Hey @horrid-little-pedant I can make you a Boy Scouts/international Scouting movement imperialism/colonialism/not-so-crypto-fascism syllabus if you’d like but for a first tantalizing taste here is:
Fig 1) Robert Baden-Powell, founder of the Boy Scouts and the Scouting movement, on the swastika symbol, from his 1917 sequel to the classic manual Scouting For Boys, entitled Young Knights of The Empire. Its companion book, for Girl Guides/Girl Scouts, authored by his sister Agnes, was called How Girls Can Help Build Up the Empire. The Baden-Powell family, prominent British military aristocrats, were instrumental in the British colonial expansion re: South Africa. Baden-Powell’s inspiration for the Boy Scouts was the Mafeking Cadet Corps, a group of child soldiers formed by Lord Edward Cecil shortly before the Siege of Mafeking that secured Robert’s place in annals of imperial military history. His niece Betty later became--I am choking and wheezing and coughing up a hairball getting this phrase out--Scoutmaster for the. Girl Guides of North Rhodesia. Do not even get me STARTED on, uh. The Peace Light of Bethlehem (tl;dr it’s a program inaugurated in Austria circa 1986 nominally to help ~handicapped children, but of course. In 2005. The International Commissioner of Austria symbolically passed the Peace Light to a delegation of Scouts and Guides from the Palestinian National Authority, comma, just after the Oslo Accords. And then in 2007 a delegation of Guides and Scouts from Austria, Germany, France, Jordan, Israel, and the PNA--by the way, all but Jordan and Israel are part of the Catholic international Scouting branch that generally, depending on region, ‘pledges allegiance’ to “[country], God, Church, and Christian Europe”--they symbolically lit the ~*~Peace Light together. In. Bethlehem. Scouting is the most fucked-up Bad Internationalism movement in the world.)
Fig 2) The Rodlo symbol was designed by a woman who was part of the Polish minority population in Germany, she went to a Sokol (also Scouting!!!) gymnasium, she got a scholarship to study with Wladyslaw Skyoczylas and other modernist naive folk-revival painters at the school of fine arts in Warsaw, she survived the war, she got into this bizarre movement of neo-pagan anti-clerical pan-Slavist ‘nationalism’ that confirms every single thing I said in my undergrad thesis, she wants to take these symbols back from Hitler and stress the uniqueness of the Polish-German border regions that are neither like, fashy Catholic nationalist Poland nor fashy-flavor Germany, unfortunately that’s not how history or visual semantics work. She says it’s ‘rod’ plus ‘godlo’ (pretend it’s a liquid l) but it’s rodnoverie, we know what you’re about, Joasia--or rather, if you have to give a paragraph-long disclaimer every time you present your lovingly-rendered symbol, you gotta just let it go once it reaches critical mass and recognize that that your defensive disclaimers come across as “my t-shirt is raising a lot of questions that are answered by the shirt.” Anyway. This Harcerstwo troupe named after...the Harcerstwo movement that became a WWII paramilitary and subsequently Catholic anticommunist movement adopted it as their symbol. They’re from a small town in the Katowice region and they are. Well. If you don’t want everyone to think you’re fascists then maybe don’t be a paramilitary organization with a Hitler Youth lite flag (if you put the Rodlo on the Polish flag...it’s...it scans as the swastika on the...they know! They’re not oblivious, they do 500 WWII memorial actions per year!). And don’t have your scouts swear fealty in military fatigues while doing the seig heil to the Slavic Hitlerjugend flag in the woods. Ya dig. Their website is like “why are our enrollments declining :(”
idk man maybe your town’s teens want to smoke weed under the bridge and not be put through boot camp after school
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le marquis et le moineau
Marquis de Gramont x f!reader
themes: angst, twisted business associates(?) to lovers, dubious morals, the Marquis has his eyes set on you and only you (but you don't know that ofc)
a/n: this bloody Frenchman has been plaguing my thoughts (thanks to a very sinister portrayal by one Bill Skarsgård). Mind you, I still haven't even seen the film John Wick 4, but I'm a fan of the series, and the morsels I've seen of the Marquis have been more than enough to give rise to a new lil fixation.
word count: 932 ▪︎ more of moineau ▪︎ other works
It started as a little game.
Just some passing fancy between yourself and the Marquis.
Or at least, that was what it was supposed to remain. Only that. A game.
But you should have known better. You should have known that any game played with Marquis Vincent de Gramont may eventually turn deadly.
Your high-risk job at the Continental usually also reaped the highest of rewards.
Tip off the right person and receive a gold coin. Deliver a message, without any bumps or bruises to all parties involved, and your reputation would be given a much-needed boost or two.
This business was danger wrapped in deceit wrapped in glamour. And you knew how to deal the right cards.
Although it seems, things are not as easy when it comes to the Marquis.
Vincent was every bit a menace as his reputation decreed. The Marquis tasked with restoring the authority of the High Table, he was nothing short of cunning and ambitious, prepared to take down any and all those who posed a threat to his objectives.
Dangerous. Deceptive. Glamourous as well, mind you. He was perfectly suited to this world.
He was also brazen, pretentious, snobbish.
And beautiful.
He knew just how to tug at your strings and make you bend. Or at least, he always tried to.
Like he was doing then, in one of the bigger rooms in his palacial estate, wherein only the two of you stood with only a few feet in between.
"What did we agree upon, mon moineau?" His silky accented voice implored.
My sparrow, he called you. The reason for which remained undisclosed to you, not for a lack of trying to wrench it out of him.
Why couldn't he call you something sweeter? Of the more classic French romantic sobriquets?
Chérie, perhaps. Mon amour. Mon coeur.
But no. You were stuck with measly ol' "my sparrow".
Of course, not that it mattered. Perhaps the Marquis reserved his sweeter words for those he actually cared for. At the very least, well-regarded enough to be associated with. Those impossibly beautiful and refined members of European aristocracy that he was so often rumoured to be wining and dining.
Unlike you. Renegade, foul-mouthed vagabond.
You stared up at his pacing figure. "I am fully aware of what we agreed upon, Vincent. What I have done does not breach that. I am perfectly capable - "
His head snapped to you menacingly. "You could have been killed, moineau."
You shrugged. "Consequences. I did not enter this damned line of work without considering the risks. As it goes, getting killed would not exactly be an uncommon occurence."
"Don't jest." He shut his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose, in obvious annoyance.
You took a step forward, trying to find his gaze. "And if I were to... pass... so what? Everything would simply go on. The truth is that I'm already a ghost. Doing what I do in our world makes me some kind of spectre. I am already not there."
You knew this. You repeated this to yourself when you woke, and before you went to sleep. It was the only truth you could hold on to.
Until him. Until some buried, twisted part of you began hoping that he would care.
But hope is a dangerous thing.
You continued, as he kept looking away. "You would go on. Perhaps even find a new sparrow to play with."
You felt it. As your words hung in the air, his entire mood shifted. He straightened, and with both hands burrowed in the pockets of his impeccably tailored trousers, his eyes land on you.
He slowly took a step forward, and then another, until his figure loomed over you.
In all your shared moments, you learned to discern the quick switches in his temper and his expression. But not enough, not completely.
The look he was giving you then was impossible to read.
"You think..." His left hand drifted to the hem of your blazer, toying with it. "... that I..." His index finger then drifted upward over your silk shirt, stopping in between your collarbones. His tongue briefly darted out to wet his lips, catching your eye. "... would simply replace you?"
You finally felt his touch on your face, his fingers delicately caressing your jawline.
He made a fleeting tsk tsk sound with his tongue, as if in disapproval.
"I believe you underestimate just how much you matter to me, mon moineau."
You did your best to remain unfazed. This was the game, wasn't it? Whatever you might think it can become, what you hope it can unravel into - set it aside as delusion.
Don't fall.
It's just a game to play.
Don't fall.
You took a deep breath, then smiled sweetly. Mockingly. "What makes you think I would even pay any mind to how much I matter to you? That line of thinking doesn't work for people like us, Marquis."
"People like us," he repeated, amusement furrowing his brow. "Non, mon moineau. There are no other people like us."
He leaned in, eyes not leaving yours, all but eliminating the distance between your faces. You could feel his breath on your skin, could count the faint spotting of freckles around his nose.
You wished to ask him what he wanted, but held back.
No. There was something better to say.
"What are you waiting for?" You managed to voice the words despite your very heart lodged in your throat.
He smiled, proud of his precious sparrow.
"Mon coeur... I've been waiting for you my entire life."
Ahhh! 🖤 Everybody say thank you Bill Skarsgård and the on-set stylist for the visual treat that is the Marquis.
I'm not even sure if this will find the right crowd - seeing as my lovely followers are of the HotD persuasion. But oh well, I had to get it out of my system.
Could be more of this... idk 🤷♀️ Rest assured I haven't forgetten about all my series works, even the ones I haven't started but said I would do...
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