Forgive me for being a bit delayed in this, but a couple of weeks ago I saw that Gemma Chan was getting asked about the racist depictions of Asians in “The Blind Banker,” and she talked about learning more about how the character she was playing was a stereotype and how the other other Asian characters in the episode were also stereotypes.
Meanwhile, Stephen Thompson, the guy who wrote that episode, and co-showrunners of “Sherlock,” Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss did NOT get questions aimed at them 10 years after they (in Stephen’s case) wrote some racist shit and (in Moffat and Gatiss’s case) approved some racist shit to be filmed.
As far as I can tell, the only person who has been required to answer directly for the racism of “The Blind Banker” is Gemma Chan. Who was 1) not in charge of any of the story elements and 2) was not in charge of approving any of the story elements.
She was an actor trying to make rent. She showed up and played the part she was given. It was not her job then to dissect the writing and decide to give up making rent because the portrayal was shitty towards Asian people when the other option was to not make rent. It’s not her job now to answer for the shitty writing of a white guy that was approved by two other white guys.
Gemma doesn’t owe anyone any fucking explanation for why she appeared in “The Blind Banker” or how she feels about the stereotypes on display at the time she filmed. She had rent to pay. That episode paid the rent. I don’t disregard her decision to speak about how she’s grown and learned since that point in her career, but I question the fact that she is the one who has to answer those questions. If the writers of the articles about “looking back at the racism of The Blind Banker” were truly concerned about staring the racism and stereotypes of that episode in the face, they’d have pointed the lens at the people who had the control of the story. Stephen, Steven, and Mark are the ones responsible for racist and stereotypical tropes of Asian people making it to air. They’re the ones who should be first in line to answer for those issues.
Working actors--people who go out and audition and hope they get the role because they need to make rent and need another bullet point on their resume--have literally no power in terms of story telling. Their job is to get the job, learn their lines, and hit their marks.
Gemma Chan doesn’t owe anyone any explanation for why she took the role or how she feels about it today. It’s fucking bullshit she was stuck in a position where she felt she needed to answer when “I was a working actor. Go talk to the white men who wrote and approved it,” is absolutely sufficient as an answer.
Reporters deciding that making Gemma Chan answer for the failures of the white men in power on the show she was hired on for a single episode are part of the fucking problem. Rather than focusing their time and attention on the actual power-holders of a situation, they focused on the Asian woman who had no power in the situation they want to be faux-woke about a decade later because if they really wanted to look critically at that episode and at Sherlock as a whole, they’d have skipped scapegoating Gemma and focused, instead, and trying to make the white men in power answer some fucking questions about their own racism.
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hello! may i please request Mycroft and Albert as fathers (similar to your one about Louis)? thank you and i hope you have a wonderful day/afternoon/night!! 💕
Of course! I adore when you request 💕 it makes my day! I sure hope you like it friendo! I'm guessing you meant this with the characters separate, but if you wanted it as a ship fic feel free to correct me.
Requests, as always, are OPEN.
I'm writing this instead of doing my psychology homework oof-
Mycroft Holmes and Albert Moriarty (separate) as Father's
(I swear to God it took like 30 minutes to find a fitting gif of this man-)
When it was announced you'd be having a baby, he was overjoyed. He broke his calm demeanor and started sobbing on the spot.
9 months later came a precious baby boy, whom Mycroft decided to name Thomas.
He was a rather scrawny child. More skin and bones than meat on him. But he was yours. And you both loved him.
It was nearly midnight when you awoke to your son's soft cries. But looking over to his crib next to your bedside, Mycroft was already there. Rocking him and saying sweet words.
"I know, son. Growing pains. But please hush, lest you wake her/him." He made a small pointing motion towards your shared bed, "Are you hungry? Sleepy? What do you need?"
Your son only looked up at his father's face, and smiled. Tears stopped as he beamed up at him.
And on Mycroft's face was the most loving look you'd ever seen on him.
The boy wanted to be just like him. Dressing up in his suits (which were absolutely gigantic on him), trying to style his hair the same... By the time Thomas was 8, he was essentially a mini version of your husband.
"No, Thomas. You almost got it right, however. Try again. I'm sure you'll get it."
Thomas and Mycroft were standing in front of a mirror, the little boy standing on a stool to make the situation easier.
In his little hands was a tie. As he began to put it in again, Mycroft gave a find smile.
"Very good, son. One of these days, perhaps you can accompany me to work..."
Big, beaming eyes looked up at him, "Really?"
The boy jumped in his arms.
His and yours' daughter was born on a snowy night in January. Fittingly, you both decided on the name Holly.
From the moment he first held her hand, his thumbnail being slightly smaller than her palm, he was in love.
She wasn't even a week old when Albert made sure she had a complete wardrobe, her own room, all the best baby food supplies, etc. She was pampered before she could know what that meant.
By the time she was 6, she was a daddy's girl. Through and through.
"Papa," she started, her little hand enclosed in his as they walked through Durham's streets, "What's that?" She pointed towards a fruit stall.
"Those, my little angel, are grapefruits. Would you like to try one?"
She sheepishly nodded, leaning in closer in order to not get lost in the crowd.
Upon hearing the price for a singular fruit, the poor little thing nearly fainted, "Papa, that's too much! I don't need to try it, really!"
Albert had some simply ruffled her hair, "Don't worry about it, Holly. Really. We can more than afford it. Besides, you've never tried one."
The fruit was put into his hands, and the two walked home.
She loved it, by the way.
He made sure to teach her that though they were noble, that did not mean that they were better. It just meant that they had more to share. He showed her all the things he wished his parents had.
You can bet she was loved by him. More than anything.
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