#the governments foundation is built on the bones of the Native Americans and its walls made of the corpses of its people

[weareoutofmaplesyrupdave]

THOSE IMPERIALISTIC NAZI FASCIST ASS DICTATOR ASS TYRANNICAL MICRO MANAGING CONTROL FREAK BITCHES WHO ARE OLD ENOUGH TO HAVE SEEN MY GREATx40 GRANDMOTHER BE BORN, WHO LICK THE FEET OF THE RICH AND SPIT IT BACK ON EVERYONE ELSE, ARE SITTING THERE PRUNE LOOKING ASSES ON SOME RICKETY ASS CHAIRS IN A BUILDING MADE OF SHITTY ASS MARBLE THEY BUILT ON THE STOLEN LAND THEY OCCUPIED WHILE THEY MURDERED AND ENSLAVED MILLIONS ARE STEALING EVERYONES HUMAN FUCKING RIGHTS AGAIN WITH THEIR SYSTEMIC OPPRESSION RELIGIOUS BRAINWASHING AND OVER BUDGETED MILITARY/ POLICE AND THEIR CENSORSHIP JUST SO THEY CAN KEEP THE SHITTY AND BROKEN SYSTEM THEY MADE AND FUCKED UP ON RUNNING SO THEY CAN CONTINUE TO HAVE THEIR WEALTH AND POWER AND HAVE A FULL SUMMERS RECESS AND GO GOLFING AND NEVER KNOW WHAT ITS LIKE TO TRULY SUFFER OR BE DISCRIMINATED AGAINST WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK

[danishmuseuminterns]

Nebraskan beauty

Recently I had the opportunity to visit the great state of Nebraska. My adventure started in the state’s capital, Lincoln, named after Abraham Lincoln, where the Nebraska State Capitol is located.

I have always been very fascinated by the fact that each state in the United States have their own capitol building and their own unique form of political system. One of the most interesting capitols I have visited is probably the Nebraska State Capital with its very iconic tower emerging as an essential component of Lincoln’s skyline – the very definition of Nebraskan beauty. Upon the tower’s gold-tiled dome is a statue called The Sower, a symbol of Nebraska’s agricultural industry, which still plays a central role in the state’s economy.

Designed by Bertram Grosvenor Goodhue, the construction of the current Nebraska State Capitol began in 1922 and was completed in 1932. According to the tour guide, two former capitol buildings of Nebraska had been placed on the very same ground where the current one is standing today. The first one was built by local limestone, which apparently was a bad decision, as the building was already decaying upon its completion. Later, when politicians wanted to replace their crumbling state capital, a new building was built. However, this one was later deemed unsafe due to foundational issues.  

Nebraskans finally had their luck the third time with Goodhue, who succeeded to create a masterpiece lasting for the ages. Unfortunately, he died before witnessing the result of his work.

I personally found the many symbolic figures embedded in the building’s exterior structure to be very fascinating. They range from Biblical figures such as Moses to Greek philosophers such as Plato, but also events from American history is featured – you can literally spot the signing of the Declaration of Independence and Thomas Jefferson’s Purchase of Louisiana. Inside the building, the walls are filled with murals showing Nebraska's history with Great Plains motifs, such as farming, livestock, trains, pioneers, and Native Americans.

As the only American state to have a unicameral legislature, Nebraska’s political system is truly unique. Implemented in 1937, Nebraska’s unicameralism has, according to proponents, cut government spending, improved efficacy and been a bulwark against political gridlock.

Following my visit to the capitol building, I had a delicious runza, an absolute Cornhusker State staple. It was so good that I had to order one more for the road before heading to Omaha, the largest city in Nebraska.

Omaha used to be the livestock capital of the world and a major hub for railyards, and is currently the home of iconic American investor and businessman Walter Buffett. In true Omaha-style, I ate at his favorite steakhouse, Gorat’s Steak House, where he still hosts business meetings. When I sat down at the table, I asked the waitress, who told me, that she usually serves Buffett, to have whatever Buffett usually haves when he visits. This included a T-bone steak, cooked rare, with side orders of hash brown and spaghetti, and a Cherry Coke to drink. I was full for the rest of the day.

As a great train aficionado, I had to visit the Durham Museum, which has a huge display of train cars and locomotives from Union Pacific. Located in Omaha's former Union Station, the Durham Museum has restored the building in its original art deco style. As a fan of this style of architecture, it was a pleasure to experience this exceptional museum and talk with the life-like sculptures placed in the station’s waiting room – each sculpture with their own tales of why and how they ended up in Omaha.

Since Omaha is the home of the Reuben sandwich, I had to try this sandwich before leaving. Omahans are proud of this heritage and as a result celebrates Reuben Sandwich Day on March 14 every year. I tried my very first Reuben sandwich at an awarding-winning placed called Crescent Moon, which is located across the street from the Blackstone Hotel, where the sandwich apparently was invented.

Filled with the joy of the Reuben, I left Nebraska and began my drive home to Elk Horn, Iowa.

Thanks, Nebraska! – I’ll definitely be back.

Best from Anders Tornsø Jørgensen

[mostlyfrukheadcannons]

The House in the Wood

Written for the fruk gift exchange to @kenobi. Fem!England x France. Modern day setting. The gist of the prompt is that the two of them have been out of hegemony for very long time, and are learning to settle back as former empires, and to enjoy life slowly. I’ve chosen to focus primarily on their struggles to deal with their postcolonial guilt from all the devastation they caused as former hegemons that played the game of great power politics. I’m also deeply ashamed by how edgey it turned out lol. EDIT: Silly me I forgot to tag @fruk-net, whom I’d like to thank for organising this wonderful event :D

Once, there was a precious little space in a deep, green woods. Beloved by the personification of England in her youngest days, where the little child would cautiously watch out for intruders tread in her forest.

The only exception she made was for her siblings who occasionally dropped by on short visits to visit her. That, and this strange boy from across the ocean. He said his name was Francis. He spoke in a strange tongue that was like the burbling of a  flowing stream. He dressed in ridiculous silk robes that he should never be worn on visits to a forest.

But this Francis was acceptable. He would bring along different treats and snacks for Alice to try. He would speak gently to her, eyes sparkling without a hint of comprehension. On such days, Alice would deign to allow him to sit with her in a clearing in the forest, to quietly look up at the stars and be filled with a quiet awe.

Once, there was flurry of construction — bold and brazen — of a gargantuan house smack at the center of that spot in the forest. It was presided over by a certain English nation, who had grown more sharp-eyed and scrutinising, with the weight of many, many years behind her. Those were years steeped in bloodshed. (And no small amount of enmity. That little French boy had grown up tall and vain, with a sword by his side that he would point and stick into her if he could. As she would him. At any rate…...)

The House being built was to be tall. Impressive. Overriding those memories of the most naive times when she had slept there with one whom she had believed to be a friend; and over the trails of the invading armies that had punctured through these very forests to pierce at the heart of the England.

It was to be a landmark signifying a new start and a new direction for the English nation. The roar of a dragon with the irrepressible desire to devour the world entire. (Especially since said nation had to face a world that would rapaciously tear every right to power from her grasp simply because of her gender.)

In keeping with that thought, when the House was finished, Alice commissioned for a massive, sprawling map of the world to be hung up in the drawing room, serving as a centerpiece. Over that map, she peremptorily struck in pins with the British flag upon them, to mark all the foreign lands and peoples that were to be brought under her rule— for the glory of Britain.

Then she smirked a little, at the thought that perhaps she could dye these lands in the trademark red of her empire’s colour. Specifically, in the blood of that French fool, who was bound to stand in her way. Well, Alice certainly looked forward to it:

To crushing him, wherever he rose to fight her.  

Then the days of reckoning came. Alice thinks days, because there was not one single moment that led her to question what lay in at the foundations of her empire. To look, and realise, that all along it stood upon a mountain of bones.

It was only one night, sleeping in that House of hers, that it struck her in a nightmare with the force of a typhoon. The question how many have I killed.

Instantly, from the depths of her mind she sees garbled visions of so many children and civilisations, looking back at her — the personification of the empire that took everything away from them — through what she called a ‘civilising mission’, but what they screamed was colonialism.

(Somehow Alice remembers their faces just a little, because in some twisted way they were her people too. Just like how some small part of her had always known that it was wrong for her to march into someone else’s land, and take possession of it, by deriding them as ‘savages’ incapable of self-governance).

But what scares her most isn’t the way these faces  at her, as if bearing witness to what she had done.

What scares her most is how human they look. How diverse the faces are. How beautiful they were…... and the infinity of what-could-have-beens stretching out from their faces — blowing apart her mind’s ability to comprehend — how they could have had dreams, grown old with their families, thrived within their communities….

If her Empire had never come coming knocking at their doorsteps.

The first awareness that she’d had of the nightmare fading away, was when she felt a cool cloth being placed upon her forehead, and a voice speaking softly over her. Even semi-conscious, she recognises from instinct that the timbre and lilt of that voice belongs to Francis.

As the hours go by, Francis’ words start to sound more intelligible.  “You’ve been missing for days,” is the first thing he says to her that she fully understands.

And then, “You need more rest,” is what he tells her, when she gets up from her bed.

But Alice doesn’t think that she should be resting. A sickening, twisting feeling in her gut tells her that something is terribly, terribly wrong. When she feels enough strength in her body, she immediately gets up, in spite of Francis’ efforts to stop her…... She takes in the sight of her bedroom around her…...

And immediately she retches. There are faces, faces everywhere, staring at her, unblinking. She tries to scream but no sound comes out. She starts to convulse, and she can’t suppress the impulse to cry.

Her mind is clogged up by the white noise of terror. Francis’ urgent voice barely makes it through to her fog of fear, and it feels like eternity before she can take to heart his urgings to calm down, take deep breaths…...

And then she realises that the faces staring at her are but crude etchings along her bedroom walls.

“You drew them” Francis tells her, in a cool voice meant to steady her. The statement just makes her mind spin, “When I found you, you were delirious, still babbling incoherently, still trying to use one of your sharper daggers to desperately carve more faces into the walls…...It took quite a while for me to restrain you…...”

“Oh,” Alice responds, breath still short. She takes in the sight of the once-grand facades of her bedroom, which have now become a memorial to these ghosts, eerie and tarnished. Then her heart drops when she thinks of all the manuscripts and precious novels she’d also stowed away in this House.

“What about my private library?” she asks, voice shaky, mind numb.

Francis shakes his head. “I’ve looked through many of the books. Many pages have been torn out….. And the faces…... many of the books have been damaged beyond repair.”  

Alice looks down at her hands. Feels the buzzing sensation still coursing through her twitching fingers, and the panic still exploding within her head, telling her to continue, that not all might be lost — if only — if only she could stop a little bit of the past from slipping away, just etch into the walls one more face…...

But what’s done is done. Soon after Alice locks the House up, and abandons it, leaving it standing in the woods, like a mausoleum never to be opened. 

 One last thing: just before Francis leaves, he turns to her with a softness she hasn’t seen in his eyes for centuries. “Just so you know, I don’t judge you for this at all.”

“Oh really,” Alice remarks, tone soaking with self-depreciation.   

“Because I too have done something similar to this before.”

And suddenly, Alice realises that the tiredness about Francis isn’t just his defeat and occupation during WWII weighing down on him: its guilt. It’s the recognition that all along Big Brother France was simply brutalising all his so called siblings, smiling at them with an arm slung tightly over their shoulder, as he continued to exploit them ruthlessly for resources…...far more ruthlessly than anything he suffered under the boot of Vichy France…...

Alice nods, and tells him that she understands.

For some reason, after this incident, Alice feels drawn to Francis, like a moth to a flame. It seems Francis feels likewise. He starts meeting up with her very often often. They chat, in cafes, and meeting rooms, and in their various houses. They talk about current day events, the headaches of being a nation. But also, about progress made, in making apologies to the nations they’d belittled as colonies; and more importantly, sitting down to listen to these nations for the first time, with an open mind attuned to all the wisdom and the skill that they’d somehow ignored when they were supposedly infallible empires.

It feels a little like forgiveness, when Indira makes jabs at Alice’s bastardized renditions of Indian cuisines, cheeky rather than spiteful, wielding the English language like it’s one of her other hundreds of native tongues (“I may have thrown the Englishmen out of my country, but there’s no need to throw away your language, which I have perfected). Or like the easing of a long-held burden for Francis, when Vietnam buys him some Bahn Mi and urges him to try it. (“It’s a step up from your silly baguettes. Not the first time I’ve beaten you at your own game.”)

Even though it is not quite redemption, because there are still days when certain ex-colonies refuse to look them in the eye, and the nightmares do return to remind them both that some wounds never close.

But still, one day, the House in that forgotten spot in the forest opens up.

It’s Amelia’s suggestion. The feisty American abruptly remembers spending a small bit of her childhood roaming about that House. She immediately declares in the middle of a World Meeting that it would be the perfect location to host the Christmas party — an extravagant traditional English manor house. Alice immediately feels like throttling all the final vestiges of Downton Abbey out of her (just let the damn show die already), but she’s shot down by all the expectant looks thrown her way, and by then the silence on her part has stretched too long to be taken as anything other than consent.

Amelia (the spoilt and ignorant brat) looks immeasurably pleased with herself. Alice buries her face in her hands and groans. But then, she feels a warm hand resting on her shoulder.

“You know, this might not necessarily a bad thing mon cher — you hosting a Christmas Party.”

“I don’t get what you mean, Francis.”

“Perhaps this is a chance for you to try something new. Do something a little different for once, in that wretched House of yours.”

“Oh,” Alice replies, the cogs in her mind starting to spin rapidly. “Well Francis, don’t think for a second that you won’t be dragged into this.”

On the day itself, when the doors of the House swing open for the Christmas party, and all the nations of the world stream in, Alice spots it: something intense in their eyes, especially for the ex-colonies, who seem to pause for a moment to take a look around them. For one heart-stopping second, Alice thinks that it’s because it’s all not enough. She can tell her co-host standing beside her, Francis, is suspecting the same, because his face is panicked and pale. But then, as the different nations start to move about to different parts of the manor, Alice hears Francis let out a soft breath in relief. And she too realises that what’s burning bright in their eyes is recognition. The South Asian nations have gravitated towards the rangoli designs on the floor, cheerily critiquing the Christmas themed patterns that have been drawn out using brightly coloured flour. The Philippines seems even more radiant than usual, as she bring along the other Southeast Asian nations to bask under the light of her parols — one of her favourite Christmas traditions — great, gorgeous star-shaped lanterns, that represent the Star of Bethlehem that brought the three shepherds to the infant Jesus.

It’s recognition, Alice realises, as she watches Francis — who was in charge of catering — get swamped by other nations, excitedly commenting on the quality of the food that comes from their homes (“You ordered tamales!”; “The injera with wat tastes exactly like it should!”). Alice imagines herself in their shoes — walking into a Christmas party for the first time without the sensation of intruding into an event that feels alien, and strange, and blatantly White European; but something more comforting and familiar — Christmas as it is truly celebrated by their own citizens, with a twist infusing local customs with the spirit of Christmas.

And once again, Alice becomes aware of all the faces looking out at her, still hidden behind the drapes that she and Francis had hastily put up before the party. The faces that she had etched in a manic state, bearing witness to what her Empire had taken away, and what it still has to give back, even if it no longer exists anymore.

Alice knows, as one of America’s poets say, that she contains multitudes. That she is many different people all at once; and that some part of her will always be sick with the desire to hoard, and to possess and to conquer. And she will always be responsible for the mistakes that she has made, and the cruelties that she has inflicted. Not just by reining in the darker side of her personality, but also actively trying to make it up to other nations. She thinks of all the ghosts that drift about her mind and Francis’, that appear in their dreams and their nightmares. And decides that it’s okay that the two of them will always be haunted by the past. Maybe both she and Francis have grown, enough for their souls to buzz alive both with these ghosts and the magic of the world.

Especially when they can find a bit of magic in each other, in how they’re both trying to change for the better, and make amends for past wrongs. Alice takes another look at her co-host, who catches her gaze, and smiles back at her. Francis is beautiful like that, with the lights glinting off his hair, and his eyes sparkling with conviviality. It’s definitely more than enough to dull the memories of when those eyes and hair reminded her more of swords and lightning. Certainly soft enough to draw her back to the earliest and brightest days, when it was just the two of them — tiny nations against the world; to start telling their story from there, and blur out the times when they were less than civil with each other; as her eyes trace a line from his blue, blue eyes...down the ridge of his nose...to his red, red lips...

Suddenly, the room bursts into an uproar, snapping the both of them out of the reverie with a jerk. Alice barely makes out the words, “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” being chanted by the entire room. She looks up and sees a single sprig of mistletoe, innovatively and skillfully catapulted exactly above their heads, with just enough sticky foodstuff smeared onto it so it’s stuck to the ceiling.  

“Seriously?” Alice shouts. Amelia, the literal incarnation of the devil, whoops and waves, shouting, “Merry Christmas, enjoy your gift.” Everyone else cheers, bending over in laughter.

Francis laughs too, before turning to her and asking, “Well, shall we give it a go?”

“If you insist,” Alice replies, blushing. Before Francis has a chance to respond, she cups one side of his cheek with a gentle hand and kisses him.

It’s a sweet, chaste kiss. There’s a flutter in her chest, and she feels a thrill pass through the both of them. At the back of her mind she registers Amelia letting out an earsplitting whoop — really, Alice, will have to strangle her later —   but for the most part she’s absorbed in the feeling of Francis’ soft lips against hers, the intoxicating scent of Francis’ cologne tickling her nose. Then Francis’ tongue makes a quick swipe at her lips — and well maybe the American deserves to live a little longer, if her nosiness leads to this…...

They part for air, smiling so hard their cheeks hurt. By all means, Alice considers this a damned good kiss. Especially, when it’s framed by the applause of the rest of the world, giving them their blessings.

It feels like a great start. The both of them are no longer hegemons looking down upon the rest of the earth. Instead, they’re living shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the world, living and loving in a House that has transformed from a trophy room collecting dust, to a place where all the world feels at home.

Now, as the centerpiece of the the drawing room in the House, there is still a map of the world.

But this time it’s a little smaller, with no imperial flags, or red markings. It does not come with battle plans on how to pillage and conquer.

It is simply one of those scratch maps sold in curio shops, where you’re supposed to use a coin, and scratch

It’s a honeymoon gift Amelia and Madeline got for Francis and Alice.

These days, nations have a tendency to crowd around it, and point to different locations, suggesting that Francis and Alice go there next.

“Try coming to India,” Indira tells the two of them. “Don’t just come for the Taj Mahal. The Ajanta caves are as much, if not more impressive. And there are many more sights to see South of India, that tourists usually miss out.”

“Try coming to China,” Yao Wang badgers them. “The West Lake in Hangzhou is a classic. Also I’m sure you know our food is amazing”

At this the two of them usually laugh, and protest a little, reminding the others that they’re still nations with duties; they don’t have so much time and money to go sightseeing all the time.

But at least, when they’re too cash-strapped to catch the snow-peaked caps of Mt Fuji, they’ll settle for sharing a cup of vanilla ice cream. When there’s not enough time to relax to the sound of the waves kissing the shore, they’ll listen to the ebb and flow to the rhythm of each other’s voices. When they’re together, Alice feels like she’s already won the world entire.

At this, the tendrils of want and desire that have always wrapped around Alice’s heart deaden, and relax their hold.

[johangraffiti-blog]

What “them” say about us

“to have a second language is to have a second soul”

- Charlemagne 

Introduction 

Some roam the dark woods of youtubes outlandish side, the chatforums and craigslist articles in a state of boredom mixed with an emerging need to communicate with someone and unfathomable curiosity. We know these people. They discover groups and digital communes that would rather remain undiscovered. Sometimes joining them, sometimes starting them, but always silently. A double life, no exposure, secrecy. Or thats how it once was. Something happened. Someone must’ve said no. Whatever happened, it happened rapidly - one moment later we have conventions filled with human sized, stuffed - “human-stuffed” - animals (aka the furry-fandom), we have grown women in school-girl outfits imitating a troublingly oversexualised, 15-year old Japanese comic character (cosplay schoolgirl fandom), and we have THEM, who were until recently known as a group of graffiti artists with strange make-up - but there is much more to THEM.

They are by far the strangest creatures among us. Similar to the groups still remaining anonymous somewhere out there in deep, they hide. (The only difference is that they have real big problems following it through). What we knew is that they exist, we’ve seen their lettering online somewhere, sometime. Then, more and more - here and there and suddenly everywhere. Office buildings in London, slums of Kyoto, on a wall 40 meters from Meccas Kaaba. Offline.

 Theories about THEM exploded: it was whistleblowers, Rothchilds, the new world order, nazis, aliens seeking world domination, or just another ‘social experiment’ designed by a couple of college students. I was convinced they were a group of spraypainters. It was everything and nothing - it was all smoke and smoke doesn’t disappear until someone opens a window or blows it away.

And then channel 5 the video that went viral. Click here or view below this post

It is the media. Ever since broadcasting had been invented in the 1920s, the media was doomed to pave the way to what intellectuals these days call fake news. Having to face a decrease in popularity due to the internets faster communication methods offline news purposely manipulate information to the extremes - for attention. Attempts to identify the tipper have failed, he is completely undercover. Even in an era of possibilities, it is seemingly impossible to prove his point. 

Seemingly, a key point is at disregard concerning this whole issue - whilst everyone is distracted solving the true or false question, no one has confronted the possibility, no ones asked “what if?”. An atmosphere of ignorance is uncovered when we forget that these borderline groups are but bones in our societies anatomy. Broken bones - ones we stopped caring about, forgot and left to rot. This brings me to my key question:

How does a language reflect modern issues? or What “THEM” say about us

       Needs, wants and priorities of individual cultures are often represented in their language. It’s vernacular reflects concepts, indicated by the composition of words they chose. The most common example is that of the Inuit, the peoples occupying the Arctics’ frosted wastelands. Their language evidence for their habitat - as it comprises of more than 50 different expressions describing the same thing: snow. No other language, including this one, has such a significant arsenal for describing what is essentially frozen drops of water. Ironically we don’t need to travel that far north to illustrate an argument regarding a plethora of words for the same exact thing. Found in the British Isles, countries known for their predominantly wet and cold terrain, are 100 different dialects for expressing either light, heavy, windy, frosty, brief, sudden or stormy rain. This means, whilst I will be incapable of conveying an equal amount of information about ice or snow in this language as an Inuit may in his, native South Americans, residing in the driest countries on earth, will find themselves in exactly the same situation regarding rain. 

What this means in the context of THEM is really quite simple - if the anonymous interviewee is right about the interpretation of their symbols, being all about “escape, anonymity and isolation” then thats what plays a big role to them - it’s their snow.

So, by not paying attention to those in shame, by disregarding the isolated, among us exists a new sort of marginalised group.

This one is not bound by race, faith, sexuality. This one isn’t created by a hierarchy, a border or a shared history. It is international, it is seemingly impenetrable and, paradoxically, even though it is present, it is invisible. And its ways of communicating are scarily similar to a group of people, hidden in the shadows until just recently. 

Let us talk about Polari. 

       Picture central London, 1951. Top hats and pea-coats swarming a densely packed nightclub. Two men stand at the bar, a coy exchange of looks through the sea of hats. The younger approaches the older, lights a cigarette, leans against the bar and politely asks for a drink. Intense eye contact as this moment is decisive - the boy hadn’t asked in a language just anyone would understand. He had asked in a language for people who lived on the margins of British society. He had asked in Polari. 

noun: Polari; noun: Palari; noun: Palare

1 a form of theatrical slang incorporating Italianate words, rhyming slang, and Romany, used especially by homosexuals.

Being gay in the 1950’s in Britain wasn’t easy

Personal relationships had been left in shattered pieces following the war - sisters lost their brothers, mothers their children and children their fathers. Around 300.000 British soldiers were killed, 70.000 citizens in airstrikes. Just let that number sink in for a second. The war on terror is good enough reason for some people to avoid airports, trainstations and Christmas markets - 2.977 people died in 9/11, 138 in the bataclan November 2015 Paris attack, 11 in the Berlin Christmas market attack of 2016. 

Fear is very real and, by avoiding those places, people still live in fear now.

Imagine the fear felt during the second world war - the rate of casualties feeds on your own hope of mortality. Any hour could be the next, could be the last one you live. So people began living in the moment. One finds himself perhaps experimenting, craving, discovering a new beautiful lust in these apparent last moments of light. Even in the armed forces homosexuality wasn’t frowned upon “with Britain seriously threatened by the nazis forces, weren’t fussy about who they accepted” 

(source. 1)

But then, victory, the war was won. Structure rose from the chaos and old values were reasserted. So-called family values, with the traditional heterosexual build-up. The silent generation gave way to the baby boomers, child births were on the rise. What happened in the war stays in the war - and so the wartime indiscretions were pushed under the rug, needed to be forgotten. Among them the new sexual curiosity. Being gay was now a lot tougher than before, in the chaos.

Just 4 years after the war a British survey revealed that the general population was disgusted by homosexuality. Drag was banned until the mid 1950’s, simply sitting around as a cross-dressed man would get you arrested.

In 1963 the number of “homosexual offences” skyrocketed, with over 20 times the amount it was in 1921. More than 2.000 gay men incarcerated for living out their instinctual desires. (source 2.)

It also had something to do with laziness on the polices side, as they were conscious of how easy it was to arrest gay people. Gay people aren’t real criminals - often shy, polite and terrified of being arrested - but generally speaking never violent. It was an easy arrest for any officer trying to avoid a rough situation, hence their name in the Polari language: Betty bracelet. Feminisation of their own character was a common referral in Polari, yet the gay predominantly male community knew the police would deem that new title an insult. The slur was underlined using a clever innuendo, drawing comparison between their handcuffs and womens’ jewellery. 

The executive wasn’t the only society the Polari felt rightfully threatened by - leading to the slow fading into the shadows of the their current civilisation. In medical terms, by most professionals of the time, men laying with other men was defined as a mental illness, often resulting from an overly dominant mother. Interestingly enough, one may interpret this belief as a way of enforcing the behaviour of the straight people as well. It would enforce the patriarchy, as a sort of warning to women, not to be overly bold, confident and assertive. 

Away from the horribly cruel practice of chemically castrating discovered gay men, a new form of punishment was introduced as the 1950’s continued - aversion therapy.  (source 3.

It was dubious to say the least and demonstrated such ignorance of the working ways of the human brain. Men would be shown images of those they loved, those they found attractive or wanted to court whilst being exposed to electrical shocks or vomiting by forcefully injecting substances into their system - a nightmare. 

Then there was the media, which built its hatred using police and medical strategies as a foundation. Gays were criminals hence they were ‘evil men’ (source 4.), a connection between them and pedophiles was often drawn - apparently a strong theory as some people actually still believe in this correspondence today. (source 5.) Said theory was another piece of propaganda supporting the conservative family structure, with extra protective responsibility placed upon parents, in fear their children might fall victim to a homosexual. 

Concluding, the British government, media, medical profession, the not mentioned church and most importantly the law constructed a prison limiting the self-expression and personal development and completely marginalising the gay community in the mid 20th century. All of this in hopes of eradicating homosexual behaviour - an attempt to stop interaction. A failed attempt.

Polari was born - a way of covering ones footsteps from any and everyone, except the like-minded. Being a reflection of marginalisation in society, Polari and the just recently emerged languages’ differences are mostly legal. Theres no law, except that of vandalism, enforcing this new groups identity. The media is onto them, but instead of portrayal in a purely negative light, THEM are embedded in way too much smoke for us to clearly see what they’re up to. There have been rumors of arrests, but this one again only due to vandalism - theres no actual crime being broken by their sheer existence - not like the British gay community of the post-war era. 

So then, why was this comparison made?

Legal boundaries may differ but we still have a group of people here that hide due to their anxieties towards the general societies. Due to whatever reasons, some say loss of jobs caused by automatisation, some say disconnection from real human contact caused by social media and theres a few other theories, these people isolate and seclude themselves, just like the Polari community. A conclusion can be drawn by the parallel established here: like 70 years ago, we, the general society, are at fault for creating this fear. 

        Another interesting aspect of modern societies is reflected by a newly found type of speech due to technological progress. Communication and technology have always emerged hand in hand. A milestone in the early 1400’s, Johannes Gutenbergs moveable printing press allowed the first ever euro-national mass production of a book in a time of emerging enlightenment, a time when more and more people started to read.  Newspapers were published, presenting new forms of communication - headlines, cartoons, editorials, columns; there was new paths to self-express as reading was turning into a form of entertainment for the first time in mans history. A perfect reflection of the then vanishing millennia commonly knows as the dark ages, characterised by a demographic, cultural and economic deterioration. 

Broadcasting in the early 1940’s marked the beginning of a time of fast-paced knowledge, wether it was the temperature or recent events in politics - the common citizen knew. Sports commentary, chat shows and news readings were only a few of the new forms of using language introduced - but it was also the birth of many concepts. In a time of increasing surveillance and public safety, citizens raised concerns about allowing these tiny figures on screens into their home - with worries of brainwash, government controlled news and faked moonlandings, the first dystopian novels were born. What Broadcasting reflected in its pure essence is the next form of enlightenment among western humanity, a faster exchange in knowledge, a questioning of what was true and false.

Along came the internet and computers, changing everything. This is where our new groups language comes into play. New conventions were established - abbreviations, emoticons, acronyms. We live in a time that moves faster than any documented era has before. Writing on a keyboard takes a fragment of the amount of work it once did with a pen, or even a feather. What used to be a full letter and then a phone call is now just three abbreviated words on a screen we all carry in our pockets: “wyd” (what you doing?) Tweeting and texting have come along, giving us the most modern forms of new language yet - for the first time being limited to a certain word count resembles the fast paced time of slow attention spans we find ourselves in - something new has to happen, all the time. We have become addicted to the constant feed of information going into us via the world wide web. Everything spreads like wildfire, for the first time in history a new language doesn’t establish itself over centuries but over minutes and hours. We now move and establish fast - just like the new vernacular brought into existence by the unknown. Its roots are seemingly nowhere and everywhere at the same time, just like the internationally famous three letter acronym, “lol”, which has replaced an entire generations digital form of laughter. 

             Identifying a few of modern societies’ traits via the emergence of “THEM” language lies in the simplicity of analysing the lingual priority - what words are chosen, what does the language revolve around. A fear of society, similar to the forcefully-pushed-underground gay society in the British mid 20th century, demonstrates the severity of what the movement is about: although isolated and in need for escape, they remain independent. They fear us due to reasons that are yet to be verified, yet reasons that have emerged with recent times - otherwise THEM would’ve existed earlier. Guesses are automatisation and therefore the loss of jobs, some say the replacement of warm human relationships by the cold distance of social media - in the end it doesn’t really matter which of these. It was us a society that created a problem and it must be us a society that wakes up from a trance that has created yet another marginalised community. If we take these points into consideration, accept our responsibility and instead of starting yet another witch hunt, get together and actually try to solve a problem we might be able to help. Technology has made us become fast in knowledge but short in attention spans and therefore writing. What we must not forget is that the faster we go and the smaller our words become to make time for other things, the more people can’t keep along with this sort of a pace. They will feel left behind. 

Anonymity is easily achieved on the internet, but is that really what we are aiming for? Being put into little groups along the margins of what once was a fully-functioning society in order to hide our faces in fear, rather than accepting our personalities and beginning to love ourselves. As we can see, with modern technology it’s extremely easy to create a new identity, even a new language in the course of minutes, yet fracturing the core of what makes our community - the shared values and morals present through language - will not help us evolve into something greater, but rather something even more distant and isolated than ever before. This is what the emergence of THEM teaches us about ourselves, that is how their language reflects our modern society. 

Maybe it was a hoax created by the new world order, perhaps even aliens or another social experiment created by design students. But it does not matter. THEM are a symbol,  an x-ray to our societies anatomy showing us the broken bones we did not notice.

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