#and in general i feel like a two layer matryoshka doll | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

burnedbyshoto · 4 years

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matryoshka doll

— Momo is a modern day princess, so it makes sense as to why every single person she’s asked if they wanted to have sex reject her because they felt unworthy. But she’s a girl with carnal needs and if that means having anonymous sex is the only way to have them met, so be it.

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pairing: yaoyorozu momo x fem!reader

warnings: 18+, smut, stuck in a wall, anal fisting (giving), fingering, marking, degradation, daddy kink!reader, princess!momo, praise, pwp, cursing, service top!reader, phat ass!momo

word count: 3,333

a/n: i stayed up until 4 am reading bkdk angst fanfic and im so, so tired...... momo has a phat ass that is full of stretch marks and cellulite and I drool at the thought of it. no I dont take any feedback on that.

kinktober day 9 main kink: anonymous sex | kinktober masterlist

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Momo has a secret.

A deep, dark, twisted secret.

It wasn’t so much that it was horrible, humiliating, or even a nuisance for all of humanity, but it definitely was a secret she was keen on keeping until she was six feet under.

Why was that?

Oh, well, you see, it involved one of the most taboo topics in the world: sex.

Yaoyorozu Momo lived a sheltered, elite life. At the tender age of four, she had managed to create an object by replicating a Matryoshka doll's exact molecular structure. She didn’t need to assume that most individuals couldn't compose the doll's molecular structure regardless of their intellect or education. Yet, with a determined gaze, her person and mind no much older than four years old, she succeeded in producing a single, lone, beautiful Matryoshka doll.

But, because of her natural-born intelligence and near-prodigious level thinking, the wealth that her parents held led her to a life where something such as a peck on the cheek was considered scandalous.

Kissing on the lips was considered a "marriage only" rule, and sex wasn’t even a word she knew.

Middle school for Yaoyorozu Momo consisted of her and her private tutors within her home. Her education was created just for her, and she had evening outings with her similar circles to ensure she had an appropriate social life. All in all, Momo didn’t know what sex was until she was sixteen, sitting in the common area of the dorm room with all her female friends who casually brought up the idea of what they could potentially be into, of who they would. Momo would quote: fuck, marry, or kill of three randomly generated boys within the class.

Of course, Momo’s eyes fluttered at the word fuck, having already known it as a curse word, and only as such as Bakugou always seemed to be yelling it. She had wrongfully spluttered when Mina had wiggled her eyebrows at Uraraka on why, oh why she had only chosen to ‘fuck Midoriya’ and not marry him. To Momo, who also at the time, was aware of her current blossoming feelings towards the smart but somewhat flutter tongued classmate of theirs, had been rather confused at the results Uraraka gave too.

“Kill… uh, Iida-kun,” Urakaka fidgeted, blushing harder under the intense stares of Mina and Hagakure (who had a mean glare despite not being able to see her). “Fuck Deku-kun, marry Todoroki-kun!”

Momo had assumed she would wish to marry her at the time crush, not choose the option to curse him out!

“Uraraka-san, you wish to cuss out Midoriya-san?” Momo had asked, saving the naturally rosy girl from their pink-skinned and invisible friend. “Why is that?”

“Hold on?” Jirou interrupted immediately, Momo’s undoubtedly closest friend rose from her slouched position next to her, her hand placed on her shoulder. “What was that?!”

“Well, isn’t the, ahem, please excuse my vulgar words, ‘fuck,’ option meaning to curse someone out? As Bakugou-san does to many people when he uses that word?” Momo had asked so innocently, so purely that the girls all almost felt horrible for popping the innocent bubble the modern-day princess was in -- keyword: almost.

For the first time in her life, Yaoyorozu Momo was not the most knowledgable in a subject; her cheeks stained red with embarrassing heat when Tsuyu took charge of explaining the alternate definition to what ‘fuck’ meant.

“You mean babies don’t come in storks?!” she had cried uncontrollably that night. She was utterly overwhelmed by this new level of information that would send her in a spiral of the need to acquire further details for the sake of education and, well, yes, the science of fucking.

From the moment she was sixteen until she was twenty, Momo’s knowledge of sex went from being the lowest in the class, to as it naturally should have been, the most knowledgable person on it. She knew of things, the different branches of sex, where to experience certain types of kinks, and theoretically, where the human body's best parts to touch when having sex. So, the moment she had turned of consenting legal age to have sex, Momo would be lying if she said she wasn’t ready to have sex.

But there was something in her way, something that not even years of studying could help her with, or could change the circumstances of which she found herself in. It seemed that though her friends enjoyed her sudden new-found genius towards the art and science behind sex, no one thought of her as a… sexual being.

“I c-can’t have sex with you!” Jirou had flushed red, her eyes scattering to every edge of the room, refusing to look at the wealthy heiress who had asked her best friend over during their last week of high school to do the deed. “You’re the modern-day royalty: Yaoyorozu Momo! I’m not… qualified enough!”

Momo frowned, “Oh?”

“Sex?” Todoroki had echoed, his eyes alarming wide despite his composed, neutral expression. Momo nodded her head, ignoring the small wisp of fire that emitted from his hair. “Oh, well, I don’t think I can do that for you, Yaoyorozu. It’s nothing against you, but I don’t think I’d like to have meaningless sex with you for the first time.”

Momo winced, “Oh, okay.”

“That sounded a lot meaner then intended, I apologize.”

…

And that’s how it seemed to go.

Aoyama hadn’t been interested in having sex at all with Momo. Mina said she was severely unworthy. Tsuyu simply rejected her because their relationship wasn’t one that had possibilities of sexual encounters. Iida said it would be irresponsible of him to take something of value of hers. Uraraka cried about how inferior scum like her had no right.

Ojiro apologized, having been in a relationship at the moment and wouldn’t. Kaminari said him sexually touching Momo would give the world every right to skin him where he lay. Kirishima had blushed brighter than his hair and stammered; he couldn’t without a proper relationship between the two of them. Kouda had run off crying. Sato had mumbled about how he enjoyed setting tea and pastries together but couldn’t imagine putting his tea in and on her pastry, or some weird allusion like that.

Shoji had bowed his head in apologies, saying she would regret sleeping with him. Sero had run away, crashing into a glass door explaining he wasn’t good enough. Tokoyami stated they weren’t a fated pair and rejected her kindly -- she thinks. Hagakure was in a relationship and politely declined her. Bakugou scoffed and told her to look elsewhere. Midoriya had stammered and suggested that he wasn’t the best option. Mineta just was never an option for her.

She had asked eighteen people who had all told her they would help her with anything, and the only thing that kept being thrown back into her face regarding something that she didn’t see to be anything that special was that she was royalty in their eyes. It was fine at first; honestly, it was! Momo had nodded her head, merely retreating to her home and creating an arrangement of sex toys most suited for her. And for a while, it had been enough.

But like the Matryoshka dolls, she was so fond of making, so good at making, she had several layers underneath that shouldn’t be ignored. And her sexual pleasures and gains had been a neglected part of her for too long.

From having the longest, thickest dildo she could make for herself, up her cunt, to the vibrator and fuck machines she should create (because she was not allowed anywhere near a sex shop), she had been blissful. Each orgasm ripping through her pleasantly, causing her sweaty chest to arch off her bed, her legs slamming closed as it burst from inside of her, causing her to bit harshly on her fist just in case. But just as even playing with your favorite game day after day, feeling alone, lonely, and unwanted, Momo found that even her toys weren’t enough.

She needed more.

No one would fuck her because of her status, because of her last name and the wealth that she brought, so she decided that if she was to do this, to gain the human touch she ever so desired and lusted over, she was going to have to erase her identity.

She had found a little place in the back alleys of Tokyo. They were hiring anyone who dared to visit and the only requirement to join was that you were willing to be fucked. Momo had shown up for the interview, face obscured by a hoodie she wore and was hired the moment she walked in with her spandex shorts hugging her tiny waist and fat ass. She had always seen places like this within her porn research but had never actually assumed fuck ho(l)es existed.

She certainly didn’t expect to be put in a wall where only her ass and cunt hanging out and the cold, wet tip of a sharpie marker to write against her clear virgin skin: FREE HOLE TO FUCK. VIRGIN LITTLE WHORE. She could feel that written on her skin, but she was unaware of the words that surrounded her placement on the wall: “put a tally and a review for every pump of cum you shove in me!”

There was no need for a picture by her whole because the people who frequented this place had no desires of that, and so, Momo found peace even as the starting alarm blared in her ear that customers were finally being let it.

To sum up the experience her first night at this joint, the first time experiencing a hot, living, throbbing cock in both her cunt and ass, Momo would have to blush. Her eyes shifting from yours onto the floor as she smiled. A chuckle on her face as she thought back to the end of that four hour fuck feast and remembered that there were nearly eighty-three tally marks on her bruised and blistered ass, of how her cum and all that cum continued to seep from her clenching holes for two days afterward… she loved it.

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You needed to blow off some steam.

Having just been entirely, horribly dumped by your ex and having precisely zero side pieces on the side to fuck, you went out of your way to secure a quick, easy fuck to get your mind off of things. There was no reason for you to simply not join Tinder and ask the first swipe to come over and fuck, but you didn’t want to see a face. You didn’t even want to know their face. As a matter of fact, you weren’t even so much as interested in your own orgasm at the moment than just making someone else cum. So when a pretty woman handed your glowering face a flyer as you were storming around the streets of Tokyo hoping for a sign from god, you almost cried at what the flyer informed you of.

A local... hole in the wall filled with glory holes and exposed asses, cunts, and cocks alike.

Was it destiny?

You sure believed so as you found yourself tailing to the obscure address, praying for the establishment to be open and, for the most part, empty because you had no plans on performing shit in front of watching eyes. Handing a thousand yen over to the admissions lady as your fee to the use of their prized cunts, cocks, and asses, you shoved the black ticket into your pocket and brisked in.

As you entered the back room, the tension in you back and pressure on your chest seemed to melt away immediately at the scent of sex, dried cum, and sweat. It was an altogether horrid stench, to be quite honest, but right now, it sent fire to your core, your lips licking at the walls and corners willed with awaiting to be attended to people. Twisted pleasure coursed through your veins as you walked around, your eyes taking note of the graffitied words around the individual holes, taking note of the black sharpie words on bruised and battered skin, and some cunts still dripping with someone else’s cum.

‘Loose cunt’ one person had.

‘Hasn’t been broken in yet,’ said another.

‘Loves it when you ‘accidentally’ fuck their ass,’ scrawled on another.

You couldn’t help but smile at the twisted humor, moving until finally, you saw one that exposed ass first to the world, eight tallies marked on her skin, and oh, the words painted on her smooth, perfect skin and the surrounding walls pulled you in.

‘Tightest fucking pussy.’ ‘100/10 recommended, been back multiple times for more.’ ‘Slip your fist up her ass, she LOVES it.’ ‘Favorite fucking whore here.’ ‘Would fuck again.’ ‘Slut likes it rough and mean.’ ‘Please fuck me!!!!’

You watched as the shiny slick of her cum slowly seep from her spread cheeks, not quite dripping, but definitely wet with her arousal. Something was calling you to her, your feet stumbling nearly tipsy with this outworld lust and drunkenness as you stopped behind her slapped pink ass. And without much need of thought to wonder where to stop, your hands found themselves grabbing her thick, supple ass and you moaned at the warmth emitting from her skin, of how her skin was so soft, so moveable, so bouncy. It was larger than your hands, your fingernails running against the cellulite, and stretch marks on her ass that made you want to kiss and run your tongue against even more. You couldn’t hear her, you couldn’t possibly know if she had liked the way your fingers dug into her ass, but her ass bounced, teetering with your grip as you could imagine a soft, juicy moan.

“I wonder if you can hear me?” you asked, most likely to no one, fingers spreading her ass, spanking the used whorish skin of hers so that small, tight, clenching pink asshole was on full display for you. “If you sit there for all these hours and listen to men fuck you with their ugly moaning and pathetic growling.”

Her ass rolled in your hands, and you smiled, taking that as a sign that yes, she heard everything, even you. Raising your hand to the bottle of lube, you saturated your fingers with the cold, transparent liquid, turning your fingers down over her still exposed, flush hole. You watched as the lube dripped down, splattering messily around her tight, rimmed muscle, watching her clench and unclench the muscle in alarming beauty.

“I must apologize, princess,” you sighed, looking at the names scrawled on the walls that this cunt and ass seemed to be most responsive to, and number one on that list was princess. “Your daddy isn’t feeling particularly rough today, so I hope you’ll behave with my softer movements.”

You're not quite sure where the reference to yourself as daddy had come from, but the way the ass muscles clenched between the lone hand that held her cheek made it worth it.

Your lube coated finger edged the pert opening of her ass, feeling the way the already used muscle expanded for your finger if a little stubbornly.

“Relax, princess, daddy sees you like being fisted, so I’m going to make sure you feel good.

You pressed your finger in until the knuckle disappeared beneath the muscle, your grin growing into a hazy, lustful gaze when you felt her ass bounce. This moan vibrated all the way to her anal cavity as you wasted no time in adding a second finger. Her ass was tight, the ribbed walls of the cavity bumping and gliding against your moving fingers, and you grinned when she loudly moaned. You didn’t need to be an expert to see that she had never been fucked softly or thoroughly before. She must have been used to the terrible, animalistic rage that the men here possessed when fucking these people behind the walls. If you didn’t know any better, you would assume that she lost her virginity here.

Your fingers curled, stroking and persuading her body to ripple and twitch with your commanding movements, and another finger added in, and another finger added in. Soon enough, you had four fingers in, all save your thumb. The stretch of her ass around your nearly formed ass was incredible; she took you so well, not a sound of agonizing pain was heard through the wall, although you swore you heard sounds of elation. The damn slut did enjoy it.

Your thumb pressed to her cunt, rubbing the slick folds of her pussy, softly fucking the outermost part of her inner walls, much against her approval if the way he ass bounced heavily in need had anything to say about it.

“Ah, does the princess, not like this?” you asked, your hand that was currently not four fingers into her ass stretching out her cheeks even further as finally you retracted your hand out, made a fist, and sunk back in. Now there was a scream. But the way that it shot curling ravenous fires into your core, you knew it wasn’t one of horror or pain. No. It was one of absolute, slutty pleasure. You moaned at the sound, your arm beginning to thrust into her ass slowly, intentionally, and with burning passion and desire to hear her wail again. She sounded so pretty, sounded so slutty.

Your now free hand moved to her cunt, your mind trying to stimulate her more, trying to ignore the way her ass was hot and deliciously tight around your forearm as your pinched and rolled at her clit. Your thumb stayed on her clit, but your fingers stretched to enter her clenching cunt that seemed to be in synch with her ass. YOu moaned in content at the feeling of her inner walls suctioning against your intruding finger, and you laughed upon feeling your moving arm within her ass against her cunt. And that beautiful, pitchy whine resonated deeply again, and your mind melted.

Your fingers and fist doubled in speed, the growing sharp moans through the walls fueling you to move faster, to be rougher, to make her see stars. No wonder why no one fucked her with love here, you thought as leaned down, teeth tearing against her ass cheek that read: mark me, please. Who could stay composed when this fucking slut was this goddamn loud.

“Such a good fucking princess, so slutty, so nice for your daddy,” you grunted, against her skin, your hips snapping at air as the heat and wetness in your pants made you uncomfortable -- the need for more biting through your clothes. “You like my fist up your ass? You like everyone’s fist up your ass, don’t do? Doesn’t fucking surprise me with those stupid loud moans you make.”

Your words were hissed, your fingernails scraping against her pulsating, throbbing inner walls, and then it happened.

Her ass and her cunt clenched against your fingers and fist. And your jaw dropped as a rippling effect ran across your arm that was buried in her ass.

Was that a?

Holy fucking shit?!

“Princess, did your ass just orgasm?!”

A confirming, pathetic moan sent your mind to the moon.

Suddenly feeling as if this was too much for you, and with no way to relive yourself in this type of fuck room, you removed your hand quickly from her ass, your dominant hand grabbing the hanging sharpie on the wall and added two more tally marks on the number of times she’s cum.

You race out of there, the fire in between your legs too much to handle. Well, at least not before adding one more, important piece of information on her ass and on the wall: ‘if you fuck my ass like daddy did, maybe my ass will orgasm for you too.”

#momo x reader #momo smut #yaoyorozu x reader #bnha #bnha x reader #mha #bbs kinktober 2020

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theliberaltony · 4 years

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via Politics – FiveThirtyEight

America is a little matryoshka doll of panic right now; pop open each layer to reveal a new, worrying scenario. For months the country was focused on reopening the economy, which had its own complicated set of problems. But only recently has a broader swath of America tuned into the mess nestled inside it, one that parents have been sitting with for months: what to do with the kids.

There has been no federal plan to help American parents with child care, and they continue to wonder whether schools will really open their doors come the new school year. That lack of action is in direct contrast to other crises that have struck America recently. After the financial crash of 2008, there was a bailout and a stimulus plan. After the protests against police over the last few months, officials in cities and states responded with promises of better actions in the future but also, immediate policy implementation: New York state repealed a law that had shielded police personnel files, while the Minneapolis City Council voted to begin a process that could eventually lead to the dissolution of the city police as it’s now known.

But on child care and school, a specific, urgent response has been missing, or at least one that acknowledges our new reality. President Trump threatened to withhold federal funding for education if schools didn’t open back up, counter to schools’ insistence they need more money to provide a safe education amid the pandemic. While the CARES Act, an omnibus COVID-19 relief bill signed into law in late March, gave extra stimulus funding to families with children, schools and child care businesses so they could remain afloat, a Democratic-backed bill to give a $50 billion bailout of the child care industry has gotten little attention. Teachers around the country have voiced doubt that necessary safety measures for in-school teaching will be sufficient, and Los Angeles Unified School District, one of the country’s largest school systems, has decided not to reopen classrooms when schools go back in session in August. Some worry that while distance learning is safer, socially different children and those without stable internet connections or computers — who are already at the margins in normal times — will fall irrevocably behind.

There is no cohesive solution to America’s child care problem. But the relative inattention to this crisis, one that’s so foundational to a functioning society, the economy and family units across the country, is revealing. It shows that for all the changes that have happened in American life — more female elected officials, a MeToo movement and a workforce that is around 47 percent female — our power dynamics remain fundamentally skewed. We are failing to collectively understand what our most critical and pressing problems actually are.

“Care in general has always been seen as a sideline issue,” Vicki Shabo of the left-leaning think tank New America said. “A nice-to-have and not something that’s necessary, and not something that’s central for adults to be productive in the economy.” Of course, now we’re seeing how much of a misunderstanding that is. In a country where most men and women work even when they have children, having child care is inextricably linked to economic productivity — and not having it often hurts women most. U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics data from 2015 found that in households with children under 6, women spent an hour a day doing child care, compared to the 25 minutes of care provided by men. It’s easy to extrapolate this trend for pandemic times: American women will bear the brunt of the school and child care crisis.

Yet, child care in particular hasn’t often found itself at the forefront of political debate. Experts and activists I talked to for this story all used the same framing to talk about why: an American narrative that child care problems are individuals’ problems, not society’s.

“If you think about child care traditionally before the pandemic, you probably didn’t think about it too much before you had kids,” Melissa Boteach, vice president of income security and child care at the National Women’s Law Center, said. “Then you have kids, you’re in the most stressful and resource-strapped part of your life: You’re operating on three hours of sleep a night, you’re financially squeezed, because at the very time you’re taking off of work, you have diapers and wipes and formula and whatever else. You’re in this total daze of early motherhood. That’s probably not the time when you say, ‘You know what, I’m going to call my member of Congress.’ You’re feeling it like a personal issue.”

Child care isn’t necessarily seen as a macroeconomic issue or a driver of labor force participation or GDP, Shabo said. And because of that, she said, it often takes a backseat to economic issues like wages when lobbying efforts happen. This is not to say that child care issues don’t get attention — in the 2020 Democratic presidential primaries, which featured several female candidates, child care plans took a more front and center role in the campaign than they had in the past. One leading candidate, Sen. Elizabeth Warren, co-authored a 2004 book, “The Two-Income Trap,” which was about the ways the rising incomes of households with two full-time employed adults belied the heavy costs of essentials like child care. Warren thought child care costs were among the reasons the American middle class was in an economic crisis.

“Our workplaces were built for white men,” said Danielle Atkinson, the founder and director of Mothering Justice, a Detroit-area advocacy group for working families. The fact that parents are left to fend for themselves from birth to kindergarten and then during the after-school, pre-dinner hours, is an American tradition that seems to assume a readily available, at-home caregiver. (Atkinson pointed out the inextricable role black women have played in American child care; enslaved women often took care of white children.) The nuclear family with a stay-at-home parent (usually a mother) is an ideal that persists, or at the very least lingers in American life: only 18 percent of Americans in a 2018 Pew Research Survey thought it was ideal for both parents to work full time.

“This conversation about school is really a conversation about work,” Atkinson said. “The conversation about returning to school is not based on health. It’s about returning those workers to working and not looking after their children, so those children have to be somewhere.” Essential workers in particular are being forced to make difficult choices about their children’s care — many essential-worker jobs are lower wage — and many child care providers are in strapped situations. The work of child care providers, Atkinson said, is often undervalued — their median annual wage in 2017 was a little more than $22,000 annually, which is just above the federal government’s poverty line for a family of three — and as Boteach pointed out, those workers could continue to risk greater infection rates as schools and work open back up. She highlighted the plan put forth by Senate Democrats, the Child Care Is Essential Act — which would provide a bailout to the suffering industry and additional money for those providers to buy personal protective equipment — and cited an estimate that the U.S. child care industry would need a $9.6 billion injection monthly to survive the pandemic.

It’s more likely the next governmental nod to parents and their school-age children will come in the next iteration of the omnibus coronavirus relief package. Congressional Democrats have proposed $350 billion in funds for schools and universities to purchase PPE and clean their facilities. Republicans agree about more funds, though it’s not clear what their proposed number is — some have argued that since many schools will be operating on a partly virtual basis, less federal funding is needed.

The moral tussling that many parents have been doing — go back to work and risk potential COVID-19 infection at day care or school — will likely continue to be subjected to partisan politics. Trump and his Secretary of Education Betsy DeVos have been the loudest voices in recent days about sending children back to school at all costs, much to the chagrin of teachers, many of whom feel ill-prepared for the safety precautions necessary for in-person pandemic teaching. Ultimately, though, it is parents who are forced to make a choice. Atkinson, a mother of six, told me she would be keeping her children home in the fall.

For those who focus on child care, the pandemic has perversely presented an opportunity to advance the cause of greater access to guaranteed services. “This pandemic has created greater alignment of experience, potentially, between white middle class folks who saw this as an individual issue that they were struggling with and outraged by but hadn’t really taken action on and the longtime, long-standing lived experience of lower wage folks and people of color who have struggled for decades with the unaffordability of child care and the lack of care options to meet their work schedules,” Shabo said.

Atkinson said she also hoped the individualism narrative would be shattered by the current crisis. “We want to lift the veil away and help women, especially white women, know that you’ve been lied to. You were sold a bunch of lies: ‘if you just work harder, if you just slay sexism, you’ll be OK.’ But really, it’s a tool to divide,” she said.

The pandemic has shattered norms and paradigms ever since it arrived in the U.S. — our expectations of child care is no exception. What some politicians and activists had long sought to do to no avail — place working parents and their child care crisis on the center stage of American politics — the virus has done in a matter of months.

#IFTTT #Politics – FiveThirtyEight #politics #538 #Clare Malone

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claremal-one · 4 years

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Why It Took So Long For Politicians To Treat The Child Care Crisis As A Crisis

from Clare Malone – FiveThirtyEight https://ift.tt/3fGqvGA via https://ift.tt/1B8lJZR

#clare malone #clarethings

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nofomoartworld · 7 years

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Hyperallergic: A Performance Artist Explores “the Vast Possibilities of Black Female Subjectivity”

Swallow the Fish by Gabrielle Civil (#RECURRENT design by Janice Lee, cover design by Eugene Lee. Civil Coping Mechanisms, 2017)

I recently learned that a woman’s womb develops while she is a fetus, inside of her own mother’s womb. This is somewhat obvious — of course the body is shaped in utero — but it’s romantic to imagine the self as an ancestral matryoshka doll, your first “home” existing two generations before you do. One’s history can become ingrained in the body, like memory or stronger muscles. In Swallow the Fish, a memoir by performance artist and educator Gabrielle Civil published in February by Civil Coping Mechanisms (an independent publishing house that includes the Roxane Gay–founded Tiny Hardcore Press), the first chapter finds the author examining layers of her history, mostly via the narratives she’s ingested since childhood and by which she found herself creatively propelled.

From Swallow the Fish: “Yawo’s Dream” video, with Ellen Marie Hinchcliffe

Civil begins with a discussion of a children’s book, Diane Duane’s So You Want to Be a Wizard, in which young heroine Nita discovers a tome of the same name. Civil interjects: “This is not a factual story from my black middle-class childhood in Detroit … I was nine or ten when I read it … and it has been my story ever since.” Most of Swallow the Fish reads like this: a collage of memories, works, and influences Civil created or took to heart, invoked for reexamination. It is, as she describes, “a metatextual mine.”

Civil has worked as both a performance artist and an educator (first at St. Catherine University, then at Antioch College, where she built and led the Performance program) for more than 16 years. Having earned a PhD in Comparative Literature, writing is, by extension, part of her practice. But the multitudinous Swallow the Fish — filled with poetic meditations, snippets of conversations, outlines of her performances, and a catalogue of each — is more an act of reflection and reclamation. In elucidating her own life, Civil pays homage to the others who have inspired her, the many wombs in which she was born. In an email to Hyperallergic, she explained,

I am haunted by Maudelle Bass, Anne Spencer, and other black women artists whose work has been lost or destroyed. Writing a book may not guarantee a different fate, but it’s a step towards preservation and archiving and taking my own work very seriously. So few maps or models existed for me when I was starting to become an artist. I wanted this book to enter that space.

In the book, she mentions Adrian Piper’s Out of Order, Out of Sight throughout, as a means of referencing all the black female artists “who made art of their lives too often ‘out of sight.’”

Swallow the Fish unfolds like a many-layered onion, pairing details of Civil’s performances with critical examinations of them. In an email to a friend, describing her piece “after Hieroglyphics,” Civil writes, “I felt like the show was terrible, like I was terrible, and who was I to think I could make performance art pieces and really it was all cut-rate and shoddy and shameful and embarrassing.” Perhaps it’s necessary to add to the canon Civil unwittingly builds — a canon of bodies, normally barred from taking up space, deeply moving into it — these moments of doubt, of pain, of rewrites and retries. The path to visibly reclaiming oneself, one’s space, is tricky. For her early work, “25 Targets,” Civil shared poetry materially, placing 25 paper targets around Athens, Ohio, labeled with words she loves, like “stillness” and “gold.” She recalls, “my body, young, plump, brown … laying out the bright orange hunting targets … For some, [the targets] made more work. Too bad. A necessary lesson: I get to take up space.”

From Swallow the Fish: “Yawo’s Dream” video, with Ellen Marie Hinchcliffe

Civil performed her piece “Displays (after Venus)” at Mt. Holyoke University prior to a lecture. As she stood on a table, clothed only in her underwear, a white male instructor barked at her to “turn” and prompted different poses for three minutes. Civil had been inspired by Hottentot Venus—the “stage name” of Saartje Baartman, a young Khoikhoi woman who, in 1789, was convinced by Dr. William Dunlop to travel to London, where she (along with one or two other women) became a stage attraction, gawked at for her large buttocks. Civil questioned Baartman’s assimilation into her role as both freak show and science experiment, her authority over her body, her shame, her complicity. She remarks that one student felt uncomfortable watching “Displays,” telling Civil, “It wasn’t about you. It was thinking about it being me … how much shame I would feel.”

To be seen is to enable others to see themselves, for better or worse, and Civil is quick to invite others to share in her otherwise personal space. Swallow the Fish’s title, in fact, is drawn from a conversation with her friend, who considered swallowing a goldfish for a performance. “I wanted her, a black woman, to stare down craziness,” Civil writes. “Hell, I wanted to swallow the fish myself. To be as loose and crazy and unstoppable as those white lady performance artists like Karen Finley and Holly Hughes and Marina Abramović.”

From Swallow the Fish: “Yawo’s Dream” video, with Ellen Marie Hinchcliffe

Civil feels her friend’s dilemma as if it were her own. To perform an act of transformation is neither completely about an audience nor solely about the performer, but concerns a shared space between them. “More than asserting or informing, I want to experiment, investigate, imagine, create, and raise new possibilities for myself and others,” Civil told Hyperallergic. “The aim of my work is to open up space. I’m more interested in … exploring vast possibilities of black female subjectivity. Performance is the art of presence. It is palpable, liberating and transformative for both the artist and the audience. To this end, it also has the capacity to heal or repair a sense of isolation, anxiety, invisibility or social fear.” Opening space births the potential, then, for many others.

Swallow the Fish is now available from Civil Coping Mechanisms.

The post A Performance Artist Explores “the Vast Possibilities of Black Female Subjectivity” appeared first on Hyperallergic.

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