#lose the fear of going against patriarchy

[perpleja]

Feminism was supposed to create empathy towards prostitutes to help them out of the situation, not to validate it.

[nothorses]

Question about your points on the post about TERFs vs TIRFs you made bc it has me questioning a lot of the stuffI've been taught:

Why is it TERF ideology to think that women are oppressed by the patriarchy? Why is it TERF ideology to be intimidated by men if you’ve been a victim of sexual violence at the hands of men? Women (both trans and Cis) face so much violence all over the world, why is it radical feminism to acknowledge that?

I’m genuinely curious because I want to deconstruct any harmful biases but it feels incredibly harmful to dismiss violence against women under the guise of “talking about this is all radfem ideology”.

I'm glad you're asking these questions, and I'm glad you're being critical about that post!

You're absolutely right that it would be harmful to "dismiss violence against women under the guise of “talking about this is all radfem ideology”- and I don't want anyone to take that whole list as A New Set Of Rules without thinking any further about it.

The point of that list was not to say "all of this is Bad", but rather to lay out some logical through-lines and how these ideas all work together to reach harmful conclusions.

Any radicalization pipeline relies on a kind of "rabbithole", or as @psychoticallytrans recently called it, "milk before meat". The idea is that you're given the "easy" stuff first, the stuff that is or feels right, and then those ideas steadily lead into more and more extreme ideas.

Women are oppressed by the patriarchy, and pretty much every branch of feminism is going to agree with you there; that's not a radfem-only idea. What distinguishes radfems from the rest is that they believe "the patriarchy" is embodied by every single living man; every man is The Patriarchy, and every man oppresses every woman. No woman can oppress a man, no woman can harm a man... etc.

You can see where we lose the plot here: is the patriarchy a system, or is it every single man? Who, then, do we count as men? How old is a man? What about other intersecting forms of oppression?

One of my go-to questions to ask, when taking a critical look at some of these ideas, is: under this ideology, are white women oppressed by black men? How? Can white women do harm to black men? How would this ideology answer these questions, and how would they (do they) deal with the archetype of the "Karen"; a white woman using her white womanhood to enact violence on black men through state institutions of white supremacy, like law enforcement? (Hint: radfems tend to complain that "Karen" is strictly a misogynistic insult.)

To answer your other two questions:

Why is it TERF ideology to be intimidated by men if you’ve been a victim of sexual violence at the hands of men?

(For context:)

Short answer: it isn't.

Long answer: My point here was to outline the way that the "inherent woman trauma and justified fear of all men" is weaponized against trans women, first and foremost, but there's more nuance here as well.

There is a difference between a traumatic response that you cannot control and need time to heal from, and a fear being actively encouraged as "justified" and "accurate" by those around you. There is a difference between exercising practical caution (even if you shouldn't have to), and fueling paranoia and a fear of the outside world. There is a difference between grappling with your own personal healing process after a traumatic event, and generalizing a traumatic response to the entire world & everyone in it.

Some people's trauma after a sexual assault latches onto the gender of the person who hurt them. That is understandable. Some people, knowing they are perceived as women, take extra precautions to ensure their safety from potential sexual assault and harassment at the hands of, predominately, cis and straight men. That is understandable. But when that translates to "you should fear all men at all times because any of them can and will rape you given any opportunity to do so", we have a problem.

Again, we should be asking: does this ideology make room for other forms of oppression? Can white women oppress black men? How does this interact with the racist stereotype of the sexually aggressive and dangerous black man? How does this ideology deal with the history of white women accusing black men of sexual assault in order to sic white men and police on them & enact state violence, as well as reinforce white supremacy? (And more! What about trans women and trans lesbians, in particular? Are trans men seen as sexual aggressors instead, if not them? Is either remotely accurate to reality?)

Women (both trans and Cis) face so much violence all over the world, why is it radical feminism to acknowledge that?

This is mostly answered by the above, but again, the short answer here is that it isn't radical feminism to acknowledge misogyny or misogynistic violence.

What is radical feminism is that idea that this violence is enacted by individual men, and not patriarchy as a system of oppression. What is radical feminism is the idea that misogyny is the ultimate form of oppression, and that others only "intersect" in niche circumstances (if at all) that do not need to be included in the majority of these conversations.

In radical feminism, black women's oppression is its own conversation, trans women's oppression is its own conversations, and we can handwave things like "Karens" by saying that's about racism; we don't need to make room for it in feminist theory. When trans-inclusive radfems say "if men could get pregnant", and trans men say "we can", they can respond "you know what we meant"- because they don't believe they need to make space for transphobia in feminist theory.

Another good test: when radfems talk about sexual assault as a woman-specific issue, and transmascs point out that statistically, we face higher rates of sexual assault than cis or trans women (or any other demographic), TERFs will say that's because it's "sex-based oppression" & ignore that our rates are higher, because there's no room for transphobia in their feminism. Trans-inclusive radfems will deny that it's true or important in the first place, because men can't be "more oppressed" than women.

It's not radical feminism to acknowledge misogyny and patriarchy. It is radical feminism to ignore everything else.

[horizon-verizon]

I think it’s possible to recognize that Rhaenrya was a victim of sexism while recognizing that she was also a brutal tyrant. I think we can say that Rhaenrya was a victim of the patriarchy but also someone who responded to her treatment by lashing out at everyone around her, especially those below her. Calling for the assassination of Nettles, a black teenage girl, isn’t an act of solidarity and feminism.

I agree. I agree that the blood purity she performs and uses is a feature of her heritage that she actively & consciously chooses but I do not know for certain that she'd suspect the dragonseeds if she hadn't had to emotionally gather herself only to lose not one, not two, but three kids to the stresses of usurpation. Ordering Nettles' execution is definitely a reflection of that Targ-Andal blood purity.

What I protest against are the ideas that:

Rhaenyra's tyranny later is told to have been inevitable without the greens' intervention or any instigation (I don't even care about Vaemond's death, he was just looking to endanger her kids/her for his own ambitions, like the greens. "Fair" play and he was going against the not unfair declaration Viserys made)

that there was no instigation or provocation; her reaction doesn't make sense (in a sense)

a woman has to show that she is capable of ruling because the history of male rulers makes her obligated to show "girls can do it, too" -> that it's justified to expect her to be above-average just because she happens to be the first up-and-coming Queen Regnant in ("united") Westerosi history -> -> to expect a woman to "prove" to a misogynist base (I mean specifically the other lords or even some of her male relatives) her worth and fitness to rule is coming from the context of women being kept from rulership that is both supported and reaffirms the idea that female authority = unnatural condition for women... (HERE is a post by mononijikayu explaining the progression and origins of the gender divisions in medieval Europe)

that being in the middle of a civil war that she did not start, having had the royal treasury bled out, that the rumormongering done by a hidden master of whispers and later the fear-mongering rhetoric of a seemingly mad version of Savonrola ARENT something that no other monarch ever had to deal with & WASN'T an extreme and volatile situation that even Jaehaerys would have much trouble with (I must remind people that Jaehaerys would have had a lot more problems without Alysanne and Septon Barth and Rogar Baratheon AND there was no agent working against him behind the shadows nor did he lose a child out of his own actions and unfairly until his much older age [Aemon], and that was only one NOR was it out of actual hate towards his person! or a belief that genitals "prove" he shouldn't rule)

and tons of other lies I don't even want to get into

In other words, there are a lot of bad-faith arguments that just wind up as being misogynist, so where do we move on if we're hung back?

Once more, Rhaenyra was never herself a feminist BOTH because there is no such thing as feminists in real/fictional medieval settings AND because she never consciously and intentionally sought to better other women's lives. The reason why we look at her story as a story of feminism is because as a woman, even just sitting on the throne provides enough precedent and justification for other women to claim and keep their seats (Jeyne Arryn, and other women and girls in even pre-Targ history who has lost the opp to rule)--and who knows, if she had been allowed to live and rule, actually consider instituting some laws for women either of her own inspiration or persuaded. Thus setting Westerosi towards a more woman-included political framework. Even though misogyny wouldn't disappear, the sentiment of women being bad or incapable or even just "unlucky" types of rulers wouldn't be as strong or as justified or more easily countered.

Plus, if I do not explain why it is important to understand Rhaenyra as a person affected by others and society, looking for agency, then the idea of a woman doing evil as being the blueprint of evil itself actually makes it worse for women in general. Because it fosters the connection between womanhood and evil or "unnaturalness" or the unnaturalness of gender-nonconformity of any kind. This is one-way progress even happens, Westerners still do not live in a utopia for women, anon. But Western (and some countries in Africa and Asia) women have a safer bet now than they did in ancient Greece, Japan, etc., or 200 years ago in U.S. history.

Once more, no one has to actually think Rhaenyra is a good person or even like her. She absolutely commits evil and there are other women in the dynasty who perform less or none (none or without their own faults but most [before the loss of dragons] display a lot of intelligence or autonomy-seeking) Just watch out for why you don't like her and what you think characterizes that evil, the events surrounding it, what inspires her, and all those implications. And recognize that good fiction doesn't ask you to name a good person based on your already-conceived notions of good vs evil, but to see the characters' development and role in the narrative and how their roles/lives/contentions mirror our own.

Aegon is a person born into a royal family with incumbent supreme power and he uses it against women and children (Aemond, too, but being a second son never he will not have the same access to power as his older brother, thereby there is a level of frustration that he himself nurtures). Rhaenyra is born into a world that consistently takes from women to give to men, and even her own family has a history of sidelining its women to affirm their men's power over them and Westeros. GRRM is asking us what does to women, how it makes them retreat into themselves and develop their methods of self-defense, or how she chooses to gain back some agency? How far or how little can she (the woman, not just Rhaenyra) go to gain power or agency, and once she gets past a certain point that she can't even see because she is so inured into a state of self-defense, how can she "come back" from that? Is there even room for it? And what does that do to men like Aegon & Aemond or even common-born men (who also abuse their wives, daughters, etc.) -- encourage them to perform violence against women and children?

So honestly, this back and forth about Rhaenyra being a bad ruler or just about her tyranny and paranoia is less interesting to me bc it is NOT THE ENTIRE POINT and it's boring as heck!!! (Unless we talking abt the progression into Dany's leadership & her own textual defiance of gender binaries)

*EDIT* (9/22/23)

As I told someone below in the comments, check your own logic before coming to this post. I have many other posts of me explaining and refuting other sexist takes that begin: HERE; HERE; HERE; HERE. And all link to many more posts where I explain to various anons why their arguments (very specific ones) are actually incorrect or just plain sexist.

[gffa]

Okay I totally understand the difference between attachment and love in the SW universe, as you and GL have explained in great detail. But what I don’t understand is why then the Jedi aren’t allowed to get married? Surely marriage doesn’t equal selling your soul? Plenty of people in the real world get married and don’t murder people to save their spouse? I mean there’s certainly something to be said about marriage and ownership but I don’t think GL was thinking “down with the patriarchy” when he was explaining this

Hi!  The closest GL gets to talking about it directly is in that video I posted earlier, where he says: "So the issue of love, there’s a line between loving somebody compassionately and caring about them and helping them, but the other line is not to be greedy. Or, once you are greedy, then you get fearful. You don’t want to lose what it is you have, that you are getting. So you have to learn to give up everything. And ultimately for a Jedi Knight, it’s very easy to give up and one of the things they give up is marriage." I don't think he's saying that marriage is inherently greedy, but more that non-Jedi have a lot more leeway about moments of being greedy and selfish. It's not that the Jedi are immune to greed and selfishness--they say it's about overcoming those feelings, not that they never exist--but that their connection to the Force, the mystical energy field that's based on the emotions you have inside you, and the lives they specifically lead means that they must be far, far more in tune with the transitory nature of life. If a non-Jedi falls into a greedy spiral or their fears start eating them, it's harmful to them and probably their relationships, but it's not going to do the same kind of damage or have access to the same kind of potential harm that a Jedi Knight has, because of their position and their physical powers. They have to constantly guard themselves because people get hurt if they don't. And I think it's reasonable to look at it in terms of how the Jedi life requires an incredibly serious commitment--Yoda says that in ESB, "A Jedi must have the deepest commitment, the most serious mind." This life and these abilities and this connection to the Force requires that you need to be serious about it. To have that commitment, it’s like having a marriage already, and that you’re married to your life as a Jedi Knight.  You can’t wholly commit yourself to two things.  The Jedi say romantic feelings are normal, of course they’re allowed, which means that feelings aren’t the issue, it’s the commitment to the other person that is--because they already have a commitment.  That’s why Obi-Wan doesn’t get on Anakin’s case for the feelings he shows on the elevator ride up in AOTC, but once Anakin starts getting distracted, once he’s no longer able to be focused and calm, that being around her is intoxicating, then Obi-Wan reminds him, “You've made a commitment to the Jedi Order, a commitment not easily broken.” The Jedi are written to be seeking the ultimate ideal of Lucas’ Star Wars, the selflessness that’s at the heart of all the movies, to be compassionate and caring and loving, but willing to give things up, to let go, to understand that life is mortal and transitory and you can’t hold on to anything, including people.  They’re written to this ideal to contrast against Anakin, who desperately wanted to hold on to the people he loved, to possess them, he wanted to devote himself to everything/have everything be devoted to him, and in doing so fell to the dark side. That’s why Lucas answers with that the Jedi do love, but they have to be selfless and launches into an explanation about Anakin’s greed being why he fell. Not because Lucas thinks that marriage is inherently selfish or greedy, but because he’s using them to show off greater themes of selflessness and understanding of life.

[bobabestie49]

hot take roundup

i dont have time to write out a coherent essay on this but i've made quite a few tweets on my deep priv about patriarchy, gaslighting, and more so I'm going to dump them here for now and reorganize them later when I have more time, just so I don't lose them.

Mechanics of modern patriarchy, patriarchal stabilization, male terror and "good men"

The way men refuse to entertain the idea that women are rightfully fearful of men bc of the danger that men pose to women and go so far as to publicly mock women (might as well call them hysterical) who are this fearful is akin to gaslighting. Necessarily, the perpetuation of patriarchy in the modern day means that the existence of patriarchy has to be denied and women who say otherwise are hysterical bitches.

If you silence women who point to the existence of patriarchy then bc laws aren't *overtly* anti women then patriarchy can proceed unspoken and uncontested.

The metaphysics of patriarchy is insane tbh. And those on the frontlines of fighting against anti patriarchal women point to the minimalizing of male victims of SA as a "gotcha" as though that phenomenon isn't also highly informed by patriarchy. Silencing also includes the uncontested double standards when it comes to the behavior of women. If she gets violently assaulted, she wasn't careful enough and therefore it was her fault. If she overreacted then shes hysterical and summarily mocked and dismissed. Thus, women are punished for shedding light on patriarchal violence either through being victims or protecting themselves from victimhood.

In fact i believe that patriarchy is so sinister now because of the enforced belief that women have it *good* (accompanied by systemic terrorization of women that goes unreported or downplayed) and patriarchy is no longer a thing.

Therefore in order to conceal the continued existence of patriarchy, further patriarchal violence is inflicted upon women since being sexist is frowned upon now.

The mechanics of modern patriarchy are incredible. Elements of patriarchal violence are everywhere which makes women ever more desperate for "good men" who are held to low standards bc of how atrocious bad male actors are.

There are few explicit laws disenfranchizing women (aside from the overturn of roe v wade) so women who challenge or shed light upon elements of modern patriarchal violence (either by talking ab it or being victims) are decried as either being hysterical or victim blamed.

But with this relative lack of explicit cultural misogyny (like, men are better than women period) rxnary men have room to depict women and feminists as being THEIR oppressors (from either projection on what men have historically done or through subconscious misogyny that has them deem women as more prone to vices)

The undercurrents of misogyny persist, disproportionate rage is inflicted upon female bad actors in contrast to male bad actors, female characteristics and women in general are scrutinized with far more vigilance and punished severely for deviating from being "madonnas"

But because society isn't forcing women to cover their heads or that women are allowed to drive and vote (thereby conflating "serious" misogyny with The East and inherently downplaying the misogyny here) the misogyny in the west continues unabated and will intensify. And again, women shedding light on it are denounced as privileged and unserious hysterical manly spinsters lol

And also devaluing themselves in the process (i.e. i need to conform to patriarchal ideas of the "usefulness" of women otherwise i am defective and will end up a spinster hag, because im valuable only as much as a man can value me, but there is no patriarchy bc xyz)

Notice how the men in the replies and qrts of the post below are very very upset with the way that OP is shedding light on cultural misogyny that is so pervasive that husbands are statistically more likely to abandoning their terminally ill wives - in effect they're contributing to patriarchal stabilization by punishing those that shed light on modern patriarchy.

Are men "the prize"?

Part of the dehumanization of women is portraying them as being dependent on a man. If she doesnt have a man shes deficient. This plays out in the way women are paid less than men and therefore are less able to pay their expenses, on average, than a man. "Men are the prize" is an aphorism that implicitly demonstrates the dehumanization of women. Esp single women.

Men benefit from having a woman so that they have a live in therapist/maid/sex doll/baby factory to produce descendants with. Women benefit only insofar as the man isnt abusive and so that they arent a lower class of women who dont have a man who gets paid more than them. If "men are the prize" does that not verify the lower status of single women, both on a social and material basis? Men have long seen women as something to conquer and validate their masculinity (and where women can provide endless reproductive labor). whereas women have historically been so disenfranchized that being without a man, or being without another woman, can be deadly, simply because of how devalued you and your labor are.

Masculinity and transmisogyny

Lmao at cis men thinking that trans girls want to oppress them (rape them) the way that they oppress trans AND CIS girls all the time. All because their masculinity is perceived to be impacted. LMFAO

Good Christians and allyship

Pretty obvious that "good" Christians say shit like this because they just want people to convert and like the religion or something though so lol. Can't fight for anything if you're not recruiting people. If they werent unserious they would be making a leftist christian bloc that fights bigots on a legislative and cultural and religious level, which raises funds for queer people in danger, which marches at rallies and mobilizes to defend queer people.

Id say they should be militant too but unfortunately these types are soft so lol

Female sentimentality and dehumanization

Thinking about how men demean female sensitivity and sentimentality and act like we are run by our emotions and cant make decisions by ourselves (therefore should be dependent on men) and then start mass shootings bc they cant get a live in therapist/maid/sex doll (girlfriend).

They need to 1st characterize sentimentality as exclusively female, 2nd denigrate sentimentality as either lesser or straight up evil to keep women in a lower class, but then demonize women who don't provide emotional labor for them which they ultimately need as humans.

And when men get pressured out of being emotional and when certain women pressure them into conforming to patriarchal masculine norms suddenly patriarchy isn't something that ultimately oppresses women as a class lmao

Why white Americans love Hong Kong and Taiwan so much

Usians especially the men are so supportive of hong kong protests and taiwanese separatists because they see these regions as model minority areas (that the west exercises control over through extension of its influence), that need to be saved from the inhuman yellow peril.

Just as usian imperialists didnt want to "lose" China to the cpc, so too do usian male chauvinists not want to "lose" taiwan and hk to Big Bad Communists. The submissive asian woman character will be independent and lose her sexual allure, so to speak. Or moreso their availability to be ruthlessly exploited as women in colonized, subservient countries are.

[puffy--fish]

Ten Ways You Know it’s a Film About Girlhood & Horror

1. Lots of blood (periods)!

Horror movies about girlhood do not shy away from the use of blood, especially the inclusion of periods to signal transition into womanhood and facing female puberty.

Ample use of blood is already found in the horror genre, but when incorporating the theme of girlhood, blood can hold other metaphors specific to female adolescence. The most prevalent example is period blood: commonly used to signal a loss of a girl’s innocence and preparation for the tumultuous era of teenage girlhood. Most famously, Stephen King’s Carrie (1974) uses period blood as a sign of Carrie’s incoming mental changes. The book begins with Carrie bleeding out in the showers and being pelted with tampons by her peers, unknowing of what a period, and ends with a murderous Carrie on a rampage, completely drenched in pig blood and the blood of her classmates.

2. Revenge story

Women who live under patriarchal expectations are often taken advantage of and have their demands unfairly unheard, so girlhood being explored in horror films gives space for revenge stories against those who exploit women.

Because women face innumerable injustices under patriarchy, horror films about girlhood are a way to switch the power dynamic and explore realities where girls are able to reclaim control of themselves, taking revenge on systems that restrict their freedoms. Excellent examples include The Girl hunting down men who hurt women in A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night (2014), Jennifer’s bloody, brutal revenge on the men of Devil’s Kettle who exploit her in Jennifer’s Body (2009), and Needy’s similar revenge on Low Shoulder, the band who murdered Jennifer. For all these girls, revenge against abusers returns power and justice to them, feeling safe when they are in control.

3. Sexual trauma and exploitation

The violence and pure terror of sexual assault that countless women fall victim to finds a perfect home in the frightening landscape of horror films.

Victims of sexual assault often find themselves abused by those with more power than them, whether it’s physical or metaphorical power. Losing control of one’s bodily autonomy is not only a traumatizing experience, but also a scary one well suited for the horror genre. Jennifer’s Body effectively captures the fear and exploitation of women by patriarchal powers, such as early 2000s bands taking advantage of the devotion of young teenage fans, by making Jennifer’s murder an allegory to sexual assault. The shot of a drunk, confused, and utterly terrified Jennifer having the van doors shut on her by Nikolai, the lead singer of Low Shoulder, instills fear within the audience from not knowing what Low Shoulder is going to do with her and that it’s going to be the last time we see her. To add to the horror of Jennifer’s violent murder, when Jennifer recounts the story of her death to Needy in her bed, dizzying, disorientating flashes of red cover the screen as the part where she’s stabbed plays in order to convey the sheer brutality and atrocity of how Low Shoulder exploited her life for their own material gain. Jennifer’s assault and its implications were horrific, which is why it perfectly fits in a horror movie to tell the cruelty of exploitative patriarchy.

4. Virginity and sexual purity

The glorification of a woman’s virginity stemming from patriarchal expectations fuels a double standard surrounding the conversation around sexuality, which is reflected in ways that the horror genre ties virginity and terror together.

Under patriarchal expectations of women to be less sexually active and desire less than their male counterparts, women face more unwanted scrutiny around their intimate relationships and have their own bodily autonomy controlled. In horror films, girls who die first or face a bad ending tend to show more of their sexuality than the pure “final girl”, such as Nancy, a power-hungry goth girl who’s honest about her sexual history with Chris and even tries seducing him again, being locked away in The Craft (1996) or Jay’s torment by “It” for the entirety of It Follows (2014) for sleeping with her boyfriend Hugh. Another prime example is during the “Innocence” (Season 2, Episode 14) episode of the TV series Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1997-2003) where Angel’s transformation and consequential hate of her encapsulates Buffy's punishment for losing her virginity to him. Because it’s explained that a true moment of happiness would steal away Angel’s humanity, Buffy feels responsible for Angel’s demonification, regrets sleeping with him, and feels shame for herself, especially after Angel says “If I knew how easily you’d give it up, I wouldn’t have even bothered.” This line clearly exemplifies the double standard regarding sexual purity between Angel and Buffy. The punishment for a girl losing her virginity is a punishment for women who break out of the restriction on their bodies and challenge the stigma around female sexual purity.

5. Monstrous feminine sexuality

Women who own their sexuality are conveyed as promiscuous and disposable in the horror films, often being punished first with murder or demonic transformation as a warning on how to act under expectations of being pure.

A woman having autonomous control over her sexuality is frequently viewed as monstrous, wrong, and worthy of being killed first in horror films. Think of Randy Meek’s first rule to survive a horror movie in Scream (1996): “You can never have sex.” Sex, especially female sexuality, is suppressed under outdated, misogynistic views about the freedom of women, so if a woman steps out of line during a horror movie, she is brutally reminded on how she should've acted. An excellent example is It Follows, where Jay is literally followed for the whole movie by a supernatural entity that murders her friends and threatens to kill her just because she catches a curse from sleeping with her boyfriend Hugh. The entire premise of the movie is Jay and others being punished for their choices to have sex. However, more female-directed films, such as Jennifer’s Body, have a larger tendency to explore autonomous female sexuality without punishing women for it. Jennifer, who isn’t even a “backdoor virgin,” is mistaken for a virgin, murdered, then transformed into a man-eating monster. Though, she spends much of the movie thriving after she feeds, having the camera pans across her body after she skinny dips in a lake to clean off the blood of a boy she just murdered or having rock music play as she throws her hair back to  continue tearing a boy’s stomach apart. Power is in Jennifer’s hands when she fully uses her demonic powers and sexuality.

6. (Homoerotic) female friendship

Ally-ship and friendship are just some of the ways girls band together in support of one another under the scrutiny of patriarchy, but the complications of sexuality and insecurity often lead to close, homoerotic female friendships or the horrific consequences of a fallout between female friends often seen in horror films about girlhood.

As a horror film progresses on, if there is a female friendship in focus, its strength is often tested through the many horrors that the plot throws at the girls. The friendship either falls apart from internal conflicts, such as Nancy and Sarah’s fight over the god Manon and Chris in The Craft, spurring further horrors to occur in the plot from their fallout, or the girls stay stronger than ever by facing these adversities together, such as Ju-ran and Yeon-duk in The Silenced (2015). The lines between friendship and fallout or strong, eternal friendship or romance are extremely fine.

7. Male gaze

The intersection between girlhood and men is heavily explored within female-led horror films, often exploring the conflicting cross between desire for male approval and resisting the oppression of the male gaze.

Often more than not, archaic gender roles in a heterosexual relationship lead to a difficult power imbalance between partners. There’s a need for validation and approval, but simultaneous boundaries for being respected and never lowering yourself for someone else. Wanting to be wanted in a non-objectifying, thoughtful manner is a complicated balance to define. The embodiment of this struggle is Nancy from The Craft, who grew up with a neglectful, sexually abusive step-father and has a consequential difficult relationship with men. Her sexuality desires men, which explains why she transforms into Sarah to take advantage of Chris and seduce him at a party, but when Chris pushes the real Nancy off him and tells her that she's “just jealous” of Sarah, Nancy completely switches. She channels the other side of the coin, lashing out at Chris for his manipulation of women and projecting all her frustrations with indifferent, abusive men in general. In contrast, Elaine from The Love Witch (2016) offers a completely different view on approaching relationships with men. She begins The Love Witch fully believing that disregarding her own desires and offering everything (mostly her body) to men is the best way to find “the one”, but she ends the film holding a knife covered in the blood of her brainwashed boyfriend, still engrossed in her unachievable fantasy of the ideal man. She fully encapsulates and fulfills male desire, yet all her boyfriends die and she falls in love with a fantasy. The right approach is clearly not Elaine’s.

8. Subversion of gender roles

The subversion of gender roles and alternating between aggressor vs. victim is a way for women to reclaim control in horror films, often relating to a revenge plot. 

Power and control for women are reduced under a patriarchy, so by switching gender roles, women lose the common “damsel in distress” trope in horror and shift toward a direction where they take back power from antagonists, such as the “final girl” trope or utilizing their monstrosity/supernatural abilities. The switch of power dynamics and its relation to gender is easily found in A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night, where The Girl uses her vampirism to hunt men at night, stalking and staring at her prey down as if she’s literally a wild predator. The perfect encapsulation of power being experimented with is when Arash and The Girl are in her bedroom and he first approaches her when her back is turned, leaving her vulnerable to him. However, she slowly turns around and stares him down, tilting his head upward without resistance and leans in for his neck. The gesture is intimate, but threatening with how much control she has over his mortality. What separates her from being a villain is that she reclaims power to seek out justice, only bringing an end to deserving men who hurt women.

9. Good girl/bad girl dynamic

Many traits of a good girl vs. bad girl in horror are characterized by themes specific to girlhood, such as sexuality and purity.

If the protagonist and antagonist of a horror film are both girls, the protagonist is usually seen as the good, morally righteous girl while the bad girl is punished for having traits seen as evil. For example, the good girl is most likely to be less sexually active than the bad girl, who is often made promiscuous and (socially) impure. The good girl/bad girl dynamic is plain and shallow between well-meaning Sarah and overambitious Nancy in The Craft, but the good girl/bad girl relationship between Needy and Jennifer in Jennifer’s Body is more nuanced and complex. Needy is the good girl to Jennifer’s bad girl, but in certain ways, both girls also embody the other type of girl. Because of Jennifer’s Body having feminist undertones, Jennifer’s sexuality isn’t punished, rather it gives her power and spurs the plot to develop (she uses her sexuality to lure in men throughout the film). She isn’t just a simple bad girl the audience can dislike for killing boys, rather she’s a sympathizable girl who was exploited by men indifferent to the value of her life and forced to feed on men to live. For Needy, murdering all of Low Shoulder in revenge for Jennifer’s fate and having sex with her boyfriend Chip on screen put her outside of the traditional good girl archetype, but she still counts as one. She cruelly commits murder and breaks the golden rule of horror movies to not have sex, but it’s with someone she’s in a relationship with and the murders were justice for the exploitation and loss of her best friend, which give her crimes (having sex is not a crime, but sometimes horror does treat it that way) valid motivation. Under a feminist lens, the good girl/bad girl dynamic is better able to explore how some traits are seen as good or bad in girls and the misogynistic standards that built the expectations films set up for good girl/bad girl characters.

10. Mother-daughter relationships

Mother-daughter relationships are essential to the theme of girlhood and when the topic is tied with horror, the toxic, codependent part of these life-long relationships can be explored further.

Mother-daughter relationships are integral to the experience of girlhood because a mother provides a main female role model a girl looks up to while the mother has a responsibility to improve her daughter’s future. If there is a mother-daughter relationship in a horror movie, it often explores a daughter’s need for her mother’s validation, the mother’s need for control, and the daughter’s responding, often violent resistance. Such a relationship is most famously found in Carrie, where Margaret White’s religious fanaticism and overwhelming need to safeguard her daughter from “sins” led her to abuse Carrie who endured it for years, building up her murderous outburst even causing her their own deaths.

[longwindedbore]

Reposting with comments.

It would be great IF there weren’t more over 50 Dem voters than under 50. Then ~ maybe ~ Dem officials would fear.

Perhaps women’s rights would be defended by Elected Dem officials if over 50 Dems hadn’t embraced the patriarchy and

Turned on the President for *allowing* an activist First Lady in 1994 who was not conforming to ‘norms’ expected of not-submissive political wives.

Chosen a relatively untried male in the 2008 primaries over that same competent woman of strong character.

Chosen a popular but historically politically vocal/ineffective male in 2016 primaries over the now even more competent woman of strong character. Losing the candidacy to her only because of vote tally cheating? Then she’s crushed in the November election by an obvious bigoted idiot because so many white, brown, black voters stayed home.

Chosen overwhelmingly in the 2020 primaries the next Paul von Hindenburg (who in the 1970s was also architect of the USA’s crushing student debt). *Brandon von Hindenburg* actually crushing the ineffectual male primary champion of 2016 who was no longer running against a woman of recognized strong character.

Our still-involved Democrat friends report that many of the Dem voters they are soliciting are going to vote GOP in November because of…gas prices. (When I walked the precincts in 2016 to remind Dems of the importance of voting in the mid-terms the general response from registered voters was “Huh?”. Texas voters my wife has contacted to vote for Beto brillantly ask, “Huh?”)

Manchin and many many many other Dem officials keep getting re-elected because their views REFLECT their Democratic constituents.

It’s not just the Republican voters who are ignorant of history. Who don’t know to whom the Hindenburg of the past transferred power. Von Hindy got a zeppelin named in honor of his work insuring a “smooth transfer of power”.

The movies tell us one strong woman with a bow and arrow can reclaim democracy.

History, however, suggests that we are in a very bad place with dark decades ahead.

[d3nt4l-d4m4g3]

A few days ago, I emailed my former professor about a paper on women’s food practices in the middle ages. At least, that’s what I told him it was about, initially. 

But actually, I wanted to discuss heresy. This professor teaches a women’s rights course every year. Every year at the beginning of the class, he calls attention to why he, a man, is talking about women’s rights. He looks us in the eyes and says, no one else is doing it, and I’m sorry it’s me.

This man made us read the SCUM manifesto, Gerda Lerner, Maria Mies. He grazed the subject of the Lesbian Sex Wars, delicately, so gingerly, posing the question: “Can sex work ever be just work?”  And my  (all woman) classmates, generally mute—in a Women’s Rights class, they all seemed averse to saying the word “woman,” at all. Then one woman raised her hand. and she said, “Sex work is real work.”  A statement that, as I hope you know, is a deflection and a discussion killer.  

At the time I was non-binary. Hah. I submitted a comic at the end of the year of my final project. My thesis for that project was this: the very language female people have to use for themselves was constructed by the patriarchy. for example, the english word “vagina” comes from the latin word for “sheath”. so the vagina invokes the act of penetration upon its utterance. Whereas the word “penis” has no clear etymological root, implying that it is original while the vagina is constructed for him. Why should I carry the fact that I will always be a tool, the hole, of the human that is man? My solution, at the end of the comic, was to continue using they/them pronouns, to shield myself from the horror of being a wo-man, a s-he—an appendage of Him. 

I got a good grade. A stellar report. And it wasn’t a bad comic, for what I knew then. For my condition of blindness and deafness. I made a compelling argument, using sources from class.  But oh, how much older I feel now. I’ve always felt old but now I feel almost like I’m dying. Like I don’t have enough time to fix the world before I disappear. And women’s stories never survive. They are not surviving. networks spring up like mycelium and then every century at least they are burned. Witchcraft is in the air shared by women in a room of their own, and witchcraft is doused in gasoline.

I don’t have enough time to explain how the veil lifted for me. Maybe I forget the big moment. the days after were a blur of searching the no-no tags like radical feminist, GNC, gender critical. Amazed at the wealth of journals that these women linked to with real statistics showing that children are being sterilized for no reason. Mostly gay children. like me, a lesbian, who now lives in a house with three  “non-binary afabs”. This summer, one of these women, who I have known since freshman year, will start taking testosterone, a procedure I took up  for three turbulent months during my freshman year of college. I get to watch her become what I turned away from, knowing the experience fractured my sense of self to a point of  terror and estrangement. I get to watch her hide from her problems and cut herself off from womanhood the way I did for 3 years. I am not a woman, so do I not feel Woman’s pain, she is telling me, I told myself, when I was in a dream.  She has so many problems, she laughs. But trans is a separate problem that has nothing to do with those other problems. A coincidence.

 (For any trans people reading this, you may think: This transtrender fake-trans never-was-trans woman is treating these nonbinary people as if they were dead! as if they weren’t happy people finally living their truth! —well. I put my mom through the process of trying to convince her that I should have always been a man. and I did lose her, for months. For her it was the height of cognitive dissonance that I should want to go on a life-altering hormone to cure my lifelong social awkwardness and self-hatred and self-harm and depression. And I blamed her for not accepting my real self. I was basically made to shun her and my family because of transphobia.. It is disrespectful to anyone’s sanity and integrity for me to perpetuate that cognitive dissonance in this post.)

So I eventually got through to the professor. I knew because of the texts he had us to read for class. He is gay.  He has read all the theory, and lives by it.  And no (woman) student wants to speak to him. To bring the theory alive. They cannot breathe into it and it sits dead in his mouth.

Maybe it is because he is a man. because the presence of one man in a space of all women immediately sends up alerts.  lockdown. Certainly that is the case. Radical Feminists here: I know he’s a man. But I don’t have a woman. And I felt on the strength of the texts he’d given us that he would be my best bet. Maybe somewhere in the corrupted, rotting heart of my college there was a person who knew about thoughtcrimes and was thinking them anyway.

My professor starts with diversion. He starts by talking about my paper. I find it disconcerting that he starts that way. I worry that he won’t want to refer to my email. Where I say: I have woken up from a dream to the apocalypse—Does this man think I’m crazy? Chipper and kind of frantically, he lists off  primary sources of medieval nuns and women saints. for my paper.  Does this man think I’ve turned into a bigot?  Am I confessing lunacy, like a flat-earther?

But I steer the conversation to the meat at his first tentative encouragement. I tell him something like: “children, mostly gay children, a whole generation of gay children, are being sterilized. Porn is a symptom of late-stage capitalism—men’s ownership of women’s bodies. trans is an extension of this. I was part of this. I was in a cult.” I was shaking a bit. I don’t think I’d uttered those words out loud. They sound crazy. Some of the things I said did sound far-fetched. disorganized, remote. But I prayed that my professor would believe some of it, any of it. 

 What I will say is that he believes me.  Thank fuck, right?

He tells me something along the lines of this, vocalizing my fears: 

that all of academia is being scrubbed of anything that doesn’t support Trans.

And it is trans-identified female students and women who are reporting him to Title IX, who spend all their time in his classes fuming at the lack of validation for trans women in the  history of women. My sisters, footsoldiers for the cause. What cruel irony. This man is holding onto this class by his fingernails, speaking through his teeth, hoping any of the twenty young adult women staring blankly or angrily at him will hear him and listen.

 Looking back, the professor’s responses to my emails are vague, completely refusing to acknowledge a point of view other than “WOW. I look forward to discussing this.”  I think he thinks he could be blackmailed. Anything he says on gmail dot com can and would be used against him. It’s like, really, really, really that bad. 

No ideology should involve a cultural cleaning of women’s history feat. witch hunts. 

I will end here with an excerpt from my first email to this professor:

I'm sure you know what a total bummer it is to realize this. 

[treatutoameal]

the writer went wrong from the beginning with the question “the king loved the court lady but did the court lady love the king?” because deokim obviously loved him very much, to the point that she chose him over herself, her freedom and agency, over everything that is dear to her. at one point, san says he went against his nature for her but it was her who did, she sacrificed everything for him — but love is never about transactions. and so this is not a love story but a tale of the oppressive regime of monarchial patriarchy and the success of this show owes it to its cast and its director.

i was not at all surprised that the scene where deokim bid her friends, her life and her freedom goodbye was not in the script but it was the director who added it out of courtesy and respect for deokim. short-sight from the writer but the first part with them being teenagers (1-6ish eps) and the whole arc of him pretending not to be the crown prince and chasing some kind of amusement with her especially with how she treated him and how wholesome it looked, really has a huge effect on how the viewer sits through the rest of the show. if not alert enough, it’s easy to absorb it as a romantic love story especially when the power dynamics between him as a monarch and her as a court lady were absent in the beginning — but it’s anything but that.

throughout the drama, san keeps chasing and confessing to deokim and she refuses him every single time because she knows that if she were to become his concubine, she’d lose all of herself and whatever is left of her freedom. he knows that too but he’s consistent, we even see an instance of him threatening to “bed” her to make her fear him. in e16 who was supposedly the one with their sweetest moments, you can see how deokim’s light was slowly leaving her, she can’t leave the palace for the rest of her life and he got her a residence of her own so all she can do is sit and wait for him. she can’t go on picnics with her friends, she can’t transcribe books like she used to because people will think she’s embarrassing the king by doing lowly work… a permanent state of not being in the position to expect anything from him (because at the end of the day, he’s not her husband and the kids she gave birth to are not even legally hers) but still having to wait for him constantly — it’s not romantic, it’s depressing.

during their intimate moments, he asks her if she loves him but she never says it back because if she does, she will have lost herself completely to him. what he replies with is “it’s okay if you don’t love me. you are still mine.” but love is never about ownership. when she asks him if he ever imagined what it would be like if they were commoners, he said he never imagined it and that she fits as a court lady — because he has her exactly where he wants her to be, he gained her love but she lost everything. even in the moment where he gives her the official title of “Ui” he says he wants them to live as a family, and although it sounds sweet, it is still a way of taming her and keeping her next to him despite it not being her place — no matter how dear he is to her.

i am not saying he didn’t love her or she didn’t love him, this is not the point i’m trying to make — it’s just a dominative love that goes against who she is as a person. a love that forbid her from her agency not just during her life but even in her death. i am not a fan of the ending or the last episode in general, there was no point in giving us a lengthy sequence of san’s state post her death when there were many narratives that were left unexplored: deokim’s friends, deokim’s train of thought… etc. i just think the ending goes against the essence of this story in my opinion. my heart goes out to deokim and all the women who fell into the trap of patriarchal monarchy — as queen dowager said: “the palace is nothing but a luxurious prison.” because it doesn’t matter how high or low you are on social hierarchy, the woman is always defeated.

[dreamingofaizawa]

Powerful Ch. 1

Yakuza! Shouta Aizawa x Fem! Reader

*Mafia AU* Quirkless as well

Warnings: Arranged (sort of) marriage, brief mention of champagne, mentions of violence (nothing too specific). In later chapters: Probably smut

Word Count: 3.4 k

Author’s Note: ALRIGHTY here we go. I just had a fixation on Mafia AUs and, of course, it’s Shouta. What else did you expect? I’m a sucker for arranged relationships. Also he’s a little ooc in here, more confident, more ‘I want it I got it’. Hey, he’s the most powerful man in Japan, might as well have him act like it right? Anywho, I have no clue how many chapters this’ll end up being. Let’s just say this is ongoing for now.

Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4

Enjoy~

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25 years old and you haven’t been married off yet. This was strategic on your father’s part. As a rather low-ranking clan he’d purposely saved you, his eldest daughter, for marrying into a higher ranked clan. You’d bring immense honor to the family name. If only you’d known what you were getting into, maybe you could have been better prepared for your world to flip on its head.

The black velvet gown you wear is tailored perfectly to your form, accentuating every curve and dip on your body. The skirt fanned out around you gracefully and a short train trailed behind you as you stepped through the grand doors of the massive mansion. Tonight is the annual celebratory ball, held to celebrate successful unions and achievements. This one was particularly special, you just didn’t quite know it yet.

Since the event wasn’t mandatory, you were told to go in alone as a representative of your clan, while Mother and Father attended to more important matters. Before you even stepped in you fixed your posture and schooled your expression, keeping your form humbled. Heavens know what could happen should you irk the wrong clan.

Inside you were met with an onslaught of mixed everything, mixed drinks and colors and styles. Some wore traditional Japanese kimono, others more modern versions of the garment and others, like you, wearing more extravagant european or western style clothing. Though a rather interesting mix, nothing quite clashed which you were slightly grateful for, since there was no possible way you could make it through the night without a headache if there was an unpleasant mix of visuals.

You strode through and instantly met several lower clan heads that you respectfully bowed to and engaged in pleasant small talk with, moving from person to person, couple to couple and paying respects to all of them. You kept a small smile, a pleasant facade as you waltzed over the hardwood flooring. It took almost two hours of endless conversation before you managed to catch a break in the madness, snatching a small flute of champagne from a waiter and leaning up against a wall for a breath. 

You still hadn’t noticed the pair of dark eyes that studied you from the moment you arrived.

____

You struck him as intriguing at first. From the moment you walked over the threshold his eyes drank you in, studying you, observing and judging just as he had with many other women before you. No one here knows it, but the man is looking for a bride. Someone who could stand by his side,improve and uphold his image, help him wield the power that is the Yakuza. Yes, rank is important, but Shouta is too picky to care about rank. He is looking for a specific type of woman, one that can hold untold depths of power without crumbling under the pressure or getting swept up in the rush of it all.

A woman, he decides, like you.

You held yourself with grace, pride and humility. You seemed to understand your position, your probable low rank, while also not undermining your importance nor worth. A woman like you is hard to come by in this world, most just as power hungry and ruthless and greedy as their husbands, all while putting up a cotton candy sweet mask and using it to disguise their conniving ways. 

But in truth, that’s what it took to live this kind of life, isn’t it?

It was clear you knew that, while still managing to feel genuine in everything you did, even with an action as simple as sipping champagne. At the same time he can’t deny you are quite beautiful, soft lips and softer eyes, fingers gently grasping your glass with unmatched elegance and an unwavering strength in your posture. You’d bowed before many this evening, and yet you stood taller than even the highest ranking clan heads without challenging a single one of them. Bamboo in this forest of tall, unyielding trees. Capable of wielding so much power.

For a split second his mind wandered to other things, filthy moments shared in the privacy of his chambers, shared breaths and shimmering sweaty skin. He wondered what you would be like underneath him, if you would be a brat or willingly submit yourself to him. He hopes it to be the latter, but wouldn’t completely deny the chance to tame someone difficult. How would you look pinned under his weight, completely helpless to his hands that have killed and tortured? Would you claw at his shoulders or grip the sheets instead? What would you sound like? Your image plagued his mind even if only for a moment.

He’d studied many women over the few hours since the event started, none of them giving him a good enough first impression for him to continue watching further than a minute. There was no question in his mind now. You’d be returning home with him tonight.

____

You had just finished your drink and set the empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray when suddenly the ballroom fell extremely silent. All heads turned, eyes focused on the man that began his descent from the balcony overlooking the floor. He’s gorgeous, long black hair pulled into a low bun and exposing the light scruff on his chin and impossibly sharp jaw, a deep scar curved under his right eye. The full black satin suit is fitted to his form, strong shoulders and rolling muscle evident even under the thick materials. Ink peeked over the collar, a hint at what was definitely intricate sleeves and detailed artwork. His steps were measured, calculated and purposeful as he made his way down and across the floor, the entire room bowing down at his presence. 

You know who he is, as does every person here. Top rung of the ladder, Oyabun of the most powerful clan in Japan, his name widely known through the entire organization and yet almost never spoken. Shouta Aizawa, a name both respected and feared, holding unknown power and strength. His reputation is enough to make anyone feel small in his presence, known for his cold demeanor and the violence he’d committed, many losing their fingers, loved ones, and their own lives for misdeeds against him. He’d done most of that himself, marking him as a very dangerous man to be involved with, and an ally everyone wanted backing them.

You bowed down respectfully just as everyone else did, waiting patiently for a release, whether it was from the man himself or a collective understanding that it was alright to rise once again. The former was the first to come to fruition, though you didn’t expect him to be so close to you as he said it. Your eyes met with sharp onyx as you fixed yourself upright. It made you freeze in place, not quite tense, not quite relaxed, your expression hopefully not showing the utter shock you were feeling.

“What is your name?” You blinked only once before your mind caught up, and you willed your voice steady as you responded. What had you done to piss him off? What punishment awaited you for what you didn’t know you’d done? Despite fearing what may come, you don’t dare speak out of turn, even to beg for your life. His next words were addressed to the entire ballroom, you included, his smooth, deep voice booming out and yet somehow not loud at all.

“Any transgression against this woman is a transgression against me. As my future wife she is untouchable, and will remain that way until I explicitly state otherwise.” A collective hushed gasp sounded through the massive hall, your own eyes growing wide and your heart damn near stopping as your brain dissected the information. He just made you his fiance, with no warning, no hesitation, and full confidence. You are now engaged to the most powerful man in Japan, and you have exactly zero say in the matter. Really though, you never expected to be able to voice any opinions considering the patriarchy of the organization, so that bit of shock was quickly overlooked.

“It’s time to retire, little one.” His hand was held out to you, waiting for your own. You blinked, deciding it was best that you saved your shock for later you focused on the here and now and what to do in this moment. Taking a breath, you schooled your face into a pleasant smile and placed your hand in his waiting palm, allowing him to tuck you into his side as you both walked out the front doors and climbed into a black limouzine.

You didn’t allow yourself to relax, sitting silently next to the man as trees and telephone poles whizzed by the vehicle. It was tense, to say the least, his hand possessively sat on your knee as his eyes remained fixed in front of him and yours did the same. Neither of you talked, you slightly out of fear, of respect, and slightly out of sheer shock, your mind just barely able to keep itself together. He remained silent for a purpose. He would talk when you were alone, or when he felt like talking. Which isn’t right now.

You let your mind whirl a bit, worrying about what this meant for you. Worrying about how this powerful man would treat you, how he acted behind closed doors and if he even cared about you or what you might have to say. It’s nerve-wracking, suddenly bound to a power such as him, not knowing what could happen next, not knowing what to do next. There was nothing that could have prepared you for this.

The car slowed as it pulled up to the gate of the enormous estate, shaking you out of your thoughts, and once it opened the drive to the main house took nearly five minutes on its own. It’s a modern home, several stories tall with the top clearly penthouse-style with a full glass wall that overlooks the landscape, the rest of the huge inner home hidden behind crisp walls.

At a full stop, a man opens the door for you, the Oyabun having already exited and held a hand out for you to grab once again, strong muscles pulling you up with ease and leading you through the building and into an elevator. The silence is stifling as you wait for the machine to come to a stop, the soft chime indicating you’ve landed. 

Now you’re completely alone with him.

He leads you in and stops in the center of the large main room, stepping away and turning his scrutinizing gaze onto you. You do your best not to tense in front of him, not to show fear, partially for his comfort though you’re sure he’s used to it. His shoes clack softly, rhythmically on the polished wood floor as he begins to circle you, like a predator eyeing its prey, eyes burning paths up and down your form. You barely keep from squirming under his intense gaze, managing to keep still from sheer willpower. He stops suddenly behind you and you feel his warmth as he leans in close before a hand presses into your mid back and another gently grasps your shoulder, gently making you straighten even more, stand even taller.

Once he’s satisfied with your posture he rounds you and tilts your chin just a tad higher with a hooked finger. He’s silent as he shapes you, adjusting your body to his liking. You let him tenderly push and tug, grab and knead and trail those deadly fingers over you until he stops before you, studying you once again. 

“You’re my fiance now. You will hold yourself as such, radiate power as I do and command the attention of a room with only a glance.” The reminder of just what was happening made your breath stutter a little, and his hand came up to grasp your chin, making you look up into his dark eyes.

“You will learn, little one, to be the powerful woman I see.” He was so close, the heat from his body rolling over your skin and his breaths fanning over your face. Then he was walking away, motioning for you to follow as he led you to his chambers and bathroom to get cleaned up. You’d be sleeping with him from now on, he said, handing you a robe to change into after you’ve bathed and guiding you into the bathroom before closing the door and leaving you alone with your thoughts as you set to cleaning yourself.

Given you don’t screw things up, you are going to be the most powerful woman in Japan, solely because of a sudden arranged marriage dropped seemingly from out of nowhere. But the longer you think about it, it isn’t really out of nowhere is it? The Oyabun is 30 now, and until tonight hadn’t named a wife, nor any love interests, and therefore no possible heirs. If the man were to die for any reason, those chances only increasing the older he gets, the power vacuum his absence would create would be absolute madness. You’re part of a strategy, just as before. Just as always.

Yet there was no denying he’d struck something inside you. Of all the women in that hall he approached you, a woman he didn’t know from a low ranked clan, for reasons you could only barely begin to guess. He’d called you powerful earlier, the sincerity in his voice making your mind spin. Did he really see you as powerful? And the name he’d used for you felt far too tender on the tongue of such a dangerous man, though you understood the nod toward your previous rank. 

Father and Mother must be either confused, shocked, or overflowing with joy right about now. Confused as to why you haven’t returned, shocked, happy, or both at the news had they learned it. With your mind processing everything, your body finally begins to feel fatigued. 

You shut off the water before drying yourself, patting your hair in the towel before pulling on the fluffy robe. It was clearly meant for him, the fuzzy black garment large around the shoulders and sleeves engulfing your hands, the garment nearly touching the floor where it’s meant to hang several inches from it on his frame. Despite swimming in the robe, you couldn’t help but feel a bit vulnerable. You’re bare beneath it, not having planned to not return home. Still, it’s late, and the Oyabun needs to shower as well. With a steadying breath, you step out into the room.

He’s standing near the bed, the top half of his clothing discarded and bare skin exposed, along with the heavy tattooing and scars along his body. Dragon scales decorated his skin, along with delicate swirls heavily resembling smoke and clouds that followed the curves of his corded muscles. He is undoubtedly a beautiful man. You don’t realize you’re staring until a miniscule smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Enjoying the view, little one?” You blink away your daze and shift your eyes to the side, feeling the slight burn in your face at being caught. Instead of answering the cheeky question you choose to change the subject.

“I’m finished with my shower, Oyabun.” He hums, a low sound you can feel in your chest.

“I can see that, little one. And you call me Shouta.” You take a quiet, sharp inhale and nod.

“Yes, of course...Shouta.” His name feels heavy on your tongue, a name that people didn’t normally dare speak. He’s silent as he gathers his things and moves toward the bathroom, stopping momentarily by your side. You’re confused a moment before his calloused fingers gently grip your jaw and turn your head, his lips pressing softly against your temple for a split second before he’s disappearing into the bathroom. 

You stand in shock, the tender touch unexpected. Shaking your head, you decide it’s best to lay down. Hopefully you’d fall asleep by the time he finishes bathing, but you doubted it. You’re proven right when, in the midst of mulling over your own thoughts, he emerges in nothing but sweatpants, dark hair still damp as it fell around his shoulders. You managed to avert your eyes before he could catch you staring for a second time tonight, and it wasn’t long before he slipped under the blankets next to you.

There wasn’t a single word shared between you as he flicked off the lights with a remote and settled into the plush mattress. There was no movement from the man as you lay with your back to him. You aren’t entirely sure if the lack of movement unsettles you more than if he were to be shuffling around. It felt like hours had passed in the darkness, your eyes had adjusted and you couldn’t sleep despite how exhausted you felt. 

Your mind raced with questions. What happens now? What happens with your clan and parents? Would you have clothes soon? How would he treat you? How were you supposed to act around him? When is the wedding? Is the engagement already official? What if you disappoint him and fuck everything over? The entire situation makes you anxious, for more than something as trivial as your own safety. You shift onto your back and listen to Shouta’s soft snores, signaling his sleep. As silently and gently as you can, you slip out of bed.

You have no clue what you were going to do or where you were going to do it, but you had to get away from him if only for a moment, to let yourself breathe and think. Almost mindlessly, you find yourself staring out of the glass wall and out into the night. This far out, you can see the stars in the night sky clear and bright, and it was a sight you missed having lived in the city most of your life. Right here you have room to think, space to spread your thoughts and calm your mind to keep from jumbling everything in your brain and stressing over it more. 

From what you can tell there is a very small chance Shouta would treat you maliciously, so for now you don’t have to worry about that. Considering his power and status, you won’t be without clothing for long. The thought was silly in the first place, but stress tended to make you question even the most ridiculous. As for how you’re meant to act, well that would have to be tested. He’d already told you how to appear to the public, so that shouldn’t be too hard, but being alone with the man was driving you insane.

Soft footsteps broke you from your thoughts. You spin around, suddenly very much on guard, before Shouta’s voice broke through the darkness, his figure slowly approaching. 

“What are you doing up, little one?” You bite your lip and turn to gaze outside again, hugging your arms tight.

“Just thinking. I apologize for waking you, Oya-… Shouta.” His warmth hit you before his skin did, chest pressed into your back and large rough hands gripping your shoulders firm but gentle. His breath is hot on your ear and neck, sending a shiver down your spine. Such an intimate action from him only hours after he’d made you his fiance was quite the shock in and of itself, only enhanced by the fact that this man is known for his cold nature.

“Thinking about what?” His hands smoothed down your arms, following them around your waist and encompassing your hands in his, tugging you into him further. Unnatural as it may seem, it feels good, his warmth. In the arms of such a dangerous and powerful man you should feel small and scared, but you don’t. You aren’t entirely sure what it is you feel. Truthfully, you don’t have the energy to answer his question properly.

“About a lot of things. Too many things.” Right now, the only thing you want to do is melt into the man’s arms. His presence is suddenly comforting, instead of worrying, and you feel safe in his embrace. You sigh and lean into him, fatigue finally beginning to tug at your body and mind. Strong arms scoop you up like nothing, and suddenly you’re being placed down on the bed before he climbs in and pulls you onto him. An arm circles your waist while the other cradles your head, a tender kiss placed at your hairline.

“Sleep, little one.” His fingers thread through your hair, massaging your scalp lightly. It’s a soothing action, especially after nearly giving yourself a headache from stress. It isn’t long before you’re nodding off, relaxing into his body and letting his steady heartbeat lull you to sleep.

[midnight-hyperion]

So I read the SCUM Manifesto...

...yeah, it promotes genocide as an answer to Patrarchy. Which is pretty ironic, since the idea of creating an "other" to scapegoat, pathologize and advocate the complete and utter destruction of is exactly the kind of "masculine violence" that GCs claim to be fighting against.

And yet here we are, witnessing GCs promote it, and grooming young, even teen feminists into eating that hateful poison up.

Wanna know what the reality actually is?

Every single problem outlined in the manifesto has its roots in capitalism. Every. Single. One. It's not men or masculinity that's the problem. (Though MRAs, MGTOWs, PUAs, Proud Boys and other Meninists can fuck right off.) It's white colonialism, and how it shapes the society around us. It's how we raise our young by the values instilled in us by the culture, and how we pressure men under patriarchy to behave in certain ways, to prove their manhood, to assert dominance, to become the embodiment of toxic masculinity that feeds the capitalist mammon machine, and how we constantly cattle prod them with shame, and disgust for failing to live up to those standards. It's how it demands a kyriarchy at every social level and setting in order to maintain control of the civilian majority and benefit the elites in power. And how it keeps that suffocating hierarchical structure going via fear of negation, and propaganda that constantly churns out stochastic terrorism to keep us fighting amongst ourselves...

...and this SCUM Manifesto is a perfect example of that stochastic terrorism. I've seen the same rhetoric being bandied about by fucking alt-righters when talking about how they think jewish people are the cause of all of their problems.

So yeah, I pull no punches when I say this, the SCUM manifesto is a call to violence and genocide, it advocates for the complete disappearance of one half of the population, while addressing none of the root causes for the problems it outlined.

Let's not lose track of the perspective here though, male privilege and patriarchy is absolutely a problem, but genocide is not the answer. If you honestly think that mass-murder of half of the world will solve the world's, our problems, then I hate to break it to you, but you're a fascist.

I will never agree or submit to the precepts outlined, because I would rather spend my time and energy breaking the structure of oppression than seek out scapegoats to other, pathologize and drive to suicide.

[bamfdaddio]

X-Men Abridged: 1980 - The Dark Phoenix Saga

The X-Men, those enduring mutants that have sworn to protect a world that hates and fears them, are a cultural juggernaut with a long, tangled history. Want to unravel this tapestry? Then read the Abridged X-Men!

(X-Men 132 - 140, X-Men Annual 4) - by Chris Claremont and John Byrne, John Romita Jr. and Bob McLeod

Go on. Name a more iconic X-Men panel. I’ll wait. (X-Men 134)

If you were born in 1980, you were born under the sign of the Phoenix. This means you will have great hair, but you’ll also be absolutely corrupted by power. Don’t worry, as long as you don’t consume any stars and/or galaxies, you should be fine.

This year hits the ground running, introducing Emma Frost, Kitty Pryde and Dazzler in one fell swoop. The White Queen is the first of the Hellfire Club to make her move, but Phoenix is quickly able to dispatch of her, as you can read here.

Cyclops, worried that the rest of the Inner Circle will soon come in for the kill, decides to abscond to Angel’s Aerie in New Mexico to throw their pursuers off their scent. Jean decides to make the most of it and has sex with Scott on top of mesa. (Kinky!) She also shuts off his uncontrollable destructo-beams, nbd. This somehow inspires Scott to go from reactive to proactive and lead an ill-advised charge straight into the Hellfire Club on the night of their big ball… soirée... thing. Call it a Hellfire Gala-avant-la-lettre.

Fine, he might have been inspired by the raw power of the Phoenix. She’s the biggest gun on their side and, if there's one thing you can be sure of, it´s that reliable powerhouse Jean won´t switch sides in the middle of battle.

Oh wait, that's exactly what she does.

As soon as they enter the Hellfire Club, Jason Wyngarde, who reveals he’s actually Mastermind, takes control of Jean, finally turning her into the Black Queen. With the power of the Phoenix and the patriarchy on their side, the Inner Circle makes short work of the X-Men. They consists of:

Jason Wyngarde, aka Mastermind.

Sebastian Shaw. Often shirtless. The Jeff Bezos of mutantkind. Has the ability to absorb kinetic energy, which means punching him only makes him stronger. (Colossus and Storm figure this out the hard way.)

Harry Leland. Ability of mass manipulation, which has got to be one of the dopest powers ever. Uses it to dunk Wolverine three floors down into the sewer.

Donald Pierce. 25% robot, 100% asshole, 100% useless in taking out X-Men, 225% the worst.

Wolverine is the only one who escapes, resulting in another iconic image:

Apparently, this picture is solely responsible for the fact that Wolverine became the face of the X-Men in the zeroes. It also lit my cigar from the other side of the room. (X-Men 132)

Needless to say, stabbing ensues.

Meanwhile, Shaw pontificates what he wants with the X-Men. He means to use them as guinea pigs to isolate the X-Gene, which he’ll then reverse engineer to give everyone (with money) super powers and all of a sudden, I want Shaw to do a team-up with John Sublime. Jean is not all there, however: she’s trapped in the astral plane, cultivating a cruel streak a mile high.

And suddenly, Jean-turning-evil is not all that funny anymore. (X-Men 133)

Cyclops traverses the mental link he shares with Jean to confront ‘Sir Jason’ and challenge him to a duel. Guy can’t catch a break: in Jean’s mindscape, he is stabbed and he promptly collapses in the real world. Ruh-roh!

Wolverine, meanwhile, has done a passable impression of the Bride against the Crazy 88 in Kill Bill, and he interrupts the Hellfire Club and their gloating. That’s when Jean resurfaces as well, snapping out of her voluptuous Victorian fantasy and, playing a dubious tango with everyone’s trust issues, switching sides once again. The Phoenix is like the golden snitch: as long as your team holds it, it’s enough to win.

Colossus snaps Pierce’s robo-arm, Shaw gets punted through a floor and Leland uses his powers to increase Wolverine’s mass - just when Logan is jumping on top of him. Oops! Should have made him lighter than a feather, Leland.

Jean, meanwhile, is doing her own passable impression of the Bride and goes on what the advertisements would refer to as a ‘Roaring Rampage of Revenge’. (Oh, she roars, and she rampages, and she gets bloody satisfaction.)

This is what happens when you fuck around and find out, Jason. (X-Men 134)

Phoenix makes Mastermind’s mind touch the infinite. His tiny human mind can’t cope. And, just like me when I’m at Pride and surrounded by a bevvy of shirtless gym bunnies, he becomes a dribbling mess. A shell with nothing inside. For those of you paying attention: this is where your Lit teacher would shout “dramatic irony” and underscore Emma Frost vs. Storm on the chalkboard.

This is also the moment where she officially Breaks Bad.

We see powerless people become heroes all the time. The reverse, where the angel falls? That happens far more rarely. I think that is the reason this story was so shockingly effective in the eighties. The reason why it’s still so effective? I think because, like the One Ring, you can read the rise and fall of the Phoenix in a myriad of ways. Is this a victim, reclaiming power? Is this a woman, trying to rise in a man’s world? Is this someone who was always buttoned up, daring to embrace her own power, her sexuality, her dangerous side -- only to get promptly beat down? The ambiguity of the narrative gives it strength, which is why I think it keeps resonating even now. This counts especially in the X-Universe, inherently designed to appeal to the underdog.

Anyway, the X-Men try to flee, but it’s too late. Jean can’t hold it in any more. She explodes in Phoenixesness and vaporizes the X-Men’s aircraft over Central Park. Relishing in her power, Jean easily defeats her friends, before flying off into the galaxy.

In the Avengers mansion, Beast gets the report that the X-Men are trashing the Hellfire Club. Ignoring his duties as an Avenger, Beast chooses his old family and hops off to investigate on his own.

The report, by the way, comes from Shaw, who knows when to turn tail and cut his losses. Among the confused, scared refugees of their party, he begins working a politician on the importance of a Sentinel program. That politician? Senator Kelly. Remember that name.

Jean can’t talk, she’s doing hot girl things. Nomnomnom that star system, sis. (X-Men 135)

Originally, Jean wasn’t meant to die. This one panel, the one showing the inhabited planet, is the reason why she eventually does: Jim Shooter, editor-in-chief, felt Jean shouldn’t be able to get away with a literal genocide. Claremont and Byrne, who had planned to strip Jean of her powers at the end of this, had to change the end of their story within days before it went to print. Additionally, this stoked the adversarial fire between the two: Claremont claims that he hadn’t originally intended there to be an inhabited planet, but felt his hands were tied when Byrne drew one. I wonder how true this is, considering how embedded it is in the narrative, but that’s neither here nor there.

The Phoenix’s genocide alerts the Shi’Ar - and therefore Lilandra - to her presence. Lily says that Galactus is nothing compared to the Phoenix: he merely eats planets, she will consume all that exists.

A hungry Jean, meanwhile returns to Earth, not sure what she’s looking for. She pays a visit to the home of her parents, but when they warily come to greet her, she can’t help but read all the innermost thoughts of her family. Nothing is secret, nothing is sacred. (Imagine knowing all those little thoughts your parents had about you, all those little terrible human things they did in their life. Imagine knowing all their sexual fantasies. Brrr.) It sours the Phoenix against them and she is about to start familicide to her list of sins, when the X-Men attack!

Nightcrawler slaps a psionic scrambler designed by Beast on her, but she’s still too strong. Wolverine tries to end her, but he isn’t ruthless enough to do the deed. When the scrambler overloads, Scott tries reasoning with her, appealing to her love. This causes the Phoenix to waver and Charles Xavier (airdropped in by Warren), bolts Jean telepathically.

Drinking game rule for the Phoenix saga no 6: shout “ca-caw” and take a sip every time the raptor appears. (X-Men 136)

Xavier feels Jean helping him out from within the Phoenix and together, they slowly trap Phoenix in the same sort of energy-matrix as Jean did with the M’Kraan-crystal. The Phoenix finally lays dormant, the X-Men have Jean back and Scott, overwhelmed by emotion, sort of awkwardly proposes to her. Happy Ending! And then, pulling the rug out from under our feet, the X-Men (including Beast and Angel) are whisked away.

They appear in front of Lilandra. The Shi’Ar hold Jean accountable for her planet-killing ways and Lilandra orders her Imperial Guard to take her away! But Charles invokes an ancient law with the same relish of someone who invokes an obscure board game rule against the person who is about to win: he demands a trial by combat.

The rules are easy:

X-Men win: Jean lives

Shi’Ar win: Jean dies.

The trial will be on the dark side of the moon. The Shi’ar are way too strong and, one by one, the X-Men fall, until only Jean and Scott are left. In their last stand, Jean loses control and becomes the Phoenix again, wiping the floor with the Imperial Guard. Technically, they win, but she knows now.

Suicide by abandoned-machine-of-a-long-forgotten-civilization-on-the-dark-side-of-the-moon. (X-Men 137)

She dies. Phoenix dies. The X-Men lose. Scott, bereft, leaves the X-Men.

One detail I love is the holempathic crystal that Lilandra bestows on Jean’s parents.

Without becoming too maudlin, the idea of this is beautiful. A condensed image of a person you love, one you can touch when you feel memories slipping away so you can remember who they were. (X-Men 138)

And with that, season 2 of the X-Men ends. Without Cyclops and Phoenix, the X-Men have to readjust. While Beast returns to the Avengers, Angel takes up residence in the mansion again. He confesses to liking most of the new X-Men, except Wolverine. (To be fair, Wolverine is an acquired taste.) Kitty Pryde also formally starts attending the school and slowly, the Jean-and-Scott-shaped void is filled.

Patriarchal Charles is thrilled to finally have a new teenager in the house who will hang on to his every word. It’ll be like the sixties all over again! (X-Men 139)

There are so many beautiful touches in the few panels:

Wolverine calling Charles ‘Chuck’

Nightcrawler getting drinks (and a beer)

Most amazingly of all, Storm becoming the leader. (I give Chuck a lot of flak, but this decision is Right.) Not just because Storm is the best X-Man for the job, but also because she was a black woman leading one of premier Marvel superhero teams for, what? The better half of a decade? The eighties had barely started, so this was a big fucking deal.

Storm also takes up a motherly role for Kitty, who takes up her suggestion for a codename: Sprite. (This after Kitty rejects Charles’ suggestion of Ariel, which is only fortunate, considering that name would soon be associated with redhaired mermaids.)

The rest of the year is dedicated to two adventures, both of them starring Kurt. The first is depicted in the annual: on Kurt’s birthday, he receives a mysterious package with a mysterious figurine that mysteriously explodes in his face. Professor X calls guest star Dr. Strange for aid, who deduces that his soul has been stolen. What follows is a quest to regain Kurt’s soul in an adventure that feels a little too I just read Dante’s Inferno, check how smart I am.

Hell is a little too pedestrian and boring, though we do get a King Minos hitting on Kurt and Ororo. A man of wealth and taste indeed. Anyway, at the end of this side quest, it turns out all of this was a convoluted revenge scheme concocted by one Margali of the Winding Road. She turns out to be Kurt’s (adoptive) mother, who’s getting revenge for Kurt killing her son.

Kurt, racked with guilt, reveals he had no choice. Stefan had always feared the darkness in his soul and he’d made Kurt pledge to stop him if he should ever succumb to it. After Stefan killed a child or two, Kurt had no choice but to end him. Stefan perished and Kurt was blamed for all of the murders, having to flee an angry mob.

Margali forgives him, with some help from Jimaine, Kurt’s foster sister. In a twist that is a little too soap opera for my tastes (and I watch Riverdale), Jimaine turns out to be Kurt’s squeeze, Amanda Sefton. I’ve always disliked this twist, and not just because of the incesteous vibes: I like the idea of Kurt dating a regular lady who is into him despite his appearance and his being a mutant. Making Amanda Sefton his sorcerous half-sister dilutes that message a lot.

The tail end of 1980 involves Wolverine going to Canada so Wolverine can make amends with Alpha Flight. Kurt joins him, ostensibly to flirt with Aurora, but in fact this shows that Kurt and Wolverine are establishing a rapport. A deeper friendship.

In a pretty paint-by-numbers adventure, Wolverine, Nightcrawler and the worse half of Alpha Flight take down a Wendigo. We don’t get Northstar or Aurora, but we do get more Snowbird, who can change herself into Canadian animals, with the danger of being consumed by her animal side.

We get this delightful panel out of it:

Scared Nightcrawler almost makes me forget how full of shit Jimmy MacDonald is, considering last time Kurt saw them, they tried to kidnap the fuzzy elf. (X-Men 139)

This whole arc is meant to show the softening of Wolverine. Not only does he share his name with Kurt (well, sort of: “Logan, is that your name?” “Yup.” “You never told us.” “You never asked.”), but when they fight the Wendigo and Snowbird turns into a white wolverine to deal the final blow, he talks her out of being consumed by her vicious animal nature.

The year ends with two details worth mentioning:

The Canadian government dissolves Alpha Flight, which I can only find a prescient move that highlights their good taste. A realistic note I like is the minister referring to the mutant problem as ‘an American problem’ even though they employ the Beaubier twins. Wankers.

Fred Dukes escapes prison to join the New Brotherhood of Mutants!

We’re now entering a run of the X-Men which I haven’t read much of yet, but Freddy mentions he was helped by some lady lawyer. That’s gotta be Mystique, right?

I can barely contain my glee.

Ugliest Costume: Despite that godawful hooded thing Kitty wears, I have to give this to Dazzler. There’s no salvaging that costume: I’m sorry, but she’s wearing a disco ball around her neck. It's a boot from me.

Best new character: Emma Frost. Fight me by the bike rack near the parking lot if you disagree.

Turns evil: Jean Grey, famously so.

What to read: X-Men 129 to 137, the Dark Phoenix run.

[meta-enthusiasm]

You know what I am really fucking tired of seeing in popular media?

The "evil, hysterical woman in power" trope. The clichè that potrays women who are in a position of power as overzealous, unhinged, power hungry maniacs who are a ticking time bomb waiting to explode.

Female leaders are shown as less resonable and down to earth as their male counterparts, and are often villainized by either the fandom or the narrative of the story itself. They are doomed to fail because of their womanliness and need to be taken down before they enact their evil plans, preferably by a man, or a woman who performs the 'right' kind of femininity.

This trope relies on the sexist misconception that women are more fragile than men, more emotionally unstable and unpredictable.

"Women aren't cut out to be leaders, they should be nurturing and supportive and tend to their families. Having higher aspirations is against their nature and will eventually break them and drive them crazy."

That type of bullshit that was designed to keep women out of leadership positions and keep oppressing us. To keep us quiet and submissive.

Here are a few examples to further explain this stereotype:

Daenerys Targaryen is one of the most well known characters to fall victim to this trope. She is an abuse and rape victim, seeking to change the current social and political systems of the world because she knows how many people suffer under its injustice. ("Crush the wheel.")

For all her compassion and charity she has shown over the series, the writers decided that it would be reasonable for her to go crazy at the end of the show and, despite promising she wouldn't inflict more damage than necessary, kill thousands of innocent people whose government had already surrendered to her.

And guess who had to kill her in the end? Yup, another man. Her love interest, who was "forced" to betray her.

Next, we have:

Morgana Pendragon, from "Merlin". To remind you, she is an abuse victim who had to endure her father's controlling behavior and bigoted attitude towards people with magic abilities which, suprise suprise, she turned out to have. She had to watch as her father murdered and oppressed people just like herself, and when she challenged that behavior, he would come down hard with punishment. (Going so far as to actually throwing her in the dungeons for a couple days.)

Eventually, she rebelled against the corrupt system and had her genocidal father killed. She led a rebellion against Camelot after Uther's son (Arthur) continued to oppress magicians under his reign, and sought to create a better future for herself and her people.

So far so good, right? Well, no. The problem here is that she is the antagonist of the story. She is portrayed as being in the wrong for not quietly taking the injustice and watching it happen.

Halfway through the show, she becomes obsessed with power and status and desperately chases after the throne of Camelot. She is extremly vindictive, manipulative and cruel to others to archieve her goals. She is a "hysterical woman" who is out of control, emotionally unstable, challenges the patriarchy, and therefore needs to be defeated.

Her death was portrayed as tragic, yet absolutely necessary.

(Of course it had to be a man who killed her.)

Azula is the epitome of this horrid, misogynistic trope. She is a fierce, ambitious leader and highly skilled fire bender, respected and feared among her people. She is highly driven and succeeds at almost everything she sets her mind to.

Ever since she came into this world, she was better at everything than Zuko. She was a better fighter than him, a better bender, better strategist, better child. And that is precisely the reason why she had to lose in the end.

Despite coming from the exact same circumstances as Zuko, the story and the fandom at large see Azula as way less redemable and likable than him. Even though she is an abuse victim whose own mother hated her and is a literal child soldier, she doesn't get any sympathy from the protagonists of the story. The otherwise so understanding and wise Iroh even calls her "crazy", (which is, if you've done some basic research into misogynistic expressions, really fucking problematic.) and tells Zuko that there is no saving her. Why? He doesn't tell, but it's obvious that the writers made him say this because of their own internalized sexist beliefs. She isn't offered a way out of her toxic environment like Zuko was. She didn't get the support from Iroh because he had already given up on her.

To top it off, she has a nervous breakdown near the end and loses her remaining sanity. Because, you know, "She's craaaazy!! And SO unstable!! Typical woman." (Not to mention how this further stigmatizes mental illness and portrays it as something only evil people get.)

She was supposed to become the next fire lord, a position that carries utmost power and influence. Of course, such authority could not be given to a woman. That's why Zuko, a man, gets to be the next fire lord, and we are left assuming Azula will be spending the rest of her days in prison.

The writers assume the audience detests Azula and wants her to suffer. She doesn't deserve a happy ending, or the love and support that Zuko got.

Why? Because she poses a threat to the status quo, the patriarchy. She challenged the belief that men had to be the best and most efficient at everything they do, that women could indeed be better leaders and be happy with having a career and not be nurturing, motherly figures to the men in their lives. And for that transgression, for breaking gender stereotypes, Azula was punished.

(It's also why Katara, someone who performs the "right" kind of femininity by being nurturing, motherly, supportive, healing, doting, and is the care taker of the group, ends up taking Azula, the evil and perverted form of femininity, down. I believe @batboyblog has made a similar post about this.)

This is Carmilla from the popular Netflix show "Castlevania", and if you've payed attention to my previous points, it should be pretty obvious what her character represents and how her story ends.

Note that she is also an abuse and rape survivor who is represented as evil and cruel for being angry at what was done to her.

To top it off, she is also an example of the man hating woman stereotype, whose anger at the misogyny and sexism of the world is portrayed as an "overreaction" and as "too much".

At the end of the story, she had to be taken down by another man (Isaac) so that the status quo could be preserved, and the reign of a crazy bitch like her could be stopped. Horay, the day is saved from yet another unstable, selfish woman who would have brought suffering and pain over her country if allowed to rule. Hysterical women with their demand for equality.

Conclusion:

In all these examples, we can see female abuse victims thriving for power and status, for respect, being represented as something negative and something to avoid. Trying to fundamentally change a system that is rigged against women/female representing people is a fruitless endevour that will eventually fail and drive us crazy, because our minds aren't strong enough to handle this type of responsibility and status.

Holding on to anger and bitterness over what was done to us is the sign of a bad person, and the only morally acceptable path is to forgive/ignore our abusers and let the injustice continue to happen.

Strangely enough though, that same gaslighting, victim blaming mentality gets almost never applied to male characters. Men who seek vengeance are never portrayed as weak or crazy for giving in to the wish of changing a corrupt system/killing bad people. (Batman, the Punisher, Hawkeye, John Wick, Jason Todd, Erin, Scar from FMAB, Iron Man, and so on)

The reason why these stereotypes almost never apply to men but almost always to women is sexism. There is no other explanation for this. These tropes were specifically designed to make society believe that women aren't cut out for leadership positions and are happiest with domestic, easy tasks like watching after our children and taking care of the household.

Women who are angry, women who are dominant are to be feared and distrusted. They are represented as a danger to the general public and need to be taken down before they enact their evil plans.

Feel free to add further examples.

[marlahey]

under the same roof part two: an old friend

a harry styles rpf part two of six  ratings/warnings: the stalking comes to an alarming head via chase, suggestion of violent intent, aggressive emotions, fuck the patriarchy notes: things get serious, intimacy occurs, we all suffer. moments were edited or cut to reinforce the utter lack of actual romance in a real stalking situation, but I promise we’ve made up for it in later parts!  fun fact: on a lighter note, this series should probably just be titled: sweet things that have actually occurred to annie that she forgot she wrote in and so suffers in every edit session. 

masterlist | part one | part three (14.12.2020) ... • friday, 4th january 8:34 pm • Blood roars in your ears as you sprint through the parking garage, but the sound isn’t loud enough to drown out the pounding footfalls that aren’t your own. Every gulp of air burns your throat but you can’t stop, you can’t even slow down. The hum of industrial ceiling lights overhead is the only other sound. No one would hear you scream.

You’d heard the second car door after yours, and the initial footsteps. A quick turn of your head was your worst fear realized: the blue-eyed man beelining towards you, so quickly you’d barely had a chance to try and outpace him. A heavy hand landed on your shoulder as the man grabbed a fistful of your cardigan before yanking back on the fabric. Twisting desperately against his hold, you’d heard a faint pop-pop-pop as the stitching around your collar snapped and gave. You’d practically fallen away from him before scrambling upright, sliding with little traction on the dusty concrete beneath your feet, and bolting towards the open center of the lot. Your breath pours out into the air. There are no security cameras. Why are there no security cameras? A white, hot panic inside your head makes it hard to think, but you must. You can’t take the lift as it leads to a dead end, so it’ll have to be the stairs. The torn neck of your sweater leaves one of your shoulders naked to the cold. You came so close to draping a scarf around your shoulders before you left your apartment this morning. Had you kept it on, you could have been dead by now. You tear through the door to the stairwell at the other end of the garage and take the steps by two. At any moment an obstacle could arise—a locked door, a dead phone battery, a hard fall on the stairs—and that would be it for you. You’d be a gruesome headline or a face on a milk carton. You would never see your siblings, or India, or Chowder, or your parents ever again. Hot tears sting the corners of your eyes. On the last flight of stairs before the lobby, the sound of the stairwell door slamming echoes up the passageway. You look instinctively. A black, gloved hand is making its way up the railing. You almost lose your balance bursting through to the lobby, and even though your legs are screaming, you do what all the brochures have ever told you to do and break into another full-fledged run to the lift around the corner. You wish you’d chosen a building with a doorman or security desk—some kind of human checkpoint. “No, no, no,” you beg under your breath, launching an arm between the closing doors. You stumble, half expecting it to be empty, and find yourself face to face with Harry.  His eyes skim you over, widening from behind his glasses. You’re still clinging to the doors of the lift. Down the hall and around the bend, the door to the stairwell bangs open again; you wince. Harry’s eyebrows knit together. Thinking on your feet, you lurch inside and drag your hand along the keypad, illuminating just about every random floor up to the penthouses in the twenties, but not eight, and nothing before it. Harry’s eyes dart between yours and the doors. The footsteps in the hall behind you grow louder. You smash the close door button a dozen times, but something in you knows it’s a lost effort. You rush forward and tuck yourself into Harry’s side, tearing his name tag off and stuffing it in your bag. He startles, twisting to look at you, but you stick to your guns and slip your arm around his back. A moment later your eyes meet in the vaguely distorted metallic reflection above the keypad. Harry’s eyes are full of questions; a plea is in yours. For a second time, the doors of the lift begin to close but are stopped by an interjecting hand. A third body enters. It is him. That yellow-grey hair, the wrinkles and the scar on his lip, the worn, leathery skin… Immediately, the man turns to stare at you, and scoffs. You jump, your hand instinctively grasping the back of Harry’s jacket. You will your knees to be still. The lift doors close. It is silent until the car lurches upward. Suddenly you feel a warm, heavy pressure across your shoulders. In the reflection of the doors, you watch Harry’s arm wrap around you. He squeezes once. Your frantic gaze is pinned down by his much more fixed one. He feels so solid pressed into your side, and his eyes are solemn behind his glasses. More serious, maybe, than you’ve ever seen in the last year.  Harry’s lips quirk—the suggestion of a smile—before he looks down at his feet: a ruse of casual nonchalance. Your stomach twists.  The blue-eyed man sighs impatiently. Harry moves his hand to your waist and pulls you even tighter into his side. The car bounces to a stop on the sixth floor with a ding. As the doors glide open, it dawns on you that you had not thought this all the way through to the end. Do you go with Harry? What if you put Sylvia in danger? What if the man follows you? Harry’s arm drops from your shoulders.  The same white hot panic from the garage sears behind your eyes. Is this it? Is Harry about to leave you alone to your fate?  You almost miss his hand reaching back for you, like it’s something he does all the time. Harry squeezes, hard enough to nearly be painful. It starts you into motion. Your legs feel stiff and inflexible like they can’t remember how to walk as he pulls you along, keeping himself between you and the blue-eyed man. You’re off.  The doors close.  Harry glances over his shoulder, your hand still tight in his. He gently guides you to walk in front of him, and you shudder at the thought of the man still watching. You do not hear a third pair of footsteps trailing you, and you do not dare turn around to check. There’s something eerie in walking down a hall identical to your own but knowing that none of these doors are yours.  “This is me.” Harry’s voice is low around the jingle of his keys as he nods to the only door in the hallway hung with a wreath. You say nothing as he steps aside to let you through. He peers into the hall one last time once you’re both inside before locking the door, deadbolt, and chain guard. You lean your back against the wall with your arms across your chest, clutching your sides. He looks over at you slowly, hesitates, and takes a step toward you. His Adam's apple bobs. Suddenly the air leaves your lungs entirely and you begin to heave. You feel as though you’d been sprinting on a treadmill for an hour and then stopped immediately, which keeps you from realizing that Harry has been saying your name. Tears gather in your eyes again; if you allowed yourself to blink, they would spill over. You begin to sink against the wall. Harry catches your elbows in his hands, but you keep sinking anyway. He follows you all the way down to the floor. “Sorry,” you gasp. “You’re safe.” Harry just shakes his head. “I’ve got you.” You nod and try to send a few deep breaths to the pit of your stomach, then clear your throat. “Call the police.” Harry doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s on his feet, flicking on light switches and digging his phone from out of his bag. You hear, “Yes, hello. I’d like to report… following my neighbor.” Your mind reels.  Harry’s voice sounds almost distorted, like you’re underwater. “In my apartment with me.” You catch, “...followed her into the lift,” as well as “Yes,” and “No,” to a series of questions before he reappears with a concentrated frown, watching you. “She’s safe.”  You pick yourself up off the floor and Harry gestures to the small two-person dining table. He angles his cellphone down to his chest as he’s pulling the chair out for you. “Do you want to speak with them?” he whispers. You take a deep breath and nod, holding out your hand. Your fingers tremble, so you place it face up on the table instead and turn on the speaker. He may as well find out now; you can’t imagine having to explain all this a second time.  “Hello?” “Hello, my name’s Officer Warren. We hear you’ve had quite a scare tonight. I know it’s hard, but try to stay as calm as possible and just answer a few questions for me as best you can.”  The fact that the dispatcher is a woman comforts you. “Okay.” “Are you injured?” “No.” “Can you just confirm your full name for me? And your address?”  You rattle off your details, noting with strange detachment that you and Harry live precisely two floors apart. His flat is 6F; yours is 8F. “How long have you lived there?” “Almost a year.” “And how long have you been in the UK?” “About two and a half years. I’m a student at UCL.” “I understand you’re with a neighbor. Do you feel as though you’re in immediate danger?” You look up at Harry before your eyes dart to his front door, hesitating for longer than you want to. “No.” “Can you tell me what’s happened?” You close your eyes. “A man tried to grab me in the parking garage.” “Was this a man you’ve met before?” “He’s been following me since June. I see him everywhere I go. It happened the first few times in public places like on my walk home or when I go jogging, but then I started seeing him everywhere.” Your eyes open again. “Like, I’ve seen him on campus and in restaurants where I was eating. He was walking behind me the first time I ever went to Ilford for work, which is completely out of my way. He took the same tube as me once and tried to grab my hand.” You hear Harry’s knuckles crack across the table from you. “And how long ago was that?” “December twentieth.” “Have you ever come to the police with this information?” “Yes. I filed a report at the Lavender Hill station on the first of October and we went through some headshots but none of them were him.” You hear a series of keystrokes. “Yes, I see your file here. And can you describe what happened today?” “I was picking up some archives at the Ilford Historical Society–” “For school?” “Yes. I’m a research assistant. They have a postbox under my advisor’s name. I usually pick up the archives for the week on Thursdays, but I didn’t get around to it until a few hours ago. It’s usually just three or four storage boxes but today there was a sealed yellow envelope—” Your voice runs higher, choked. You turn away from Harry as you swallow another wave of emotion, but your voice is hardly any different when you begin speaking again. When you turn back, Harry’s hand is a little closer to yours on the table. “Today there was this big yellow envelope with my name handwritten on it and I figured it was just something from my advisor, so after I carried everything to the car, I opened it, and it… there were all these pictures of me.” “Are you able to tell where these photos were taken? What you were doing in them?” Your bag sits half open on the table beside you; you can tell without looking that Harry’s followed your eyes to the mustard yellow envelope poking out the top. You don’t want to open it again. You don’t have to. The images are burned behind your eyelids. “There’s one of me on the tube looking at my phone. Another one of me leaving the shops. There’s a few at the gym.” You sniffle. “Most of them are taken through the window of my flat. They must’ve been across the street because you can see me through the blinds and I’m—when I don’t…” You stare at the edge of the table. “When I’m undressing.”  You lean your forehead into your hand. Harry is stock still across from you. The pause before the officer speaks again feels like it stretches forever. “Can you tell when the most recent photo was taken?” It takes a beat to admit, “It’s from two nights ago,” and the words taste bitter in your mouth. The clack of a keyboard is audible again through the phone.  “You said you’ve been to the Lavender Hill station before? Have you reported these photos yet?” You gather your thoughts. “I was going to go straight there, but I wrote these long descriptions of all the past times I’d seen him. The officer I spoke to the first time I went in, she told me to write down absolutely everything I remembered, so I did—the times of day I’d seen him, where I was, what I was wearing… She said having my own record would help my chances of opening an investigation. I keep all of that at home in my flat, so I decided to go home and grab my notes to bring with me to the station, along with the pictures. I borrow my best friend’s car to commute to Ilford, so I drove straight home.” “And what happened when you got home? In the car park?” You take a deep breath. And then another. Your eyes squeeze shut again. “Take all the time you need.” “I turned into the car park… I pulled into my usual spot. I took off my jacket and left it in the passenger seat, thinking I would come back to it in a minute. I got out of the car and locked it… ” You swallow dryly. “I heard a car door shut behind me. I turned around and saw the man—I recognized him.” “Do you remember what he was wearing?” “He was wearing, um, black gloves, a grey sweater, black jeans, and I think his shoes were black too.” You frown at your hands. “I could hear how quickly he was walking up behind me. I tried to get away, and he—” You swallow. “He grabbed me. Or at least, he tried. He tore the seam of my sweater and I managed to like, pull away. And then I just ran. I was too scared to try the lift so I just took the stairs all the way up to the lobby. But he followed me.”  Your eyes flicker up to Harry absently before you go on. “Harry was in the lift—the—my neighbor, so I ran over and put my arm around him to make it seem like I wasn’t alone.” Harry nods at you from across the table.  “And the man was able to follow you into the lift?” The tips of your fingers ache at the memory of slamming desperately into the close door button. “Yes.” “Did he try to communicate with you in any way?” You shake your head and then remember she can’t see you. “No. He was just staring at me.” “Has he ever approached you or tried to make contact before?” “Just the one time on the tube and the pictures.” “Were you followed out of the lift?” “No.” “And you’re in your neighbor’s flat now, is that right?” “Yeah.” You run your sleeve beneath your nose with a sniffle. “And the man knows which floor you got off at?” ”Correct.” “Do the windows in both of your flats face out on the same street?” Your stomach drops. “Yes… They do.” “I want you to remain calm and stay on the line, can you do that for me?” It’s deadly quiet as you and Harry look at each other. You feel eerily as though you’ve wound up in a Hitchcock film. “Yes.” “Move away from the windows and find a place in the flat that’s not visible from the street—” The legs of Harry’s chair are scraping the floor before you get the chance to react. “...and do not turn out any lights or change the way any of the blinds are positioned.” “C’mere.” Harry’s voice is gravely urgent. He leads you to the kitchen with a hand between your shoulder blades, and brushes past you to lower the blinds of a small window above the sink. Your eyes widen as your hand reaches toward him. “Harry—” He glances back, too late. “Don’t… ” You stumble. “Don’t fix any more of those.” He nods once.  “Yes, don’t touch the blinds. Don’t change anything that would make it look out of the ordinary. If someone has been staking out your building from the same place across the street every night, you could give yourself away and put you both at risk.” “Okay.” Harry leans against the sink with his arms crossed, and you mirror him.  “Since you already have a file on record and the whereabouts of this man are still uncertain, it might do more harm than good to have you come in again for questioning at this hour. But we’ll need you to come by first thing in the morning. You absolutely cannot go back to your flat tonight. He knows very well which unit is yours, and he’s clearly found access into the building somehow. Do not turn on the lights, do not fuss with the blinds, do not go to retrieve any belongings. If it’s something dire, an officer can escort you.” “Okay.” “And don’t leave the building, either. If you need a place to stay, there’s a section of the precinct that can hold you till morning. An officer will have to drive you there, too.” “Okay,” you parrot. “Listen carefully. It’s not forever, but right now we need you to keep yourself absolutely out of sight. Anything that could result in your being followed… Well, we would strongly advise against your taking unnecessary risks. We obviously want to keep you and anyone else involved as safe as possible.” “I understand.” “A patrol officer is en route to your address. He’ll stay posted outside the building for a few hours. If something happens, don’t hesitate to call. Is this a number we can redial if need be?” You look up to Harry; he nods fiercely. “Yes.” “Try to get some rest. You’re safe now, and we’ll see you first thing in the morning.” “Thank you, officer.” You pass Harry’s phone back to him before digging through your bag to retrieve your own. The dial tone rings in your ear as you turn to face the living room. You’re sent to voicemail. “Uh… hi, Mom. It’s me. Just give me a call back when you get this, okay? I—um… Everything’s fine I should just… give you an update, so. Anyways. Talk soon. Love you.” You set your phone down on the counter, but can’t manage to meet his eyes. Some part of you had been worried that he would judge you—or worse, pity you. He doesn’t speak, nor does he try to touch you. Your eyes are pulled towards two sets of rainbow-painted handprints stuck to Harry’s fridge—one large, one tiny. A wave of nausea washes over you at the imposition you’ve entitled yourself to, the risk involved, the implications.  “Thank you.” Harry jumps at the sound of your voice. “For everything. I should—” you loop an arm through the strap of your bag— “I should go.” “Woah, woah, woah… ” Harry catches your arm before you can take three steps. You freeze. He releases you immediately. “And go where? You heard the officer, yeah?” He’s shaking his head slowly. “You can’t go back to your flat.” “I did hear her,” you counter. It comes out more curt than you had meant it. “There’s a safe place for me to sleep at the precinct… Thank you again, I can show myself out.” “That’s ridiculous—” You turn away and he says your name, once, imploring. It’s more of a plea than a demand, keeping you still. You still have your eyes on the door, but since you’re no longer moving, Harry goes on.  “You can stay here, it’s fine. I’ve got a spare bed n’ all. You can sleep in Vi’s room.” Your resolve wavers. His voice is a pitch softer as he asks, “What is it?” Your mouth hangs open a moment before you can find the right words. “I don’t—we don’t…” We don’t know each other seems far too accusatory with everything that’s transpired between you, especially after tonight. You grind your teeth, reeling the words back. Harry’s fingers touch your elbow, hesitating, and when you don’t pull away he wraps his hand gently around your arm. Tears well up in your eyes and you can’t blame them on the guilt, fear, or relief alone… all of it at once leaves you itching to escape.  “We’re practically strangers,” you settle on finally. “I put you in danger, and I put your family in danger—” Harry’s thumb rotates in tiny circles in the crook of your arm, a touch so light you can barely feel it. You think unbidden of the lift on New Year’s Eve, and the brush of his lips over yours. You want to fall headlong back into that memory—to abate what is shaping up to be one of the worst nights of your life. “I’m Harry.”  You blink. “What?” He smiles at you—a quick, sanguine flicker of a thing. “I’m Harry… Styles. I’m twenty-six. I graduated from Kings with a Bachelors in Art History and Psychology. I’m an Administrative Assistant to the Director of the National Gallery—” his smile is real now, wider— “But sometimes I pick up shifts keepin’ an eye on the gallery for the extra few quid… I have a daughter named Sylvia. She’s almost five. I get her every other week. I grew up in Cheshire. I have a sister named Gemma and my mum’s name is Anne.” You sniffle. “Why are you telling me all this?” “So you and I aren’t strangers anymore.” You have no idea how to respond. “You’ve never been here before,” Harry continues. “If someone’s been keeping close tabs on our building, then maybe this is the safest place for you right now. If I felt you were putting my daughter in harm’s way—” you open your mouth to speak and he raises a finger— “I would ask you to leave… As it is, if you go now, I feel that I would be putting you in harm’s way… And I don’t want to.” The two of you stand at a stalemate. “Please don’t make me.” Harry lets go of your arm and eventually backs up to lean against the sink again. You could leave if you wanted to. Eventually you sigh and drop your bag down to the kitchen floor with a thud. “Are you hungry?” Harry asks. “I was gonna fix something for myself anyway.” You shake your head. “I don’t think I could eat anything right now.” The more powerful urge is to erase this night from memory, to scrub away the feeling of a rough hand on your shoulder. You absently rub your thumb into the sleeve of your shirt where the grime from the door to the stairwell had smeared. Your shoulder is still bare from the gaping hole. Harry tilts his head, as if he’s going to say something more, but you blurt, “Could I use your shower actually?” “Of course.” He leads you to the end of a brief hallway with three adjacent doors, only one of which is open. “Be back in a sec.” Harry emerges moments later with two folded towels, then flicks on the light as you trail behind him. Your eyes are immediately drawn to Harry in the broad mirror that covers the entire wall above the sink. His bathroom is virtually identical to yours, but it’s striking to see his familiar reflection somewhere outside of the lift.  Harry pushes aside the curtain to the shower. “Fuck.”  He sets the towels down on the toilet seat and hastily gathers up the army of rainbow rubber ducks lined along the rim of the tub, before yanking off a plastic water wheel suction cupped to the faucet. Clear synthetic stickers in the shape of cartoon rocket ships and planets cling to the shower wall which Harry peels off in a stack before scooping out a myriad of other colorful knick-knacks from the bottom of the tub. “Harry, you don’t have to do that.” “I’m just now realizing how mad this must look to someone who isn’t the parent of a four-year-old—” “Harry, please. You’re already doing so much for me. You don’t need to remodel your bathroom.” “Alright, well… ” Harry rises, brushing his hands down the front of his suit trousers with flushed cheeks and glasses halfway down his nose. He cards his fingers through his hair. “Just be careful not to step on those little sparkly buggers. They’re the most painful by far.” “I’ll keep that in mind.” You have to suppress an laugh at the image of him having stepped on every last toy in the tub enough to compare. “So, like, the red is hot and obviously the blue is cold but it’s very sensitive so I find it’s best to just leave it at about three o’clock—wait you…” Harry shakes his head with a frown. “You probably have the same one, don’t you?” You nod, wringing your hands. “Do you have a shirt or something I could borrow for after?” “Of course,” he almost cuts you off, disappearing into the hallway. You perch on the edge of the tub and run the faucet to adjust the temperature. There’s three raps on the door. “Come in!” you call. Harry squeezes through the door and you catch his eyes in the mirror. “Let me know if these fit.” You watch his reflection lift the clean towels, put down the bundle of clothes, and restack the linens on top with the ease of someone who’s clearly used to taking care of someone else. “Thank you, I’m sure they’ll be fine.” He nods and closes the door firmly behind him. Sylvia’s bath wrap, bright yellow and embroidered with her initials, hangs by its duck shaped hood on a hook next to the door. Steam is starting to rise from the shower. You take a deep lungful and step in carefully. Although childrens’ soaps and clutter are unfamiliar, the water pressure is the same as the shower in your apartment, if not better. It pounds down against your back and shoulders, and for a minute you let yourself just stand in the hot spray. It takes several seconds of inner coaxing before you can close your eyes and tilt your head back beneath the water. A hardened blue stare flashes in your mind’s eye, but you push it back determinedly. You think of Harry’s clear, level gaze. You think of the way he’d looked as he pinned a poppy to your chest—as he’d drank from that half-empty bottle of Prosecco.  So you turn your attention to the soap instead. It’s strange to see the source of several of the mingling scents you’ve picked up from him in the lift over so many months, and even more strange to pick the bottles up and use them on yourself. But there’s something cathartic in the act of scrubbing yourself raw, especially the spot on your shoulder where you had to wrench yourself away from that painful grip. By the time the last of the shampoo and soap are swirling down the drain, buoying a tiny rubber duck that Harry had missed, you finally feel a bit more like yourself again.  The towels are in easy reach. You wrap your hair in one, wind the other around your body, and tiptoe across the bathmat, wading through a junkyard of toys. A hotel toothbrush packaged in plastic lays atop the pile of clothes Harry had left, so you quickly brush your teeth before giving the bathroom a cursory tidy. You have to roll up the cuffs of his sweatpants to your ankles. You can barely see your own reflection, so you crack open the door to air out the steam a bit. Somewhere a kettle shrieks. You creep into the hall, clutching a neat bundle of your clothes and set your things down on the chest table in the entryway before joining him in the kitchen. Harry has changed out of his work suit and into a plain white tee shirt and grey sweatpants. Sundry, mismatched tattoos are scattered all along his left arm and it catches you by surprise. No rings. You have no idea what to do with yourself, faced with the reality that you’re standing in Harry’s flat, wearing his clothes, smelling like him. You lean gingerly against the counter, sort of surprising yourself as you blurt out, “I thought you said you were hungry?” Harry freezes, like he is both realizing you’re there, and also that he contradicted himself. “Lost my appetite I guess. Tea?” “I’d love some, yeah. If there’s enough water. Thanks.” “Sure.” You watch as Harry pulls down a veritable armada of teabags. “Gotta be prepared,” he says with a vaguely self-deprecating smile. “We take our tea seriously over here. These—” Harry gestures—  “haven’t got caffeine.”  Something tells you that an entire bottle of cold medicine couldn’t knock you out tonight. “Whatever you’re having is fine.” Your phone vibrates against your hip and you pull it out to skim the text from your mom. Hi honey. Sorry I missed your call, hope everything is alright… It’s late for you now so I’ll try back in the morning. Hugs. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth as guilt taps you on the shoulder. You’re drained and it would be lovely not to rehash tonight’s events for a second time when you know it would do nothing but worry her. Since you’re in reasonably good hands, you lock your phone and shove it back into the pocket of Harry’s sweats. “How do you take it?” Harry murmurs. “With a little bit of milk, if you don’t mind.” He places your tea on the counter beside you before adding the milk. “I don’t mind,” he mocks your accent gently, and it bothers you how good he is at it. Harry passes you the mug. You raise it to your nose and inhale the steam. “Thank you, Harry, for being so… okay with all of this, and for just like, making me feel… ” You trail off, shaking your head. “I wouldn’t have thought it was possible to have, like, an ounce of normalcy tonight after all that.”  You tuck a strand of wet hair behind your ear. Harry pushes his glasses up his nose with his thumb and idly plays with the tag hanging by a string over the side of his mug. “I’ve heard you take responsibility a dozen times tonight for the danger that someone else put you in,” he says after a minute. His eyes are vaguely unfocused, and trained on the blinds. “Tonight was not your fault. Like, you were smart, brave and all that, but you shouldn’t have had to be.” He takes a sip. “I’m glad I was there.” Harry doesn’t say anything else. It’s cathartic in a way you wouldn’t have expected, to hear him state it back to you so plainly and without nuance. There’s not a thing you could say to that in defense of the argument that you are indeed to blame. But there were other choices I could have made. I shouldn’t have gone running that morning. I should have known to be more vigilant, buying those groceries. It was reckless of me to choose sheer curtains. I should have apparated to class instead of taking the tube. The logic sounds absurd to you in a new way when held up to the light. You absently stir your tea; there’s an orange tabby painted on the ceramic. “Chowder!” Harry’s eyebrows fly up. “Sorry?” “My cat! He’s all on his own in my apartment.” “Does he have water?” “Yeah, and food. And he's a few years old so he’ll be fine. I just feel awful, he’s never spent the night alone.” You shake your head. “Sorry for making you jump, it just crossed my mind.” “No, it’s okay… Do you want—should I go up and check on him for you?” “No, no. That’s not necessary. I’m just, you know, a terrible cat mom.”  “Ha!” Harry barks. It’s the loudest sound you’ve ever heard him make. “You don’t even want to… Oh Christ,” he shakes his head, creasing with laughter, “You have no idea.” “What?” You ask after a minute, unable to help yourself from joining in his laughter. His face is turning pink. “Do you have any idea how many nappies I’ve put on backwards? How many haircuts I’ve botched? I mean with my real, human child. I assembled both of Sylvia’s cribs upside down because the instructions were in Japanese. One after the other. It was the same fucking crib.” He deadpans your name at you. “Sylvia’s first word was fuck because Daddy couldn’t shake the habit of saying it all the fucking time.” “Oh my god.” “Yeah. We thought she was just a quiet kid, but then we were getting concerned that she wasn’t speaking by her second birthday. We took her to a speech therapist. So imagine you’re me, watching your daughter in her little highchair with her mum right up in her face, going, “Vi can you say ma-ma? And the child throws her binkie… and yells, Fuck!” You’re laughing so hard it’s completely silent.  “Didn’t say it.” He swipes a tear from the corner of his eye, and it bumps up his glasses a little. “Yelled it. Not a thing wrong with her… Oh,” Harry sighs. “Annie wouldn't speak to me for a week.” He shakes his head. “That’s incredible.” “So, like, newsflash… ” He takes a sip of his tea. “Nobody has any idea what they’re doing. There’s no such thing as a perfect parent or, um—cat mum as you said.” “So…” you venture after a pause. “Annie?” Harry laughs once through his nose, rolling his eyes. “Alright, alright. Fair.” He sets his tea down on the counter. “Thought maybe we’d get to have this conversation over Prosecco,” he says, chuckling dryly. “Sylvia was definitely… unexpected… ” Harry begins delicately. “But she’s, like the funniest person I know and also my favorite person on the planet. So… I dunno. It worked out.” He clears his throat. “She was conceived on the night I met her mum at a pub in Essex and that was that. Haven’t really looked back. Annie—Vi’s mum—is an amazing person. We were never in love or anythin’ even close, but she’s the best co-parent I could ever dream of.”  “Vi’s a cute nickname.” “S’her first name, actually.” Harry smiles over the rim of his mug. “Lanh Vi.” His voice dips low and elongates the first syllable. “Lanh means gentle, happy. Vi is a family name. Annie wanted to give that to her parents, a proper Vietnamese name on her birth certificate. Sylvia’s sort of a good compromise for when she goes to school.”  Harry stares at some middle distance, smiling like he isn’t even aware he’s doing it. “Annie’s parents took a little convincing that any of this was going to work out—mine too—but I love our unconventional little family, and I’m really looking forward to her wedding. Sylvia’s in store for two really incredible mums.” He looks back at you and shrugs. “It’s not such a bad life. Sometimes I wish there was a more exciting answer.” “That doesn’t seem like a bad life at all.” The corners of Harry’s lips drop a little the moment you open your mouth. His head is tilted slightly as though he’s trying to gauge your reaction. You try to mirror the same, reassuring smile he’d given you earlier, then cover a yawn with your hand. “What time is it?” you ask. Harry checks his phone. “Half ten—or just gone.” “No it’s not,” you frown, but he holds up his phone to show you. “Oh god…” “Time flies when you’re talking about parenthood.” He takes your empty mugs, setting them carefully in the sink. “Thank you.” Without turning around Harry announces, “I think I’m gonna have you sleep in my bed and I’ll take the air mattress in Sylvia’s room.” “No.” You shake your head. “Harry I swear if you insist on that, I’m calling a taxi to the police station.” “No, honestly… They’re the only two rooms in the flat with the blinds consistently drawn, and her room’s empty most nights anyway since I’m such a pushover.” It takes a moment for that comment to sink in and when it does you feel your heart melt a little. “You’ll sleep much better in my bed than on my inherited air mattress from the nineties.” “I won’t,” you lie seamlessly. “I don’t sleep well in new places anyway, so at least one of us should get a good night’s rest.” “Whatever makes you most comfortable,” he relents. You’re glad you don’t have to argue about it. “Thank you.” Harry leads you to the linen cabinet in the hallway and removes a cardboard box from the very top shelf. An enormous dust cloud falls like an avalanche down his shirt and he coughs hysterically, scrunching his nose. “Last chance to change your mind,” Harry croaks, wiping his glasses on the front of his shirt. You shake your head and he turns to the door across from his, where his bed is half visible in shadow. The two of you shuffle into a cubby of a room, and Harry drops the box onto the plush pile rug with a thud.  Your neck cranes as you look around the tiny space, about as roomy as the lift. The walls are painted navy blue with silver and gold stars exploding in a galaxy across the walls, and your hand floats to your chest in memory of when Sylvia had pointed at you with a tiny finger, recognizing the shape at the end of the chain hung around your neck. Her bed frame is painted a deep, forest green and the two small pillows upon it are shaped like rain clouds. Plastic dinosaurs of all different sizes and colors line her windowsill. A small, homemade bookshelf is aligned by the bed. “You mind helping me spread it?” Harry’s voice brings you back down to earth, and you grab two corners of the plastic to lay out the mattress like a picnic blanket on the floor. It’s a tight squeeze, but at least it’s a queen. You look down at it with your hands on your hips, and Harry tilts his head, running a hand over his stubble. Harry steps back out into the hallway, ducking into his bedroom. You hear the creak of a closet door and shifting fabric as the beam of light from his room slants across the hall into Sylvia’s, illuminating a diagonal path right up through the wooden slats of her toybox. There’s a small, familiar shadow outline on top. You crouch down to pick up Jojo and his mother in one hand, running your fingers over the soft velvet of their floppy ears. It feels a little odd, to be so comforted by a child’s toy that doesn't even belong to you, but here you are. “I see you’ve found an old friend.”  Harry leans against the doorframe, watching you. His arms are full with a clean sheet, spare pillow, and quilt. The fondness in his voice is hard to miss, but you wonder if it’s for his daughter, for the toy, or for you. “I would’ve thought Sylvia brought him to her mom’s, too.” Harry’s lips twitch with amusement before he puts the pillow and quilt on top of Sylvia’s dresser. “She used to take him everywhere.” He visits every corner of the mattress to tuck the sheet around. “Here, let me help you with—” “No, no, it’s always easier like this before you blow it up.” Harry steps into the corners of the room that aren’t completely swallowed up by the giant, deflated bed. He removes a paper lantern night light with constellation cutouts from its outlet, replacing it with the motor to the air mattress. “This part always takes a bit.” The small plastic box sputters into a whine and the mattress begins to inflate. “Just give it a few minutes… S’ old.” Soft whirring fills the room before he speaks over it. “We almost lost him on a trip to Brighton once—” he nods at Jojo, still in your hands— “Vi was inconsolable until we found him wedged between the bed and the wall in the hotel. Managed to convince her that leaving him at home—or at least only to Bridget’s on the first floor while I’m at work—was the best way to keep him safe.” He steals a glance at you and unfolds the massive quilt on top of the bed as it rises, before fluffing the pillow and tossing it to one of the long ends. “Then she started insisting on leaving him here on the weeks she spends at her mum’s.” “How come?” Harry’s smile is somewhere between pointedly self-deprecating and unbelievably loving. “Says she doesn’t want me to be lonely while she’s gone.”  Before you can fully process all the ways your heart is both warmed and a little broken, Harry is disappearing into the hall again, returning with a throw blanket and fanning it out over the quilt. “Okay.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “That should do it. Do you want another pillow?” He turns to you suddenly, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. “I have a couple more on my—” “No, no. This is more than enough… Thank you again, Harry,” You reassure him with the understanding that this is goodnight. Harry runs a hand through his hair and a little puff of dust is drawn out. “If you, um—If you need anything, I’ll be… my bedroom’s just there.” He twists around to point. “Don’t hesitate to like… yeah, wake me up if you need—if you feel… ” He laughs once at himself, exasperated. “Sorry, I’m tired.” You shake your head and smile sympathetically. “So am I.” “Goodnight, then.” Harry backs out into the hallway. He pauses in Sylvia’s doorway, his hand still on the doorknob. At that exact moment, the motor clicks off and the sudden silence feels unbearably loud.  “I want you to feel safe here.” The room is so still that you see the shadow against Harry’s neck bob as he swallows in the yellow light of the hall. His eyes are steady and clear. You take a breath in, and nod. “I do,” you say, steadfast. “I promise… Goodnight, Harry.” He shuts the door behind him. • saturday, 5th january 12:46 am •

There had been a knock, of that much you are sure. One solitary rap jolts you from sleep, followed by the raucous succession of a dozen more as you sit up on the air mattress. It stops for a moment. Then starts up again. “Harry?” you whisper into the blackness, your heart suddenly pounding. In your groggy trance, you weren’t sure the first time you heard it if someone was knocking on the door to Sylvia’s room, but by the time your eyes adjust, you’re sure it’s coming from farther away. It stops. You’re still for a minute, careful not to rustle the quilt. There is no sound apart from a faint siren in the distance. You unplug your phone from where it charges beneath the nightlight, squinting at its bright little face. 12:46. Perhaps it’s a police officer? Surely they would have announced themselves, wouldn’t they? You slide down the mattress and creep up to the door, pressing an ear against the wood. There is nothing but the echo of your own blood rushing in your ear. You have to close your eyes and count to three before turning the doorknob. Harry is already in the hall, the door to his bedroom left gaping. He turns to you and immediately brings a finger to his lips. The sound of an open hand smacking against the front door is unmistakable. Harry inches towards the noise. He freezes suddenly, then twists to look at you, reaching his hand back with fingers outspread. Stay here. Harry rounds the corner out of sight until it becomes unbearable to stand there a moment longer. You tiptoe in his wake, and move at the same time he does. The only light in the flat spills from his open bedroom. Here in hall, the shadows are long and dark and Harry’s expression is harder to make out until he glances over his shoulder. He nods at you once before training his eyes on the door again. Your feet move of their own accord, as though they have unilaterally decided that the safest place for you is as close to Harry as possible. It seems jarring to you, that this man in a tee shirt and boxers is the same man who, not a week ago, seemed like a piece of art with his burgundy suit and damp curls; the memory of loose limbs and laughter clashes against the image of him fraught before you. Harry peers through the peephole. Your eyes are cemented to the back of his head and you begin to feel dizzy, only just realizing you’ve been holding your breath. He tenses. In a freezing rush of dread, you suddenly know exactly who is on the other side of that door. You know you shouldn’t panic. Harry raises a finger to his lips again in another soundless imperative and you know—from a place that feels somewhere outside your body—that the last thing you should be doing is opening your mouth. But this is a terror hurtling beyond fight or flight. Your primary functions are in a deadlock with a searing hysteria clamoring for you to scream, and something desperately carnal that believes you could only survive this moment if you were silent enough.  Harry is still gesturing at you to keep quiet. He turns his back to the door and approaches you, the weight of his gaze keeping you motionless. He reaches forward and presses his palm firmly against your parted lips. All of a sudden you’re just as close as you were in the lift four nights ago when he tasted like brandy and the beginning of something new. The look he had given you on New Year’s was playful and wanting. In this moment, however, a pair of hard and urgent eyes bore into yours, igniting the pit of your stomach with a different kind of fear. Harry wraps his free hand around your wrist. You blink and blink. Beneath the steel resolve in his face, a desperate question forms: Do you trust me? You want to answer but you don’t know how. So you just keep staring. He pushes you backwards, gently, leading you around the corner and down the hall, his hand cupped to your mouth all the while. Even if you’d wanted to glance at the front door, Harry’s gaze is a magnet to your eyes. He walks you all the way into his bedroom, until you feel the mattress on the backs of your knees. You’d fall if not for Harry letting go of your wrist to guide you down with a hand on your waist. His lips move soundlessly around the words, stay here, and you manage to nod. Only then does he release your mouth. Your eyes can only focus on the closet door directly in front of you. It takes every ounce of your concentration to just keep breathing so you don’t pass out as Harry doubles back out into the hall, leaving you on the edge of his bed. You can feel an outbreak of sweat around your temple and on the back of your neck. You know you’re shaking but that feels distant, too.  You have no idea how long Harry is gone, you just know he closes the door upon his return. You’re still trying to pace your breathing as he crouches down in front of you. He has his phone to his ear. You can only catch a few of his words at a time.  “My name is Harry Styles… previously reported an, um, incident involving… yes… no… returned… knocked on the door. No, he’s gone now… I waited, to be sure. But I—” There’s a pause. “I think he’s knocking on every door on this floor.” You hear something like a choked gasp. Only when Harry’s eyes dart to yours do you realize it was you.  You have put the entire building in danger.  “Yes, she’s still here.” His free hand reaches up to your knee as he listens to the dispatcher, but he seems to think better of it at the last moment, worrying the edge of the duvet between his fingers instead. “Right, yes. I understand. I will. Thank you.”  Faint ringing replaces the feeling of water in your ears.  “They’re sending someone,” he murmurs after hanging up. “He’s gone.” You hear that broken gasp again. “He’s gone, I promise.” Your shoulders cave inward when you feel the full, painful heave of your sob. Tears stream down your cheeks as you cover your face. Harry’s hand lifts again. You shrink away and he immediately moves from you to stand. “I’ll be—”  You seize at the first part of him you can reach, grasping a weak fistful of his soft cotton tee. Harry is completely still beneath your trembling fingers. He doesn’t pull away or move closer. He just hovers there, steady. “Please…” You want to ask him to stay. You want to ask for help. You want him to touch you so you know that you’re real—that you’re not in fact still trapped alone in the most terrifying part of a nightmare, but the words are unbearable.  The sound of your name in Harry’s mouth undoes something inside you. Through your tears you finally lift your head to find his eyes. His expression seems torn, like he wants to comfort you but doesn’t know how. You’re not sure which one of you bridges the gap, but your forehead lands in the warm slope between his neck and shoulder and that seems to be all the confirmation Harry needs.  His hands slide up your back to hold you as you all but collapse into him, crying with enough force that Harry draws you off the bed and onto the floor with him. He smooths one hand up and down the length of your spine as the other wraps so far around your back that you can feel his fingertips hooked over your hip. “S’ok,” he murmurs, his lips pressing into your temple like he intends to seal the words to your skin. Harry doesn’t try to shush you. “S’gonna be alright. ‘M here… I’ve got you. You’re safe… I’ve got you.”  When your wracking sobs give way to hiccups and finally to something halfway controllable, he stops talking and just holds you, rocking ever so slightly in a sort of motion that only a parent can do. You have no idea how long you sit like that, a tangle of limbs and soaked collars and cheeks, until you’re finally able to speak.  “I’m sorry,” you choke out. “You—”  “None of that,” Harry says immediately. You feel his nose dig into your hair, his breath warm as he sighs. “I mean it, alright? No more apologizing for any of this. Might have to make you a jar like the one Annie has for me in her flat.” The thought is strange enough to pull you, however briefly, out of your current misery. “You have an apology jar?”  He exhales sharply. “Swear jar, actually.”  Your laugh bursts out unexpectedly, sort of wet and weak, but there nonetheless. You feel the soft stroke of his thumb on the back of your head. “That’s more like it.”  You draw back and Harry’s grip tightens, just for a moment, before he releases you. He brushes your damp cheeks with the side of his palm before you can do it yourself. You see the same concentration he wore when he’d pinned that Remembrance Day poppy to your jacket. It takes effort to silence the instinct to be ashamed and keep his eyes.  “They said it might be a bit before an officer can get up here,” he says, searching your face. “They’re puttin’ together a couple patrol teams to canvas the building and stay outside the rest of the night.” All you can think to do is nod. “Can I get you anything? Water?” “Please,” you reply, grateful. “I should—” you make a vague gesture at yourself— “clean myself up a bit.” Harry opens his mouth like he wants to comment, but just nods instead. You use his shoulder to push yourself to your feet; his hand covers yours and you feel his thumb running across your knuckles.  You say, “Thank you,” but it’s not nearly enough. He squeezes gently, staring up at you and saying nothing. You walk on unsteady legs to the bathroom. You can feel his eyes on you even when you close the door. Lacing your fingers atop your head, you sigh at the tearstained, swollen-eyed version of yourself staring back at you in the mirror. After blowing your nose and splashing a few handfuls of water across your face, you join him on his side of the bed. His phone is in his hands. He finishes sending off a long, blue bubble of text before looking up and passing you a water from the nightstand. He runs the tip of his index finger around the rim of his own glass.

You bring the drink to your lips, then lower it immediately; the glass clacks against your teeth with the tremor of your hand. You can feel Harry’s eyes on you even though he doesn’t turn his head. Again, you try taking a sip with the same result and sigh. “I think I’m gonna try my parents again.” “Sure.” You set your water on the nightstand and head to Sylvia’s room, shutting the door behind you. You take a deep breath before collapsing back on the mattress. The stars rotating on the ceiling like a merry-go-round make you nauseous so you unplug the nightlight before dialing. Your mom answers after the first ring, emphasizing your name like a scolding. “Hi, Mom.” “What are you doing up? It’s the middle of the night in England. Is everything alright?” “That’s actually what I need to talk to you about.” You hardly get a sentence in before you hear her rushing to get your dad and the three of you have an hour-long, emotional crash-course on the last five hours of your life. There isn’t too much to fill in as you’ve kept them more or less updated on the blue-eyed man and your previous trips to the police department. You assure them that you’re in one piece and that you couldn’t have wound up with a more generous host, but that doesn’t assuage your mom from insisting on speaking with the police herself. She makes you promise to stay on the line until the authorities arrive. Before long, you hear a light rap on your door. “Yes?” Harry cracks it open without peeking his head inside. “Police are here—take your time. I’ll go out and speak with them.” “Thanks, Harry… Mom, some officers just arrived I think.” You pinch your phone between your cheek and shoulder, softly close the door behind you. “I’ll call you back once we’re done with everything.” You rush through a quick goodbye and meet Harry in the entryway. He’s thrown on some gym pants and a sweater and his arms are folded across his chest. The fully-uniformed men seem bulky and out of place in the sixth-floor hallway, as though they couldn’t squeeze in Harry’s modest apartment. It’s not like you’re the one in trouble, but your heart skips a little anyway. “… every floor of the building and searched the surrounding perimeter with no sign of anyone matching the description, and from the security footage we seized, we can see that he pulled out of the car park about forty-five minutes ago.” “Okay.” Harry nods, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Alright. Great.” The officer who had been speaking turns to you. “And you must be the young woman who—” “Yes.” You jerk your head quickly. It’s more like an anxious spasm than a nod.  “That’s me.” “We were just filling your neighbor in that we were unable to find the culprit, but the building and surrounding area seem to be clear. If at all possible, we think it would be best for you to stay here just for the night, then come straight to the station in the morning to make a plan.”  You simply nod again. “I will.” “You’re flat 8F, is that right?” “That’s correct.” “Were any of these marks on your door before this evening?” The officer pulls a cell phone out of his pocket, unlocking it to reveal the last few pictures in the camera roll. Your stomach drops. He flips through several photos of a long, black streak above the handle of your front door, and a sizable ding in the wood by the door jam. The impact was hard enough to scratch the paint. “No,” you manage. “I don’t recognize those. Did he, um…” “The door didn’t give,” the officer says. It’s just reassuring enough to keep your knees from buckling. He turns to face Harry again. “And you’re certain that the man showed no signs of knowledge that she—that the two of you were in this particular flat?” “Yeah. I watched him make his way down, knocking on a couple more doors.”  “Was he stopping by every door?”  Harry takes a moment to think. “No,” he replies. “It seemed a bit random if I’m honest.” “Right. Well, keep an eye out for any unusual activity in the next few days, especially on this floor. Don’t hesitate to let us know if anything changes.” The officer looks to you again. “In the meantime, we’ll see you at the station tomorrow?” “Yes, um… ” You clear your throat as your cheeks warm. “I’m sorry. Would one of you be willing to speak with my parents on the phone? They’re a bit worried and want to talk to a professional.” You hold up your cell. “Of course.” After dialing for him, you hand the officer your phone and he begins to engage your mom in what sounds like a very animated, reassuring dialogue. You and Harry are leaned against opposite walls in the hallway, spaced out in exhaustion. You cover a yawn with your hand and catch him doing the same. Do you dare check the time? Your hands absently pat your front and back pockets, and you frown in trying to recall where you’d last set your phone. You roll your eyes in glancing up at the officer pacing in the entryway on the phone with your mother. “S’ just gone two,” Harry mumbles. You make a light noise in the back of your throat. “I’m sorry, Harry.” “That’s a tenner in the apology jar.” You breathe a laugh without humor, shaking your head back and forth against the wall. “I just can’t wait for this day to be over,” you whisper. “Would you like to speak with her again?” The officer’s voice clips into your half-conscious conversation. You hold out your hand and tuck the phone between your cheek and shoulder again as Harry thanks the officers one last time before showing them out.  Apparently satisfied with the conversation she’d had with the police, your mother circles back to the matter of your current state of limbo. “You’re sure you’re comfortable staying with this neighbor? Where are you sleeping?” You can practically hear the alarm bells from across the Atlantic. “It’s fine, Mom. We’re friends… sort of.” Friends that drunkenly make out in the lift. “He has a spare mattress. I’m staying in his guest room.” She digests this information in silence. “I’m alright, I promise. It’s just for tonight.”  There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. “I want you to call us, alright? No matter what time it is here or there, I want you to check in with us every day until we know for sure you’re absolutely safe.”  “I will,” you vow. “I’ll call you in the morning, okay? I’m exhausted.”  “Right yes, go get some rest. We love you.”  You swallow with a little difficulty. “Love you too.”  Harry’s idling by the sink with your empty glasses.  “Sorry about that,” you say, and then wince when he gives you a sidelong look. “They can be a bit protective.” He shakes his head, his expression somehow more grave than you were expecting. “I know exactly how they feel.” Harry rubs his eyes under his glasses. “I’m sorry,” he says into his palms. “I’m knackered.” “Yeah, of course… Get some sleep.” You hesitate. “You sure there’s not anything else I can get you?” “I’m sure.” He pinches softly just above your elbow. “See you in the morning.” Harry disappears into the hall. You listen to the sound of his bedroom door click shut before tilting your head to the ceiling and letting your eyelids close, literally twenty feet below your own apartment. You could probably throw a basketball higher than that. You sigh and look back down at your phone on the counter, quickly drafting a text to India and then deleting it. For a minute you stay like that, a statue in the pale light of Harry’s kitchen—the relic of a girl who woke up this morning unscathed. It’s probably for the best that you get some sleep tonight, but standing in front of the nursery with your hand on the doorknob, you can’t bring yourself to face the pitiful air mattress again. You turn to Harry’s bedroom door in defeat. Who on earth are you trying to fool? Heart hammering, you swallow your pride and crack open the door to Harry’s bedroom, stepping gingerly inside. It shuts behind you with a delayed click-click, impossibly loud. Nothing apart from blackness is visible before you, but suddenly comes the sound of a long breath in from somewhere in the room. Blankets rustle. Your fingers tighten on the doorknob behind you. With a tink, soft, yellow light spills over every surface in Harry’s bedroom. His nose scrunches and eyes squint. His hand flounders once against the nightstand before he locates his glasses, pushing them swiftly onto his face. Harry’s expression relaxes as he props himself up on one elbow to get a better look at you. Your face stings with heat, but you hold your ground. His eyes are soft, careful, yet strangely unaffected. Without a word, or the slightest suggestion of ambivalence, Harry reaches out an arm to the opposite side of the mattress, and tosses the corner of the duvet halfway down the bed before meeting your gaze from across the room. It feels like a weakness, to cave and accept his offer. You want to explain yourself, suddenly, but there are no words for this time of night and the chasm you’re hanging over by your fingertips. So you approach the bed in silence and slide beneath his covers.  Backs turned to each other, you curl up so far from Harry that your knees hang over the edge of the bed. You hear the cool sliding of blankets once more before absolute stillness. The last image of your day is the dim, golden glow of Harry’s lamp vanishing on the ceiling. • saturday, 5th january 4:07 am • It’s disorienting, adjusting to a room you can immediately tell isn’t your own, momentarily teetering between asleep and awake. It’s even more disorienting when you realize that you are not alone. There’s a knee between yours and a heavy arm slung over your waist. You’ve migrated to the center of the bed somehow during the night, flipped on your back. But what draws your attention the most is the warm breath in the curve of your neck. “Harry?”  It was the asleep-half of your brain that had thought to croak his name. You don’t know what kind of reply you’re expecting to receive in this blue, small morning hour. Perhaps you won’t get one at all. Perhaps you’re dreaming. You stare up at the ceiling.  If you close your eyes now, would you even remember this come dawn? But the grip around your waist tightens, just for a moment, before you feel his body slide up against yours, a sigh fanning over your cheek.  “Yeah.” Harry’s voice is low and gravelly, but unmistakable. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest through the fine cotton of the shirt he’d loaned you, and he sounds surprisingly alert. A small silence lingers. “Alright?” Your eyes stay trained on the ceiling. Are you?  Part of you wants him to clarify the question: are you alright after everything that happened tonight? Are you alright… with this? “Yeah,” you breathe.  Harry doesn’t say anything else. For a moment you think he’s fallen back asleep but then he shifts closer to you. You watch as the shadow of his arm reaches over your body for your hand—you had left it open and maybe a little vulnerable beside your head on the pillow. You can feel the calluses on Harry’s fingertips as they slide up your palm and find the space between yours. You don’t dare turn your head because there is a question in your eyes that you realize you can no longer ignore, and you are afraid of his answer. So you close your fingers around his and do not speak. Harry exhales. You’re hyper aware of the way his body relaxes as he squeezes your hand. You take a deep breath. You know it’s no use wondering whether or not Harry is going to remember this in the morning. Even if this is a dream, you cannot deny that you’re warm and you’re safe and that you will remember, possibly forever, regardless of whatever happens or doesn’t happen between you. It’s a vaguely scary thought.  You close your eyes.

[theshedding]

Lil Nas X: Country Music, Christianity & Reclaiming HELL

I don’t typically bother myself to follow what Lil Nas X is doing from day to day, or even month to month but I do know that his “Old Town Road” hit became one of the biggest selling/streamed records in Country Music Business history (by a Black Country & Queer artist). “Black” is key because for 75+ years Country music has unsuspiciously evolved into a solidly White-identified genre (despite mixed and Indian & Black roots). Regrettably, Country music is also widely known for anti-black, misogynoir, reliably homophobic (Trans isn’t really a conversation yet), Christian and Hard Right sentiments on the political spectrum. Some other day I will venture into more; there is a whole analysis dying to be done on this exclusive practice in the music industry with its implications on ‘access’ to equity and opportunity for both Black/POC’s and Whites artists/songwriters alike. More commentary on this rigid homogeneous field is needed and how it prohibits certain talent(s) for the sake of perpetuating homogeneity (e.g. “social determinants” of diversity & viable artistic careers). I’ll refrain from discussing that fully here, though suffice it to say that for those reasons X’s “Old Town Road” was monumental and vindicating. 

As for Lil Nas X, I’m not particularly a big fan of his music; but I see him, what he’s doing, his impact on music + culture and I celebrate him using these moments to affirm his Black, Queer self, and lifting up others. Believe it or not, even in the 2020′s, being “out” in the music business is still a costly choice. As an artist it remains much easier to just “play straight”. And despite appearances, the business (particularly Country) has been dragged kicking and screaming into developing, promoting and advancing openly-affirming LGBTQ 🏳️‍🌈 artists in the board room or on-stage. Though things are ‘better’ we have not yet arrived at a place of equity or opportunity for queer artists; for the road of music biz history is littered with stunted careers, bodies and limitations on artists who had no option but to follow conventional ways, fail or never be heard of in the first place. With few exceptions, record labels, radio and press/media have successfully used fear, intimidation, innuendo and coercion to dilute, downplay or erase any hint of queer identity from its performers. This was true even for obvious talents like Little Richard.

(Note: I’m particularly speaking of artists in this regard, not so much the hairstylists, make-up artists, PA’s, etc.)

_____

Which is why...in regard to Lil Nas X, whether you like, hate or love his music, the young brother is a trailblazer. His very existence protests (at least) decades of inequity, oppression and erasure. X aptly critiques a Neo-Christian Fascist Heteropatriarchy; not just in American society but throughout the Music Business and with Black people. That is no small deal. His unapologetic outness holds a mirror up to Christianity at-large, as an institution, theology and practice. The problem is they just don’t like what they see in that mirror.

In actuality, “Call Me By Your Name”, Lil Nas X’s new video, is a twist on classic mythology and religious memes that are less reprehensible or vulgar than the Biblical narratives most of us grew up on vís-a-vís indoctrinating smiles of Sunday school teachers and family prior to the “age of reason”. Think about the narratives blithely describing Satan’s friendly wager with God regarding Job (42:1-6); the horrific “prophecies” in St. John’s Book of Revelation (i.e. skies will rain fire, angels will spit swords, mankind will be forced to retreat into caves for shelter, and we will be harassed by at least three terrifying dragons and beasts. Angels will sound seven trumpets of warning, and later on, seven plagues will be dumped on the world), or Jesus’s own clarifying words of violent intent in Matthew (re: “Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I have not come to bring peace, but a sword.” 10:34). Whether literal or metaphor, these age old stories pale in comparison to a three minute allegorical rap video. Conservatives: say what you will, I’m pretty confident X doesn’t take himself as seriously as “The true and living God” from the book of Job.

A little known fact as it is, people have debunked the story and evolution of Satan and already offered compelling research showing [he] is more of a literary device than an actual entity or “spirit” (Spoiler: In the Bible, Satan does not take shape as an actual “bad” person until the New Testament). In fact, modern Christianity’s impression of the “Devil” is shaped by conflating Hellenized mythology with a literary tradition rooted in Dante’s Inferno and accompanying spooks and superstitions going back thousands of years. Whether Catholic, Protestant, Mormon, Scientologist, Atheist or Agnostic, we’ve spent a lifetime with these predominant icons and clichés. (Resource: Prof. Bart D. Erhman, “Heaven & Hell”).

So Here’s THE PROBLEM: The current level of fear and outrage is: 

(1) Unjust, imposing and irrational. 

(2) Disproportionate when taken into account a lifetime of harmful Christian propaganda, anti-gay preaching and political advocacy.

(3) Historically inaccurate concerning the existence of “Hell” and who should be scared of going there. 

Think I’m overreacting? 

Examples: 

Institutionalized Homophobia (rhetoric + policy)

Anti-Gay Ministers In Life And Death: Bishop Eddie Long And Rev. Bernice King

Black, gay and Christian, Marylanders struggle with Conflicts

Harlem pastor: 'Obama has released the homo demons on the black man'

Joel Olsteen: Homosexuality is “Not God’s Best”

Bishop Brandon Porter: Gays “Perverted & Lost...The Church of God in Christ Convocation appears like a ‘coming out party’ for members of the gay community.”

Kim Burrell: “That perverted homosexual spirit is a spirit of delusion & confusion and has deceived many men & women, and it has caused a strain on the body of Christ”

Falwell Suggests Gays to Blame for 9-11 Attacks

Pope Francis Blames The Devil For Sexual Abuse By Catholic Church

Pope Francis: Gay People Not Welcome in Clergy

Pope Francis Blames The Devil For Sexual Abuse By Catholic Church

The Pope and Gay People: Nothing’s Changed

The Catholic church silently lobbied against a suicide prevention hotline in the US because it included LGBT resources

Mormon church prohibits Children of LGBT parents to be baptized

Catholic Charity Ends Adoptions Rather Than Place Kid With Same-Sex Couple

I Was a Religious Zealot That Hurt People-Coming Out as Gay: A Former Conversion Therapy Leader Is Apologizing to the LGBTQ Community

The above short list chronicles a consistent, literal, demonization of LGBTQ people, contempt for their gender presentation, objectification of their bodies/sexuality and a coordinated pollution of media and culture over the last 50+ years by clergy since integration and Civil Rights legislation. Basically terrorism. Popes, Bishops, Pastors, Evangelists, Politicians, Television hosts, US Presidents, Camp Leaders, Teachers, Singers & Entertainers, Coaches, Athletes and Christians of all types all around the world have confused and confounded these issues, suppressed dissent, and confidently lied about LGBT people-including fellow Queer Christians with impunity for generations (i.e. “thou shall not bear false witness against they neighbor” Ex. 23:1-3). Christian majority viewpoints about “laws” and “nature” have run the table in discussions about LGBTQ people in society-so much that we collectively must first consider their religious views in all discussions and the specter of Christian approval -at best or Christian condescension -at worst. That is Christian (and straight) privilege. People are tired of this undue deference to religious opinions. 

That is what is so deliciously bothersome about Lil Nas X being loud, proud and “in your face” about his sexuality. If for just a moment, he not only disrupts the American hetero-patriarchy but specifically the Black hetero-patriarchy, the so-called “Black Church Industrial Complex”, Neo-Christian Fascism and a mostly uneducated (and/or miseducated) public concerning Ancient Near East and European history, superstitions-and (by extension) White Supremacy. To round up: people are losing their minds because the victim decided to speak out against his victimizer. 

Additionally, on some level I believe people are mad at him being just twenty years old, out and FREE as a self-assured, affirming & affirmed QUEER Black male entertainer with money and fame in the PRIME of his life. We’ve never, or rarely, seen that before in a Black man in the music business and popular culture. But that’s just too bad for them. With my own eyes I’ve watched straight people, friends, Christians, enjoy their sexuality from their elementary youth to adolescence, up and through college and later marriages, often times independently of their spouses (repeatedly). Meanwhile Queer/Gay/SGL/LGBTQ people are expected to put their lives on hold while the ‘blessed’ straight people run around exploring premarital/post-marital/extra-marital sex, love and affection, unbound & un-convicted by their “sin” or God...only to proudly rebrand themselves later in life as a good, moral “wholesome Christian” via the ‘sacred’ institution of marriage with no questions asked. 

Inequality defined.

For Lil Nas X, everything about the society we've created for him in the last 100+ years (re: links above) has explicitly been designed for his life not to be his own. According to these and other Christians (see above), his identity is essentially supposed to be an endless rat fuck of internal confusion, suicide-ideation, depression, long-suffering, faux masculinity, heterosexism, groveling towards heaven, respectability politics, failed prayer and supplication to a heteronormative earthly and celestial hierarchy unbothered in affording LGBT people like him a healthy, sane human development. It’s almost as if the Conservative establishment (Black included) needs Lil Nas X to be like others before him: “private”, mysteriously single, suicidal, suspiciously straight or worse, dead of HIV/AIDS ...anything but driving down the street enjoying his youth as a Black Queer artist and man. So they mad about that?

Well those days are over.  

-Rogiérs is a writer, international recording artist, performer and indie label manager with 25+ years in the music industry. He also directs Black Nonbelievers of DC, a non-profit org affiliated with the AHA supporting Black skeptics, Atheists, Agnostics & Humanists. He holds a B.A. in Music Business & Mgmt and a M.A. in Global Entertainment & Music Business from Berklee College of Music and Berklee Valencia, Spain. www.FibbyMusic.net Twitter/IG: @Rogiers1

[comradekatara]

i get homophobic katara but why are toph and azula homophobic?

this is a good question because unlike the katara homophobia question, which we are confronted with so often we even made an entire page for it, this is something i actually don’t get the opportunity to talk about. and as much as we may jest about gay homophobes, this response is actually going to be a pretty serious examination of gender and power. 

unlike katara who deems any expression of gender non-conformity “wrong” and in need of fixing, including toph’s lack of femininity, toph and azula don’t have a problem with lack of femininity, only lack of masculinity. 

when toph first meets aang at earth rumble xi, aang manages to get the upper hand on her by using airbending to dodge her earthbending. toph turns to another weapon in her arsenal: demeaning her opponents by devaluing their strength. moments prior, she calls the boulder “the pebble.” she calls aang a little girl, and says “what’s your fighting name, the fancy dancer?” and continues to call him “twinkle toes” for the rest of the show (which sokka helpfully points out he shouldn’t respond to, because it’s “not manly”). toph knows that aang is more powerful than she is, so she uses his femininity as a weapon against him, against her own insecurity. 

during “the ember island players,” toph is delighted to see herself portrayed by the pinnacle of masculinity. she teases aang for being played by a woman, saying that he is “more in touch with his feminine side than most guys” with sheer glee. she was made well-aware of just how powerful aang is the first time they met and she could not defeat him, and she feels the need to undermine him by exploiting the traits society deems feminine, the traits that she so desperately wants to shed out of a desperate desire to be seen as strong and invulnerable due to her upbringing, especially regarding her disability. when toph feels threatened by someone else’s power, her immediate response is to emasculate them (or in katara’s case, mock their femininity), and that’s really, really sad. 

azula was raised under strict patriarchal values, and she was taught that any sign of femininity is a weakness. she witnessed firsthand the consequences of zuko’s sensitivity and gentle nature, and was led to believe that fear was more powerful than love because of it. she internalizes ozai’s rhetoric that zuko is pathetic, that their mother corrupted him, that iroh taking time to grieve his son was a sign of weakness rendering him unfit to rule. she undermines zuko’s masculinity (and thus, his power) by constantly calling him “zuzu” (similar to the way toph calls aang “twinkle toes”). she says shit like “oh, zuko, don’t be so dramatic,” which is a very loaded line for something said so flippantly. 

azula has always been rewarded for her proximity to masculinity, ie strength, and she knows that zuko has always been punished for his proximity to femininity, to the point where he has spent years trying to purge any of his “mother’s values” to the point where book 1 zuko is simply doing a poor man’s impression of ozai. azula knows that the easiest way to get zuko riled up, and assert her dominance, is to say things just subtle enough that imply that he’s too flamboyant, too sensitive, too “weak.” 

ty lee’s overwhelmingly feminine presentation is very clever in this regard, because she knows that people are less likely to consider her a threat. even azula, who is well-aware of how powerful ty lee is, does not bother to question ty lee’s loyalties, because she assumes her to be a sycophant drawn to power. of course, this is not the case, and you’d think azula of all people would know the importance of donning a disguise to get your way. 

toph and azula both antagonize people by undermining their masculinity. toph rolls her eyes at katara’s typically feminine traits, just as azula rolls her eyes at ty lee’s, but it is their relationships to aang and zuko respectively that indicates internalized homophobia to complement their internalized misogyny (obviously homophobia and misogyny both fall under the umbrella of patriarchy, and one cannot exist without the other). they emasculate them because they consider them a threat to their power. toph plain doesn’t like that there are people in this world (aang and katara) who can match her power, whereas with azula, it’s more like she’s terrified out of her mind of suffering zuko’s fate, of being the “weaker” sibling. so she does everything right, and cannot help but taunt zuko for it, throw in his face that even though he’s the boy, he’s less of a man, and they both know it. 

toph is right; aang is more in touch with his “feminine side” than most guys, because he was raised in a culture that wasn’t imperialistic and militaristic. he doesn’t value strength and stoicism, and even after waking up from the iceberg, his main role model is katara, who never shies away from her femininity, whether internally or externally. katara expresses her emotions and wears flower crowns and likes makeup and is gentle and nurturing and she’s proud of it. she loves fighting in the mud just as much as toph does (though she’s less likely to admit it) but she embraces her femininity in stride, and aang thinks katara is the coolest, so he never sees a problem with doing any of those things too. zuko grows to embrace his femininity, which he tried desperately to shed after being punished for it. upon realizing that he did not deserve his punishment, he comes to disdain the institution of patriarchy, and searches for his old self, the sensitive boy he was taught to loathe. 

the reason that both toph and azula feel the need to demean people in this way is because they’re scared. they’re both very powerful young girls who constantly must prove themselves against stronger (but far less capable) men, and they retaliate against these insecurities by lashing out at perceived threats to their power. toph is still mature and level-headed enough to welcome a bit of femininity, whether it be spa days with katara or her vulnerability with sokka, but azula doesn’t gain a support system like toph does. in fact, she loses any semblance of a support system she had because she was indoctrinated into a system that valued fear over love, and ultimately, this breaks her.