#because why the hell are those titles so inherently homosexual
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not romantic. not platonic. but a secret third more passionate thing (a captain and his first mate)
#yes this is about zolu#but ngl it could be abt any first mate x captain ship out there#because why the hell are those titles so inherently homosexual#'i vow to stand by your side until the end' okay so you're married?#zolu#monkey d. luffy#roronoa zoro#one piece#opla
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Death Note Audio Drama 04
Disc 4: Proof of Loyalty - a summary / partial translation
Prior translations / an explanation as to what the fuck this is.
The plot is still manga-close. This episode is honestly fairly boring, it’s full of homophobic jokes that nobody asked for. But hey, Misa is here now!
_____
We begin with a Sakura TV executive conference. Demegawa wants more features like the one about the witness protection victim in Australia. Demegawa suggests provoking Kira or the cops in order to get a story. The ‘moral standpoint’ does truly not concern him. Then a special delivery comes in.
It’s a letter from Kira.
_____
TITLE MUSIC
_____
An announcement for “Kira Speaks” on Sakura TV. It’s styled as a really dramatic advertisement, with echo features and all.
____
Sachiko visits Soichiro in the hospital.
SOICHIRO: You’re late, visiting hours are only until 8.
SACHIKO: The nurse is Emi, we went to college together. She looked the other way for a moment.
SOICHIRO (laughs): My wife... The wife of a policeman....
SACHIKO (also laughs): Do you maybe want to arrest me, chief inspector?
Sachiko notices that Soichiro’s heart rate is no longer monitored. It’s because he’ll get discharged tomorrow. Suddenly, Soichiro notices the TV transmission and turns the audio up.
Kira asks people to turn to other TV channels to see the people there dying, as proof of his identity.
____
L and the Task Force are also listening. L wants to stop the transmission. Ukita drives over to Sakura TV. Misa’s Kira II speech continues very similar to the manga.
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Soichiro gets up and leaves the hospital despite Sachiko protesting and telling him to let his team handle it.
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Ukita arrives at Sakura TV. He threatens employees with a gun in order to get to the studio quickly.
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Demegawa is THRILLED that someone with a gun is coming to the studio. He lets the security transmission of Ukita trying to get in play on a split screen with the Kira video. Ukita gets a heart attack before he can force his way into the room.
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L stops Aizawa from also going to the TV studio. The Task Force realize that Kira no longer needs a name.
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Sakura TV employees realize Ukita is dead. Demegawa goes on air.
DEMEGAWA: My name is Hitoshi Demegawa from Sakura TV. I apologize in the name of the program for the images you just had to witness. We’re not transmitting these news and these messages for any kind of awards or for viewer numbers, but for the good of the populace and to save innocent lives.
[He’s referring to Kira threatening their employees if they don’t send the tape. ]
____
A phone ringing.
SACHIKO (on the phone): Light? Light, are you awake?
LIGHT: Mom? What... What time is it?
SACHIKO: It’s about your dad.
LIGHT: Dad? Is he okay?
SACHIKO: He just discharged himself from the hospital.
LIGHT: Oh, uh, good. Are you two taking a cab?
SACHIKO: He lost his mind!
LIGHT: I get it.
SACHIKO: And he stole an ambulance!
LIGHT: He did what?!
_____
Soichiro crashes an ambulance into Sakura TV, as he does.
_____
Back in the studio.
DEMEGAWA: What happened to the lights?
EMPLOYEE: Power outage. In the whole building. Someone took us out.
DEMEGAWA: Are we still on air?!
EMPLOYEE: I’d say... no.
DEMEGAWA: Who is shutting off my power?!
EMPLOYEE: Oh, someone with a light is coming.
DEMEGAWA: I don’t need a light, I need a transmission in HD!
SOICHIRO: You’ll need a hearse, if you don’t do what I say. Hands up!
______
L and the Task Force want to turn the power off and need Kitamura to keep police away from the building. Soichiro calls.
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Soichiro informs L that he’s got the tapes. He’s escaped and Watari is going to pick him up by car.
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News transmission about Soichiro’s break-in. Demegawa is getting interviewed and repeats his ‘I didn’t do it for any awards’ spiel almost ad verbatim. People online, however, are commending Sakura TV and Demegawa. Demegawa also did a big donation for Ukita’s funeral.
______
At Ukita’s funeral. L and Soichiro talk about whether or not Kira is watching the funeral. They assume no, because there is a lot of police surveillance. L is still not wearing any shoes.
Soichiro informs L that forensics hasn’t found any hints on the tapes and envelopes. L weighs the options of whether or not they’ll say yes or no to cooperating with Kira. He decides they need to decline.
L also points out that there are two Kiras now, based on the different victim patterns and powerset. L also assumes this Kira is younger than the other.
L wants to play the two Kiras against one another and decides to add Light to the task force for real.
______
L calls Light to invite him to the Task Force. After this, Light and Ryuk watch Kira’s answer to the police refusal on TV. Light literally physically got popcorn for it.
On TV, Kira II demands to either kill L or Kitamura and that the police can choose who.
Light is pleased with Kira II so far, but also knows very much that there is risk inherent in their existence. He wants to stay careful.
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TV broadcast of the fake Kira I message that the Task Force made. Misa is listening, delighted that Kira answered. She immediately goes to record an answer video, remarking on how it’s close to Valentine’s day.
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Kira II tape, though not yet live broadcasted. This is the message in which she mentions the eyes and shinigami, as well as sends the fake diary.
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The task force discusses the new tape. They wonder about the terms eyes and shinigami. Light meanwhile is hiding out in the toilet. (L: “Maybe that’s where he gets his good ideas.”)
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Light is FURIOUS at Kira II for mentioning the word shinigami on the tape for public TV. He’s in the bathroom to rant a little while letting water run for camouflage.
RYUK: Come on, soldier. You have to get back in there.
LIGHT: Before they get suspicious?
RYUK: Before they think that you’ve got indigestion.
_____
They discuss the diary entry. Light discovers that it is a message about a meeting place. L then discovers that the Aoyama and the Tokyo Dome entries are about this year and not the year the diary is from.
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Misa humming while getting ready. She wears Nr. 5 perfume.
_____
They discuss how to look for a single person in a place as big as Aoyama. L analyses the speech of the second Kira. He suspects Kira II is a woman.
[Once more, I am largely guessing which task force man is which.... ]
MATSUDA?: The second Kira is... female?
L: I think so, yes. Listen. “Tried out JUMP yesterday. I liked it.”
MATSUDA: JUMP is a boy’s magazine.
L: That’s why she never read it before. “Dumbass Musume concert with the squad”...
MATSUDA: Dumbass Musume?
L: Exactly. Why would she be so negative towards a girl group?
MATSUDA: Because he’s a boy...?
SOICHIRO?: Because she’s a girl that rejects and looks down on mainstream.
MATSUDA: Still sounds like a boy to me.
L: Then this one. “Met the guy in the cafeteria. Not my type.”
MATSUDA: That proves nothing. Maybe he’s gay.
AIZAWA? (amused): So we’re looking for a gay serial killer?
MATSUDA: I’m just saying, this form of profiling is a little... heteronormative.
L: Your opinion about gay men isn’t exactly non-prejudiced either.
MATSUDA: Well, I’m not an expert of course.
L: You assume that a man who acts girly has to be homosexual...?
AIZAWA?: He’s not saying he’s walking around in dresses and high heels. He’s just saying some turns of phrase seem more like a girl.
MATSUDA: I can’t believe you’re all becoming holy knights of equality now. Just because I--
L: Gay men are also allowed to be criminals.
Light hits the table and makes everyone focus again, agrees that Kira II sounds sooort of girly. He sums up that they’re looking for a longer girl who is trying to be social. Someone who is smarter than the people their age but nobody realizes. L says she tried to stick out before by being unconventional. Light jokes about being on the lookout for a punk girl or a gothic lolita. Light also assumes she’s a teen.
_______
MISA: Loves me... loves me not... loves me... loves me not....
Her train stop to get off is announced.
MISA: Oh! He loves me!
_______
The task force is hiding in a van in Aoyama for surveillance. They tell Aizawa to put his binoculars away as to not look like creeps. Light and Matsuda, the undercover agents for the day, come around.
SOMEONE: What the hell is Matsuda wearing?
MATSUDA: I’m just trying to fit in, okay?
LIGHT (laughs): Pride Parade is only in May.
MATSUDA: I am talking about Aoyama. The trends happen in this district, my friend. I’d only stick out with suit and sunglasses.
LIGHT: Just do whatever you want.
MATSUDA: And I will.
AIZAWA: Wait, I got it. Matsuda! I think your cover would work even better if the two of you held hands. Over.
MATSUDA (over the comm): I can’t understand. Please repeat.
SOICHIRO: Forget the order, Matsuda. Those two here had clowns for breakfast.
AIZAWA: Two queens couldn’t do it any better either.
SOICHIRO: Focus, Aizawa. We’re looking for a killer. Keep the channel open.
L is watching from a roof. L orders the task force to split up and check the cafés. Rem and Ryuk are on the same roof as L, watching. L is cold. The shinigami suggest that he’s pretty sensitive, being able to feel their presence.
______
Ryuk and Rem introduce themselves to each other and chat about ‘my boy’ and ‘my girl’ respectively. Both of them are very convinced their kiddo is going to be smarter in this situation. Rem is oddly tempted to throw L off the roof / or kill him in another way. Then Misa got Light’s name and leaves, so Rem leaves too.
______
Misa bumps into Matsuda by accident.
MISA: Hey, watch where you’re walking!
MATSUDA: Oh, sorry.
MISA: ... cool T-shirt.
MATSUDA: Did you hear that?
LIGHT: Hear what?
MATSUDA: I’m on eye level with the kids. Speak their language. ... uhm, I’m just saying.
______
Misa moons over how good Light looks to Rem. She looks him up on social media and finds herself impressed with his grades. (”Just the kind of guy I’d introduce to mom and dad..... if they weren’t dead, that is.”)
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The Task Force is faced with the fact that their investigation didn’t really do anything useful. Aizawa is pissed he had to work on his free day for this. However, Matsuda comes in with a new tape that Kira sent. The tape says Kira II found Kira and nothing else. That confirms Aoyama was the meeting point. L orders to cancel the baseball game in Tokyo Dome, so that the Kiras can’t meet at a second meeting point, since it isn’t confirmed yet if Kira II contacted Kira I.
They now decide to try and turn Kira II against Kira I by making him sound dangerous to her.
______
Yagami household. Misa suddenly shows up and introduces herself as Light’s girlfriend to Sayu. Light also comes downstairs.
MISA: Darling. You never mentioned your sister is such a beauty.
LIGHT: No! No, I.... this sister?
Sachiko comes in and Light asks Misa up to his room, getting away from the crowded situation.
SACHIKO: This came out of nowhere...
SAYU: He kept her a secret from us....
SACHIKO: Look at those shoes. It’s a miracle she’s able to walk in those.
SAYU: I like her. She’s got style.
SACHIKO: You’re just saying this because she called you good-looking.
SAYU: Because a rational-thinking human being would never get that idea, right?
SACHIKO: Oh Sayu. You know exactly what I mean.
SAYU: Of course! No wonder I turned out so meek and shy.
SACHIKO: Don’t be so melodramatic, dear.
SAYU: My own mother thinks I’m ugly!
SACHIKO (laughs): I didn’t say that!
______
Light and Misa are in his room. She explains how she found Light (”I saw you in Aoyama, with your strange buddy Matsuda. What was he supposed to be? A pirate or something?”). They show each other their shinigami.
______
Sachiko is very displeased about Light bringing home such a girl and going up to his room with her to make out. She and Sayu chat about it briefly.
_____
Misa declares her motto is “Live fast, die young... slay all my enemies.” when she explains why she took the deal.
Light and Misa’s “Make me your girlfriend” talk is fairly similar to the manga.
Then Sachiko interrupts to throw Misa out (politely) and the episode ends.
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Montgomery Clift: the untold story of Hollywood's misunderstood star
In a new documentary, myths and assumptions about the Oscar-nominated heartthrob who struggled with his sexuality are replaced with the little-known truth
Jim Farber
Mon 29 Oct 2018 08.00 GMT
or over 30 years, scripts have floated around Hollywood promising to tell the story of Montgomery Clift, one of the most innovative and handsome actors in history. Tellingly, they’re always pitched under working titles like ‘Beautiful Loser’ and' ‘Tragic Beauty’. Guided by the key biographies of Clift, they reliably parrot a narrative which paints the actor as a startlingly attractive and prodigiously gifted man who, according to one notably overheated tabloid TV show “became a drug-addicted alcoholic living in a self-imposed hell because he had a secret he couldn’t live with”.
That “secret” – that Clift was gay during an impossible era (the 1930s through the 60s) – led many interpreters to conclude that the actor must have led a life riddled with fear and shame. It hardly helped lend nuance to that reading that Clift was a well-known and long-time abuser of pain killers and alcohol, actions which likely sped his death from a heart attack at 45 in 1966. Yet, according to a new documentary, titled Making Montgomery Clift, the star’s substance abuse had nothing at all to do with his sexuality. In fact, the attitudes he and his family held towards his relationships with men were strikingly modern.
The movie, which plays at the LGBTQ movie festival NewFest in New York, refutes scores of oft-repeated assumptions about Clift’s life, from his motivations as an actor, to his relationship with his mother to the characterization of his later years. It also stresses Clift’s crucial role in changing the power balance between actors and studio chiefs in Hollywood, as well as the advancements he brought to film acting. More, it analyzes the new view of masculine beauty he helped introduce to the screen.
To help build their case, the film-makers had rare access to the actor’s archives, as well as to the family’s story, courtesy of a special connection: the doc was co-directed by the star’s nephew, Robert Clift, and his wife, Hillary Demmon. “For us, it seemed there was this big difference between what people thought about Monty in the public sphere and what people that knew him would say,” said Clift. “I wanted to figure out why there was such a difference.”
A deep trove of never-before-revealed evidence makes that disparity bracingly clear. For somewhat mysterious reasons, Robert Clift’s father Brooks taped endless conversations with his famous brother, as well as with their mother and other figures relevant to the story. (The director himself never met his famous uncle, having been born eight years after his death). In one tape made by his father in the 1960s, we hear the star’s mother tell him, with untroubled candor, that “Monty was a homosexual early. I think he was 12 or 13.”
https://youtu.be/4vD1dsBm5K8
“It’s obviously a non-issue for her,” co-director Demmon said. “That’s not what people would expect from a mother in that period.”
Then again, nothing about Clift’s life was expected. Born in 1920 in Omaha, Nebraska, Clift was raised like an aristocrat, with a private tutor and frequent trips to Europe. While he never excelled at school, his extraordinary abilities as an actor showed early. By 15, Clift made his Broadway debut in Cole Porter’s Jubilee. Over the next 10 years, he earned prominent roles in plays by Tennessee Williams and Thornton Wilder, opposite stars like Fredrick March and Tallulah Bankhead. Hollywood repeatedly came courting, but he put off offers for nearly a decade, even turning down roles in classic films like East of Eden and the co-lead in Sunset Boulevard.
Taped interviews with his brother reveal that the actor felt those roles weren’t quite right for him and he didn’t want to make the wrong first impression. He also didn’t want to sign a contract with a studio, then the only viable way into the business. “He didn’t want the studios to dictate the kinds of roles he would play,” his nephew said. “He wanted to be a free agent, and he did it successfully. The old Hollywood system was breaking apart and he was a major part of that.”
{John Wayne and Montgomery Clift in Red River}
The first role Clift took, opposite John Wayne in Red River in 1948, offered a stark contrast in masculine presentations. Clift detested Wayne’s antiquated male constraints. He also detested the man. “Monty brought a different masculinity to the screen,” said Demmon. “Here was someone who was vulnerable and sensitive - and who actually listened to women.”
He wasn’t the only one who challenged such norms at the time. Contemporaries like James Dean and Marlon Brando also did. Like them, Clift was comfortable with the full contours, and consequences, of his beauty, playing “the object” in a way previously preserved for female stars. He also helped bring a more natural acting style to film. “That’s why his work doesn’t feel dated,” Demmon said.
He advanced a collaborative approach with his directors, working over scripts and making suggestions for edits. “He wasn’t solely an actor,” she said. “He had a holistic view.”
A fellow actor asserts that Clift was equally confident in his sexuality. Jack Larson, famous for playing Jimmy Olsen in the hit 1950s TV series Adventures of Superman, recalled how Clift gave him a full mouth kiss the first time they casually met. “He was not worried [about being gay],” Larson asserts in the film.
Another confidant said “his personal life didn’t bother him”.
{Elizabeth Taylor and Montgomery Clift in A Place in the Sun}
Observers also point out that Clift had sexual relationships with women. But, in general, his relationships with men had more to do with sex than with a deep emotional connection. A seeming exception was one in his final years with a man named Lorenzo who had been hired to help him. “They went to London to see Laurence Olivier together, ate together, sat in front of the fire together,” Clift said. “Lorenzo came into the picture when Monty was at his lowest. He got him going again. He still drank, but not as heavily. Lorenzo was one of the reasons.”
Clift asserts that the actor’s use of alcohol and prescription drugs stemmed, primarily, from a near-fatal car accident in 1956. He used them to numb his physical pain. The accident changed his appearance, and many biographers assumed Clift felt ruined by it and, so, drank more. But the documentary notes Clift made as many movies after the accident as before, and that those projects included some of his most acclaimed performances. Ex-lover Larson said in the film that Clift actually preferred his work after the accident to his performances before.
Many of the myths surrounding Clift sprang from two biographies: a salacious one by Robert Laguardia and another flawed work by Patricia Bosworth, titled A Life. The film-makers interviewed Bosworth extensively for the movie, but they contrast her words with old taped conversations she had with the actor’s brother. He pleaded with her to make changes to her book to correct the mischaracterizations. While she sounds apologetic, the changes were never made.
As to why Bosworth drew on the gay-self-hate narrative, and why that view took hold, the directors blame the homophobia of the time the book was written, in the 1970s. “The view then about queer people was that they would be inherently conflicted or tormented about their sexuality,” said Demmon. “If you have a story that tracks along that line, that will feel true to people. Which gives that narrative a lot of traction. Now we’re at a historical point in mainstream queer discourse where that story seems less viable.”
Though the film aims to update, and to fairly contextualize, the actor’s story, the directors stress that they don’t want to simply swap one image of Montgomery Clift for another. “We’re not trying to give a definitive version of who Monty was,” added Clift. “Part of honoring someone is being open to that person not being just one, reductive thing.”
source: theguardian
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Closer (Starisi)
Coauthored by the fantastic @giraffe-puppy
Summary: There are a lot of reasons they shouldn’t be doing this. They work together. They probably can’t handle just one night. Peter’s never done anything with a man before. But they’re going to do it anyways.
Warnings: internalized homophobia, mentioned homophobia, smut, alcohol
WC: 5100
Read on AO3
Peter’s already waiting in the bar when Sonny gets there. They have an unspoken agreement that Friday nights are spent drinking the week away. Usually, they don’t get too drunk, but they still have enough for their inhibitions to lower and their shoulders to brush against each other between flirting teases just short of innuendos. This week hasn’t been great, to say the least, and Sonny’s really looking forward to a chance to relax with Peter and not have to overanalyze, overthink. A beer is already waiting on a napkin for him, unopened, when he sits down.
“Long week for you too, counselor?” he asks, nodding to the glass Peter has of something definitely stronger than Miller Lite.
Peter doesn’t look up from his glass, instead he takes a sip and gestures for Sonny to sit. He turns to him, a worn out expression in his eyes that settles into the lines of his face. He looks a older, drink in hand, staring up at Sonny. “Something like that.” Sonny looks like he wants to push, but instead he sits. Peter downs the rest of his drink before flagging for another.
“You sure you’re okay, man?”
Over time, he’s learned that someone’s eyes will tell you a lot more than their words. Ribbing between friends is given away by the twinkle in their eyes. And Peter’s obvious contemplation shows in how he’s looking at him, but not really. He’s looking, not seeing. Time and time again, Sonny’s seen that haunted look in the eyes of someone who thinks they’re going to lose everything. A long time ago, he had the same listless look in his own eyes when he thought that he was going to go to hell for something as simple as watching the swim team with a dry mouth and a tracing gaze down their toned bodies. He’s always had a thing for bigger men. It’s taken time, but he’s come to reconcile his beliefs with who he is. Besides, it’s not like he’s a little kid easily scared by hateful preachers anymore. Sonny knows who he is and he’s proud to say so. Peter, it seems, isn’t so lucky with whatever’s burdening him.
When Peter looks at Sonny, he feels a little lighter inside. Like the world isn’t crushing him, pressuring him to be his father’s son. He sees a man he can be himself with, no formalities, no facade, just two friends talking over drinks. The warm burn of alcohol settles in his stomach and makes his head feel a little looser. Things are a little easier to handle, and life doesn’t feel like one big problem anymore.
“It’s been a hard week,” he says, sipping his scotch, “felt appropriate to end it with a proper drink.”
“Cheers to that.”
As they clink glass to bottle, Peter can feel it ebbing away, stress shifting to the back of his mind until there’s only his friend by his side and a drink in his hand. All his life he’s been plagued with an insufferable shadow. The shadow of his father, looming over him like a vulture waiting for prey to fall over and die. He can never be Peter Stone, he’s always “Ben Stone’s son.” A title he has been cursed with since the day he was born. Sometimes Peter wishes Ben wasn’t his father, sometimes he wishes for a more accepting and loving family. Something you see in those Hallmark movies.
“Sounds like most around here. At mass last weekend they were uh, they were talking about how homosexuality’s a sin. Not exactly a great way to start my week, you know?” The words come out before Sonny can censor them. It’s hard to be openly upset about it, not when his family still doesn’t know and Sonny hasn’t had a boyfriend in a year, a one night stand in a month. “I keep tellin’ myself that they’re misinterpreting, or that I should just walk out but… I never can.”
Peter’s not sure what surprised him more, Sonny’s openness about this topic, or the fact that he can talk about it so casually with him of all people. It must show on his face, because Sonny looks down and takes a long draw from his beer.
“I can relate, my old man had these expectations for me. No matter what I did, I couldn’t escape his shadow. It felt like I was lying to myself… Hiding this part of me so deep inside-”
Peter cuts himself off before he can finish that sentence, he can’t do it. He can’t tell Sonny about this no matter how much he wants to. It feels like a vice around his throat, preventing the words from escaping his lips. When he glances at Sonny to gauge his reaction, he’s sitting there with a concerned expression. Pink lips pulled into a frown, brows furrowed in worry that makes his eyes glimmer with something sorrowful. Peter feels the gnawing guilt flutter in his stomach and tries to push it down with another drink. Even if he could summon the nerve to tell him, he won’t be able to escape the looming shadow placed over his head.
“I know the feeling. My family- it would break my Ma’s heart,” Sonny says.
He almost laughs to cover the awkwardness. It never occurred to him that Peter could be anything other than straight. He played baseball, and he’s always flirting with Olivia, and he just doesn’t seem the type. Besides, it’s not like Peter said anything about being gay, all he mentioned was hiding something from his father. Part of Sonny wants to deny that it’s possible Peter could be gay because then he has to face the fact that he doesn’t have a chance because of his own inherent flaws as opposed to just lack of compatible sexuality.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. But hey, doesn’t mean I can’t dick around sometimes to blow off some steam.”
Peter laughs, the joke helps ease some of his tension. Anxiety and guilt still gnaw at his gut, but it’s not so bad now. Laughing with Sonny makes it easier. Everything is easier with him, Peter knows why, but if he says it then it makes it real. If it’s real then he can’t hide behind anything anymore, and his closest friend will see him. Bare and vulnerable. Peter’s not sure if he’s ready for that. But if he kept hiding behind the lie, how long can he keep it up? Surely the way he’s acting tonight must give it away. He swirls his drink and takes another sip, letting the scotch slide down his throat in a soothing burn, with a bitter aftertaste that matches his feelings.
“I know exactly how you feel, Sonny.” Peter leaves it at that. He doesn’t want to clarify, doesn’t want to be vulnerable just yet. Not when they’re like this. But it’s out there now, open for interpretation, and he hopes Sonny understands.
Polishing off his bottle, Sonny flags down the bartender for another. “You don’t seem the type who picks up guys in bars and just fucks them once.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Peter splutter. It takes everything Sonny has not to openly laugh at him and the flush on his cheeks. There’s innocence to him, inexperience that makes Sonny a little curious about things he’s never considered doing to Peter outside of late nights alone under the covers when he needs just a little bit more to get off. He asks, none too gracefully, if Peter’s ever even had sex with a man before.
A blush crawls up Peter’s neck, dusting over his cheeks and pinkening his ears. He feels an array of emotions, embarrassment, surprise… want. The last one lingers like cigarette smoke, curling around him and invading his senses with every breath. He pushes down the feeling by finishing his drink. Sonny is his friend, he’s just joking around. He can’t mean what Peter’s thinking.
“Y-yeah,” he answers awkwardly. There’s no right way to tell Sonny he’s gay. And there’s certainly no right way to tell him he’s never had sex with a man.
Peter grabs his coat and stands, he can’t handle this. Not here, not now. The twisting, gnawing feeling is back in full force, it’s suffocating him.
“Wait-” Sonny gets up too and stops Peter with a hold on his arm. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I’m sorry. We can forget about it. But you know, if you haven’t, it’s okay.”
The hesitation on Peter’s face makes Sonny’s stomach twist and burn. He crossed a line, like he always does, and now his closest friend is leaving and might not come back. He pulls him lightly back toward the bar, relieved when he follows along and sits down on the stool to finish his drink. At the way Peter’s tongue flicks out over his bottom lip between swallows, Sonny’s heart skips a beat.
Anxiety is still swirling in Peter’s chest, but it ebbs away when Sonny smiles at him. Those lips, soft and pink, turning upward at the corner when Peter had sat back down. He flags the bartender down, this time for coffee. Booze won’t settle his nerves tonight anyway.
“I-I’m not sure how I feel… About you. About anything. It feels wrong, like I’m not supposed to be this way,” Peter feels a memory resurface. A flash of images when he was younger. “There was this boy. He lived three houses down from me. His name was Patrick. I liked him. A lot. And one day, my old man told me not to hang around him anymore. He said that Patrick was a.. a queer, that he was a bad influence on me. I knew he wasn’t worried about me though, all Dad ever cared about was his image.”
Peter spits the last word out like venom, the thought an unpleasant one that sticks to his brain like hot tar. That was the day he knew he could never be out. Whether it was his father’s shadow, or the closet, Peter remains trapped in the cage of the old man’s expectations.
The coffee arrives as ordered, but Peter regrets it now. He craves something stronger, something to wash away the taste of his hatred.
“Well, he can’t control you anymore, and there’s nothing wrong with being gay, Peter. Or bi. Or pan. Or whatever, I don’t know. But what I do know is that liking men isn’t wrong.”
Talking through this is a strange feeling. It’s great to be able to help someone in the same place he was years ago, but it dredges up emotions that Sonny would rather not explore. As he’s thinking about that, Peter’s first words hit him hard. What does he mean, how he feels about Sonny? The very idea that there could be more sends a thrill down his spine in the best way. He doesn’t push it, not sure if that’ll scare Peter off again, but he can’t deny a certain warmth and satisfaction over it.
By the time Peter drinks his coffee, it’s lukewarm. But he swallows it down to give himself a boost for what he’s about to suggest.
“Do you want to talk about this somewhere more private? I don’t know if I feel comfortable… here.” He loosely gestures to the bar and restaurant area. Forlini’s is a high end restaurant, where people come for business meetings or relaxation after a long day in court, not for deep conversations about one’s sexuality, Peter thinks.
Sonny nods and puts a few bills down, grabbing his coat. Peter follows suit. He’s not sure if this is a good idea, but he can’t be here anymore. Places like Forlini’s remind him too much of the oppressive role his father burdened him with in his passing. Besides, anywhere would be better than here.
Outside, Sonny hails the cab. “My place okay?” At Peter’s nod, he rattles it off to the driver and digs more cash from his pocket in preparation for paying at the end of the ride. Neither of them speak, the atmosphere tense and awkward. More than once, Sonny catches himself staring at Peter and tracing the contours of his face with his eyes. He manages not to get caught, turning his attention out the window every time he realizes what he’s doing. The streets drag by for almost fifteen minutes before the cab stops in front of his building and he pays the driver before opening the door for Peter.
The building isn’t nice- the security camera outside has a cracked lens, and the front doors open easily without a lock. When they get into the elevator, it creaks under the weight and hums up several floor before reaching Sonny’s, where he leads Peter into his apartment. It’s nothing special, with Ikea furniture, only a couple of pictures on the walls, and a small but nice flat screen sitting on an entertainment unit against one wall.
“Do you want another drink?”
Peter takes a shaky breath and shakes his head. His mind is foggy from the four drinks he had, any more and he’d be drunk enough to do something he would regret. Sonny grabs some waters for them and guides Peter to the couch. It’s a standard sectional, comfy enough to nap on perhaps.
“So how’re you feeling?”
That question sparks a million reactions through him. He’s scared, mostly. Confused. A bit hopeful. He wants this, but he’s not sure how to ask. He isn’t sure if he has it in him.
“Scared… but I want to believe that this can be a positive thing.”
Sonny smiles at him, and Peter feels the small flutter of hope bloom into something vibrant. He could watch Sonny smile forever, he thinks, but right now he wants to feel better. He wants to feel something real and alive instead of his dead father’s expectations weighing on him. Peter wants to know it’s ok to have these things, to feel this way. He wants that with Sonny. But damn him, he can’t bring himself to ask.
Sonny’s heart is in his throat. “Peter, can I kiss you?”
That’s not what Sonny meant to ask, but he’s glad he did because Peter nods in a continuation of the shy demeanor that didn’t exist before tonight. With his own fear of rejection in his mind, he cups the back of Peter’s neck and pulls him into a gentle kiss. It’s nothing if not sweet. Peter is careful with him like he’s something precious, all relaxed and tender, pulling Sonny closer by his waist. He’s obviously unsure, but he doesn’t pull away and lets Sonny take the lead.
They separate and rest their foreheads against each other. There’s hope and uncertainty in Sonny’s baby blues, a beautiful contradiction when paired with a few stray hairs falling against his forehead. Peter wants to run his fingers through the once perfectly styled coif and feel Sonny close. He wants to feel this man against him, wants his calloused fingers tugging him closer.
Suddenly, Peter can’t get enough of him, and they’re kissing again. It’s more passionate this time. He pulls at Sonny until the other man is almost straddling him. His lips, God, they’re so much better than he imagined. So kissable and sweet. He tastes like pastries and beer, an odd combination, but very Sonny. Peter rucks up his shirt a bit, feeling the soft skin underneath the layers and marveling at the slender muscle he’s built. “Sonny,” he breaks the kiss again to look into his lust blown eyes. “Need you. Please.” Peter isn’t sure how much longer he can resist, but he wants, needs, to take this further.
“Are you sure?”
If he isn’t, if he regrets this… Sonny isn’t sure he could take it. He searches Peter’s eyes for any sign of hesitation, but all he sees is desire. All he feels in Peter’s hands on him is want. All he hears in Peter’s voice is need.
“I’m sure,” Peter says.
He’s barely finished talking when Sonny kisses him again, deeper and a little rougher than before. Internally, he reminds himself that this has to go at Peter’s pace. They have all night to explore each other and to feel everything that they can. Since Peter is already pushing at his shirt, he breaks the kiss again to just yank away the fabric until he’s left shirtless. He grabs at Peter’s suit in response, pushing the coat off his shoulders and plucking the buttons open one at a time. While he already knows that Peter isn’t exactly slim, he doesn’t expect the well defined muscles that move with every ragged breath. His head swims with the desire to see every inch of Peter spread out and open for him.
Peter throws his shirt off impatiently, already working on Sonny’s belt when he stops him. “Let’s take this to the bedroom, okay?” His breathe hitches at the look Sonny gives him, like he wants to eat Peter up.
He lifts Sonny with ease, holding his body against his chest and kissing him all the way to the bedroom. Peter lays him down on the mattress and starts kissing down his jaw to his neck. He wants to mark Sonny up, paint his pale skin with hickeys and love bites so everyone knows who gave those to him.
Peter slides Sonny’s pants off the same time he sucks a pale pink nipple into his mouth. Sonny moans and writhes underneath his touches, but Peter isn’t done exploring yet. He wants to feel, to taste, every inch of him. But just as he moves lower, Sonny surprises him by hooking a leg over his waist and flipping them over.
“Be honest, Peter,” he says gently, “I need you to be honest with me. Have you done this before?”
“No.”
Not once do Peter’s eyes leave Sonny’s body, taking in his exposed torso and the smooth skin of his long legs.
“That’s okay. Let me do the work, yeah? I’ll open myself up for you, then I’ll let you fuck me until I forget my own name. Sound good?”
“Mhmm.”
“Good boy.”
The pet name comes out of nowhere, but as soon as Sonny says it Peter inhales sharply, so that’s something he can use to his advantage. He leans over Peter’s body to get the half-empty bottle of lube from his nightstand and drop it onto his covers. “I’m gonna blow you while I finger myself, that okay?”
Peter nods and watches Sonny slip down his torso until his face is level with his boxer briefs. He gulps, half wondering what it would be like to be blown by a man, half worried that Sonny would be intimidated by his size. But as soon as his underwear is tugged off, Sonny’s eyes flash with hunger. He wraps a hand around Peter’s cock and strokes slowly from base to head, twisting his wrist on the upstroke. Peter hisses in pleasure and clenches the sheets in his fists, God, Sonny is way too good at this.
He looks down just in time for Sonny to wrap his lips around the head and suck. Moaning, Peter bucks up, shoving more of his cock into his mouth to chase his pleasure. Sonny takes him easily, swallowing around the girth and wrapping his hand around whatever can’t fit into his mouth. The slow, soft pace is driving Peter up the wall. He needs more. He whines and bucks into Sonny’s mouth, desperate to finish even when they’ve barely started.
Pulling off, Sonny looks up at him with a lazy smile. “Easy. I still want you in me tonight, yeah?”
While he grabs the lube and drizzles some on his fingers, he pulls off and rests his face on Peter’s thigh and kisses lightly at the sensitive skin. The lube is cold, but he’s less concerned about that than he is getting a chance to ride Peter tonight. He’s thought about this more than he’d like to admit. At the first press of his middle finger, he shuts his eyes and wills himself to relax. Nothing he hasn’t done before.
“Watch me,” he says in a voice an octave lower than normal.
He waits for Peter’s eyes to meet his before he goes back to work. Knowing now that he can’t go too fast, he just mouths up and down the side, tracing a vein with his tongue. Peter makes a strangled sort of sound and reaches for Sonny’s hair. He doesn’t pull, but the gentle pressure makes Sonny’s brain hum in satisfaction. With Peter’s silent urging for more, he adds another finger and moves them a little faster. Even if he could reach his own prostate like this, he wouldn’t seek it out because this has to last. He can’t help a whine at the stretch, however, which makes Peter tighten his grip on Sonny’s hair.
Peter's not sure which is better, Sonny tracing his cock with his tongue, or the sight of him fingering himself open. He absentmindedly thinks about being the one to finger him, to watch Sonny writhe and twist in pleasure as he seeks out that spot. The teasing is almost unbearable at this point, he needs more. He needs to feel Sonny wrapped around him, all tight, wet heat.
Sonny seems to be done prepping himself, because he kisses up Peter's torso, sucks on his sensitive nipples for a moment to watch the man squirm, and kisses him on the lips. Peter moans at the taste, a mix of Sonny and himself blurring over his senses. Need coils tighter in his stomach, making him hump against the thigh slotted between his legs. Soon he pulls away and positions himself over Peter's cock.
“You ready?” Sonny looks like a dream, skin flushed and lips swollen from sucking him off. His hair is mussed from Peter tugging on it, a beautiful mess. He shudders and nods, and Sonny sinks down on him.
Fuck. Peter’s big, Sonny knew that, but he feels much bigger inside of him. Filling him up, making it hard to do anything other than moan and collapse on Peter’s chest. He can’t move right away, too busy getting used to the feeling, but he feels Peter unraveling beneath him, struggling not to move even as his hips keep twitching up helplessly.
“Give me a minute,” Sonny breathes, lifting his face to kiss him again. It’s still as soft as it has been, even though they’re both breathing heavily and flushed. “Christ. Jesus fuck, God.”
“Breathe.”
“I am, God, I am.”
When Peter laughs breathily, Sonny’s tempted to tell him off but instead he sits up and slowly raises himself up until he’s almost completely empty before slamming back down hard enough that he whimpers. Okay, so not like that. He sets an easy pace grinding more than fucking, enjoying the feeling of being so full. He knows that Peter needs more, but he can’t keep up a pace for it.
“Oh God,” he moans.
It takes everything in Peter not to buck up into Sonny's tight, wet heat. He holds Sonny's body close, letting him slowly adjust to his size. “Fuck. You're perfect, Sonny.” Slowly, he's building a pace, now it's less of a grinding movement and more of a gentle fuck. Peter's nearly losing his mind with need, part of him wants to flip Sonny over and fuck him up to the headboard. But he doesn't want to hurt the man. “Please, Sonny. Need you,”
Peter throws his head back and moans as Sonny starts a faster, rougher pace, gripping both of Sonny's hips. He’s not really fucking up into him, he just needs to hold him close. To feel his skin, his sweat, he needs to feel that Sonny's real. That this is real.
He's already so close to the edge, but determined to make Sonny cum first. Peter plants his feet down on the mattress to add more force Sonny's thrusts, and takes his lover’s cock into his fist to pump him. It’s awkward from the angle, but it can’t be half bad because Sonny starts with the most pathetic moans and now he’s an absolute mess, going as quickly as he can manage.
“You gonna come for me?” Peter asks.
Sonny nods, unable to form words because he’s so overwhelmed with how good it feels. He goes silent when he does come, mouth open in a silent scream with his vision whiting out and his entire body humming at the sensations. As he slowly comes down, Peter grabs his hips and keeps him moving. He’s too sensitive, but the only protest he can muster is a drawn out whine. The sound of Peter grunting and repeating his name is absolutely killing him. Christ, if he could go another round so soon he’d get off on that alone.
Peter's so close he can taste it, he just needs a little more. He's chanting Sonny's name like a prayer while fucking up into him, then, slender fingers pinch and pluck at his nipples.
He cums, nearly screaming as his orgasm rolls through him like crashing waves. Peter's hips stutter a bit before slowing to a stop, and Sonny collapses on top of him. He rolls them onto their side and slips out of Sonny, who’s panting, worn out.
“That was amazing.”
Peter looks into his eyes, baby blue glazed over in a post-sex haze. Sonny hums in agreement and snuggles closer. He's more than happy to give his lover the comfort.
They shift until they're spooning, and Peter can feel the sweat cooling on Sonny's back as it presses against his front. He snakes an arm around his slender frame and lazily locks their fingers together. Finally, his mind is at peace. So many things are going through Peter's mind in this moment. He searches for any of the earlier guilt or anxiety, the weight of his father's shadow. It’s there, resting quietly somewhere in the back of his mind, but for now, there’s only him and Sonny.
Peter can’t help thinking about how this changes things. They can't go back to the way things were before… well, before. Things are different now, feelings complicated and muddled up into a grayish haze of uncertainty. Does he even want to go back to the way things were? Would Sonny want that? The more he thinks about these things, the further any hope of sleep goes. The fear of rejection swirls like a storm in his chest, and all Peter can do is lay there and let it rage into a hurricane of anxiety. He doesn't regret sleeping with Sonny, but what if the man next to him doesn't feel the same way?
Similar thoughts come to light for Sonny. This was fun, and it felt really good, but he thinks he might like Peter a little more than he should. Then there’s the fact that this is all new to Peter, he’s probably not going to be ready for a relationship with anyone, let alone Sonny. A sickening sense that he might have taken advantage of the situation makes him a little nauseous but he hides it by pressing even closer to Peter and pillowing his head on the curve of his bicep in a way that makes him feel like the world is crumbling around him a little less. Everything that needs to be discussed can be worried about in the morning.
However, he still doesn’t want to deal with the no doubt heartbreaking conversation by the time he wakes up in the morning still in Peter’s arms. He drags himself out of bed despite how warm and comfortable he is and digs through his clothes for sweatpants to pull on while he makes a pot of coffee. The caffeine has to wake him up, make everything make sense.
Sunlight filtering through thin curtains wakes Peter, as well as an uncomfortable crustiness on his chest. He vaguely remembers Sonny cumming all over him last night, which explains the crusty, white flakes on his torso. He decides to head for the bathroom to clean up. The hot water soothes his sore muscles and clears his mind. They has to talk about this. They can't float around this bubble of uncertainty forever, at least asking where they stand will make things easier. Peter summons the courage to exit the shower and dress in his strewn about clothes, walking in on Sonny making pancakes and eggs in nothing but a pair of sweatpants.
“Good morning,” Peter brushes Sonny's shoulder with his knuckles and swears he can feel some sort of spark under his skin. He pours himself a hefty cup of coffee before helping himself to the bacon cooling on a paper towel covered plate.
Sonny smiles at him and serves them both the breakfast he made. Peter can't help loving the domestic atmosphere between them, like this should be a natural thing. He can already imagine them getting ready for work together, making breakfast and talking between sips of coffee with files strewn over the kitchen table. Kissing at the building entrance before going separate routes. This feels right, but is it right for Sonny?
“Should we talk?” Peter breaks the silence first. “About last night, I mean.”
Quickly, Sonny swallows his bite of pancake, a contemplative expression on his face that makes Peter's stomach twist up in anxious knots.
“Yeah, probably.” He says. It’s much easier to focus in on his breakfast than it is to turn his sole attention to Peter and talk about what they did last night. He doesn’t regret it, but he’s terrified of what this will do to their friendship, to their jobs, to them. “Look, I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have done that, we can just forget it.”
When Peter’s face falls, Sonny’s heart drops with it. “Do you want to?”
“No. No, I don’t because I think I like you but I don’t wanna pressure you into anything and last night was fantastic and you’re really pretty and smart and nice and I don’t know what to do because I never thought anything would happen and I can’t breathe-”
“Sonny.”
He stops in his tracks when Peter’s hands curl around his wrists. His head is spinning. Their faces are inches apart, and at gentle soothing repetitions to breathe, he calms down until he can focus on the bright green color of Peter’s beautiful eyes.
“I like you too. Whatever this is, we’ll figure it out. Together.”
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CHAT UP An open letter to my female friends by Simon Elmer, Architects for Social Housing aka ASH (with Geraldine Dening).
This blog post is a diversion from our usual writing on the subject of the social cleansing of Balfron Tower, however, we thought that it was necessary to remind people about Simon Elmer and Geraldine Dening of Architects for Social Housing and how they operate.
ASH have bullied and intimidated housing activists and those challenging gentrification again and again, bullying and attacking residents, particularly those that criticise the appalling way that Simon Elmer treats people; particularly women and homosexuals.
A somewhat delusional Simon Elmer, mocking up stories about himself in the Evening Standard, 2016.
ASH has architectural plans to sell. They are not there to help you save your community, they are there to exploit it, and exploit you. Geraldine Dening, a Cambridge graduate, and Simon Elmer, who has a PhD from UCL do not live in social housing and they never have done.
They are astroturfing our housing crisis.
Geraldine’s fashionable brutalist apartment on the Cotton Gardens Estate was bought as an ex-right to buy property. They are the problem, not the solution, which comes as no surprise however, given their elite education. These people just see you as £££ signs in their eyes. They don’t care about you or your community; they care about how much profit they can make from it. They are the same people, educated in the same tradition as the people who are trying to demolish your homes and gentrify your community.
If that doesn’t offend you, then take a read of Chat Up, an Open Letter to my Female Friends by Simon Elmer. Don’t be fooled into thinking this was youthful transgression, this was written in 2016 and only scratches the surface of a very sick individual.
“CHAT UP An Open Letter to my Female Friends
On the weekend I tried to chat up a girl. I was in the pub, and a girl across the way was checking me out, mildly, but enough to exchange a few smiles. So I sent my girlfriend over to chat her up. Rare is the girl who can resist Geraldine’s advances, as some of you will know, but this one did. So I went over myself. She was German, which wasn’t a good start. We chatted. We compared the relative merits of Fassbinder and Herzog. I was drunk and boring, I admit, and it was rubbish. I made light of how crap I was doing, although I thought her coldness toward me a little excessive. No doubt she objected to me sending a proxy. So after a while I retired and my friends and I had a laugh about how badly I did. But – and this is the point of my story- although I had noting invested I this, although, if I had actually been interested in her, I would never have approached her like that, and although the whole thing was a laugh to me if not to her, I steal feel the bat squeak of rejection, the remembrance of what this used to be like, pierce the centre of myself. And I thought, fucking hell, this is what most men still have to go through even to get to talk to a woman, let alone have sex with her! Something very wrong has happened to the relationship between the sexes since the Neolithic. There’s a line on an Apollo 440 track I remember that goes ‘What a man has to go through for a piece of arse in the 21st Century is highly ridiculous’ – or something like that. Is there any wonder there’s so much resentment, misogyny and violence in men’s feelings towards women? I’m not saying it’s women’s fault- no woman is responsible for the violence of which she is the victim- but it’s something whose root causes they share in. I have to be careful here, as in no way do I want to offer an apology for non-consensual violence against women, which is everywhere and increasing these days. But it’s not something that is inherent in male sexuality- although I think it is, and in women’s sexuality too, if only they’d admit it. It also comes- and I can vouch for this myself- from years and years of rejection after rejection, and the desperation and resentment that builds. This is a feeling shared by every man I have ever known, including your boyfriend, brother, and the sons you may one day have- whether they admit it or not. And yet we wonder why the world is hooked on porn and women can’t live up to its gratifications. I’m not saying women are wrong to say no to drunken gits like myself trying to chat them up in pubs.- and God knows, with the little boys and wankers you’ve got to chose (sic) from I have nothing but pity for you. But I can’t help thinking it wasn’t meant to be like this, that there was meant to be some sort of reciprocity of desire between the sexes, instead of the oh-so-fucking-boring thrust and parry that characterises every attempt at seduction. If you want to now what men are like once you remove the barriers women erect around their bodies, look at gay men, who are essentially a bunch of dogs that will fuck anything, anywhere, anyhow. If men weren’t so fucking ugly I’d try it myself. But women have to start taking responsibility for the men they’ve created- because let’s face it, when it comes to heterosexual sex women hold all the cards, make all the rules. Men are just trying to get in the game. Women weren’t meant to stand guard over their cunts like they were some kind of commodity to sell, which is exactly what they have become, as every media image or night down the pub reaffirms. They were meant to have their own desires, instead of being merely the object of ours. That, for me, is what a woman is, rather than these traders in their own flesh who exist before the dark mirror of our stares. It’s one of the reasons I love my ugly girlfriend- about whom no truer words have been written than these, which I commend to the instruction of yourselves and your daughters:
Whores- My most lovely one, in such wise are called the public victims of the debauchery of men, creatures prepared at all times to surrender their persons, whether from temperament or for reward; happy and deserving creatures common opinion assails but whom license crowns and who, far more necessary to the society which they strive to serve than are prudes, forgo the esteem an unjust society denies them. All hail to those in whose eyes this title is an honor! Such are truly lovable women, the only authentic philosophers! As for myself, dear heart, I, who for twelve years have endeavored to merit the laurel, I assure you that if I do not work as a whore, I always play as one. Better still, I love thus to be named when I am fucked: ’tis a vilification that fires my brain.
-Marquis de Sade”
By Simon Elmer, Architects for Social Housing. 2016.
You can find out more about Simon Elmer and Architects for Social Housing here:
http://colouringinculture.org/blog/ash
Further public comment on Simon Elmer, of ASH, from Graham Jones, much respected and liked East London activist.
Solar Cunt and Pissing Cock. Another insight into the mind of Simon Elmer. From 2016.
Balfron Social Club
19th April 2018
#simon elmer#geraldine dening#architects for social housing#ASH#sexism#homophobia#ICA#Institute of contemporary art#SPID Theatre#social housing#social cleansing#cotton gardens#london#activism#astroturf#Save Central Hill#Central Hill#Just Space#UCL#Michael Edwards#patmore cooperative
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Friendly reminder that Purity Culture is toxic and sexist to everyone.
It seems, to the proponents of this idealogy that sexual sins are disproportionately the worst, if not the only sins. Virginity=purity=good standing with God. As long as you dont have sex until your wedding night you're following God's plans. Here, i'll break down the bullshit.
keep in mind while this culture affects both men and women alike, women are hit with the brunt of it, and can be led arguably the furthest astray. Girls are brought in by being told how beautiful they are. Daughters of God! Doesnt that title sound desirable? While this message rings true, what follows next is insidious.
They're literally taught to fear men. Everything from their peers to family members. "Boys only want one thing!" Boys are reduced to sex-crazed, emotionless animals. Boys will be their enemy in their fight to remain "pure" for God.
Then, when they ask why it's so important to remain a virgin until marriage, they're told a bigger lie. Sex makes them dirty. As virgins, they're pure, but the second that they might do anything beyond holding hands with a sweetheart, they're filthy. They've lost all their grace with God.
Some of them slip up. Some of them have sex before they get married. By the loving grace of God, who tries to make good come out of even the worst of things, a baby gets made. She's pregnant. This is where the real damage sets in.
Suddenly her friends, her family, her youth group, her church, all treat her as though she's the most disgusting thing they've ever seen.
They kick her to the curb. This girl who made the mistake of being born a human, who are by nature, sinners, committed the one sin that this group decided was unforgivable. Instead of congratulations on her child, wishes of good luck, and the support any pregnant woman should get, the rug gets pulled from under her feet. They call her things behind her back. "Slut." "Whore." "Skank." Any of a host of awful names to put her down. She feels alienated, from both everyone around her and from God.
This is where most Christian girls fall into the trap of thinking that abortion is the correct, if not the only option. Everyone hates her for being pregnant, and after all, this baby will just be an awful reminder to everyone about how much of a "slut" she was. How dare she commit the most heinous sin of being a mother outside of wedlock. What's ironic about this is that most if not all of the proponents of Purity Culture are staunchly pro-life, though id personally describe them as "Anti-Abortion," which ive discussed previously.
Meanwhile, the father of the child gets off scott free. Free from all of the backlash, he goes to confession, or tells his pastor, and suddenly! He's absolved of his sins! Free to go impregnate another girl. This causes several problems, though these problems are also misogynistic at their core. He's taught that he can get away with having sex with as many women as he likes because he cant control himself. He's told that he shouldnt even LOOK at women, and for the few that follow that teaching, it leads to stunted understanding of the female sex. For those who dont, they find that they can get away with it with ease. It's her fault for dressing that way, he cant help but look at her. It's her fault. It's her problem. She was being immodest. She should dress like a... And theres that word "slut" again. The problems this causes for men are there, but they're really the collateral damage of the inherent misogyny. Sexism of either kind is bad for everyone.
Here's the truth.
Virginity does NOT equal purity. Nobody is "pure," everyone is a sinner. You cant live your life and not have sinned against God at least once. Now this doesnt mean you shouldn't strive to do your best, what I'm saying is to constantly remind yourself of the two Bible verses that i think sum up the most important messages about how Christians are to treat sinners.
Matthew, 7:5: "You hypocrite! First remove the beam out of your own eye,and then you can see clearly to remove the speck out of your brother’s eye.
John, 8:7: "let he among you who is without sin cast the first stone."
Treating any sin, from pre/extramarital sex, homosexuality, theft, murder, unjust violence, to disobeying your parents and taking a cookie from the jar, as though it is unforgivable and alienating someone in need of reconciliation and healing in my opinion is the easiest way to send someone to hell, and it might even be yourself. Remember we are all sinners, and we all need to help each other get home.
Id also like to say to any mothers, married or not, single or with whomever they love, congratulations!!! Do not EVER let anybody put you down for being a mom. Your children are precious gifts from God, and i hope that you will always choose the path God wants for you, regardless of your past.
May the blessings of God always be on you all.
✌️
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The Whirligig of Gender Will Have Its Revenges
Over the course of our trip, I was very vocal (perhaps too vocal) about two things in particular:
1) Twelfth Night is my favorite Shakespearean play (save for the possible exception of Hamlet, but lately the odds have tipped from his favor to Viola’s).
2) I absolutely loathed the Globe production that we attended.
By the end of the play, I was deeply incensed (not to mention a few drinks in)-- so much so that I couldn’t stand to stay for the triumphant finale jig and left early. After that, I called home and ranted to my younger sister until I felt calm again and went back to my flat. To be clear, I have never been so emotional about disliking a theatrical (or cinematic) production of anything to this day. I’ve even seen Twelfth Nights I’ve liked less than the one we saw as a class without being half as disturbed or upset by them. “Why then, did this particular version have such an effect on you?” You are not asking yourself this question, because my opinion is neither here nor there to anyone but myself; I wondered this while half-drunk, actually, and later, once sober again, came upon the answer:
As a preface, I would like to point out that, in the 21st Century, there is no wrong way to interpret Shakespeare, so long as you have a particular vision in mind and follow through on your plans. There are, of course, inadequate methods of performing and staging (for the record, I thought that the blacking and acting we saw was effective and skilled), and some Shakespeareans-- particularly those at The Globe-- are especially staunch about leaning into “original practices,” but theater has evolved so much in the last 400 years that even productions that call themselves traditional Elizabethan stagings are not that (consider the Tim Carroll Twelfth Night: where are the prepubescent boys meant to be playing the Viola, Olivia, and Maria? Why is the blocking so modern?) All that is left is the text and its sparse stage directions. I am aware that my disdain for the Emma Rice production is based mainly upon personal preference. However, I like to believe that my opinions hold enough water to be worth the attention and respect of others.
(Under the cut for length.)
My two favorite things about Twelfth Night are, in order, its inherent queerness and bitterness. Make no mistake, being an Elizabethan comedy, it can just as easily be light, frothy, and straight (as evidenced by what we witnessed last week) and even the darkest versions thereof must make room for fun potty humor and slapstick and heterosexual, cisgendered couplings (as those too, are in the text). Those things, as much as any present queerness or anger, are part of the fun of Twelfth Night, and the former is where most of the comedy comes from. But the genderqueer, non-straight, and angry undercurrents that can be detected in this play (whether placed there by its author knowingly or not) go oft ignored. I am disappointed by this, naturally, but never before have I had it thrown in my face this way by a company so prestigious as the Globe.
I think my central problem with the Rice staging was her Feste.
Yes, I did notice that Feste was portrayed by a very talented and engaging drag queen. No, that did not help. But did it make my experience worse? Absolutely, 100%, yes. Feste is perhaps the pettiest, most resentful character in the text. He cares not for the emotions of others, particularly not that of his Lady Olivia, who’s grief he mocks and belittles (granted, this is his job, and at his kindest, he has been portrayed as genuinely fond of her, but more often than not, he is a punch-clock entertainer, who cares only for the emotions of others as long as they will pay him for what he elicits) in his first appearance, after being absent from her court for an extended period of time.
Feste. Good madonna, why mournest thou?
Olivia. Good fool, for my brother's death.
Feste. I think his soul is in hell, madonna.
Olivia. I know his soul is in heaven, fool.
Feste. The more fool, madonna, to mourn for your brother's
soul being in heaven. Take away the fool, gentlemen (5.1. 357-362).
His only real interests throughout the play appeared to be song, logical wordplay (”simple syllogism[s]”), crude jokes (”many a good hanging prevented a bad marriage”), weaseling pocket change away from the rich, and enacting petty revenge. At his best, he’s a puckish partygoer and delightful busker, at his worst, he is apart from all other social groups in the play and cruel to at least the same degree as the bear-baiting merrymakers.
“Earlier, Malvolio had mocked Feste for his dependence on others... But [Feste] also mirrors Malvolio specifically as a dependent in a court and as one the play most clearly shows as a solitary character. He is the one who echoes Malvolio’s words about dependency on approval in shortened form, ‘An you smile not, he’s gagged’ (5.1.363-4), back to him at the end. And after he exults ‘Thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges’ (364), Malvolio in turn mirrors him, promising his own revenge” (66 Novy).
Feste is at his most useful when existing as a mirror for other characters-- he contextualizes his lady’s grief with cruel mockery, challenges Viola’s wits and disguise, and most importantly, shows Malvolio the cruelty that he callously doles out. When his dialogue is chopped up into saintly wisdom from a loving goddess in the Heavens, his status as a dynamic character and device is stripped from him. When Feste is robbed of his archetypal trickster-status, it weakens the core themes of the play which are written into the very title (as Twelfth Night and the Feast of Fools were, of course, traditionally a day of opposites, much as Feste the wise fool is a natural mirror and walking contradiction). When he is robbed of his anger towards his social betters (Olivia and Malvolio), this is further weakened.
My qualms with making Feste a benevolent Goddess are based entirely upon the text; my problems with casting said benevolent goddess as a drag queen are two fold. My first is in the broader scope of media representation of drag queens, trans women, and feminine genderqueer persons. Most often, the cinematic and theatrical tradition is to demonize such individuals as lascivious perverts, which is obviously dehumanizing. As well-intended backlash, many younger content creators have thus spun around done the patent opposite by deifying them (this is also, notably, a dichotomy experienced by black women/femmes, be they cisgender, trans, or otherwise gender nonconforming). Deification is in its own way a subtler form of dehumanization. Much like the treatment of so-called virtuous women in the Victorian era, the representation of any group as somehow morally superior or “above” the rest of the rest is restricting. An anti-Semite might do well to wonder: “Hath a Jew not eyes?... If you prick us, do we not bleed?” but any white, cisgendered woman who routinely refers to black women and femme queers as “black goddesses” (which is absolutely a thing, as those of you who frequent tumblr, twitter, pintrest, or instagram most likely know) should be reminded that, just like all people, black queer femmes fart and defecate regularly, and they, like all other members of the human race, run on a sliding scale of morality, wisdom, and grace, depending on the individual. The archetypal example of this “heavenly body” trope is Angel of Rent, being a Latina trans-woman (or gender-fluid person, or drag queen, depending on the interpretation) who is always given the moral high ground, dies a tragically noble death, always has resources to bestow upon the less fortunate, and is literally called “Angel.” Much like Feste, she is the only gender non-conforming femme poc in her cannon, and that, paired with the erasure and demonization of this particular group that has been so common in Western art and media, leaves them as the sole representation of said group to be found in fiction. Each time a character of a group so mishandled as that is brought into play, that character becomes a mouthpiece for the entire population of such individuals that exist in reality. The trope of the black, femme goddess is much kinder than the demonization and willful ignorance of old, but in 2017, we should be beyond this refusal to portray those who exist outside of the white, straight, cis hegemony as anything other than individuals as complex as everyone else in their canon. Anyone who is tempted to bring up the “Sister Topas” scene as a counter-argument is welcome to it, but this derives from a halfhearted attempt to recast Feste as a personification of fate after four acts of being nothing but sage and understanding. It is not deeper characterization, as it is not played as either vengeance or cruelty-- at best, it is a twist of fate personified, at worst, it is whoever doctored the script backing themselves into a character-writing corner by striping Feste of his humanity.
My second challenge to the choice of La Gateau Chocolat as Feste is that her place in the cast is by its very nature misleading. Twelfth Night is well known among Shakespeare fans as one of the (if not the) queerest Shakespearean plays. It is well-known for featuring one of several Shakespearean Antonios, all of whom are noted for their non-explicit homosexual passion (Twelfth Night’s Antonio’s love for Sebastian is second only to the Antonio of Merchant of Venice and his suicidal devotion to Bessanio, and the villainous Antonio of The Tempest finds his match and constant companion in an equally rotten Sebastian.) Also present is the wooing that takes place between two women, and the Duke Orsino’s apparent attraction to one who is “both man and maid,” whom he never ceases to refer to as “boy” or “Cesario,” even after learning “his” true name and gender. Moreover, of all of Shakespeare’s cross-dressing Paige Boys, Viola spends the most time as her male counterpart, who’s name, as we discussed in class, translates roughly to “rebirth” by way of “cesarean section.” I bring these up because each of these characters have been stripped of their queerness systematically. Cesario/Viola is often played as not just a cross-dresser for strategy’s sake but a genderqueer individual in earnest; Olivia’s realization that Sebastian is not his sister has been played as a horrible, sinking realization; Antonio is often left on stage alone to highlight his loss of Sebastian to heterosexual tradition. I am by no means saying that stagings must be this way or that they must reflect this queer undercurrent, and I have liked versions of the play that exemplify few or none of these choices. My problem with Rice’s Twelfth Night is that, not only does it ignore the inherent discomfort that Feste and each of these queer characters experiences when played as such, but she has dressed her staging up as a celebration of queerness and diversity when that diversity only runs skin-deep (at least, in terms of the aforementioned and belabored queerness.)
I have already explained my problems with Rice’s Feste, so I will now move on to two new subjects: Malvolio and Sir Andrew. These characters are blatantly coded as queer in that Malvolio is played by a cross-dressing woman and Andrew is played as camp gay. However, that is as deep as the queer vein in this staging runs. Malvolio is not traditionally a queer character (although he is often the subject of “genderbending” to varying degrees of success), nor is he played as queer on stage. He is only branded as such due to being played by a woman, despite being played as a man. Andrew’s status is particularly egregious, as-- in being both comically stupid and violently mean-- he is the most difficult to sympathize with of any character; he has no compelling emotional core written into the text, nor is any planted into Marc Antolin’s portrayal of him. He is also a wooer of Olivia’s and, as far as the text and blocking is concerned, more “metrosexual” than homosexual in earnest. What this does is play all stereotypically gay mannerisms (those that he possesses which Antonio, Sebastian, and even the preening Duke evade whether they are played as queer men or not) for laughs and nothing else. “It’s funny,” the audience says, “because he’s in a pink sweater and he’s got a funny lisp.” Meanwhile, Olivia never notices her very real attraction towards another woman, the Duke Orsino’s sexual identity crisis is just barely hinted at, and most questionable of all, Antonio is played as a father figure to Sebastian. Lawman’s Antonio’s body language is neutral and distant, not half as wracked with passions as his lines:“If you will not murder me for my love//Let me be your servant” (1.2.642-3) and “ I could not stay behind you: my desire//More sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth” (3.3.1492-3).
In conclusion: Rice’s staging of Twelfth Night may be good for a laugh, but it robs the text of its philosophical weight, its bitterness, and its genuine queer discomfort, thus replacing these things with a light gloss of queer acceptance by playing “We Are Family” at the beginning and giving Sir Andrew a pencil mustache. I am not upset that Rice’s staging was not queer or angry enough for my liking; I am upset because her staging insisted (whether she wanted it to or not) that a wave of sequins and a disco chorus should be queer enough for me, and I ought to stop being so angry all the time and accept what I’ve been given.
SOURCES:
Novy, Marianne. “Outsiders and the Festive Community in Twelfth Night.” Shakespeare & Outsiders. Oxford University Press, 2013.
Shakespeare, William. "Twelfth Night, or What You Will." Open Source Shakespeare. N.p., n.d. Web. 18 June 2017.
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Division II Retrospective
Nyk Lifson
Hampshire College 2017
Taking Invertebrate Zoology was a great class. We spent a week studying cephalopods and then I got to dissect two sepia officinalis, common cuttlefish. This was a fantastic learning experience where my interest in my own personal gender exploration is realized in marine life. Dwarf male cuttlefish in many species participate in mating rituals where they flash “female” patterns to appear female to pass by large male cuttlefish to deliver their sperm packets to impressed females. Queering of gender happens more often in invertebrates, which is something that binary science does not teach. In school systems we still label parts of plants as having female and male reproductive organs which makes no sense. There are not even two genders within humans, intersex people exist. But, we are taught that this is unnatural? Slipper-shell snails of New England are hermaphroditic and often both reproduce and send off sperm. This is a very common endemic mollusc, yet these are not common facts that are taught? Instead charismatic megafauna is what conservation focuses on. But, what about transgender organisms?
Homosexuality and the blurring of gender lines are extremely common even within mammals. I was able to continue looking into these studies. I feel like this is important work, not that anyone is going to trust studies anyways because radicals will not even believe in climate change. But I am not studying why people stay willfully ignorant, I am lucky enough to be studying parrotfish with supermales and land snails that change their organs to reproduce whenever a mate crosses their path. Humans are the ones lacking in evolution, stuck in a binary. That is why my Div II is still called getting weird underwater. I leave division two needing two more class requirements and a project to complete The Five College Marine and Coastal Science Certificate.
I did not study enough film in these past two years, and that is one of my bigger regrets. I had tried to get into the claymation class being offered this past spring, but messed up my scheduling. I am imperfect. I am not the most organized person. I also am not the best when it comes to due dates. I work on these skills every day, but can only achieve so much when working a job, playing rugby, being a signer, and a full time student. I took Video 1 with Lucretia Knapp, it was a Queer film class where I learned to make a rotoscope. I filmed in interesting abandoned locations and made a music video for my non-binary friend and invited other trans* friends to come into the woods and make art with me. I got to break some bottles, splatters some queers with blood, and had a great time. The editing process went not as well as I planned due to an unforeseen concussion I got playing rugby my 1st spring semester of Div II. I finished my classes that semester and then went abroad over the summer, so everything worked out. Both videos I made in this class I will have links to in my portfolio.
The more important skills I learned in my time at Hampshire are that I am a survivalist. I can and will flourish. I am capable to continuing on. I have to do more work than others to grow and I try hard every day. I will not let my past or who others think I am stop me from living. I will not let people, places, or unknown languages be barriers to my discovery and thirst for knowledge.
One important part of my growth was that I realized I am an alcoholic. This really stunted me at Hampshire. Many professors told me to take a semester off. I know myself. If I went on medical leave I would not have come back. I would not finish school for years. I wonder what would have happened if I had transferred or left, but I did not. I stuck with my education. I want a degree because no matter what happens to me in this world, no one can take my education from me. I am privileged to have family who can pay for part of my schooling and to have access to a liberal arts college like hampshire. Many of my friends in Kentucky went to state schools and then fell through the cracks. I am grateful to Hampshire. That being said I became the jaded older student I knew I would be. Hampshire is still an institution, so it is inherently racist/sexist/ableist/homophobic/and transphobic. That can be seen in my mostly white professors and being misgendered in evaluations. That is felt on campus. This is all relevant because I withdrew from classes each semester because I had too high of expectations for someone in recovery. I always want to learn more than my workload can truly handle.
Around 4am the night before my Prose Poetry final portfolio was due I realized how little I have done in the last two years. This was startling. It washed over me. But now in the light of day I see that is not true. I can argue why this should not matter due to being a Hampshire student. I have had a job this year while working, being in recovery, taking classes at three colleges, and living in a trump era. It is difficult to write job applications when all I really am interested in academically is queer fish and dragons. Oddly enough, I just want to be a firefighter or first responder, which is not what I am taking classes for.; I want to someday have enough money to house multiple foster kids. I will most likely not have a legal gender in my home state. And my average life span to beat is 26. I know this is supposed to be about my academics, but I don’t want to go to graduate school.
After reading A Cyborg Manifesto by Donna Haraway and Embracing true monstrosity, I gave my character, Iphis wings to fly. I wrote in a dragon myth after learning about Queer dragon-based creation stories from Ancient Ghana. I have inspected my everyday colonialism. Sitting in a mostly white class in Massachusetts. Every cryptid is dragged through the dirt. Looking at geographical mountain ranges and local reptiles in the area. Dragons are a powerful myth in mosts cultures around the world. Dragons live among humans. Some humans are dragons. We are constantly trying to build from trauma and hurt others. I took took risks and did research for my upcoming DIV III. I am planning on taking an oceanography class next summer. I also am taking two marine science classes next year. I have to live in the science world to have a say in it. But I have a proposal for my research project. I want to draw a coloring book of queer sea creatures. Ones that science talks circles around to make sense of a gender that does not matter. I could title it “Nemo was a lie” but I won’t. Clownfish always have one that is the largest that can lay eggs. They change systems for this rule. The rest are at a certain age changing to what binary-biased-science deems, female.
A degree is one of the few things in life no one can take away from me once I obtain. I could lose a house, car, children, pets, the clothes off my back, but never the knowledge I cultivate. My life may be taken away but never my schooling. I owe it to those who are not fortunate enough to be given the opportunity to go to a liberal arts school, or college in general. That is the argument I have used to stop myself from dropping out. The animosity I have experienced from students and administrators on this campus has made me want to leave on a multitude of occasions. I live off campus and no matter how many times I am offered to drop out I march on towards an oval diploma. Because learning never ends. Neither does my passion.
I took many classes in preperation for Division III and have been seeking literature for reference in my free time. I have continued to study androgyny in fiction and how race intersects with feminine and masculine imagery.
In my Prose poetry class I did my presentation on Audre Lorde; a black lesbian, poet, and activist. I read speeches and her compilations of poems late at night in the Mount Holyoke Library. My other presentation was on Yusef Komuntakaa and two of his works. He mainly deals with the vietnam war and experiencing cross-generational diaspora.
In Professor Susan Loza’s class I learned about marginalized monstrosity. I read Octavia Butler, Ursula Leguin, and this fantastic article called Punks Bulldaggers and Queers. I wrote about the consumption of bodies and queer people of color. Constructed bodies through diaspora and trauma. I think this needs to be a requirement. Being open minded and respectful of historical oppression that is the elephant in the room in everyday life.
In Dragon Myths--Global Symbols of of Power at University of Massachusetts, Amherst. I gave a presentation on Both South African cryptids and Eastern European myths. In addition I researched in my free time each week background information at every myth would read. I strengthened my research skills by looking through an anthropological lense. We asked questions about how the victors of colonization might have changed these stories? How do local religions and systems of power influence oral story-keeping? How can typography and endemic species influence these mythological creatures? How do bias’ come into play? How could translations have changed from the primary source?
Learning for learning’s sake is rewarding but hard to explain why my education isn’t a waste of time. I have hated school passionately since I was in middle school. I went to both private and public learning institutions and both seemed full of bull shit. But maybe that is just life? It is not that I do not want to gain knowledge, but the way that normalized education systems go about it makes me want to rip my hair out. That is why I am so grateful to Hampshire. I have been able to follow my interests with very little push-back and a whole lot of understanding. I am not planning on going to graduate school and I sure as hell did not think I would make it this far at any institutional learning facility. The fact I am finishing my third year of college alive, with my head held high, is a goddamn miracle. I was thinking of how to change my Division two contract to seem professional and like I know what I am doing. But, in the last three years the glimmer of truth has show through to the surface; no one at this damn school knows what is going on. So, instead of lying through my teeth, here is a full account of what I have fought tooth and nail to learn.
Invertebrate Zoology with Stan Rachootin was incredible. I missed plenty of class due to it being at 8:35am at Mount Holyoke twice a week and then 9am on Fridays, but I only missed one lab. We studied molluscs for two weeks and one those consisted of cephalopods. Considering in depth interest in cuttlefish, I was overjoyed. I dove into my studies and made it out with an A- in the class. I got to dissect not one, but two sepia officinalis and a multitude of other inverts including a lugworm and a scallop. Stan lent me reading materials on cephalopods including an anatomical guide for sepias. I gained insight into sequential hermaphroditism and how common it is among marine invertebrates and fish. This has sparked a personal study of mine compiling a list of queer marine organisms. There are so many clear instances in science where the gender binary is a hindrance upon data collection. I hope to unpack and then rearrange that data in my own research on creatures such as parrotfish and moray eels.
I was in over my head in my Conservation Biology class at Amherst College. I made that decision, though. I wanted to be in a 300 level class where I was the only 2nd year compared to the seniors and juniors. My writing was not that great. I was battling my addictions and myself that semester. I missed a presentation and turned in a paper with horribly done citations. I did give two well thought out and researched presentations, one in a group and one by myself. My teacher was not quite impressed with how I presented my work. My final research project was on cuttlefish conservation. No shock there. That class required a post a week on our readings and to read many wordy articles to be discussed in class. I held my own in a room with more experienced Amherst students. Most importantly we all learned how to look for bias and statistical flaws in scientific articles. Which, in turn, helped me in my research.
I am studying video, yes I am including this even though I only took one film class. I still am passionate about film. I have been doing projects on the side and tried to take multiple classes but either they clashed with my schedule or I was unable to get into them. Independently I have made vlog pieces and an animation. I continue to study film outside of class. In Myth’s of America I did a final project based on Emily Dickinson. I went out into the woods in the pioneer valley for my own work and then experimented with found footage. This piece was a discovery in collaborative work and got me through the grieving process over my past self and my grandfather passing away that semester.
I took a Queer Film class with Lucretia Napp. It was a positive experience. I learned how to make a rotoscope animation, which was very exciting. Then I made a music video for my friend with all non-binary representation in the footage. There was a lot of fake blood and a lot of queers, which is the epitome of a fun film shoot. I was recovering from a concussion I received while playing rugby, so my editing was not my best work. But, I overall am happy with the way it turned out and Cass Hoke, the musician and a dear friend, loved the outcome. In addition, I was exposed to a lot of queer documentary and short film work that I had never seen before. Those influences benefitted my end project.
Creative writing, the book that is a little bird trapped in the cage of my soul and has been begging to fly out. I just needed the key, and that key was Nell Arnold. Being in a room with her I felt like a fraud. I am no artist, and as you can see I have no understanding of grammar rules. Yet, I found myself lucky enough to be one of the 16 people chosen to be in her group. I got to explore characters that I would be friends with. But mostly, I got to listen to Nell. I had never been in a room with someone who made me feel like a better writer by sharing the same oxygen. Her diction is on point and she is ever-so-eloquent. I worked my butt off in that room, editing peer work and trying to not be afraid to write from perspectives that I struggled imagining.
Both of my classes with Thom Haxo were for my mental health. He is the same flavor crazy that I am, so we got along smashingly. I found a niche where I produced upcycled artwork based on my creative writing. I was able to create performance pieces where I would read out loud and interact with the art physically while bringing viewers into the story. This helped me with figuring out my process in designing characters. I am not in school for my art because that is more of a coping skill than something I want to study, but I plan on having illustrations as a final part of my DIV III. Thom’s class boosted me in my confidence with my work and to not be afraid to go with what feels right.
In Susanna Loza’s class I kickstarted my research for my division three. I read Cyborg Manifesto by Donna Haraway, Wild Seed by Octavia Butler, and The Left Hand of Darkness, and many other valuable works. My final paper looks into depictions of androgyny in science fiction and fantasy. The saddening part was how little representation I found in both research and actual literature I could read. I was hindered by emotional setbacks, rendering me unable to fulfill the amount of time I needed for research and actually writing my paper. I am not pleased with my end work, but I am so glad I was able to spend time in a theory class looking into what I am most interested in. This was a valuable class that opened my awareness and I worked more on my multicultural perspective. Cyborgs are androgynous, aliens can be, scifi full of asexually reproducing being is trans*.
Why did I withdraw from so many classes? First you must know what add drop looks like for me. I start out being enrolled in as many classes as possible, show up to the first class for all of them, and then withdraw from the ones I do not need/like/or can not make it to. After that I often will stay in a larger class load than I can handle because I am optimistic in my goals at the beginning of the semester. I am paying enough money that I try to get my money’s worth from school. This goes south about midway and I will realize that I have either not gone to a class or am unable to keep up with the demands. I withdrew from RAD because it is a gendered self defense program that is partially taught by a cisgendered male. I never went to a single class because of those two reasons. I withdrew from Oceanography because my seasonal depression made it difficult to get out of bed at the ungodly hour of 7am to catch a bus in the morning. I am disappointed in myself because I needed to take Oceanography to for credit in the Five College Marine and Coastal Science Certificate I am working towards, but hopefully I will take the needed class over the summer.
I regret not being a Teacher’s Assistant for Pat, because she is doing great work at Hampshire. Lemelson is a cis-male dominated space that tries to be inclusive, but like most shops, falls short. She is being payed not enough to do so much. I took glass blowing from her and realized that my hands are amazing tools. Pat has been fighting the patriarchy in shops for years by teaching and creating like a badass. I had wish I had had enough spoons to TA that class, but I really needed to take care of myself. The bond we could have explored is a loss I still am saddened by. This is one of my bigger disappointments.
I am proud of myself for:
Being a Signer of the QCA
Asking for help (writing center/talking to teachers)
Taking classes at all five colleges
(mostly) Navigating the PVTA
I realized that my goals from DIV II were actually just me knowing what I wanted to do during my DIV III. The road to my final projects was confusing and a journey, but I do feel like I cam out the other end with skills for my future. These past two years I have acquired so much self-wisdom, but that is hard to put into an academic context, even though it happened within an academic bubble. So what did I do? I wrote, read, and remained undead. I dreamed and hung out with starfish. I am my biggest critic. But, I have accomplished so much in spite of all of my pitfalls. I am prepared to write a book and make a coloring book my last year. I gained some maturity and learned some valuable life lessons. I figured out my work ethic and found my voice.
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