Today my therapist introduced me to a concept surrounding disability that she called "hLep".
Which is when you - in this case, you are a disabled person - ask someone for help ("I can't drink almond milk so can you get me some whole milk?", or "Please call Donna and ask her to pick up the car for me."), and they say yes, and then they do something that is not what you asked for but is what they think you should have asked for ("I know you said you wanted whole, but I got you skim milk because it's better for you!", "I didn't want to ruin Donna's day by asking her that, so I spent your money on an expensive towing service!") And then if you get annoyed at them for ignoring what you actually asked for - and often it has already happened repeatedly - they get angry because they "were just helping you! You should be grateful!!"
And my therapist pointed out that this is not "help", it's "hLep".
Sure, it looks like help; it kind of sounds like help too; and if it was adjusted just a little bit, it could be help. But it's not help. It's hLep.
At its best, it is patronizing and makes a person feel unvalued and un-listened-to. Always, it reinforces the false idea that disabled people can't be trusted with our own care. And at its worst, it results in disabled people losing our freedom and control over our lives, and also being unable to actually access what we need to survive.
So please, when a disabled person asks you for help on something, don't be a hLeper, be a helper! In other words: they know better than you what they need, and the best way you can honor the trust they've put in you is to believe that!
Also, I want to be very clear that the "getting angry at a disabled person's attempts to point out harmful behavior" part of this makes the whole thing WAY worse. Like it'd be one thing if my roommate bought me some passive-aggressive skim milk, but then they heard what I had to say, and they apologized and did better in the future - our relationship could bounce back from that. But it is very much another thing to have a crying shouting match with someone who is furious at you for saying something they did was ableist. Like, Christ, Jessica, remind me to never ask for your support ever again! You make me feel like if I asked you to call 911, you'd order a pizza because you know I'll feel better once I eat something!!
Edit: crediting my therapist by name with her permission - this term was coined by Nahime Aguirre Mtanous!
Edit again: I made an optional follow-up to this post after seeing the responses. Might help somebody. CW for me frankly talking about how dangerous hLep really is.
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The two most popular reads of the synth plight in Fallout 4 are that of the race allegory and the Red Scare/McCarthyist allegory. In the former example, synths get racialized in a similar way to Black Americans in the late 19th and early 20th century, but just barely. The Underground Railroad is quite literally remade, synths are subjected to slavery at the hands of their human creators and punished harshly for escape attempts. Others have likened synths to fears of immigrants or asylum-seekers from nonwhite majority populations. Synths in these imaginings of Fallout 4 are painted as needing to be saved at the same time as they are vilified and dehumanized – sometimes by the same character over the course of the story. This duality could be a great opportunity for a dive into how white saviorism tends to play out, but in reality it ends up being a messy, deeply uncritical exploration of the impact of race and racism in society. The factions doing the racialization and/or saviorism’s motives are never questioned, and there is a very clear depiction of “good vs. evil” being the end-all-be-all of anti-racism work (again, with no critical thought as to how the “good” side is made almost completely of non-racialized people making decisions on behalf of a marginalized group). Worse yet, it’s contrived. The android-racism analogy has been a thorn in the side of the science fiction genre ever since Isaac Asimov wrote the 3 Laws of Robotics. There’s very few iterations on the idea that have come from popular (white, Eurocentric) media that aren’t riddled with the same aftertaste of white guilt and fundamental misunderstandings of how racism plays out in day-to-day life.
The less common, slightly more agreeable interpretation is that of the Red Scare – which, given Fallout’s inspirations and the setting’s original critique of reliving America’s “good old days”, makes perfect sense. In this example, synths take the role of the Soviet spy: watching over everything Americans are doing and reporting back to a secret base that is plotting to overthrow the world as we know it. Psychological screenings as well as inhumane tortures are utilized to pick synth “spies” out from the good, red-blooded residents of the Commonwealth. A neighborhood is founded entirely around the protection of the “old ways of life”, complete with a white picket fence comically decorated with automatic machine gun turrets. While this is a more charitable analogy that’s grounded in a slightly-deeper-than-surface-level exploration of American history, the Red Scare interpretation is victim to the same pitfalls that plague the racism interpretation.
Midway through the game, the player discovers that there actually is a secret base of evil villains hiding underneath our feet, plotting to annihilate our beautiful Commonwealth lives. People do get taken and replaced by synths, they are in our governments, there is an actual reason for synths to be feared. Sure, some synths are perfectly fine people with no wish to be made tools of the Institute’s tyranny, but that is greatly overshadowed by the fact that the Institute’s stated goal is to use synths to gain control over the Commonwealth. There is no real critique of McCarthyism, there is no ideology to be challenged, because the Communists are here and killing your loved ones in their sleep.
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- minors and ageless blogs dni -
thinking about…night owl sugu and his early riser gf …
he doesn’t know how he managed to freshen up and roll out of bed since he’s practically stumbling into the kitchen with his eyes half closed. he wanted to kick himself for promising that he would wake up for breakfast, but the moment the rays of daylight struck his pretty irises he immediately regretted his decision.
his head was pounding, his stomach gnawing at him in discomfort from being up during hours that he wasn’t used to. he really should go back to sleep, but it’s the start of your blossoming relationship and geto hasn’t figured out how to tell you that these morning activities you love so much just don’t work for him.
he sees you in his kitchen, slicing up fruit while nipping your bottom lip in concentration. he leans against the frame of the wall, and quirks his brow when he takes in the tee you were wearing. it occurs to him that this the first time he’s ever seen you in his clothes, and the black oversized fabric engulfs you, leaving only the stems of your legs and arms visible.
he’s already half hard, and when you turn over your shoulder to brightly smile in his direction it just makes it worse. you start chattering away while he approaches behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist and he rests his chin on your shoulder. you don’t catch his mood, and after letting you ramble for a few minutes longer he brushes his lips against your neck and whispers: “how about we just go back to sleep?”
you pout with disappointment, before insisting that he just needs something delicious to eat to lift his spirits. he can only wonder how he wound with up with somebody who contrasted him in every single way and slumps his shoulders in defeat while the seconds tick away as he focuses on you slicing up the remaining strawberries.
his hands begin to wander, slipping underneath the fabric of his tee as he molds his body against you. he kisses your shoulder as he kneads the flesh of your hips, pondering to himself if his little promise was worth keeping. he can tell you’re trying hard not to get distracted, but he wins the challenge when his hand makes it’s way underneath the waistband of your underwear to slowly rub your clit.
it’s not long before you’re facing him, your back pressing up against the counter while his half lidded gaze focuses on the way his dick sinks in and out of your dripping cunt. your chirpy voice reduced to nothing but gentle pants, while your fists tightly grip onto his shoulders with every thrust he delivers. your thighs quiver when you orgasm, and you would have lost your balance if he wasn’t there holding you in place. with one last push he finally shakes, reaching his own climax and finding his release.
he would have much rather woken up to this, fucked you sweetly in the comfort of his bed and fell asleep in your arms as he grows soft inside you. he pulls out and fixes himself up then uses two fingers to readjust your underwear before grabbing some tissues to quickly clean the mess.
holding your face in the palms of his hands, he places a kiss on your cheek and another on your lips, ignoring your slightly dumbstruck expression before mumbling a quiet: “thanks for breakfast, I’m going back to bed.”
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