians just get the fuck out from the posts about Eastern Europe?

[swamp-cats-den]

One of the reblogs under the interslavic language poll picked my interest by saying they speak russian and Ukrainian, dunno why, so I went to check their blog, and oh god, shouldn't have done that. They turned out to be a Ukrainian with zero posts about the russian invasion (at least not searchable), but with posts about other conflicts because they're more trendy, I guess. And you know what was searchable with the word 'Ukraine'? A post about Holodomor being a 'nazi fake' (with hundreds of reblogs, of course). Just imagine having such an inferiority complex and wanting to please western tankie leftists so much that you post fucking russian propaganda about past genocide in your country in the midst of an ongoing genocide in your country??? A fucking disgrace.

[jyndor]

Would you please share posts about support for Ukraine, too? Not instead of support for Palestine, but in addition to. It seems like you have an audience. Support for Ukraine is dwindling. Posts about Ukraine rarely get above a couple of hundred notes and it's always the same people. I mean, Russia blew up a huge dam earlier this year and barely anyone spoke about it. Ukraine still needs the world's support, they need weapons to defend themselves. Only Eastern Europe seems to still take the threat of Russia seriously (because we know what Russia is like!). Even in the US support is declining, but we need USA to arm Ukraine. Eastern Europe is running out of weapons to donate or sell.

hey anon first off im so sorry, i hope you're okay. first off i absolutely support all people's right to self-determination and freedom from imperialism and occupation, and so yeah fuck russia and yes i support ukraine. because i support the liberation of all peoples i support ukraine against russian imperialism.

i'm generally not keen on who the us arms in its proxy wars but in this case i think it's like the geopolitics happen to have the us on the right side of this war. idk why that's so hard for some people to understand.

there are limits of course - i'm not keen on escalating a war with a nuclear power, as i told a ukrainian friend of mine last year, because first off nuclear war wouldn't behoove anyone (especially not in ukraine). i wouldn't be opposed to a word that sounds like ass and nation of putin because he's gotta go. but no the us and the west in general is too busy fucking around literally everywhere else that we have no business being to deal with putin. also our governments don't care that much to put their necks on the line like that.

i don't think we as the world can allow this sort of shit to go on. and we always end up reacting to the horrors of genocide and war after the fact but never proactively try to stop them. it's not easy of course, war is inherently brutal and puts people at risk.

us support of interventionism is always pretty brief and incumbent on how conditions are for americans at home. whether or not the support is actually for a cause that is just, middle class americans don't like feeling the impact of our interventions domestically - mainly in the costs of goods and services. i cannot stress enough that yes americans actually do care about mass atrocities when we see evidence of them, we are humans too, but we are also highly, highly propagandized to. and when the media stops feeding us images of horrible shit, we tend to stop thinking about them as much. it's... idk it's horrible how individualized our thinking is here.

and also poverty in the us is rampant and it is hard for many to see our tax dollars go to other people when so many of us are struggling. don't get me wrong im not EXCUSING isolationism as an ideology but it's how americans are. we don't often experience the direct impact of war but we do experience the economic toll of our government not supporting us.

ukraine has gotten as much support as it has because of what ukrainians look like, and the geopolitics of the region. when you look at how countries deal with geopolitics you see that it is never about justice or morality or anything like that, it's usually about power. which is gross and i hate it because yall deserve support because you are being brutalized by a fascist imperial power. because you are people.

that said there are plenty of people here who support you all. i still see ukraine flags where i live (and not just because there are ukrainian americans here).

anon if you see this, do you have any insight into what ukrainians feel about palestinian resistance? like is there solidarity that you see? i know your government is decidedly pro-israeli occupation which is nasty as hell but i know that is partly because of zelensky and partly because of geopolitics (ukraine needs the us's support and doesn't want to endanger that - this happens all the time).

[beauty-and-passion]

Update on life and work

1) We learned (almost) nothing.

If you live on this planet, I think you've heard at least once about the current war in Ukraine. And, as a European, you can imagine how I felt (and I still feel) about it.

The first days I was devastated: we didn't even manage to keep peace in Europe for 100 years. After two fucking World Wars, after globalisation, after Internet, with something slightly more important like SAVING THE ONLY PLANET IN WHICH WE CAN LIVE, in the Year of the Lord 2022, we're back to being monkeys who throwns stones to each other.

I can understand Russia's fears. Russia has always needed some buffer states between itself and the West, since and before the Cold War. NATO could expand, but not annex these buffer states.

Well, that's what happened and, slowly, more eastern european countries joined both NATO and the EU.

At the same time, we did nothing to get Putin back in line when he did something wrong before. We accepted this dictator and swept the problem under the rug, hoping it would solve itself.

It didn't work. And if Putin decided that invading Ukraine was a good idea, it's also because all we did before was nothing worse than a tiny slap on the wrist.

Does that justify his actions? Hell fucking no. Invading another country because you want to keep it closer or because the people around you are accommodating isn't a justification. Only monkeys and barbarians do this, not a supposed civilized country. There were a million other possibilities to make Russia's reasons heard: democracy, soft power and who knows how many other means I don't even know about. Look, I'm not an expert about this war and the entire Russia-Ukraine situation. I'm just learning things now and everything is a lot more complicated than the media make it look like: there are millions of political, economic and historical issues, all intertwined together, to the point you can't just say one is the good guy and the other is a bad guy.

The only thing we can objectively be sure about is that Putin did wrong, because no matter how many fucking reasons there might be to justify your actions, choosing violence over dialogue is ALWAYS wrong. Unless someone is shooting you and your family, but I don't think that applies to Russia.

Also we can also be 200% sure that innocent people are the ones who suffer the consequences of all of this. Ukranians who are fleeing from war, Russians who can't even say they don't want this war, all the soldiers who are forced into something none of them wants.

And if this is awful and painful, it also brought out the best of humanity. Everyone protested, Russians included. Switzerland broke its historical neutrality to take a side. Anonymous keeps doing their cyberattacks on Russia. Europe, always so conflicted about everything, took a clear side and decisions have been approved without any fuss.

And, honestly, that's the best thing they could do. Not going down to Putin's level, but using a stronger weapon: economic sanctions. This is what brings a country to its knees. And I know innocents will suffer for that - but Putin will too. Attacking Russia's economy is the only safe way we can stop this. And I really, really hope this will work. Because once this will be over, we must focus again on what's truly important - like, you know, protecting the only planet in which we live. I think it would be pretty useless to fight for a piece of land, if that piece of land will be desert, arid or drowned. Or if we're all dead.

_________________________________

2) The renovation is almost over

Moving on happier, simpler things. As I said in a previous post, I'm doing some huge renovation work in my house. It started as "Let's renew the kitchen and one bathroom", it became "Let's change the floor of the entire apartment. And repaint every room. And move away a lot of old furniture. And sure, let's renew the kitchen and bathroom".

The floor is finally ready and oh boy, what a difference compared to before. The previous brown tiles were nice and they lasted for 50 years, so they were definitely good quality. But it was time to change them for something more modern and brighter. And now the entire house seems brighter and newer as well.

Right after the floor was done, my brother painted all the rooms and he did a magnificent job. The kitchen and living room were painted two years ago, so they were fine, but the other rooms haven't been painted in 30 years. They really needed a big renovation!

And now, it's my time. I'm cleaning the entire house by myself - with occasional help from my mother and brother to clean/move some heavy furniture. I added shelves to the closets, checked every single bed sheet, piece of clothing, seashell, souvenir and cat toy. I'm donating/selling a lot of stuff I never used. And it's still not over, because the new kitchen will come on April 2nd and it will be time to organize that room too.

And this makes me very happy. Not only because the kitchen will be new and cooler and bigger, compared to that stupidly small kitchenette I had before, but also because everything will be *beautiful* and *organized* and everything will be useful. No more stupid useless stuff everywhere. Just a tidy, clean house.

Yes, I know I might sound like an old lady, but trust my words: one day, you too will be head over heels for a new oven that has the auto-clean mode included, rather than a new pair of shoes :P

_________________________________

3) New projects to come

Because of the renovations, I haven't been around lately. Hence why I want to be more active here and in general.

First of all, I want to post the fanfiction I'm translating. It's almost done, so it will come out in a couple of days. I'm pretty happy about it, for a number of reasons: it's the first time I try Roman's pov, it's the first time I try a more "aware" Logan's pov after Fitting Pieces, there are silly moments, there are some familiar dark boys moments because I'm weak for them and there's some sweet angst because I'm weak for it. And there's Janus because I'm weak for him. And yes, he's the main focus - in a way. Of course. I just love using his pov.

After that, I'm not sure what to do first. I have the episode analyses to write and I want to do a couple of them. But there's also this other fanfiction I planned which will be Logan-centric and I keep thinking about it and how much I want to write some scenes. So... well, I will probably let you know once I'll decide it :P

And now, my cats. As a treat.

[whoiwanttoday]

Ok guys, this is not the first Olympics post but it is sort of the first true Olympics post because this is the first new person I am posting cause I watched her event. This is Daria Bilodid, who is now the Bronze Medalist in Judo. She is from Ukraine and I just want to go ahead and say as hard as it is to make sure I get the names right, none of it is as hard as typing Ukraine without putting a THE in front of it. Even though that's not how any countries work, many of us want to do that to Ukraine. I don't know why. Either way, I was watching and found myself thinking, "Gosh, that girl might be beautiful". So I looked her up and it turns out I was right. Actually, looking through her pictures she has an amazing capacity to vacillate between adorable and sexy and dangerous, which is a range that I guess all humans have somewhere deep down but very few people can express on camera. Either way, I am glad the US has strong Allies in Eastern Europe. In general I don't think the West has done enough to support Ukraine but this blog isn't really about that, I will just say that the Russians have their own weapons, I mean, have you seen their rhythmic gymnasts? Those distracting swirling ribbons and stuff? I am glad there is someone next door who is highly capable in martial arts. I know that is against the togetherness of the Olympic spirit and all but I guess it stands out that I am posting someone who I assume could kick all of our asses. I mean, most athletes can that I post here, they are in amazing shape and just physical specimens, so they could probably kick our ass. If you are getting your back up reading that I would tell you that you are either painfully insecure or deluding yourself because guys, there is no shame in it, these people are in top flight shape. This just stands out cause Judo is about defeating your opponent very directly. It's also cool cause it's about using someone else's momentum against them. When I was a kid Judo was something Cyclops taught all the X-Men to help them fight better. Which I guess is my roundabout way of saying Daria Bilodid is extra cool cause she could be a superhero. Today I want to fuck Daria Bilodid.

[fkingsteverogers]

Tell Me We’ll Be Just Fine

A/N: A couple points: 1) I made a new blog for these writings to make them easier to find 2) I have a tag list! lmk if you want to be added to it 3) For my non US babes and others, your third amendment rights say you can’t be forced to house soldiers. Long Story Short 

Contains TFATWS Episode 5 spoilers

                                                        ****

With John Walker being Honorably Discharged after an International Incident, you’re stuck under house arrest.  (The United States Government would tell you house arrest is too strong of a word, it’s simply Strongly Advised you stay in your apartment.) You want to scream from the rooftops that you had nothing to do with him, that it was all an act, but you’re being Strongly Advised, so that’s not an option. You hope, wherever he is, Bucky is having a better time than you are. 

Five Days; Eastern Europe:

Bucky is not having a good time. They’re in a country where everyone wants them dead, holed up in a shitty motel and all he can think of is the absolutely devastated look on your face when he walked out the door. It makes him brood. 

“You have to talk about her sometime.” 

“Who?” 

“Whoever makes you frown like that.” 

“‘M not frowning. What do you know about it anyway? You’re single.” So maybe he was being an ass about it. You were so far away, probably cuddled up with John or Steve, and he was here, sitting in a motel room with Sam. John Walker was probably feeling you up right now, running his hand over those beautiful thighs of yours as you kissed him, making soft little noises--he clenches his fist so hard he breaks the bowl he’d been holding, splattering rice and beans all over the floor cracked tile floor. 

“Yo, man, what the fuck?!” 

Day One; New York City: 

Steve’s allowed to visit, because of course he is. He flashes some badge and the guards (who are Strongly Advising you), stand down. “Why are you here, Stevie?” And you hate that you still call him Stevie. Stevie is what you called him on the quiet nights when you two were alone and he was still yours. Steve gives you his sad smile and you want to fall into his arms, to sob into his chest and tell him how you fucked it all up. You don’t. 

“Just go, Stevie.” 

Four Days; Eastern Europe: 

Sam goes to do some surveillance, announcing that he “couldn’t deal with this shit,” leaving Bucky alone in the shitty room they were sharing. Before he’d been deployed, he would’ve spent an afternoon alone in a hotel curled up with a pretty girl or a handsome boy. During the war, he’d spend a quiet day catching up on some sleep or rereading a well loved copy of The Hobbit. During his Hydra days (which he hated thinking about but also couldn’t stop thinking about), there really weren’t days off. There were days where he killed and days where he didn’t. Since then, he’d spent most of his days off trying to remember how to be a human. 

You had made those days feel like living again. And now you were John’s girl, dressed all pretty up for him and everything. Bucky’d been fucking stupid to think you’d want someone like him, someone damaged, someone with blood on his hands. You were good and soft and pretty. You spoke four languages and had probably read every book ever written. 

You’d been good enough for Steve. 

He breaks another bowl and has to lay down after.

Day Three; New York City: 

You glare down the solider that’s sitting in your kitchen, eating a sandwich. “This is violating my Third Amendment Rights, you know.” 

The smug bastard grins and keeps eating his sandwich. 

Two Days; Louisiana: 

“That shield’s the closest thing I’ve got left to a family, so when you retired it, I felt like I had nothing left.” 

The mission had gone down as well as any of their missions go, they’d been shot at, gotten out by the skin of their teeth. Sam left to go back home as soon as he could, Bucky followed. Where else did he have to go?

“You have her.” 

He didn’t, not really. 

“I don’t want to talk about her, Sam.” Bucky tosses the shield, scowling deeply. 

Sam sighs, catching the shield. He turned to face his friend, were they friends?, and looked him up and down. “Yeah, you do.” So maybe Bucky does want to talk about you, about how betrayed he feels by you choosing Walker over him. The government hadn’t been powerful enough to stop some gossip magazine from publishing a spread of you and Walker, you in a little red sundress that makes you look incredible and his hand on your thigh. There’s some bullshit story about how you met and had been so enamored with him you’d asked him for coffee on the spot.

 It makes Bucky physically sick with rage. 

Day Four; New York City: 

After four days of being Strongly Advised, you’re ready to start pulling out your hair. The news is nonstop coverage of what happened to John Walker, the green beret who had gone crazy and killed a man in a moment of grief induced rage. And to top it all off, People released a spread that makes you want to scream. The whole shoot hadn’t been your idea, some government publicist had insisted it was necessary to sell the story. In reality, it’d been five hours with John’s hands all over you, grinning like the cat that got the cream. During a break, he’d asked you about Steve, his tone suggesting something that was none of his business. 

“You don’t get to talk about Steve.” John had smirked at you, running his tongue over his teeth. It clearly annoyed him, someone thinking he wasn’t good enough for something. “What about your wife, John?” A look of surprise crosses his face but it’s gone in a moment, the mask he wears to keep people out back in place. 

“Olivia isn’t part of the deal. I thought we could be friends,” he spits the word out like it’s dirty, “but clearly you’re not interested in that, clearly you’re interested in--” 

“Be careful how you finish that sentence, John.” Your voice is low, betraying the landmine he’s almost stepped on. Given the chance, you’d stab John Walker in his pretty face. Decades in prison means nothing when the love of your life abandoned you and the man you thought you could count on ran out. (So maybe you were thinking about Bucky, it doesn’t actually matter.)

Bucky had been a solid presence in a sea of uncertainty. He’d made you feel safe and okay. After Steve’s departure and the death of Tony, the only member of your family left, solid and safety had been in short supply. He’d showed up, ate his cold beans in silence in the kitchen, and hadn’t left. He’d made you laugh in a way you hadn’t in months. You’d developed a routine, Bucky would wake up before you and boil water for tea, you’d stumble out and cook something to serve as breakfast, and you’d both go about your days. In the evenings, you’d come together, talk about the stupid shit that had happened during the day, watch a movie on Friday nights, and go to bed. It was nice to have a routine, something and someone you could depend on. 

The nights had been quiet since he left. 

Twelve Hours; New York City: 

Bucky’s plane lands and he breathes a sigh of relief. 

It’s raining when he steps out of the airport, a down pour by anyone’s standards. Fine by him, less people to avoid. He manages to make it to the little coffee shop outside your apartment without getting too soaked. Going up there wasn’t an option, not when you were probably angry with him for running out. So he sits, drinks endless cups of coffee and watches. 

“She takes it two creams, no sugar, if you want to bring it up to her.” Bucky turns and finds himself face to face with Steve. His friend looks old, but happy, at peace even. There’s so much he wants to say, he wants to ask Steve why he left, what he thought about Walker. He wants to punch him or throttle him or hug him. Bucky wants a long fucking hug. 

“I don’t think she wants to see me, punk.” Steve sits, shaking his head. 

“I didn’t think she wanted to see me, either. Sometimes she doesn’t know what’s good for her..” 

Before Bucky can reply, before he can really process what Steve is saying, he gets a text from Sam and he’s off to save the world again.

Day Five; New York City: 

Because the universe hates you, you can’t even use your phone to entertain yourself. Someone leaked your personal number and it hadn’t stopped ringing since. And, since the internet has no nuance, they’re mostly death threats. You’re reading a book when the guards who are Strongly Advising you abandon their posts. There’s something going on, something that no one bothers to inform you about. 

You go back to reading your book. Hopefully Bucky’s not being thrown through a wall. 

Thirty Minutes; New York City: 

Bucky gets thrown through a wall. 

It fucking hurts and he’s dizzy after. Like can’t-walk-straight-am-I-actually-drunk-dizzy. Sam, the useless bastard, loads him into a taxi, tells him he’ll be fine, and gives the driver your address. Bucky’s dimly aware of this fact, aware of the fact that this poor man is driving him, a bleeding super solider, to the one place he wanted to be but wasn’t welcome. 

Two Minutes; New York City: 

The guards aren’t back by the time the downstairs buzzer starts ringing incessantly. You’re in the middle of your book, right at the moment where the head-strong damsel and the Lord she hated are about to kiss. You try to ignore it, With a groan, you stomp down to the doors. 

Standing there, half supported by Vasily, the Russian cabbie (who is definitely into some shady business), is Bucky. 

Now; New York City: 

You thank Vasily, telling him you’ll pay for the cab when you see him on Friday for Shabbat, and take the bleeding Bucky into your arms. Bucky mumbles something, clearly speaking Russian but too lowly for you to actually understand. Vasily glares at him, muttering curses as he stalks away. 

Dragging Bucky up to your sixth floor apartment means sharing a run in with Daisy Mae, your elderly neighbor who’s 90% blind and enjoys loitering in the elevator. She seems to take offense to Bucky mumbling Russian children’s songs to himself. 

“Speak English dear, not Communism. We’re in the United States.” 

“Mind the business that pays you, Daisy Mae.”

She hmphs, but doesn’t say anything else. Bucky, for his part, gives a rousing performance of the Russian alphabet. Finally, you get Bucky into your apartment and unceremoniously drop him on your couch. 

It’s not long before he falls asleep, leaving you to stare at him for hours, wondering just what he’s going to say when he wakes up. 

When he does wake up, it’s to the scent of your soap, sweet watermelon that always leaves an aching in the pit of his stomach. Waking up on your couch, smelling your soap, and listening to you cook feels like a dream. How many times had he thought about this exact moment while he was with Sam? Soon enough you’d turn the corner from the kitchenette and smile at him, that beautiful smile that never failed to make him feel a little dizzy. 

And then he’d wake up in a shitty hotel room, listening to Sam take a shit through the paper thin walls. 

He waits, but when you appear, you’re frowning anxiously. And God, you’re so fucking beautiful. You’re wearing a pair of tiny sleep shorts that expose your long legs to his greedy eyes. Your hair is pushed back off your face, exposing the most beautiful eyes he’s ever seen. 

Steve was a lucky man, to be able to love you.  Maybe one day he’ll find a woman like you to love, if he’s lucky. Has he ever been lucky?

Bucky looks confused when you appear holding tea. “Hi.” He doesn’t say anything back, just frowns back. Your mind races, realizing he probably doesn’t want to see you, that he was dropped off here by some well meaning friend, and he was going to get up and walk out the door again. 

“At least let me clean you up before you go.” Bucky nods wordlessly, looking like he’s still a little stunned. He takes a seat at the kitchen table as you pull down the first aid kit you’d put together when Steve was still here. There’s a cut above his eyebrow that’s still oozing a little blood. It’s in such a place you have to situate yourself between his legs in order to get to it. 

It’s quiet while you work, Bucky’s never been a man of many words and now he’s probably trying to figure out how to tell you you’re never going to see him again. As soon as he’s cleaned up well enough that you’re satisfied he won’t die sitting at your kitchen table, you step away to admire your handy work. Bucky’s left hand, his metal hand, catches your wrist and pulls you back to him. It holds you there while his right hand comes up to cup your face, running a thumb over your cheekbone. 

“You’re so beautiful.” 

He’s not sure what possesses him when he pulls you back into him. All he knows is if he doesn’t get you close, if he doesn’t tell you how fucking beautiful you are, he won’t be able to breathe. You make a little noise of exasperation, your gorgeous lips parting. “I mean it.” “Bucky…” You try to pull away but he holds you there, studying every inch of your face and committing it to memory. There’s an electricity between the two of you, it feels like the air is charged enough to light that stupid snail lamp you’d bought from Arrow or whatever that store you loved was called. “Bucky…” You repeat, your voice softer, in a tone he can’t quite describe

Before either of you can move or say anything else, the door swings open to reveal Sam and Torres, flanked by three soldiers. None of them take notice of what feels like a very compromising position. 

“Oh good, you’re here, Sargent Barnes. You're all being moved to a safe house. Pack enough for an indeterminate amount of time.” 

[bigbrotherlouis]

have there been players saying they were culture shocked or something? i never thought about it like that before, your post is interesting!

anon, you definitely did not ask for a long post on the nuance of transition but unfortunately, i’ve got the double edged sword of both lived experience and a literal dissertation on the topic so you’re gonna get one. under the cut, in reference to this post

to my knowledge, no one has explicitly talked about it in any interviews (besides like maybe offhand comments about adjusting?) but there is no way that they haven’t experience culture shock. like i’ve done the transition from eastern europe to the united states, i’ve known so many people who have done the same, and there’s literally no way russian/czech/austrian/german/whatever players don’t. the culture is too different. i also have it on good authority that there’s a decent amount of culture shock moving from canada to the states and vice versa, so it’s honestly probably more of an issue than we think. (if we’re being technical, you’re going to experience culture shock with any move out of a regional area, but the further the difference in culture, the worse it’s going to be. canadian players might have culture shock moving from like toronto to edmonton ((cough cough connor mcdavid)) or american players moving from idk minnesota to florida but it’s not necessarily going to be as obvious or as hard to manage as like siberia to san jose)

honestly part of the problem is that people in power don’t think about culture shock! it’s not necessarily something that’s common in conversation until you’re the one moving to a different culture, and then it’s all you can talk about. another part of the problem is that a lot of the work being done around the subject is actually done for third culture kids (like me) and international students, which is probably not a place authority figures in athletics are directing a lot of thought towards. which, to be blunt, is a grave oversight and really fucking rich considering that a decent percentage of players could technically be classified as third culture kids after they come over to play hockey in junior north american leagues. leon draisaitl, gabe landeskog, andrei svechnikov all come to mind as definite possibilities, and a case can be made for any player who lived in a different country for juniors but it gets a little weaker with that american/canadian divide. but regardless of like classification, you’re still throwing eighteen year old boys with brains that are not fully developed and are not known for their emotional competence into a completely foreign country to play a violent sport, and all you do is suggest a roommate who speaks the same language to help??? like what the fuck??? genuinely how-- i don’t even have words to express how horrifying this is to me and the fact that there hasn’t been more issues come to light makes me intensely suspicious. 

i think it’s worth saying that my problem really isn’t with the billet system and there’s some worth re:language acquisition in just fuckin’ throwing people into the deep end, but in terms of mental health, ability to cope, and general just...adjustment, it’s a really bad situation waiting to happen. moving is an intensely stressful experience on its own, moving countries even more so, and it can be incredibly isolating. i think the team mentality can help lessen some of that, but it is EXHAUSTING constantly trying to understand the cultural touchstones to fit in. it is EXHAUSTING to be constantly explaining yourself. that doesn’t go away with team bonding. it doesn’t ever really go away, honestly, and not comprehending what’s happening is distressing. no wonder there are so many stories of all the russians, all the swedes, all the finns, whatever sticking together across the league-- they’re able to relax their subconscious that’s trying to fit in. it’s a lot more than just being able to speak a shared fluent language, though that certainly is a big part of identity and culture shock too. 

anyway i just think as a coach or team owner, it would be extremely prudent to care about the holistic health of my players, physical emotional and mental, even just to be assured that they’re playing at their top level. i realise this isn’t the case, but recognizing the culture shock my players are going through is like basic level care, in my opinion. i also know teenagers are not particularly inclined to pay attention in seminars, but including something on transition during orientation would not be difficult, and it could give players important tools for dealing with grief, loss, moving, and adaptation.

for the record, i am almost always thinking about this topic, like genuinely, because it’s something i am passionate about but that post was made because of these snippets from a podcast. particularly, the part where they talk about how NAK seems spacey in post-game interviews, which they attribute to him being not so comfortable in english. which, like, yeah? and also it’s hard to speak a second language always, but especially when you’re tired?? @ nhl invest in translators for your team and invest in cultural experts to support your international players please i am begging you i will come and do it for free if you pay flights + accommodation just treat players better

okay that’s all for tonight bc i gotta sleep but i will not stop talking about this

[santaclausdeadindian]

Sorry for doing it this way, I think OP deleted their post or blocked me like a mature, balanced person would, so I have to tag you in

@mr-laugh

Oh boy, lot to unpack here.

So you didn’t even know there were that many subgenres of fantasy, one of the most popular classifications of fiction on the planet... And you think you know enough to tell ANYBODY what classic fantasy is?

And where exactly I attempted to do that, huh?

If you don’t even know the most common subgenres of this vast pool of fiction, why are you jumping into this discussion? You just admitted you don’t know anything!

There is no discussion, there is a stupid ass post. Don't flatter yourself, you don't know jack shit.

Me not knowing what exactly are the precize subgenres of a genre of literature, which, btw, are completely arbitrary and for your information, sword&magic is a legitimate category, has absolutely nothing to do with what that post you were so keen on agreeing with above. It was you who said pretty much any classic fantasy is like that: some poorly written, self-indulgent and borderline racist.

Did ya read the link, buddy? Howard talked about knowing what burning black man smelled like. He was quite approving of these things! And the books are pretty racist, it’s not hard to see, unless you ain’t looking.

Yes, I started reading and by the end of the first paragraph I was convinced he was ahorribly racist man. And? Still doesn't change the fact, that for my 12 year old self, there was nothing racist about it. I definetly wasn't looking for it, that much you got right. If I'd read it again, I'm sure I'd catch on to it now, that I know what kind of asshole he was. So the implied racism would be there. You got a point for that.

Rugged individualism? It always amuses me how that argument always pops out of the mouths of guys who are aping what they’ve heard their buddies say. If ten thousand mouths shout “rugged individualism”, how individualistic are they?

Then you should amuse yourself by looking up why this thing crops up as of late. It's coming from certain, supremely racist yet unaware of it publications that claim ridiculous shit like "rugged individualism" is a hallmark of white supremacy, among other, equally laughable things, like punctuality. It's a joke.

Again, I will give Howard to you, if someone that racist writes a black man saving the hero of the story, I bet there was something else still there to make it wrong.

Conan’s not some avatar of rugged individualism.

Uhm, yeah, he pretty much all that.

He’s as unreal and unrealistic as the dragons are,

It's called fantasy for a reason, buddy.

but more dangerous because White Men model their ideas of reality on Big Man Heroes like him;

Glad you are totally not racist, yo!!! It's such a relief that White Men are the only ones with this terrible behavior of looking up to larger than life, mythic superpeople and nobody else. Imagine what it would be like, if we would have some asshole from say, hindu indian literature massacering demons called Rakshassas, by the tens of thousands, or some bullshit japanese warlord would snatch out arrows from the air, or a chienese bodyguard would mow down hundreds of barbaric huns without dropping a sweat, or some middle eastern hero would fight literal gods and their magical beasts in some quest for eternal life.

it's a poison that weakens us, distracting us from actually trying to solve the world’s issues, or banding together to deal with shit.

This is what you just said. It's up to the white man, to get their shit together, be not racist and solve the world's problems, because those poor other people's just can't do it. If we would just not be oh, so racist, then China would surely stop with the genocides they are doing now, or blowing more than half the greenhouse emissions into the athmosphere, the muslims would stop throwing their gays from rooftops or ramming trucks into crowds and would just start treating women as equals, India's massive rape problem would be gone, subsaharan African would be magically bereft of the host of atrocities committed there on a daily, yeah, you sure have that nonracism down, buddy!

A rugged individualist would be smart enough to realize that even the most individualistic person needs others; no man’s an island, and a loner is easier to kill.

Individualism doesn't mean at all what you think it means, it's a cluster of widely differeing philosophies that puts the individual ahead of the group or state, it's ranging from anarchism to liberalism and is also has nothing to do with my point.

Central Europe?  What, Germany?  Because let me tell you, historically they are SUPER concerned about race!

Germany traditionally considered western european, central europe would be the people stuck between them and the russians, to put it very loosely. We are equally nonplussed by the self-flagellating white guilt complex and the woe me victim complex of the west. We did none of the shit those meanie white people did to the nonwhites and suffered everyting any poc ever did and then some. We don't give a shit about your color, we care about what culture you are from and if you respect our values.

I’m an American from a former Confederate state; trust me, race is everything.  It always is.

No it really isn't. How old are you? Asking without condescension, genuinly curious, because if you are in your low twenties at most, it's understandable why you think like this.

See that hike? Do you know what happened at that time that made virtually all american media suddenly go all in with racism?

Occupy Wall Street, that's what. It's a brilliant way to sow victimhood and hate and desperation amongst the people who have one common enemy, the powers that be, the banking sector, the politicians, the megacorporations.

Can't really blame you if you are in your early 20's at most, you grew up with this bullshit hammered into you. If you are older, step out of your echochamber please!

If you actually believe, that mankind doesn't progress naturally towards a more accepting society purely on the merit of there being more good people than bad and sharing a similar living with all the hardships in life, seeing that our prejudices inherited by our parents are baseless, that's how we progress, not virtue signalling courses and regressive policies. I was raised as any other kid, I had a deep resentment towards the neighbouring nations, I said vile, racist shit against people who I actually share a lot of genes with, of which fact I was in deep denial about, and then as I gradually got exposed more and more actual people of these groups, I started to realize I was wrong and everybody should be judged by their individual merits. It works throughout the generations, my grandma was thought songs about Hitler and how all jews are evil in school, she legit thought all black people at least in Africa are cannibals and shit, my mother stillsays shit that would get her cancelled in the USA, and I will probably have a mixed race kid as we stand now.

This whole racism is an eternal problem is laughable and disingenuous and I am actually sorry for you that you feel like that.

Moving on. As for Dany, the “noble white girl sold to scary dark foreign man” is a very popular trope, especially in exploitation films, which Martin draws on much more heavily than most authors do.

No, he fucking doesn't. I already wrote a bunch of examples from the books you seeminly ignore willfully. First of all, she is sold to those olive skinned savages by a white man, who is a terrible, increadibly evil man. He want's to fuck the then 11-12 ish Dany so bad, she picks his slave most resembling her and rapes her repeatedly, "until the madness pass." He also maimes children and traines them as disposable slave spies by the hundreds. There is no boundaries colour here, GRRM prtrays all kinds of people as reprehensible, evil and disgusting. Just like you can find plenty of examples to the opposite.

What is he drawing from your exploitation movies exactly? He writes about the human anture, he writes about the human heart at war with itself, that's his central philosophy of writing.

ASOFAI is basically just a porn movie with complicated feudal politics obscuring it, which is probably why it worked so well as an HBO series (up until the last two seasons or so.)

There is no gratuitous sex scene in the books, the rapes are described as rapes, they are horrible, they are very shortly described and usually just alluded to.

The people commiting them are not put into generous lights and one of the single most harrowing stories hidden behind the grand happenings of the plot is a girl named Jeyne Poole, whose suffering although never shown, is very much pointed out, along with the hypocrisy of the people who only fight to try and save her, because they think her a different person.

Honestly, if you actually read the books and they came of to you as porn, you might want to do some soulsearching.Btw, the HBO series was a terrible adaptation, it immedietly started to go further and further from the books with every passing season and the showmakers made it very clear to everybody, that they didn't understand the very much pacifist and humanist themes of Martin. And neither did you.

We also get no indication Essos will eat it when Winter comes; hell, they seem to not know Winter exists, given the way people act, even though that is also unrealistic and weird.  Essos was just super badly designed, and Dany is a terribly boring character.

to be continued

[thewestmeetingroom]

Looking to the Future of LGBTQ+ Identities in Eastern Europe and the Slavic Diaspora

Broadcast Jan. 9, 2021 - 58:12

SPEAKERS

Rebekah Robinson, Gala Mukomolova, Damir Imamović, Mateusz Świetlicki 

[Into Music]

Rebekah Robinson:  Hello, and welcome to the West Meeting Room. On today's episode, hosted by me, Rebekah, one of the producers here, you'll hear part of a conversation that I moderated titled, Looking to the Future of LGBTQ Identities in Eastern Europe and the Slavic Diaspora, which took place on Zoom on Monday, November 2, 2020, and organised by the Slavic Languages and Literatures Department here at the University of Toronto. I sat down with writer and poet Gala Mukomolova, Dr. Mateusz Świetlicki, and musician, Damir Imamović, to discuss the role of culture and activism in the community as they look toward the future. I would like to thank professors, Dragana Obradovic, Zdenko Mandušić, and Angieszka Jezyk, for putting together this conversation and inviting me to moderate. The bios for these accomplished speakers will be available in this episode’s show notes.

Rebekah:  I've been really looking forward to this conversation over the past few weeks. And so, I'm hoping in order to get started, that each of you could briefly tell us about the context in which you're coming from, and the work that you do. And if the cultural context from which you're coming from influences your work in any sort of way. I know, we've mentioned that a little bit during your bios. I'd like to get into it a little bit more. And let's start with Gala on this one.  

Gala Mukomolova:  Okay, sure. Um, well, I am primarily a writer, and that's what I do. I write a lot of astrology things.

[chuckles]

And that is, I mean, I feel it's interesting already, just to think about like musicians and philosophers and rebels, and literature scholars as a point of conversation around world events. I think that I came to astrology writing sort of by circumstance. And I've mostly tried my best because it's very commercial and I work for a major syndicate to subtly or unsubtly move large masses that would otherwise be un-politicized by my like weekly astrology writings. And all my writing work that's more creative or personal, like the essays or the poems that I write, are very influenced by my upbringing, and I guess, just where I'm at, right. So I was raised, but, I mean, I was born in Moscow. My family's Jewish. We had to immigrate to Brooklyn, around the wave time that everybody else did. 1992 / 1993, I was raised very much in, in a kind of, like, understanding of difference as marker, right. So it's like the idea that who we are is always in relation to who we are not, or history. And I think that what I'm interested in, actually, in this discussion is, is learning more about people who are in place. Like I think I come from, my writing comes from being displaced. And, yeah, I don't know, I feel like there's so much, I mean, it's just who we are always influences what we make, right? I think that I also am very invested in a queer post-Soviet perspective, and that's really particular because I, I have an okay relationship with my family now, but I was disowned for many years and didn't speak to them. And the idea of being like, queer, or lesbian was antithetical to being Russian, to being Jewish -- Russian Jewish, because we're like, Well, you know, like, when you're, when you're a Jewish person from Moscow, but like, my family doesn't identify as Russian. They identify as Jewish. So it's like a particular thing to say, but, um, I think understanding the amount of disavowal that happens amongst like, how people come to define themselves. Like, with my family, being like, “Well, you know, if you're choosing this aspect of yourself, then you're not one of us, right?” But the “one of us” mentality has to come from a fear that you need to keep being like, non-Western. I'm just, like, kind of like creating this idea of devotion to the to the national idea. I don't know. So, which doesn't claim you, right, the national idea which doesn't claim you. So like, Russian people for so long, did not really claim Jewish people as one of their own. And yet, like to be clear, like Jewish Russia is to create a disavowal from the country that you come from, which we actually disavow to begin with.

Rebekah:  Thank you so much, Gala, I think that's, I like the idea of, you know, or I find the ideas fascinating about being displaced within, like these different communities. You know, and I know you mentioned your work with astrology. And I'm hoping that you can about how these sort of intersections and ideas maybe even play into like contributing to your writing these astrological pieces. And as well as just know who we are is in relation to who we are not. Like, that's especially prevalent in today's politics throughout Eastern Europe and throughout the world, really. You know, everyone's trying to juxtapose themselves. And there's this fear of othering. So, I hope we can touch on that in this conversation as well. Let's move over to Damir, if you could introduce us, tell us a little bit about the work that you do. And if you find that your cultural context is influencing your work as well.

Damir Imamović:  Thanks Rebekah. No, yeah, of course. I was born in 1978, during the time of Socialist Yugoslavia. And probably, mostly the kids at that time, end of 80s, I was what 10, 11, 12 when the war, when the dissolution of Yugoslavia started that I, 14, 13 and a half, something like that. So I somehow feel that most of us who are coming from that geographical area , we we carry this mark and this, most of our interests of that generation, or are of those generations are still colored by this, you know, traumatic event that happened in Yugoslavia. In the beginning, I started playing music during the war when Sarajevo was under the siege. I was in a shelter. And us kids, we were bored basically, so I had to do something. You know, you can't go out you can't do much. And some days, you cannot even go to your apartment upstairs. And I picked up a guitar and started learning songs. And, but actually, and of course, traditional music was always big around me in my family of traditional musicians. But I also, my first songs that I fell in love with were, you know, rock and roll, jazz. It was 90s. So, the whole Nirvana. But somehow in Bosnia, in Sarajevo, especially this sevdah traditional music, which was strongly rooted in Slavic oral culture, but also had a strong Turkish Ottoman Empire influence was always around, you know. So I just, I woke up as a 20 something year old and realized that I know all these songs. You know, in the day, I even use them not only as songs, I speak in that way sometimes. You know, they're some little pieces of those songs, some parts of it, I use it in everyday speech and it's so much a part of me. And then I realized only actually several years back that I was always interested, because this trauma really formed me. And my primary school class completely dissipated when the war started, you know, and suddenly, we became strangers. And that's why even today, I'm still probably quite close, closer to my friends from primary school, because I was in seventh grade when we started, then with later on high school, friends and university friends and other people. And I realized that without me knowing that all of my themes I was really interested in, you know, like, after high school, we have this system where we write at, like, a final paper in high school. Some kind of a diploma or something. And, of course, the University the same. And just when I look back, I realized that all of these things were actually connected to the same topic. And it is, how is it possible that people become strangers to one another, you know, when I, I never had the problem, intellectual or artistic with people being, you know, foreigners, people being unknown to one another. And you discover something that you don't know, but this very feeling that due to some act of politics, history, whatever, you become stranger. You become this foreign person, you know, and of course, coming out is a big part of that. Because it's, you know, the situation when you have some friends, you have family, and after coming out, and that's what a lot of LGBTQ people know, you suddenly become somebody else and you're still the same fucking person. But there's this estrangement, or whatever the word is in English, that happens, you know. So a lot of what I do is is kind of colored by that. Even without me knowing that I - That's actually one thing I'm rediscovering about what I do. But I have, you know, I always had diverse interests. I always loved literature, history, philosophy. Music was just a part of it. And after studying philosophy in Sarajevo, I had my ideas of pursuing a career as a philosopher means mostly sitting at one place and thinking, anyway. But I was lucky enough that I, just by chance, I was offered a gig as a musician, and I did it. And it was a big success. And I just felt that that's what I love doing, you know. And of course, later on, after that, I realized that I don't have to give up on my intellectual interest, you know. But I can still write, I can still, you know, research stuff and, and I realized that you have to, if you have an opportunity, you have to take over this place in mainstream society and speak with a different voice from there. You know, it's not, because mostly, I mean, the whole of Balkans, meaning former Yugoslavia, plus other countries in Eastern Europe, is actually today a place people are mostly forced to leave if they want to live their dreams, you know. And I remember this, this first Pride parade in Sarajevo last year at which I played. There was one moment when I literally wanted to cry. And that was when I saw all these guys and girls, queer couples of all kinds who are from Sarajevo, usually, both of them, you know, from a couple they were both from Sarajevo, but they've been living in, I don't know, all over the world for 15 plus years. And then they came back for that particular date was such a strong message, you know? So that's just for starters.  

Rebekah:  Absolutely. Thank you so much. I feel like you brought a lot of food for thought. e\Especially, I like the concept of how even within a specific region, you know, you become a stranger to one another through force of trauma, but also how that can also impact how LGBT people are also impacted as well. Especially when coming out from to their families or to their society, to their communities, on how you can even be ostracized and a kind of stranger in that way too. So, I hope we can explore that idea of being considered other and this estrangement that you mentioned later on in our conversation. How about you Mateusz?.

Mateusz Świetlicki:  That's a difficult question. First of all, I want to say that I absolutely love my job. I love everything about it. It gives me satisfaction for a number of reasons. But before I say few things about these reasons, let me answer the question. Because your question was about, you know, the personal experience. I think that we cannot escape our personal experience at all. In order to, you know, succeed. You need to combine your personal experience. You need to stay, you know, truthful to your own self and your heritage and your identity. And, I was born in Poland. I lived in Poland when I was a child. I also lived in Germany. I also live in Louisiana, Shreveport, Louisiana. And I decided to stay in Poland. I decided to stay here because I do have hope. And I think that sharing my experience, sharing all of the things that I know. Sharing my you know, vision of the world, can actually help my students. And I absolutely do use my experience when it comes to my writing. When it comes to my teaching. When it comes to my writing, I have a degree in Slavic studies and Ukrainian studies and in American Studies. And I published a few things about Ukrainian literature, about Polish literature, about American literature. I try to write some things about gender, about men studies, about masculinity studies about queer things. I tried to find some queer themes in Ukrainian literature, but I always, I've always been interested in children's literature and YA literature and popular culture. I find this trash culture to be extremely inspiring. Now I'm working on a project on North American children's literature. By North American, I mean both American and Canadian. But, I'm writing about literature books written by Ukrainian and Polish authors. I mean, second, third, fourth generation Ukrainian / Polish authors. So books written in English, but books about the experience of being Polish, the experience of being Canadian, the experience of being Polish Canadian. The experience of being Ukrainian Canadian, experience of being Ukrainian, in Canada, and so on. So I think I'm trying to somehow combine my expertise. Like, I think this is the perfect topic for me, because I'm using everything of my knowledge. So I can use my Slavic studies, background, and my English studies, American Studies, background. And every single time when I want to write about, let's say, memory. When I want to write about something else, I always end up thinking about queerness, I always end up thinking about the ways in which sexuality or gender are, you know, constructed in the literature or film. And I think it is connected to my identity, you know. This topic, I cannot escape this topic, you know. I absolutely cannot escape this gender theme, and it's difficult to do that in Poland. And when it comes to the last few years, when you hear your president saying that LGBT is not people, LGBT is ideology. When you hear politicians saying that we have to make sure that gender ideology and the so called LGBTQ ideology doesn't destroy our children. And there's always the child to use as this political, you know, tool. It's, on the one hand, it's challenging to write about such topics. But on the other hand, I find it so fascinating and stimulating, intellectually stimulating. And I think that we should resist. And this leads me to what I said at the beginning of my little speech. My students, teaching is fascinating, really, and inspiring. And my students are absolutely brilliant. I am so privileged to be teaching a number of really intelligent, clever young people who are sick and tired of this situation. Who grew up in Poland, with the internet around them, who grew up traveling, you know, going on vacation to various different places. And there are queer individuals who want to live in Poland, and who want to, and who are proud or openly gay, or lesbian or transgender, and they don't care. And they don't want to move to America or to Canada or to Germany. They want to stay here and they want to make a change. And what I hear my students tell me that my classes made them want to fight. I'm shocked because I always think that my classes are ideologically neutral. So I always think that I'm not really that political in class. But it turns out that while I'm not trying to be political, I am political. So yesterday, my wonderful graduate student told me that during one of like, random classes, like ethics of academic work, stuff like that -  I taught them about the phenomenon of angry white men in America, like Trump supporters. And someone, and I didn't remember that, I just used some basic examples of books, and I, and I asked them to come up with a list of Works Cited. And then she told me that because of this little class, the entire group, read that book. And that's why I find my job to be really, my profession to be really inspiring, because I can teach. I can write and my students really inspire me. So I, every single class influences my writing.

Rebekah:  We'll tease that out, for sure. I really enjoyed this idea of Polish people who want to remain in Poland because that's like their home, you know. And just trying to make it a place. I think that's going to be one of the ending questions, you know, what are their hopes for the future? How can people you know, move to this place where they can build a society and build an area where they can be completely themselves. And so I want to hold on to that idea and bring that up a little bit later. Thank you. Gala, I wanted to go back a little bit to talk about your astrology workings. And I want to see how might your traditional Slavic values, maybe that you have been surrounded with ongoing in your life, how you maybe incorporate them a little bit into your writing astrology? Or how even being part of a diaspora community, how that might influence your work when writing about astrology?

Gala:   I'm just feeling inspired a little bit by all the hopefulness. I think that, I'll say this. I think that when I came to astrology as more of a work than a hobby or an interest, so much of it has to do with the fact that in ways I was raised with astrology, it's like a shared language with my family, because it's pretty similar in Russian or post-Soviet culture. Soviet culture, as it is in the West. That said, I don't know. I think that as Mateusz was speaking, I was thinking about, you know, what it means to have pride in place, or like a nationalistic love. I think that I was very much raised without it. Very much raised without place, and in some ways, like a kind of - like, I feel like I was raised in a refugee Jewish community, which had a lot of pride in the fact that they came from a Jewish lineage. And also, at the same time, kind of had no God, and no rituals, no practices, right? No, no prayers that we knew. And so, most esoteric practice was sort of memory based. We light a candle on this day, we don't wear shoes in the house, I can't tell you why. You know, things like that were just sort of based on like a rule, a rule you inherited that you follow blindly. And so for me, I think astrology as I got older, and as I found, safety and pattern was a place where I could connect to all these different types of rituals and understandings about the largeness of the universe, without being completely far away from where I came from. And I do think that now as I inhabit this world. And like the astrology world, is kind of a world because they're, you know, on a, on a level of who's creating it and how there are just so many social media facets. So many different types of writers, many different types of people who are offering the same thing. But I do think that astrology is inherently invested in like the domino effect or the collective effect, right? So there's this idea that what happens there affects us here, right? That the sun is not shining on one side of the planet, for no reason at all. And that there is a continuation, and also that there is a story that happened before us and is happening after us. And I think that being in a lineage of people who were moved toward the collective, who sacrificed a great deal for the collective is information. Like I don't think that I was raised to believe in the collective. Like I actually was, I was brought into a country, I was brought into your country with this premise that now we'd like that we would have individual lives, right. And that being said, I was then raised in this sort of, in a tense, what an astrologer might call a kind of square between two planets aspect between people who actually wanted to escape a collective, authoritarian, totalitarian really, rule, and people who actually valued collective ideology as more righteous and more ethical. So this idea that I wasn't just myself, I was part of my family and I wasn't just part of my family. I was part of a lineage of people who survived numerous mass genocides, you know. I wasn't just, I wasn't just learning to live in a country for myself, but at the same time, also, one could never go back to what those collective ideas and beliefs lead us, right. So that tension, that place for me is a lot of the place where I write from as well. I think when it comes to astrology, because I think that astrology has always been political, has always been, you know, used in rulerships of presidents and kings. So I think that there's a sense that the, the stars that you might be interested in, in terms of like your love life, or whatever, like your new job, are also the same stars that if one were to believe it so, are impacting the people who make it hard for you to get that job. Make it hard for you to be present in your love life. I think that if I can use whatever medium I have, that maybe people seek for just gentle comfort or some sense of accompaniment, some sense of like, pleasure or relief, if I can use that medium to let people know that not only are they connected to a larger picture, but that larger picture is also connected back to them and their daily behaviors and their daily lives and what they think about, then maybe I'm doing my job.

Rebekah:  Absolutely, that's actually really beautiful. Thank you for sharing that. I think this idea of using different creative mediums, whether that's through astrology, with your music, finding ways to connect, to connect these different themes and different ideas that are inherently political, that we sometimes don't always see as being political and reaching a larger audience that might otherwise not choose to engage with it. So, thank you for sharing that. And then speaking of music, I wanted to go back over to Damir and ask, you know, how do you take this genre of music of sevdah, and how might this traditional music make sense, and how do you incorporate that? How do you speak to this modern world in which you're producing this music? I'm wondering what that looks like for you?

Damir:  Well, there are many ways of course, and the very act of doing that today, at least at a time when I was beginning 16 / 17 years ago, the very act of doing that was in a way that you know, I was already, you know, quite active in, as a student in many feminist and queer organizations. I was already, you know, doing different stuff. And I remember some of my friends told me, come on, you're a young hip guy. You should do jazz or rock or pop or stuff like that, why would you do sevdah? You know, because sevdah was similar to the folk music in United States. You know, or country music was some kind of, you know, popular, extremely popular music, but it was some kind of a redneck music. One part of it was some kind of rural community music, you know, not all of it. And, but for me, I always saw other things in it. You know, I saw how important it is. And, and it was actually at the time end of the 90s beginning of 2000s, when actually quite a lot of music, musical groups or individuals started to see, like - I remember this, they were really good at the beginning, actually from Poland. So, they were doing Polish folk music, but in a really punk way. On the on the other hand, on this kind of research side, I completely feel what Gala just said, about finding some structure in this whole you know, crazy crazy world. And I remember when I was a kid, I read a poem by Rita Mae Brown and she said at some point, like you know, she's having cancer, she's queer, and she had so many layers of her personality and her body and her everything, but she said at some point like, which one of me, of I's, will survive all these changes? You know, what will be left at the end? So, I feel that what God said that this need to find some order in this crazy world, and for me, it's it's music theory and scales of this sevdah music because it's when you see it from that point of view, it's actually sevdah music, as a lot of Balkan music, is situated between two worlds. Two worldviews of music you know, one is a Western European, and another one is this oriental, usually Ottoman history gave us this, this oriental way of thinking about music, you know, which is different. And it's not like, completely different but they, you know, that they're places where they connect. So when you do theory, in Bosnian, in sevdah music, you're constantly with one leg you're in this Eastern world of hearing music and thinking about harmonies, melodies, and everything. And at the same time you're doing, you're doing it in the western medium. For me those scales and teaching them, researching them, and then teaching them and trying to find some order in that is also a way of doing that, you know. And of course, there are a lot of, you know, everyday usage of music in many ways. And that's sometimes with artists, it's hard to control it, you know, what your music is. How you convey it. And how will people use it.

Rebekah:  Thank you so much for all that. I did want to ask in terms of like your music, are there any themes or ideas that you try to incorporate, like modern themes into your traditional folk music? And how do you incorporate those, like, what kind of language and stuff do you use, especially considering the, I guess, the traditional structure of the framework of music, how you choose to go about doing that?

Damir:  Well, when I started doing it, I realized that this music was codified in the socialist time, in the time of famous socialist radio stations. So, there was a time when this, in former Yugoslavia, every different ethno national groups had their own cultural expression. And I realized that behind that there's a, there's just a peak of an iceberg, you know. A huge, huge, there's a whole iceberg of music, you know, that we just see the top of. And I realized that, that's why that's where I wanted to go. And there I found a crazy humane, everyday, everyday world of old recordings, interviews, everything, you know. And I was especially happy to find, and I used it in this exhibition I curated in 2015, in Sarajevo, where I can try to portray the history of this music behind what people usually know, through, you know, all the different materials. And I included many, you know, of course, queer stories, all the different other things that were just left out of official histories, you know. But for me, my idea, talking about writing about this music and researching it was, I never wanted to write the queer history of sevdah music. And I've spoken to many of my friends who are, you know, queer activists, or activists in different fields. And they taught me that, you know, if you do only this "small thing," you become some kind of expert in queer stuff, and that's your field. In that way, I realized that there is no history of music. Nobody, it has never been written by anyone on any, not even a positivist stupid, dumb, you know, kind of a book. And then I said, Yeah, I'm gonna write a history of the music. I have to take this mainstream position, you know, and push it. And my music and what I do artistically is completely different. And I, to be honest, I have no control of that. I was lucky enough to be invited to do music for films and theatre, a part from my scene of the stage work and performance quite early. And I started in 2007. And when I realized that I can do that. I can write, you know, when you work, in so called in functional music, which is theater, film and stuff that you have a director, you have a need for a particular music, you know, in a scene. So nobody asks you: What do you like? You have to do that, that as a craftsman, you know. You just do what's needed. So when I realized, you know, I can write the rock and roll song, I can arrange for chamber quartet, that I can do stuff for a choir and stuff. Then I realized, maybe there's a way for me to write sevdah songs, you know, because it's been decades since new sevdah songs kind of appeared. And that's how I started in 2007 and writing for myself and other people. My first song was traditional lyrics and my own melody. It's called Dva Se Draga Vrlo Milovala: Two Darlings Caressed Each Other. And that's a beautiful lyrics about two souls in love, but of course, mother and father forbids it, so they have to separate and they die and they buried them together, blah, blah, blah. It starts with this gender neutral description of two darlings. You know, Dva Se Draga Vrlo Milovala, for those of you who speak language, you recognize the pattern. And, there's been a lot of these songs in the history of sevdah genres and neighboring genres of music, but they were abandoned because they were, you know, modern culture didn't tolerate this gender neutral. So they become male and female, in the second part of the song, after mother comes in, and prohibits the marriage, or them being together, you know, and everything in this song separates into, you know, into genders, into graves, into everything. So I was so inspired by the lyrics that I wrote the melody to it, and that's how it started. So these days, luckily enough, this sevdah genre, I wrote a lot of songs for myself and other musicians, other performers. There are other people writing new songs. So, I think something is happening there. And a significant part of it also has this queer, I mean, there are different kinds of people in this in the scene. But there are also people who are who are pushing this new idea of what tradition is.

Rebekah:  I really love this idea of incorporating, you know, different ideas and queer elements of culture into this new tradition of music and going forth, like in that way. And that's something that more and more people are starting to get involved with. And I like this idea of representation of like, the queer communities, especially if even if it's gender neutral, that it's part of the history. It's not like just made up, it's an ongoing thing. And so how can we modernize that and shape that for a new audience? And also thinking about representation? I wanted to turn to Mateusz and think about what does representation look like, especially concerning LGBT interests in young adult literature and children's literature? And how does that look specifically within Poland? And do you think that students and children are getting their needs met or interests met within literature?

Mateusz:  That's a very good question. Um, there's a number of LGBTQ themed Polish books, mostly picture books and YA novels, and of course, there are a number of translations, mostly from English, but not only from English. And similarly to Ukraine and Hungary, such books usually become, quite, let's say, political, or maybe not the books themselves become political, but they become political tools. And this, you know, political, anti-LGBTQ+ discourse. For example, there's this really interesting book: Kim Jest Slimak Sam. I'm not sure if you've heard about it, probably not. So, yeah, it was published in 2015. By it's a picture book by Maria Pawłowska and Jakub Szamałek illustrated by Katarzyna Bogucka. It's quite similar to And Tango Makes Three, let's say, became similar because it caused a number of controversies because its protagonist Sam the snail, who is just starting school is a hermaphrodite. He's a snail. Yeah, I mean, Sam is a snail. Interestingly, both advocates and opponents of the book seem convinced about the power of literacy. In this book, when a teacher asks pupils to split into two gendered groups, Sam does not know what to do and hides inside their shell. And the school psychologist asks Sam to prepare a report on the storm that passed the area the day before. And to do that, Sam needs to meet and talk to several queer animals inhabiting the nearby woods. While the picture, while this picture book is biologically accurate, some Polish Education Officers ordered the book removed from school libraries as inappropriate for young children and for its potential to promote "gender ideology." And this is not surprising when we remember that an educational supervisor from lesser Poland tweeted that LGBT is an endorsement of pedophilia. And when we remember the fact that the former Minister of Education, Anna Zalewska, tried to ban Rainbow Friday. Rainbow Friday is a name of events aiming to show queer children and teenagers that school should be a safe space for all. And it's worth mentioning that despite the years of progress, the situation of LGBTQ+ individuals in Poland has deteriorated under the role of the populist Law and Justice (PiS) Party, resulting in the increase of number of suicides among queer teenagers. We have gay celebrities like Jacek Poniedziałek, Michał Piróg, and allies, great allies of the LGBTQ community, like Anja Rubik, who is a top model, you know, fashion model, Beata Kozidrak, this iconic Polish Madonna, let's say, or Taco Hemingway, who is a Polish rapper. You can read about him and the latest issue of New York Times, if I'm not mistaken. So when it comes to equality, Poland, a member state of the EU is closer to Ukraine and Russia than its EU neighbors. And of course, I'm talking about politics. But we do have a lot of books, like Sam the Snail, also translations like I Am Jazz, this picture book about a transgender girl, but what I find particularly interesting is that we don't have books about same sex parenting in Poland at all. And what, yeah, it's quite interesting, because when you compare Poland to other countries, including Ukraine, usually the first queer, let's say, I'm using this term really frivolously, let's say, usually queer themed, usually the first queer themed books are picture books about same sex parents, that's the pattern. When it comes to practically every single country, which has queer themed books, but in Poland, we don't have same sex parenting books. We have books about transgender children, we have books about like, YA novels about gay characters, gay and lesbian characters, of course, and I think that is quite - you know, literature, children's literature, YA literature is really crucial in the development of young people, and representation is fundamental. We all know that. When we compare the, like the number of picture books or just books, children's books in general, depicting children belonging to different ethnicities, the representation, like disparities in the representation are shocking. So most books present white children. Yeah. So there is this discussion about the need to include other types of children. And Poland is a very specific country. I want you to remember about the fact that 96% of Poles are white. Most Poles are culturally Catholic. I'm using this term "culturally Catholic" on purpose, because most Poles do not go to church at all. But being culturally Catholic is a totally different thing. It's all about customs, traditions. And this guilt. I don't go to church. I'm not part of this institution. But you know, cultural Catholicism is stronger. Yeah. So, though I was, okay, I was talking about children's books, and then I started talking about, you know, the church. Okay, so when it comes to the need to include such themes, it's quite similar. There are queer children, queer adolescents in Poland who need to see that they are normal, you know. And such books should appear in the book markets, such books should be published and should become part of the mainstream. And it's not enough to have translation of Love Simon and, you know, American YA novels. I think it's crucial to have local books, including local themes, or references to our local culture. And I think that it's crucial for the development of young people. And I know that I also take, I believe in the power of literacy. But that's what I've heard from a number of students who, throughout the years have told me “When I was growing up all of the books and all of the characters and YA books and children's books were just straight. And I've always thought that I'm weird.” I think that it's amazing that this situation has started to change. That we do have queer books, that we do have books featuring non heteronormative, let's say, elements. And you know, I've already said it, children are the future.

Rebekah:  Absolutely, thank you so much for all of that. I think it's definitely important that the literature reflects local customs and traditions. And I think that every student should have the opportunity to be represented and feel represented, their family or themselves in general within this kind of literature. Because it's crucial to the development of young LGBT students and just other children in general to be exposed to such themes to learn about differences. I think that's incredibly important. But yes, I love the idea that you know, that things are starting to change. That there's, we're moving towards like a state of future. We're trying to incorporate more radical literature into like earlier settings in schools. And so my last question for you all is, what are your hopes for the LGBT communities from where you're coming from? We've mentioned radical changes within literature, talked about astrology, we talked about music. What does that look like for your specific communities?  

Damir:  Well, here's a good candidate, if you allow me this combination of nationalism and LGBT issues. An example of Bosnia, Bosnia is a small place. It used to have three and a half million people, when Yugoslavia parted. Now, I think it has, some people say not even 3 million people. And the thing is such a small place is really, it's really hard to have an authentic agenda for anything, you know, let alone the fact that we are completely politically paralyzed because we still live the consequences of dissolution of Yugoslavia. Because the Constitution of Bosnia is basically a peace agreement, which was signed in 1995. Like a ceasefire peace agreement. We still have that as a constitution, you know. So just to cement the opposing sides in the war, and blah, blah, blah, to stop the war. The problem with that, why am I mentioning that is that it's really hard to promote LGBTQ rights in Bosnia as an authentic need of the local people. And it's so easy, by opposing side nationalist fascists of all kinds from these communities, etc. to give it some kind of: "oh always this sort of guy, those are Americans, Angela Merkel, and Swedes are promoting you know, lesbianism" and that kind of stuff, you know. So that's why I think that's one of the reasons. And of course, the lack of tradition, why we only had Pride last year. And those people who are, who are doing it, activists, are brilliant. They really did a great job. We had a huge Pride, three and a half thousand people without any problems. It was a really beautiful day. And I see that, you know. But I guess and I would love maybe to hear if there's time for Mateusz, about, because Poland is such a big country with a strong culture and just in numbers, also huge country and market and everything. Is it in any way easier for such a big country to promote the need for queer rights as some kind of an authentic need? So you understand what's my problem? You usually have nationalists who are saying, you know, “yeah, but we never had gays around here. We were all straight. It's just when Americans came or whoever came, Germans, that we've gotten queer people.”

Mateusz:  It's similar here, really.

Damir:  I think, in a interesting way to connect nationalism and queer rights.  

Mateusz  Yeah, it's always somebody else's problem when it comes to LGBTQ rights in Poland. I mean, rights, maybe not rights. So once again, the biggest problem in Poland is that we are a monoethnic country. So there are no "enemies," you know. It's quite difficult to find a common enemy. After all, culturally Catholic, all white. Someone has to be blamed for everything. So the last few months our politicians, right wing politicians have decided to use, once again, to use members of the LGBTQ+ community as this enemy of the nation, enemy of the state, say that these are not people. This is just a foreign ideology of the EU trying to destroy Poland, all over the country, trying to destroy Poland. These are not real people There's this Polish Regional Education Authority called Barbara Nowak, who said that after the Coronavirus, we'll get back to normal quickly, but what about the long term effects of gender and the LGBTQ ideology? Coming back to the, to your question Rebekah, I would love my LGBTQ+ students to know that it's okay to be Polish and LGBTQ+. That is okay to be Polish and non-Catholic. That it's okay to be Polish Jewish and gay. That it's okay to be Polish and Black, you know. We have Afro-Poles are also discriminated and so on. But and I think that most of our problems come from the fact that we are so monoethnic. And of course, we know that when it comes to our history, it all changed after World War II. Because before World War II, Poland was not as mono ethnic. Poland has no colonial history, in this traditional, of course, understanding of colonialism. We're not going to dig deeper into local like, Ukrainian Poland, Ukraine, Poland, stuff. But we don't have this, I mean, we Poles don't have this colonial guilt. What I find really problematic is that nationalists, the so-called patriots have decided to claim this one particular vision of being Polish. And there's no place for members of the LGBTQ community and this, you know, Polish label and this particular identity. And in the last few months, young people, mostly young people, young queer people, have rebelled against this notion, you know, maybe not notion, against this vision of Polish-ness. They've been fighting. They've been using, you know, acts of civil disobedience. They've been rebelling against this vision, they are unapologetic, they don't care. They are, they are not here to just, you know, talk. They're here to fight. And let's be honest, you're probably all familiar with the current situation in Poland regarding the abortion rights, of the protests, and so on. The first protests in Poland this year started in August and these were protests initiated by young LGBTQ+ individuals who fought really. And what's happening now, all of the nasty slogans used by protesters are quite similar to the nasty explicit slogans used by of members of the LGBTQ community in August. But back in August, they were criticised for, you know, for using explicit vocabulary for breaking taboos. And now, the mainstream, let's say mainstream protesters, are using their methods. And this, I think, shows us how effective our local LGBTQ+ community can be.

Rebekah:  Yeah, absolutely. That's beautiful. Thank you so much. And I think that it's super important to highlight, you know, the people who are on the ground doing the actual work. And they're the ones out here who are trying to make a difference for themselves and the ones who come after them. How about for you, Gala.

Gala:  I think I've just been - So I want to say that I was thinking this whole time about bubbling of ideology that can create this sort of flattening of human experience. But I think that if one were to apply this idea of the flattening of the human experience, what you know about what you're fighting for, what you're good at, what involves you, what affects you into a general hope, right, for the collective. Like for me, I think if I were to imagine my hope for queer people in the US, it would be the same hope that I have for people in every country, which is that they hold otherness as sacred and they continue to. And I think that when it comes to queer activism, right, like when we see it in action, the people who have made the most difference in a lot of activist spheres pushing against government have been people who have been invested in human otherness as sacred and integral. So if you think about I don't know, like what was happening in Chechnya. And so many activists, like so many Russian activists were from queer activists, were actually creating secret, like were getting people out of Chechnya, and creating like secret lives for them to live in Chechnya. Queer people are constantly in, especially in countries where queerness is criminalized, but also countries where it isn't like the US theoretically, are constantly being placed in this business to choose between this idea of being loved and being part of a nation and being themselves. Right. But ultimately, at least for the US, as an example, like queerness is a part of the national story here. It's a part of the American story, if you think about it. Like there is this idea that people inherit, right? That isn't necessarily true, that if they come here, they can be whatever they want. Right? And so, in some ways, that is like this, like false bat signal, right? Like you get to come here, and you get to be whatever you want in this country, which is inaccurate, because then you could wind up going to a nightclub with all your friends and get shot for being who you are. Right? So there's this idea, then that a lot of people who come with, like what I imagined is a true, I don't know, I don't want to give it value. But I think that queerness, or aligning oneself with queerness has to do with recognizing that it's not something that you inherit from an authority, right. And so I think that if I were to imagine a true optimistic hope it would be that queer people as they are pushed toward action, as they are pushed toward some acts of sovereignty, that they hold otherness as sacred, as opposed to falling into traps of homo-nationalism, where they can serve the nation state, but also whiteness. So queer whiteness against like, people who are anti-racist and against the carceral state.

Rebekah:  Thank you so much for bringing that up. I am absolutely in love with this idea of holding otherness as sacred, you know. Because I think a lot of the issues where we get pinned against one another and trying to blame our issues on this other, there's a fear of the other. And I think that's an issue worldwide. And so if we can come to a point where we can hold otherness as sacred, I think that we can move forward to a more promising future.

[iustusetpeccator]

Viktor Krum meta: language use & accent

Before I even start in earnest, I just wanna say this is particular to my interpretation of Viktor and comes with all my hangups as a Bulgarian person living in Brexit Britain; also it got pretty long. But if you like some light sociocultural analysis along with your meta, by all means read on.

So we all know how Rowling chose to represent Viktor—quiet, grumpy, slightly bumbling, and when he does speak, not particularly articulate. He does have a decent vocabulary range, but his accent is harsh and noticeable. He is also shown to speak in present continuous tense, as seen here:

‘Vell, ve have a castle also, not as big as this, nor as comfortable, I am thinking,’ he was telling Hermione. ‘Ve have just four floors, and the fires are lit only for magical purposes. But ve have grounds larger even than these – though in vinter, ve have very little daylight, so ve are not enjoying them. But in summer ve are flying every day, over the lakes and the mountains –’

Here’s an example from DH, where you can see he still has the accent, but also the (not bad) range of vocabulary he’s given, as well as his correct use of prepositions:

‘He retired several years ago. I vos one of the last to purchase a Gregorovitch vand. They are the best – although I know, of course, that you Britons set much store by Ollivander.’

I'm here to explain why I do it (a little) differently.

First of all, let me lay some groundwork. He was born in the mid-seventies in Bulgaria, which at the time was part of the Eastern Bloc. I'm going to refrain from talking about the ramifications of that on our culture, but keep in mind we were very much in bed with the Soviet Union during his formative years. Furthermore, he went to Durmstrang—a school known for accepting pupils from a very wide geographical range, seeing as it's located somewhere ‘in the far north of Europe’ and yet accepted Viktor, from way down in southeastern Europe. Either he was exceptional, or it's a pretty multicultural school.

So what does that tell us? Well, to begin with, the boy is more than likely to have been fluent in at least, AT LEAST, three languages: Bulgarian, which was his native language, of course; Russian, which was a mandatory subject from an early age in school (even if he didn’t go to muggle school, he would’ve had to speak it to avoid rousing suspicion), and which is relatively easy for a fellow Slavic language speaker to learn and retain; and either German or one of the Scandinavian languages, which he would've been taught in while at Durmstrang. At minimum.

At the same time, the Triwizard Tournament would've presented Viktor's first serious brush with the English-speaking world. English was not taught in school at the time (see also: Cold War); if you picked up a second foreign language (on top of Russian, which basically didn't count), it would be either German or French, due to long-standing sociocultural ties (i.e. our intelligentsia were largely educated in France, and we sided with Germany in both world wars; don't ask). So unless his family went out of their way to teach him English, which they would've had no reason to as it wasn't seen as useful, he wouldn't have learned it formally at any stage.

How do I know all this? Well, I’m Bulgarian for one, and also my parents are only 5-10 years older than Viktor would be. They speak, or at some point have spoken, 4-5 languages between them, of which English isn’t one. In order to study it back in the 70s and 80s, you’d have had to go to a special school that was difficult to get into, and not hugely popular either.

So yes, his spoken English was clumsy in GoF when he was 18, and he probably never lost the accent, but 1) his written English was likely much better (see also: exchanging letters with Hermione for years), and 2) his mastery of the language will have improved pretty rapidly once he made friends who spoke it. The level you see in GoF, animated discussions with Hermione and all, is his default level without having studied English in any capacity, so to think it would stay that way into his adult years is not doing the man justice.

Also him using present continuous at any stage instead of simple present tense makes no sense, considering it’s 1) more complex, and 2) does not exist in Bulgarian, his native language. So I’m not even engaging with that.

Anyway, how has all this informed the way I write him? For one, I mostly focus on the post-SWW period, when he’s: 

travelled quite widely in connection with his international career, making a lot of friends from different countries;

been pen-pals with Hermione and kept in touch with Fleur for a number of years;

chosen to settle in the UK in the aftermath of the war.

What all this means is that he’s had a lot more practice reading, writing, and speaking in English, and his words are likely to flow a lot more smoothly, as well as picking up some colloquialisms from his teammates. As for his accent, not doing the whole ‘vos’ thing is a very conscious choice. I don’t shy from a phonetic accent (see also: Alastor), but on the one hand, that’s not what my accent sounds like so I find it hard to reproduce, and two, I think it’s borderline comical, tbh. Also it makes him sound like Otto von Chriek, but that’s neither here nor there.

What I do instead is, I try and limit his vocabulary and the length of his sentences. I’m aware my command of English is above and beyond what he’s likely to attain, so I don’t make him sound like me. I mess up the odd tense and preposition, throw in the odd expression that doesn’t exist in English, make him pause and think a lot about what he says, etc. And that’s it, folks. That’s how actual Bulgarian people speak English. Compared to the other languages he’s fluent in, it’s really not a difficult one to pick up.

What I’m trying to put across here is that the whole stereotype of Eastern Europeans being stupid and bad at English in itself is really harmful. For my American friends who may not be aware of European power dynamics, we are some of the latest additions to the EU and have received tons of backlash from western Europe. Polish, Romanian and Bulgarian immigrants have been racialised by the media, particularly in the UK, and written off as cheap labour/benefit fraudsters. Hell, a lot of people who campaigned and voted for Brexit directly blame us for a lot of the UK’s issues, like the state of the National Health Service (actually due to Conservative party cuts under the guise of austerity) and a poor job market (driven by a shitty fucking economy, and not at all helped by the nearly inevitable Brexit-related recession that’s on its way).

If you want to know more about why that's a massive issue, just hmu, I can go on for days, but in terms of Viktor, I refuse to perpetuate JKR’s subconscious biases against Eastern Europeans by making him sound like some sort of illiterate idiot in my own writing. He was Durmstrang's champion, and as such we have to assume he was reasonably intelligent. Quiet, reserved, lacking confidence in his language skills, nervous around Hermione—definitely. Stupid and bumbling, not so much.

[zenlosingit]

Buckle up folks it’s gonna be a long ride

So @stxrriea recently got asks about how the mcu is toxic and I wanted to make a post about it so bad that I got @stxrriea permission so here we are!!

I think one reason mostly why the mcu is so toxic is that everyone involved in creating the movies completely disregard comic canon that everything turns into a shit show. When Iron Man was released in 2008, a time where superhero movies were now getting popular, Marvel just wanted to finally create a movie around its characters, they didn't care about including facts from the comics, they just cared about setting up a story involving Iron Man's origin and getting it out to the public- then and there is where the problems first arrive.

Now, yes the first movies kinda stick to the comics origins involving Iron man, Thor, and Captain America, but when Marvel creates the sequels to these movies, the mcu derails from the comics. In my opinion, the second movies of each trilogy are poorly written, crappily made ooc movies. I hate watching the second movies b/c of the "dark" theme to them and the hard to swallow story lines (especially Thor the Dark World- I hate everything about it). As further along as the mcu universe expands the 'toxic masculine cishet writers' don't care about what is fact about the comics- and the actors are to blame too.

I have seen some interviews where some of the actors admit to reading the comics as kids, but even though some have read marvel comics growing up the majority don't care about comic lore, have never have read the comics involving their character, and are amazed to find out what their character has done/is like when someone- who actually read the comics- tells them about it!! Essentially the actors create their own version of the Marvel characters and the writers don't help with that. That's why Black Widow is a sexual Americanized spy and not a ex-soviet secret operative with a Russian accent; why Clint is a second-hand background character that has a family that makes him special, and not a hearing-impaired special operative; why Steve is a good boy "fuck the government" boy scout and not a understanding, educated man that knows the struggles of immigrants, poverty stricken ppl, lgbt ppl, and the roles women are forced into; why Scarlet Witch completely loses her Romanian accent when clearly she was raised in Eastern-Europe and spoke its native languages; and why Tony Stark belittles women and men around him and not a mentally ill man that is charitable and understanding to people who are suffering/struggling.

Not only do the actors and writers of the franchise have no knowledge concerning the comics, but they as well have no knowledge of actual human history and common sense! If you're going to create a story and have take place somewhere on earth the least you can do is do research of the place's history, language, politics, ethnicity, religion and more. What writers love to do is have a story based around a large populated city and sometimes do little to no research about the area- or even consider that if some major event happened in a previous movie, do you really think people in that area would be really happy about another event happening? Or at least think that there would be new safeguards in place to stop it happening again? The creators blatantly ignore a place's history and someone’s background that causes the character to fall apart from lack of detail and become ooc.

That's why there's a unnecessary grudge match between Steve and Tony, why Scarlet Witch and Quicksilver's storyline is twisted and less of who they actually are, why Natasha and Clint are just used as background characters, why Thor's personality is always different and sometimes awful. And nothing ever gets better when the fans take hold of the characters and rip them apart to use and hate on one another because someone else's opinion of the character is different from theirs. And sometimes people look too much into the relationships and interactions between characters that they create pedophillic and incest relationships (I think why a lot of ppl ship Thoriki is since Loki isn't blood related it gives them an excuse to ship the two together b/c "technically they're not biologically related so it isn't incest" when it clearly is b/c being raised together and sharing platonic/familial love is what makes them family).

Because of the lack of action in doing any research in anything involving the movies the characters become separated from the comics and fall apart- even further when ppl examine the characters too much that they create hate and split ppl apart and create horrible relationships. Marvel should've incorporated more comic canon into the movies but they were lazy and just wanted to get cash that they didn't and won't change how the characters are portrayed.

You can take this with a grain of salt, I've never read the comics before, however I've been here since the 1st avengers movie was released- still before when my parents rented the 1st Thor and Captain America movies and I fell in love- and I've watched the change happening to the characters and learned info on actually how the characters are in the comics.

(Also the anon stating they've never seen the X-Men movies I've only seen 2- and that was like last month when I had the house to myself- and I can't exactly say how good or bad they are. There were, however, a lot of points in the movies that I disliked and wished they treated it differently (1 of the movies plot was basically the gov. found a "cure" to mutantism and the response between society, mutants, and extreme "all normals must die" mutants was awful to watch) so- in my opinion- they're no better than the mcu movies.)

[niedolia]

It was interesting to read the ask about being "white anyway". Where I live people from the former soviet union face similar oppressions to POC. So being white isn't enough in that regard here. I'm half French and half Tunisian, but people who see me usually think I'm Russian. So I get problematic questions in job interviews, and I'm being catcalled with the assumption that I'm a prostitute (I heard more than once that "all Russian women are prostitutes")... These issues are so different here.

Also apparently ‘Russian’ applies to everyone here. Ukraine? Russian. Everyone is Russian. It gets tiring and I’m not even actually related to this! I just get targeted because of the way I look. They usually get shocked when they hear about my actual lineage. I don’t look partially Tunisian at all.

referenced post

It was an interesting read to be honest, and just, speaking as someone from Slavic roots like that anon, I relate to that “white anyway” part when we actually consider places like where you live & their views on Slavs/etc. (got to remember the Balts, Hungarians, Uzbeks, etc. etc. who fell in with us, though the conversation here is mostly geared towards Slavs). I don’t know where you live but I can guarantee the west isn’t exactly free of this sort of sentiment — hence my mentioning the stereotype of Eastern Europe being “dirty” though it does go beyond that. Historically the issue on Slavs has been so weird; we weren’t considered “white” until we were useful, then we were “ethnic white”, and now we’re “white anyway”. In the face of ongoing sentiment about Eastern Europe being dirty / unwelcome (see: Brexit) / etc. from the West. It’s weird that we’re shunned & placed in with the rest of the Europeans at the same time, the “white anyway” phrase showing up right after I saw someone else call Poles “exotic”. And I have heard the whole “all Russian women are prostitutes thing” (my Russian mail-order bride Svetlana + everything that goes with it also). As I said in the last ask, our heritage has come to matter in a political way, for multiple reasons, even though well, we’re white anyway. So now we get to that whole sentiment based on looks equalling character that you’ve unfortunately fallen into, which is completely unfair. I’m so sorry you’re catcalled / etc. just because you “look” Russian, it is absolutely disgusting and you shouldn’t have been involved in any of that. The jobs interview part is beyond disgusting…

That second part… I wish I was surprised? I’m not. I can’t be because out of all of Eastern Europe, Russia has been the one to make one hell of a show in establishing control. What my Ukrainian friend and I have affectionately called “Russian domination”. The Russians have been trying to russify other Slavs for a couple of centuries now, and even when they realized it’s impossible (see: effects of the January Uprising), they just said “fuck it” and dragged Eastern Europe (Slavs and all) into the USSR. Everyone is Russian. Ha, might as well. Nor do I particularly believe people in general care. It is tiring, Nonny, it is horribly tiring. I’m sorry again that you get targeted like that, that’s so terrible & shouldn’t even concern you, not because you just happen to “look” Russian, ugh.

[babbushka]

Just to give context for my question (you don’t have to touch in this because the religion part isn’t relevant right now in the conversation) my friends and I are talking about what the people in The Bible would be since they are described as Jewish

So as a Jewish woman I look up to a lot and I love hearing you talk about it, if you would allow me to ask you what “Jewish” means apart from religion. All of us know that it’s a belief but everything we look up involves an argument on if it’s a physical attribute (which is maybe stereotypical of them??? Maybe not???) or if it’s a culture or if it’s a nationality or race. If you’re comfortable talking about it I’d love to hear it but by no means feel the need to take on the role of educator just because I look up to you. Love you!

Hello my dear anon! Thank you so much for allowing me to shed some light on this topic! You're right -- it is a pretty complicated situation that's very unique to Jewish people!

Note: Before we get into it though, I would like to make it quite clear that the Christian Bible gets a lot of stuff wrong about Jewish people lol, because it wasn't written or read by Jewish people. Even English versions of """the old testament""" are often WILDLY mis-translated from the original Hebrew, so please, when/if you do read those stories, take their depiction of events and people, with a grain of salt.

Judaism is something called an ethno-religion. What this means is that it is a group of people who share an ethnic background, who also share a religious background. The reason for this is twofold, because it's one of the oldest religions still practiced today, and because of something that Jewish people are a part of called the Diaspora.

Judaism is old. It is the oldest (that we know of) surviving monotheistic religion recorded. And typically, back then, people of a singular region (before we got kicked out and enslaved) practiced a singular religion. It's kind of just the way that it was. For thousands of years, Jewish people were, well, Jewish. We developed our own culture around the religion, because that's what everyone did in those times.

However, specifically post-Christianity, Jewish people were heavily affected by something called the Diaspora, which as I've touched upon before, is a forcible removal of people from their home country. Unfortunately, the Jewish people have been exiled or murdered for most of our history, and because of this, there developed an isolating mindset. The idea was, if the rest of the world wants to kill us, enslave us, or kick us out, then we're just going to fuck off and live among ourselves where we know we'll be safe.

So, Jewish people lived only with other Jewish people, only married other Jewish people, gave birth to children that they raised Jewish, and through this, a very specific inherently Jewish culture is born. A culture with its own language (either Hebrew, Yiddish [Ashkenazi Jews], or Ladino [Sephardic Jews]), music, food, holidays, traditions, and yes as you mentioned, physical/genetic traits (this varies depending on the location of course. Russian Jews [like me] look very different from Middle-Eastern Jews, simply because well, communities from different places look different! There's no one singular way to "look Jewish").

Jewish is not a nationality nor is it a race, because due to the Diaspora, there is no one place that Jewish people were able to go and call home. Jewish people were displaced all over Europe, the Mediterranean, even in Africa and Asia, and then of course more recently in our history, America. Antisemites have this concocted belief where they claim that Jews have "dual citizenship" in which Jewish people are secretly loyal to some fictional country called Judea rather than the countries that we actually live in and love, and they historically use this to exile or commit genocide against us, before we "betray" them. Which is absurd, but then again, all antisemitic conspiracy theories are.

So, being Jewish is not a nationality, nor is it a race for the reasons I've mentioned, but the culture, the heritage, the traditions, are all literally in our blood from our ancestors trying to survive -- not only survive, but thrive. And for those of us who decide to practice Judaism, either religiously or culturally, we carry a lot of pride in continuing those traditions, and participating in the ever continual story of Jewish survival.

That's why when people take ancestry.com or 23andMe tests, even if they don't practice Judaism the Religion, there's a good chance that Jewishness shows up in their genetics. For those who come from a long line of Jewish people, we literally have specific patterns in our DNA that trace back as far as we can. It's a Matrilineal ethno-religion for this reason, these codes show up in maternal DNA. (This is also a reason why Ashkenazi Jews have to be genetically tested for something called Tay Sachs Disease. In-breeding isn't all fun and games folks lol!)

TLDR; all of this is to say, that's why when people talk about Judaism, we have to talk about it more than just a belief system. It is an old old old belief system, that over the thousands of years has had to adapt and survive genocide. It is people forming their own communities and maintaining those communities in a strictly exclusive sense to avoid persecution -- and then when persecution came anyway, moving and adapting again.

I hope that this was helpful for you or anyone in some way, and I'm sending you all my love!

(For my fellow Jews if you see that I've made an error somewhere please do feel free to put something in the comments! I'm just a gal and of course can get stuff wrong!)

[ultradisplacement-blog]

Failed Dates Plunge Me Deeper Into Limerence—A World of Perpetual Fantasy That May Just Border on Psychosis

I mean it. I really do. I’d rather spend a lifetime of limerence over someone so unattainable that barely knows I exist than go on another date with a blockhead who didn’t know that mayo is made of egg yolks, has never heard of Lykke Li (or any decent indie artist, at that), mistakes gender equality for feminism, and jumps back into my Taxify after he got off ‘cause he remembers he had some groceries to do—at 1 am, mind you. The Taxify that I had ordered and paid for, by the way, because he had no mobile data on his phone to order an Uber, nor could he connect to the Koton wifi (the McDonald’s one had for some reason vanished into thin air that night) or walk three fucking blocks back to his place.

He calls himself a world traveler but would’ve rather taken the subway to the old town instead of walking with me thirty minutes by the city lights, doused in the intertwining smells of shawarma, molten asphalt, and summer heat. Funny, because my definition of ‘world traveler’ is based on my friend George—who quit his office job in the name of freedom, motorbiked his way through (and came down with malaria in) Africa, had to apply for a new passport because the old one, though not expired yet, was full of stamps, and is currently driving a 1984 Skoda that crashed and burned a million times already somewhere in the heaths of Russia, bound for Mongolia—and this fellow couldn’t be further from that level of  “world traveling.” He brags about doing the same thing every day— jumping on a subway train to bypass the unbridgeable half-mile walk between point x and point y. That was the very first red flag that came into view. ‘I’d rather spend those 30 minutes in the old town than... walk,’ he said.  ‘Why? Do you have a curfew or something? It’s only 8:20 pm.’ ‘Nah, I just like luxury.’ Weird statement, coming from someone who backpacks through southeastern Europe and has no Internet on his phone. Means that actually, he’s probably cheaper than a dollar store. I used to be broke AF back when I first started traveling—which didn’t stop me from traveling anyway— but at least I was foresightful enough to download some offline maps so I wouldn’t end up sleeping in a bush in case I lost my way back to the hostel at night. There was also a hint of paranoia which I didn’t fail to take into account when he seemed leery of my Google maps directions and asked some passersby how to get to the old town instead. I was floored, and knew the date was meant to be a failure to remember, but I went for it anyway (if anything, perhaps so I could amass some writing inspiration).

He wouldn’t tell me much about himself except he spent the whole day at Mcdonald's, working his ass off. ‘Are you working at...McDonald’s?’, I managed to ask, trying to hold on to my wig for dear life. ‘Not that I find that a bad thing at all. I used to scrub toilets in a hotel—which is way worse than flipping burgers, some would argue. But it just struck me that you smell quite… fresh. Not like stir-fry oil, mayo, and pickles.’ ‘Nah, I just work from there,’ he retorted. ‘On my laptop, that is. I like to work from different places, like restaurants and cafés. I taught myself Russian and I move from one country to another, doing my thing; translating articles and stuff for some guys.’ To which I asked him whether he was one of those digital nomads or freelancers or whatever, but he didn’t seem acquainted with these terms.

We kept walking side by side, but with a considerable gap between us, I trying to avoid his hand to the utmost of my strength. He said he wants to go back to the States and enroll in Law school next year. ‘Why? Why would anyone wanna do any of that? You have all that we European millennials crave, pray for, and dream of at night—a job that allows you to work even from a McDonald’s lounge in a shithole in Eastern Europe and a passport that gives you the freedom to go wherever the hell your nomadic instinct dictates. Why would you loan your way into Law school and cram the whole constitution of the United States into your head when you could have… this, what you’re having right now?’

‘For the power,’ he answered simply. ‘And because I’m into politics. I don’t like to talk about it, but I am.’ (I failed to mention that when he first called me, he asked me how much money I’ll make as a doctor—a lot less than American doctors do, that’s for sure, but that was none of his business—huge red flag again. I told him, half-jokingly, half-seriously, ‘If you’re a gold-digger, I’m the last person you’d wanna hang out with.’ But he still did want to hang out with me, which I found nice at the time; now, I’m no longer sure.)

‘Well, if you wanna pave your way into the Oval Office and the ridiculous Twitter account with unnecessary capitalization that comes with it, why don’t you just buy a hotel and screw a porn star in one of its luxurious suites? I bet it must be easier and way more satisfying than Law school on the long run.’ Clutch your pearls, I may have just dated (and mocked) the next president of the United States; I sure as hell kick ass.

I hadn’t answered his calls and texts for almost a week. I was still grieving over my missed flight to Milan and the Nick Murphy show I had been looking forward to for so long as though it were my wedding day. I had been vivisected by the pain and the absurdity of the whole situation: a ramshackle, diminutive aircraft which triggered in my mind’s eye the depiction of my being sliced in a zillion pieces following its potential crash as soon as I set  foot onto it; loss of cabin pressure twenty minutes after landing—which was real; and an  emergency landing back to the airport we’d just departed from—realer than Kanye West’s tweets, too—only one hour before the connecting flight. It was lost, so irretrievably lost, and so was I—semi-catatonic in the departures terminal of the airport for the better part of the day, sleep-deprived for thirty hours, looking for solutions where there were none. My hair was blue, and so were my shoulders, the tip of my ears,  the tears trickling down on my cheeks, and my whole doubtful state of rejected aliveness. So blue for nothing. Pathetic and outrageous. I went back home and ran myself a bath—the longest and the most revealing one as yet; it felt more like a rite of passage than a basic body hygiene ritual It took half a bottle of shampoo to take off all that dye, and my hair was so stiff that it looked more like a worn-out broom abandoned in a country backyard than a bundle of human keratin that was supposed to be somehow alive. It took half a bottle of shampoo, but in the end, the whole tubful of blue water went down the drain. As soon as there was no more blue left in me, I got out of the tub and crashed into the bed that I had left unmade, crying myself to sleep.

And for some reason, exactly a week later, I was rehashing my predicament in front of this not-too-tall, not-too-fit, average-looking-and-talking American, who didn’t seem to grasp that I was into writing and I had a special way with words, and took all of my Facebook and Medium posts for mere yacking. He didn’t even ask whose concert I was pining for so badly (not that the name Nick Murphy—or even Chet Faker, his former moniker—would’ve rung any bell; he hadn’t even heard of Lykke Li, for fuck’s sake, though he pretended he was somewhat familiar with Lana Del Rey; that’d better be true). He said that something like this had never happened to him, and he’d been on at least fifty-something flights (which is not a lot, by the way; I didn’t keep track of them, but I think I’ve been on fifty-something flights, too, and I’m not the one who calls herself a world traveler). ‘But I’m glad that at least you’re alive; God must have taught you this lesson so you could be more appreciative of life,’ he reckoned, after I explained to him that loss of cabin pressure basically meant a death sentence because of the hypoxia that ensued—lack of oxygen, in layman’s terms.

‘Oh, really? Exactly on that day, on that special occasion that was so important to me? Why then? Why not on any other fucking city break flight to Brussels or Berlin? Your God is a big-ass jerk sometimes, and his workings lack logic, reason, and mercy. I cannot decipher his hidden motivations, nor do I think that’s of any use to anyone,’ I blurted out without too much consideration or piosity, almost oblivious of the fact that I had spent most of my childhood’s Sunday mornings trying to find the most spine-friendly positions in the pews of my local church (which was quite a fool’s errand, to be honest, but perhaps that was exactly the point— to engage yourself in an act of self-flagellation at least once a week, for three hours, during the Mass).  He seemed quite triggered, because he didn’t believe in what I  believed—namely,  an unfathomable higher power, a spiritual force that had taken the wheel of the universe before it had even been created, whose whims and fancies could at times torpedo all your plans, hopes, and dreams; he believed in a specific celestial entity, in a Christian god who was always righteous and whose decisions we weren’t entitled to question or frown upon. And there I was, an obnoxious little European brat calling his supreme lodestar—the one  in whom each and every American dollar bill ever put into circulation expressed its unflinching belief—“a big-ass jerk.” Yet we somehow managed to dodge an endless religious argument—spoiler alert, for then—and kept walking towards the old town—or so I thought, for at some point, he took a sharp left turn, urging me to follow him: ‘I wanna show you a place.’

The street was impenetrably dark, and my mind should’ve probably started coming up with all sorts of scenarios involving rape, murder, and identity theft—but it didn’t; there was utterly nothing there, and you can’t be afraid of nothing — or can you?  ‘What the hell do you wanna show me? There’s nothing here; not even rats or stray dogs.’ ‘Wait  a little and you’ll see.’ Cool. This is how you roll in life, I told myself. You keep walking and you wait, although nothing might ever come your way. So we kept walking two or three more blocks and then, bam! there we were. Apparently. In front of an old building that reeked of fried fish and garlic sauce. ‘This is where I stayed for two weeks when I first arrived here,’ he enthused, big grin on his face—and due to the neon lights that had wondrously cropped up out of the blue, I was no longer in the dark, and could clearly make out that his dental arches were covered in a yellowish stratum of grim, indicating the fact that mouthwash was probably not at the top of his shopping list (or even at the bottom). That Christian god, or that unfathomable universal force making the world go round, or Satan’s offspring, or Ellen DeGeneres, or whoever rules this fucking world must be a great prankster, I thought to myself, while my musical memory was reproducing the first two lines of the sexiest song I’ve ever heard—Chet Faker’s Melt: ‘Help me breathe, you’re breaking up my speech/While you smile at me, you got the whitest teeth.’ That very same god could’ve been able to crash a plane and kill a hundred people in the process so I’d miss Nick’s concert; so I couldn’t bask in the endorphins milked from my brain by his balmy—yet rabid—voice and the dazzling white of his teeth that would light up the whole venue every time he opened his mouth to set free into the world the most otherworldly sounds I’ve ever got to hear; but he couldn’t, it seems, make me cross paths with a guy that gave a shit about his dental hygiene (and he didn’t even smoke, like Nick does). I had every reason to be pissed off with this god and his sick sense of humor, and I still am; I’ll probably be for a long, long time.

So he’d made such a tremendous (judging by his standards) detour only  to show me the building where he’d been a roomer for a fortnight—a plain, old, decaying house reeking of fried fish and garlic sauce, which would, for reasons known only to him, put that indecorous smile on his filmy teeth. Truth be told, there’s a lot of emotional baggage attached to a rental apartment one uses as a storage room for two weeks until one figures out where to go next. ‘Let’s get the fuck outta here,’ I said, ‘until a hobo doesn’t jump from a bush and screws us in the ass or steals or wallets; or both.’ I may be wrong, but I had an intimation that he meant to show me something else, something he couldn’t find—since he was no longer in the comfy subway that told him precisely when to get off and which exit to take.

‘Are you into museums?’ he asked, as we were making our way out of an underground pass, finally approaching the old town that seemed to have replaced the Sydney Opera House on the world map that evening.

‘Wow. Could you ask me something any vaguer?’ I replied, without trying to conceal my irritation. ‘I mean, I had the time of my life at the Museum of Chocolate in Bayonne, but I think the Mercedes Benz Museum in Stuttgart would bore me to death. Seriously now; but if I had a broader choice, between a bar and a museum—whatever museum—I’d probably choose the former.’

‘Right, right,’ he approved. ‘You’re totally right. I, for one, don’t really like art museums; I prefer archeology.’ Hm. So very interesting. I don’t know why, but the fact that someone is into archeology doesn’t tell me anything about them except that… they’re into archeology. If he had told me that broccoli triggers flashbacks of his childhood trauma, I think I would’ve been more impressed—at least that would’ve given me on a platter some food for thought, be it—as most likely would’ve been the case—watered-down pabulum. Maybe if he had elaborated on that a little bit, if he had explained his drive for archeology, why it was so important to him to bring it up on a first date, I would’ve cut him some slack; but no, he just randomly dropped the word ‘archeology’ into the conversation, perhaps to appear more cultured than he really was.  But wait—it can always get worse.

‘Oh, but what about music? What kind of music do you listen to?’

I wish I could’ve buried my face in my hands and cried a lifetime’s worth of frustration away.

‘That’s even vaguer than the museum thing, honestly. The music I listen to is genreless and so eclectic, and there are so many factors into play that prompt me to listen to a certain song at a specific moment in time. But if you want me to reel off a few descriptive words of my bar of choice, here’s my best shot: I listen to a lot of alternative, indie artists; I’m into electronica, downtempo, trip-hop, but also into soul, blues, and jazz; when I write, I’d rather listen to some ambient stuff, some lofi hip-hop, or even dream pop on rainy days. I’m into shoegaze and garage, swing and old R&B, grunge and funk. I like film scores and some Super Bowl halftime playlists. And I worship Lana Del Rey; have you heard of her?’

‘Yes, yes, I have,’ he rushed to reassure me.

‘Good. Or else I would’ve had to kill you.’

‘Why don’t you play me something on your phone? Like, the last song you listened to?’

‘What?! Do you want me to blast it right now, in the middle of the street, without headphones?!’

‘Yeah, why not? I wanna get to know you better.’

‘You must be off your rocker,’ I said, but I did open my Spotify app anyway and played the last song in my library, amid the clanks, whirrs, and honks of the hectic nightlife. What difference did it make? He had no more awareness of my music than I had of the intimate structure of that experimental particle collider at CERN in Switzerland. It was The Cactus Channel’s Wooden Boy, an admirable rendition of a neo-soul song by a much-underrated—yet hugely talented—group from Melbourne. He confesses he’s a metal fan—not a die-hard one, but still. I asked him what was the last live concert he attended and he couldn’t remember, though he said he wanted to go to a Korn show once, but it would’ve cost him about 400 bucks, which he couldn’t afford.

‘What the hell? Who asks that much for a C category ticket? Not even the VIP ones are that much! You must have been on some scalper’s website or something.’

‘No, it was a festival and you had to pay for the whole thing.’

‘You could’ve bought a day ticket, though. One hundred bucks or less. Or you could’ve gone to one of their headlining tours; you know, touring to promote an album all by yourself (plus maybe an opener) is one thing, whereas festivals are another. All you have to do is go to Facebook and type ‘korn’ in the search box, then you’re on their profile; once you’re there, check out the events and see when you can catch them in the closest town; easy as that.’

‘Yeah, you’re right; maybe next time.’

Right; I couldn’t say the same things about us, though. I knew for sure there wouldn’t be a next time.

I digress, but I have to say about this one thing about metalheads (though he obviously wasn’t one; he just feigned a mild interest in a metal band so he could have a musical conversation with me). In my scarce and sparse dating history, he’d be the third metal element, which is way over the top; it’s like thirty percent of all guys I’ve ever dated had something to do with metal one way or another. What is it about my hipsterish, indie, unpigeonholeable ways that seems to attract metalheads like bees to a honeypot? Why, for heaven’s sake; why? For all I know, I’m no more metal than Coldplay or helium; the only metal I transpire is the aluminum in my deodorant (and probably some iron, but I’m not sure; as far as I remember, most of it is eliminated through feces and urine). All three metalheads in my life were made from the same mold, one that I never had a particular affinity for: massive, but not exceedingly tall individuals, with puffy cheeks and some sort of ugly beard, a more or less overflowing beer belly, donned in capris and extra-large T-shirts, nice but insipid, with an average/average-to-high QI. He’d be, however, the first one to believe in a Christian god (the other two were, quite predictably, atheists; but then again, he wasn’t that much of a metalhead anyway). I’d like to believe that I look nothing like a metalhead, at least physically; I look more like a perpetual thirteen-year-old, searching frantically and fruitlessly for an extra-small size and ending up with some polka dot or floral pattern tank top from kid’s section instead, with thready arms, spidery fingers,  and strikingly bulky calves. My face screams that one could beat the crap out of me, so probably that’s why the metalheads may be drawn to me—to fulfill their protective instincts and to keep me safe inside their towering, hairy, fatty, tattoo-adorned arms.  Unfortunately, my helpless ass suffering from severe abandonment issues seeks protection in a different type of arms: more indie and rejective, less fatty and welcoming; I don’t mind the hair and the tattoos, though. What the metalheads and I had never resembled romance—or even dalliance—in a million years; whatever that thing was, it would smother by itself by the second or the third date (I let it go that far only once), and it was for the better. None of them had the guts or the occasion to kiss me, which means that I’d been spared a good deal of embarrassment and social awkwardness; I could only hope the history would repeat itself tonight as well.

He wanted us to go smoke some hookah, proposition which I kindly—but firmly—declined. I explained that I steer clear of any source of smoke whatsoever, because back when I was a three-year-old, my mother— a voracious chainsmoker—put a lighted cigarette in my mouth so I’d stop pestering her with my asking what it was like to smoke. ‘This is what it’s like to smoke!’ she said, transplanting the cigarette from her mouth to mine, and causing me to choke so badly that I swore never to touch such a damn thing again. And it worked, because my mother is the smartest person I know. She was all too aware that interdiction would’ve only whetted my curiosity, so she shot the vice into my lungs like a vaccine instead; as a result, I gained a—it would seem—lifelong immunity to the “disease.”  My sharp refusal lowered his spirits instantly, so he took an intellectual approach in his attempt to talk me into it:

‘But do you at least know what it is?’

‘Of course I do; I’m not an idiot. I clearly specified—any source of smoke whatsoever is a no-go for me. ’

‘I didn’t say you were an idiot; I was just hoping I’d deprive you of your better judgment.’

‘You wouldn’t be the first one to try; or to fail, at that.’

‘Oh, man. Then maybe a beer or two will do the trick.’

‘Bad news—lately I’ve been drinking only Coke zero; and tonight will be no exception.’

‘There’s no way out with you,’ he conceded, before asking me one more time if I was totally sure I didn’t wanna try the hookah. I was.

I wish there had been a way out of that date, though. Particularly so when he felt that I wouldn’t mind him holding my hand on the street.

‘My hand is okay without being held,’ I said, ‘with all this heat and everything. My sweat glands have always been hyperactive and it’s a bit disgusting.’

‘It’s okay, I don’t mind holding it.’

I did, which is why I liberated myself from his grip as best I could; to which he responded by grabbing me by the shoulders. That is when I knew that I hands down loathed him, and that was the long and the short of it.

We stopped for a drink at a street bar. I was quite taken aback when I saw that he ordered the exact same thing as I had—a Coke zero, that is. I looked at him in sheer perplexity.

‘I guess you were saying something about some beers?!’  

‘Yeah, but I’m not drinking on my own. Drinking is an experience that needs to be shared. If you’re not having alcohol, then I’m not having alcohol either.’

‘What the hell. If I feel like having a beer in my dorm room—alone, with Lana Del Rey singing in the background Pretty When You Cry—I’ll have a fucking beer, alone in my room; or with Lana Del Rey;  or in a restaurant at a table for one (is that even a thing?), or with the devil himself, or under any given circumstances I feel like having a beer. I don’t need anyone to hold it for me.’

‘Yeah, but I don’t do that; besides, I drink a lot of Coke zero anyway, so that’s why I had a Coke zero tonight instead of a beer.’

‘Weird; you didn’t mention a word about your love for Coke zero ten minutes ago, when I told you this is the only beverage I’ve been binging on lately.’

‘Why do you think I should’ve?’

‘I don’t know; maybe because I would’ve?! Maybe because it makes sense?!’

‘It makes sense only because you want it to.’

‘Right. So very pseudo-philosophical and Coelho-lite. Or -like. Or whatever.’

‘How often do you actually drink?’

‘Wait, what? Are you trying to assess whether I might use a stint of drying up in a rehab? Because I’m having a Coke zero and not a beer? Do you think I’m trying to conceal my forbidden cravings or something?’

‘No, it was just an innocent question; I totally understand if you don’t feel comfortable answering it.’

‘There’s nothing uncomfortable about my relationship with booze, except I don’t have any estimates in terms of consumption. I drink whenever I feel like it. I don’t need an occasion or company. I don’t drink every day, but I don’t drink once a year either. I don’t fucking know how much I drink. I can do with one pint of Guinness and stay highly functional and mentally aware, but I can also binge-drink, blackout, and puke in a plastic bucket, if you want to know the minutiae behind how alcohol gets in and out of my system.’

‘Wow. Cool. Okay. And how often do you read?’

‘That’s easy. I have an answer, and that is every day. But what does reading have to do with getting liquored up? Am I missing something? Or are you particularly fond of numbers and statistics?’

‘No, but I just figured that the more you read, the less you drink, and the other way around. That’s the way I see it, at least.’

‘’the hell?! So you think my brain must be so tiny that it can’t imbibe both booze and knowledge at once, right? You sure as hell haven’t heard of Bukowski, my friend.’

We had our Cokes zero anyway and he pretended to be examining my rings in order to hold my hand again. And again he feigned interest, inquiring me about their signification.

‘Well, I wear them because of the sense of unity they provide; and because I believe everything comes full circle sooner or later. And also because I need to have something to do with my fingers when I can’t sit still; otherwise, I’d have to run my fingers through my hair or do other weird stuff that would come off as inappropriate in public.’

‘I see,’ he said. Truth is, you do look like that kind of person who’s into astrology, crystals, bio-energy, spirituality, and the like,’ he said, pouring his Coke zero in a glass (I hadn’t asked for one, so I just sipped it intermittently straight from the can, in my usual, not very ladylike manner).

I almost choked on my Coke. It’s true I check my horoscope on Elle.com for fun every now and then, but that’s quite a far cry from incarnating all that plethora of esotericism and bullshit he had so casually churned out at my face.

‘And truth is, you do look like that kind of person who likes to make all the wrong assumptions about people they’ve known for a minute. You see me wearing a shirt that reads ‘Gender Equality’ and you automatically assume that I’m a feminist, which fills you with dread and disgust; you leaf through my Facebook posts and automatically assume that I’m a yacker, though you have no idea that I’ve been writing longer than I’ve been menstruating, that writing is my whole life and the only thing that I feel I can actually do—little does it matter that it’s writing, not talking; you say that the average female uses 7k words a day, whereas I do 147k; you hear me dropping some indie artists’ names and you automatically assume that I must be into celebrities and Gossip Girls, though those people are so famous that you’ve never even heard of them; you notice a bunch of rings on my fingers and you automatically assume that I’m some sort of transcendental mystic, brewing tadpoles alive in a cauldron in her bathroom and hoarding crystals for the sake of her chakras’ balance. You’re so wrong you can’t even imagine. Shall I go on, shall we call it a night, or would you rather tell me something factual about yourself, like, I don’t know, how was your life back in America?’

Oh, my, that escalated quickly; so quickly that it caught him off-guard, which means things could get even worse from that point of no return. Nevertheless, I must admit that it surprised me to hear that his life in America is not something he likes to discuss on a date; he’d rather change the topic or start making some more wrong assumptions—that, at least, he didn’t seem to mind.

‘I don’t want you to be that girl I’m discussing my life in America with; it’s just something I don’t do. Not with girls, not on a date.’

I can’t tell for sure, but I must have choked on my Coke again. Why wouldn’t he want to talk about his life back in America “with girls, on a date?” Had I been a boy, would that have changed things in any way? What was there to hide? Was he smuggling keys on a schooner in the Caribbean or shoplifting from Walmart and TJ Max? Did he have a criminal record for driving without a license? Did he attempt to cut his wrists in a friend’s beach house in San Diego because he couldn’t stifle his pedophilic urges? Mind you, I can make a bumper crop of wrong assumptions, too; just try me.

‘Why is America a taboo subject? I thought we weren’t talking about your foot fetish or the fact that you love the smell of your navel lint. I’m a European girl, and you’re an American out on a date with me. Do you think I’m here in the hope that I might wanna wheedle a green card out of you someday?’

‘Nope, it’s not that. I mean, I could help you with the green card anyway when I become a lawyer.’

‘How considerate. Thanks, but I don’t think it will ever be the case. I mean, my needing your legal assistance, not your becoming a lawyer.’

Then he suggested we get going, even though we hadn’t finished our drinks. We can walk with them, he said, but before paying the bill, he chugged his down in a gulp. I looked at him, baffled and reduced to silence. I got mine and took a few more sips, and we resumed our walking,  but then he insisted to hold the can for me, which made me realize that what he actually meant was that he wanted to drink the soda he had paid for, so I handed it straight away to its rightful owner. Quite predictably, he wasn’t late to do what I had anticipated he would, and then asked me whether I still wanted to drink that thing. Nosir, it’s all yours—do with it whatever the hell you want; I don’t want your saliva anywhere near my inexhaustible mouthpiece that spits out 147k words a day.

At some point, we found ourselves in front of a Christian-Orthodox church—a church that, goodness only knows why,  was open at 10 or 11 pm, and a priest was firing off a raucous sermon on why adultery and greed will drag us to hell. The doors were wide open because it was sweltering hot, so we could see and hear the whole thing from outside. A handful of people were listening meekly to the sermon, eyelids heavy with sleep and boredom, while others were moving about to and fro, lighting candles for the living and for the dead or groping for the best angle that would do justice best to their  Instastories. He wanted us to go in, which I found ridiculous.

‘An hour ago I called God a big-ass jerk, and now you want me to step inside his home as though nothing had happened?! Why would I do that? Why would I do that even if I hadn’t called God a big-ass jerk? I know by heart these chestnuts that are supposed to scare the shit out of our straying souls and guide us to the right path. I’ve made it through six years of med school; hell is the last thing that can frighten me. Besides, it’s ridiculous; I never imagined that I’d be taken to church on a first date. You must have taken Hozier literally, but that song is so 2013, though; it’s 2018 now.’

‘Why? We’ll just go in a couple minutes, take a peek, do that sign, and that’s it. The architecture is beautiful.’

‘Do that sign? You mean, the cross? You’re not even an Orthodox; that’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. There are people out there, something is happening—something that is none of our business; this isn’t the right time to play tourist.’

‘Oh, come on, it’ll only take a minute!’

And, believe it or not, I consented. ‘At least I can write about it,’ I told myself after the smell of incense, burned wax, and human sweat kicked us out of God’s Home in thirty seconds, just like Adam and Eve had been banished from the Garden of Eden at the dawn of time (except we hadn’t thankfully spawned the whole of mankind in the process). Deep down into the bottomless pit of the old town nightlife, though, his appetite for hookah was suddenly revived, and he asked me once again whether I was sure I didn’t wanna sample a puff with him. For the third and last time, I was; I didn’t want to. If there’s one thing that I deserve credit for, it’s that I have a knack for holding my ground under the direst and the most overpowering of circumstances. Back in LA, perhaps the most handsome guy I’ve ever made out with poured gallons of Bourbon down my throat—and even though I was dead-drunk, I could still say no when he undid my bra and unzipped his fly. It was hard (the situation, that is), but I had to; I didn’t wanna sleep with him because I didn’t wanna sleep with him; I didn’t wanna sleep with him because I was drunk. I’d had some minor blackouts, and I wanted to avoid a huge one that could explain a potential HIV contraction or a cocaine overdose (I was also on my period, but that’s just a piddling detail; or is it?). So, yeah; I’d rather sleep with someone when I’m 100% aware that this is what is about to happen—so I can blame it solely on temptation and my poor decision-making skills when I end up emotionally attached and they sleep around like normal people do, without giving a fuck about me and my attachment issues.

He wanted us to sit on a bench in front of the church—one that was circled by bums resting their bodies on newspapers and asking for alms—which I found a rather uninspired idea, so we just kept walking until we found a bench that was slightly less parasitized by unwelcome human presence and the odors thereof—which the crisp night air would only enhance. Out of the blue, he started talking about evolution; he told me that some scientists keep some secret genes in the lab, and that someday, maybe in thirty years from now, dinosaurs may be brought back to life. Birds are the closest thing there is to them, he said scholastically, and they might find a way to suppress some of their genes so that their eggs would hatch baby dinosaurs instead of chickens. Right, I said. And that wasn’t all: some people are born with tails (which some of them can move) due to pretty much the same reason—those atavistic genes undergo some mutations and aren’t silenced properly. I’d never heard of people being born with tails, but that sounded more like spina bifida to me; but from that to being born as a dinosaur instead of a chicken (or a human?), there’s a long way to go. That was nothing new under the sun to me; ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny, that’s one of the few things I remember from my embryology lectures. In utero, at the outset, the embryo looks more like a worm or a reptile before gaining human features. It takes time for that amorphous cellular slime to morph into a functional human body. Anyway, why the fuck was I having a conversation about evolution close to midnight, in front of a church, with an American guy that believed in a Christian god? What was he trying to prove to me? That deep down, he knew there was more to it than what the Genesis pretends there is? The Bible is a metaphor anyway, but I should’ve expected him to take it literally, as he did Hozier’s song.

‘I can see that you’re a skeptic, but you have to admit that believing in a Christian god helps you be of better use to your fellow human beings. That priest in the church in front of us didn’t preach theft or murder; he preached kindness and decency instead.’

‘Why would I need a priest to teach me kindness and decency? Why can’t I be kind and decent on my own? Look, for example, a lot of people I look up to, who’ve made tremendous contributions to the world—they’re doctors, writers, psychologists, musicians— don’t buy into that shit. They’re atheists or Jews. They didn’t need a Christian god or a Christian priest to be of use to their fellow humans in need.’

At that point, though the lights were dim,  I could see him turn green in the face.

‘Are YOU a Jew?’ he asked, with panic in his voice.

‘There we go again,  Mr. I-can-make-a-wrong-assumption-about-you-in-the-wink-of-an-eye. I am not a Jew; and even if I were, that was not the point. Do you want me to remind you what’s going on right now in the Catholic church in terms of pedophilia and sex abuse? You must be familiar with Pennsylvania. Do you want me to remind you that the Pope recommends psychiatric intervention for children with homosexual tendencies instead of love and acceptance? What’s next on their to-do list for the sinful, a lobotomy? Would you want to have your appendix removed by a surgeon who has homicidal propensities? I bet not, so let’s change the subject or get the hell out of here.’

‘Yeah, sure; getting jammed in a religious argument is not how I wanna spend my time with you,’ he agreed complacently. ‘Why don’t we go play some arcade games instead? Oh, man, I love arcade so much!’

‘I don’t. And it’s almost midnight. Where do you think we could play arcade games right now?’

‘Oh, come on, let’s look it up on Google maps. On your phone, I mean, ‘cuz mine, you know.’

Yeah. I knew. I also knew I’d be mad as a hatter if I played arcade games with him when all I wanted was a reason to put an end to that stupid date as soon as possible. But I was so sure that I’d come away empty-handed that I agreed to look up “arcade” on Google maps, only to find this place called Arcade Café, 1.6 miles away—which turned out to be just a regular café with a misleading name; no arcade or any other type of video games whatsoever. I shoved the phone in his face triumphantly, and then we got going—again.

‘Would you like us to go someplace else?’ he asked.

Yeah, at our place, I thought. I mean, me—at mine, you—at yours. I regret I didn’t verbalize that thought, and instead I heard myself saying, ‘No. I don’t care where we’re going. This is also how I roll in life by and large.’ (The second part of that statement is, however, true.)

When we were in front of an ancient building (it was the old town, so we basically were in front of an ancient building at all times), he asked me whether I’m interested in history. ‘I used to be,’ I replied, ‘back when I was in secondary school, because I had this huge crush on my history teacher. I’ve had it for years,’ to which he interrupted me, grabbing himself by the ears jestingly, bringing to my attention that I had pronounced the word “years” as if I’d failed to notice that it started with a “y.”

‘Great. Thanks for the correction. This is my flawed Eastern-European pronunciation. You see, when I was born, I wasn’t swaddled in an American flag. Also, I read and write more than I listen and speak, which is detrimental to face-to-face dates with native English speakers. We should’ve done this whole thing on Facebook instead.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude, it was just a gentle correction. But carry on with your story, I wanna hear it.’

‘Yeah. A gentle correction and a huge turn-off. You know, like farting during sex. You can keep going, but it’s not gonna be the same.’

So we walked some more; until he said he needed to pee and wanted to go to McDonald’s to use the restroom. Must be a special bond between McDonald’s and him, I thought. Maybe he’s actually living in a McDonald’s, after all; maybe he doesn’t live in a rental apartment in the old town, as he had claimed. But now it was way past midnight—was it still open? Of course, only Google Maps and my phone had the answer, and like most answers that night, this one was negative, too. There was a park on our way to McDonald’s, so I just suggested he relieve himself behind a bush. ‘Not too classy,’ he said, ‘but if you have nothing against it...fine.’

‘Why would I have anything against it?! I’m not the one with a full bladder. Just go for it, release your problems, and be a happy man again.’ (And don’t dare touch me, my real self whispered in my mind’s ear; without a “y” this time around.)

‘Oh, look, problem solved!’ he jubilated, pointing towards a row of composting toilets—probably the most disgusting thing ever created by man, which filled the nightly atmosphere with their unmistakable whiff of ammonia and vagrancy until the memory of what must have been the scent of last morning’s freshly-cut grass was completely annihilated.

I sat down on a bench and waited for him to get out of that temple of piss and loafing, although deep down I wished a supermassive black hole would yawn out of that toilet bowl and swallow him out of my life. I could’ve walked out on him, but I knew he wouldn’t find his way back home if I did that. He depended on my phone to order an Uber and make it back to his place safe and sound. I was the man in this, not him; gender equality my ass. Or maybe that’s exactly what gender equality is about—a girl may just as well order a taxi for the guy who asked her out on a date and see to it that no one rapes him on his way home. Or not? He said he had a problem with feminists and was glad that I wasn’t one,  but what I did for him that night was the epitome of feminism—but more on that, later.  

At long last, there he was again, in front of me, with an empty bladder and a right—or left?—hand  brimming with bacteria from his groin, and probably from the groins of all the wastrels that had ever taken a whizz in that composting toilet. ‘What if we go to this other park,’ he suggested, and indicated the name of a park that was like a million miles away. We sure as hell couldn’t walk there, and I’d had enough of parks—at least when it comes to dating. I don’t wanna date in parks ever again. All the guys I’ve ever dated were so cheap that would rather take me to a park than a café or a restaurant, because it was open to the public for free; they didn’t risk having to pay a bill that would’ve probably caused an aneurysm to burst in their brains. I’d always offer to go Dutch, but better safe than sorry—in parks, you don’t have to go Dutch at all. In parks, you don’t risk spending your entire weekly allowance that mom and pop slipped into your pocket because you were a good boy who did well in school and didn’t come home with the clap. So we went to parks; a lot of ‘em, goddamit. Ugh! Those memories of making out on the benches and being made fun of by kids playing badminton or riding their bikes make me sick to my stomach. I had my first date ever in a park in my hometown, in late November. It was freezing cold and my poor, sickly beau subsequently came down with a cold that took weeks to heal. Nothing of the sort befell me, like,  ever. I also had my first kiss ever on a bench, in the same park, though with a different date. We broke up two months later because I loved dogs more than human beings, and he got married to the next girl he started dating after me, on the same day that the high tide wiped the hiking trail that would take me to the shore on an Irish island in the middle of the Atlantic. And once, I went to a park, determined to break up with this guy, but I ended up staying in that toxic relationship almost another year because of his cajoling and other dirty schemes. In a nutshell, I have no fond memories of parks; and the fact that someone takes me there in the middle of the night to pee (hoping to take a shot at romance after that) is not gonna make me change my mind; if anything, it’s only gonna make my nausea more difficult to internalize—which is a bad thing in itself, to begin with.

‘Do you like long walks?’ he asked me, when we were doing the exact same thing—walking for hours on end, heading to the middle of nowhere, because I didn’t care where I was going as long as it wasn’t home, and he was still hoping to get laid that night to let me slip through his fingers so easily.

‘I’m afraid I’ll have to thwart again your attempt to pigeonhole me in any possible way. What are you gonna ask me next, if I like my fries with ketchup or mayo, what’s my favorite color, the subject I struggled the most with in school, or the name of my first pet? You sound like Gmail asking security questions when you forget your password.’

‘Yeah, I know it sounds stupid sometimes, but… I’m just trying to get to know you. I know people who’d easily do that—the long walks, that is—whereas others are simply couch potatoes. Only Netflix and chill for them. I was just wondering where you belong.’

‘Nowhere. I belong nowhere.  I walked thirty kilometers in two days in Nice and Monaco, plunged sixteen kilometers into the depths of a forest in the French countryside in full hunting season, but I also had a two-month spell when I didn’t get up from bed, lying there all day long, writing my book (he totally ignored the fact that I had brought up the words “my book” into the conversation; must have misheard it or blamed it on my Balkan pronunciation).  Nothing I do makes sense or is interconnected with another thing I do; it doesn’t even have to. It’s just who I am.’

‘I see. That’s why I wanna spend time with you. Given that there’s nothing much to do in town, I’d normally say we go to my place and watch a TV show or something, but…’

‘But you know that “at my place” are not the three words you wanna say on a first date; not with me, at least.’

‘Yeah, yeah, I know; I didn’t suggest anything, I just thought it’d be nice.’

‘I didn’t say you suggested anything; it’s just something I don’t do on a first date. You have a self-imposed America-related omerta; I don’t drink alcohol and sleep around.’

‘Fair enough. Well, then, I’d like to hang around some more, but I have stuff to do, so maybe we should order a taxi and go back to our places.’

How very odd. A minute ago, he was inviting me at his place because he wanted to “spend time” with me, and now, after he realized he’s not gonna get what he wants, he says he’s gotta go back home because he has stuff to do. How the hell did that stuff materialize into his living room in his absence, in the span of one or two minutes? Hm. Maybe he’s the mystic in this story, not I. If anything, I am the man. The man who orders a taxi, drops him at his place, at which point he gets back into the car, claiming he had forgotten he had to go buy something from a convenience store on the main avenue. His paranoia kicked in again when he wasn’t sure that the driver had started the GPS—does this guy even know where we’re going? And do I have to pay him or you? It’s a Taxify, you idiot; all the fares are deducted from my bank account. He handed me a bill, which I obviously turned down, hugged me twice (because he didn’t like the pat on the back—I patted him anyway the second time, too), and off he went. Finally. Thank God. The Christian god, the Jewish, the Muslim, or the Buddhist one, or whatever god had effected the long-awaited demise of my worst date ever.

Two days later, he texted me, saying that he wants to hang out again soon, but unfortunately, he still has a lot of work to do. Nevermind, darling! I’m far from being a time-sucking vampire. I like garlic and solitude too much, that’s why.  ‘Sorry, but I’m not exactly vibing it, and I don’t wanna waste your time (or mine). We belong in different worlds (literally and non-literally), so we’d better leave it at that. Best of luck.’ And I pressed “send.” The reply came back instantly, and it was monosyllabic—‘Weird.’ And I’ve never heard from him again.  

Man. That text felt so liberating I could almost cry for joy. It felt ecstatic to be able to fantasize again with Nick Murphy, to plunge into the same old endless spiral of limerence in the peace and quiet of my room, smelling of coffee, dark chocolate, old books, and isolation. No more piss in the park and platitudes on Christianity and evolution; no more answering security questions and avoiding hands caked in groin bacteria and molecules of urine; no more getting back home late enough to shower with cold water and watch the cockroaches crawl all over the dishes in my kitchen. Dating is a pain in the ass unless you do it with someone you’re smitten with—and the modern society doesn’t quite give you permission to be smitten with someone you could actually date. Here’s the thing—I’d been late twenty minutes that evening because I’d gotten lost in a Youtube loop, crying and grieving over my missed flight and Nick’s show in Milan, and telling myself that I can’t do this. I don’t wanna do this. I can’t do this. I won’t do this. I’ll cancel last minute, although I’ll come across as a bitch. I don’t want the universe’s leftovers on my table; I’d rather starve myself to death. I know that never in a million years could I have my limerent object, but that doesn’t mean I’ll be happy with the dollar store version of it. Matter of fact, I won’t. I may be trying to punch above my weight, but then again—who isn’t? I don’t have perfect teeth; I’m far from having a Baywatch body; hell, my jokes aren’t even that good sometimes, and I can’t even pronounce “years” correctly in English—why wasn’t this guy good enough for me then? Because nothing and no one ever is; because we only want what we can’t have. Because that evening, I was hoping for a refreshing conversation on the duality of the self, on the body-mind conflict, on how art in general (and music in particular) is a lifeline for lost souls like me; but instead I got caught in the trammel of a religious argument, with baby dinosaurs lurking around the corner, threatening to hatch from the potentially fertilizable eggs in my pelvis under the auspices of the right genetic mutation. Because only average guys can be stubbornly interested in me, so much so that they keep texting me although I hadn’t answered their calls or their texts for a week; average guys who probably hadn’t gotten laid in a while; average guys to whom I seemed reachable, who didn’t have to punch above their weight to go on a date with me.  I’ll never be interesting, multihyphenate, mysterious, or good enough for the likes of Nick Murphy or any other unattainable person that could be limerence material for me, no matter how hard I try; I’d probably have a shot if I stopped trying altogether (but I can’t, because I’m me).

And it’s sad, but I know the drill all too well, ‘cause I’ve been there so many times—basically my whole life: “Limerence is a state of mind which results from a romantic attraction to another person and typically includes obsessive thoughts and fantasies and a desire to form or maintain a relationship with the object of love and have one's feelings reciprocated, ” says the Holy Wikipedia. We owe this concept to psychologist Dorothy Tennov, who coined it in her 1979 book, Love and Limerence: The Experience of Being in Love. Look it up on Wikipedia; it expatiates on all its aspects amazingly well,  and it might just let you know that you have a new disease. In my case, reciprocity never came into question, and in spite of starvation and adversity,  I’ve always managed to stay limerent until I found another person to transfer my limerence to. The more impossible it is, the more drugged up it makes me feel; the more rejected I am, the needier I get. And I believe it’s essential that it stay that way; a healthy relationship pattern just wouldn’t do for me. I have yet to discover whether therapy would be of any help, though, but I’m not that willing to try, to be honest. I feed on my limerence, and my limerence feeds on me. We need limerence, at least in art; studies say that limerence is experienced by about 5% of the population; I bet that the bulk of it are artists (or at least artists at heart). I wonder how many of the great songs put out into the world would have been written had it not been for limerence; same goes for books, paintings, sculptures, and whatever involves a muse. Not all limerent objects are muses, but all muses are limerent objects, in a way or another. I know it, and you know it; everybody knows it, and in case you didn’t, now you do. While therapy —or even medication— may help limerence to some extent, the one thing that does not help are failed dates, with people you’re just not vibing that much (if at all). And of course, you can’t vibe somebody else when your whole being vibes that unattainable, volatile, celestial presence that will never be within reach like Tash Sultana’s mad guitar riffs.

And it’s okay; just don’t rush it. Don’t go for the leftovers. Don’t go for the dollar store hoops when you’ve been coveting the Gucci ones forever; otherwise, you’ll end up with a fallacy and a lifetime of bitterness and second-guessing your own worth.  Are you truly dollar store material, too? Are you willing to work till you’re dog-tired, day in and day out, to afford something that might be stolen from your purse on your bus ride back home? But what if it’s something money can’t buy? What if it’s something not even wits or looks can buy, because it’s not yours to keep in the first place?

Well, that sucks; but I won’t go for the dollar store version ever again. I wanna bathe in the glory of a life with no one else, as the song goes. I’d rather die surrounded by dogs and books without having procreated, have no one come to my funeral, and give away my whole fortune—whatever’s left of it after decades of concerts, festivals and trips to Melbourne, New York, and LA—to charity. But until I die, I’ll keep on falling back upon the same pattern of limerence, hoping for the best; after all, hope is an important part of the definition of this whole concept.  And I’ll make art out of it to stay alive—and because it’s fun, even when it makes me weep. If I were to believe Lana, at least I’m pretty when I cry.

[kidsviral-blog]

The Strange, Isolated Life Of A Tuberculosis Patient In The 21st Century

New Post has been published on https://kidsviral.info/the-strange-isolated-life-of-a-tuberculosis-patient-in-the-21st-century/

The Strange, Isolated Life Of A Tuberculosis Patient In The 21st Century

While volunteering for the Peace Corps in Ukraine in 2010, I contracted a severe version of drug-resistant tuberculosis. Two years of painful, isolating treatment taught me the vital role social media may play in finally eradicating this disease.

One of the loneliest nights of my life was when I masturbated for an Australian stranger on the only webcam chat site that would load on the shitty hospital Wi-Fi. He didn’t want to show his face on camera, and I didn’t care whether it was because he was famous, married, or ugly. The internet was so slow that the sound stalled, so the dirty talk had to be typed.

It was a terse, space-economizing raunch, pounded out letter by letter with his left index finger, since his dominant hand was busy. I WANT TO VERB YOUR NOUN. But the artlessness was a relief. The more work it took to type, the less likely he’d waste time asking about my hospital bed and IV rack. If I didn’t mind him being headless and talking like a filthy grown-up “see spot run,” couldn’t he handle a naked stranger in a tuberculosis sanatorium?

Nor did he mention the armband, which hid the nozzle nurses screwed to dripping sacks of drugs during infusions. Three times a week, amikacin seeped down the skinny 2-foot-long tube inside and up my arm, leading behind my collarbone to splash into a big fat artery over my heart.

Just please don’t fucking ask, I thought. It was exhausting to explain. Screw this guy. Wouldn’t it be weirder if he had inferred a medical emergency, but resolved not to let it ruin his hard-on? Do virtual strangers without heads even have cognition? What the hell was wrong with this guy’s face, anyway?

Who cares? I had been in that room in Denver for almost a month. I was days away from lung surgery to remove my upper right lobe, where the bulk of the disease was headquartered. This was the last goddamned time I’d ever get to show my tits to a stranger without any scars. And it was the skinniest I’d ever been.

I had contracted extensively drug-resistant tuberculosis, or XDR-TB (a severe version of multidrug-resistant, or MDR tuberculosis), while serving as a Peace Corps volunteer in Ukraine. The National Jewish Health Center is no longer a sanatorium, but it is still one of the country’s top TB research facilities, staffed by worldwide mycobacteria experts and equipped with properly ventilated rooms for the infrequent consumptives who turn up there.

When I was admitted to the hospital, the state of Colorado dispatched a guy to my hospital room to read me my legal quarantine order. I’d be in isolation for however long I was contagious.

During my stay, I started a two-year course of harsh antibiotics, including an IV drip. I had two surgeries, which flanked a blood transfusion and peskily recollapsing lung. I lost 12 pounds and half my blood, which have been replaced, and the upper lobe of my right lung, which hasn’t. I wish I could be more inspiring. But I didn’t use that time to write a novel, learn yoga, or even plow through a beach read. Falling into a trance and getting off strangers was all I felt capable of.

Objectifying? Sure. So is being sick.

Such isolation — both physical and emotional — takes a serious toll on TB patients. From the 18th century glory days up to the modern rise of MDR, tuberculosis went from being a relatively universal human experience to being a profoundly lonely one. Isolation and stigma make long treatments even harder to endure and inhibit public consciousness that could lead to more meaningful progress. But we may be approaching a new historical moment: Social media makes it easier than ever for patients to find and support one another. These connections can improve patient morale and treatment outcomes and ultimately raise the profile of MDR-TB in global health policy.

Because I was never as alone as I thought: Five thousand miles away in Siberia, a woman my age named Ksenia Shchenina was also suffering. So are patients in dozens of other countries, and more and more of them are beginning to use the internet to combat the solitude that has long not only defined the disease and its treatment, but kept it from being eradicated for good.

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Most people don’t spend much time thinking about tuberculosis. If pressed, they might make a few basic generalizations. It was a very serious disease in the olden days. It killed your great-great-grandfather, all of the Brontës, and Nicole Kidman’s character in Moulin Rouge. But then it was cured. It doesn’t exist anymore. So we’ll all just have to get Ewan McGregor’s attention some other way and die of something else.

Tuberculosis has been on the scene since ancient times, but it only reached menace status in filthy, urbanizing mid-17th century Europe. It went on to dominate the continent’s “cause of death” list for over two centuries. This makes sense, if you know how germs work. Poverty and bad sanitation — e.g., the Industrial Revolution’s toxic work conditions and shantytowns — made toppling immune systems a cinch. Before germ theory caught on, some people even saw TB as a sort of moral retribution for the sins of modernity.

Even the disease’s classic name — consumption — implied a physical and spiritual connection. It consumed you; it devoured you from within. Before the scientific consensus on how an infectious disease was transmitted, many people assumed a person could be predisposed to consumption. (They caught on to genetics before they unraveled epidemiology.) An entire family of consumptives probably meant they were ill because they had all inherited the proper preconditions for the illness — not because they lived together and coughed fatal microbes into one another’s food. Similarly, researchers couldn’t help but notice that consumption disproportionately seized writers and artists, whose lifestyle was practically synonymous with urban poverty. But when it was still assumed that the disease grew from within, many scientists searched for a link between consumption and genius. This is the kind of factoid that makes you feel smug when modern doctors are really, really surprised that you got this.

The jig was up in 1882. A German bacteriologist named Robert Koch zeroed in on the Mycobacterium tuberculosis, the bacterial cause of consumption. It spread from person to person by air.

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Robert Koch Ann Ronan Pictures / Getty Images

Koch’s early attempts to develop a vaccine failed, but his efforts did yield a valuable diagnostic tool: the tuberculin skin test. It’s a shot that scans for TB antibodies. If you’ve been exposed to the disease, the injection site on your forearm will flare up into a BRIGHT RED SKIN MOUNTAIN. The test is still part of routine checkups today among grade-schoolers, teachers, cops, and — as I would learn — Peace Corps volunteers.

There is a photo of me on Facebook from early 2010, lodged between a handful of party shots with fellow volunteers. We had traveled to Kiev from across Ukraine to make a weekend out of our mid-service medical checkups. I’m 23, hamming it up in melodramatic distress, and twisting my left elbow up over my head to show off the swollen red splotch on my forearm.

A positive skin test usually doesn’t mean you have TB — less than than 10% of people with positive skin tests ever develop an active case, because healthy immune systems can usually defeat the bacterial intruder. Several volunteers each year end up with the telltale red blotch; it was really nothing to worry about. We’d need a follow-up X-ray, but an active case was highly unlikely. So I cracked a few jokes and went back to pounding flat Chernigivske beers with my friends.

I had been in Ukraine since September 2008, after studying Russian in college. I volunteered at a school in an eastern mining town called Antratsyt. The town borrows its name from anthracite coal. The region is flat, but you can see hills in the distance — they’re “slag heaps,” or piles of debris extracted from mines. The town only runs water for a few hours a day to protect the mines from mudslides or collapse. But life wasn’t as bleak as it sounds. I had students who were so excited to practice their English that they would chat with me after school, perched in a row on the edge of a Soviet-era fountain long-since bone-dry. I struck up friendships with their parents and my fellow teachers. I toasted my colleagues over champagne and chocolate on Ukrainian holidays. One time, I even gave a thickly accented speech on international education at a school assembly that ended up on the TV news. I was happy.

My follow-up X-ray was two weeks later, in Kiev. Taking yet another 17-hour train trip felt like an epic hassle. Is there a word that means the opposite of hypochondriac? There should be, because that’s what I am. In hindsight, of course I had symptoms – I just wrote them off to other things. I had a bad cough, because I was a smoker at the time. I’d lost weight, because there was no American junk food to lose my will power around. I was run-down and sluggish, because it was the Ukrainian winter!

I got a ride with Dr. Sasha, one of the Peace Corps’ Ukrainian staffers, to my screening at a tuberculosis dispensary — tubdispensar — on the edge of the city. He spoke the sort of English that made me self-conscious about my Russian. He carried my Peace Corps medical history file on his lap. The most dramatic thing in it was an allergy to mangoes. (Not exactly a significant handicap in Ukraine.)

I was X-rayed in a machine that looked like an iron colossus. In the waiting room, I tried to distract myself with a biography of John Adams. (His son, John Quincy, spent years in the Russian Empire as Ambassador and managed to stay consumption-free.) Soviet-era medical facilities are much more dimly lit than their Walmart-bright American counterparts. To see the page, I had to squint.

The head TB doctor finally called me into the office. He explained the X-ray results and prognosis to Dr. Sasha, who relayed them in English to me. But when Dr. Sasha asked a follow-up question, they flipped back to Russian and cut me out of the triangle. My Russian was good – but not “unfamiliar medical jargon” good. But this wasn’t a conversation I could stand to be excluded from. I was on the brink of a tantrum.

“Goddamn it!” I wanted to shriek at the TB doc. “Don’t say it in his Russian. Say it in mine.”

My face must have looked like a cartoon teakettle. So he slowed down and turned toward the image pinned to the light board.

“Classic pulmonary TB,” he said to me. (Words like pulmonary and tuberculosis are cognates.) “It’s strange that it advanced so quickly. Especially for a healthy young girl.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. “I heard you guys muttering about bronchitis or pneumonia before. Could it be one of those?”

“No. We assumed it could have been at first, but this is a clear case. See, on an X-ray, healthy lungs should look solid black. See the contrast down by the lower ribs? But now look up on the right. See the [blahblahblah]? The [blahblahblah] is the tuberculosis.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t get that word. What part is the tuberculosis?”

He sighed. It would have been easier to let Dr. Sasha translate. Now he had to dumb down his lexicon for a rattled American.

“Up there. Upper right. Well, left on here. That white spot? The part that looks like a ghost.”

That night, I started treatment in a studio apartment the Peace Corps rented for me in Kiev. My prognosis was good. For two weeks, I took pills, got X-rayed, and hocked up sputum — a polite word for loogies — into sterile plastic cups for lab work. One set stayed in Ukraine; the other was shipped according to special biohazard protocol to an American facility to better coordinate my care at home.

Eight weeks later, just as life was settling down back in Chicago, I was surprised to find an ominous number of missed calls on my phone: from the diagnostic lab, my mom, my American pulmonologist, my mom, the Cook County Department of Public Health, my mom, my mom, the Cook County Department of Public Health Epidemiology Unit, my mom, my mom, my mom, my mom, my mom.

Those loogies had yielded bad news. I had XDR-TB. The bad kind.

Effective immediately, I was placed under an isolation order. I was told to stay home whenever possible — I could go outside sparingly, but any other indoor space was off-limits until I was noninfectious. A few months, at least. The police could get involved if I didn’t comply.

A month into my quarantine, my Chicago doctors were stumped. They’d rarely seen anything like this.

So I set off on a journey not unlike those taken by consumptives a century before. I left my bustling, industrial Midwestern city and headed west, to the National Jewish Health Center in Denver.

It was the National Jewish Hospital for Consumptives back then. In 1899, the brand-new philanthropic institution was brimming with needy patients. In 2010, I was the only one.

I told almost no one where I was going. I had already been avoiding friends who tried to contact me. It is exhausting to have your life flipped around by something people know nothing about. You get so damn sick of telling the story. Weird caveats demand exposition. Here is what I have. Here is why it’s bad. Here is why I had to evacuate Ukraine and leave the Peace Corps early. Here is why I can’t be in public or see anyone for the foreseeable future. Here is why I am going to some hospital in Denver for a long time. Here is why they chopped off a big chunk of my lung. Here is why I have this IV armband thing for nine months. Here is why I puke a lot. Here is why food tastes all wrong. Here is why my hearing got warped. Here is why I can’t feel my toes. Here is why I am not supposed to drink any alcohol. Here is why I’m still going to anyway.

Since I was on the no-fly list, we drove the 15 hours by car. I wore a mask the whole time so I wouldn’t infect my parents.

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National Jewish Hospital for Consumptives c. 1920

Basic infection control, like isolating the sick and using protective gear to lower transmission risk, may seem primitive compared with modern medicine. But the truth is, public health measures like quarantine and mouth covering did more to eradicate tuberculosis than drugs did. We never did figure out a great way to cure TB; we just got better at preventing it. That is, until it caught up with us.

After Dr. Koch’s splashy 1882 debut of the Mycobacterium tuberculosis, the medical community was certain a surefire solution was close behind. But they were disappointed. No cure came.

Forty years later, a new vaccine — Bacillus Calmette-Guerin, or BCG — entered human testing. But BCG was never that good. Most researchers believe that adults are just as likely to wind up with TB whether they get BCG or not. It also suffered a major PR setback as the center of one of the worst vaccination disasters in history. In 1930, 73 babies died of tuberculosis meningitis after being injected with BCG in Lubeck, Germany. The vaccines had been contaminated after getting mixed up with a virulent live TB strain back at the lab. (Life hack: Always be sure your doctor has a label maker.)

It wasn’t until 1943 that a team at Rutgers University pinpointed streptomycin, the world’s first antibiotic effective against tuberculosis. TB’s staggering cultural legacy made the discovery a shoo-in for the Nobel Prize, but streptomycin was nonetheless terribly flawed. It was toxic, and patients quickly developed antibodies that resisted the drug. The only solution was to scrape around for more options and blitzkrieg every case of TB with several so-so drugs at once. The first-line regimen has hardly been tweaked in nearly 50 years. It was never a secret that such a long and tedious course of antibiotics would, like a Shakespearean hero, engineer its own demise.

But that hardly seemed to matter. By the time streptomycin ‘n’ friends showed up, barely anyone even needed them. Throughout the 20th century, people gradually stopped getting TB in the first place. We got healthier, cleaner, and smarter. We could contain disease and catch it early. It nearly disappeared.

Then, in the early 1990s, it bounced back. Two global crises — the rise of HIV/AIDS and the fall of the Soviet Union — helped resurrect the scourge of the 19th century. The World Health Organization declared a worldwide TB emergency in 1993. (It just goes to show: Don’t count your eradicated diseases before they hatch.)

AIDS was even harder on human bodies than the Industrial Revolution had been, and millions of centuries-won immune systems were suddenly wide open to infection anew. TB remains the leading cause of death among AIDS patients.

The collapse of the USSR spread TB in even more complicated ways. The year 1991 saw the traumatic birth of 15 brand-new post-Soviet republics. Each of these new countries was in economic and social turmoil. They were broke. They had no central government or public health system. Before their independence, everything had more or less filtered through Moscow. In some places, there were few to no supplies or institutional infrastructure, let alone money for health care workers. Alcoholism and malnourishment soared. People lost their savings. Rampant crime stuffed the prisons — notorious hotbeds of TB — to well over capacity. Released inmates carted these germs back to their communities. By the time the 15 new countries had smoothed things out, they already had a new old epidemic to battle.

Even as the immediate post-Soviet crisis improved, other factors played into treatment interruption and new infections. These have been beautifully documented by experts like Dr. Lee Reichman in his 2001 book Timebomb and are easily rattled off by every post-Soviet MDR expert I’ve come across. Treatment in prisons has been badly underfunded, so for years people didn’t get the meds they needed. There is often subpar follow-up for ill prisoners after they’re released. Infected migratory workers are tough to treat and track. The Soviet-era mentality of medical specialization has made the region slow to coordinate HIV and TB care. Both illnesses are also correlated with substance abuse, and addicts often turn out to be less-than-diligent patients. In sum, the long, hard treatment places economic, social, and physical strain on patients.

Antibiotic treatment is an all-or-nothing game. Patients need to take every dose by the book, or germs acquire resistance. Getting it done right depends on stupendous public health programs, not to mention stupendous patients. Once a strain does acquire resistance, it can’t be undone — and the stronger, harder-to-treat germ is passed on to others, like me. If the best drugs don’t work, doctors are forced to use drugs that are even harder on the body. All of these factors collude to paint a grim reality. In former Soviet countries, only around 60% of patients who begin tuberculosis treatment ever successfully finish it. The rest of them flee, slip through the cracks, fail to respond to treatment, or die before they are cured.

So it is no surprise that the region has the highest rates of MDR-TB in the world — as many as 30% of all newly detected cases are impervious to first-line drugs. (The global average is reportedly less than 5%, but statistics are widely believed to be low, especially in resource-poor countries. In the U.S., there were fewer than 100 cases of MDR in 2013.) Even in optimal conditions, the difference between a case of run-of-the-mill TB and MDR can be the difference between a moderate inconvenience and a life-threatening catastrophe. A standard case can be cured for less than $100 with a daily dose of four different drugs for six to nine months. My treatment cost taxpayers seven figures and lasted well over two years.

On paper, many of these problems have already been fixed. A decade ago, Tracy Kidder’s best-seller Mountains Beyond Mountains lauded the achievements of Dr. Paul Farmer’s Partners in Health and other global health organizations in revolutionizing worldwide MDR-TB care. The region’s TB programs are now relatively well-organized and padded with funding from global health mammoths like the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. There are detailed and standardized treatment guidelines. TB drugs are fully subsidized. So why are so many patients still failing their treatments?

Without an effective vaccine or better drugs, efforts to curb MDR-TB face a serious paradox. As a strain becomes more resistant, it becomes simultaneously more painful and more urgent to treat it. Many countries have responded by adopting stringent patient monitoring policies, which improve cure rates but are nonetheless no small imposition in patients’ lives. Public safety overrides patient agency, which is a tough pill for victims to swallow (and they’ve already got plenty of those to worry about).

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A patient receives the TB vaccine in 1949 Cornell Capa / The LIFE Picture Collection / Getty Images

During my treatment, I felt sick for two years. Nausea became my baseline. Sometimes the drugs make you puke, or give you the kind of diarrhea that makes you need a nap. One screws with your nervous system, and I permanently lost most of the feeling in my feet. I’ve tracked blood across kitchen floors because I can’t tell if I’ve stepped on shattered glass.

And I had it lucky. I had no comorbidities like HIV or diabetes, which make everything even worse. Being on amikacin cost me some low-frequency hearing, but it has caused deafness in others. And I got to take it by IV drip, instead of the painful upper-thigh injections that leave some patients too sore to sit up. And while cycloserine — a drug nicknamed “psychoserine” for its notorious mental and behavioral effects — makes some patients hallucinate and scream, I got away with confusion. I had trouble with reading, organization, and paperwork. It’s an especially tough break if you’re dealing with a workers’ comp claim for a medical disaster. I couldn’t keep it all straight, and walloped my credit.

Even worse, most patients in former Soviet countries and across the world get practically no social support during the crisis. They get little help with side effects, and suffer serious social and economic strain. Many of them have no way to make up for lost wages over the course of their treatments. Some even face lasting discrimination. In 2011, an undercover Ukrainian journalist wrote an exposé about being iced out by hiring managers after casually mentioning a past bout of TB.

The reason why boils down to one key factor: Tuberculosis remains highly stigmatized throughout the world. In the former Soviet Union, people associate it with painful memories of the lawless, chaotic ‘90s. Having it means you’re a crook, a junkie, a drunk, a bum, or a sewer rat.

Stigma makes epidemics worse — it gives people a reason not to be seen walking into a clearly labeled TB clinic to see a doctor when they should. Loneliness and despair can convince someone that health doesn’t matter, so why take these pills? And stigma shuts people up, so they’ll never organize, influence funding, or change minds about TB. Stigma means more stigma.

When patients are silenced and isolated from one another and their communities, it stymies progress against the disease. The WHO estimates more than a $1.3 billion worldwide funding gap in TB research and development, and the number threatens to grow. Even though investment in new drug research is one obvious way to improve treatment, AstraZeneca, Novartis, and Pfizer recently pulled a combined $50 million out of the fight. According to an email from the Treatment Action Group, a TB and HIV advocacy nonprofit, this steep loss amounts to a full third of private-sector TB investment since 2011.

Erasing stigma, combating TB’s chronic underfunding, and promoting new research and drug development are incredibly lofty goals. But similar barriers have been conquered before in diseases like breast cancer and HIV/AIDS, where passionate activism made incredible inroads in raising awareness and influencing policy. If former and current TB patients joined together, could they build the first real advocacy movement centered on patients?

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llustration by Ashley Mackenzie for BuzzFeed

Tuberculosis patients haven’t always felt so alone.

After leaving Denver, I read The Magic Mountain, Thomas Mann’s sprawling 1924 classic novel about a Swiss sanatorium. I forced myself to finish it, but it’s the most boring book I’ve ever read. It’s the story of a total wiener named Hans Castorp who goes on a trip to hang out in the Alps and visit his TB-stricken cousin. Then Hans ends up sticking around and living there for seven years even though he doesn’t really have tuberculosis, just so he can do stupid crap like spend 70 pages talking about the nature of consciousness.

Ugh, I’m still so mad at him. But maybe it’s because I’m a tiny bit jealous. So what if he’s a fake person with fake tuberculosis? It would have been so nice to have someone to be sick with.

Sanatoriums, like National Jewish and the one atop The Magic Mountain, bridged the gap between the mid-19th century and the 1940s discovery of streptomycin. With no cure in sight, the ill had long made do with an iffy array of treatment options. Some doctors stuffed people’s windpipes with vacuum contraptions to simulate lazy lung capillaries. Cottage industries of miracle cures gorged on ad space in periodicals, sandwiched among serial installments of now beloved classics. (If you liked Great Expectations, you’ll love Daffy & Son’s Natural Miracle Multi-Purpose Health Elixir! Available wherever fancy wool top hats and snuff boxes are sold!!!) But the White Plague seemed to beat them all.

Tuberculosis did have one semi-formidable opponent, though — one hope that physicians agreed on. It wasn’t a cure; it wasn’t a given. The idea came from an 1840 pamphlet written by Dr. George Bodington, a British family doctor who covered a large area by making his house calls on horseback. His essay was based on a simple observation: that consumptives in wide-open spaces fared better than those packed tightly in cities.

But Dr. Bodington drew a further conclusion: It must have been the country air that healed them. Their bodies need pure, unsoiled air, shared with as few people as possible. Depending on the severity of their case, they might need months or years of it. In the disease’s final stages, Mycobacterium tuberculosis finally chews through the lung tissue, resulting in the bloody cough that famously beckoned death (but, curiously, couldn’t stop the heroines of Les Misérables, La Bohème, and La Traviata from singing). If combated early with the right dose of air, the process could drag to a halt.

And where could patients find such magic air? The best stuff was nippy, clean, and thin. Way up high, where no one can spoil it with industrial factory smog. And so, for the next 100 years, sick city-dwellers left their crowded hubs by the thousands and set off for specialized tuberculosis hospitals in the mountains. These sanatoriums treated patients with Dr. Bodington’s “rest cure” — medical observation, a generous binge diet, and hours a day in rows of canopied outdoor beds. In The Magic Mountain, characters traveled to Switzerland from places like England, Italy, and Poland. For months or years at a time, consumptives at sanatoriums lived and breathed together far away from real life, in their own little communities up in the sky.

Denver — the Mile High City, full of its own magic mountains — thus became America’s magnet for the dying who wanted to live. In the late 19th century, nearly a third of Colorado’s population suffered from tuberculosis, after journeying west for the air that might save them. At the National Jewish Hospital for Consumptives, they slept two by two, tucked into each of its dozens of bunk beds.

By the time I showed up, the bunk beds were long gone. There were no pretty canopies or breezy napping patios. And all that oh-so-edifying “virgin air” stuff? Turned out to be bunk. The bump in survival rates among patients who spent all that time outdoors wasn’t because of the air; it was the sun. Vitamin D is good for the immune system. They could have gotten the same effect on the roof of a tenement house. Or by taking sunshine stuffed into Vitamin D pills, like I did, supplemented by the UV light in my hospital room. (In a 21st century American city, you don’t just let a case of active tuberculosis run around outside.) Other times, patients’ health improved simply because sanatoriums gave them a badly needed break from lives of poverty and labor.

Still, the sanatorium era continues to be considered a public health success. Not because sanatoriums ever did much to help “lungers.” But because they kept them away from healthy people. By shooing contagious patients off to remote treatment complexes, Dr. Bodington had inadvertently pioneered the concept of infection control. Keeping sick people away from vulnerable populations seems so obvious now. But back then, would the idea of germs — invisible, flying disease pods — have sounded any less silly than magic air?

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Tuberculosis treatment in 1942 D. Hess / Fox Photos / Getty Images

I tried seeing a therapist after my quarantine order was finally lifted. My mom made the appointment. I didn’t really want to go; I’ve never liked therapy.

But I hated doing this to my mom. This wasn’t just my crisis; it was my family’s too. And it was harder on my mom than anyone. She’d just spent 10 days next to me on a cot in the Denver ICU after my first lung surgery went wrong. She’d held my hand when the stiff chest tube draining blood from my lungs made breathing hurt so badly I got tunnel vision. She’d lost so much weight and was thinner than I’d ever seen her. So when she kept insisting that I talk to someone, I figured I could force myself to muster an hour of sincerity. And if I didn’t like it, I could lie, quit, and just find my own answers in some book.

I got to the office and we made our introductions. Then I broke the ice.

“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Laura Linney?” I asked.

She paused. For too long.“No. I’ve actually never gotten that.”

“No. I’ve actually never gotten that.”

BULLSHIT. She looks exactly like Laura Linney.

“I spoke to your mother on the phone. She said you contracted tuberculosis while you were in the Peace Corps in Russia?”

“No, I was in Ukraine. But yes. I mean, it was the Far East. The Russian-speaking part.”

“And so you’re going through chemo now? How long is that?”

“Well, I was hospitalized in Denver and got the part of my lung removed with the TB on it last month. So now I’m on chemo. It’s the IV drip. None of the radiation stuff. And I never lost my hair. So I don’t know if it even counts. I have nine months of that, and a total of two years or so on everything else.”

OK, it’s not like I’m uniquely hyperaware of Laura Linney or something. There’s no way I could be the first person to notice.

“And then…it goes away?” she asked.

Wait, is she pissed? Why? It’s a compliment, right? Hold on. Does she just, like, hate Laura Linney?

“Knock on wood. It can come back, hypothetically,” I recited. “That’s why they treat it so aggressively. They just want to make sure that it’s really, really dead. But they can’t, like, promise you anything.”

I went back once or twice for additional sessions. I tried to explain that I wasn’t scared about dying or anything. By then, doctors seemed confident that I wouldn’t. But I had this anxiety I couldn’t shake. I wanted closure in Ukraine, and the people in my town. I wanted to be moving toward something. I tried to convert the emotional fallout into a momentum that more closely resembled psychosis. I took 36 practice LSATs but was hospitalized the day of the test. But panic was a problem I couldn’t obsess my way out of. I’d pick up a book but just hold it in my lap and forget what the hell it was for. I had no job and no idea what to do with myself. I lived with my parents, who at that moment seemed to be trying to keep me alive by never letting me out of their sight. I felt timid and stuck. I felt cheated out of that rosy immortality my friends had. All those toxic meds made me feel like someone else. I was very, very tired. And I felt like I was failing. I wanted my sense of control back. I was so damn sad.

My mom picked that therapist because she specializes in treating patients with life-interrupting illnesses, like MS or cancer.

“It can be hard for people to lose their control,” the therapist told me. “Here’s something I suggest that people can do to feel like they have some power over everything. Next time you go for an infusion, try to close your eyes and think of the chemicals in the drugs coursing through you, attacking all of the bad cells. And concentrate on them, and really see them. Then, envision the chemo forcing them out of your body. Picture them floating away.”

I skipped my next appointment and never rescheduled. It wasn’t a therapist that I wanted. I wanted to connect with other patients like me.

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llustration by Ashley Mackenzie for BuzzFeed

I’m not the only person to conclude that TB patients may be uniquely equipped to help each other. In 1907, a Boston-area internist named Dr. Joseph Pratt had the same idea while searching for innovative treatment alternatives for TB patients who couldn’t afford faraway sanatoriums. He had the hippy-dippy idea that bringing patients together could replicate the revitalizing effects of places like the National Jewish Hospital for Consumptives, and help patients heal. Couldn’t they guide each other through the experience better than any doctor could?

Pratt tested his hunch with a trial of a dozen patients. Modern medicine’s first recorded support group was deemed a success. Moral support really did help combat tuberculosis. His destitute patients had made do without the magic air that wasn’t really magic and replaced it with something that was.

That’s one thing the sanatorium era got right that today’s TB control programs get wrong: the need for community. Today, the sanatorium era is thought of as a relic of medical quackery rendered moot by modern science. But to mock it in favor of enlightened antibiotic cures is to dismiss the lived experience of patients. For all their problems, sanatoriums were designed to heal patients. Today, treatment is primarily concerned with limiting threats posed to others. Patients’ lives are collateral damage.

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I showed up at the radiology department of George Washington University Hospital in Washington, D.C., for my final chest X-ray in late spring of 2012. I stood in the yellow foot outlines and assumed the TSA body scan position without even waiting for the technician’s spiel.

“Oh, you’re an old pro, then!” he said from the processing room. “OK, deep breath and hold it… Good… Now let’s just make sure that… Whoa, you’re missing a big part of your lung! Sorry, wasn’t expecting that!” That makes two of us.

But the Mycobacterium tuberculosis had indeed been destroyed. What was left of my lungs showed up as solid black — just as a healthy X-ray is supposed to be.

But somehow, it wasn’t as satisfying as I’d hoped. Once again, I wanted to share the moment with someone who understood what it meant. Moral support is nice for the good stuff too.

I began to find out how many patients felt the same way in June 2013, when I finally went back to Ukraine. I made a ring around the country to gather data for my master’s thesis: I traveled to Kiev, Lviv, Crimea, Mariupol, Kharkhiv, Lugansk, Donetsk, and my beloved Antratsyt. I visited hospitals, clinics, and met doctors, health care and nonprofit workers, and, of course, patients. No matter who they were, tuberculosis had a profound impact on their lives. Many had lost friends or even family members over their illness, or felt forced to keep the experience secret. Loneliness and shame were practically the default.

For as long as I’d spent surviving and learning about tuberculosis, one big question stuck in the back of my mind. I posed it to Oksana Viktorovna, a training coordinator for the Stop TB in Ukraine initiative in Donetsk. Why, I asked her, is there so little communication and coordination within the TB patient community, and so much of it — working successfully, by the way — in other diseases?

“You’re right,” she told me. “People are ashamed to be associated with the fringe. And even though TB is curable, the stigma makes them think it would be better to have cancer.” And perhaps, she continued, people who survive TB are ready to forget it and move on.

But, this might be changing, Oksana said. Lately, she’d noticed a few groups pop up online, on Russian networking sites like LiveJournal and VKontakte. Some people even created entirely new accounts to be able to discuss their lives with tuberculosis anonymously. “They write about their experience, their worries, their questions,” Oksana told me. “It seems to increase their optimism. I think it helps them get better.”

The clandestine online TB clubs were easy to find. As soon as I started poking through them, I found someone my age from Khabarovsk, Russia, whom I felt like I already knew.

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The Kyiv Tubdispensar or Tuberculosis Dispensary Photograph by Natalie Shure

I finally met Ksenia Shchenina face-to-face in Moscow this past spring. Even in the tourist-thick crowd by the famous Tretyakov Gallery, she wasn’t hard to spot. By now we’d already spent hours of our lives talking on Skype.

Ksenia maintains a patient-centered website about TB, as well as pages in English and Russian across several social media platforms. Her project’s slogan, “Being ill isn’t shameful,” challenges the negative cultural narratives about TB and the people who have it. Visitors can read the blog she kept during her treatment and her interviews with doctors and survivors. She regularly interacts with new patients from all over the world.

Social media has the potential to finally address the long-standing need for support among TB patients. Last month, Doctors Without Borders published a study that identified serious benefits for users of these online platforms, including TB & Me, the organization’s own blogging portal. Social media, they conclude, helps MDR patients adhere to treatment, gain back a sense of control, fight feelings of despair and solitude, and educate health care providers and the public. After treatment, survivors like Ksenia can continue to serve as mentors and advocates for the global patient community.

I strolled with Ksenia across the Bolshoy Moskvoretsky Bridge, along the edge of Red Square, and up the fabled Arbat Street. We drifted between languages and talked about being sick. I told her how badly I wished I knew people like her back when I was diagnosed.

“I can’t find the words in English to explain how much I agree with you,” she said.

I’m not sure I could have, either. But then, it hit me: “I’ve spent years researching tuberculosis. I’ve toured hospitals, read books and articles, conducted dozens of interviews. But this is the first time I’ve ever told my story to another patient.”

How magical to find her in a world with 5,000 miles, two screens, and three healthy lungs between us.

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llustration by Ashley Mackenzie for BuzzFeed

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[newsnigeria]

Check out New Post published on Ọmọ Oòduà

New Post has been published on http://ooduarere.com/news-from-nigeria/world-news/what-happened-1963/

What happened to the West where I was born in in 1963?

Frankly, I am awed, amazed and even embarrassed.  I was born in Switzerland, lived most of my life there, I also visited most of Europe, and I lived in the USA for over 20 years.  Yet in my worst nightmares I could not have imagined the West sinking as low as it does now.  I mean, yes, I know about the false flags, the corruption, the colonial wars, the NATO lies, the abject subservience of East Europeans, etc.  I wrote about all that many times.  But imperfect as they were, and that is putting it mildly, I remember Helmut Schmidt, Maggie Thatcher, Reagan, Mitterrand, even Chirac!  And I remember what the Canard Enchaîné used to be, or even the BBC.  During the Cold War the West was hardly a knight in white shining armor, but still – rule of law did matter, as did at least some degree of critical thinking.

I am now deeply embarrassed for the West.  And very, very afraid.

All I see today is a submissive herd lead by true, bona fide, psychopaths (in a clinical sense of the word)

And that is not the worst thing.

The worst thing is the deafening silence, the way everybody just looks away, pretends like “ain’t my business” or, worse, actually takes all this grotesque spectacle seriously.  What the fuck is wrong with you people?!  Have you all been turned into zombies?!  WAKE UP!!!!!!!

Let me carefully measure my words here and tell you the blunt truth.

Since the Neocon coup against Trump the West is now on exactly the same course as Nazi Germany was in, roughly, the mid 1930s.

Oh sure, the ideology is different, the designated scapegoat also.  But the mindset is *exactly* the same.

Same causes produce the same effects.  But this time around, there are weapons on both sides which make the Dresden Holocaust looks like a minor spark.

So now we have this touching display of “western solidarity” not with UK or the British people, but with the City of London.  Now ain’t that touching?!

Let me ask you this: what has been the central feature of Britain’s policies towards Europe, oh, let’s say since the Middle-Ages?

That’s right: starting wars in Europe.

And this time around you think it’s different?

Does: “the best predictor of future behavior is past behavior” somehow not apply to the UK?!

Let me also tell you this: when Napoleon and Hitler attacked Russia she was undergoing deep crises and was objectively weak (really! research it for yourself!).  In both cases Russian society was deeply torn by internal contradictions and the time for attack as ideal.

Not today.

So I ask this simple question: do you really want to go to war against a fully united nuclear Russia?

You think that this is hyperbole?

Think again.

The truth is that the situation today is infinitely worse than the Cuban missile crisis. First, during the Cuban missile crisis there were rational people on both side.  Today there is NOT ONE SINGLE RATIONAL PERSON LEFT IN A POSITION OF POWER IN THE USA.  Not ONE!  Second, during the Cuban missile crisis all the new was reporting on was the crisis, the entire planet felt like we were standing at the edge of the abyss.

Today nobody seems to be aware that we are about to go to war, possibly a thermonuclear war, where casualties will be counted in the hundreds of millions.

All because of what?

Because the people of the West have accepted, or don’t even know, that they are ruled by an ugly gang of ignorant, arrogant psychopaths.

At the very least this situation shows this:

Representative democracy does not work.

The rule of law only applies to the weak and poor.

Western values have now been reduced to a sad joke.

Capitalism needs war and a world hegemony to survive.

The AngloZionist Empire is about to collapse, the only open question is how and at what cost.

Right now they are expelling Russian diplomats en masse and they are feeling very strong and manly. Polish and Ukrainian politicians are undergoing a truly historical surge in courage and self-confidence! (hiding, as they do, behind Anglo firepower)

The truth is that this is only the tip of a much bigger iceberg.  In reality, crucial expert-level consultations, which are so vitally important between nuclear superpowers, have all but stopped a long time ago.  We are down to top level telephone calls.  That kind of stuff happens when two sides are about to go to war.  For many months now Russia and NATO have made preparations for war in Europe.  And Russia is ready.  NATO sure ain’t!  Oh, they have the numbers and they think they are strong.  The truth is that these NATO midgets have no idea of what is about to hit them, when the Russians go to war these NATO statelets won’t even understand what is happening to them.  Very rapidly the real action will be left to the USA and Russia.  Thus any conflict will go nuclear very fast.  And, for the first time in history, the USA will be hit very, very hard, not only in Europe, the Middle-East or Asia, but also on the continental US.

I was born in a Russian military family and I studied Russian and Soviet military affairs all my life. I can absolutely promise you this, please don’t doubt it for one second: Russia will not back down and, if cornered, she will wipe out your entire civilization. The Russians really don’t want war, they fear it (as they should!) and they will do everything to avoid it.  But if attacked then expect a response of absolutely devastating violence.  Don’t take it from me, take it from Putin who clearly said so himself and who, at least on that issue, is supported by about 95% of the population.  From the Eastern Crusades to the Nazi invasion of the Soviet Union, enough is enough, and the Russians will not take one more western attack, especially not one backed by nuclear firepower.  Again, please ponder Putin’s words very, very carefully: “what need would we have a world if there is no Russia?“

All that for what?  The USA and Russia have NO objective reasons to do anything but to collaborate (the Russians are absolutely baffled the fact the leaders of the USA seem to be completely oblivious to this simple fact).  Okay, the City of London does have a lot of reasons to want Russia gone and silent. As Gavin Williamson, the little soy-boy in charge of UK “defense”, so elegantly put it, Russia should “go away and shut up”.  Right.  Let me tell you – it ain’t happening!  Britannia will be turned into a heap of radioactive ashes long before Russian goes away or shuts up.  That is simply a fact.

What baffles me is this: do American leaders really want to lose their country in behalf of a small nasty clique of arrogant British pompous asses who think that they still are an Empire?  Did you even take a look at Boris Johnson, Theresa May and Gavin Williamson?  Are you really ready to die in defense of the interest of these degenerates?!

I don’t get it and nobody in Russia does.

Yeah, I know, all they did is expel some diplomats.  And the Russians will do the same.  So what?  But that’s missing the point!

LOOK NOT WHERE WE ARE BUT WHERE WE ARE HEADING!!

You can get 200,000 anti–gun (sigh, rolleyes) protesters in DC but NOBODY AT ALL ABOUT NUCLEAR WAR?!

What is wrong with you people?!

What happened to the West where I was born in in 1963?

My God, is this really the end of it all?

Am I the only one who sees this slow-motion train-wreck taking us all over the precipice?

If you can, please give a reason to still hope.

Right now I don’t see many.

The Saker

PS: yes, I know. The rules of the blog prohibit CAPS as this is considered shouting.  Okay, but this time around I AM TRYING TO SHOUT!  So, for this one time only, feel free to use caps if you want.  The world badly needs some shouting right now, even virtual shouting.

[fadingfartconnoisseur]

Chisinau and Minsk: Two Offbeat Soviet Cities

This year, in my effort to visit every European country, I made trips to two new cities: Chisinau (pronounced KEE-shee-no), the capital of Moldova, and Minsk, the capital of Belarus.

Why pair these cities (and countries) in a single post, even though these trips were months apart? Because of their similarities. Chisinau and Minsk are the capitals of two of the poorest countries in Europe. Both were formerly part of the Soviet Union, yet maintain a very Soviet feeling to this day with clear loyalty to Russia. Both felt like I had gone back in time. And both are off the beaten path for travelers, due in part to significant language barriers.

I even realized I have a lot of similar shots from both cities!

Traffic in Chisinau.

Traffic in Minsk.

Parks in Chisinau.

Parks in Minsk.

Friendship in Chisinau.

Friendship in Minsk.

But beyond the similarities between the two cities, my trips also played out similarly. I only had a little time to spare, and only visited one city within the country, even though I hate traveling that way and try to visit more places whenever I can. Both were stopovers I wasn’t terribly excited about, with more exciting cities (Odessa and Kiev; Vilnius and Tallinn) planned next. And I struggled in both cities, never feeling comfortable in either.

Here’s what I got up to in these cities.

Chisinau, Moldova

I arrived in Chisinau on an Air Moldova flight from Bucharest. As the tiny plane dipped and bobbed, my seat neighbor, a forty-something male, smiled and explained to me that the ride was bumpy because smaller planes are bumpier than larger ones. (As I smiled weakly and thought to myself, “Buddy, I fly for a living.”)

I hopped into one of the airport taxis, watching the outskirts of the city whirl by as I followed our path on Google Maps…then was dumbfounded when he dropped me in a parking lot far from my hostel.

“No,” I told him, showing Google Maps and the star of my accommodation. “Not here. Here. Take me here.”

He grabbed a piece of paper, wrote down a number, and handed it to me.

“1,3 km.”

Are you fucking kidding me? “No,” I snapped. “No. I’m not walking that far with a suitcase. Take me here.”

After a few minutes of arguing, neither of us understanding the other’s language, he finally acquiesced and drove me to the quiet suburban street where the star was…but where there was absolutely no sign of any hostel.

A few minutes of searching revealed that a hostel was located behind a fence, and I made my way inside. I grabbed my keys, dropped my bag in my private room (which, to my disappointment, was located off the dorm and far from the sole bathroom), and went out exploring.

Chisinau’s main street was surrounded by gray, crumbling, blocky Soviet buildings and torn-up sidewalks. An old man walking next to me suddenly unzipped his fly and began urinating on a staircase. Food stands would have “pizza” in their name but not actually sell any. And when I saw the roadside stands, I was bemused by the t-shirts for sale: Putin in sunglasses. Putin with a machine gun. Putin in karate gear kicking Obama in the face.

Bleak was the word that kept running through my head. I’ve always felt like Eastern Europe stereotypes were massively overblown, but Chisinau felt so depressing, it was pulling me down. Even strolling through the parks couldn’t lift my spirits.

By the end of my first afternoon, I thought to myself, “How the hell am I going to spend three days here?”

But did Chisinau get better? Yes, it did. 

First off, Moldova has some of the most outstandingly delicious red wine I’ve ever tasted. Seriously, it could go head to head with Italy and France and Napa, and a glass won’t cost you more than a few dollars.

Unfortunately, nearby Cricova Winery was not accepting guests, but I went to a little wine shop called Carpe Diem and got to sample several local libations. It’s very expensive by Moldovan standards — I think I paid around $15 USD for five generous pours — but with so little to do in the city, I didn’t mind the splurge.

The National Art Museum of Moldova was tiny but lovely, featuring art by both local and international artists.

And I spent a good chunk of time at Tucano Coffee, arguably the coolest cafe in Chisinau, but more like a Starbucks than anything else.

As a solo female traveler in Moldova, I felt safe for the most part — aside from the unlit streets and barking stray dogs surrounding the hostel. But when it came time to plan a day trip to Orhei Vechi, just outside the city, I was told that the options were either to wait around hours for the returning minibus (no thanks) or to hire a private driver for 50 to 100 euros.

Now, this wasn’t a car service or tour you could book online — this was just “some guy with a car” that the hostel owner knew. I’ll often say yes to that when I’m traveling with someone else, but when I’m traveling solo, that’s where I hesitate. Sometimes I decide to go for it — like when I was in Albania, there was no connecting bus in Fier, and I just hired a random guy with a van to take me to Berat. But I felt very comfortable in Albania. And other times, like when I wanted to visit Preah Vihear in Cambodia but got the “some guy with a car” option, I decided to skip it, as my third trip to Cambodia had been defined by extortion and robbery.

Moldova is not a place where I felt comfortable being alone in a car with a strange man — and for that reason, I decided not to go to Orhei Vechi at all. Nor the quasi-republic of Transnistria, which I regret a bit, but it was just too logistically difficult.

Eventually, I departed Chisinau by bus to the gorgeous city of Odessa, Ukraine. Finding the right bus and buying my ticket was a bit of a challenge with the language barrier, but the border crossing couldn’t have been easier.

Minsk, Belarus

There’s one reference about Minsk that everyone in my generation knows: it’s where Phoebe’s boyfriend David the scientist moved! The statues of Lenin reminded him of her beauty! Wait, you all know I’m talking about Friends, right?

First things first: Belarus can be tricky without a visa for most nationalities, but currently it’s possible for US citizens to visit visa-free if 1) they arrive and depart by air, not via Russia 2) they stay for less than five days 3) they obtain medical insurance covering 10,000 euros.

I arrived in Minsk on a Belavia flight from Helsinki. And let me say that immigration will not be happy when you pull out phone to show your onward ticket and World Nomads travel insurance policy on your phone. I got yelled at a lot. Print them both out! (And if you don’t have travel insurance, there’s a place by immigration where you can buy it.)

Minsk was overwhelming from the start. My cab driver dragged me all over the airport before getting me to leave the city, and he had a hard time finding where to drop me off, then I had major trouble finding my apartment. The language barrier was strong — the young man who let me into the apartment and I had to use Google Translate to communicate.

If I hadn’t had a knowledge of Cyrillic from my previous trips to Eastern Europe, I would have been completely lost.

I was lucky that I actually had internet in the apartment, though — almost everywhere in Minsk requires you to have a SIM card in order to access wifi (they send passwords via SMS). As someone who uses wifi to navigate her way everywhere, I found it a bit frustrating having to do all my research in advance at the apartment and then wing it for the rest of the day. A throwback to the travel style of yore!

The strange thing about Belarus is that there are two official languages — Russian and Belarusian — and the metro stations each have Russian and Belarusian names, which are often totally different. For example, one station can be called either “Plošča Lenina” or “Vakzalnaja.” And then the train might announce the station in one language but the signs are in the other language! You basically have to memorize both names and double-check.

I was initially planning to leave Minsk by train to Vilnius, Lithuania, and spent a long time painstakingly buying a train ticket, writing down what I thought was “Vilnius” in Cyrillic, then confusing the lady even more.

Then, thankfully, one of my readers pointed out that under this visa-free scheme, I had to leave by plane as well. I double-checked online and she was right! It was insane — the US State Dept site only says that you must enter Belarus by air, not depart by air. The Belarus Embassy in the US site, however, does say that you must depart by air as well.

That is a major oversight and I’m shocked that the US State Department would omit such critical information. Had I taken that train to the border, I would have been in a LOT of trouble. At any rate, I am dearly thankful to my dear reader and I am buying her dinner if our paths ever cross. I was able to get a flight to Vilnius for about $60.

But did Minsk get better? Yes, it actually did.

I grew to appreciate the grandeur of Minsk. It wasn’t on the level of anywhere in Ukraine, but I loved the wide avenues, large buildings, and how the bright yellows played against the blue sky.

I loved discovering that Belarusian women love buying flowers. There were tons of flower stands in the underground passageways throughout the city.

I found an adorable coffeeshop called Uptopiya 60 — and they were the only place in the city where I didn’t need a SIM card to get wifi access! Which meant I could actually summon an Uber to take me to the airport!

But for me, the biggest highlight was walking along the river. It was a gorgeous day and I loved seeing people out and about — the amorous couples, the bickering mothers and daughters, the twenty-something guys taking super-serious selfies gazing into the distance.

Could I have done more in Minsk? Absolutely. There are so many museums and viewpoints and day trips I could have experienced. There just wasn’t enough time on this trip.

The Takeaway

To be frank, I doubt I’ll be returning to Chisinau or Minsk. If a cool opportunity arises, perhaps, but I doubt either city has enough draw to pull me back. Could I have done a better job exploring either city (and country)? Absolutely! I’ll be the first to point out that I didn’t do nearly enough!

But does that mean that I have to return and do it right? We all have a finite amount of time on this planet, and I plan to spend mine exploring new and beloved destinations, rather than returning to do Moldova and Belarus over again.

Even so, I’m glad I went to both Chisinau and Minsk. Both felt like traveling back in time; both gave me an idea of what it was like to live behind the shadow of the Soviet Union. Both were a reminder that Europe isn’t all pretty old towns and tourism-driven cities.

If Chisinau or Minsk seem to be your kind of place, I think you should definitely go! But if you’d like something still Eastern European and off the beaten path and a bit like a time capsule but perhaps a little bit nicer and easier to travel, I wholeheartedly recommend Tirana, Albania; Skopje, Macedonia; and Kiev and Odessa, Ukraine.

READ NEXT: The Funk Factor of Tirana, Albania

Essential Info: In Chisinau I stayed at Chisinau Chill Hostel, which was decent, but I would prefer to stay in a nicer place in a better location next time. Do note that the only private room is off the dorm, so you have to walk through the dorm in order to go to the bathroom or anywhere else. The surrounding streets are unlit at night, so be sure to get back before it gets dark. There are several stray dogs in the neighborhood. Dorms from $6; private with shared bath from $22.

Admission to the National Art Museum is 10 Moldovan leu ($0.50).

In Minsk I stayed at Minsk Centre Apartment, a nice and central one-bedroom apartment. The hardest part was arranging the arrival and key drop-off, since Minsk has almost no internet available without a SIM card. Full apartment from $37 per night.

Travel insurance is vital for trips, and it’s a legal requirement for visiting Belarus. Whether you get appendicitis and need to be hospitalized, or your phone gets stolen, or an injury means you need to cancel all or part of your trip, travel insurance will help you in your time of need. I use and recommend World Nomads as travel insurance for trips to Moldova and Belarus.

Have you been to Chisinau or Minsk? Or elsewhere in Moldova or Belarus? What did you think?

The post Chisinau and Minsk: Two Offbeat Soviet Cities appeared first on Adventurous Kate.

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