#because of the lack of a clear statement saying these country humans are separate from their war crimes; it makes it difficult to make—

[appleflavoredkitkats]

going thru the hetalia philippines tag makin me realize (again) how someone needs to teach hetalians how to not accidentally reinforce colonialism thru fan content holy shit

[semiotexte]

As the years passed, I learned to think of dreams as an integral part of life. There are dreams that, because of their sensory intensity, their realism or precisely their lack of realism, deserve to be introduced into autobiography, just as much as events that were actually lived through. Life begins and ends in the unconscious; the actions we carry out while fully lucid are only little islands in an archipelago of dreams. No existence can be completely rendered in its happiness or its madness without taking into account oneiric experiences. It’s Calderón de la Barca’s maxim reversed: it’s not a matter of thinking that life is a dream, but rather of realizing that dreams are also a form of life. It is just as strange to think, like the Egyptians, that dreams are cosmic channels through which the souls of ancestors pass in order to communicate with us, as to claim, as some of the neurosciences do, that dreams are a “cut-and-paste” of elements experienced by the brain during waking life, elements that return in the dream’s REM phase, while our eyes move beneath our eyelids, as if they were watching. Closed and sleeping, eyes continue to see. Therefore, it is more appropriate to say that the human psyche never stops creating and dealing with reality, sometimes in dreams, sometimes in waking life.

Whereas over the course of the past few months my waking life has been, to use the euphemistic Catalan expression, “good, so long as we don’t go into details,” my oneiric life has had the power of a novel by Ursula K. Le Guin. During one of my recent dreams, I was talking with the artist Dominique González-Foerster about my problem of geographic dislocation: after years of a nomadic life, it is hard for me to decide on a place to live in the world. While we were having this conversation, we were watching the planets spin slowly in their orbits, as if we were two giant children and the solar system were a Calder mobile. I was explaining to her that, for now, in order to avoid the conflict that the decision entailed, I had rented an apartment on each planet, but that I didn’t spend more than a month on any one of them, and that this situation was economically and physically unsustainable. Probably because she is the creator of the Exotourisme project, Dominique in this dream was an expert on extraterrestrial real-estate management. “If I were you, I’d have an apartment on Mars and I’d keep a pied-à-terre on Saturn,” she was saying, showing a great deal of pragmatism, “but I’d get rid of the Uranus apartment. It’s much too far away.”

Awake, I don’t know much about astronomy; I don’t have the slightest idea of the positions or distances of the different planets in the solar system. But I consulted the Wikipedia page on Uranus: it is in fact one of the most distant planets from Earth. Only Neptune, Pluto, and the dwarf planets Haumea, Makemake, and Eris are farther away. I read that Uranus was the first planet discovered with the help of a telescope, eight years before the French Revolution. With the help of a lens he himself had made, the astronomer and musician William Herschel observed it one night in March in a clear sky, from the garden of his house at 19 New King Street, in the city of Bath. Since he didn’t yet know if it was a huge star or a tailless comet, they say that Herschel called it “Georgium Sidus,” the Georgian Star, to console King George III for the loss of the British colonies in America: England had lost a continent, but the King had gained a planet. Thanks to Uranus, Herschel was able to live on a generous royal pension of two hundred pounds a year. Because of Uranus, he abandoned both music and the city of Bath, where he was a chapel organist and director of public concerts, and settled in Windsor so that the King could be sure of his new conquest by observing it through a telescope. Because of Uranus, they say, Herschel went mad, and spent the rest of his life building the largest telescope of the eighteenth century, which the English called “the monster.” Because of Uranus, they say, Herschel never played the oboe again. He died at the age of eighty-four: the number of years it takes for Uranus to go around the sun. They say that the tube of his telescope was so wide that the family used it as a dining hall at his funeral.

Uranus is what astrophysicists call a “gas giant.” Made up of ice, methane, and ammonia, it is the coldest planet in the solar system, with winds that can exceed nine hundred kilometers per hour. In short, the living conditions are not especially suitable. So Dominique was right: I should leave the Uranus apartment.

But dream functions like a virus. From that night forward, while I’m awake, the sensation of having an apartment on Uranus increases, and I am more and more convinced that the place I should live is over there.

For the Greeks, as for me in this dream, Uranus was the solid roof of the world, the limit of the celestial vault. Uranus was regarded as the house of the gods in many Greek invocation rituals. In mythology, Uranus is the son that Gaia, the Earth, conceived alone, without insemination or coition. Greek mythology is at once a kind of retro sci-fi story anticipating in a do-it-yourself way the technologies of reproduction and bodily transformation that will appear throughout the twentieth and twenty-first centuries; and at the same time a kitschy TV series in which the characters give themselves over to an unimaginable number of relationships outside the law. Thus Gaia married her son Uranus, a Titan often represented in the middle of a cloud of stars, like a sort of Tom of Finland dancing with other muscle-bound guys in a techno club on Mount Olympus. From the incestuous and ultimately not very heterosexual relationships between heaven and earth, the first generation of Titans were born, including Oceanus (Water), Chronos (Time), and Mnemosyne (Memory) … Uranus was both the son of the Earth and the father of all the others. We don’t quite know what Uranus’s problem was, but the truth is that he was not a good father: either he forced his children to remain in Gaia’s womb, or he threw them into Tartarus as soon as they were born. So Gaia convinced one of her children to carry out a contraceptive operation. You can see in the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence the representation that Giorgio Vasari made in the sixteenth century of Chronos castrating his father Uranus with a scythe. Aphrodite, the goddess of love, emerged from Uranus’s amputated genital organs … which could imply that love comes from the disjunction of the body’s genital organs, from the displacement and externalization of genital force.

This form of nonheterosexual conception, cited in Plato’s Symposium, was the inspiration for the German lawyer Karl Heinrich Ulrichs to come up with the word Uranian [Urning] in 1864 to designate what he called relations of the “third sex.” In order to explain men’s attraction to other men, Ulrichs, after Plato, cut subjectivity in half, separated the soul from the body, and imagined a combination of souls and bodies that authorized him to reclaim dignity for those who loved against the law. The segmentation of soul and body reproduces in the domain of experience the binary epistemology of sexual difference: there are only two options. Uranians are not, Ulrich writes, sick or criminal, but feminine souls enclosed in masculine bodies attracted to masculine souls.

This is not a bad idea to legitimize a form of love that, at the time, could get you hanged in England or in Prussia, and that, today, remains illegal in seventy-four countries and is subject to the death penalty in thirteen, including Nigeria, Pakistan, Iran, and Qatar; a form of love that constitutes a common motive for violence in family, society, and police in most Western democracies.

Ulrichs does not make this statement as a lawyer or scientist: he is speaking in the first person. He does not say “there are Uranians,” but “I am a Uranian.” He asserts this, in Latin, on August 18, 1867, after having been condemned to prison and after his books have been banned by an assembly of five hundred jurists, members of the German Parliament, and a Bavarian prince—an ideal audience for such confessions. Until then, Ulrichs had hidden behind the pseudonym “Numa Numantius.” But from that day on, he speaks in his own name, he dares to taint the name of his father. In his diary, Ulrichs confesses he was terrified, and that, just before walking onto the stage of the Grand Hall of the Odeon Theater in Munich, he had been thinking about running away, never to return. But he says he suddenly remembered the words of the Swiss writer Heinrich Hössli, who a few years before had defended sodomites (though not, however, speaking in his own name): “Two ways lie before me,” Hössli wrote, “to write this book and expose myself to persecution, or not to write it and be full of guilt until the day I am buried. Of course I have encountered the temptation to stop writing … But before my eyes appeared the images of the persecuted and the wretched prospect of such children who have not yet been born, and I thought of the unhappy mothers at their cradles, rocking their cursed yet innocent children! And then I saw our judges with their eyes blindfolded. Finally, I imagined my gravedigger slipping the cover of my coffin over my cold face. Then, before I submitted, the imperious desire to stand up and defend the oppressed truth possessed me … And so I continued to write with my eyes resolutely averted from those who have worked for my destruction. I do not have to choose between remaining silent or speaking. I say to myself: speak or be judged!”

Ulrichs writes in his journal that the judges and Parliamentarians seated in Munich’s Odeon Hall cried out, as they listened to his speech, like an angry crowd: End the meeting! End the meeting! But he also notes that one or two voices were raised to say: Let him continue! In the midst of a chaotic tumult, the President left the theater, but some Parliamentarians remained. Ulrichs’s voice trembled. They listened.

But what does it mean to speak for those who have been refused access to reason and knowledge, for us who have been regarded as mentally ill? With what voice can we speak? Can the jaguar or the cyborg lend us their voices? To speak is to invent the language of the crossing, to project one’s voice into an interstellar expedition: to translate our difference into the language of the norm; while we continue, in secret, to practice a strange lingo that the law does not understand.

So Ulrichs was the first European citizen to declare publicly that he wanted to have an apartment on Uranus. He was the first mentally ill person, the first sexual criminal to stand up and denounce the categories that labeled him as sexually and criminally diseased.

He did not say, “I am not a sodomite.” On the contrary, he defended the right to practice sodomy between men, calling for a reorganization of the systems of signs, for a change of the political rituals that defined the social recognition of a body as healthy or sick, legal or illegal. He invented a new language and a new scene of enunciation. In each of Ulrichs’s words addressed from Uranus to the Munich jurists resounds the violence generated by the dualist epistemology of the West. The entire universe cut in half and solely in half. Everything is heads or tails in this system of knowledge. We are human or animal. Man or woman. Living or dead. We are the colonizer or the colonized. Living organism or machine. We have been divided by the norm. Cut in half and forced to remain on one side or the other of the rift. What we call “subjectivity” is only the scar that, over the multiplicity of all that we could have been, covers the wound of this fracture. It is over this scar that property, family, and inheritance were founded. Over this scar, names are written and sexual identities asserted.

On May 6, 1868, Karl Maria Kertbeny, an activist and defender of the rights of sexual minorities, sent a handwritten letter to Ulrichs in which for the first time he used the word homosexual to refer to what his friend called “Uranians.” Against the antisodomy law promulgated in Prussia, Kertbeny defended the idea that sexual practices between people of the same sex were as “natural” as the practices of those he calls—also for the first time—“heterosexuals.” For Kertbeny, homosexuality and heterosexuality were just two natural ways of loving. For medical jurisprudence at the end of the nineteenth century, however, homosexuality would be reclassified as a disease, a deviation, and a crime.

I am not speaking of history here. I am speaking to you of your lives, of mine, of today. While the notion of Uranianism has gone somewhat astray in the archives of literature, Kertbeny’s concepts would become authentic biopolitical techniques of dealing with sexuality and reproduction over the course of the twentieth century, to such an extent that most of you continue to use them to refer to your own identity, as if they were descriptive categories. Homosexuality would remain listed until 1975 in Western psychiatric manuals as a sexual disease. This remains a central notion, not only in the discourse of clinical psychology, but also in the political languages of Western democracies.

When the notion of homosexuality disappeared from psychiatric manuals, the notions of intersexuality and transsexuality appear as new pathologies for which medicine, pharmacology, and law suggest remedies. Each body born in a hospital in the West is examined and subjected to the protocols of evaluation of gender normality invented in the fifties in the United States by the doctors John Money and John and Joan Hampson: if the baby’s body does not comply with the visual criteria of sexual difference, it will be submitted to a battery of operations of “sexual reassignment.” In the same way, with a few minor exceptions, neither scientific discourse nor the law in most Western democracies recognizes the possibility of inscribing a body as a member of human society unless it is assigned either masculine or feminine gender. Transsexuality and intersexuality are described as psychosomatic pathologies, and not as the symptoms of the inadequacy of the politico-visual system of sexual differentiation when faced with the complexity of life.

How can you, how can we, organize an entire system of visibility, representation, right of self-determination, and political recognition if we follow such categories? Do you really believe you are male or female, that we are homosexual or heterosexual, intersexed or transsexual? Do these distinctions worry you? Do you trust them? Does the very meaning of your human identity depend on them? If you feel your throat constricting when you hear one of these words, do not silence it. It’s the multiplicity of the cosmos that is trying to pierce through your chest, as if it were the tube of a Herschel telescope.

Let me tell you that homosexuality and heterosexuality do not exist outside of a dualistic, hierarchical epistemology that aims at preserving the domination of the paterfamilias over the reproduction of life. Homosexuality and heterosexuality, intersexuality and transsexuality do not exist outside of a colonial, capitalist epistemology, which privileges the sexual practices of reproduction as a strategy for managing the population and the reproduction of labor, but also the reproduction of the population of consumers. It is capital, not life, that is being reproduced. These categories are the map imposed by authority, not the territory of life. But if homosexuality and heterosexuality, intersexuality and transsexuality, do not exist, then who are we? How do we love? Imagine it.

Then, I remember my dream and I understand that my trans condition is a new form of Uranism. I am not a man and I am not a woman and I am not heterosexual I am not homosexual I am not bisexual. I am a dissident of the sex-gender system. I am the multiplicity of the cosmos trapped in a binary political and epistemological system, shouting in front of you. I am a Uranian confined inside the limits of techno-scientific capitalism.

Like Ulrichs, I am bringing no news from the margins; instead, I bring you a piece of horizon. I come with news of Uranus, which is neither the realm of God nor the sewer. Quite the contrary. I was assigned a female sex at birth. They said I was lesbian. I decided to self-administer regular doses of testosterone. I never thought I was a man. I never thought I was a woman. I was several. I didn’t think of myself as transsexual. I wanted to experiment with testosterone. I love its viscosity, the unpredictability of the changes it causes, the intensity of the emotions it provokes forty-eight hours after taking it. And, if the injections are regular, its ability to undo your identity, to make organic layers of the body emerge that otherwise would have remained invisible. Here as everywhere, what matters is the measure: the dosage, the rhythm of injections, the order of them, the cadence. I wanted to become unrecognizable. I wasn’t asking medical institutions for testosterone as hormone therapy to cure “gender dysphoria.” I wanted to function with testosterone, to experience the intensity of my desire through it, to multiply my faces by metamorphosing my subjectivity, creating a body that was a revolutionary machine. I undid the mask of femininity that society had plastered onto my face until my identity documents became ridiculous, obsolete. Then, with no way out, I agreed to identify myself as a transsexual, as a “mentally ill person,” so that the medico-legal system would acknowledge me as a living human body. I paid with my body for the name I bear.

By making the decision to construct my subjectivity with testosterone, the way the shaman constructs his with plants, I take on the negativity of my time, a negativity I am forced to represent and against which I can fight only from this paradoxical incarnation, which is to be a trans man in the twenty-first century, a feminist bearing the name of a man in the #MeToo movement, an atheist of the hetero-patriarchal system turned into a consumer of the pharmacopornographic industry. My existence as a trans man constitutes at once the acme of the sexual ancien régime and the beginning of its collapse, the climax of its normative progression and the signal of a proliferation still to come.

I have come to talk to you—to you and to the dead, or rather, to those who live as if they were already dead—but I have come especially to talk to the cursed, innocent children who are yet to be born. Uranians are the survivors of a systematic, political attempt at infanticide: we have survived the attempt to kill in us, while we were not yet adults, and while we could not defend ourselves, the radical multiplicity of life and the desire to change the names of all things. Are you dead? Will they be born tomorrow? I congratulate you, belatedly or in advance.

I bring you news of the crossing, which is the realm of neither God nor the sewer. Quite the contrary. Do not be afraid, do not be excited, I have not come to explain anything morbid. I have not come to tell you what a transsexual is, or how to change your sex, or at what precise instant a transition is good or bad. Because none of that would be true, no truer than the ray of afternoon sun falling on a certain spot on the planet and changing according to the place from which it is seen. No truer than that the slow orbit described by Uranus as it revolves above the Earth is yellow. I cannot tell you everything that goes on when you take testosterone, or what that does in your body. Take the trouble to administer the necessary doses of knowledge to yourself, as many as your taste for risk allows you.

I have not come for that. As my indigenous Chilean mother Pedro Lemebel said, I do not know why I come, but I am here. In this Uranian apartment that overlooks the gardens of Athens. And I’ll stay a while. At the crossroads. Because intersection is the only place that exists. There are no opposite shores. We are always at the crossing of paths. And it is from this crossroad that I address you, like the monster who has learned the language of humans.

I no longer need, like Ulrichs, to assert that I am a masculine soul enclosed in a woman’s body. I have no soul and no body. I have an apartment on Uranus, which certainly places me far from most earthlings, but not so far that you can’t come see me. Even if only in dream …

[woman-loving]

Transforming “Queer” into “Kvar”

Selection from "Queer Beograd Collective: Beyond Single-Issue Activism in Serbia and the Post-Yugoslav Space," by Bojan Bilić and Irene Dioli, in Intersectionality and LGBT Activist Politics: Multiple Others in Croatia and Serbia, ed. Bojan Bilić and Sanja Kajinić, 2016

Serbian LGBT activism has a relatively short history given that homosexuality was decriminalised in 1994. Soon after this routine revision of the penal code, which came as a surprise to the LGBT “community”,[5] the first gay and lesbian organisation Arkadija, operating from the early 1990s, was officially registered in July 1994. As the activist “scene” slowly differentiated, lesbian activists separated from Arkadija in 1995 to form a specifically lesbian non-governmental organisation, Labris (Mlađenović, this volume; Hura, this volume). It was this group that, inebriated by the ephemeral enthusiasm that followed the fall of Slobodan Milošević’s oligarchic regime in October 2000, misread the apparent “opening” of the political field and decided to stage the first Pride March in June 2001. The Pride—a feeling presumably “reserved” for other kinds of belonging in highly patriarchal environments—encountered an explosion of hooligan resistance and ended with around forty seriously injured activists (Bilić, 2016; Bilić & Kajinić, this volume). The then-Prime Minister Zoran Đinđić said in the wake of the event:

“I think that it is too early for a country that has been isolated for so long and under a patriarchal repressive culture to endure such a tolerance test. I am, of course, a supporter of tolerance in every sense and everyone is entitled to express their difference as long as they do not harm anyone else, and in this case there can be no harm because someone has different sexual affinities. That is the highest level of tolerance and I am afraid that we still need a certain period of time to reach it.” (B92, 2001, online)

The first attempt to stage a Pride March started the pairing of LGBT-oriented street protests with overtly homophobic aggression and inaugurated a chain of activist actions and immediate nationalist reactions sustained by the Serbian Orthodox Church. After the 2001 Pride, which became known within activist circles as the “massacre parade”, there was no initiative for Pride organisation in the following two years. In 2004, when the activists thought that the time was ripe for another attempt, they realised that they still could not count on political/state support and were yet again faced with homophobic threats, eventually cancelling the manifestation. In the words of Dušan Maljković (2013, online), a long-term LGBT activist from Belgrade:

“Forms of activism are often a local copy & paste of Western ones, which is very problematic because it implies a failure to consider the local context. This is the case, for example, of Pride parades, which many believe should be carried out like in the West at all costs, rather than reflect on how they might be reinvented to be made more effective.”

Queer Beograd Collective appeared in this context as a group of activists who decided to establish a safe haven in which the fluidity and richness of sexuality could be expressed and celebrated. A hamster with wings riding a bicycle was chosen as a logo because, as the activists stated (personal communication with Irene Dioli, 2009), “forming a queer collective in Belgrade was about as likely as finding a hamster with wings riding a bicycle”. They started condemning homophobic violence, which they perceived as a symbiosis of war,[6] clericalism, nationalism, militarism, and machismo that became deeply ingrained in the way in which politics was done by Serbian officials.[7] Accounting for the appearance of the Collective in their first Manifesto, issued in May 2005 as a “programmatic” statement of their first festival, the group members said:

“[…] the state and citizens are still ignorant toward problems of the LGBT population and all the others who are different. […] human rights are abused on a daily basis.

That is why this year we had a new concept—we refused to spend time on worries about violence that might happen and hiring private security or police. We wanted to build exciting cooperation between people on an international and local level, to have fun, and to promote queer politics. In this context to be queer means to refuse social rules and to constantly re-question supposed norms of patriarchal tradition. To create space beyond the rigid boxes of LGBT or straight sexuality, allowing each other the ‘privilege’ of self definition. To present a radical politics that sees the interconnectedness of all forms of oppression.” (Queer Beograd Collective, 2004)

The first “manifesto” introduced the concept of queer in its English original and announced that the initiative would attempt to offer a “holistic” approach to the frequent abuse of human rights by showing how various forms of discrimination stem from the same patriarchal nucleus. Over five days of the first festival, Do It Yourself, which took place in an abandoned building and gathered participants from Serbia, Croatia, Slovenia, Macedonia, Germany, Austria, and the United Kingdom, there were numerous art exhibitions, film screenings, performances, concerts, and workshops as well as a self-defence training. This event, which can be considered the start of grassroots queer activism in Belgrade, ended with a street party in the centre of the city, symbolically marking an attempt by the activists to, at least temporarily, claim a public space without provoking violent reactions (Dioli, 2011a).

However, after the initial enthusiasm to put an end to the incessant lamentations about Serbia’s backwardness and exclusion from the world, it became clear that the physical safety achieved through the use of the term queer did not come without a price. The activists and their sympathisers continued to grapple with the concept, some of them believing that the lack of violence and a sense of empowerment produced by the first festival could become possible because “queer” masked their sexual identities, which needed a more explicit politicisation.[8] At the “Queer Beograd Party & Politics” roundtable, organised within the second festival that took place in December 2005 and which lasted for three days, one of the participants said:

“I would like to describe a bit why I predominantly don’t identify or name myself queer, but rather lesbian. […] For me, using this term—which more or less has an Anglo-American connotation—is very questionable. […] There are these western paradigms which are most commonly translated, not just translated but sometimes copy/pasted to other regions, but not the other way around. This is also often the case with the term queer. It is very questionable, what we do with this translating of the concepts.” (transcribed by Irene Dioli, see Dioli, 2011a)

Thus, in the wake of the first festival, activists understood that “queer” did not really feel at home in the Serbian sociopolitical context. Although it could serve as a “folding screen” that would for a little bit of time keep hooligans “in check”, the concept was not widely known either within the Serbian LGBT “community”, which was supposed to be addressed by and take part in the Queer Beograd Collective festivals. Bearing this in mind, Jet Moon, a performer and one of the group’s founders, said in December 2005:

“After our first festival in Beograd, we realised it’s not enough to try and stage a queer DIY festival in Serbia, because for a start no one knows what queer is! On the one hand this is useful because the fascists and homophobes don’t come to attack us, on the other it means we don’t make contact with the community of people we want to play with. We don’t want to make a new kind of closet, but we use the word queer for a reason, for us it means more than the right to freedom of sexual expression.” (Moon, Party & Politics Roundtable, transcribed by Irene Dioli, see Dioli 2011a)

The second festival, self-financed like its predecessor a few months earlier, brought yet another series of performances, movie screenings, parties, and theoretical discussions on gender, sexuality, politics, and art. It was organised and attended by activists and artists from the former Yugoslav states and their guests from the United Kingdom, Italy, and the United States. In contrast to the first event, which was supposed to acknowledge the presence of those who tend to be left out of the heteronormative paradigm, the second one was devoted to a closer engagement with the creative political potential of the concept of queerness in the Serbian/post-Yugoslav context. As a result of these discussions, the third Queer Beograd festival, which took place in October 2006, rounded the evolutionary trajectory of the concept of queer within the initiatives of this activist group by substituting it with the Serbo-Croatian word kvar, meaning malfunction. Thus, the “manifesto” of the third festival read:

“In Serbian there is no word that means queer, no way to say what we mean about queer being more than LGBT equality. For us queer means radical, inclusive, connecting to all kinds of politics and being creative about how we live in this world. So our new festival is called “Kvar”, a technical term literally translating to mean “a malfunction in a machine”, because in this world of capitalism, nationalism, racism, militarism, sexism, and homophobia, we want to celebrate ourselves as a malfunction in this machine. We dare to resist conformity and go against what is accepted to create something about living and justice, not false productivity, war, and money. We are happy to present to you “Kvar—the malfunction”, a festival celebrating diversity and freedom of sexual expression, celebrating everyone who fights against the system.” (Queer Beograd Collective, 2006)

Dioli (2011b) notes how the translation of queer as kvar preceded the publication of Judith Halberstam’s book The Queer Art of Failure, which questions conventional notions of success in a heteronormative, capitalist society. The choice of the word kvar, thus, becomes particularly relevant in the context of the so-called “queer asynchrony” and “temporal disjunction” that Mizielińska and Kulpa (2011) use to explain the relationship between Western and Eastern queer activisms. Although departing with a noble goal of “de-centring” Western sexualities, they stick to a Western point of reference that inevitably portrays Eastern European countries as lagging behind their Western “models” (Takács, 2013 ). With this in mind, “the Serbian queer movement may almost seem to have anticipated the times. This may help dismantle some stereotypes of ‘Eastern’ LGBT and queer movements running after ‘Western’ thought and conquests in a linear trajectory of development” (Dioli, 2011b , online). By opting for the word kvar, which, while being phonetically similar to the word queer, encapsulates the essence of their politics, the Belgrade Queer Collective activists showed how a foreign concept can be appropriated in the local context. “The local subjects found a brilliant synthesis on the linguistic as well as semantic level, and thus fully ‘localised’ the original term” (Dioli, 2011a , p. 164).

[jane-the-zombie]

Is that a Police? I’m Calling the Weed! || Ulfric, Celeste, & Jane

TIMING: Roughly Three Weeks Ago PARTIES: @big-bad-ulf, @celestelavie, @jane-the-zombie SUMMARY: With the Bennett home trashed, Detective Wu has a few questions lined up for the owner of the truck that was seen outside their home that night. 

The case should have been simple, but Jane was admittedly not happy to add on yet another missing persons case into her ever growing pile of them. White Crest was an enigma - a small town that surely meant to be a bore, which was exactly what Sergeant Kelley had wanted when he transferred her here. Except it wasn’t. The unexplained phenomenons that continuously occurred in this town soon made her realize that zombies were the least of her problems. At least this case had a lead. The Bennett residence trashed beyond repair with the residents missing - not great. But a neighbor had seen a truck outside that night and actually identified plate numbers. Ulfric Haakonsson. Owner of Ink Inc. Willingly came down to the station to have a “quick chat” with her. Jane led him to one of the spare rooms. “Mr. Haakonsson, thank you for joining me today,” she said, politely. “I just have a few questions for you, and then we can get you on your way. How does that sound?”

Ulfric hadn’t given much thought to human law when he’d agreed to help Ariana hide her tracks. Pack law, the law of his nature, had taken precedence, the impulse to remove the girl from the path of danger immediately overshadowing consideration of any long term risks. So when he received the call from Officer Wu to come in for a chat he was disappointed, but not surprised. As isolated as the former Bennett residence was, it had only been a matter of time before someone found the mess that had been left behind there and started asking questions. He’d just hoped that with so many other strange goings-on in White Crest the WCPD would’ve been distracted and given him little longer before those questions were directed his way. Since it sadly seemed that time was up, he had no choice but comply with Jane’s request, heading to the police station as soon as he closed up shop. There was no way he was going to be forced to leave another country because of the meddlesome mundane legal system. “Of course, Officer. That sounds fine. I’m guessing this is about the Bennetts,” He answered, deciding that being as open as possible was the safest approach. “I just want to do my part to clear things up, then you folks can get back to other matters more important to the safety of our town.”

He brought up the Bennetts almost immediately. Jane kept her face passive, and she hoped that this was either going to be easy or that things had actually ended well. Though, judging by the state of the house, she wasn’t sure how anything in that house could have ended well. “Why don’t we take a seat?” Jane nodded to the table and chairs set up, taking a seat herself. She stayed silent a moment, before leaning back in her chair to get a good look at him. He cut right to it, right to the chase. Jane appreciated that. That meant she could skip the lowball questions first - how long have you been in town, what do you do for a living, blah blah blah - but it also meant that this could end up being harder than she hoped. Could swing either way. Jane fought back a sigh. “How do you know the Bennetts, Mr. Haakonsson? Why do you think you need to be clearing things up?”

Ulfric pondered for a moment, it was sometimes hard for him to explain to himself what the Bennetts were to him, let alone to summarize it so it made sense to human company. It felt most accurate to describe Ariana as family, but with the WCPD resources it would be fairly easy to prove they weren’t actually related, and that would just dredge up more uncomfortable questions. So, the truth it was then, or at least the parts that were easily digestible. “Ariana, came into my shop for a tattoo after her eighteenth birthday. I met her sister shortly afterwards. We’re close friends.” If he didn’t specify which one he was friends with, it didn’t feel as dishonest and he just hoped Jane would assume he meant Celeste since most grown men didn’t have much in common with teenagers. “If you’ve found their old place, I can see how it could give off the impression that something bad happened to them and I just wanted to assure you that they’re not hurt, and never were.” And never will be, if he had any say on the matter.

He was silent a moment, and Jane settled back in her chair. Ulfric seemed to be quite cooperative, didn’t seem to want any trouble, and wasn’t showing signs of deception. Which was all well and good, but that didn’t tell her anything about the Bennetts or what happened in their home to make it look like a serious struggle took place. Jane’s eyes narrowed. They’re not hurt, and never were. “Their old place was found looking like a pretty bad fight took place, Mr. Haakonsson,” Jane said. She had the crime scene photos in the folder in front of her. “And your truck was seen outside the property shortly before it was found like that. Do you know where the Bennetts are, then?”

“They’re with me. Staying on my property, for the time being.” Ulfric answered succinctly, choosing to address the direct question over the statement, though his eyes did flicker momentarily to the folder one the table. It didn’t take a genius to guess what was in it, and he wondered for a moment if the police had already cleaned up the mess after they finished documenting it. It would be just his luck to go to such lengths to send a message only for it to be wiped from the slate before it reached its intended recipient. “I can’t be the only one who’s seen them safe and sound since then,” He continued after a beat, pulling his focus back on Jane. Surely property damage wouldn’t rank highly on WCPD’s list of worries if he could prove no one was hurt in the process. And there should’ve been plenty of evidence, since the Bennetts had been going about their normal lives as much as possible, even after they’d been supplied with glamours. “Someone must have seen Celeste serving at Al’s Diner. Or you could contact the high school, Ariana’s been going to classes.” He added to that effect. “I’m surprised you’re asking me about this before trying to reach them directly.”

“The issue at hand isn’t inherently about their whereabouts,” Jane said, easily. She leaned forward on the table, resting on her arms as she looked at him closely. It was curious that he would so openly admit to Celeste and Ariana staying with him. Something strange was going on, and Jane decided she didn’t like it. Either Ulfric was the cause of the giant disaster that the Bennet property was left in, or he was helping them hide from the thing that did. Disturbances like that didn’t just happen. It wasn’t like a knocked over lamp or something similar. Ulfric could have been playing her still though, simply telling her what seemed to be the truth where something much deeper could be going on. “We’re looking into it because the Bennett family, both Celeste and Ariana, seem to be in some type of trouble. What can you tell me about that?”

In the past, Celeste had never really had to think of the legal aspects of running away from a temporary home. They never remained in town long enough for there to be any repercussions for them. The last thing she had meant to happen was for Ulfric to get caught in some sort of legal trouble on their account. It seemed he had worked hard to build himself a life and a foundation in this town. Her own lack of foresight frustrated her when she’d received a text from Ulfric telling her he’d been called into the police station. She had told Al she had an emergency and rushed over to the station, still wearing her ridiculous 50’s style outfit. The front desk worker had pointed her in the right direction and she spotted Ulfric. She gave a wave as she approached the room they were in, lightly rapping on the door before entering. “I’m so sorry for any confusion here. I can assure you that both my sister and I are perfectly safe, in large part thanks to Ulfric here,” she explained hurriedly, “I’m Celeste Bennett in case that wasn’t entirely clear. I’m happy to answer any questions you may have, officer.”

Ulfric sat stumped for a moment, resting his elbows on the desk as he considered what to say. Officer Wu clearly wouldn’t stand for skirting the issue any longer, he’d have to give some kind of explanation for the trashed house, one that didn’t put him or the Bennetts under further scrutiny. If he told her the basic facts, that they were hiding from toxic family members who meant to do them harm, surely that would be understandable, even if the WCPD didn’t agree with the extent they’d gone to in order to maintain their cover. But then again, if Jane did believe that story, they might place them under protective surveillance which would only hinder their ability to take care of the hunters that plagued them permanently. Still, he was struggling to think of an alternative that sounded less incriminating, people didn’t usually cover their tracks because they had nothing to hide. Reluctantly, he huffed and opened his mouth to speak but promptly shut it when he heard the knocking on the door. He relaxed in his seat as Celeste entered. It seemed the ancestors were merciful, even in ensuring he’d seen that outfit previously so he didn’t laugh when it made an appearance in the middle of a police questioning. “I believe her word on this might be more valuable than mine,” he suggested to Jane, inclining his head towards the door. “Should I wait outside? These things are usually done separately, yes?”

Saved by the bell, it seemed. Jane stiffened slightly as someone interrupted, turning to snap at whatever idiot thought this was a good time to cut in, before she realized who it was and what she was wearing. Jane had only been to Al’s diner once, but she could recognize the gaudy uniforms anywhere. If this weren’t such a serious issue, Jane would say that her uniform was the true crime here. “Ms. Bennett?” Jane said, rising. She looked between Ulfric and Celeste, concern growing. If Haakonsson was forcing either Celeste or Ariana to do anything, there was nothing that she could do without Celeste directly complaining. But, perhaps, there was all a reasonable explanation for this after all. Jane looked between them one more time, naturally suspicious, but she finally just let out a low sigh and nodded. “If you wouldn’t mind, please,” Jane waited for Ulfric to exit, before she gestured the to the chair from where he had been sitting. “Ms. Bennett, I am Detective Jane Wu. I just have a few questions for you regarding the state of your home and supposed disappearance, if you wouldn’t mind.”

It should have occurred to Celeste that what worked when they were truly running away wouldn’t work if they actually stayed in town. At the time, she’d been so convinced her parents could arrive at any moment that it had to look like they’d left. It would buy them time, give them control of the situation. “Yes, that’s me,” she answered, “But you can call me Celeste.” She gave Ulfric a nod as he left the room. Her mind moved at a million miles a minute thinking of what believable story she could tell the detective. Most wouldn’t believe the real story. Even here, in a spot where the supernatural flocked, there were so many normal people just going about their lives none the wiser. The truth save the supernatural elements of it was probably the best way to go. She took the seat across from Jane, patting down the retro skirt as she did. Her features were etched with concern as she answered, “Yes, of course. What did you need to know, Detective?”

Jane let out a low sigh as she sank back down into her seat to begin her new line of questioning. Now that she was absolutely certain that Celeste and Ariana weren’t buried in a ditch somewhere there was only so much she could do. At least, she thought with a sigh, it wasn’t another missing persons case. It would be a shame for two young women to go missing in this town where those types of cases were hardly solved. Jane had a sneaking suspicion that most of those cases would never be solved because of the supernatural involvement. At least it was relief that Celeste and Ariana hadn’t been eaten by anything. “Well,” Jane said as patiently as she could manage. “You could start by explaining what happened to your home that left you to stay with Ulfric. If you please.”

Celeste should have expected an explanation would be wanted. There wasn’t really a satisfying one to give, but she could try. Leave out the bits about hunters and werewolves and it still sounded plausible, right? Did normal people have parents that spent the last fifteen years chasing them so they could kill them? Humans could be shiity parents, too, right? She’d read the news enough times to know as much to be true. Maybe vague was better. She placed her hands together in her lap, only realizing now how odd hands were. Did she just leave them there? Did it make her look suspicious? She let out a breath of air and explained, “There’s some people, they want to hurt my sister and I. We’ve been running from them a while. When the house, I assumed it was them and Ulfric offered us a safe place to stay so that Ariana could finish out the school year.” Vague, probably left her with more questions than answers, but believable.

Jane stiffened slightly at the honest answer, alarm crossing her features. “Someone is after you and your sister?” And they were hiding in little White Crest. Despite the mime problem and the supernatural issue (could it really be considered a problem? Another thought for another time, really, but something to think about), it was a small town. She didn’t know anything about the Bennetts other than what was in their file. Surely there wouldn’t be mob involvement with them - though, there were crazier things. “There are people after you?” Jane said, leaning forward on her arms. “Look, Celeste, I want to help you. Whoever is after you, you need to report them officially to the police. We can place you in police protection, and figure out a way to keep them away from you. Who is after you and why?”

Maybe that hadn’t been the right approach. Celeste wasn’t sure what she could say to dissuade the detective from pursuing this any further. She sighed, “Yes.” Not wanting to offer up more information than that. Detective Wu urged her to share more, allow the police to help and provide protection, but there was no reasonable way to explain this was a threat the police couldn’t help with. Her parents were well-connected enough that they’d find a way to get to her and Ariana. They’d been after them for fifteen years now and they weren’t stopping now. A small frown was on her face as she tried to explain, “I’m sorry, but this isn’t something the police can help with. Reporting them will just draw more attention to Ariana and myself.” She racked her brain for a way to explain this in a way that made sense. Her mind briefly drifted back to how Kaden’s girlfriend rationalized the wings thing. As a last resort, the wording of medical condition could actually come in handy.

There was nothing that Jane could do. In all technicality, there were no laws broken. Just suspicion of them having been broken, and upon looking into it, there were no complaining witnesses or victims or anything. Just information that some people are after me and my little sister. Vague words, and it was clear that Celeste wasn’t going to be giving her any specific information any time soon. The police, supposedly, couldn’t help. She had heard that before, and usually people who said things like that ended up dead, one way or another. But Jane could see that there was absolutely no way she could push Celeste into giving her anymore information. A shitty part of the job was that she couldn’t help anyone unless they wanted it, unless they gave her the means for it. Jane let out a low sigh. “I implore you to change your mind, Ms. Bennett, and let me help you and your little sister.” Jane stood, before she reached into her pocket and took out her business card. After a moment’s hesitation, she grabbed a pen, and quickly wrote something on the back of it, holding it out to her. “This is my card. It has my work line on it, and I’ve given you my personal cell-phone as well. Use it if you need anything, alright?”

Part of her felt guilty. This detective seemed like a good woman and Celeste wished she could turn to the police for help. The fact of the matter was, laws hadn’t stopped her parents in the past and they wouldn’t now. Jane wanted to help, but she feared there wasn’t much she could do. There was no evidence to hold against her parents and it would require giving her real name. It was too risky, no matter how trustworthy the detective seemed. Still, she said, “I’ll think about it.” She shifted in her seat to accept the card that Detective was giving her and tucked it into her apron. Celeste doubted she’d ever use it, but it was better to have it on hand. Just in case. She patted her apron back down and expressed, “Thank you, really.” She felt bad for the detective, but at least there’d be no legal implications for Ulfric. She looked back to Jane and asked, “Was I free to go then? I may or may not have a trainee covering my section at the diner.”

Think about it. Jane was trying her best to think of any reason that she could make Celeste stay, but there was truly nothing that she could do. With a low sigh, she stood and nodded, going to get the door for Celeste. “Of course, you’re free to go.” She stuck her head out, and nodded to Ulfric as well. “You too. Thank you both for coming in and answering my questions. Let me walk you both out.” And hopefully, Celeste would call her before it was too late.

[sleeplesssheep]

Veni, Vidi, Vici (part six)

He was tall, handsome and steamy. Salt and pepper hair sat upon his head like a crown of wisdom, and a mark of brilliance. The human man’s eyes were pools of sparkling cobalt. This human was a doctor, which was obvious from the white coat and stethoscope wrapped around his neck. Doctor… Daddy- same thing. 

“Oh, but Derek, we can’t!” Cried a much younger medical resident, similar to the stethoscope- this woman wrapped her arms tightly around the handsome Doctors neck and began to cry loudly. 

Derek leaned away from the brunette, and looked lovingly downwards at her. 

“I’m not going to stop loving you, Meredith. I can live without you, but I don’t want to live without you. And I’m going to do everything in my power to prove it.” 

A loud sob broke through the room, quickly accompanied by hiccuping and cursing. Popcorn suddenly flew out of Breanna’s hands and gently bounced off the large television at contact. 

“Don’t do it, Meredith! Don’t leave him!” Brea cried out in frustration, hot tears puddling over in her eyes. The expensive charcoal polyester couch shook under her as Breanna moved quickly off it, shedding the cashmere blanket that previously covered her naked legs. 

“Ugh!” The witch groaned in frustration as the television quickly switched to commercial. Just as an older man was discussing his lack of erections as of late, Montclair entered the room wearing a bewildered expression. 

“What the devil is going on here? I have a conference call in five minutes-” The Vampire's red hair appeared a dark brown in the evening light as he walked around the living room to examine the witch. Seeing her teary eyes, the Roman immediately startled and became alert.

“Oh, you have no idea! Derek, and Meredith, well they’re soulmates and they don’t even realize it yet- but I do! And she won’t give him a chance because--” Breanna sputtered about pacing, her face becoming flushed as she ranted. 

Realizing that there were no vampires, witches or demons making an attempt on her life Baldwin relaxed. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply in an attempt to calm himself. Deus, this television thing was a mistake. 

Breanna and he had come to an agreement of sorts. She couldn’t leave the property without him, nor make contact with others (this included work emails much to Breanna’s annoyance). In return for this submissive behavior, which was not usual for the witch, Montclair would provide television for entertainment and allow her to contact her Aunt’s and cousins on occasion. Both of them knew this peace treaty of sorts would only last a few days as Breanna was planning on voicing her issues soon. 

However, the vampire had yet to inform her that a) her Aunt Emily had perished and b) that her cousin Diana and his brother, Matthew, had run away to the past in an attempt to escape prosecution. 

To be plainly put, he wasn’t looking forward to the upcoming phone calls. But, deceiving her was necessary for her safety. 

Baldwin dragged a hand down his face and checked the time on his Rolex. 

“Two minutes,” Baldwin reminded Breanna, distracting her momentarily.

In Baldwin’s brief moment of self pondering, Breanna had begun to levitate around the room muttering to herself angrily. At Baldwin’s interruption, however, she fell to the ground and landed gracefully on the tips of her toes. As time passed (today was the eighteenth day that they had been sharing the apartment together) Breanna had become more casual around the vampire. This resulted in her constant humming while cleaning or cooking, as well as her use of her magical powers. Not that Montclair was going to admit it, but this pleased the beast within him. 

Despite her new level of comfort with him, he had yet to reach that level with her. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, just that Baldwin’s guard rarely fell down and when it did- that was something momentous.

“What did you say?” Breanna’s eyes cleared and she flushed with embarrassment as she realized how caught up she had been in Greys Anatomy. She quickly took in the vampires bewildered expression, his iPhone in one hand and his gold Rolex shining upwards at his face. Clearly, he was busy and didn’t have time for this. 

‘Oh fuck meeeee,’ She sang in her head. In an effort to distract herself before she combusted from the mortification of this whole evening, Breanna began picking the popcorn up. 

“I have a conference call in two minutes and it simply cannot happen if you are shouting and running about like a child,” 

Part of her ego wanted to roll her eyes at his comment, while the other part stung to hear him compare her to a child. 

Rude vampire. 

Breanna muttered an apology under her breath and continued to restore the living room to its previous cleanliness. Little did she realize, however, the silk robe she was wearing just so lifted in a way as she bent forward, attracting the vampire’s eyes immediately. 

Just as he would occasionally feel her tingling eyes on him, she felt the icy patches blossom right on her bottom. Breanna whipped up immediately, her hands squeezing the popcorn so hard it began to crumble. 

Neither of them addressed what had just happened, instead, Baldwin returned to his office and Breanna to the couch. But, before either of them had settled down into their separate activities, both served themselves hefty glasses of wine.

It was, after all, the best tonic for a supernatural.

-------------------

The next morning Breanna sat perched in front of a vanity in her room. Despite being adjacent to the vampire Montclair, she never saw him enter or leave it, and never heard anything from him. Montclair had given her a large bedroom that was decorated beautifully. It had dark wooden floors that were sparingly covered with a white area rug which contrasted pleasantly with the dark navy walls. Two french doors opened up onto the street below (after her railing adventure Montclair had taken up to put chairs on each balcony in an effort to curb her much more risky method of viewing) and took up most of the right side of the room. On the opposite wall was a fireplace so giant a Volkswagon bug could fit inside,  and surrounding it was a collection of antique-looking chairs. 

In fact, her entire room was kinda ancient. Breanna was an anthropologist and could easily appreciate such aged furniture and creations, but her specialty was not in goods but rather the people that made them. 

Using the mirror in front of her, she eyed her bedroom once again- taking in the extravagant curves, lines, and details in the expensive furniture. 

Definitely French. 

It was early morning in London, around eight o’clock or so. The witch stared blankly at her reflection as she thought of home. Her cat and the Madison Country neighborhood were sleeping as of now, unconscious to the rest of the world. 

Suddenly, a shine of white caught Breanna’s attention. 

“Jesus, is that what I think it is?” She leaned forward and brushed her hair to the side revealing a single white hair. Goddess, the vampire was aging her. Though Breanna had never dyed her hair, being pent up in this apartment for more then two weeks was starting to make her a little stir crazy. She thought of Diana, her cousin, and her beautiful straw colored hair. 

“It’s good to change,” Breanna encouraged herself. 

A simple spell came to mind and soon enough Breanna was chanting. When she opened her eyes to see the results, the witch grinned excitedly. Just as Baldwin was beginning to knock on her door, she threw it open to go see him. Both of them huffed awkwardly as Breanna almost flew into Baldwin. In an effort to keep her grounded (literally) Baldwin grasped her upper arms and forced her feet back to the ground. 

Blond wisps of hair floated around the both of them, crackling quietly as the magic left Breanna’s body. Her hair reminded Baldwin of a wild octopus- its legs waving around erratically. 

“Good morning, Miss. Bishop” Baldwin took a small breath as he examined her new hair and in doing so was assaulted by her scent. Jasmine, bluebells with the undertone of burning electricity. He had never seen a witch uses her power to dye her hair.

“So, what do you think?” She bounced up and down, shaking the vampire’s hands off of her. Breanna’s once amber hair, close to Baldwin’s shade, in fact, was now a honey blonde. Straight as a pin, it finally settled down onto her chest. 

“You look like your cousin,” He commented. 

Both of them noticed it wasn’t a compliment, rather just a statement of facts. Not that he would ever tell her, but Baldwin thought she was beautiful with her original coloring. Of course, now that he thought of it- two red-haired supernaturals moving about London would not be subtle.

Baldwin sighed as he moved passed into the witches’ room, doing his best not to breathe her smell. 

“You’ve met my cousin?” Breanna followed after him until they were both in front of the balcony. 

“Mmhmm.” 

“What kind of answer is that?” She exclaimed.

Baldwin eyed her from the corner of his eyes, realizing his mistake. He noticed the dark patches under her usually bright face, making her pretty face seem sick and sallow. The witch had not been sleeping well lately, and whether she had begun to notice this was unclear. Those who slept often didn’t remember their dreams, but Baldwin had heard her nightmares the night before. 

He shook his head and peered down at the quiet street below them. A gentle rain had started, cooling the air. 

“Baldwin, it is time we discussed this whole situation.” Breanna’s voice was confident and allowed no room for objection. The vampire turned from the balcony, his mouth parted open. Before he could speak, shout or do anything, Breanna held up a single finger. 

“I have stayed in your home. I have listened to you, respected you, and done my best to understand this situation. Something which, might I add, my cousin nor any other witch with some amount of sense would do. I trust you, only because my Aunt does. It has been more than two weeks, Baldwin, I can no longer sit by and wait. The Congregation is after me yes, I understand that. I am not stupid- I am just done with all of this nonsense.” Breanna spoke quickly and her hands fluttered about with each sentence. When she finished, her hands came to rest firmly on her rounded hips.  

Montclair processed everything she said. The witch made logical points, but it did not change the fact that they were in danger. More so, she was. He began walking out of her room and as he reached her door, Baldwin called back to the expecting witch,  “We are calling your Aunt today. I thought it would be good to fill her in on everything- as well as share my findings.”

As the door closed behind him Breanna cursed and sat on one of the chairs in front of the fireplace. This lack of communication on his part was begging to get the best of Breanna’s usually calm and docile soul. Sourcing her anger she shot a stream of fire into the hearth, igniting the logs immediately. 

“Goddess, guide me…” Breanna whispered, her face glowing from the flames. 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Later in the evening, Breanna and Montclair had settled in his office. The witch had never actually been in his office and was not the least surprised by its size, decor, and oppressive ambiance. Breanna sat comfortably in a Victorian age chair across from Montclair and eyed the surrounding room while he was calling her Aunt. Floor to ceiling bookcases covered three of the four walls and held hundreds if not thousands of ancient books. Breanna’s fingers itched to touch them.  

She snapped out of it when a strong, familiar voice called out. 

“Hello, Baldwin.” 

“Aunt Sarah!” Breanna called out, ecstatic. Her voice was high pitched with excitement and relief. She had attempted to call her aunt the other day but the older witch did not answer. 

“Brea, baby. How are you? Oh, it’s so good to hear your voice. I am so sorry baby, about this and when you get here I’ll tell you everything-” 

Baldwin coughed and interrupted Sarah, caused Breanna’s hazel eyes to flicker up to him in confusion. 

“Sarah, I am sure you want to catch up with your niece but at this moment I have some pressing concerns. As we know the Congregation is looking for Breanna, and though they have yet to trace her here, I imagine they will soon enough. Breanna is under the impression that it would be best to bring her to Sept-Tours, but I am not sure that is the best move. Tell me, is Ysabeau with you?” 

“Yes, she is right here with me.” Breanna paled at the French name, recognizing it from countless warnings and horror stories told to her as a child. It must be taking a tremendous amount of strength from her Aunts to be within the same walls as Ysabeau de Clermont.

Breanna breathed deeply and closed her eyes and felt that if she concentrated enough, just the sound of Sarah’s voice was enough to transport her home. Montclair smelled the change in Breanna and was suddenly aware of her inner sadness, and fear. The young witches breathing slowed, and her hair vibrated gently. 

“As much as I want to bring Breanna home, her safety is my priority. Tell me, what should I do?”

On both sides, there was a pregnant pause. The vampire, Baldwin Montclair, asking for other thoughts? How rare it was of him. 

Breanna was shocked out of her spell by his question and eagerly listened to what her Aunt would say. In the back of her mind, she made a note to question Baldwin later on his witch killing vampire mother Ysabeau. 

“I don’t know, Baldwin. I think bringing her here where we can protect her as a family would be best, would it not Sarah?” Ysabeau’s voice was soft, her French accent was heavy. 

“Perhaps,” Baldwin sighed heavily, “it would be best.”

“I don’t want to bring more trouble, if this is what we will do- perhaps it is best to stay and hide.” Breanna spoke quickly, coming to the realization that the Congregation could follow them and harm not only her family, but Baldwin’s. It was not until hearing the voice of her Aunt that Brea felt this way. 

Baldwin looked sharply at her, disgruntled by what she had said. A flicker of respect burned in his eyes as they looked upon eachother. Despite only knowing Montclair for less than a month, a never meeting his family, Brea did not want to bring trouble to their door. 

“Do not underestimate my family, Bishop.” He scolded her. 

“And do not speak to my niece like that, Montclair.” Sarah was quick to snap, her anger could be felt by both Breanna and Baldwin, despite her being hundreds of miles away. 

Breanna’s heart swelled and her stomach dropped. She looked into Baldwins brown eyes, pleading with him silently. 

“We will be there by next week.” With one click, Baldwin ended the conversation. 

The two of them sat in silence for a moment, deep in their own thoughts. Breanna wrapped her cashmere cardigan tighter around her torso and sighed softly. What had happened to her life? Icy patches bloomed along her face as Montclair examined her expression. He wished to know what she was thinking. Her dark eyebrows were turned down in a frown and her eyes were staring blankly at her jean clad pants. Breanna’s lips opened in thought then closed once again. 

“What is it, witch?” Montclair hid his curiosity beneath the layer of contempt in his voice. 

“The Congregation will know that we will have relocated to Sept Tours, will they not? You are a member of the council, charged with bringing me into questioning. They surely will trace our movement…” Breanna looked deeply into the vampires eyes, and stood bracing her hands on the dark surface of his desk. Her hair begin to rise ever so, its strands vibrating in the air. “Unless we convince them that we have remained in London, they will quickly guess where we have gone.” 

The Bishop witch was right, Baldwin grudgingly agreed. He, of course, had already thought of this and had a plan to trick the Congregation. 

[creator-zee]

123

       “Ugh this sucks!” Tara groaned before collapsing dramatically into her bed.

       “Pratel.” Sue asked from where she was reading at Tarams desk. Her back straight with perfect posture, ever the perfect picture of a noble lady, a stark contrast to the princess who was currently splayed out on the bed in a quite unladylike manner.

        Tara groaned once more before talking. “So, you know the elven kingdom to the north?”

         “Yes, we aren’t at war with them, but we often have disputes over the border leading to much bloodshed.”  Sue replied in her clear voice.

       “Well, my father, in response to the people’s complaints, has been trying to find a way to come to a peace agreement with the elves.” She paused before continuing. “As a show of good faith I am to be married to the elven princess.” She groaned again, waiting for Sue to exclaim at the horrible nature of this statement. 

      When Sue stayed silent, Tara continued. “I mean really. It’s unbelievable. Right when I finally find someone I actually like, I have to go to a different country and marry some random elf.”

        “I can see how that is rather annoying.” Sue finally commented. “Who is this lover of yours?”

        “Alex of course.” Tara sighed dreamily.

        “Your personal guard?” Sue questioned.

        “Yes...” Tara trailed off again, lost in young love.

       “Won’t she be going with you?” She pointed out. “The elves are letting you bring a personal guard so you have at least one familiar face, and as a sign of trust.”

       “How do you know that?” Tara pushed herself up to look at her friend.

      Sue shrugged. “I hear things.”

      “So you already knew I was engaged?”

       “I figured you would want to complain to me as I didn’t want to ruin your fun.” Sue shrugged again. 

       Tara flopped back onto the bed. “I suppose you also know that I leave in a week.”

        Sue nodded.

        “How?” Tara pushed.

        Sue giggled softly. “You’re not the only one dating a guard.”

         Tara shot back up. “Wait. What? Who?”

         She just smiled. “That’s for me to know.”

        Tara sighed. “You’re no fun.”

        After a few seconds of silence, Sue spoke again. “You probably should consider the political ramifications on cheating on this princess. It could cause a war.”

        Tara sighed, again. “I know. But maybe we can reach an agreement. Affairs aren’t uncommon in arranged marriages.”

       “I don’t think I need to tell you that that’s wishful thinking.”

         “I know.”

        Silence fell again. Sue flipped a page. Tara flopped on the bed.

123.1

       The elves were a warrior race. Everyone learned how to fight, royals, commonfolk, warriors. A baker could roast an enemy as well as a loaf of bread. A blacksmith could pound an enemy in the ground as well as they could pound hot metal into a blade. Farmers cut cut their enemies down as well as they could cut down fields of crops. As such, to the untrained eye determine who was the guard and who was the royal family was a hard task.

       The elven Princess, Zira, and her guard, Noma, waited at the front gates of the palace for their guest, Zira’s betrothed. Both had bows, and both wore elegant chest plates and gauntlets. The enchanted armor protected their entire body without being as clunky as a full suit of armor. Both had daggers at their hip. The only difference was that Zira’s hair had a section braided, and Noma did not. That and Noma had darker skin and a silvery scar peeking out from her shirt. 

       Horses hooves clacked on the stone path and a white carriage approached. Zira sighed, wishing it had taken a little longer. She wasn’t eager for her life to be over.

        Noma didn’t dare comfort the princess in plain sight, not with this marriage hanging in the balance. Without moving the princess spoke, her lips barely moving.

       “I’m sorry Noma. I wish I didn’t have too.”

        Noma didn’t respond, lacking the princess’ skill at talking without being seen.

         The hooves stopped. The door opened. Zira bowed as the Princess stepped out, helped by her personal guard.

        “Welcome to the Golden Palace Princess Tara.” Zira greeted formally.

        Princess Tara curtsied. “Thank you for welcoming me here.”

        “The trip is long and I’m sure you would like to rest.” Zira said, offering a hand to the princess. “Come with me and I will show you to your room.”

        Tara took the elf’s hand and the guards fell in line behind the pair as other staff unloaded the princess’ things.

        The walked in silence, the air stiff as Zira led them up to her room, their room. She pushed open the door, dropping Tara’s hand.

       “Here you go. This is our room now.” She barely faltered, but she had hesitated ever so slightly before saying our. It used to belong to her and Noma. But, now, she was expected to share with a stranger.

       Zira followed Tara into the room, the guards wiring outside. Once the door shut, the formalities fell away. No prying ears in here. Her privacy spell made sure of that.

      “I’m sorry. I know this isn’t preferable, but for the sake of appearances we have to share a room.” She apologized to the human. “We don’t have to share a bed. I can sleep on the floor.”

       “What? Oh no, you don’t have to do that.” Tara quickly said, taken aback by the sudden shift in behavior.

       “Just let me know.” Zira said. “I hope you know that I’m not happy about this marriage either, but it’s the only way.”

        Tara sighed. “I know. I hope in time things will be less awkward.”

       An awkward pause followed. Zira broke it.

       “Well, I should let you rest. I will be training if you need me. Just ask a guard if you get lost.”

       Tara nodded, and Zira left. Noma followed wordlessly, as they left the castle and exited to the training grounds. The large fields where elves practiced archery offered some semblance of privacy. Noma and Zira could both drop their formalities as they were the only ones out here. They both drew their hows and began practicing shooting at the variety of targets down range.

       “So is she as bad as you though?” Noma asked.

        Zira sighed. “No, but it’s going to be awkward as hell for a little bit, or maybe a longer bit.”

        “Maybe you’ll end up being close friends...” Noma paused. “... or more.” The words pained her to say, but she said them anyways trying to comfort Zira.

         Zira lowered her how turning to look at Noma. “That won’t happen anytime soon. I still lo-like you.”

        Noma sighed meeting the princess’ gaze. “I know, but I’m not worth a war.”

        Zira sighed. “I know...”

        Zira’s hand hovered in the space between them before Noma turned away and drew her bow again. As much as it pained her, they couldn’t risk being together anymore.

      Zira’s hand sadly fell back to her now and she continued shooting. Eventually their arrows ran out and they had to go and collect them. Zira was restless and as she yanked the arrows out of the targets she turned to Noma.

       “Want to spar? I need an outlet for all this pent up anger.”

        Noma smiled. “Sure, just try not to hit too hard.”

        “I’ll try not to.” Zira smirked.

        They returned to a sandy ring in the field intended for sparring. Zira and Noma faced off. Circling each other. Noma made the first move. A quick jab. Zira easily digestible it and returned her own punch. They traded blows, moving in a blur. They separated, both panting, and returned to circling each other. Zira struck first this time. Punching with her right fist. As Noma was dodging, Zira brought up her leg and kicked her, landing a hit on Nona’s side. Noma stumbled, and Zira pressed her advantage. Noma managed to get a good kick in amongst the flurry of punches and knocked Zira back a few paces, allowing them to both catch their breath.

         “Zira!” A bright clear voice rang out across the training grounds. The pair looked up to see the queen striding over to them.

      Noma bowed. “Your majesty.” She greatted, although she was still out of breath.

        “At ease Noma.” The queen said.

        Noma relaxed. Zira stiffened.

        “What do you need mom?” She asked, already in a sour mood because of the wedding and not liking being interrupted.

         The queen looked slightly hurt at her daughter’s crassness.

         A flash of guilt crossed Zira’s features. “Sorry mom, I’m just on edge right now with, well, everything.”

        Her mother gave her a soft smile and embraced her. “I know and I’m sorry that you have to do this. We had no other option.”

         Zira sighed. “I know. I just wish there was some other way, that I could just...”

         “Date Noma?” Her mom interrupted, teasing. Noma coughed a blush rising to her cheeks.

         “What? No, mom!” Zira spluttered. “I was going to say have my life back. How do you even know about that?”

       The queen grinned. “I have my ways.”

        Zira glared at her.

        “Fine, fine.” The Queen relented. “I asked Aunt Charlie.”

         Zira growled. “Last time I tell her anything.”

         Noma suppressed a laugh, having heard that many times before.

        The queen sobered, her joking manner fading. “I know it’s an abrupt change, and I’m sorry Zira. If you need anything tell me and I will try my best to arrange it.”

       “The freedom to date my girlfriend” Zira mumbled inaudibly, but sighed and looked up at her mom. “I know. I promise I won’t do anything stupid like run away with Noma.”

        The queen cracked a smile. “I know you won’t. At least give the girl a chance though. To be friends. She’s all alone with only her guard in a foreign kingdom.”

       “I’ll try.” Zira promised. “But after I go a few more rounds with Noma. We barely got started.”

        “Phrasing.” Noma muttered as the queen walked away. Zira either didn’t hear or didn’t care.

         True to her word they sparred until they were both sore and soaked with sweat. Zira then walked on autopilot back up to the room. Noma followed and as they walked down the hallway she noticed that Princess Tara’s guard wasn’t stationed in the hallway. Zira was oblivious to this fact, and just barged right into her own room. In her fatigued mind, she had forgotten that it wasn't just her room no.

        Two startled gasps filled the room, shocking Zira as the girls who had previously been intertwined on the bed leapt apart.

        Noma paused, duty called for her to stand outside the door, but she had her gasps. That was a good enough excuse to bend the rules slightly. She stood in the doorway, looking in on three startled girls. The two humans layer sprawled on the floor on either side of the bed and Zira stared in shock only a few paces from the doorway.

        “What the...?” Zira trailed off in shock.

        The human guard was the first to recover, standing to her feet. “Sorry. I heard screams, Princess Tara was having a nightmare and I was just trying to wake her. She was surprised and mistook me for an enemy, causing a short grapple as she calmed down, and then you came in startling us.”

        Either the truth or the guard was a quick thinker, Noma thought. 

        “Right...” Zira muttered. “I’m just going to grab some clothes before going to the river to bathe.” Remembering her promise to her mother, she added. “You’re welcome to join us if you want. It can be quite refreshing.”

         Tara paused, thinking as she picked herself up off the floor. “Uh, yes I think we will. Thank you.”

       No longer having an excuse, Noma returned to her position outside the door. The human guard stood on the opposite side of the doorway still looking flustered. If Noma had to bet the guard and the princess weren’t entirely honest with what had happened.

       Soon the princesses exited and the guards fell in line behind them. Zira walked a half-stride ahead, leading the way. Noma winced internally at the loud clanking of the humans armor. How was she supposed to hear anything with that racket? She would have to take the human to the armory later. Tara in her frilly dress was ill-prepared for the track in the woods, which she quickly realized.

       “I’m beginning to see I’ve made a mistake.” She commented.

        Zira glanced back. “Oh with the dress, yeah. I would’ve warned you but humans can be so finicky about their gender roles.”

        Tara sighed. “Text time just hand me a pair of pants and tell me to get over myself.”

       “Will do.” Zira said.

       Despite the human’s poor wardrobe choices, they made it to the river. Zira set her bow and quiver to the side before beginning to take off her armor. Noma moves to stand beside a tree, and Alex mimicked her movements. Tara hesitated only slightly before taking off her dress. They would be married by the end of the week, what did she have to lose.

         Tara was left in only skimpy undergarments. Zira quickly followed leaving her in only skimpy shorts and a white wrap around her chest. She wasted no time plunging into the icy water and letting it wash the sweat and dirt  away. Tara hesitated before sticking one foot in.

        “Ah! That’s cold.” She yelped.

       Zira laughed. “You get used to it eventually. Or if you're sweaty enough it feels good.”

        Tara opted for just sitting on the beach. “Is your guard not joining us? She was also sweaty.”

       Zira raised an eyebrow at Tara. Noma answered.

        “I can’t risk the Princess’s well being. If I were to swim I wouldn’t be able to react quickly enough to danger.”

       Zira just sighed. That was the formal answer. If it had just been the two of them she might have been coax Noma into relaxing, but now that they had to keep up appearances that was impossible.

       “Noma takes her duty very seriously.” Zira provided.

       “As does Alex.”  Tara countered, as if it was a competition. 

        Noma filed the humans names away. Alex did the same. If they were colder they may have exchanged a glance at the princesses’ antics, but they weren’t, so they didn’t. They stared ahead.

       Tara was the first to break the silence. “Do we really need two guards? We are in the middle of the woods.”

        “If you and Alex were elves I would say no.” Zira said. “But, since you’re not you’re terribly outmatches by even a farmer, so yes we need both.” In reality, they only needed Noma, but Zira couldn’t risk offending the princess anymore than she already had.

       “Oh.” Tara said. 

[a-wandering-fool]

Remember when the mainstream media sneered at President Trump’s claims on how people allegedly being tied up, bound, and duct-taped women at the border? These outlets included CNN and The Washington Post.

As it turns out, Trump was right. The media outlet going on the record to correct the “fact checkers” on this issue is the New York Times, the queen bee of liberal media outlets, and certainly no friend of the president’s.

First, a refresher on how this all started. Here’s how ABC News reported on the story in late January:

In his battle for a border wall, President Donald Trump has repeatedly told colorful, and at times disturbing, stories to make his case. Two in particular, involving duct tape and prayer rugs, have attracted so much attention administration officials reportedly launched an urgent effort to find evidence to support the president’s claims.

But no evidence has been found — of either migrants using prayer rugs at the border or smugglers using duct tape on women to traffic them — according to an administration official who spoke to ABC News on the condition of anonymity because the person was not authorized to speak publicly.

It appears Trump’s Hollywood movie-style descriptions of human trafficking at the border, at this point, are closer to fiction than fact.

CNN’s “fact checking” attempt went like this:

The experts all cautioned that the President’s rhetoric about human trafficking could obscure the horrific reality that most trafficking victims experience. According to Lori Cohen, of Sanctuary for Families’ antitrafficking initiative, the US citizens who face trafficking include young adults emerging from the foster care system, LGBT youth who have been kicked out of their homes and adults involved in prostitution.

“I don’t know where the President’s information is coming from,” Cohen said. “I don’t believe it’s coming from law enforcement. It’s certainly not coming from victims, and it’s not coming from the dozens of service providers who I’ve spoken with across the country. None of us have seen anything that looks like what the President has described.”

Instead of relying on one anonymous administration official as ABC did, the Washington Postinterviewed other experts, who also found Trump’s claims lacking:

Yet human-trafficking experts and advocates for immigrant women have said they are perplexed by this increasingly repeated story in Trump’s repertoire — and are at a loss for where he got his information. It was not from them, they say; in fact, they have no idea what he is talking about.

In interviews with The Washington Post this week, nine aid workers and academics who have worked on the border or have knowledge of trafficking there said the president’s tape anecdote did not mirror what they have seen or heard. A separate story reported in the Toronto Star cited several additional experts who said Trump’s lurid narrative — migrant women bound, gagged and driven across the border — does not align with their known reality.

“I have no idea the roots of it,” said Edna Yang, assistant executive director of American Gateways, a Texas-based immigration legal services and advocacy nonprofit. “I haven’t seen a case like that.”

The paper even included a detailed timeline of each time Trump made the claim during the month of January. While they didn’t accuse the president of lying (they left open the possibility there might be some merit to the claims), they made sure to include past assessments of Trump’s prior statements:

Since Trump took office two years ago, he has made more than 7,645 false or misleading claims, according to The Post’s Fact Checker database, more than 1,000 of which were about immigration.

The insinuation was clear: Trump’s probably lying about this one, too.

The only problem is, their fact checking on this issue was way off.

A story published late last week by the New York Times confirmed Trump’s assertions about women being tied up and duct-taped at the border:

But there is some truth to the president’s descriptions of the threat of sexual assault and of women who have been duct-taped and bound.

Undocumented women have been duct-taped and tied up before, during and after their migration to the United States, The Times discovered while reporting this story. Maybe not frequently, but it has happened.

The story they referenced detailed the horrific experiences of several women who became victims of human traffickers while attempting to cross the border:

The stories are many, and yet all too similar. Undocumented women making their way into American border towns have been beaten for disobeying smugglers, impregnated by strangers, coerced into prostitution, shackled to beds and trees and — in at least a handful of cases — bound with duct tape, rope or handcuffs.

The New York Times found dozens of documented cases through interviews with law enforcement officials, prosecutors, federal judges and immigrant advocates around the country, and a review of police reports and court records in Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and California. The review showed more than 100 documented reports of sexual assault of undocumented women along the border in the past two decades, a number that most likely only skims the surface, law enforcement officials and advocates say.

In light of this new information, Fox News’s Brian Flood reported that the Washington Post “did not answer directly when asked if a correction or editor’s note would be added to its piece.”

As of this writing, they haven’t.

The media frenzy surrounding Trump’s claim was odd in the first place. The horrors women have faced trying to cross the border have been well-documented for years: abuse, violence, sexual assaults, gang rapes. It is common knowledge these things happen to women. The duct-tape claim was one that, in the overall scheme of things, was not even the worst of the story of what women have experienced at the border.

And yet the mainstream media honed in on this singular claim like a dog on a bone.

Why?

Because stories about women being abused at the border, or once they cross it, give people uncomfortable visuals that play into Trump’s favor when it comes to how his tough approach to addressing illegal immigration and crime at the border is viewed. And if the media can chip away at just the tiniest of details from his stories, they can create doubt in the minds of the American people on other things he says about this issue, too.

This is yet another instance where the mainstream media got it wrong. The fact that another one of their own corrected the record later has to be especially galling for an arrogant national press corps that views their journalistic and investigative creds as unassailable.

======================

[contextualstudieslorena]

Group presentation on the film Welfare by Frederick Wiseman

Info about the film: Welfare (1975)

by Frederick Wiseman

In his documentary “Welfare”(1975) Frederick Wiseman captures the activity and atmosphere in a Welfare center in 1970’s New york. His point of view is as unbiased as possible, showing on one side the claimers and on the other the social workers and welfare employees. In his own words, “All aspects of documentary filmmaking involve choice and are therefore manipulative. But the ethical ... aspect of it is that you have to ... try to make [a film that] is true to the spirit of your sense of what was going on. ... My view is that these films are biased, prejudiced, condensed, compressed but fair. I think what I do is make movies that are not accurate in any objective sense, but accurate in the sense that I think they're a fair account of the experience I've had in making the movie.” (potnitz, Frank (May 1991). "Dialogue on film". American Film. 16 (5): 16–21.)

Wiseman’s documentary is structured very loosely, he simply set up his camera and films for days on end, focusing on scenes like the plaidants in interviews with the social workers, or the workers discussing amongst themselves, and occasionally shows clips of the people in the waiting room, the janitor. Whether he had done previous research before is unknown, but one of his goals across his different documentaries is documenting the workings of American institutions and the people who are involved in them.

The documentary shows clearly how varied the cases that are brought up to welfare can be, and the different people who enter the center desperately seeking help. Many of the benefit seekers are european immigrants, young single mothers, men and women of colour and marginalised communities.

The documentary also shows the conflict between the simple act of charity, providing a person money for shelter, food and the convoluted bureaucracy they have to navigate, where even the social workers are confused and have to constantly ask each other for advice. The lack of communication between the different departments is also made apparent, several plaidant explain they have been referred back and forth between departments, in a never ending cycle, and that even when they are able to provide the paperwork they are still not guaranteed any help. Even the language barrier can be a big problem sometimes, when immigrants who speak little to no english have to plead their case and deal with the different papers and statements they are asked to bring.

This shows the stark contrast between the human tragedies and the mechanical, unyielding system, the conversations are repetitive and the claimants and workers go over the same points over and over. The whole exchanges are painful to watch, especially when we learn about the dire situation the people find themselves, their pain and frustration at the system failing them (cheques that are never received by the recipient, fair court hearings taking up time that they do not have, the imminent threat of being evicted and the basics of human rights not being met).

But Wiseman, does not only focus on the claimants but also the workers, and shows that they are just as human as the people on the other side of the desk.

He shows that many workers try their best to help but are tied by the system, or the tense exchanges between desperate, angry plaidants and the overworked social workers.

The documentary also shows the blatant racism people of colour face in 1970’s, through a scene in the wellfare where an elderly white man start insulting a black man sitting beside him, and the situation escalates until police officers have to remove him from the building.

Different important scenes:

A native american man talks about rejected by every organization he has gone too, he talk about the concentration camps his people have been put into and

the fact he has escaped.

“Everywhere i go they say “you’re Indian? Get out of here!’.”

A young man and woman, both married but separated from their spouses. The woman is epileptic and can’t work.

Their smile of relief when they are offered a room is one of the rare moments of happiness in this documentary. (it would have been interesting to see the accommodation the people are given)

A recovered drug addict who got himself work, an apartment and a dog, then lost everything but the dog, is told he can have a room in a hostel. He objects that he can't take his dog there. But the official says: "We're giving assistance to you, not your dog."

German immigrant who says he still believes that America is “a good country” , that wants to help people, but under under the circumstances he is considering suicide."I'd better look for a nice place to hang myself."

A young black woman is driven to tears, her interview lasts for hours with the conversation going back and forth about papers, authorizations and contradicting bureaucracy and rules.

Welfare social workers discussing how they can help the plaidants, and how to sort out the paperwork. It becomes clear that even the workers are confused by the numerous convoluted legislations, and the paperwork the plaidants are supposed to bring.

In the video, it can be seen that the artist wanted to focus on what the minority in the USA goes through every day, the problems that they have to face because of the environment they were raised in or brought to throughout their lives. The film is made in the 70s in New York, a city that is known for being a gigantic melting pot filled with people from different backgrounds.

The United States is a country that revolves around making money off of people instead of actually caring about them and their health and condition. That can obviously be seen in that film, when for example one of the people in it mentions that he hasn't eaten in 3 days because of the small amount of money that he has been given. He also mentions that he obviously can’t go around stealing food because that will lead him to get arrested, which just shows that those people are such in bad situations that they even consider stealing food to feed themselves and their families as they dont have another option, the government isn't providing them what they need and that is a very serious issue.

A problem that a lot of Europeans complain about in America when mentioning it is the lack of health insurance. There are many people who don't get any of their basic health needs because they just can't afford it. It gets to the point where people just deal with broken arms, legs, etc by themselves because paying for a simple appointment would be too expensive. The country has many problems when dealing with minorities and this film shows what those people go through by using a technique of recording them in a position where it seems as if they are trapped/with no way out. This also affects the person who is watching the documentary as it gives them a sensation of anxiety but also bringing a sense of naturality to it, as if the one who watches it is in their position dealing with the problems with them.

Throughout the documentary there appears to be an endless cycle of clients (from all walks of life) seeking financial help, but getting no quick resolve as they are having to explain and give proof on their situations over and over again; and to different departments. This suggests there is a lack of communication and/or understanding of the states rules and laws within the worker’s company. Evidently I am led to believe the blame for this confusion and lack of help for those financially struggling is on the USA government rather than both the parties shown in the documentary because the system is more concerned with making money FROM the people rather than making money FOR the people. Another reason I believe the workers aren’t to blame is because despite the chaos and some prejudice, they do all listen and attempt to help the clients that come to them, even if it was poorly. With more education and organisation within the company I do think many of the issues would have been resolved.

Welfare is a 3 hour long in depth look at the American welfare system. The film was shot in the Waverly Welfare Center in lower Manhattan where Wiseman documented the conversations and interactions that took place between citizens of New York and social workers (supposedly) helping them.

Wiseman’s method of filming in the majority of his films is to simply set up a camera for days on end and try to capture as much information as possible, this helped him somewhat in keeping his films unbiased but in his own words; film making involves choice and is therefore manipulative. As such films cannot be unbiased.

Wiseman’s ability is evident when we consider how he had to slough through days of film in order to make a film about bureaucracy entertaining at all times. Some conversations in this film feel so exaggerated or surreal that you can’t help but wonder if the individuals being filmed even knew there was a camera on them, but it being 1970 there is no way they couldn’t have noticed so they knew they were being filmed but either just did not care or thought they were totally justified.

At many times the social workers were portrayed as patient and helpful though we find ourselves sometimes rooting for the client even at times where they aren’t necessarily in the right out if sheer empathy for their situation in being bounced back and forth places and told different things, getting nowhere in the process.

An example of both a surreal and empathetic situation occurs around 2 hours and 40 minutes in where a man is trying desperately to get his social security check having being led to the welfare department from the social security department and is subsequently told to go back to the social security department.

He goes into explaining how he “rips off” different retailers and individuals to get by currently such as stealing chocolate bars from woolworths so he can eat or through ripping off people with car scams. Despite his questionable morality I cannot help but feel empathetic for him even through his ranting, nonsensical stories about mind control, psychic research and coincidental references to Godot.

I find it funny how a film shot in black and white portrays it’s subject matter in such a grey manner. Whilst the welfare system in America is portrayed as flawed and needing reform, wiseman shows neither the staff nor the clients as totally in the right or the wrong. There are situations where both sides are in the wrong and he seems to have balanced it out between the two.

[socialjusticeartshare]

UPDATE: Gov. Abbott Asks VP Harris To Shut Down Federal Facility For Migrant Children at Freeman Coliseum In San Antonio

Texas Gov. Greg Abbott has leveled a serious allegation against the federal Department of Health and Human Services: that child abuse is occurring in an emergency care facility at Freeman Coliseum in San Antonio.

The letter calls for migrant teens to be moved out of the site, and details tips received by the state that they were not eating and lacked supervision in showers and overnight. It also summarizes concerns that “there is sexual acting out between children” and that gay teens are bullied.

In a statement released after Abbott made his letter public on Friday, the federal Department of Health and Human Services, which manages the facility, said it will “continue investigating any incidents affecting children’s health” and would take proper measures.

Abbott first leveled the serious allegations in a Wednesday-evening press conference. It marks an elevation in the governor’s public campaign against the Biden administration’s border policy.

Abbott has repeatedly criticized the administration’s decision to allow unaccompanied children into the country, calling it “open border policies” — even though families and adults are still turned away, in violation of federal and international asylum law.

There were 1,645 children staying at the San Antonio Emergency Intake Shelter as of April 7, according to HHS.

In a hasty press conference on Wednesday, Abbott said state agencies received complaints about sexual abuse, lack of food, lack of supervision and improper COVID-19 protocols at the site operated by HHS under a contract with Bexar County. He said the people who made the allegations are remaining anonymous.

“To end this abuse, the Biden administration must immediately shut down this facility,” Abbott added.

According to the Associated Press, Texas child welfare officials said they received three reports alleging “abuse and neglect” and the state is investigating. Abbott said the claims were reported to two different state agencies.

“I don’t have their names, and I don’t know if their names were disclosed,” Abbott said during the press conference. “I will say this, however, it is my understanding the allegations come from more than one person who has been in this facility.”

He said they didn’t know how many children were reported to be abused but were “concerned it could be more than one.”

If true, this wouldn’t be the first time a migrant child was abused in federal custody, but it is the first time state officials are investigating these claims at an emergency facility for unaccompanied children who cross the Mexico-Texas border.

When asked why he’s holding a press conference about the allegations now, Abbott said, “This is the first allegation of abuse received by a Texas State agency — that I'm aware of — during the course of this episode of children coming across the border.”

The governor previously requested access to federal facilities in Texas, so that state law enforcement could interview detained children about how they got to the border.

Precinct 1 Bexar County Commissioner Rebeca Clay-Flores toured the facility with Abbott after his press conference. She told the AP she wishes the governor “had done his tour before the press conference when he politicized children.”

She added that children are placed in "pods," separated if positive for COVID-19, and are fed three meals a day.

Former San Antonio mayor and Housing and Urban Development Secretary Julián Castro also criticized Abbott for announcing these allegations before conducting investigations into the complaints.

“If he has reason to believe that there is mistreatment what he should do is turn that information over to federal authorities who are charged with investigating these things so that they can be addressed. Instead of that, he held a dramatic press conference at the Freeman Coliseum and has said the state government, that does not have purview over these issues… is going to do an investigation,” said Castro.

Officials with HHS’ Office of Refugee Resettlement (ORR) said they don’t discuss individual cases regarding unaccompanied children.

“ORR has a zero-tolerance policy for all forms of sexual abuse, sexual harassment, and inappropriate sexual behavior at all UC (unaccompanied children) care provider facilities and acts quickly to address any alleged violations of policy, including initiating employee disciplinary action, termination, or reporting to appropriate investigative entities, such as law enforcement agencies and relevant licensing bodies. We will not comment further on the specifics of the referenced cases,” a statement said.

Representatives with RAICES — a non-profit legal service that focuses on immigration — said they don’t have any information on the facility and can’t comment on the issues the governor raised.

“Despite earlier reports that RAICES provides services at the Freeman Coliseum in Bexar County, TX, our organization has not been contacted to provide the legal services there that we have provided in similar locations, including Lackland Air Force Base, Fort Bliss, Tornillo and Carrizo Springs,” said Jonathan Ryan, CEO at RAICES, in a statement.

“We do want to make it clear that our priority is the well-being of the children, and because of that, we have joined other organizations in San Antonio calling for more oversight on these children detention facilities. That demand stands.”

TPR was founded by and is supported by our community. If you value our commitment to the highest standards of responsible journalism and are able to do so, please consider making your gift of support today.

Article Source

[elsewherechild]

No, The Growth of Progressive Christian Politicians is Not a Good Thing for America [A Response to the New York Times Opinion Piece by Nicholas Kristof]

In an opinion piece for The New York Times titled, “Progressive Christians Arise! Hallelujah!” Nicholas Kristof made the case this week that “with a churchgoing Democrat in the White House, faith becomes more complicated in America”…and that that’s a good thing.

The piece is filled with so many logical problems (and equivocation in particular) that I have to respond. Why? Mainstream media loves articles like this because they paint theologically conservative Christians in a negative (or at least inferior) light—all to the praise of thousands who buy into the lack of nuance and critical thinking exhibited in articles like this one. It’s important that Christians are able to see through this confusion, so I’m going to respond to several quotes from the article point-by-point (quotes from the original are in bold italics).

“With a churchgoing Democrat in the White House, faith becomes more complicated in America. Thank God.”

Consider the two major assumptions in this one statement: Being a churchgoer is an important characteristic in a political leader, and a more “complicated” religious makeup in America is a good thing.

Just from a logical perspective, it means absolutely nothing that a person goes to church, whether they’re a Democrat or a Republican. There are plenty of atheists sitting in pews every Sunday. If Kristof’s point is that regular church attendance is significant in some way for a person’s views about morality, social concerns, and so on, that simply doesn’t follow. Atheists who don’t attend church can be just as moral as Christians sitting in church. I couldn’t care less if Biden attends church. The question is, what does he actually believe, and how will that inform his political decision making?

Furthermore, what’s good for America is when people believe what is true—what actually corresponds to reality. If that’s Hinduism, then the best direction of the country is for more people to take on that worldview (the same with any other religion). Complexity alone is not inherently valuable. What’s valuable depends on what’s true.

But let’s give Kristof a chance to work out what exactly he means by this in the following quotes, and then we can say more.

“Young and middle-aged Americans could be forgiven for thinking that Jesus was a social conservative who denounced gay people and harangued the poor to lift themselves up by the bootstraps, until he was crucified for demanding corporate tax cuts.”

This is obviously a ridiculous characterization of Christianity and Jesus in particular. If people have this idea of Jesus, they either haven’t read the Bible, or they’ve read too many articles like those of Kristof that repeatedly mischaracterize what those who hold to the historic Christian faith actually believe.

But more importantly, here is where Kristof begins to blur the lines and equivocate between progressive theology and progressive politics. Notice how he moves from a strictly moral issue (homosexuality) to primarily economic ones (policy decisions on how to help the poor or tax businesses). This is a common move of politically progressive Christians. While they popularly accuse politically conservative Christians of mixing politics and religion, they frequently do the same, bundling progressive politics with what Jesus “really” would want.

Kristof plays his hand through this slick mixing: It’s not that he thinks the growth of progressive Christians in politics is good for America because he’s committed to the truth of progressive Christian theology, but because he’s committed to progressive politics. This isn’t about his Christian faith at all. It’s a political piece wrapped in a Christian veneer.

Of course, he doesn’t take the time to distinguish the difference between progressive theology and politics, but that difference is critical for understanding his writing, so let’s do the explanation for him.

Progressive Christianity is hard to define (and people would define it in a lot of different ways), but in general, it’s the belief that our understanding of God is evolving as society progresses, and the Bible simply reflects man’s understanding of God in the time it was written. In other words, the Bible is a helpful tool—maybe even a beautiful one—but it’s not God’s final say for all time.

In my most recent podcast episode (Critical Thinking in a Secular Culture), I explain that the number one idea that separates a biblical worldview from a secular one is the source of a person’s authority. For Christians who hold the Bible to be the inspired Word of God that describes reality and prescribes human action in response, the Bible will be authoritative because of its very nature. Progressive Christians, however, don’t share this view of the Bible. If the Bible is just one step on the way to our understanding of God, then humans are the source of authority for ourselves.

This idea of authority is no different than a completely secular view.

Whether you’re a progressive Christian who believes in God, or an atheist who does not, your authority is yourself, rather than any supposed revelation.

This understanding of the basis (or lack thereof) for progressive Christian theology is critical for responding to the rest of the article. Now let’s go on.

“That perception might arise because since the 1980s, the most visible Christians have been conservative evangelicals who often emphasize issues that Jesus never explicitly mentioned, such as abortion and homosexuality. But now more progressive Christians are moving onto center stage.”

The Gospels don’t record Jesus saying anything about child abuse, infanticide, racism, or domestic violence, either, but few would argue these things are unimportant or morally acceptable. Even aside from one’s view of the Bible, this is an illogical argument. Jesus couldn’t have commented on everything.

In this statement, Kristof betrays his progressive theological assumptions about the Bible—he believes the only words that matter are those of Jesus himself. He subtly passes this off as if we should all understand issues like abortion and homosexuality must not be very important to Jesus. Ironically, however, Jesus’s own words show that he considered the rest of the Bible to be authoritative. He repeatedly said, for example, he did not come to abolish the Law and the Prophets but to fulfill them (Matt. 5:17-18; see also Matt. 22:29; Luke 16:31; 24:27; John 5:47).  

Notice the slight of hand: Kristof takes the truth of his progressive theology here as a given, suggesting that we need more Christians who believe the same to move to center stage in politics. By specifically speaking to the hot topics of abortion and sexuality, it’s again clear he’s most interested in the support for progressive politics, which Christians with progressive theology are more likely to support.

Again, he is lumping politics and theology together without acknowledging as much.

“Enter Joe Biden, one of the most religious presidents of the last century, along with Jimmy Carter and George W. Bush. Biden attends Mass regularly and inhabits faith as Donald Trump merely brandished it (as if speaking to two Corinthians).

Likewise, Vice President Kamala Harris is a Baptist who says she has regularly attended church. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez is a Catholic who says her faith inspires her to address health care and climate change. Elizabeth Warren taught Sunday school. Raphael Warnock, a new senator, is an ordained Baptist pastor.

Other Democrats, including Cory Booker and Pete Buttigieg, speak the language of faith fluently as well, so a critical mass has formed of progressive Christians inspired by religion not to cut taxes for the rich but rather to slash poverty for children.”

Similarly to what I said earlier, how one labels oneself religiously or whether one goes to church is neither here nor there. Just because all these politicians claim a religious label doesn’t necessarily mean they believe anything that aligns with what those labels have traditionally meant. That said, once again, Kristof doesn’t seem to care much about theological beliefs. He lists these people as progressives because they align with his politics, and cleverly implies that we should all want to move in this direction because of the moral heroics these politicians have displayed.

Of course, whether the things they champion are moral is a completely different question. He takes it for granted that you will agree on that definition with him. But a person’s view of morality depends, once again, on their source of authority. There’s no level-headed discussion here of how people might disagree over what’s considered moral depending on their view of the Bible or any other supposed revelation of God. It’s just assumed that we can all see these things are of the highest moral value, and given that they are, we should be happy to see more progressives take leadership in government.

“At the same time, conservative Christians have taken self-inflicted hits, not least the way some invoked religion while invading the U.S. Capitol. (After seizing the Senate floor, insurrectionists prayed, ‘Thank you for filling this chamber with patriots that love you and love Christ.’) And while human motivations are complicated, the suspect in the massage parlor murders in Georgia is a Southern Baptist whom a former roommate described as having a ‘religious mania.’”

My head is just exploding at this point. Progressive politicians are portrayed as heroes of morality in his prior points, but he portrays conservative Christians as those who storm the Capitol and conduct mass shootings (with no conversation about whether those actions are actually consistent with what the Bible calls us to do)? I trust readers will understand why this is absurd, and am moving on to my next points.

“The Rev. William Barber, a leader of the Poor People’s Campaign, told me, ‘Some folks hijacked Christianity and decided that they were going to put up a lot of money to promote the idea that to be a person of faith was to be anti-choice, anti-gay, pro-gun, pro-tax cut.’ Barber calls that ‘theological malpractice.’

Jerushah Duford, a granddaughter of the Rev. Billy Graham, agrees: ‘We have seen homophobia, hostility toward women’s rights, xenophobia and lack of concern for the poor.’ She compares the damage right-wing Christian extremists have done to Christianity to the harm Muslim extremists have brought to Islam.’

These are just a couple of several similar quotes from the article. To summarize: “Here are some big name Christians who are unhappy with politically conservative views and there’s a lot of turmoil like this going on for conservative Christians. There’s chaos in the ranks! They’re starting to see the light!”

It’s easy to cherry pick examples of anything. Logically speaking, who cares if you can find examples of people who identify themselves as Christians saying these things? If they’re theologically progressive, they don’t look to the Bible as their source of authority, so they’re not necessarily going to believe any differently than nonreligious people on moral issues. There’s literally nothing of shock value (or quote value) here if you actually tease out these important distinctions.

“The progressive wing of Christianity is not, of course, new. It began with Jesus. ‘Woe to you that are rich,’ Jesus says (Luke 6:24). He advises a rich ruler to ‘sell everything you have and give to the poor,’ and then suggests ‘it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God’ (Luke 18:22-25).”

OK, I know my head already exploded once, but it really exploded with this one.

Progressive Christianity started with Jesus.

Theologically speaking, that’s just absurd. As I already explained, Jesus repeatedly validated the authority of the rest of Scripture—he certainly didn’t have a progressive view of the Bible in the sense that God’s Word was somehow bound in time. But Kristof (again) is speaking through a theological veil (using Bible verses) to make a political point: Progressives are the ones who care for the poor.

As someone who is both theologically and politically conservative, I couldn’t be more tired of this lazy characterization. Nearly everyone—Christian or not—cares about the poor and wants peoples’ lives to be better. Conservatives and progressives have different ideas about how to best accomplish that, but we value the same thing.

“If the public face of faith becomes less dominated by right-wing figures, it may become easier for the country to heal its fissures. . . .When the religious/secular divide doesn’t neatly overlay the political divide, it may become a bit more difficult for either side to demonize the other.

‘‘Right’ and ‘left’ aren’t so helpful here,’ said Father Greg Boyle, who runs highly regarded Catholic programs for gang members in Los Angeles. ‘The more reverent we become, we see things not as black and white, left or right — but complex.’

Hallelujah for complexity! It might lower America’s political temperature, I pray.”

There’s no question that the demonization we see today in politics is horrible, and I would love to see that fissure heal. But the irony in these concluding words is stunning. While I wouldn’t characterize Kristof’s piece as demonizing in the sense that it was blatantly insulting, it was demonizing in the sense of implicitly claiming that theologically and politically conservative Christians have morally inferior views they bring to the public square. After all, his whole article is thanking God that there are more people claiming the name of Christ in public office who agree with his political stances! The running assumption, of course, is that those politically progressive views are what are good for America. Then he goes on to claim, through a quote, that we shouldn’t see things as so left and right, but rather as complex. He says this after writing a piece without the slightest hint of acknowledging the complexity that lies in differences of theology, worldview, authority, politics, and policy.

It’s not complexity that he values, and I’m sure he knows that.

It’s change in a single direction, with the growth of theologically progressive Christians embracing politically progressive values. I have no doubt he wouldn’t shout, “Hallelujah!” if the movement went the other direction. But championing “complexity” sounds much more tolerant to progressive ears.

The growth of people claiming the name of Christ in politics is not necessarily a good thing. It depends on what they actually believe and how that will inform their political decisions. If the Bible is God’s Word for all time, as theologically conservative Christians believe, then the growth of politicians claiming Christ but rejecting the authoritative nature of the Bible is actually a bad thing. It leads to confusion in the public eye of what Christianity historically has been, and the decisions these politicians make will often be more aligned with a secular moral consensus developed from self-authority than with a moral standard developed from the Bible.

The sort of oversimplified, assumption-ridden narrative that we find in Kristof’s piece is precisely why people can’t have reasonable conversations today. If we want to heal fissures, as Kristoff says he does, it starts with far more nuanced conversations that acknowledge the complexity of people's worldviews.

continue reading

from Natasha Crain https://ift.tt/3vTwsbF

[readyaiminquire]

Blood for the Blood God.

The year of our Lord two-thousand and twenty, or 20-20 in common vernacular, has been a wild ride. It’s been the kind of year when time compresses and six months simultaneously feels like six weeks and six years. The year started with an almost-war, a continent almost burning to the ground, then a pandemic, and now we’re almost back where we started: a(nother) continent is on fire, the pandemic is coming back for its own electric boogaloo, and perhaps this year will include a war after all. To misquote the LEGO Movie: everything is awful. What may be at the top of most of our shit-lists at the moment is the growth of the COVID-19 infections, despite what has felt like a constant bombardment of information, PSAs, commentary, and debate surrounding this global pandemic.

 Most countries had a time-out over the summer, but now we’re headed back into the ring, so to speak, to see how this next round plays out. This long and rather mixed metaphor is, in effect, to say that across the globe people are deeply aware of not only the COVID-19 virus, but the risks associated with it, and the threat it poses to society. Which in my mind raises one question: what brought people to swarm shops once lockdown was eased? What caused such a quick return, and willingness to return, to business-as-usual: to offices, to pubs, to shops, to restaurants? With everybody being aware of the risks that still hover above us, surely one would expect to see much more caution? Here, I will argue that under capitalism shopping – and consumption more generally – functions as a cultural equivalent to sacrificial rites, and under late-capitalism more specifically, this form of sacrifice becomes more closely tied to the individual subject. With the uncertainty hanging above us all at the moment, sacrificial rites as a means to pacify a Divine Other becomes a completely rational thing to do – despite the apparent risks of breaking social distancing measures, individual action becomes key to managing the uncertainty of the present future.

We’re all aware of the general functioning of a capitalist economy, specifically how it is prone to crises when there isn’t enough growth, and therefore keeping the machinery going through spending in one form or another is key. I am not going to comment or analyse this because, frankly, I am not qualified for that particular discussion. If you want to read a critique of capitalism, growth, and crises, I might suggest turning to someone like David Harvey and his work on the ‘spatial fix’.

  Indeed, as much as our current economic-political system maintains its economic imperative through spending and the flow of capital, so, too, does it create sociocultural imperatives. Though these imperatives have emerged to support and work in concert with the broader economic imperatives, they exist in a separate arena, of course. While the economic arena is driven by the cold, harsh economic calculus of PNLs, the social and cultural have a different currency: meaning. Anthropologist Danny Miller makes the case for shopping – that is, the leisure activity of spending hard-earned cash on ‘frivolous’ or luxury items – being the equivalent to a rite for sacrifice in contemporary capitalist societies.

  This is a bold statement, you might think, but Miller’s argument is rather convincing. Sacrifice, firstly, shouldn’t be understood by its action, but rather its purpose. Therefore, the equivalent of ‘sacrifice’ across cultures may look wildly different, but they fulfil the same function. What Miller argues is that through shopping, “the labour of production is turned into the process of consumption”. In other words, shopping is done specifically to spend the money we have made in order to consume. The purpose of sacrifice is to establish or maintain a link with a divine entity or otherwise larger-than-human forces. This connection exists to elicit protection, pacification, or otherwise positive outcomes for the society which engages in said sacrificial rites. In the case of contemporary capitalism, what is sacrificed is money, that we earn with our bodies (labour), to maintain the economy as a near-divine force. In turn, The Economy takes care of our future income: through economic booms. Viewed from this perspective, shopping doesn’t function so differently from a farmer sacrificing some of his harvests to ensure larger harvests down the line.

  This consumption, Miller notes, shouldn’t be read as “mere” consumption, or as consumption born from pure pragmatism (indeed, not all buying of goods constitutes shopping). The shopping/sacrifice that he discusses is one that from its very inception is understood as either an improvement or at the very least, a maintenance of society at large. The object of consumption is used to constitute a material connection to the divine force. This material connection is indeed key, as we must understand the sacrifice to be both in the material object being consumed, and the act of consumption itself. In other words, the performance of shopping is equally important. This might explain why online shopping doesn’t quite scratch the same itch: it lacks performativity. It is, in a sense, closer to “mere” consumption. This sounds far-fetched, without a doubt, and extremely abstracted, but bear with me.

  One of the defining aspects of late capitalism is that everything either has been commodified or is potentially understood as a commodity: from good ol’ resources, to human labour, and more abstract concepts like personal identity. By consuming goods, be they clothes, or where we buy food, the restaurants we frequent and so on, we do not only consume the goods themselves, but we also use this pattern of consumption as a means to establish, re-establish, and reproduce our personal identities. As Jill Fisher notes: “[T]he late capitalist economy has created a structure in which our lives and bodies have been violently commodified”.

  Understanding this degree of commodification through Marilyn Strathern’s seminal work The self in self-decoration, a potentially hidden set of processes begin to emerge. Strathern argues that decorating the body doesn’t necessarily serve to highlight the body itself, but to hide it. Just as “the body hides the inner self […] [Strathern] argue[s] that the physical body is disguised by decorations precisely because the self is one of their messages”. In more straightforward English, decorating the body serves to hide it specifically so that one’s ‘true self’ – what cannot be typically seen  – can emerge; one’s individual subjectivity.

  Applying this to late capitalism, the consumption of goods becomes a means through which we assert our sense of individual subjectivity (and take note of this being individual, it will be important later). The consumption of goods, therefore, establishes a metaphysical connection between ourselves and capital, as it is only through capital that we are capable of asserting our own independent selves. Shopping, thus, becomes the necessary prerequisite to such consumption, the act that sacrifices our hard-earned cash facilitating the consumption that connects us with the Divine Other of Capital.

How does this relate to the COVID-19 experience? As I mentioned at the start, people are, broadly speaking, aware of the risks that such a pandemic poses. However, much of this is undermined by the presence of several uncertainties in how this information is both presented and understood: uncertainties with regards to the virus itself, or of the economic uncertainties, the social impact, and the future itself. Typically, scientific (or specialist) knowledge has existed to legitimise governmental or state action, however, in times of great(er) uncertainty, this paradigm breaks down and such legitimation cannot take place. What we, as subjects, are left with is a sense of uncertainty and that something needs to be done, but without any clear sense of what this ought to be.

  As anthropologist Mary Douglas outlines in her work on risk, the risk calculus has been individualised, like much of society at large, after the emergence of neoliberalism. The doing of the something mentioned above, therefore, falls to the individual, rather than any collective, though what this something is remains unclear. Here, the link between the individual and the Divine Other comes into focus. Much like the uncertainty that surrounds the virus itself, there is also a lot of uncertainty around how capital actually works: most people broadly understand capitalist economic structures, but not beyond the general. Seen from this perspective, the drive to go out and shop: to buy new clothes, go to restaurants or pubs, and in general to spend money, becomes not so much an articulation of ‘Western overconsumption’, but a genuinely sympathetic and rational drive to re-assert some control over a situation marred with feelings of uncertainty and lack of direction for individual action. This latter point is particularly damning in late capitalism given the onus placed on individual choice as being valued above all else; the collective action required to handle a pandemic like this requires the opposite sociocultural responses that many of us have been inculcated to understand as responses at all.

  However, there is without a doubt a hidden dimension to this sacrifice, which is far more implicit and therefore not as clear, particularly as it is a result of circumstance rather than design. By engaging in our ritual shopping, we’re opening the door to additional COVID-19 spread. The culturally driven ‘need’ to maintain our connection with Capital (spurred on and reinforced by politicians, pundits, and indeed capital itself) becomes detrimental to what we, through these individual actions, are attempting to achieve. Instead, we’re entering a stage of meta-sacrifice, whereby we carry out the rites to ritually exchange our hard-earned cash for goods to consume, but due to the sheer scale of shopping and consumption taking place we are also indirectly sacrificing the weakest in society: the elderly, those with underlying conditions, and so on. This individually-driven response in dealing with our collective uncertainties appears, then, to come with the implicit acceptance that some individuals will simply be lost in the process.

  At the end of the day, we neither understand the intricate processes of economics nor epidemiology, and alas we find ourselves in a moment where the economists and epidemiologists themselves do not have clear ideas of what will happen next. We’re stuck in a quagmire of uncertainty, with a need for individual action. Shopping, despite the continued threat of COVID-19 and a second wave emerging as I write it, is not merely an outlet of individualistic greed or rabid hyper-consumerism. Instead, with shopping and consumption understood through the framework of sacrifice, as a rite to pacify a Divine Other and, through an all-important individualisation of such action, re-establish not only our own connection with this Other, it emerges as a response to the uncertainty that hangs over us all. Haven’t we been told that shopping and spending money might keep the (alas, inevitable) economic crisis at bay? But at what additional cost, specifically a cost we might not see directly? If blood is for the blood god, capital is without a doubt for Capital.

Selected bibliography

Douglas, M. 1994 Risk and Blame: Essays in Cultural. Theory Milton Park: Routledge.

Fisher, J. 2002 “Tattooing the Body, Marking Culture”. in: Body & Society 8(4) pp. 91-107.

Miller, D. 2013 A Theory of Shopping. Hoboken: Wiley.

Strathern, M. 1979 “The Self in Self-Decoration”. in: Oceania 49(4) pp. 241-257.

[astyle-alex]

Slavery is Not the Sith You’re Looking for...

(AKA: this is why I HATE pretentious grown-up books that try to pass themselves off as Literature) --_--’

This was an excellent summer-story beach-read. I deeply enjoyed it. The pacing was not my favorite, but it was the expected vibe from a grown-up purportedly High Literary historical fiction novel.

In a few too many ways, it was your standard 'slavery is bad ' story, and it took the grown-up route of utter ignorance in pushing that line further to say 'slavery is evil and it's inconceivable that anyone ever thought otherwise unless they, too, were evil humans' which is just plain modernist and pathetically essential-ist.

Yes. Slavery (particularly in the ‘New World’) was atrocious.

And Yes. To say otherwise today makes a person pretty much straight up evil.

But that is not a truism. It should not be treated like one.

Especially, not in a novel that comports itself like High Lit...

Now, this is gonna get long and a bit ranty, but I am an Academic and I will DIE before I don’t ARGUE, dang it!

Now, consider the facts:

It was not always the case that to believe in slavery as a sort of 'natural order' made you a morally bankrupt person. That is putting a modern lens on things that modern people cannot fully comprehend. Just like a grown up does NOT genuinely remember what it was like to be 16 or to be 10, a 21st century person cannot even recognize that they are viewing history through a very rosy lens. The truth of the matter is that in 1812, slavery in some form or other had been a fact of how society functioned for over 6 thousand years and it was honestly far more bizarre for someone to say, 'You know what? This is probably bad...' and a lot of that even had to come from how New World took the established order and heaped an unbelievable list of extra abuses onto it.

Slavery, in most nations, came to a natural end as the societal system it supported evolved. In the Americas, that societal system was artificially and intentionally maintained by a sort of aggressive racism unique to the West. In most slave-nations prior to the West's development, slaves were not racially inferior or species-separate or anything like that. People of all races owned people of all races. It was just a money thing.

This is not to say racism, wasn't a Huge Thing (Imperialism is a very terrible thing itself, and the subjugation of others based on country of origin is a long-standing terror of our humanity), but that's a separate statement. Racism and Slavery were not intrinsically bound together outside of direct and immediate conquest. Once a new place was conquered by the Empire, the old lowest-people rose up in the ranks, and if you had enough money you could buy a slave of any race even ones theoretically high up the ladder than you.

That does, admittedly, vastly over simplify things. But I'm not trying to make a nuanced argument (at least no more nuanced than to make it clear I find both racism and slavery abhorrent).

What I'm saying here is that this story should have had a few characters, both black and white, who believed in the institutions they were raised within without that believe automatically forcing them into villain roles. Fear of change, belief in the status quo, confusion about why it mattered so much to some people... All of that should've been more prevalent in this novel.

The fact that there wasn't a single character in 1812 Barbados that fully believed in the current Natural Order who was not ultimately painted as an utterly depraved and immoral individual was just plain creepy.

The concept of slavery didn't survive for SIX THOUSAND YEARS because everyone always knew, deep down, that it was wrong. We aren't a species of creatures so heinous that we can look at something we know is wrong for SIX THOUSAND YEARS without doing anything about it.

We didn't do anything because we didn't see it as wrong.

Honestly, at the heart of it, we sorta still don't.

The concept of free labor hasn't gone away. Unpaid Internships are the modern indentured servitude. The requirement of X years of experience to allow you access to a job force you need to be involved with in order to survive is heinous.

Yes, Interns have things like rights and safety guarantees and legal backstops, but they're pretty basic rights. Your employer isn't even required to feed you, just give you time not-working to feed yourself, buying food to do so with money you aren't allowed to make.

Slavery, through most of its history, included ASPCA levels of animal-abuse protections. Food, provided freely and regularly; body security and autonomy (ie, no direct injury or sexual abuses); recognition for good service and the ability to be a person with a name and a backstory and HEALTHCARE (instead of just an employee number with the last-line protection of company liability pay if you get grievously injured on the job you don't get paid for).

Were there abuses? Yes.

Was most of human history a string of abuse after abuse? No.

People voluntarily sold themselves into slavery, or at the very least, term-indentured themselves, pretty dang regularly throughout history.

Because sometimes, the promise of regular meals and decent healthcare was legitimately preferable to starving to death. Like right now.

Not kidding. There are legitimately countless studies out there of how MODERN PRISON is a preferable state of being for human than getting shunted into an unpaid internship. (Some of them are even legitimately academic and peer reviewed, but those take longer to find for free-viewing than I want to spend right now, so: here, here, here, and here, will have to do, though most of these are just about the poor ethics of the Unpaid Internship concept).

And yet, thousands of people in America alone don't see the problem with it.

So, likewise, thousands of people in 1812 Barbados should've not been able to see the problem with it. And as a pretty well-researched author, Willig should have known that and accommodated for including it.

It is NOT COMFORTABLE to be lead through a story where slavery is just okay, I wholly admit that (and am frankly, glad for it).

But literature is not supposed to be comfortable.

It's supposed to make you FEEL what the author thinks you should be able to SEE, because its right in front of your face and wrong but not acknowledged.

I am not saying, in any way, that a slave-believer should have been the hero. But someone should've been, at least sympathetic, to the Status Quo.

Also, there was just such a fixation on the 'Slavery as an evil institution thing', that the little love stories didn't get much attention which made them feel cute but rather hollow. I loved the moments we got to see the two couples being cute, but they were so few and far between that I got lost.

I LOVED the comments on being so unsure of your own feelings that you make the mistake of wanting your partner to be sure enough for the both of you, but that was the only message in the whole story besides 'slavery is bad'.

It was good, and a great beach read. Really goo. I deeply enjoyed it.

To be perfectly frank, while reading, I couldn't put my finger on why I didn't love it. And I couldn't figure out why I didn't want to review it until I sat down and forced myself to actually get started with reviewing it, (I actually read this over my little vacation in the second week in August, and put off reviewing it until a few days before you guys see this post).

But it wasn't literature, and I'm pretty disappointed in the lack of legitimate social commentary.

Still, I do recommend it as a casual slide of simple, summery fun.

- Alex (^_~)<3

[endenogatai]

Europe’s top court strikes down flagship EU-US data transfer mechanism

A highly anticipated ruling by Europe’s top court has just landed — striking down a flagship EU-US data flows arrangement called Privacy Shield.

“The Court of Justice invalidates Decision 2016/1250 on the adequacy of the protection provided by the EU-US Data Protection Shield,” it writes in a press release. 

#ECJ: the Decision on the adequacy of the protection provided by the EU-US Data Protection Shield is invalidated, but @EU_Commission Decision on standard contractual clauses for the transfer of personal data to processors established in third countries is valid #Facebook #Schrems pic.twitter.com/BgxGAvuq3T

— EU Court of Justice (@EUCourtPress) July 16, 2020

The case — known colloquially as Schrems II (in reference to privacy activist and lawyer, Max Schrems, whose original complaints underpin the saga) — has a long and convoluted history. In a nutshell it concerns the clash of two very different legal regimes related to people’s digital data: On the one hand US surveillance law and on the other European data protection and privacy.

Putting a little more meat on the bones, the US’ prioritizing of digital surveillance — as revealed by the 2013 revelations of NSA whistleblower, Edward Snowden; and writ large in the breadth of data capture powers allowed by Section 702 of FISA (Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act) and executive order 12,333 (which sanctions bulks collection) — collides directly with European fundamental rights which give citizens rights to privacy and data protection, as set out in the EU Charter of Fundamental Rights, the European Convention on Human Rights and specific pieces of pan-EU legislation (such as the General Data Protection Regulation).

The Schrems II case also directly concerns Facebook, while having much broader implications for how large scale data processing of EU citizens data can be done. It does not concern so called ‘necessary’ data transfers — such as being able to send an email to book a hotel room; but rather relates to the bulk outsourcing of data processing from the EU to the US (typically undertaken for cost/ease reasons). So one knock on effect of today’s ruling might be for companies to switch to regional data processing for European users.

The original case raised specific questions of legality around a European data transfer mechanism used by Facebook (and many other companies) for processing regional users’ data in the US — called Standard Contractual Clauses (SCCs).

Schrems challenged Facebook’s use of SCCs at the end of 2015, when he updated an earlier complaint on the same data transfer issue related to US government mass surveillance practices with Ireland’s data watchdog.

He asked the Irish Data Protection Commission (DPC) to suspend Facebook’s use of SCCs. Instead the regulator decided to take him and Facebook to court, saying it had concerns about the legality of the whole mechanism. Irish judges then referred a large number of nuanced legal questions to Europe’s top court, which brings us to today. It’s worth noting Facebook repeatedly tried and failed to block the reference to the Court of Justice. And you can now see exactly why they really wanted to derail this train.

The referral by the Irish High Court also looped in questions over a flagship European Commission data transfer agreement, called the EU-US Privacy Shield. This replaced a long standing EU-US data transfer agreement called Safe Harbor which was struck down by the CJEU in 2015 after an earlier challenge also lodged by Schrems. (Hence Schrems II — and now strike two for Schrems.)

So part of the anticipation associated with this case has been related to whether Europe’s top judges would choose to weigh in on the legality of Privacy Shield — a data transfer framework that’s being used by more than 5,300 companies at this point. And which the European Commission only put in place a handful of years ago.

Critics of the arrangement have maintained from the start that it does not resolve the fundamental clash between US surveillance and EU data protection — and in recent years, with the advent of the Trump administration, the Privacy Shield has looked increasingly precariously placed as we’ve reported.

In the event, the CJEU has sided with critics who have always said Privacy Shield is the equivalent of lipstick on a pig. Today is certainly not a good day for the European Commission (which also had a very bad day in court yesterday on a separate matter).

We reached out to the EU executive for comment on Schrems II and a spokesman told us it will be holding a press briefing at noon. (We’ll dial in so stay tuned for more.)

BREAKING: The EU's Court of Justice has just invalidated the "Privacy Shield" data sharing system between the EU and the US, because of overreaching US surveillance. All details available here: https://t.co/xN4HKhZaBT #PRISM #FISA702 #Privacy #PrivacyShield #SCCs #GDPR #CJEU

— Max Schrems

(@maxschrems) July 16, 2020

Privacy Shield had also been under separate legal challenge — with the complainant in that case (La Quadrature du Net) arguing the mechanism breaches fundamental EU rights and does not provide adequate protection for EU citizens’ data. That case now looks moot.

On SCCs, the CJEU has not taken issue with the mechanism itself — which, unlike Privacy Shield, does not contain an assessment on the quality of the protections offered by any third country; it’s merely a tool which may be available to use if the right legal conditions exist to guarantee EU citizens’ data rights — but judges impress the obligation on data controllers to carry out an assessment of the data protection afforded by the country where the data is to be taken. If the level is not equivalent to that offered by EU law then the controller has a legal obligation to suspend the data transfers.

This also means that EU regulators — such as Ireland’s DPC — have a clear obligation to suspend data transfers which are taking place via SCCs to third countries where data protections are not adequate. Like the US. Which was exactly what Schrems had asked the Irish regulator to do in the first place.

It’s not immediately clear what alternative exists for companies such as Facebook which are using SCCs to take EU citizens’ data to the US, given judges have invalidated Privacy Shield on the grounds of the lack of protections afforded to EU citizens data in the country.

US surveillance law is standing in the way of their EU data flows.

Commenting on the ruling in a statement, a jubilant Schrems said: “I am very happy about the judgment. At first sight it seems the Court has followed us in all aspects. This is a total blow to the Irish DPC and Facebook. It is clear that the US will have to seriously change their surveillance laws, if US companies want to continue to play a role on the EU market.”

We’ve also reached out to Facebook and the Irish DPC for comment.

This is a developing story… 

from RSSMix.com Mix ID 8204425 https://ift.tt/2CBIWgX via IFTTT