#and struggles to be able to assert himself even in relatively minor ways if he feels like it'd be a bummer to his partner

[edoro]

wrt the last post i just reblogged (Halsin cnc meta), i personally tend to imagine him as fairly aware of and comfortable with his kinks, including the ones based on his trauma

in fact i like to think that one of the reasons why he has such trouble accepting that his years of sex slavery were in fact deeply traumatic and abusive is because his response is to heavily sexualize his own trauma - not only was that part of how he discovered that he takes great pleasure in servicing others sexually, but ever since he's sought out situations where he can recreate aspects of the experience

because he's so large and strong and people tend to make assumptions about what kind of sex he wants or what kind of role he plays (or just project their own ideas of what kind of role they want him to play or think he should play onto him), he doesn't get to bottom or sub nearly as often as he likes

although his tendency towards acts of service is imo his own way of taking that control - even if someone wants him to be aggressive and fuck them, if he's doing it as an act of service, then he's still submitting himself to them and making himself their pet or toy and giving himself that satisfaction

this is something that i really like the idea of him and Astarion having in common, actually. i like to think of them both responding to their trauma by sexualizing it, but essentially in opposite directions

Astarion wants to be the one in control, the one doing rather than the one done to, and in contrast to Halsin, i think he would 100% think that makes him a bad person, basically as bad as Cazador

he doesn't really understand kink as something negotiated, as play between willing partners. his only experience is being tortured and exploited, and now that he finds himself with all of these desires to control, dominate, and hurt someone else, to force himself on someone else the way he was forced so many times, he's sure that it must mean he's irredeemably broken by his experiences

meanwhile, Halsin knows that both of their desires are normal and nothing to be ashamed of, but he's got this fun little cognitive dissonance going on where even though he would never think this of someone else, he feels like the fact that he found his experience of sex slavery powerfully erotic means it wasn't really that bad and that he can't really call himself a victim - maybe sort of a victim, but not entirely one, not the way someone like Astarion was

(even though their situations are very similar in certain respects. Astarion says most of his partners didn't even "grant me temporary bliss," but that doesn't mean he never found any of it sexually satisfying or erotically compelling, or never had any complicated feelings about Cazador that included love, a desire for attention/regard, or a sense of comforting familiarity)

i'm just very fond of the idea of Halsin being pretty comfortable in his own enjoyment of submission, including things like masochism, cnc, pet play, various types of power exchange, and just generally a lot of things that are quite specifically aspects of his own past abuse, and getting to walk Astarion through the idea that it's fine and okay to like that sort of thing whether you want to be on the giving or receiving end of it

and MEANWHILE being forced to confront his own internal double standard where he holds himself responsible for things that he would never hold someone else responsible for, due to his direct engagement with Astarion's trauma, and having to slowly come to the realization that he was a captive, he was a victim, it was abusive, and he is in fact Kind Of Fucked Up About It

[refriedweeb]

TAKE WHAT I WANT AND I WANT IT (Katsuki Bakugo + Fem! Reader) 18+!

A/N: @bagel-bee said she wanted a bratty sub!bakugo so they’re gonna get a bratty sub bakugo

Prompt: 18+AU!Bakugo can be a real pain in the ass sometimes, but that’s nothing new to you. What the world doesn’t know is that outside of that hard exterior he presents to the world, Bakugo is the definition of power bottom and sub and needs to be put in his place.

Warnings: kinky sex, degradation, after care, edging, oral, and a bunch of other sin to follow

Word Count: 3,881

There were a whole lot of people in the great big world that were terrified of Katsuki Bakugo. You couldn’t say that you blamed any of them for the fear that they felt when the current love of your life spouted off, ever the hothead he’d been since his youth. His quirk was powerful, and dominated his spot in the hero charts. Of course, it’d been no surprise that he’d made his way into the top ten of the hero charts relatively quick, despite his nasty attitude towards others who he viewed were beneath him. He did good work, held himself to a high and impossible standard compared to others, and genuinely just wanted to make a difference despite his arrogant, dominant, asshole nature that put so many people off of him.

But you knew a different side of Bakugo. You knew a great deal more than the public would ever get to know and the truth of the matter was that gave you a feeling of power. The same sort of level you imagined Katsuki felt whenever he used his quirk and asserted dominance. Sure, in the public image and the hero society around him, he might have come off as the sort of guy who would be dominant in all aspects of his life. And this was true, for the most part. Except when it came to acts of intimacy in or out of the bedroom.

In that aspect, Katsuki Bakugo loved begging you to let him do just about anything. He loved giving all the power over to you, was unable to resist the thrill that rose in his chest when you bossed him around. 

At the same time, however, Katsuki was a brat.

He’d come home in a mood from patrol, and immediately tracked you down in the apartment you shared. It’d been a shitty day at the hero agency he worked for, nothing but petty crimes one after another and the general public had been so ungrateful that day particularly. No one was ever really happy about being inconvenienced by crime and fear, he understood that. But they’d been exceptionally vocal about it that day for no reason and it’d really gotten to him. He wanted you. Wanted the comfort and love that came with just being in your presence. Yet, most importantly, he wanted to relinquish all aspect of control about the rest of the day. He wanted you in control, as you always were, when the end of the night came around. 

Bakugo found you in the bathroom, looking as if you were about to get a shower. A makeup remover sat on the sink and you swept a cotton pad over your eyes, removing whatever makeup you’d worn on your face that day. He Let out an exhale that sounded like it had some smoke to it, and you opened your eyes, the two of you looking at one another through the reflection of the mirror while you set the pad down. “Hey hon, you’re home.” You could tell by the look on his face that he’d been through the wringer that day, and your heart tugged seeing him look so tired. As someone with a quirk who had opted out of the route of pro hero, you couldn’t imagine the pressure he dealt with each day. 

Katsuki didn’t say anything, simply shrugged off the sweatshirt he’d been wearing and letting it hit the tiled floor unceremoniously. He drifted over to you, hands needy as they pawed and pulled at the cloth robe you were wearing. “H-Hey!” you said, brows furrowed in momentary confusion as he laid an assault of kisses and nips at your neck, your jaw, you're collarbone. “Katsuki, I’m about to shower can’t this wait-” a hand slipped under the front of the robe, Bakugo messily groping at your breast. Your cheeks were flushed, and you suddenly understood what he was out for. He wanted to egg you on. Wanted to press boundaries. There was neediness in the way he suckled and pulled at your skin, little flowers of pinks and reds blossoming where his mouth attacked. His head was dipped against your collarbone, pulling at the skin there with hungry teeth, but you didn't need to see his expression to know you were right. “Bakugo, stop.”

He didn’t, his thumb rolling over your hardened nipple. You bit back on the sigh of pleasure, knowing this wasn’t something meant to be about you despite how greedy his hands were. “Katsuki,” you sighed, head propped against his as you leaned back. “Katsuki, stop.”

Not even a full breath had passed between your words before he replied with the infamous and tantalizing “Make me.”

It’d been the bratty statement that told you everything you needed to know. You opened your eyes and tipped your head to the side, meeting his. Make me. Such an overrated statement dealing with a brat, but it didn’t cease to make thrills run up and down your spine all the same. “Make you?” You repeated, Katsuki giving a nod of confirmation, that defiant look still in his eyes.

“Yeah, that’s what I said.” His voice was gruff, tougher than usual as if he’d done quite a lot of screaming that day.

You sighed, shaking your head from side to side. “Get on your knees.” Bakugo’s pupils widened, the contrast against the bright red of those eyes mesmerizing. He didn’t listen, naturally, continuing to toy with your nipple and the sharp tug he gave to it almost blanked your train of thought. Yet, you held fast. Your hand slapped his away and yanked it from its place in your robe, turning from the sink so that you were face to face. “I said, get on your knees.” Nails latched at his chin, drawing in and pushing him to his knees with minor struggle. Despite the bratty attitude, Bakugo wanted this. He lived for this. Relinquishing control to you set him on a new high he’d never been able to reach before. His knees hit the tiled floor, and he looked up at you with narrowed eyes. Anyone who didn’t know Bakugo might have thought he looked furious, angry. But there was something behind those eyes that told you he wanted this.

And you were going to make him beg for it.

Your hand wrenched through the blond length of his hair, yanking it back so the column of his neck was exposed to you. “You’re such a shit, you know that?” You asked, tugging his head from side to side. “Had such a bad day at work and now you come home and expect everyone to lay themselves out for you whenever however, hm?” Your eyebrow was arched, you leaned in closer to him. “That’s not how it works, Katsuki.” You snapped. You released your hold on his hair and gave him a shove backwards, one he was happy to embrace as he leaned back on long, muscled legs. While he adjusted to the new position, you took the chance to undo the cloth belt that kept your robe tied together. It fell open, exposing the curves of your body and smooth, naked skin. The robe fell unceremoniously around your ankles as you hopped up onto the bathroom sink, legs spreading as you kept your eyes focused on Bakugo’s. “If you want to get what you think you deserve, then work for it.”

His eyes trailed with carnal hunger down the curve of your body. From the fullness of your breasts, nipples piqued where he’d been playing with them moments ago, to the curve of your naval, to your thighs and in towards lips that were spread and sticky already, your cunt looking so fucking delicious. Katsuki licked his lips, not needing to be told what to do as he leaned forward. It almost looked like a home free buffet for him, until the ball of your foot pressed in against his forehead, stopping him from his path to your cunt. He growled, upper lip curled in distaste. There was need in his eyes, to get lost in the distraction and comfort of you from such a shit day, and you saw it so clearly your heart tugged. On the other hand, you simply clicked your tongue. “What are you forgetting to ask, brat?”

Your eyes met and his lips pulled down in a frown. Defiant. This wasn’t news to you, and you moved your foot from his forehead to his chest and pushed harder. “Bad boys don’t get rewarded.” 

This was what got Katsuki talking, because he wanted to be rewarded. He needed to be rewarded and he needed to unwind from everything that had happened that day. Letting you take the reins meant that he’d get it, even if he had to swallow some of his bratty tendencies. “Please,” he started, cheeks flushed. “Please, will you let me taste your pussy?”

That was more your speed. A smile on your face, your foot dropped away from his chest and you resumed your former position of spread legs, all for Bakugo to see. He swallowed the thickness in his throat and leaned forward, callused and roughened hands spreading you even further as he drew closer. “Thank you,” he whispered, breath coming hot against your inner thigh. “Itadakimasu,” he purred before pressing in against the heat between your legs.

As he did, your hands settled into the blond of his hair, fingers nestling in as he kissed your inner most thighs, pulling at the supple skin found there. Katsuki was submissive to you, especially when things went awry at work, but that didn’t mean he didn’t like to take his time. Bakugo kissed at the other side of your thighs, pulling the skin between his teeth in a show that was sure to leave a mark. His lips were rough, desperate. And as you leaned your back against the mirror of the bathroom vanity, your mouth dropped into the smallest of o’s as he leaned in to lick a hot strip up the core between your thighs. He wanted to make you feel good, he wanted to be rewarded for doing a good job, and it showed in how he devoured you. Soon enough, the wet sounds of him slurping, nuzzling, lapping up the wetness that he urged on filled the bathroom. Your pants and moans paired nicely with it, he had to say. “Such a good boy,” your breath hitched as he lazily rolled his tongue around your clit. “So hungry for me,” you cooed, hips bucking into his as your own high mounted. Katsuki’s hands pulled your thighs further apart, desperate to get more of a taste of you despite the obvious strain against his pants. He was hard and could feel the slickness of his pre-cum leaking through his boxers. His nose nuzzled in against your flesh, tongue narrowed in on your clit as he slowly pushed two fingers beneath your soaked lips, a thrill racing up his spine at the sound that fell from you lips. He was doing good, you were pleased with him. Katsuki was meticulous as he pumped in and out of you, fingers curled against your walls.

You were barely holding it together, muscles of your legs spamming as he picked up his speed. It was bliss, the sound of him moaning against your sopping cunt enough to send you on a marathon sprint to your orgasm. Any other night you might have done just that, but that desperate look in Katsuki’s eyes when he’d first looked at you told you tonight wasn’t the night to be selfish. Your boyfriend needed you to reassure him in a love language he understood, that you spoke so well. Instead, you threaded your fingers through Katsuki’s hair and gave a hard yank, the void of his mouth and fingers detached from pleasuring you sending a shiver down your spine.

“Such a good little brat,” you cooed, knees shaking as you stood. “Time for your reward.” With gentler hands than before you pushed Katsuki back onto the bathroom floor, kneeling between his legs. Lithe fingers reached for the buckle of his belt, undoing it and the buttons of his pants underneath. His cock was swollen already, strained against the deep burgundy of his boxers. “So needy aren’t you? So desperate to get fucked...” came your idle words as you traced a single finger against the thickness of him, feeling a particularly protrusive vein under the pad of your finger. Bakugo moaned, hips instinctively rutting up against your finger. Truthfully you loved seeing the reaction you could get out of him with the smallest of touches, but you gripped his cock hard as he settled back on the floor. “Behave or you’ll get nothing.”

Bakugo’s expression twisted as he worked to restrain himself, the muscle in his jaw flexing as he fought back on a bratty remark. “Yes ma’am.” He groaned just as you pulled the waistband of his underwear down, swollen length slapping against the muscled plains of his stomach. The head of his cock was swollen, leaking pre-fun as it seemed to throb with a rhythm of its own. He watched with baited breath as you leaned over the head of him, letting a long glob of spit fall from your lips and onto his length.

Katsuki swore he almost came right then and there from the image of it alone.

A shuddering moan found itself in the back of his throat once more as your hand spread the spit around, fisting the angry colored cock in your hand as Bakugo braced his hands against the wall of the bath, the door of the cabinets. You twisted your hands up and down the length of him, watching the pained expression as he fought to keep control of his need to spill into your hands. A wicked smirk touched your lips and you leaned down, lips brushed against the protruding vein of his cock as you spoke. “You’re gonna be good and not cum until I say so, right Katsuki?”

You watched the defined muscles of his Adonis belt flex and contort as he fought back the urge to fuck himself into your hand, push into your mouth. “Yes,” he shuddered, gasping at the pain that followed a moment later from a particularly harsh grip from you. “Yes ma’am!”

Bakugo’s reward came when you lowered your mouth over his cock, cheeks sucking inwards as you bobbed your head up and down with a slow, tantalizing rhythm. Your tongue traced over the violent vein that ran on his underside, pushing his control over his hips to the breaking point. He refrained, however, wanting to keep you happy and keep you sucking him off. The moan that escaped his mouth once your nose brushed over the soft tangle of hair at his base sent a thrill through you, quickening your pace as you felt the muscles of Bakugo’s thighs tighten, the pulse of his cock hammering against the back of your throat. He was close to his orgasm, and you both knew it. 

And just as Katsuki was about to tumble over the cliff of his high, you released him from your mouth with a silent pop - one that was lost in the sound of his cry of dismay. His thighs spasmed, flexing as he tried to rut up into anything to get that final brush of friction he was desperately after. You sat back on your feet, wiping your wet, drool covered mouth with the back of your mouth. “Such a needy little slut,” you groaned, on a bit of a power trip from how close you’d had him to unraveling with just your mouth alone.  For the arrogance that he put on during his professional hours, you were the only one who could get Katsuki so weak. “You want to cum, brat?”

His forehead and body were slick with a thin layer of sweat, and he nodded. “Please, please let me cum, I need it. I need you.” The amount of desperation in his voice sent a thrill through you and you moaned as you started to crawl into his lap, wet lips dragging against his cock as you settled down. White dripped from the tip of his cock and onto the well defined planes of his stomach, and it took an incredible amount of restraint not to just start bouncing on him then and there.

“Do you?” Your voice was bored, languid, as if there were a million better things you could be doing at that moment. Your fingertips trailed over his stomach, causing him to shudder. They raked up and down his chest, moved to trail up your own stomach, to cradle and pinch at your own breasts while Bakugo struggled not to touch you greedily as he had before. He ached for it, could have very well started crying for it.

And when you put out what you wanted into the world...

“Please, baby, please, please, please!”

You took his throbbing length into your hand, lining it up with your entrance. Bakugo watched with hungry eyes as the tip of his cock started to disappear between your folds, the way you sat on him so slow and teasing he could have swore you wanted to kill him. Eventually, you sheathed yourself full of him, your opening settled against the curve of his hips into thighs. Yet, you didn’t move. You clenched around him, relaxed, and reclenched yourself as you sat poised and flushed over his dick. Your hands were braced against his chest, tips of your fingers biting into the hardened skin of his muscles. You felt impossibly full of him, wanting to savor that moment despite the feral whines coming from beneath you. “Beg me,” you breathed, eyes opening as you tilted your head to lock eyes with him. “Beg me to fuck you stupid.”

Tears prickled in the corner of his eyes, and he threw his head back, panting and you hadn’t even done anything. “I need it,” he groaned, fingers twitching to get at your skin. “I need to touch you. I need you to fuck me, I’m fucking losing it, please fuck me. Please, I’m-” His voice cut short as you leaned in, lifting over his cock with your pussy clenched as you moved against him. He wouldn’t last much longer if you teased at him like that, Bakugo knew that for sure.  “Ah, rrrnng, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.”

It was the last little bit of torture you would put him through for that night. You smiled, small and curt and it was the last string of resistance that snapped that would set the game on the ground and running. You adjusted your knees, pulling them inward as you started to ride Bakugo, hips slamming down into his as you bounced up and down. Meanwhile, Katsuki went wild. His hands found purchase in your skin in the most violent way. Grabbing at the plush skin of your hips, your thighs, pulling and clawing like a man desperate to find salvation. He cupped your breasts, the painful pulls of your hardened nipples only egging you on to fuck him harder, to get him to his high faster. The sound that filled the bathroom was wet, the squelches of your pussy as you sank around him over and over mingled with your desperate moans. 

A hand slipped up to Bakugo’s neck and squeezed there while you rocked back and forth against him. His mouth was hanging open, his panting feverish, and you swore he could have gone cross-eyed. “You don’t cum until I cum, slut.” your thumb brushed over his swollen lower lip as you leaned forward to pull it in with your teeth. “Make me cum.”

That was all the encouragement that Bakugo needed. His hips snapped against yours with enough feverish need you cried out in pain. He was sloppy, how his thrusts were ill-timed and desperate, pounding into you with reckless abandon. Your nails found themselves back in his chest, dug in as he held you down against his hips. Katsuki drove himself up into you, enough to carve you in half with the power behind them. Your mouth dropped open, unable to do anything but mewl, whine, and cry out. His thumb rubbed circles against your clit, equally as feverish in speed as he rushed to get you to your orgasm because he didn’t think he’d last much longer himself. He tossed his head back, listening to the sounds of you calling out his name, growing more and more desperate as you came closer to your own mounting high.

It was a specifically hard drive that sheathed itself right against the back of your spongy walls that undid you, your glaze tumbling around Bakugo’s length, coming undone once more as he continued to tease your clit and fuck you simultaneously. Always such a good boy, you groaned as you rode out the last of your high. “Cum for me, Katsuki. Fill me with your cum.” Those words, spoken breathlessly and of wrecked tone, sent Bakugo spiraling as he shot his load into you. Your hand slipped behind you to fondle his balls, milking him dry as he emptied himself into you until he was spent and shooting blanks. Even when he was spent, Katsuki remained inside of you, flexing his hips against you. Both of your breathing was labored, spent, unable to form coherent words for a moment of time.

You collapsed against his chest, soothed by the feeling of his chest rising and falling. Your sweet, loving, Katsuki Bakugo. Once you found you could still speak, you tipped your head so you could look up at him. “Are you okay, ‘suki?” A hand moved to push some matted blond hair out of his face. 

Bakugo’s hands wrapped around your waist, giving you a squeeze before he answered. “I was frustrated,” he started, voice gravelly and still thick with lust. “Today was one of those days where it seemed no one cared about what we were doing. Ungrateful dumbasses, tch.”

Your expression softened, and you pressed a kiss against his chest. “You know that’s not true. You do important work, my brave hero.” His thumbs ran circles over your lower back as you continued on. “I can’t imagine the pressure you’re under sometimes, doing what you do.” Bakugo turned to look at you, burgundy eyes tired, drained. You kissed the spot on his chest again. “You did so good, such a good job listening today.” You kissed him again, this time closer to his neck.  “You’ll always be appreciated and loved with me, Katsuki, you know that, right?” 

A blush pulled over his features, and he ducked his head with a roll of his eyes. Despite the reaction that would have had anyone assuming the sentiment wasn’t appreciated, “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m not a dumbass, you know.”

You laughed, kissing him gently on the lips for a few moments. The desperation from before no longer present, the only thing left behind the deep rooted love you held for one another. Slowly, you pulled away and smiled down at him. “Come on, lets get cleaned up and order in. Your favorite.”

[ceescedasticity]

Jin Guangyao’s Hoarding Problem, part 4

part 1, part 2, part 3

Jin Guangyao is having a really good week, and then suddenly he is having a really bad week.

This is mostly his father's fault. But he does feel that Madam Qin really could have chosen to share this information literally any time earlier in the courtship. Even if it was after Qin Su was pregnant, more time might have enabled him to come up with something! Even if she weren't pregnant calling off the wedding this late would be a significant scandal — what was Madam Qin thinking? Probably she wasn't thinking. No one around him ever thinks.

(He's not exactly thinking his clearest, either, but he doesn't realize that.)

He wants to get out of it. (The marriage still has its good points, if the secret can be guaranteed — but I don't think he would want a marriage which could only produce children who 'had to die'.)

(He could order Wen Qing to prepare an abortifacient, but then, he could in theory procure an abortifacient in any timeline. Honestly I wouldn't even be surprised if Madam Jin quietly keeps a stock on hand in case any of the household staff has a problem. And it seems like something Meng Yao ought to know about, doesn't it? But perhaps Meng Shi insisted he shouldn't pay attention to such filthy things, and he knows no more than most young gentlemen. Still, he could get his hands on one somehow — doing so discreetly is a challenge but not an insurmountable one. The trouble is that without Qin Su's forewarned cooperation, any termination of the pregnancy will be obviously a failed pregnancy, and marrying her is still the only honorable thing, but now with an added taint of sin for premarital sex and the shame of failing to cover it up, he can hear the remarks about his mother already.)

(He could have Qin Su non-fatally poisoned — enough to make her very sick and put off the wedding. But medical examination might reveal the pregnancy, and too long a delay definitely would.) (If he were willing to entertain the idea of telling Qin Su, this would be a good way to buy time to talk. There are so many more possibilities when she's not one of the people who has to be lied to.)

(He could have Qin Su fatally poisoned, and make sure no postmortem exam found the pregnancy, or at least that no one talked about it. But he doesn't have a scapegoat set up for a murder, and Madam Qin might suspect him.) (He also doesn't want to kill her, but that's not what deters him.)

(He could have Qin Su kidnapped, into the Dizang or elsewhere. But he doesn't have a scapegoat ready for that, either, and that still doesn't fix the pregnancy.)

(Now, if he could have her kidnapped, terminate the pregnancy, somehow alter her memory so she doesn't remember there ever was a pregnancy, somehow alter her memory so she doesn't remember the kidnapping, 'rescue' her, give the impression she's temporarily lost her wits from the experience and has probably also been ruined, well, the only compassionate thing is to cancel the wedding, cancel the engagement, send her home to her parents, terrible tragedy, maybe someday she can find happiness elsewhere. If he had a way to alter memories that quickly and precisely he might go with this despite the lack of prepared scapegoat.)

He decides the best option is to go through with the wedding and… deal with it later. Somehow.

(Highlights/"highlights" of the wedding celebrations include, but are not limited to:

It is Jiang Yanli's first major social event since her mourning period concluded. She spends most of her time trying to get Jiang Cheng to stay still long enough for her to talk to him. She's not mad at him!

Lan Xichen averts a disaster when he overhears and shuts down some speculation on whether Jiang Yanli will marry again — she'd have to come with a pretty hefty dowry, what with the health problems and so-so looks and rumored madness — before Jiang Wanyin hears any of it.

Nie Huaisang gets blackout drunk and throws up in the banquet hall, but not before laying the groundwork for five different problems with minor sects he can beg San-ge and Er-ge to help him with.

Su Minshan is totally unaware that Jin Guangyao's good week has become a terrible week and cries tears of joy at his benefactor's good fortune.

Sect Leader Yao gets tipsy and attempts to tell a bawdy story. It does not work very well.

Jin Ling is prevented from inviting himself to the banquet and throws a screaming tantrum not quite out of hearing.

Jin Guangshan comments on Qin Su's hips.

Jin Guangshan offers a minor Sect Leader's daughter jewelry to meet him in an inn in Lanling.

After both of the above incidents Madam Jin glares daggers at Jin Guangyao for some reason.

In fact Madam Jin glares daggers at Jin Guangyao the entire time.

Using the rebuilt Seal, Xue Yang sneaks into Jinlintai proper and steals an entire dessert course out of the kitchen.

On the plus side, he doesn't kill anyone and isn't spotted.

Congratulations!)

(Jiang Yanli eventually corners Jiang Cheng and tells him she isn't mad at him, and he's doing a wonderful job, and as soon as she can get the idea past the Jins she wants to take Jin Ling to Lotus Pier for at least a few months. Jiang Cheng is dubious about the first two assertions but can at least appreciate the third.)

Back in the Dizang it's been convenient that courtship and wedding preparations have occupied so much of Jin Guangyao's attention, because the preliminary results of the 'crying' research have been slightly more disruptive/strange than anticipated. It turns out that it is indeed possible to manually activate the tear glands of a fierce corpse, either by acupuncture needles or by talisman. After this, they will stream for four to six hours no matter what anyone does, which also gives them runny noses. After that, though, their eyes will water when they didn't before. When Wen Ning went through the procedure, he found that he could get tears triggered by emotions. He also discovered that crying gives him a dry mouth — the initial four-hour rain of tears gave him such a dry mouth he couldn't speak for a while.

This spun into everyone getting pulled into a study of 'how do fierce corpses regulate their moisture levels'. Water ghouls don't get waterlogged and fall to pieces. Fierce corpses in deserts don't desiccate and fall to pieces. They must regulate somehow. Missing moisture has to come from somewhere, and extra moisture has to go somewhere, and no one has ever looked into how before. It's disgusting. Xue Yang's never had so much non-homicidal fun in his life. (Well, a little homicidal, since he made the corpses, but not currently actively homicidal.)

Besides Xue Yang, all of this has been productive for Wen Qing and Wen Qing, Wei Wuxian is reluctantly fascinated, and Mo Xuanyu is non-reluctantly fascinated. He Zhi and He Jian are not having such a a good time, because all the fierce corpses besides Wen Ning are, you know, their relatives. Mo Xuanyu tries to help by suggesting Xue Yang can swap out the active experimental corpses with some that used to be whichever relatives they hated? There aren't any?! This leads to a discussion of Mo Xuanyu's maternal relatives. Xue Yang offers to kill them if the opportunity arises. Mo Xuanyu doesn't say no.

As soon as Jin Guangyao can get away for a day or two without anyone noticing — some nominal discreet inspection tour — he comes back to the Dizang and brushes off Mo Xuanyu's attempt to present his report on everything that's gone on while Jin Guangyao was busy with courtship and wedding (he doesn't want to think about courtships or weddings). He just goes and orders Wen Qing to invent a poison that can be administered either slowly or in parts, which will make the victim insane with lust and ultimately cause dramatic heart failure, preferably during sexual intercourse.

Wen Qing doesn't ask what his father did to finally push him over the edge, but it's a struggle. She does point out those are extremely specific requirements and she's not an herbalist. She will try if ordered to, but…

Hmmm. Yes. Good point. Perhaps what we want here is a curse. Yiling Laozu, design me a curse.

Wei Wuxian: What? I don't do curses, that was a false accusation—

Wei Wuxian's internal monologue: 'Mad with lust' curses exist, demons hit commoners with them all the time. I don't know the mechanics — well, I have a few ideas how it might work now that I think about it — I don't know how they work, though. A curse to kill someone the next time they have sex should be fairly straightforward, would be more straightforward if I'd gotten around to having sex, not bringing that up. No, I'm not bringing any of this up, I'm going to try to get out of helping Jin Guangyao murder someone. Even if it is probably his father, who deserves it. No. Besides, getting any of this to work on someone with high cultivation would be a challenge— PROBLEM! Would be a problem.

Jin Guangyao leaves him to think about that — for now — and goes down to the cell in the subbasement to (a) look at practically-a-puppet Nie Mingjue and feel smug about his own triumph and superiority, and (b) fantasize about using Nie Mingjue to kill Jin Guangshan.

He sends a message to Qin Su saying he's been injured, but please don't tell anyone, he doesn't want to show weakness. When he gets back, he claims the injury rendered him incapable of sex — but she can't tell anyone, she can't, he'll be ruined. Qin Su is dismayed, but vows she will keep the secret and considers him no less her husband for not being able to fulfill that duty. And at least they have the one child on the way! What a blessing.

Yes. A blessing.

(Qin Su keeps her word and doesn't tell anyone about the 'injury'. She does tell Jiang Yanli, in confidence, that her marriage isn't quite turning out as she expected it to.)

(Meanwhile Madam Jin has nothing against Qin Su personally, but is very determined that everyone remember Jin Guangyao's wife is not on the same level as other Madams Jin. Jiang Yanli does her best to mitigate it, but she still isn't taken as seriously as she should be. When it becomes known Qin Su is pregnant Madam Jin's attitude sours further.)

(Jiang Yanli is privately of the opinion that Qin Su is welcome to be preeminent Madam Jin; she just wants to go back to Yunmeng for good and have A-Ling adopted as a Jiang. Sadly that definitely won't happen unless Jin Guangshan and Madam Jin are both dead.) (Not that she'd be so unfilial as to hope for that.) (Much.)

(Madam Qin dies, somewhere in here. Jin Guangyao is nothing but relieved.) (Did he have something to do with it, besides causing distress by going ahead with the marriage? We may never know.)

Jin Guangyao introduces He Lei to Qin Su, although obviously not under that name. A-Lei is the mute half-wit sister of a loyal servant of his, he says; the man is often away on business so Jin Guangyao promised to find his sister safe and honorable employment — a touching story.

Qin Su promises to be kind to poor half-wit mute A-Lei, and is very patient with her inexperience as a lady's maid and shy nervousness.

Madam Jin not so much. Despite Qin Su's poor taste in husbands, she is still a gentlewoman and deserves better servants than a mangy stray that son of a prostitute brought in, probably out of a brothel.

Jiang Yanli has to try to mitigate this, too. She also makes a few suggestions about ways A-Lei could communicate without speaking — pointing to pictures, perhaps? Hand gestures? Pantomime isn't very dignified, but they ought to let A-Lei express herself…

He Lei runs away from any such suggestions. She's not willing to 'speak' when Jin Guangyao doesn't want her to and jeopardize her siblings.

Jiang Yanli is disappointed, but respects her shyness.

(Nie Huaisang is not going to respect her shyness, especially when he's mostly sure he's seen her among Jinlintai's servants some time before her official appearance, but for the moment he's biding his time.)

He Lei goes to extreme lengths to avoid Jin Guangshan.

Meanwhile Xue Yang hears that Wen Qing is going to see if she can do anything for Wen Ning's sense of taste, next, and "helps" by providing a half-dozen fresh tongues for her to dissect.

(Wei Wuxian's internal monologue: —just mathematically there have to be at least a few resentful ghosts who have it out for Jin Guangshan with sex-related grievances. Now if you could both locate them, and then use their motivation to direct enough other ghosts to overcome Jin Guangshan's level of cultivation… Well, I could, if I had Chenqing and the Seal. Not sure how you'd package it as a curse— Not that I'm trying to package it as a curse this is idle speculation!)

[nbtful]

Tagged

Looking at it from a distance almost gives you a headache. Come up a bit closer and you’ll be able distinguish the specifics, a three-by-four array of tags, with black and white text printed on the front, the outsides barely enlivened by a muted color palette of dark greens and reds. The top and bottom row of the tags are emboldened with “WMAA”, an initialism betraying the installation’s exhibitor, the Whitney Museum of American Art. And then finally, in the middle, the main text is imprinted, ever so slightly aesthetically disproportionate to its surroundings. The content of the middle text is what makes the piece’s statement seem to scream. On each tag in the row, one to two words are printed spelling a sentence, with the full statement printed on the final tag in the second-to-last row, the piece dragging out its easy to understand, but infinitely contentious assertion: “I Can’t Imagine Ever Wanting to Be White” (Corbett). The relatively dull backdrop of the words doesn’t diminish the impact of the artistic statement; if anything, the blandness invites a plethora of differing interpretations to the piece. It’s at once intentionally provocative, blatantly inflammatory, and strikingly nonchalant.

Daniel J. Martinez’s Museum Tags: Second Movement is one of a few endlessly-controversial works of art that stakes a bold claim for one’s own identity. His brazen dismissal of white identity, implicitly in favor of his own Hispanic one, presents a physical representation of a set of opinions shared by many within the context of identity politics: the rejection of the predominant cultural identity in favor of a more historic one, an identity that has greater significance for the person involved; an embrace of their heritage through an unashamed repudiation of a more homogenized label of self-hood. As the son of two South Asian immigrants, my childhood in suburban Canada was often marked by feelings, whether valid or not, of maintaining an identity that was at the mercy of the perceptions of all my white, Anglo-Saxon friends, their constant racial interrogations forcing me to come up with an answer to a question I preferred not to think about. In that light, I can’t help but feel a rush of liberation in experiencing Martinez’s slightly cheeky piece, a brash declaration of independence and ethnic liberation. But there’s a part of me that feels like the dichotomy Martinez presents misses out on some part of the picture. For the multitude of immigrants that have arrived and made their home (and will continue to arrive in subsequent generations) in North America, reconciling their sense of self, their notion of their own cultural identity within the context of their background (whether that be through their direct past or their parentage) and their current cultural environment is a constant, daily struggle. And while the idea that immigrants should simply disregard the normative identity that’s found in one’s contemporary surroundings is enticing, it ignores any conception of cultural acceptance (or assimilation) that, while potentially harmful, is nevertheless an absolute desire and strived towards by so many people belonging to a second generation.

Of course, desiring acceptance is hardly a trait of minorities, nor is it one that fits within the contemporary context of immigration and assimilation. The first official articulation of the inherent desire for acceptance within groups can be found in the 1970s, when social psychologist Henri Tajfel formalized his ideas on social identity theory. The basic tenets of his theory state that humans venture to improve their own identity by enhancing their self-esteem through identifying with the groups of which they are a part of. By categorizing the world into an in-group and an out-group and accentuating the positive aspects of the in-group, one’s self-identity is bolstered, but it becomes inextricably tied within the in-group. (Tajfel 20). It’s easy to track this theory to a modern-day sensibility. It would lead one to believe in the existence of a wide demographic of people who simply wish to belong, to be accepted within the culture that they find themselves in. But as pieces such as Martinez’s have shown us, and as the (partially justified) feelings of quasi-self-righteousness of any immigrant could tell you, the real issue is not that simple.

Yet there still might be some area in which Tajfel’s theory holds some merit, especially in regards to the ways our identities interact between their internal and external perceptions. There is room for some nuance here, specifically in the notion that within one individual there often exists a strong sense of cultural multiplicity. What the aforementioned tantalizingly simple application of social identity theory would ignore is that those struggling to align themselves with an “in-group” are constantly being pulled between two apparently entirely disparate cultural groups, the plurality of their identity a constant headache to explain, acting as a recurring thorn in their side.

It’s a thorn that stings the most when it goes unanswered. On a particularly miserable and damp day in high school, a classmate asked me if I thought of myself as Indian. It wasn’t a question I had a response to. I don’t know if I had the bandwidth, or even the capacity, to articulate the confluence of factors that affected my thought process for my response to that question; my birth and childhood in Canada, my lack of emotional connection with my ethnic heritage, the itching feeling that I had to have some identification with it, the barely repressed shame when I realized I didn’t. It was clear that whatever my answer was, I wouldn’t find it satisfactory.

Through the variety of attempts that people undergo to try to reconcile these two seemingly opposing forces, it’s not hard to find instances of people affiliating themselves within the confines of the extremes on either of end of this spectrums, and while these might not be deliberate methods, in a contemporary North American society (especially within the context of multicultural megalopolis’ like Toronto or New York) where one’s racial, cultural, and regional identity is a regular topic of introduction, much less discussion, the choice to flock to either side is hardly optional. There’s the Martinez choice, which involves diving wholeheartedly into one’s history, shunning whatever it is that one finds in their immediate surroundings (an ideology found in groups ranging from Pan-Africanism to French-Canadian separatists; movements that undoubtedly have valid motivations and goals, but are wholly interested in returning to a historical method of human interaction instead of the current system).  There’s the opposite, where one strives to perfectly integrate into their new and (potentially) welcoming society. And somewhere in the middle lies the vast majority of the newly settled, those who choose to wield their cultural identity with greater fluidity, holding a multiplicity of ethnic and racial factors in their given persona.

While it may seem counterintuitive, recognizing these complexities and contradictions is a fundamental factor in successfully reconciling the opposing factors within one’s identity. Despite the fact that primarily identifying as a member of a specific demographic is often looked at as latching onto whatever one’s cultural, racial, or ethnic background is as the driving force for one’s thoughts, opinions, and political beliefs, the degrees of variation within an identity is what makes it an identity. For all it’s trumpeting, “diversity” is often levelled as a moral benefit on a macroscopic level, something that’s good and desirable to have in a group, but confusing and icky on an individual scale. Cultural or social diversity is seemingly much easier to digest when the individual components are neat and uniform, less of an identity than a form of tokenism, making a perfunctory effort to give one’s cultural background its due in one’s persona. Emily Crockett pinpoints the distinction when she notes that “identity progressives (those who actively engage in identity politics)  care about a lot of different things” and how those who practice identity politics are attempting to “[acknowledge] that American politics tends to treat the ‘white male’ as the default identity” (Crockett). Though it might contain an element of moving away from the trend of the “default identity” the nuances and fluidity of one’s cultural backdrop is what gives their identity life, not in its steadfast focus on one sole cultural factor. Of course, attempting to embrace this is an imperfect process. It’s one that is further complicated when cultural multiplicity is often mistaken for cultural duplicity.

The other day, as I was scrolling through my Twitter feed, I came across a post from a young, bearded, dark-skinned man, taking a picture of himself wearing a white tank-top, with a red and blue logo in the middle. The logo read “Make America Great Again.” The man’s caption for his photo was “Syrians for Trump.” But that wasn’t the most important part of the image, as what I had stumbled across was someone’s response to said picture. Their response was a simple one, immediately cutting across any pretense of political nuance: “Trees for Deforestation.” It’s an undeniably biting response and it gets to the heart of the original post’s hypocrisy and lack of empathy without being unnecessarily verbose. But the nature of the response is what gets me. It implies that because of his cultural identity (that he himself is clearly embracing) he isn’t allowed to hold certain political beliefs. These beliefs could be perplexing, contradictory, or (as in this instance) blatantly hypocritical, but they are still free for them to choose. It’s an occasion of cultural multiplicity, albeit in a slightly unexpected way, reacted to with a slight grain of hostility. His application of these ideals are hardly being suppressed, but no attempt is being made to accept, or even tolerate, them.  The refrain is a common one for many immigrants, the dismissive, unendingly frustrating shrug of “of course you support that, you are a [insert minority here].”

In Courtney Szto’s article #LOL at Multiculturalism, she examines the reactions that Twitter users had to a broadcast of long-running sports show Hockey Night in Canada that was broadcast in the South Asian language Punjabi, her interest stemming from the type of “cultural currency” that this show provides (Szto 208).  Hockey Night in Canada is a Canadian cultural institution, its longevity and focus on the country’s national pastime two surefire signs of a staple of the societal diet. By bringing in a dub of what to many people is still a “foreign” element (despite generations of Punjabis existing in Canada since the late 19th century) to an undeniable cultural icon is an example of a collision of differing identities, a clear instance of cultural multiplicity attempting to forge a path in the mainstream. Her analysis of the tweets encompasses a wide swath of english-speaking, non-immigrant users who had been exposed to the show, looking at a fundamental barrier to the type of entry-point acceptance that many first-and-second generation immigrants crave: the supposed cultural gatekeeper. The external demographic that is the driving influence behind what is accepted and what isn’t. Szto recounts an everyday example of attempting to crack through this gate, the forced actions of “citizenship reclamation” where one is confronted by gales of “where are you really from?” during daily interactions (Szto 210). The variety of reactions Szto finds from “non-racialized” Canadians ranges from ambivalence to outright racist vitriol, but there was a troubling recurring element of bemusement in the face of an ethnic rendition of a cultural staple. It’s troubling because of the implication that foreign languages, cultures, and identities will always remain as things to be viewed at a distance, never to be fully accepted as an appropriate method of expressing one’s identity, an attempted cultural mélange merely alienating both sides. If these reactions are to be taken as representative of a larger sample, it seems like Szto’s inquiry into the “cultural currency” that is provided by a show such as Hockey Night in Canada Punjabi is clearly not as valuable as we might like it to be. Still, minority experiences have been conveyed with a slowly increasing regularity through forms of mass-media like television, especially in recent times. So for these shows, what is the key to creating a broadcast with cultural currency thats valuable, if not redeemable, paving a way to greater representation and acceptance of something other than the “default identity?” (Crockett).

At least within the context of American society and its television consumption habits in the past half century, it’s not hard to find a through line for the type of minority representations that have been deemed culturally valuable. The overarching contradiction of contemporary cultural tolerance seems to be that conformity is the key to diversity. Jump back to 1984, when a then-struggling network has its fortunes changed by the premiere of an instantly successful sitcom, revolving around a well-off nuclear African-American family, in The Cosby Show. Predatory proclivities of its creator aside, the show becomes a frequent citation as a groundbreaking piece of television with its nuanced depiction of race, something that, as Entertainment Weekly notes, “changed forever the way black families are portrayed on television.” Despite the fact that the show’s central family are “maligned by addled armchair sociologists for being too prosperous for a realistic black family”, the show goes on to have a tremendous influence on subsequent shows focused on African-American experiences “from In Living Color to The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air” (Schwarzenbaum).  In other words, The Cosby Show becomes revolutionary because it portrays black people as white. Fast forward a decade, and comedian Margaret Cho attempts to claim an Asian-American version of The Cosby Show with All-American Girl. There’s a definite historical distinction to be made between Asian-Americans and African-Americans, but as the distressing history of wide scale minority representation shows, anything that isn’t the most accessible element (in this case, race) will be treated as such. As E. Alex Jung reminisces in his exploration of media representations of Asian-Americans, the show is heavily criticized for its stereotypical portrayal of its (ostensibly) Korean family, with Cho acting as “our sassy guide into this exotic world.” But tellingly, the main environment of the show is simply fodder for “gibberish Orientalism”, with the constant “invocations of duty and honor and birthing male sons” acting as blatantly and unabashedly foreign (Jung). With the show only ever having one character who conformed to the cultural identity of White America, All-American Girl does not find the same success that Cosby did, and the show is cancelled after its first season. It’s twenty years until another sitcom starring a predominantly Asian-American cast airs on network television. The show that finally breaks the streak, Fresh Off the Boat, fixes the mistakes Cho made. While Cho’s statement of growing up amidst clashing cultures (as betrayed by the title of her show) didn’t resonate,  Fresh Off the Boat is more welcoming. Almost the entire family now is open to American cultural experiences, the protagonist of the show consistently eschewing his Taiwanese culture in favor of basketball, along with his father embracing all facets of American life, the prime example being his ownership of a Western-themed steakhouse called Cattleman’s Ranch. Fresh Off the Boat’s contemporaries have certainly picked up on the pathway for racially-themed success in a mass market, with shows such as The Mindy Project and Master of None (both created by and starring Indian-American comedians) focusing on protagonists that are solely found in interracial relationships (with white individuals), have a high-paying, unique job (i.e. obstetrician/successful actor), and generally deal with the airy, semi-existential frivolity that wouldn’t feel out of place on Cosby (or Friends for that matter). They are, to borrow a phrase from Jung, “assimilationist projects,” designed to normalize the idea of favoring the identity standard instead of the identity complex.

This isn’t meant to label the lives and characters these shows portray as inaccurate; indeed, it’s quite likely that they provide a more precise and complex portrayal of “non-default identities” than one that presents a clichéd and stereotypical look at the immigrant experience (Crockett). But the kind of whitewashed lifestyle we find in these projects is, however intentionally, pushing an agenda of cultural conformity. While it seems like this lies in harmony with what so many of us non-defaults are trying to accomplish, achieving a form of acceptance through the lens of complete acculturation is a distressing thought, especially when it seems that so many pieces of media that are promoting tolerance of supposed cultural multiplicity are in fact “assimilationist projects” (Jung). Conformity certainly isn’t an unequivocally abhorrent thing, but the reluctance to give into it betrays a perceived lack of control, a full relinquishment of one’s sense of self to the majority, the crowd that told you what to do. Despite everything, there is still an awareness of one’s background, and that is rarely lost completely by most people in this situation. But if a balance is what is attempting to be struck, between heritage and environment, why was there such trouble in answering my classmate’s question? Why does Szto feel so exasperated whenever she’s asked “where she’s really from?” Why do I still silently cringe whenever my roommate brings up my Indian background, despite the fact that he casually invokes his own German identity?

Much like the aversion to opinions of “conformity,” perhaps this discomfort is derived from a question of choice. For those of European descent whose ancestors arrived in North America hundreds of years ago, it is easy to get away with any degree of cultural identification. It doesn’t matter to everybody else, their “whiteness” is identity enough. But for those that have arrived in the time since, their cultural background have become transfixed in the eye of the external beholder. As Crockett puts it, “for the people who actually inhabit those identities, though, they are anything but optional.” Of course, this is true for any recent immigrated demographic to the New World. As described in John Higham’s Strangers in the Land, Irish and Italian immigrants to America in the nineteenth century were viewed with as much distrust and “otherness” as many groups are today, with many lobbyists “[denouncing] immigration as a national complementary problem” (Higham 61). Stand-up comedian John Gregory Jr. realizes this as well, noting that saying “white power!” in the 1800s would more than likely result in bewildered reactions of “slow down. Surely you don’t mean power for ALL the whites!” These groups were eventually absorbed to be part of the normative culture and society moved on to fearing all-new groups. Is the solution then to simply wait it out? To align ourselves with the “assimilationist projects” of the contemporary media and eventually hope for the “default identity” to grow to encompass our specific identity? While it might seem passive, and discriminatory against one’s inner complexities, perhaps history has already given us the precedent for what the course of action for cultural acceptance from here onwards should be.

I can’t pretend to know what the best way to come to terms with one’s cultural identity is, nor can I foresee in what direction the discussion will go. Predicting such things would require much greater faith in trend-lines than seems wise. But I can tell that, with respect to all historical exemplars, passivity in the hunt for acceptance falls by the wayside. I’m brought back to that rainy day when my friend asked me, in much more conversational terms, who I was as a person. The thoughts and voices that ran through my head popped up as quickly as they dissipated, the overlapping cries reminiscent of my first brush with Martinez’s brash piece. The stories and expressions that resonate through the history of cultural transmutability found themselves colliding in my mind, its call encompassing everything from a family of Italian immigrants on Ellis Island to a young Punjabi boy trying to watch a game of hockey with his dad. And despite all of the barreling visions, the answer was made no more clear to me, and I imagine to the millions of others who share my story, my struggle with myself.  I just smiled and shrugged, the echoes of their screams refusing to fade.

[teachanarchy]

When Eli Sommer came across the term “transgender” in a Tumblr post in high school, everything clicked. “Oh,” he thought. “That’s me.” Attending a Georgia high school, struggling with anxiety and depression, Eli tried to communicate with his parents who were forcing gender conformity and insisting he was a girl. It wasn’t until his psychologist, who is himself transgender, recommended The Transgender Child as a resource that his parents realized what Eli needed to thrive.

The family met with his homeroom teacher, who quickly became an ally, even advising the LGBT club Eli established called GLOW (Gay, Lesbian Or Whatever). “He’s cisgender, he’s straight,” Eli recalls, “but he’s passionate about advocating and making sure all of the kids in our club succeed in school and aren’t held back because of how they identify.”

Eli also found an advocate in his school principal, who located a gender-neutral restroom for him to use at school. “I would not have thought that my principal would have been helpful because he drives a big red truck with a gun rack on it,” recounts Eli. “But when all of the transgender stuff came to the table, he was like, ‘I don’t really understand, but Eli’s a good kid and we’ll get him what he’s entitled to.’”  

Although it was not without obstacles, the relative ease of Eli’s transition is rare. The 2013 GLSEN National School Climate Survey found that, compared to their LGB peers, transgender and gender-nonconforming students face the most hostile school climates. According to the National Center for Transgender Equality, in 2015, 75 percent of transgender youth felt unsafe at school, and those who did not drop out altogether were more likely to miss school due to a safety concern, have significantly lower GPAs, and were less likely to plan for future education.

The good news is educators are learning more about how to support nonbinary youth at school. One of the most important lessons? The needs of transgender youth remain distinct from those of their LGB peers—and they extend beyond pronoun usage and bathroom access.

“When Kids Like Me Grow Up …” Experts cite mentorship as instrumental for trans students’ success, but formal mentors are scarce. Jenn Burleton, executive director of TransActive Gender Center in Portland, Oregon, sought to establish a trans-to-trans mentoring program but failed to locate enough transgender adults for similarly identified youth.

“Right now what these kids do not have is enough of a sense that: ‘When kids like me grow up, there’s an adult version of me doing what everybody else does and getting through the day. They’re there for me to see and know that there’s a place for me to walk when I get older,’” Burleton says. “Not letting kids see that can give them a subliminal sense that there is a dead end to their identity or that hiding is the only way to be.”    

Kiera Hansen, a genderqueer-identified social worker in Portland, Oregon, is attempting to fill this void. Hansen—who prefers the pronoun they—helps run an afterschool drop-in program where almost everyone identifies as trans or gender-nonconforming. While funding sources have diminished, their team has pooled resources throughout the city to create a tight-knit group. Outside of the group, Hansen has accompanied mentees to school when they need support, meeting with teachers to ensure access to the right bathrooms, use of the right pronouns, and to address any other issues students might face.

Hansen cites modeling vulnerability as a key to successful mentoring. “I’m surviving a lot of things on a regular basis, just as the youth are,” they recount. “I am genuinely honest with them. We’re transparent about the hurdles and barriers we go through in life and in the program. We do not make everything look perfect and well-put-together. We want them to have the tools to interact with the systems that are often working against them and their voices.”

One of the members of their drop-in group, Cameron, is about to graduate from high school and attributes part of that success to the group. “I have a really bad attendance problem with school,” he confides, recounting frequent bullying, including being compared to a wild animal in sociology class. “Having this group to look forward to every week has been one of the motivations that brings me back to school.”

Gender Identity Competency When working toward success at school for transgender students, it is paramount for youth to identify an adult with whom they feel safe. Johanna Eager, director of the Human Rights Campaign’s Welcoming Schools program, coaches educators around gender identity competency. She trains schools to help transitioning students identify a knowledgeable staff member who may or may not be trans but to whom students feel safe going during the day. “Any trans student needs to know who their safe person is,” she says. “You are vulnerable if you are the only one.”  

Eager says there is no formula to positive mentorship. Some mentors are passionate and informed based on experience. Some are naturally kind and caring, with no formal training. “I’ve seen educators who don’t have much knowledge tend to the social emotional health for a trans child, and I have seen folks who are trans or LGBTQ be supportive with their knowledge. It can be either and it always has been.”

Above all, quality mentors trust that transgender youth know who they are and what they need. As one father reflected about parenting his transgender son, “There were never any conscious decisions. It was always intuitive, following him. It’s about letting him lead and supporting wherever he is. That line is always moving.”

Transgender youth are looking, first and foremost, for adults to respect their chosen names and pronouns. Making this effort validates young people’s core identity and solidifies their safety. Without it, a trusted relationship cannot be built. As Cameron says, “People using your pronouns and correct name without fail is wonderful. When people do it with no question, you can tell they see you the way you want to be seen.”

Earning the trust and respect of transgender students requires educators to uncover any internalized transphobia and recognize personal biases. Some allies find it takes time to mentally de-align gender and genitalia. Still, adults cannot show up for youth without honestly accepting their feelings and beliefs. If they skip this crucial step, youth will notice. This is the case for Todd, who is genderqueer and can read their teachers’ facial expressions as measurements of acceptance and safety.

Once educators recognize their own behaviors and microaggressions, they’re better equipped to identify microaggressions, bullying and harassment when they happen in schools. Even if it appears minor, these behaviors need to be interrupted in the moment. Too often transgender students expect no assistance from teachers; being ostracized becomes the norm. As one trans middle school student—who is now homeschooled—attests, “As long as it doesn’t escalate to a screaming match, they think everything looks fine.”

Furthermore, the interruption does not have to be impeccable. Eager recommends, “Just say something. You may screw it up, it may not feel comfortable, it may not be perfect. But saying something is better than saying nothing, and you need to say it because everyone is watching to see if they are going to be safe.”

If necessary, distinguish between the personal and the professional. Lead author of the resource guide Schools In Transition, Asaf Orr, stands behind educators who are “on board” regardless of their personal beliefs. “In their private lives these educators may not be supportive of gender exploration,” Orr notes. “But when they get to school, they know it’s critical to be 100 percent supportive of a kid’s own gender exploration, and they ensure the space for them to do that.”    

Educators can support their trans students by including nonbinary identities in the curriculum. As Cameron asserts, “With every sex ed class we have that’s not inclusive, and every English class where there’s no inclusive literature, there’s another trans kid that feels so alone.”

Recognizing nonbinary gender identities depicted within student work is also important, as youth are likely to reflect themselves most accurately. One agender-identified seventh-grader, Jace, remembers feeling safe after a teacher commented on their agender character drawing, saying they “looked cool.”

Finally, do not assume. Nontransidentified adults, says Cameron, “are never going to be able to fully understand what any trans person is going through. Adults need not question the way a person feels about themselves, because they do not know. They are never going to feel the same way. And we have to figure ourselves out.”

Transgender youth know what they need to feel safe. Strong mentors ask them.