#in school we were made to learn british english

[foldingfittedsheets]

Through sheer happenstance my beloved and I both speak German. They’re significantly more fluent than me, having done a year abroad and double majoring in it. But both of us have stories passed down to us of the hilarious cultural misunderstandings present in learning a new language.

One of my German teachers had also spent a year abroad. He had a good grasp of the language but not the nuance. So when he’d closed on his first apartment and his lady got him a good deal he said, “Oh mein Gott, ich liebe dich!” (“Oh my god, I love you!”)

Now in English I love you is a multi-use term applied to friends, family, and for emphasis that you’re very happy, like someone just got you your first apartment.

In German however that phrasing is very specifically romantic. Not even casually romantic, it’s Serious Love. Parents tell their kids “Ich habe dich gern” or “Ich habe dich lieb” (literally “I have you gladly” or “I have love for you”) rather than “Ich liebe dich.” (This is as it was explained to me, don’t @ me it was public school)

So this woman was horrified and creeped out that this strange man, who she was alone in a room with, had pulled the cultural equivalent of declaring his undying love for her and asking her to have his babies.

He was equally horrified to have made such a faux pas when he realized how upset she was and profusely apologized. She understood better when he explained he was American.

A silly bonus story was that in that class we pranked one of the girls into thinking “Baum” was slang for cool. It just means tree. She’d be like “Das ist so Baum!” (“That is so tree!”) It went on for a few months before the teacher corrected her.

The next story is one of my favorites. My beloved heard from her teacher of a woman who had hosted a German exchange student for a while. At one point the girl came up to the her host mom to ask, “Where can we go buy a rubber? My sister collects them.”

“A rubber? She collects them??”

“Yes, can we buy her one?”

The woman was shocked that her exchange student was asking for a condom. But, she told herself, cultural norms were different, and she knew that German teenagers were given more sexual freedom. So, trepidatious but determined, she drove the girl to a local sex shop.

The girl, in turn, was horrified when they arrived. Most German student learn British English instead of American English and they call erasers rubbers.

The translation error made her host mom think she was asking for condoms when she just wanted a cute eraser and they both ended up embarrassed, surrounded by dildos.

[firebirdsdaughter]

As the daughter of a history major…

… Where the hell are so many americans on tumblr going to school???

I just saw a post about how ‘it’s taught in america that the pilgrims were Good and fleeing religious intolerance but they were actually Bad’ which first off, you cannot make those distinctions bc freaking everyone was up to kill anyone who didn’t agree in those days, but also… People claiming to be american claiming that they were definitely taught exactly that??

Maybe… If you never took a history class past elementary school, I guess. Or maybe you were in Florida (oh, gods, get my mother started on people killing each other in Florida).

Bc, resident American here, albeit one in Massachusetts, and… No. We’re not taught that. You get a romanticised version in early grades maybe, but the higher you go, you get taught that the most Puritans had different religious beliefs than the standard in England, so they took the opportunity to ship off to the colonies. There’s no victimisation, it’s just straight facts. And that usually, that was the category of people shipped off to the colonies—criminals, religious differences, poor people… Like no one in their right mind wanted to go off into the ‘wilderness.’ They did it bc they hated being where they were, and England was all too happy to get rid of them. Hell, they were also completely unprepared and many of them died on the way over. Like that shot went super bad for so many reasons.

I’m not going to claim I remember every detail I was taught, and I had a bit of a deeper knowledge bc my mother is, again, a history major w/ an interest in American history bc it is whacky), and I do remember the ‘founding’ being a little simplified, but I also distinctly remember going into higher grades and having teachers outright explain ‘what you were told as kids was a very simplified version, let’s talk about it in more detail.’ We weren’t taught that there were ‘good’ or ‘bad’ guys, we were taught that these people had a difference in belief and that for that reason, they ended up shipped off to the colonies. We talked about the conflicts, the damage, the ugly bits.

I think people claiming to have been taught a sanitised version either didn’t take many history classes, didn’t pay attention, or don’t remember much of what they were taught (which no judgement here, I barely remember). Or maybe they’re just trying to sound Cool on the internet? I can’t know. But I remain baffled by certain myths about the us that alleged Americans come out of the woodwork to claim are true when… Your experiences are not universal???

Like I’m happy to criticise the education system, bc excuse me while I cry about not being able to hold a conversation in Spanish, but like. Unless you were in a very particular environment (I went to public school, btw)… No, you weren’t taught that shit. There’s parts missing, sure, but they did not, at least not beyond elementary, try to claim the ‘Pilgrims’ were blameless. I remember being taught that life was harsh and short, and people bitter and stubborn. I don’t doubt that the words ‘fleeing religious intolerance’ might’ve been used, bc technically, yes, they were. But I am also intolerant of trolls, and mosquitos. That’s a statement, it has no bearing on what kind of people either group was.

[niuniente]

Regarding fandoms and comments, I've recently had negative comments that tell me I'm not good and should just quit writing. Well, it worked. I no longer am able to write without it affecting my mental state. People who do the bullying do it to get rid of authors they don't like that doesn't fit their mindset. When does it end? I didn't want it to hurt my mental health and get me to quit, but it did.

People treating each other badly whenever they can never ceases to make me sad.

I try to think the quote "hurt people hurt people" when dealing with negative people. Happy, balanced people, who view others as their equals, have no need to leave negative comments, send hate messages etc. to others just because they can.

Take a little break but don't let anyone stop you from doing what you love! I try to keep this mentality and I always think about how Billy Idol (80's famous singer) just kept pushing forward whenever someone or something said no to him:

When he was a child, he wanted to play a guitar. Parents said "No, you can only play a violin" -> Billy secretly got himself a guitar with 5£ at the age of 9 and learned to play it by himself.

His teenage girlfriend dyed his hair white. Everyone said it looked horrible on him -> Billy kept the white hair and made it his trademark.

He discovered punk and FINALLY managed to put a band together in his late teens. Too bad that London, where he lived, had closed all bars and pubs from punk bands. They weren't legally allowed to play anywhere. -> Billy and a few other guys established their own place for all punk bands, where all where welcome to play.

He went to university to study music. He was bullied and ostracized by other students as he was too weird, too freaky looking and listened to punk instead of jazz -> He was lonely but staid in the school and kept his looks and music taste.

He started to dislike being a band member and wanted to have a solo career. Everyone said you can't make it, you suck, you can't make compose a shit -> Billy decided to start a solo career as Billy Idol anyway.

When he started to get a little footing in the Europe, he decided that he wants to go to USA. It would give him better markets and more chances to succeed. Too bad that Europe's most famous punk band, Sex Pistols, has just epically failed in their attempts to make it in the USA. America hated punk and Billy Idol was nobody compared to Sex Pistols. Everyone called him delusional for having such stupid dreams. -> Billy went to USA anyway

In America, all record labels he went to said the same thing; you will never make it here. You sing punk and we hate it. You sing with British English and we hate it. You look so fucking ugly that no one will come to see you. If you want to succeed here, you need to change your music style for radio friendly stuff, change your accent and change your looks. -> Billy thought that if singing with American accents helps, he does it. Otherwise, fuck you. This is the music he wants to do and this is his style and how he wants to look. -> This decision led him to become super famous. Everyone loved his music and the fucking ugly guy became one of the 80's sex symbols, and his music videos were literally directed to sell with sex to the female audience.

Also, it was told him with dead certainty by many people that your music will never play in radios. EVER. Well, what do you know, his music still plays in the radios, 40 years later :3

So, keep going! Keep writing! There's audience for every single style out there and just because some asshat wasn't impressed, it doesn't mean others wouldn't like your stuff.

I mean, how much emphasis do we want to put into asshats words anyway? Which matters more; some random asshat's feelings or our own joy and inspiration when we do something creative?

[wisteriagoesvroom]

unnecessarily specific headcanons for college!AU f1 drivers, part 2

part 1 available here

(and now with more gender diversity because it’s my AU and why not)

pierre

- major: entrepreneurship

- attending on a sports scholarship. is on the diving team

- birth name Pascale but she hates it, someone called her Pierre years ago as a joke (after the founder of the modern olympics) and it stuck

- met charles as a kid on a highscool exchange scuba diving trip and they’ve been best friends ever since

- has made a habit of introducing herself as “from Rouen, not Paris”, so much so that the rest of the gang groans and says it for her every time someone new arrives and she has to make an introduction

- has bars of chocolate stowed in random places. literally all sorts. it’s her bad habit. she and Lando become friends because she hoards good Belgian chocolate (“the real stuff not this Americane or Britishe nonsense”)

- got into a huge disagreement with max over a second year group project. people could hear the dispute from several rooms down in the library. they were called into the dean’s office and let off with a warning

- claims not to be a good cook but regularly bashes out amazing French home cuisine that has half the dorm in tears

- somehow also finds time to snowboard and run half marathons during summer and winter breaks

yuki

- major: he doesn’t go to the university but is in the city culinary school. he is Pierre’s friend and shows up on campus mostly on Fridays and weekends

- the origin story of their friendship changes all the time because they lie about it. it becomes a running gag and nobody knows the actual truth (the truth is they both swiped right on tinder in freshman year, but actually worked out to be better friends than a couple)

- disgusted by most campus food. will bring his own bentos to eat on the quad. can magic up dishes out of seemingly nothing. famous for a hack that somehow involves making omurice in a rice cooker. also does a killer savoury soufflé pancake, and deep fried chicken which the gang request every time they get too sloshed. Yuki obliges because he enjoys cooking for people

- actually enjoys anime but gets annoyed when people ask him about it or when people use weeby topics as a conversational opener with him

- learned English from stage-ing in local kitchens and thus swears like a sailor and knows cuss words in three additional languages (Spanish, Italian, French)

- scar on leg in shape of a cow from falling off a skateboard once

- everyone thinks he and Pierre have something going on but at this point it’s purely platonic

- will start a fight if drunk and people make fun of his height

lando

- major: psychology

- openly nonbinary

- performs well in their field of study but is determined to finish their degree so they can fully focus on their budding career in esports. esports alias is quadrant

- dyes their hair different colours constantly, depending on mood. had a phase where it was really orange when they were mad at an overwatch match that ended badly

- self-taught in three different instruments (guitar, piano, recorder for the shits and giggles). is a better DJ than charles and stops charles from taking the aux chord at parties to play his charlie sadboi mixes all the time

- best Instagram stories of the gang. somehow really well curated but authentic at the same time

- will do standup one day for kicks and absolutely murder the set, and then never touch it again

- shockingly good at the game twister. maybe was a gymnast in highschool but doesn’t like to talk about it possibly due to the gender trauma

- is a little bit abrasive and will tease/clown everybody for their shenanigans. but when shit hits the fan is the first person to show up with a big bowl of soup and some tissues and check if the other person is okay and “do you want to talk about it”

guan yu

- major: software engineering

- always seems on the cusp of some academic disaster but pulls through surprisingly well

- rides an e scooter around campus

- people think he’s in the architecture or design school because he always turns out immaculate fits

- is the person to ask everyone during study sessions if anyone wants bubble tea. (he wants bubble tea. he will order for everyone. he has a phone note with everyone’s favourite order. he judges charles for wanting a jasmine tea flavour but with milk. he will patiently explain to max what a bubble tea is, then it becomes one of max’s favourite drinks.)

- despite his academic ups and downs, already has unconditional offers from at least 3 Silicon Valley late-stage startups and all 4 Chinese big tech firms

- will one day do something so revolutionary with AI and visual design, like the next great CAD system or something, that he never has to work again

carla

- major: history of art

- many aliases. aka Carlita. Kylie. Kiki.

- THE it-girl on campus. manicure always immaculate and always in shades of red. boys (and girls, and even the TAs) always want to talk to her but are sooo intimidated

- always posting Instagram photos of her on a plane or holiday even though she’s studying in her room. never lets people know her next move

- people clown her for her major but she is actually really knowledgeable about art and takes it very seriously. her study notes are extremely organized, whether it’s her macbook or flashcards. she is in general good favour with the profs if she would only stop texting in seminars

- dad’s name is on one of the library wings. everyone realises this on the first day and she’s like “yes… i am a nepo baby. anyway where are we meeting later, i have an in with the promoters at this club if we want to go there”

- secret guilty pleasure is playing first person shooter games on her switch and absolutely decimating people. it is her outlet for aggression. she may also have beaten quadrant/lando at overwatch once but won’t tell anyone because playing overwatch messes with her party girl image

- starts a side hustle doing events and ten years after graduation will be extremely successful in this venture

- stress cries often but pulls it together. prone to scream-singing sad Spanish ballads when drunk. surprisingly knows every single word to a decade’s worth of Pitbull songs

[historia-vitae-magistras]

there's a bit of a cultural divide between french canada and english canada, does matthew feel like he's more one than the other? I guess the answer could be, he feels both, but then a canadian fluent and familiar with the french and british side isn't the same as one thats only the one side if you know what I mean? maybe it's just where im from but knowing french here is considered very bourgeois lmao like only the rich kids learn french and its largely to tell apart themselves from us. knowing french is our, ohh ok you went to private school, idk if its the same deal for the french side knowing english. probably not seen in the same epitome of class and elegance lmao. but yea point is, being an '''allrounder'' is kinda indicative of class, but matthews meant to represent everyone, so where does he fall on that scale?

The vast majority of Anglo conceptions about French or any language are the hangover of the British Empire speaking. People see bilingualism as something posh people get at posh people's schools. Some French Canadians see English in the same way. But most bilingual people are bilingual because they didn't really have a choice. Language can be indicative of class with educational access, but it's not inherently tied to it.

Given the tying of life span to history in Hetalia, I think there would be a specific attachment given to French as it would be one of Matt's first languages given the nature of the French Empire in Canada before the conquest and auction. And given the demographics of Canada, Matt doesn't have a choice but to be both. He's born to both; he'll die as both, and it's not a weakness. Government bilingualism made bilingualism a trait of the political class. Multiculturalism in this country was born legally because when the French Canadians were such a pain in the ass and forced Anglos to give them rights, other groups, especially Ukrainian, Japanese and Chinese Canadians in the west of Canada, followed. But it's been with us from the very beginning. The first people we might call 'Canadians' were the children of French trappers and indigenous women, something you can still see in the demographics of French Canada. They would have been bilingual as a fact of life.

All these divisions are constructs created by nationalism, capitalism, and empire, not just inherent born and natural things. We made, subverted and changed them every day. He's both and more. It's not an inherently alienating thing. People live, breathe, and love in two languages.

Born French, first language French, but that doesn't make someone incompatible with the anglosphere? There are a lot of people who have French as their first language, and Anglos are absolutely shocked and make weird comments, 'but you're normal!' I don't think Matt would be alien from French or English by being both. Kind of shitty to suggest anyone who's both will never fit anywhere and can't understand a culture by being partially outside of it. People bleed, people love, people live their lives. Class affects people outside of the Anglo world. Culture, language and class isn't a zero-sum game

[eirinstiva]

The Sussex Vampire: a bit about Perú

In the last two letters from my dear friend Watson we know about The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire so I have an excuse to dust my old book of history, some English-Spanish dictionaries and Todo Sherlock Holmes.

Mrs. Ferguson (we don't know her name. ACD, how hard was to call her María or Violeta?) and her maid Dolores come from Perú (I know I shouldn't use ´ but I have my Latino ID so I'll do what I want). She was daughter of a Peruvian merchant related to importation of nitrates.

After the Pacific War came a National reconstruction period (1884–1895). During this period Peru has huge external debt and lost many industries related to nitrate production, the occupied provinces of Tacna and Arica were under Chilenization. Latex and oil industries become relevant due to Industrial Revolution but the country was in bankruptcy. In 1886 the Grace Contract was signed between Peru and British bondholders to settle this debt, and the Peruvian Corporation was formed. This corporation agreed to cancel Peru's debt in exchange for £80,000 in annual payments, mining rights, and ownership of the Peruvian rail for 66 years. The corporation also agreed to build 160 kilometers of new railroad.

Nicolás de Piérola was elected president of Peru 1895, and the country began its period known as the Aristocratic Republic. During this time the economy was highly dependent of Britain: The Peruvian Corporation (trains), London Pacific (oil), Cerro de Pasco Minning Corporation (copper), Peruvian Amazon Company (latex rubber) Sugar Company (sugar) and Banco Perú Londres (bank) were the motors of the economy.

Mrs. Ferguson was probably from an aristrocratic family and received a proper education for a woman of her social status, including learning a foreign language like English. Her "alien religion" was Catholicism like the biggest part of the country because that religion reached almost every corner in South America (by choice or force) during the Colonial Era.

The maid Dolores had brown skin, so I guess she was indigenous or mestiza (Spaniard+Indigenous). Like her employer she was Catholic too but she hadn't the same education. There were efforts to increase the number of people able to read, but it was a common practice for kids to leave school and work in the same industries as their parents.

Dolores didn't study English like Mrs. Ferguson, that's why she use Spanish grammar when she speaks:

“She verra ill,” cried the girl, looking with indignant eyes at her master. “She no ask for food. She verra ill. She need doctor. I frightened stay alone with her without doctor.”

She no ask for food = Ella no pregunta por comida ✔

The translation into Spanish made by Juan Manuel Ibeas reflects this with the absence of some sounds and words:

—Ta my enferma gimió la muchacha, mirando con ojos indignados a su señor—. No quere comía. Mu enferma. Necesita doctor. Me da miedo estar sola con ella sin doctor.

And "leesten", IIRC in Spanish we don't have long/short vowels, so the /ɪ/ in listen can be /iː/ like in heel, details that make English a hard language for Latinos, and harder for someone with Dolores' background.

ACD wrote a whole chapter of "The Mystery of Cloomber" with some Scottish accent, so I doesn't surprise me. I like the level of accuracy of this accent. There are high chances that Dolores doesn't even read in Spanish, so this details are more accurate that I expected.

I understand (a bit) why Mrs Fergurson didn't dare to tell her husband what his son did. She was in a foreign country alone with her maid, she had to deal with another language, another religion and she doesn't have her family or friends there. I can't imagine going back to Perú by steamship in times when the Panama Canal was in construction.

[adamsandlermealplan]

Every Meal is Shared With You Now and Forever

Bún Bò Huế at Tương Lai (Cabramatta) | 1 August

It's nothing new under the sun to write about how love and food are entwined. How preparing a meal, the deliberate act of taking someone to a restaurant that you enjoy, the times when the scent of a familiar flavour sends you into a wave of emotions... A humanity that has been forever. It's what really made me want to start writing more, although I fear reproducing half-baked diaspora musings. But maybe that's why I do want to record it, precisely because of its eternal and intrinsic nature that transcends time and fuses communities together.

My grandma passed away on Sunday, and food has not tasted the same since. She was my third parent, and my constant. Until the last day that she could stand she would cook lunch and dinner for everyone. After school and work, the first thing that she would ask is whether I was having dinner. Almost without missing a day, she would cook for us. My gut wrenches from remembering the times when I declined and said I would eat later. The times that I've told her I was going out for dinner and her subsequent dejected mood. More than anything, I had declined her act of love. I deserve to feel this terrible, brokenhearted remorse.

She grew up learning to cook with her eyes and her nose. Being the fourth daughter of a Chinese immigrant in British occupied Malaysia, she was prohibited from getting an education by her father. She was basically illiterate, bar the few Chinese characters and basic English words she had to teach herself. I had always considered myself fortunate to be able to indulge in a cuisine many had only later been introduced to. A cuisine that was an almagation of Indian immigrants, Malay locals, many generations of Chinese-Malays and even the influence of British and Portuguese colonisers. She would pound her own spices for curries, cook herbal soups when we came into flu season. So much knowledge through simply absorbing the world around her. Learning the only way she really knew how. I loved her sambal which she would use on a variety of dishes. Nasi lemak. Fried okra. Fried fish. She really loved golden, deep fried delicacies. She introduced me to what Westerners would consider more "challenging" foods. Liver, blood jelly, tripe. I feel so lucky to be able to appreciate these foods. When I had a 2 year vegetarian stint, she would take the effort to cook me a separate dish with no meat. I'm honestly glad I started to eat meat again so I could taste her original cooking before it was too late. I should have known that through her cooking and her hours of preparation, her commitment to make sure we were fed were all intrinsic acts of love. I will never be able to taste it again. I will never be able to repay it.

I ate this bún bò huế after visiting the temple where my family and I have now decided to place her ashes. I had been crying until my eyes had become swollen, and looked bee-stung. I was weepy, still, when they brought this soup noodle out. While it was delicious with its spicy tang and careful notes of fermented seafood, like most of the meals I've had since, it was dampened by the flavour of grief. The thought of being unable to share this with her dulled the usual melody of aromas I would get from that first taste of the soup. If she were with me, I would have asked for a separate little bowl for her to try the silky noodles and bits of Vietnamese ham. Now and until forever, I thought, I could not ever return those acts of care to her. So from that day I promised that every meal is shared with her. I will think of her in every bowl of noodle soup, every bite of curry, even whatever bland work lunch I may have. Tonight is the 7th day since her death, so I poured us a glass of her favourite beer (Guiness) and we served her a little plate of our dinner on the makeshift altar in her room and I feel a little better about it all.

[rowanaelinn]

Genuine question… I don’t mean this to sound rude but why did you move to America?? There is nothing anyone could say to ever convince me to set foot in that country so I’m genuinely just curious what made you want to study there?

Also I apologise to any Americans that see this I’m not trying to be mean! I’m sure there are nice ppl and places there but I don’t know anyone that would choose to go there

HAHA okay that was blunt 😭😭

i’m definitely never moving to this country forever, but as someone who is studying English to teach it in France, going away for at least a semester is a boost for my masters application and will help me to get my PhD as well! it will also perfect my English and accent.

I chose the US bc as a kid I wanted to live there so bad, and the campus experience seemed dope! Also, in high school we were asked to pick between either learning American english or british English, and I picked American English so it helps me with perfectioning this and hopefully i’ll stop switching between british and american accents!

this country isn’t perfect and it is scary but it’s a one in a lifetime opportunity for me and my career. going to study in the UK, which isn’t a much better country, wouldn’t have been as impressive for my future as I live 2 hours away from there ☺️

[prince-of-elsinore]

@luminescent-chorus tagged me to respond to the following. Thanks friend! I know it's not Wednesday, but hey, we need our Wincest fix between Wednesdays too, right? :)

Happy Wincest Wednesday! I have a few questions for people to answer. Feel free to answer them all or just one (or none at all) even if you’re not tagged!

what song describes samdean the most?

if spn was set in europe, what country would the Winchesters be from? What language/languages would they speak?

This is such an interesting question to think about! The possibilities that first come to mind are: Ireland, Scotland, Germany, Poland. On a superficial level, this is probably because Sam and Dean look Anglo-Saxon, and these countries have climes and landscapes not too dissimilar from damp Vancouver, where the series is filmed. But there are some cultural reasons, too.

First, Ireland/Scotland: (ignoring for now that supposedly the BMOL made hunting in the British Isles obsolete) There's a ruggedness to parts of the countryside and, stereotypically, to its working class inhabitants, that I think fits John and Dean quite well. It's easy to imagine young Dean being (or rather, posturing as) one of those mad lads at the pub, you know what I mean? While Sam went off to Dublin or even, God forbid, London, for school. I could maybe even see them being from Wales or Northern England--I could imagine Dean with a Mancunian accent. And when he picks up Sam from school, Sam's developed this posher, southern accent that starts slipping the longer he's on the road with Dean. This AU opens up a whole rabbit hole to explore: is Dean a bit of a chav? Or is he, in his anachronistic way, more of a skinhead (in the original British, not neo-Nazi sense)? Is he more into punk than classic rock? Aesthetically, it could make sense, but did John listen to that? And what does it mean for Sam to consciously distance himself from that?--etc.

Germany/Poland: the blue-collar aesthetic is intrinsic to spn, and it's interesting to me to think of that in an Eastern Bloc context. If they were German, they'd be from the East. Their childhood was spent behind the Iron Curtain, and part of escaping that life, for Sam, would be going west, maybe to Munich or even (*gasp*) Paris. Dean's romanticization of the past would be tied up with Ostalgie. Maybe they drive a Trabi, or a Polski Fiat 126p (lol). Would we get gopnik/dresiarz tracksuit-wearing Dean (bigger lol)? Or maybe he idolizes and emulates icons of Western pop culture (a precious commodity for him growing up) just as much as in canon. Maybe he loves "Eastern/Red Westerns" and Bruce Springsteen. As far as languages go, I imagine hunting would take them across borders all the time, so they'd both have a working knowledge of several Central European and Slavic languages. Dean's English would be learned entirely from pop culture and would reflect that, while Sam's would be much more academic. Sam would speak much better French than Dean (and than canon Sam *cough*) and probably Italian, Spanish, and Greek as well.

if they didn’t have the impala, what car would they drive?

is there a project you’re working on currently? Do you have a line or sketch from it to share?

I am currently working on a multi-chapter post-15x19 thriller! He's an excerpt:

What it comes down to is that he’s Dean fucking Winchester, and he should’ve known that would catch up with him sooner than later. Not because of the enemies he’s made, but because he wasn’t built for good things. He’d let himself forget that. Because he and Sam beat God and saved the world, and for a moment it’d felt like they had a new lease on life, and they got a dog for Christ’s sake because the worst was supposed to be behind them and they were finally free—what a joke. Freedom doesn’t mean the good life. Freedom is just a nice sounding way of saying that the rug can be pulled out from under you at any moment and you’ll never find a satisfactory answer why, because there are no rules, no guiding principles, no divine design behind your suffering.

what’s the first fanfic for supernatural you’ve written? Did you publish it? Or if you don't write: what's the first fanfic you remember reading?

is there another codependent/enmeshed duo from a different fandom you enjoy? Are there parallels to Sam and Dean?

Dennis and Dee Reynolds from It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, and Rick and Morty. Both of these duos have a considerably less healthy dynamic than Sam and Dean, but I think disentangling themselves from each other would be just as unthinkable as for the Winchesters. They also all have an element of "this person knows me better than anyone else, and we've shared experiences no one else could possibly understand."

what type of wincest dynamic do you currently enjoy most? (sexual, platonic, dark, fluffy, early seasons, etc.)

Mostly sexual (especially developing feelings), usually somewhere between dark and fluffy (bittersweet, melancholy, or hard-earned happiness), and often pre-canon or post-15x19.

These were fun! I tag @flownwrong, @mannequin3thereckoning, @thegoodthebadandtheart, @zmediaoutlet, @flashbulb-memory, and @nigeltde-fic, if you feel like it :)

[sissa-arrows]

When you say the new generation putting aside the French language, do you mean Algerians no longer speaking French? I'm American and I wonder if Metropolitan French being exposed to German and English media forces them to change too.

First of all some context to my answer. My family in Algeria is from a super rural area. There’s legit 4 houses that’s it. It does color their view of the French language and because I live in France my knowledge and view of French in Algeria is influenced by their view and knowledge of it.

French had a huge place in Algeria. But we chose to never be part of the international organization of la francophonie cause French is not a choice we made it was imposed to us. Everyone speak Arabic but French was seen as the language of the “elite” so kids would study French early and in college the teaching was done exclusively/almost exclusively in French for stuff like economy, administrations… in rural areas it’s also seen as the language of the bourgeoisie. If you ask me or my cousin to describe a snobby woman from a big city she will 100% speak French. Knowing how to speak French doesn’t make that imaginary woman snobby it’s the way she insists on only speaking French even if you speak Arabic with her.

Now the younger generation started slowly putting French aside and replacing it with English because that’s the actual international language. Then last year the Algerian government announced that English would be introduced in primary schools to eventually replace French. Learning French would still be an option but just like Spanish or German or Italian. French would lose its privileged position.

It doesn’t necessarily comes from a place of rejection of everything related to France it’s more from a place of what will actually be useful to develop the country.

For German and English medias influence on France honestly I don’t see any difference for German medias. For British English medias they are mostly used to comfort French people in their racism. American English medias on the other hand do help us bring attention to what’s happening in France. For example, Kimberly Latrice Jones’ “how can we win video” was used to explain to white leftists why kids and young people were breaking everything during the protests. White leftist in France will listen to Black Americans before listening to us Black and North Africans people in France. And while the situation in the US is bad the denial in France is just so much worst. I saw French people supporting Black Americans calling out the police violence in the US and then when we ask them for support here in France they be like “it’s not the same in France it’s not about race you guys are thugs that’s why the police has to do that” best case scenario they deny the race aspect and make it about socio economic classes without questioning or even acknowledging why North Africans and Black people are over represented in the lowest socio economic classes. So the right American medias used the right way help us more than German or British medias do.

Anyway if something wasn’t clear let me know. You can also send a DM or an other ask if you prefer.

[syncrovoid-presents]

Researching for my hazbin fic (A Cannibal's Guide on Living Comfortably) has also made me realize that my adoptive family (and me in relation to my birth family) actually suffer from cultural loss. And this ties to my adoptive family being half french like Alastor.

This is sort of a personal ramble about my experiences and how it relates to cultural loss. Just thoughts I've been having that's making me rethink a lot of things from my life.

(Technically I'm not but that's a whole other thing. I was found as a kid and never allowed to learn about my birth family or heritage so yeah. I'm just whatever people say I am. Means I have double the cultural loss, both from the people that raised me and my own! Yippee! <- sarcastic)

Both my parents are half french and grew up in small communities where there was very very high English vs French tensions. Both of my parents parent's decided that it would be best to give their children the easiest life they could so they raised them as English as possible.

They weren't allowed to learn french and were punished if they tried (both by family and the community. It was a lot worse where my mother grew up), and weren't allowed to continue any traditions, songs, or anything culturally French. Assimilation was the best chance at a future, but meant that they lost all ties to culture that wasn't acceptably English/colonial.

They were born a long time ago, so this was during the era of corporal punishment in school, my mother wasn't allowed to wear pants, my father was punished repeatedly for using his left hand, etc. They were also forced into churches because that's what The Good English Do, even though neither are religious now nor would they have been forced to if the hatred against the french hadn't been so strong.

The small town my mom grew up in had a segregated neighbourhood for the french, and her family fought to cut all ties. Her mother was french but was forced to only speak English and cut all ties to her family.

I don't know as much for my father, but it was his father that refused to teach or share anything French because of the hardships he went through growing up (he also ran away and lied about his age to fight in the war too young, so he likely faced heavy trauma too)

While neither of my parents are half english, they were able to pass as english at the expense of their cultural identity and connection to their family. I've spoken to my mother about it and she says white culture is genocide, but I don't know if she realizes how it hurt her too (not to say the french did nothing wrong. They were colonialists and took part in genocide as well)

It's weird to realize. I was put in french immersion and while my french isn't great, I've realized that my parents did that to give me the only opportunity I could have to learn about their lost culture. They learned a bit from me and would use french words and sometimes share translation quirks their parents had caused by learning english after french.

I grew up thinking that because I don't know anyone I'm related to that i had no culture. I've realized that part of the reason it feels that way is because anything non-English was forced out of people. The more you could pass as english the heavier the assimilation is. To join the oppressors is to sacrifice culture, history, and family, but that's a choice both my parents parent's made and it's one we all struggle with.

As far as I go, I don't know my precise ancestry, but I do know my birth grandparents fled from a country that was dealing with fighting for independence and a highly struggling economy. I'm not supposed to know that or know anything more, but from what I can guess and based on what people have said I look like (closest thing I got) my ancestors dealt with fighting against being colonized for centuries, their culture and history actively being destroyed and demonized, and the language borderline dead because of it (isnt the british imperialism great? <- sarcasm). A bit over a century ago it would have been the cause of much prejudice and hatred, but like my adoptive parents parent's they traded culture for assimilation.

It's.... weird. There's not much I can change nor not much I can do with this information movie forwards. It has helped me connect my experiences more with that of cultural loss, especially those felt by others who don't know any birth family. Because I pass as white (I do not know my genetics, so I'd rather say that than call myself white. Especially because what ancestry I do know I have weren't historically called white and faced discrimination by white folks) I previously thought these experiences could not apply to me.

As a side note, I do hold the belief that orphans like me, or others that lacked any family for much of their lives are part of a "hidden" minority. I faced a lot of extra difficulties, social pushback, and was treated worse than my peers because I am an orphan, as did different foster siblings I had over the years. Adoption means either never speaking about my life to pass as "normal" or speak about it and face the consequences. Every person's experiences are different when it comes to this, but it really changed the expectations adults had on me and forced me to be more mature, resilient, perfectionistic and less reactive to my peers. The expectation was if you acted bad you didn't appreciate having a home and therefore didn't deserve it. What others kids could get away with can be what loses your home when you grow up an orphan.

Anywho, circling back to my fic I'll be adding some elements of my experiences in there too. Not as the main focus, mind you, but some of the struggles of adapting/assimilating to the majority to avoid discrimination will be present (as well as some French (more focused on Creole French history. It was something a few of my french teachers focused a lot on) ). Just background info, I'm as of yet undecided on how much of a character study it will all be, but if it does go into it more then these themes will be present

[astranite]

Blue, Pink, White, Pink, Blue.

Trans Penelope! A little late for @thunder-pride, but here none the less!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/48267592

Happy Rest of Year Pride for the end of Pride Month!

Minor warning for mentioned transphobia and homophobia. ----

From a young age, Penelope had been very insistent about who she was and what she wanted. The petal pink for the decorations in her room, not the lilac. Real tea should be served in her toy tea set, complete with matching cups and saucers. She couldn't possibly go to sleep without at least one more story.

She was a girl and her name was Penelope Creighton-Ward.

Penelope grew up into a woman who still has strong opinions about decor and tea— English breakfast with one sugar and a dash of milk of course, and a number of other things powerful people would rather she didn't.

Neither wealth nor fame nor status made you more valuable than anybody else. Human beings always mattered more than money, or possessions or any form of material goods. There were some in the circles she dealt with who could stand to learn this.

People should be able to love who they pleased openly, without fear or shame or condemnation. Everyone should have the freedom to be their truest self without having to hide.

The world had come a long way by 2060, but there were still a few dinosaurs clinging to their bigotry.

Penelope was vocally defensive of LGBTQIA+ rights. The British nobility wasn't historically known for its progressiveness, but it was her duty to use her status and wealth, which she’d had the good fortune of being born into, to take action and show support. When she had a platform where her voice was heard, it was her duty to amplify other’s voices.

Penelope stood by her word and morals, because standing up what she believed in was more than worth any attacks that came her way. Suggestions her actions were for appearances rather than a genuine desire to help. Comments from opponents about the validity of her womanhood, taunting remarks about the fact she also loved women, using any ammunition to attempt to bring her down when they felt threatened. Those individuals were torn apart as that sort of speech wasn't tolerated in these times.

She never flinched in public, because all the world is a stage and everyone is always watching. Any private hurt was hers alone.

Back in their university days, Penelope remembered snide whispers calling John, her John who loved so quietly and fiercely, heartless because he didn't desire a romantic relationship with anyone. Certain individuals found themselves in some, shall we say, difficulties after that.

She’d learnt so many things over the years. As a spy, sometimes secret meant safe and there was no less honor in that. As a diplomat, how honeyed words held daggers and the worst, most hateful ideas were always presented as reasonable, justifiable and a ‘nice’ option.

There were people in the world who wanted to make you small, who didn't like how you had opinions, how your existence was inconvenient to them. The school yard bullies who had the status to become boardroom corporate billionaires exploiting their workers. She learnt to deal with them, to show others how to stand up, be loud, to take up space because its yours, you deserve it just as much as anyone else.

Penelope remembered a quote from an old movie, which captured her so completely as a young girl. “Compromise where you can. Where you can't, don't. Even if everyone is telling you that something wrong is something right. Even if the whole world is telling you to move, it is your duty to plant yourself like a tree, look them in the eye, and say 'No, you move'.” She did her best to live up to Peggy Carter’s example to this day.

Being queer, being trans, the past was a story of pain and triumph, blood and tears. Their victories in the fight to have rights, and the sorrowful fact they had to fight for them in the first place. Atrocities and hate left marks, but so do love and hope, survival and joy. Their shared history was a rebellion, the first Pride a riot, but they lived on because of community who built each other up, love that chose to endure and so many people who, even quietly, even alone, refused to give up.

She was out and proud for both herself and everyone who was watching. This was who she is, she wasn’t ashamed, she celebrated it.

Penelope wondered what her younger self would say if she could see her now. To see who she had become, through all her uncertainty which had lurked below the surface, not as to who she was but as to who she could be.

Now, she held her head high: she could be that person for other little girls like her. For any people who needed her, a role model and an example to stand before the world for who you could be, especially for those who were lost and unsure, not knowing that this was a way you could be and it wasn't wrong.

There were so many ways to be a woman and this was hers.

[quotesfrommyreading]

Even though they wore their Guide uniform and were learning English fast, the Kindertransport girls were constantly reminded that they were foreigners in a remote part of Britain. Some of the adult villagers made it very clear that they were not sure about these foreign children. When Miss Payne asked the senior class to sing the hymn 'Glorious things of thee are spoken', the girls refused. It wasn't because they were Jews, but because the hymn shared the tune with the German national anthem.  Only when the teacher threatened them with punishment did they comply. When a passer-by heard them singing, he complained: “First the British children sing God Save the King, and then the Germans sing their national anthem. Are they spies?” One of the London evacuee children called the girls 'Nazis', and others followed his taunting. “We just ignored them,” said Celia, “but it hurt.” The path the girls took to school ran through a wood in which a Scottish army battalion was camping. When the soldiers heard them speak in a mixture of broken English and German, Ruth felt even more alien when she heard one say, “Who are those children?” His friend replied, “Oh, they're prisoners of war.”

  —  How the Girl Guides Won the War (Janie Hampton)

[icy-gendango]

*scoots up stool and huddled in quilt* Yakuza story?

STORY TIME!!!! Sorry this is soooo long!

I went to school in Japan for a brief amount of time as an exchange student. Most of my Japanese language class went, we were all kinda like family so it was great to tour the country with close friends. The school I went to was in my USA teacher's hometown, Toyama, so she got to be with her family while we were there. It was all in all a good time, I have severe anxiety but was able to pass it off as jitters. The time came to meet our host families, and for me, it was the most scary part. We would all be split up and sent to families on our own. I was never that good with speaking Japanese, but pretty good at reading and writing.

Turns out it didn't even matter! My host family was half british(the mom and dad met in the UK and came back to Japan, so both of my host siblings spoke fluent english). The class I was in was with my host sister, and the whole class was conversational in English(with only a few bumps).

School days flew by and my first summer break in Japan was just around the corner. Everything seemed fine. That is, until my host parents told us we would be meeting the rest of the family, and would be staying at my host grandfather's home a few hours drive away. I didn't think much of it, until the last day of school.

It was after-school that last Friday, and I was hanging out with some classmates in a lab room. Everyone was always super nice and inviting, wanting to learn about the US and my different habits. The exchange was mutual and I made a few friends in the process. Today was different however. My host sister said she needed to run clubs errands. Cool. She was in archery. It was a few hours later. The sun was starting to set. I was a little worried, and my classmates offered to help look for her with me.

It was then that the intercom went off, and I was asked to go to homeroom. Okay... weird. My homeroom teacher was really sweet. She spoke fluent English and was incredibly close with her class (she had been with them for two years). She was relieved to see me but seemed a bit unnerved. She said we needed to talk, and my host sister was too scared to bring it up herself, so she was going to talk to me instead. I was super confused. I thought maybe I had messed something up or did something offensive. My teacher then made a funny comment. She said we needed to talk outside. Find a place with no cameras. What. I was practically shaking, wondering what I did.

She sat me down on the steps outside the school, my host sister on one side of her and me on the other. She began to tell me some things that honestly scared the hell out of 16 y/o me. She said, "I need to let you know that while you are away, I want you to protect [host sister], keep her safe for me." Red flag. Was it abuse? "[Host sister]'s grandfather is a very dangerous man, and I want you to be very careful around him, okay?" Oh? Uhm? Politician? Oh, wait... is it? I tried to ask her, and she cut me off, saying she couldn't tell me. But at this point, I was fully freaked out and a bit persistent. I asked her if it started with a 'y' and she gave me a long, sad look before saying she couldn't tell me. The conversation took about an hour, but I felt myself numb over at some point, and I don't remember much past the point of me and my host sister going somewhere unsafe and needing to be careful. Also that there would be yakuza.

Oh cool. And my host sister looked so uncomfortable. Her head was ducked down the whole time. She barely spoke the whole walk home after that. She said she didn't want to talk and that was it. I left it be. But boy was I terrified. I didn't know much about the Yakuza, except for the typical stuff. Organized crime, donation drives, yknow.

We went home and I stewed for the next two days before our departure. I wondered it my US teachers knew that I would be taken hours away. I wondered how easy it would be for me to disappear on this trip. The words of my homeroom teacher haunted me those two days. I remember sending a final message to my now fiance. An ambiguous farewell. I wasn't taking the news very well, clearly.

The departure day came. The drive was nice, or at least it would've been if I hadn't been shaking so much. I was told that no one else in the family spoke English, so I would have to stick to my host sister or brother. The house... how do I explain how rich this house was. It was three stories, tradition meiji. There was a luxurious rock garden that honestly could have passed as an entire park. I remember losing my way in it one day. He had rocks imported from all around the world and perfectly trimmed trees. Offhand, my host mother told me one of them was cost over 3k (usd). I treaded lightly in that garden.

I met some aunts, uncles, and cousins. The day went well. Then came dinner. It was massive. Giant platter of sashimi, sushi, and more expensive foods. It never seemed to end. Then he arrived. I didn't realize it was him at first, I was introduced much later that night. He was... pretty nice. He kept telling me to eat. He was always feeding me. Every time we ended up in a room together, he would give me food. I wonder if it was because I was American(haha americans eat so much, haha), or if he was just being a generous host. His clothing style screamed yakuza. Hawaiin shirts, slacks, and the most expensive, radiant dress shoes I think I've ever seen in my life. He was loud, confident, and grandpa. He insisted I called him ojichan. Yep. He whacked my back a lot when he would sit with me.

One time in particular, I had woken up super early and went downstairs to sit at the dining table. He came home with nothing but a bag of tomatoes. He asked me if I liked tomatoes, then proceeded to cut up the whole bag of tomatoes and ate them with me. Completely out of pocket. The tomatoes were good. I tried not to think about it too much(who goes to the store for just tomatoes. The store that's like 40 minutes away. To eat. Raw. Tomatoes. Where did he get the tomatoes?).

It went pretty well. Except I did embarrass myself. Looking back, it was clearly the result of a 16 year old exploding from the severe amount fo stress. I was placed in a room with golden shrine. Full tatami downstairs. It was dark, too. The screen doors led to a hall the fully wrapped around the building, which also had more screens that went outside. I just felt so insecure and overwhelmed. I was the only person downstairs, too. The absolute fear of me being snatched away and no one being able to hear me drove me crazy. I ended up having a bit of a breakdown. My aunt found me and moved me upstairs. I remember feeling just. So overwhelmed. I was prepared for something scary. A crime boss's house in the middle of nowhere. Being responsible for my safety and possibly my host sister's. The rest of the stay was fine. I slowly settled in the new environment. I saw my host grandfather most in that time. My different sleep schedule seemed to match up with his... work schedule. So he often would come home and hang out with me. He didn't speak any English, but we both would try to understand eachother. It was kinda funny.

I was spooked over something not as scary as I'd thought it would be. I wish I had taken pictures of that house. I was too scared at the time. I essentially vibed with grandpa for a week before heading back to my host parent's house. My host sister never spoke or explained herself to me. I knew she had a right to be scared, and so did I. I just wish we were able to have a conversation about it and clear things up. I thought I was being dragged into a den. In reality, it was just some rich old guy who made his was in organized crime. I didn't do anything to upset him, and he welcomed me into his home.

Looking back, I think the series of events is WILD. It was an intense emotional roller coaster. It's funny to think about today. Also the fact that my luggage from my host family ended up delayed by three days. When I got it back, it was ransacked. All my possessions were there, but clearly, someone had checked through it. I think about that, too.

[actuallylorelaigilmore]

my third grade teacher was probably the most amazing teacher i ever had. she looked at the little autistic weirdo in her class who zoned out a lot, distracted other students by chatting, and couldn’t be normal if my life depended on it...and she was the first person to tell me ‘normal is overrated.’ she told me that albert einstein was a genius who couldn’t tie his shoes using the bunny ears method--the same one i was unable to master. 

instead of scolding me for talking all the time, or being easily bored because i found the lessons too easy, she sat me in front of the class and had me read aloud to the other students while she did mysterious teacher things nearby. unlike the teacher i had the year before, she never fixated on my eating issues or lectured me about being ungrateful. she didn’t treat me like a charity case.

she worked behind the scenes to get me into an early computer camp, when nobody i knew could come close to affording a computer--and then when a kid in town was getting a new computer and looked to donate his old one, my elementary school recommended me as the recipient. i’m certain that mrs. furnia had something to do with that as well.

she talked about me as though i were special in some magical way that really made me believe it, saying ‘you have to go to college’ with such emphasis that it felt inevitable, my destiny set at age nine. knowing how precocious i was, a tiny mimic and a sponge, i can imagine what she saw in me. but she was still the first to say it, outside of my own family: that underneath the five separate disorders i would one day have diagnoses for, lie a shimmering potential. 

the news today reminded me of her, polio in new york slipping through our vaccination efforts and what that could mean. mrs. furnia walked with a very pronounced limp, and she was probably another first for me--the first physically disabled person i knew as a child. she set the kind of example that i think helped us all become better tiny people, matter-of-fact about her limp but expecting our respect. 

i remember her telling us about a disease called polio, that had afflicted many, many children just like her before there was a vaccine. she told us how lucky she was to have survived with just a limp. we learned how lucky we were to have vaccinations that protected us, and how much the world could change, could progress, in such a short time. 

it baffles me that so many people deliberately avoid vaccines now. even understanding the religious objections, the historical bad behavior of doctors and pharmaceutical companies...it’s hard for me to wrap my head around compared to the risks. deep down i’ll always be that little kid hearing the story of how i was safe from polio, the scary disease that almost took the life of a child who would one day grow up to be a woman who taught me that i mattered. 

today the news is all about a british monarch i didn’t personally know, and i’m enjoying the serious takes and the funny ones--though i definitely am struggling to process the fact that charles will actually be king now. it does not compute. but other news sidetracked me into thinking about someone i did personally know, someone i still think about fondly sometimes, and i needed to share that.

school was not easy for me in many ways. i didn’t learn much outside of english and math, bullying turned me from a cheerful performer to someone trying not to be seen or heard, and undiagnosed adhd took me from a gifted student to a failure by the time i arrived at college. but even with all of that, even with my firm belief that some kids could thrive in nontraditional schooling where public school is hell for them...i had some great teachers. i’m grateful for that.

[rhetoricandlogic]

‘The Old Drift’ Is a Dazzling Debut Spanning Four Generations

By Dwight Garner

March 25, 2019

Namwali Serpell’s audacious first novel, “The Old Drift,” is narrated in small part by a swarm of mosquitoes — “thin troubadours, the bare ruinous choir” — who declare themselves “man’s greatest nemesis.”

They’re a pipsqueak chorus, a thrumming collective intelligence, a comic and subversive hive mind. They are here to puncture, if you will, humanity’s pretensions.

“The Old Drift” is an intimate, brainy, gleaming epic, set mostly in what is now Zambia, the landlocked country in southern Africa. It closely tracks the fortunes of three families (black, white, brown) across four generations.

The plot pivots gracefully — this is a supremely confident literary performance — from accounts of the region’s early white colonizers and despoilers through the worst years of the AIDS crisis. It pushes into the near future, proposing a world in which flocking bug-size microdrones are a) fantastically cool and b) put to chilling totalitarian purposes.

Serpell’s mosquitoes observe the dozens of wriggling humans in this novel, and they are distinctly unimpressed. We were here before you, they imply. We will be here long after you are gone. In the meantime, thanks for the drinks.

The reader who picks up “The Old Drift” is likely to be more than simply impressed. This is a dazzling book, as ambitious as any first novel published this decade. It made the skin on the back of my neck prickle.

Serpell seems to want to stuff the entire world into her novel — biology, race, subjugation, revolutionary politics, technology — but it retains a human scale. It is filled with love stories, greedy sex (“my heart twerks for you,” one character comments), pot smoke, comedy, inopportune menstruation, car crashes, tennis, and the scorching pleasure and pain of long hours in hair salons.

Serpell is a Zambian writer; she was born in that country and moved to the United States with her family when she was nine. She teaches literature at the University of California, Berkeley.

There’s a vein of magical realism in her work — one woman cries almost literal rivers, another has hair that covers nearly her entire body and that grows several feet a day — that will spark warranted comparisons to novels such as Salman Rushdie’s “Midnight’s Children” and Gabriel García Márquez’s “One Hundred Years of Solitude.”

Serpell does not try to charm her readers to death. Her men and women are not cute (except, sometimes, to each other), and they are not caricatures. Even the most virulent racists in “The Old Drift” aren’t one-dimensional.

Serpell is a pitiless and often very funny observer of people and of society. She describes polo as “that strange game that seems like a drunken bet about golf and horse riding.” A man on a leather sofa is commended for “expertly unlocking that complex apparatus — a clothed woman.”

She offers this definition of “history”: “the word the English used for the record of every time a white man encountered something he had never seen and promptly claimed it as his own, often renaming it for good measure.”

Here she is on a young white woman in Zambia: “She seemed both weak and imperious, helpless yet haughty. In a word: British.”

This is a matrilineal epic. It is packed with grandmothers, mothers, daughters. They are hardly placed on pedestals or lit by false, ennobling, autumnal light. They’re all struggling. Some drop out of school, steal or dabble with skin-whitening creams. Some open businesses, others turn to prostitution. Still others turn to protest. Nearly all are hoping to find love and, in the interim, to avoid being raped.

This book is intensely concerned with women’s bodies. Dissertations will surely be written about the multiple meanings of hair in this novel. We’ve learned too much from male writers about what it’s like to walk the planet guided and plagued by one’s reproductive apparatus. This novel, with wit and sensitivity, flips and revises that familiar script.

One young woman gets her period on her wedding day. Her friends, her family, the many guests — they’re all here. “All she wanted,” Serpell writes, “was to be at home in bed, curled in a ball, alone and quietly bleeding.”

Serpell is keenly interested in olfactory information. She lingers on people and places and scent. In one scene, a blind woman smells eucalyptus and knows she is nearly home. In another, a mother dislikes her daughter’s “new teenagery smell,” described as “a melony-lemony-biscuity scent that Adriana found both puerile and daunting.”

The plot of “The Old Drift” is not simple to unpack. The book begins, at the start of the 20th century, at a colonial settlement on the banks of the Zambezi River called the Old Drift. A dam is being constructed that will change many lives, a dam that some will wish to bring down.

The first women we meet, beginning around 1940, are: Sibilla, a white girl so unusually hirsute that at one point later in life she will be referred to as “an NGO for hair”; Agnes, a “pale, mad” and blind British girl who marries a black professor and engineer; and Matha, a bright girl whose prospects collapse after she becomes pregnant. She is this novel’s copious weeper, “the heartbreak queen of Kalingalinga.”

We get to know their daughters. One operates “Hi-Fly Haircuttery & Designs Ltd” (and perhaps a shadier business); another is a stewardess who once had artistic ambitions. One of these daughters has a long affair with a doctor who is working on a vaccine for H.I.V.

About a potential vaccine, we get shrewd snippets of dialogue like this one: “‘Beta version,’ Naila scoffed. ‘They should just say black version. They’re testing it on us.’”

The third generation goes on to work on microdrones, on further AIDS research and on political protest, seeking redress for the wrongs of history. One character also works on the vexing future of wearable technology — digital beadlike chips, implanted into the skin, that with the help of permanent tattoos of conductive ink turn one’s hands into approximations of smartphones.

“Government is controlling us,” one character says near the end of the novel. “And the worst part is — we chose this. We held our hands out to them and said PLEASE BEAD US!”

Serpell carefully husbands her resources. She unspools her intricate and overlapping stories calmly. Small narrative hunches pay off big later, like cherries coming up on a slot machine.

Yet she’s such a generous writer. The people and the ideas in “The Old Drift,” like dervishes, are set whirling. When that whirling stops, you can hear the mosquitoes again. They’re still out there.

They sound like tiny drones. They sound like dread.