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#give them melanin you cowards
aro-in-danyl · 1 year
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DP X DC Prompt
Damian, who’s never seen danny before this moment: we’re twins.
Danny, choosing chaos: triplets, actually. I have an identical sister. 
Damian: what.
Bruce, listening in from a roof: Talia hid THREE children from me?!
Talia, on a different roof: Father stole one of my children?! >:(
OR ALTERNATIVELY
Danny: Quadruplets actually. You owe so much child support
Bruce: what-
Dani & Dan: pay up bitch
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sgcairo · 6 months
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Heya! Wanted to ask a question, hope you don't mind! Oh, and also I wanted to gush about this idea.
In your universe, is Dottore from Sumeru or is he perhaps mixed in ancestry? Yesterday I came across this fantastic fan-comic of him as a kid, and the artist headcanoned him as just albino, with both of his parents being dark-skinned.
I've read the Mamatorre stuff and I woke up my dad from screaming with joy. I'm not one to praise representation much because most of the time it's butchered, but, the fact that Dottore being Sumerian is canon in the game is what makes him such a curious case to me.
Oh, and- Dottore speaking Arabic is nice to think about-
Now, this is a tricky ask, and I definitely sat on this for a while so I could give a good and accurate answer, sorry about that. But what I have come to the conclusion of is that the Dottore in my mind and the Dottore that Hoyoverse officially let out of gay baby jail are very different.
First and foremost, I do not agree with the fact that they took all the melanin from his skin, give it back you cowards- and they made him so... I don't even know how to describe it. They made him squishy, I was expecting pointy. His design is also very random, and I think this plays into this ask fairly well, as I believe very firmly that his clothes would take after a more Snezhnayan design, but have touches of Sumeru woven into them for emotional comfort, rather than the uh... The thing that we got. I can't even look at it, it haunts me. I'm definitely not vibing with the in-game design for very specific reasons.
Now, no matter how angry I may be as a writer and artist about his official design, one thing stands true in all my renditions of him: His mother is from Sumeru. Her parents are descended from the people of the desert, and while she may live tucked away in a western corner of Avidya forest, she belongs to the lands of Sumeru, and very much looks it. Her skin has a coppery color to it, her hair is bleached a bit from the sun, and her accent is quite a bit stronger than her son's, but she's been living in the rainforest since she was little, and doesn't plan on leaving anytime soon.
But, as much as I hate saying it, I actually can't say all that much about Dottore's father, but only because I kind of threw him in a corner and forgot about him for a while. He collected dust while I fawned over Dottore's eccentric mom, and I'm still working out the details of his backstory. What I can say is that he worked in mechanics, and met Dottore's mother while on a business trip to the Akademiya, which included him nearly fainting of fright after she popped out of a flower bed covered in dirt and muttering ominously to herself. But as for where he's from, I'm not putting down a definitive answer, but mostly because I'm still deciding in that aspect.
Not to worry about his physicality though, Dottore got everything from his mother (except for his height).
For some more juicy details, because I love digging into the meat of Dottore's backstory- Dottore's mother is named Hikmat, though she does insist that outsiders call her Magdalena. Why? It may have been due to her husband, and his quite frankly horrible demands, but that is a statement to be speculated over. However, Dottore just calls her ma', or "mother", if he's with Pantalone. It's rare that the segments use her name either, as Dottore's own affection has rubbed off on them quite a bit. But she has names for all of them, and nicknames (she calls them all "habibi" a lot, and they all love it) that she remembers distinctly for each.
As for Dottore's connections to Sumeru, he does not like the cold. At all. He's not used to it, and certainly won't admit to being miserable with little to no sunlight from the eternal winter in Snezhnaya. When he does visit his homeland, he's rejuvenated to the point that Pantalone has remarked several times that he's like a whole different person. The same can't be said for his mother, she's never seen snow before and loves it. It helps that the Tsaritsa is there to enable her curiosity in that regard, and the first time she came to Snezhnaya, she spent hours running around outside Zapolyarny, and had to be lured back inside before she froze to death when night fell.
Dottore can also definitely speak some Arabic, or the Teyvat equivalent of it. His Snezhnayan is still a little rough, even after centuries of practice, and he falls into the habit of cursing and muttering to himself in his mother tongue when he's extremely focused or stressed. He knows many languages, and has reason to use them, but he'll always fall back to his roots, as many a poor Fatui soul has learned, after being cursed out in a language they may or may not even know.
As such, the point stands: if you ever ask Dottore where he's from, he'll 100% say he's from Sumeru, without a doubt. No matter where his father is from, he loves his mother and what she has given him too much to let that part of him go.
I'm sorry this wasn't a hard stop answer, but I hope this answered your question at least a little! I'll be sure to reblog this when I come to a final conclusion, but I'll have to see where my brain takes me on this one.
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The Bad Batch: Critiques and Analyses
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A collection of posts analyzing and critiquing the show The Bad Batch, its characters and the elements of its story that are questionable, at best.
Narrative Issues
TBB and entitlement
TBB are out of Touch – tags reblog
TBB have no friends for a reason (and why do grown men have beef with a child) – reblog
The Bad Batch: what makes them special – reblog
Racism in TBB
Hunter
Hunter's not... the brightest bulb in the Batch
Echo
Echo's scomp and body acceptance – inbox ask
Echo is an incredible person – inbox ask 
Give Echo his melanin back, you cowards! – inbox ask
Crosshair
Crosshair is a Reddit edgelord (and Rex is used to leading by example) – reblog
Crosshair's oral fixation
Crosshair is a fascist pt. 1 | pt. 2 | pt. 3
Tech
Tech is ND (not for the reasons you think) pt. 1 | pt. 2 – reblog
Is Tech actually asexual-coded? pt. 1 | pt. 2 – reblog and inbox ask
Wrecker
For the love of fuck, stop comparing him to the Hulk
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wooteena · 3 years
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technoblade speedrunning adopting ranboo (high school edition): the fanfic
also on ao3!
hey remember this post? well i got so attatched and impatient that i wrote over 1k words for a pilot type chapter for it <3
chapter one: officer in my defense i punched that guy because he deserves it
-
Techno Blade-Minecraft would call himself smart. He got good grades without trying, learned second, then third languages with ease, read textbooks for fun, etcetera etcetera. Wisdom without experience was a rare thing to possess, especially in a high school senior but techno had it tight in his grasp, easily making him a ‘Model Student’. He understood he got unneeded attention from that, which sucked, but it was an easy trade-off to be the automatic teacher’s favourite.
But Techno was a man of wisdom, not a man of sense. So naturally, he remembered a fact about baby birds he learnt when he was six years old:
‘Classical "imprinting", as seen with for example, ducks or geese, means that the animal's instinctive programming says "the first big animal you see after hatching is your mom, follow them and look to her for food, warmth, love and learning’
Actually, Techno decided he was the man of Most Sense because at that very moment, the tallest, yet somehow weakest looking freshmen he’d ever seen was being cornered by a group of hefty looking seniors.
And the baby bird, with its innocent, scared eyes was looking right at him.
He looked around the hallway, a desperate scan for other students he could push his growing parental responsibility on to. It was a ghost town, as empty as the remakes of towns from the old west he saw on childhood school excursions.
‘Fuuuuuuuuuuck.’
Technoblade took a deep breath in through his nose, then released it out of his mouth like if he breathed hard enough, his empathy could be taken away with the non existent wind in the soul-crushing grey hallways. It obviously didn’t work because Jesus Christ that kid looked helpless.
As quickly as one could without compromising a freshmen’s still intact nose, Techno examined the seniors. They all wore the school football team’s letterman jacket (‘what is this, Heathers?’), a classic pointer for internalized insecurity, toxic masculinity and most importantly unrightfully self diagnosed Strong Guy syndrome, which meant that they definitely were only beating up a freshmen because that was the most they could actually fight. One point to Technoblade. They also were all at least a solid five inches shorter than him, which Techno would have laughed at if the situation wasn’t so dire. Point two for Technoblade.
Catching himself before letting his wandering mind think up a full five paragraph M.L.A sighted essay to why he could crush these nerds, he decided that two points was enough leverage to still crush these nerds, but with slightly less confidence.
With as much patience as he could, he slowly walked up to the group like a silent lion hunting his soon to be, very dead* (maybe not dead, *slightly bruised) prey. The baby bird, trapped in one of his prey’s chokehold, stared at him like he was a madman. Techno’s objective changed: knock out the dickhead choking a kid.
They stood in a corner, the choker in the middle, the other two blocking off the only escapes and laughing cruelly at the baby bird. Completely distracted.
Techno curled his fist, aiming to punch that asshole’s teeth in or at least break his nose. He starts to run, about five feet away from his target and oh god this is a terrible idea he does fencing not hand to ha-
BAM.
Choker’s nose made a resounding crack and fell back onto the jock on the left. Probably because it’d be ‘too gay’, or whatever, the guy sidesteps and lets a knocked out, nose broken, probably popular kid by comparing his ego to the size of his dick, fall onto the ground
The two awake bullies look between their knocked out friend, then at Techno, then at each other.
“MISS NIIIIHACHUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!”
Techno knew they’d call a teacher because they’re cowards but really? Nihachu?
That lady is TERRIFYING what did he do to deserve this.
He let out a long, disappointed ‘bruh’ before with a jolt, remembering the whole reason he punched that jock in the first.
The child.
He doesn’t bother trying to pick up him up because holy hell he’s tall, but pulls one of the kid’s arms over his shoulder, and with his other arm holds their waist and sprints as fast as he can down the hall.
“What the…” murmurs the half dead lump on his back, and while Techno’s surprised his vocal chords aren’t dead? Not even a ‘thank you’? Techno thinks he should start doing charity work at this point.
He continues to run though, because he’s a generous soul, until slowing to open a door that opens the blinding sunlight of the free world outside their prison.
Despite himself, Techno lets his mouth slip into a big enough smile that actually shows his teeth because he just did that. His celebratory moment is cut off though, because the weight on his back suddenly felt even heavier and-
Oh my God the baby bird just fell asleep on me.
Am I a father now?
What do I tell Phil? Does this make him a grandfather?
I can’t just take him home.
What’s stopping you?
Oh my God, I’m a genius.
Techno may be a proclaimed genius, but he is not immune to the inherent propaganda of cute children, so he sets down the kid on the least grimey part of a battered metal bench to get his first proper look at the sleeping giant.
Apart from his injuries (a bleeding nose, bruises forming on his arms, a black eye and a red handprint on his neck) the kid looked… Weird. Techno had subconsciously noticed it while carrying him, but only now the complete oddity of him. His skin from the jaw down was a uniform, warm, dark brown, which was decidedly normal, but his face was… different. Not ugly, no, he looked average, if not perpetually awkward, even in his sleep. The right side of his face was a similar, if not slightly darker tone than the rest of his skin, but where it got weird weird was from the middle of his face and leftward, his face was pale. As pale as Techno, which is saying something because Techno himself has albinism; he has no melanin in his skin.
He found himself sympathizing for the kid again. Techno himself got bullied for his reddish eyes - a symptom of his albinism, and his naturally stark-white skin and hair. It got to the point that he dyed his hair pink, which decidedly made it worse because a guy dying his hair pink ? apparently high school treason to both students and the school rules. His bullies had a colourful range of insults, at least; Techno’s personal favourites being from after he died his hair: homophobic slurs. The teachers had constant complaints and even a couple suspensions, which didn’t stop Techno, obviously. What a wonder public school is.
So yes, Techno understood the baby bird, because despite Techno’s only weakness being himself (and apparently non-threatening freshmen?) as of now, it wasn’t like he came out of the womb a scary pink haired senior. He knew bullying like the hair dye aisle at his local department store.
He knew that helping the kid would make him more attached to the point of no return, but he’d accepted it. It felt like feeding a wild animal more food after making the mistake the first time, it’s not like it’ll get less annoying to have it following you around.
The moment Techno processed his own thought, his face blanched - somehow getting whiter despite literally being the textbook definition of a white boy.
He’d fallen into the ‘senior adopting a defenseless freshmen’ trap.
Shit.
Even more embarrassingly, this didn't deter Techno from pulling his first aid kit, for once his anxious over-packing doing some good.
-
acording to tumblr statistics, only a small percentage of people who like the post actually reblog it. so if you liked it, give it a reblog! it takes five seconds and you can always delete the reblog later.
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falllpoutboy · 2 years
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It’s become my default to roll my eyes and continue scrolling whenever I come across a “all the ways Zendaya’s MJ sucks” article over the past five years. Just because the rants are almost always written by an incel or yt women who can’t relate to anyone who has more than 5% melanin in them. But because you’re actually black and not racist, a genuine fan of the actress, know the story and have witnessed the shit show that has revolved around the laziness of the Michelle/MJ character, I happily read your rant and agreed with it all. The last sentence especially. I place the blame solely on Jon Watts, The writers for Homecoming, FFH AND NWH, Kevin Fiege and Amy Pascal. Jon seems great as a person, but both him and Zendaya have said he constantly reminded her to base her Michelle’s personality off of MTV’s “Daria” 🤨 WHY would you do that?! This is not the different you should be striving for when you’re already playing a knock off character that has so much of a solidified backstory. Kevin- ugh. Coward who had the ability to stand up to racists but instead embolden them. Amy 😒 as long as Tom stays in his place as her cash cow, she does not care about anythingggg.
I saw NWH today and already know you’re going to feel some type of way once you see it. Hope you share your thoughts on it and certain dumbass plot decisions that were made because BABYYY 🙄🤦🏽‍♀️
lmao i thought this was a hate anon at first i was like 😨 its like they want to have their cake and eat it too 🙄 when all they’ve done is piss off comic mj fans, somewhat placate their racist fanbase and give zendaya scraps to work with
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sapphiretrams · 5 years
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Townie Makeovers -- Partihaus 🎉
I decided to continue my rampage of redoing the townies in the Sims, and I decided that my next victims (after the Bro household, but that’s for another post) would be the Partihaus crew! I’ve got them all lined up, and then in duo shots with their ‘before’ version. I think I gave them all a pretty decent glow up!
@ EA give us more melanin skin tones you absolute cowards
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materialgirlsfanfic · 6 years
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Chapter 10: Affordable Prices To Pay...(Pt. 1)
KIERSTEN
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“Boy you’ll be the death of me, you’re my James Dean you make me feel like I’m seventeen…” - BEYONCE X RATHER DIE YOUNG
TWO MONTHS LATER…
“Sweetie, like always when you get into one of your moods you dip off, and close everyone off  like we can’t resolve things like adults. Call me back.”
…..
“Bitch! I want to actually see you, IN person for brunch this weekend, mmmkay!? You got London on the verge of tears talking about you keep blowing her off, and even my dad has been asking for you! The project is not that deep, ain’t nobody about to be playing hide and seek with yo’ ass either. Call me hoe!
…..
“Hey Kiersten, its Jessie. Just checking in to see if we’re still good for Friday, at 7pm. We still have to discuss the little things like donors, designs, and the guest appearances for the show. But no worries! We’re almost done with everything. See you soon!”
….  
“Hey, sweetheart. It’s dad, I know you may be busy with school, and your work but I wanted to discuss some things with you. I don’t like going this long without out talking to you sweet pea. Let’s do dinner Sunday. Love you, call me soon.”
…….
“Honey, I’m doing an interview with Vogue for Models On Duty, and I’ll be teaming up with June Ambrose and Ashley Graham, I’d love you to be involved. June asked for you. Being as though you aren’t answering me at least. Call her. Back.
……
“Baby girl, I’ll be swingin’ your way shortly. Give me like an hour. I had to meet with this nigga to discuss somethin’ for the club, you know how that goes. But I’m ‘bout to stop at your favorite spot. Let me know what you want.”
……
“It’s your mother again, you know the one that brought you into this world. That was in labor for 16 hours over you Kiersten Stephanie Whitaker! You’re really behaving despicably! Two months! People are asking questions and growing concerned honey, Please!
…….
She was never fond of pet names. Terms of endearment made for coddling, or pacifying sometimes expressed in a  condescending manner that made her blood boil. Well pet names from her. She placed her phone down after shooting a few texts out, and deleting the majority of voice messages.
Amongst the seven, three voicemails belonged to the woman that birthed her that bordered hysteria, even at the calmest level of her tone. She could picture Fiona Whitaker swallowed in the high priced mansion where the walls were caving in with her stricken with loneliness. Where she was accompanied solely by a wine bottle, Marlboro cigarettes and a broken heart. Coping methods to perpetuate the sickness that will certainly take more than medical assistance to cure. She was sweetie in a drunken slur on most nights, honey when anger was on the surface of aggravation, and love when on the brink of being dismissed for what her mother deemed as a trivial manner.
Kiersten grimaced, setting down the chiffon material meant for sewing, that she couldn’t even attempt to make happen. She wished the internal battles didn’t always make her the common casualty from her mother’s assaults.  So much so, the name coddling was salt poured onto more opened wounds. I’m not a child. Slightly started, she felt the calloused hands caress her shoulders that trailed to her wrist, and finally her hands, spreading them out beneath his large ones.
But when he called her baby? Mmm. Spoken in that gruff bravado was enough to make her knees buckle. The warm  fuzzy feeling of contentment growing fonder these past months as she inhaled his distinctive scent of wood and spice.
“What you in here stressin’ about? I can feel that shit all the way from the other room.” Was her transparency that evident? Kiersten smiled smally as his lips reached her temple causing her to get further cocooned.
“I’m not stressing.” What a lie, Kiersten. Do better.
“Oh, yeah?” She could feel Messiah’s eyes boring through her as she attempted at pulling away. The makeshift desk on her vanity made up of her sewing machine, and kit only providing but so much room for her to find an escape out of her gratefully enormous walk in closet. Or as Messiah would put it: ‘Your couture bedroom’. His pronunciation of couture (CAH - tour) always causing to giggle like an idiot.
“Yeahhh.”
“Nah, stay your little ass in place.”
“Come on‘ Si, I’m working. No interruptions when we’re in our zones remember?”
“Na. I ain’t tryna hear all that baby girl. You been in here too quiet, for too long…” She felt the scruffiness of his beard nestle close to her face as they both looked into the vanity mirror, cheeks pressed together. “Damn you’re gorgeous.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that soooo much. Now, move. I wasn’t quiet but moreso focused.” She pointed down to the mop of materials to sew in front of her. “As you can see.”
“Come on mami. Come take a break.”
“Nooo, Messiah I have a deadline. You’ve been distracting me enough!” She was becoming accustomed to this… routine of there’s for lack of better words. Conforming to the ways of a hermit, Kiersten for the past month shielded away the outside world as she remained ducked and hidden in her condo. With only the exception of classes, work, and random trips to Mood fabric store, she limited herself of any social interaction. Her excuses being senior projects, creative assistant duties, and lastly the silent emergence of depression coasting that she couldn’t get a hold of. So like usual she figured solitude the best remedy. But not to London, and Brooklyne who have boarded stalking by the definition. And she couldn’t blame them. The only form of communication she was accepting was rushed over phone convos, scarce FaceTime calls, and texting at best. But a particular gentleman, a Brooklyn specimen, who wasn’t accepting the limits Kiersten was dishing out, wanted all in.
So from random pop ups, to persistent contact of the physical kind, he was the only one she was really allowing access.
But having a man of Messiah’s caliber coexist in her presence, and actually wanting to be there, was still mind boggling. Wanting to provide an ear, offer consolement to even something so trivial as a missing earring. Where, as if it was second nature or a necessity for the completion of his day, having to know the condition of her well being, and being in close proximity to receive it. Not to mention he always wanted to touch her. Always.
She inhaled a soft breath feeling herself being lifted and pulled to his steel chest, where a pinch to her ass cheek was then given, causing her to squeal.
“Eeeeee! Messiah, stop! Wha- for one I’m entirely too heavy for this, what are you-?”
“Shut that shit up, it look like I’m having a hard time holding you?”
“I didn’t say that, Messiah. I just…okay. I can spare an hour then I have to get right back to work. You’re so impossible, like seriously.” Wedged between the rock solid arms of him, was Kiersten escorted to the confines of her kitchen and sat down on the cool surface of the countertop, causing her to tug at her shorts. Exasperation was displayed as she watched him pull out various items from her cabinets and freezer. So much for that hour break.
“You know what you need, Keeks?” It wasn’t a guess that the question was posed rhetorically, but she now found herself contemplating heavily. What do I need? Her feet swung back and forth waiting, while allowing her eyes to latch onto the define muscles of his back as he maneuvered around the kitchen preparing a meal she had yet to identify.
“Besides these cute fuchsia Manolo pumps I seen, today?”
“…To get out this house…a peace of mind.” They were face to face now. Him coming towards her with a bowl filled with mixed vegetables, and a neutral expression that bordered him examining. Kiersten figeted reaching for the bowl to occupy her hands that she nervously toiled together looking back at him. But he dodged it out of her reach, and locked her in between his hands that framed her, setting the bowl by them. “How long you gon’ be hidin’, usin’ work as a scapegoat?”
“That’s not what I’m doing. So don’t…don’t try and psychoanalyze me, ‘kay?”
“That’s what you think I’m doin’? ‘Psychoanalyzin’ you like you some nutcase, or I’m a shrink?”
“Messi-”
“Nah, fuck that. So I’m not ‘spose to ask these questions? Like I’m not hip to what you doin’. You’re buying time, and shit to avoid what? Tell me why I’m here, if it’s not to be concerned but your damn well being Ki?”  
“Listen, okay? I just need you to be…” Here. For as long as I need you to be. With me not having to feel like the other shoe is bound to fall any day now.She felt the emergence of tears, and gritted her teeth, now pushing him back lowering her head.
“Don’t be a fuckin’ coward. We not doin’ that shit. I told you that. Talk to me. Finish what you was about to say, and look at me. You need me to what? Be here? Hold you? Feed you? What? Pacify you? Keep you locked in and throw away the key? What, Kiersten?”
“Just be present!” From that tiny place engulfed in her stomach where the grueling feeling of turmoil resided, was the shout’s source. Messiah remained unmoved and focused, waiting for her to continue. “…like now. Messiah, just continue to make me feel like I’m not going crazy, and by myself. Please.”
He nodded. She exhaled. He cooked. She watched, and the night continued as was.
BROOKLYNE
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97…98…99-
“Sorry to disturb you baby girl, but you got a minute?”
Benjamin Pierre’s presence, just like his coffee, was served strong. Like the emergence of the rigid taste of the straight black caffeinated beverage on one’s tongue, as expected it was, it still took you aback. The distinction being that stern. Her father’s deep brown melanin seemingly glowed under any light that further highlighted his strikingly handsome features; the eyes that matched her own stared at her for moments of intensity, with urgency in the midst of. She placed a halt in her morning exercise of 100 plies, and barre work giving him her full attention.
“For my favorite old man, of course. What’s up, pops?”
“Fiona contacted me…” Aw, shit. “What’s this I hear about Kiersten’s blatant refusal to go home?”
“That’s what she told you?”
“Yes, so much more. But that’s just the half.” In Brooklyne’s bedroom at an early 9:43am was a stare off. Meddling in normalcy, but she was sure wasn’t to last much longer as that thick bushy brow of his rose. Following the cross of his arms, and the tilt of his head. But Brooklyne wasn’t London. She didn’t crack under pressure easily or allowed any of Benjamin Pierre’s typical courtroom intimidating tactics to shake her the least bit. After all, I am my father’s child.
“Hm, not sure daddy…that’s strange. Last I spoke to her things were fine. And she was definitely home. FaceTimed her and everything seeing she was right in her bedroom.” Yeah, to pack the last box I was to swing by and pick up to finish decorating.
“Is that right? So when was this?”
“A…couple days ago? Yeah, Tuesday.”
“Hm. Interesting. Look, Brooklyne…two things I need you to understand if you haven’t by now…” Through a sip of her chilled bottle of Fiji water, Brooklyne concealed a gulp of concern. It’s one thing for her father to intimidate for answers, it’s another when he already knew them, she supposed, and was behind the fire of checking. “I find out everything. No matter the time of delay it maybe. No matter the circumstance, I…do. It’s what I get paid for, as you know.”
“Dad-”
“So, if and when you hear from Kiersten again and she turns out to actually be “fine” like you say she is? Tell her to call her mother. Thanks, babygirl.”
Brooklyne flopped on the bed huffing heavily.
“This too much.”
———
You’re missing me, I’m missing you
Whenever we meet, we ain’t gonna get no sleep
When I get to be together with you
It’s fait accompli, we ain’t gonna get no sleep
Slick. The droplets that trailed down his steel abdominals, flexed and illuminated his cream complexion. Under the soft light in the studio his shadow trailed closely behind as it remained in sync with Janet Jackson’s “No Sleeep”. Brooklyn seeped in light breaths, as she remained tucked away and hidden by the barre. Taking peeks was growing tiresome like her thighs, she surpassed a little warm up to get started. At this point she was truly stalling. Why am I even doing this?
“So, we startin’ from the second verse…you ready?” Lord knows I’m not.
“Mind explaining to me what’s this for again? I’m not a hip-hop dancer, we know this.”
The heat of his body radiated onto her own as he stepped forward and stood behind her. There in the ceiling to floor mirror was the detection from Brooklyne’s view, trouble. Not a simple attempt of a duet or a pas de deux rather insisted by his mother, her instructor from hell.
“As you know The Joffrey Ballet intensive my mother is instructing has a hiplet component. A mix of hip-hop an-”
“…and Ballet, Tahj. I know, hip-hop on pointe shoes. Yes, she explained this. But why me? Did you insist this little arrangement?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Brooke. She did, actually.” She turned to him and searched his face. “I don’t know…for some strange reason she has this idea that you’re good enough. Let’s get this shit over with.”
She sneered at his sarcasm, tying her hair back. An hour in as she began feeling perspiration coat her skin, she was finally able to blur out the ridicule she felt. Taking this exactly for what it was which was simply a dance demonstration for a bunch of high school students that should last no more than four minutes.
“Shit!” A stub of her toe caused her attitude to look less than stellar, as she tripped into an awkward fourth position. From her peripheral she could see his bemusement.
“Don’t overextend your back like that. The fuck you tryin’ to do? Break it?”
“Since when did you become an expert of ballet? Focus on poplockin’ nigga.”
“You forgettin’ who my mother is? You been in her class long enough, to just be makin’ common fuck ups. What…” He walked closer to her side of the studio. “You nervous?”
“I twisted my ankle, right before the senior showcase…the senior showcase that had Juilliard talent scouts, and the director of Ailey in the audience. Guess who was accepted to both? Tahj…don’t insult me. Can we start from the top, please?” She went to her cue in stance of releve with her arms in Egyptian pose.
“…You were perfect.” She would’ve missed it, had it not been so quiet you could hear a mouse piss on cotton, as he muttered it so quickly.
“What?”
“You heard me nigga…that’s what got you accepted, right? Now, from the top.”
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goldenhathor-blog · 7 years
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They tell me due to the fairness of my skin that I couldn’t be like them. They tell me due to the way that I talk that I couldn’t possibly walk alongside them. But how am I any different from you? My hair is nappy. My nose is wide. And my GOD does my skin glisten with the help of cocoa butter. My hips move to the same rhythm as yours. Yet you continue to let them separate us. You continue to let them destroy our culture that makes our souls shine and our fingers rise to the sky. These tears that permanently stain my cheeks are not from the society that hates us so, But it comes from the same people that I've grown up around. My sisters. My brothers. My cousin, And the Unc that resides outside of the liquor store. They taught us to hate those with less melanin. They taught you to believe that your skin is a sin. They taught me to believe that because I have skin that compares to theirs that I am less than the people I call my brothers and sisters. For a nation that preaches love and acceptance I lie awake each and every night wondering what the hell happened. The land of the free, The home of the brave Has turned into a nation where cowards rant and rave. Our people are suffering each and everyday And they tell us that nothing but prayer can fix the hate. But I ask of you, what about the children that look up to us? The ones that dream of doing what we do? The ones that admire our skin tones and our hair wondering when life will give them the privilege of them becoming like us? Should we continue to let them see the tear streaks flowing underneath our eyes? Should we continue to let them see the way we brighten our skin and cower in shame because society won't let us be who we are without ridicule? Or should we finally come together like our previous leaders and tell them that hope is still alive. Like our leaders, that we too, have a dream. That just like our leaders we have to stand for something or we'll fall for anything. I am a black woman. Regardless of the fairness of my skin. My hair is nappy. My lips are full And damn does my skin glisten with the cocoa butter my great grandmother has made for me so my skin can shine just like my soul. And I refuse for anyone to make me feel like I'm anything less.
confessions of a tired black woman: “The Silent Scream”
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