#try some judith butler if you need a starting point | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

a-room-of-my-own · 3 years

Text

A while before the latest hoo-ha about Judith Butler, I had just been reading her again. Though she claims her critics have not read her, this simply isn’t the case. I read Gender Trouble when it first came out and it was important at the time . That time was long,long ago. She was just one of the many ‘post-structuralist’ thinkers I was into. I would trip off to see Luce Irigaray or Derrida whenever they appeared.

I got an interview with Baudrillard and tried to sell it to The Guardian but they didn’t know who he was so its fair to say I was fairly immersed in that world of theory. For a while, I had a part time lecturing job so I had to keep on top of it. Though Butler’s idea of gender as performance was not new , it was interesting. RuPaul said it so much more clearly in a quote nicked from someone else “Honey ,we are born naked, the rest is drag”

What I was looking for again , I guess is not any clarity – her writing is famously and deliberately difficult- but whether there was ever any sense of the material body. She wrote herself in 2004 “I confess however I am not a very good materialist. Every time I try to write about the body, the writing ends up being about language” .

Butler from on high ,cannot really think about the body at all which is why they (Butler’s chosen pronoun) are now the high priestess of a particular kind of trans ideology. The men who worship Butler are not versed in high theory. The fox botherer had a “brain swoon” at some very ordinary things Butler said. Mr Right Side of history nodded along in an interview. Clearly neither of these men are versed in any of this philosophy and would be better off sticking to tax law and the decline of the Labour Party. Butler is simply a totem for them.

Butler said in the Guardian interview for instance “Gender is an assignment that does not just happen once: it is ongoing. We are assigned a sex at birth and then a slew of expectations follow which continue to “assign” gender to us.”

So yeah? That’s a fairly basic view of the social construction of gender though I take issue with the assigned at birth thing ,which I will come back to and why I started reading her again in the first place.

This phrase “Assigned sex at birth” is now common parlance but simply does not make sense to me. I am living with someone who is pregnant. I have given birth three times and been a birthing partner. I know where babies come from. There is a deep disconnect here between language and reality which no amount of academic jargon can obliterate.

Babies come from bodies. Not any bodies but bodies that have a uterus. They grew inside a woman’s body until they get pushed out or dragged out into the world.

The facts of life that we are now to be liberated from in the form of denial. Only one sex can have babies but we must now somehow not say that. The pregnant “people” of Texas will now be forced into giving birth to children they don’t want because they are simply “host bodies”. The language of patriarchal supremacy and that of some of the trans ideologues is remarkably close, as is their biological ignorance.

There is no foetal heatbeat at six weeks for instance. When a baby is born , doctors and midwives do not randomly assign a sex, they observe it and they do it though genitalia.

There is a question over a tiny percentage of babies ,less that one percent with DSDs but even then they are sexed with doctors having difficult conversations with parents about what may happen later.

Somehow, though when I read the way in which this is now all discussed it is clear to me that the people talking have never been pregnant, never had a foetal scan, never been near a birth , never miscarried, do not understand that even with a still birth babies are still sexed and often named.

If you want to know the sex of your baby you can pay privately and know at 7 weeks ((*49-56 days from the first day of the mother’s last menstrual cycle). A 12 week scan will show it. That is why so many female foetuses are aborted . I have reported on this.

Talking to paediatricians about this is interesting because they do indeed have to think through these things that we are being told are not real eg. that sex is just a by-product of colonialism for instance. Sometimes pre-conception , geneticists will be looking at chromosomes because certain diseases are more likely in men or women. Males have a higher risk of haemophilia for instance.

One doctor told me “When babies are premature, the survival advantage of females over males is well known throughout neonatology. This is sometimes something we talk about with parents when there is threatened premature labour around 23 weeks' gestation and options to discuss about resuscitation and medical interventions. In fertility treatment (or counselling around fertility in the context of medical treatments) it is pretty inherent to know whether we need to plan around sperm, or ova + pregnancy.”

She also said that if she involved in a birth that “assigning” isn’t the word she world use. “Observed genitals a highly reliable observation, just like measuring weight or head circumference which is also done at this time. “ Another doctor said that anyone involved with a trans man giving birth would be doing the best for the patient in front of them.

Sex then is biological fact. A female baby will have all the eggs she will ever have when she is first born which is kind of amazing. It is not bio-essentialist to say that our sexed bodies are different nor is it transphobic to recognise it.

Except of course in my old newspaper ,The Guardian who are now so hamstrung by their own ideology they have got their knickers in such a twist they can barely walk. They completely misreported the WiSpa incident , basically ignored the Sonia Appleby judgement at the Tavistock. Appleby was a whistle blower ,a respected professional concerned with safe guarding. She won her case. The cherry on the cake this week was an interview with Butler, themselves (?) in which they went on about Terfs being fascists and needing to extend the category of women.

Does anyone EVER stop to think that most gender critical women are of the left, supporters of gay rights, often lesbian and that this is not America? We are not in bed with the far right. This is bollocks. Just another way to dismiss us.

As we watch Afghanistan and Texas ,to say Butler’s words were tone deaf is to say the least. But they didn’t even have the guts to keep the most offensive stuff in the piece and overnight edited it out without really explaining why : the bits where Butler described gender critical people as fascist. Perhaps because the person their “reporters” had defended against transphobia at WiSpa turned out to be a known sex offender, perhaps because someone pointed out that Butler was throwing around the word fascist rather like Rik Mayall used to do in the Young Ones.

All of this is rather desperate and readers deserve better. When I left that newspaper I said that I thought and expected editors to stand up for their writers in public. Instead they go into some catatonic paralysis. I may have not liked this interview but it should never have been cut. Stand by what you publish or your credibility is shot.

But this is about more than Judith Butler and their refusal to support women . Butler is not really any kind of feminist at all. What this is about is the large edifice of trans ideology crumbling when any real analysis is applied. Yes, I have read Shon Faye’s book and there are some interesting points in it and I totally agree that the lives of trans people should be easier and health care better . I have never said anything but that.

What Faye does in the book is say that there can be no trans liberation under capitalism so there will be a bit of a wait I suspect.

Yet surely it is the other way round and what we are seeing is that trans ideology (not trans people – I am making a distinction here ) represent the apex of capitalism .

For it means that the individual decides their own gendered essence and then spends a fortune on surgery and a lifetime on medication to achieve the appearance of it. Of course lots of people spend a lifetime on medication but not out of choice. Marx understood very well that the abolition of our system of production would free up women.

Now it is all about freeing up men. Who say they are women. Quelle surprise.

Nussbaum’s famous take down of Butler is premised exactly on the sense of individual versus collective struggle “ The great tragedy in the new feminist theory in America is the loss of a sense of public commitment. In this sense, Butler’s self-involved feminism is extremely American, and it is not surprising that it has caught on here, where successful middle-class people prefer to focus on cultivating the self rather than thinking in a way that helps the material condition of others. “

Such thinking now dominates academia. There is simply an unquestioning rehearsal of something most of know not to be true thus Amia Srinivasan writes in The Right to Sex “At birth, bodies are sorted as ‘male’ or ‘female’, though many bodies must be mutilated to fit one category or the other, and many bodies will later protest against the decision that was made. This originary division determines what social purpose a body will be assigned.”

What does ‘sorted’ mean here? A tiny number of intersex babies are born. A tiny number of people are trans and decide to change their bodies. The feminist demand to challenge gender norms without mutilating any one’s body no longer matters. What matters now is this retrograde return to some gendered soul. This is not something any decent Marxist would have any truck with . Of course one may change over a lifetime and of course gender is never ‘settled.’ We are complex people who inhabit bodies that often don’t work or appear as we want them to.

But not only is there a denial of basic Marxism going on here , what becomes ever more apparent is that there is a denial of motherhood. Butler said “Yet gender is also what is made along the way – we can take over the power of assignment, make it into self-assignment, which can include sex reassignment at a legal and medical level.”

Self-assignment is key . One may birth oneself. No longer of woman born but self -made. This is a theoretical leap but it also one that has profound implications for women as a sex class. We are really then, just the host bodies to a new breed of people who self-assign.

Maybe that is the future although look around the word and there isn’t a lot of self-assignment going on. There are simply women shot and beaten in the street, choked to death or having their rights taken away. There is no identifying out of this , there is no fluidity here . This is not discourse. It is brutality and do we not have some responsibility to other women to confront male violence ?

Instead the hatred is aided and abetted by so called philosophers describing other women as Terfs. It is utterly depressing.

The sexed body. The pregnant body. The dying body. The body is in trouble when we can’t talk about it . I thought of Margaret Mary O’Hara’s beautiful and strange lyrics and what they might mean. I await my child’s return from the hospital as hers is a difficult pregnancy and thank god they are on the case. The sex of the child she carries does not matter to me at all .

It simply exists. Not in language but within a body.

Why is that so difficult to acknowledge?

#gender critical #feminism #transgender #judith butler #suzanne moore

99 notes · View notes

benlaksana · 3 years

Text

2021

youtube

It's been roughly a year and a half since the start of the Covid-19 pandemic here in Indonesia, and I've recently been trying to understand where I'm at. Not physically, as in physical space, but mentally and probably existentially. What is the state of my mind? I am aware that I've become somewhat bitter, my late nights are sometimes riddled with anxiety for what the next day may bring and reoccurring personal-collective grief has at times, and recently more often than I would like to admit, numbed me.

This may probably be my mind's automatic coping mechanism seeing all this death mainly as a result of how my government has failed us, its citizens, especially during a time of crises. And I really need to stress this point: how my government has failed us Indonesians during the times we need it the most and I very much believe that it is because of this why many of us Indonesians are in constant misery and haunted by that feeling of despair. If chronic physical pain causes constant daily anguish, I am not surprised if chronic physical and mental pain caused by structural violence causes persistent misery as well.

I'm somewhat fortunate in this regard, I'm grateful that I've learned ways to keep my sanity in check. My contemplative practice is key for me. Honestly, I wouldn't have gotten far in life without it. I have many people to thank, but Art Buehler especially, my former professor in esoteric contemplative/meditative practices who reminded me and pointed a certain possible direction of where I should head when I sense a lost in my life's direction, is one those I should thank the most. I know this seems like an individualized response to structural oppression, and I don't intend to paint such a picture, but I do believe we need some kind of mental stability to keep on going. To survive if not thrive.

Art sadly passed away in 2019. I received an email about his passing. And come to think of it I never really did allow myself to properly grieve for his passing. I don't know why. To be told through a short concise email that someone you cared for died, without having the opportunity to properly say goodbye feels like that person never really passed away. It is horrible way to end relationships. A sudden cut, nothing finalized, and since goodbyes are relational, now nothing can really ever be concluded. I have to make amends with myself and only with myself. If I said goodbye yesterday, or if I say goodbye today or perhaps tomorrow, will it ever be enough for me?

youtube

Life is individual yet also relational. It's good to have friends, family, people that care for you or the odd mix of all three to get you through life. So although I have these array of tools to possibly help get me through life but if the people whom you look for some kind direction is no longer present, I'm just not sure for how long I can maintain it if I'm doing all this by myself. Will a breaking point come to me?

The mind is a fickle thing, and the mind is as strong as its habits. Bad habits, bad mind. Good habits, good healthy mind (no habits, no mind?). They also say that things that might happen, will indeed happen. It is just a matter of time. If so, how will I break? To what extent? For how long? What will change? What will I lose? Will there be something renewed? Will I come out the same person? Will I come out changed but for the worst?

This is one of the things that worries me. That certainty of uncertainty. The certainty of breaking, the uncertainty of when and of its form. Will I explode in sudden exasperation, engulfed in madness? Will it be a quick balloon pop yet a slow descend into meaninglessness? An unabashed diatribe rant towards someone I care? Something that's just a twitter post away from me on actually doing it. Will this be an opening, an opportunity for 'satori', a sudden lift of the 'veil', bringing about comprehension and understanding of the true nature of things? Questions, questions, questions, not much when it comes to answers, is all I have for now. To be hopeful is hard these days and with the wavering hope, very much coming and going like waves, it has become incredibly hard to even retain any semblance of kindness. That is something I do not want to actively become a habit of. Without hope, comes the cold embrace of fatalism that many on the 'left' are guilty of. Clutched by fatalism, empathy becomes harder to come by. I've seen it, and I have felt it.

I know that my eroding sense of hope is connected to my personal dreams. Specifically how it has become very hard to actualize it. Rara and I never really planned on staying in Indonesia for long. I was confident enough, a bit too confident come to think of it, that we will be out of Indonesia by 2021 the latest. A mere 2 1/2 years after our last stay in New Zealand. The plan was for me to continue my studies, getting into a Ph.D. program and of course a scholarship. That was our ticket out. Hoping that we'll be back to our old routine in Wellington, in and out the university's library, my head in books, loving our 'flatwhites' while regretting having too much of it, the usual stint doing some university tutoring, community organizing stuff, lazy gardening, out and about on the weekends tramping around Wellington and if Covid did not happen or/and maybe if my government handled things much, much better I think that would've been the case. Or at least I constantly would like to imagine that would be the case.

youtube

Yet here we are still in Indonesia, me struggling to do my Ph.D. through this wretched distant learning, initially in the comfort of my home yet steadily devolving into cabin fever. And Rara with her own struggles trying her best to get back on her feet as an aspiring musician. None of it is going as well as we had hoped for. All this while juggling trying our best to keep ourselves safe and our families and friends safe. Both of us have become direct witnesses how challenging this has been, physically and mentally. Both of us slowly grappling with the continual kick in the gut, the never ending structural absurdity, violently absurd.

That slow grueling realization of how fragile our lives are. Not just existentially. It is existentially precarious yet at the same time understanding that precariousness in many of its aspects is structurally and politically maintained. It is this political construction of precarity, which Isabell Lorey elaborates in her book State of Insecurity: Government of the Precarious, that angers and saddens us the most.

Lorey provides a nuanced approach in unpacking and differentiating this thing called being 'precarious'. The three dimensions of being precarious: precariousness, precarity and then precarization. On precariousness, Lorey draw's on Judith Butler's conceptualization of precariousness which she sees as existential, relational and inevitable. I'll insert my existential philosophy and Buddhist values here, to help me see and more importantly accept the transient nature of life and that impermanence or change is the only constant. Our lives, our bodies are destined to die and wither away. We humans are fragile mortal beings. The loss of life, the loss of one's identity, the loss of everything that makes us, us is unavoidable. It's also a 'relational' thing, as in it is also a shared experience. Everyone will experience it. It is the great equalizer some say.

Then we have precarity. Yes everyone dies, but the process of dying or even the process of grieving someone's death is dependent on what Lorey see as the “effects of different political, social and legal compensations of a general precariousness”. Some die at young age due to starvation, riddled with poverty and disease and have nothing or no one to ease their pain, others die surrounded by family and friends in a well-cared for hospital. Some have days or weeks to grieve, others have to go back to work the next day as she or he have no luxury to stop working even just for a moment and simply grieve. To stop working even for a day draws some closer to the possibility of death for the person or those dependent on the person working. This is the inequality of dying and grieving due to our social hierarchies. How fragile we are, is dependent on those social hierarchies.

And last we have Lorey's third dimension, governmental precarization which is the instrumentalization of insecurity by the government. In other words, the government using the idea and the reality of insecurity as a tool or device to control its citizens. The calculated, deliberate attempt by the government in destabilizing our lives in order for us to be easily governed. Insecurity, be it real or due to perceived constructed fear of insecurity is an effective governing tool. The fear of being labeled "useless and lacking in contribution to the nation-state". The genuine insecurity of not being able to get a job due to the false understanding that it is simply a result of an individual's laziness rather than due to systematic government policies. The deliberate attempt in making our lives constantly insecure, constantly on the edge, without us initially knowing it and when we do come to understand, the blame is on us. It is normalized and it is internalized.

youtube

This is not simply a social issue, it is a deeply existential one as well. We Indonesians have very little to make us feel safe at the moment. Covid and the government's response to it has severely limited our movements and it's not simply physical immobility, but also an existential one, the inability to even have the imagination that our lives are actually "going somewhere", towards a forward direction. Perhaps some sort of minute incremental progress, but progress nonetheless. This imagined mobility is what Ghassan Hage calls as "existential mobility" and this immobility suffered by many of us is what he also calls as "stuckedness".

Turning an often momentary or the ephemeral nature of a crisis into something prolonged and perhaps even permanent is another part of the strategy of governmental precarization. Our lives or jobs are always on the line and again coupled with the sick prevailing idea that we only have ourselves to find the solution. The crisis is permanent, we don't know why but we've been told that way, if we fail to overcome it is because of our personal inabilities thus proliferating and intensifying this sense of stuckedness.

Forcing us to accept whatever solution the government-messiah presents us with in order to relieve us from this suffering. From labour laws that normalizes precariousness even more, to oppressive new laws that limits our desire and ability to dissent, to including who or how our enemies are defined, easily accepting who is to blame for all this insecurity we are all suffering.

Be it the long dead Indonesian communists, the Chinese Indonesians and the racist perception of them being "selfish and greedy", the Indonesian Islamists - the kadruns and their conservatism, the "foreign forces" whomever they may be constantly trying to take over Indonesia, anyone or anything is to blame. Anyone but the Indonesian government and its affluent patrons. Insecurity and the fear that rises from it renders many of us easily governable and compliant.

This governmental precarization and this 'stuckedness', which Hage sees no longer as a possibility that may or may not happen but an "inevitable pathological state which has to be endured" is how Rara and I feel at the moment.

youtube

Rara and I feel our lives are going nowhere. We feel that our lives are stuck, constantly rotating in a hamster wheel trying our best to overcome our precariousness. No progress, no forward movement, no growth, just trying our best to survive from this sustained uncertainty. It's an awful feeling, paving way to existential dread. We are very much looking forward to moving back to New Zealand as soon as possible but with the conditions right now, that is something I can't even dare to imagine.

And although I am grateful that the weave of our privilege with at many times just pure sheer luck has kept us alive and physically well for the time being, we both now realize that we have hit a proverbial concrete wall here. Adding to the already precarious nature of life here in Indonesia, our line of work as a fledgling social science academic and aspiring artist and what Rara and I aspire to do socially, what we aspire to become, easily ends in stagnation if we intend to continue to live our lives in Indonesia. (I want to direct you to Social Science and Power edited by Vedi Hadiz and Daniel Dhakkidae to get the gist of what I'm trying to get at here.)

This is a hard pill to swallow, harder to write and even more so to act upon. I am existentially tied to Indonesia, my family and friends are here, my father is buried here and so will my mother. Memories of the distant past, the colloquial language when shitposting on social media, my mind and body have been shaped by Indonesia in ways I possibly do not even fully realize. This is why I oscillate between guilt towards others and guilt towards the self. I feel guilty for simply having an exit strategy when many others don't, I have the luxury of choice. Yet I also I feel guilty for feeling guilty about this, as it means I am also neglecting the well-being of myself, now and in the future. I need to work on this and find my bearings, being stuck in a guilty limbo won't get me anywhere.

And the future is far from stable, I wonder what is on the other end of surviving this pandemic? There is so much collective grief, collective anger and of course personal anger. All this will amount to something, I'm sure of that. Although I don't know what exactly, I'm not entirely confident this something will be good. John Keane's new book 'The New Despotism' comes into mind.

What do I personally do with all this anger? I’ve noticed how anger, especially when it is on the verge of hatred, morphs itself and easily descends into madness, into aggression and often showing itself, unawaringly to us, when the act of expressing anger happens. Your mind becomes instantly clouded, ending in mindless action. This inability to have control over oneself terrifies me. I already have so very little semblance of control over life in general at the moment, if I truly have no control over myself whatsoever, what then do I have?

And I wonder if it is a waste of time asking these pseudo-intellectual questions? I don't know, yet I do know I live in a society where it hones aggression and hostility, whether it be in physical and digital spaces, and I would like to draw myself away from all this at the moment before I transform myself into something I do not wish to be. Anger I can fully understand, and it is needed and useful. Yet to actively transform it into deep blinding hatred and sustain it daily, is something I feel psychologically destructive for me and I'm trying my best not to go on that path.

I rarely update this blog I know, but this blog has always been used as a personal chronicle of how much I have progressed, digressed or both. And I needed to write all this, because I've never been this least sure of what my life should be like and where it should go. I know I am not alone at this. This pandemic has destroyed the lives of many, our futures, our dreams, our sources of love and I hope that anyone of you reading this finds a way to get through it, doing anything you can do day in, day out.

I'm not sure it if amounts to anything. Maybe it won't, maybe it will, or maybe it has but maybe we just can't see it. All I can personally do for now, is to hold on to these 'maybes', and maybe, just maybe I'll get through this too.

youtube

“Where must we go...

We who wonder this Wasteland

in search of our better selves?”

- The First History Man, George Miller

34 notes · View notes

insomniacowl · 4 years

Text

Thinking of anime - Descending Stories: Showa Genroku Rakugo Shinjuu by Haruko Kumota Part 2

The first disciple of Yakumo, Yotaro. Often in Rakugo, the foolish characters are named Yotaro

In part 1, I gave you a general introduction of the series Showa Genroku Rakugo Shinjuu (SGRS). From here on, I shan’t explain in-depth the story and the characters as my intent here are not in recommending this anime. People who watch it will watch it and those who will fall in love with this story will share what they love. And it is this love that binds the community as a whole.

I want to start off by having some working definitions of technical words that will be used.

Let’s start off with culture. We use this word often in our daily lives and it is strongly ingrained in our vocabulary; it is something we know the meaning of, but not many can give the definition to. This tends to happen as culture is used as an umbrella term to encompass social behavior, norms, knowledge, beliefs, objects, and so on of a group of individuals. It is something that is fluid and changes over time.

Cultural practices are performed largely to arrange the social relations and relations of production in a certain way. This method of arrangement can be of necessity or arbitrary and can be fluid but also cemented with something more solid then culture. When cultural practices are cemented it becomes comparatively unaffected and can resist changes brought on by the fluidity of culture around; becoming traditional practices. Often those practices lose meaning that was attached to it during this transition and it becomes a free ground for meaning to be created by its practitioners, and audiences.

Performativity is a term that many will be familiar with through Judith Butler’s use of the term gender performativity. But I’ll use it here in the context of traditional practices; cultural performativity; that it is through the repeated performance that such practices, even after losing its function of social organization can it survive; it is the continued practice that results in the tradition being kept alive, rather the tradition dictating the actions that are performed.

Framing tradition as something that is kept alive by repeated performance rather than a monolithic set of rules, allows us to find ways to alter it as the culture around it changes; co-existing with progress. There is a view in our world today that dims tradition as harmful to progress. There is also an opposite spectrum of this view that tries to use traditional value as a device to create us vs them divide and a different way of seeing tradition may help us preserve the meaning people attach to it, while it serves to better, not jeopardize our society.

The two brother disciples, platonic but also loving relationship

Let’s recap what is my belief that the author wants to convey to us which are: What does it mean to hold affection? And how does affection of the past influence our interaction with the world that changes?

The whole of season 1, except for the very first episode, depicts the life of Yakumo (or Bong at this point) in his earlier days. It starts with an introduction of him when he was seven years old and sent off to study Rakugo under the then seventh-generation Yakumo. On his first day as a disciple, he meets Sukeroku, who becomes his brother by discipleship. During their interaction, we learn of how Bong felt abandoned by his parents who sent him off to Yakumo as they did not want him as their son.

Bong in his first romantic relationship

We then skip forward a few years to his teenage years, Bong, due to the fear of being abandoned again, desperately holds onto Rakugo, hoping that if he were to get good enough, it would become a place where he could belong. This becomes an obsession and he becomes blind to other places to belong; where he can find solace. Namely, this is shown as a girl that he meets and falls in love with, yet due to Bong’s obsession with his practice, they drift apart.

After graduating from mandatory education, Bong receives the name of Kiku and along with Sukeroku, begins to perform properly on stage as a full-time Rakugoka. During this period, Kiku puts in great effort into his practice yet always lacks behind Sukeroku. Yet Sukuroku’s free nature prevents him from adhering to the restrictive rules of tradition and this makes him disliked by the elder members of the practice.

The last chance for a simpler life

Japan soon becomes embroiled in various wars and this led to a period of restraint; a period where people avoid wasting resources so that it can be directed towards the war, this has a direct impact on entertainment industries, and Rakugo as well. As time passes and the war continues, Kikuhoko’s teacher and Sukeroku travel to Manchuria to perform for the soldiers on the front lines while Kiku is unable to follow them due to the problem of his leg.

During this period, he moves to the countryside and works in a factory, this slow life allowing him to contemplate if he should just stay there and not return to the busy city to practice Rakugo. Here, he had a chance to find another way of life, free from his obsession with Rakugo, and try to find meaning in something else.

The war eventually ends, and he returns to Tokyo. As society begins to recover from the damages of war, people begin to seek out entertainments and Kiku returns to practicing Rakugo to earn a living. Eventually, his teacher and Sukeroku make it back to Japan and everyone is happy and reunited.

Miyokichi flirts with Kikuhiko, but Kiku is not sure

Here we are introduced to Miyokichi and she quickly takes a liking of Kiku, falling in love with him. This time Kiku does reciprocates, even if his priority is always with practicing Rakugo, and for a while, Miyokichi is okay with this, she is happy seeing the person she loves happy and knows what it is that they want to achieve in life.

Different camera works are employeed to show the different

While Kiku was devoted to his practice, Sukeroku’s disdain for tradition grows. In the words of the characters, the two are compared in their way of performance. For Kiku, he embodies the characters and brings the audiences into the world that is being told; he is fluid in his selfhood when performing and tells the story as it is, as close as possible to its intention. Sukeroku is the opposite. All the characters become Sukeroku as he tells the story. He follows the general structure, but his method of delivery is unique to himself and how he feels at that moment; he is unstable but his leads to uniqueness in his telling of the story. If people watch Kiku to listen to the stories he tells, they watch Sukeroku to enjoy Sukeroku’s performance.

The audience loves them for their individual styles, but Sukeroku’s style makes him shine out compared to the older generations and this results in him increasingly losing favor from the senior practitioners. Yet he was kept around since the audiences liked him, but as his fame increased so did his ego. This eventually results in him being excommunicated from his teacher.

Westernisation of entertainment in Japan, post-pacific war

And yet if we were to see his actions from a different perspective, we can see this as another form of struggle to keep the practice of Rakugo alive. At this point in history (and depicted in the series), Japan had been experiencing westernization of culture. Kiku works in a café, there is a jazz bar, and Rakugo has been losing its audience as time went by.

The two characters, Sukeroku and Kiku were the youngest practitioners; at least among those, we are introduced to. Thus the two promise each other to continue the practice, to keep it alive, and attempt to revitalize it. To them, Kiku who told the stories as they were would symbolize the tradition that has continued down for centuries, While Sukeroku would symbolize the constant change that is needed for the continued existence of the culture; thus they are not lost to the tide of time; they make a promise to both work together and keep the practice they love alive.

Konatsu. The daughter of Miyokichi and Sukeroku. She shows us just how many years passed since they ranaway

Yet this promise is left unkept. After Sukeroku’s excommunication, and Kiku’s rejection of Miyokichi’s advances, the two run away from the city to the countryside, have a child and start a family together. However, due to her rejection by Kiku, Miyokichi prevents Sukeroku from practicing Rakugo, as he did not have any other skills, he was unable to earn a living and became a drunk. Fed up with this, she runs away, leaving him and their daughter Konatsu. This belief becomes an obsession and she becomes delusional that Kikuhiko will one day come to save her from this misery.

Sukeroku: “No, I won’t drink this Sake. I don’t want this to have been just a dream”

While this was happening, Kiku became better accepted by the senior members of the practice and built up enough fame to the point that there were people who wanted to be his disciple. However, to Kiku, Rakugo that has now lost Sukeroku to guide it to the future is only left to wither away and die. The more he believed this, the more convinced he was that his role was to see it off to the end.

Yet he holds out hope that if he was just able to bring Sukeroku back, things might change. And after his teacher’s passing, he journeys out in search of him. He finds him eventually, and with effort was able to bring Sukeroku out of his drinking habit and bring him back to performing Rakugo, first at the nearby inn. The performance was successful and for a moment we see the possibility for their promise being kept. Sukeroku wants to go back to the city with Kiku, and start performing Rakugo again as a profession, the reason, not the least of which, the love his daughter shows for his performance.

Did this really happen?

Yet all goes astray when Miyokichi returns that exact night for Kiku and her obsession with him results in her attempt to commit double suicide with him. Sukeroku saves Kikuhiko in the end but ends up falling off the balcony and into the river below, this taking away his and Miyokichi’s life.

His final words being “I trust you”.

What was he trusting Kiku with?

To take care of Konatsu?

To take care of Rakugo?

Or to take care of himself?

Our unreliable narrator begins to tell his story

Of course, we are later told that Kiku, or after this point Yakumo is an unreliable narrator, ironic, being that the person who is described in the series as the best storyteller being unreliable to us.

There is one more concept we need to understand and use in understanding how to make tradition evolve and live on, and that is Repetition and difference from Gilles Deleuze; when used together with Butler’s performativity, it can help us greatly in this journey of understanding.

That will be our focus in the next chapter.

But to end this chapter, let us end it off with this consideration. With Sukeroku’s death, Yakumo completely lost his faith in Rakugo having a future. This leads to him both refusing to take any disciple, and also prevent Konatsu from trying to practice it. This obsession also leads to him being convinced that it was his destiny to witness the death of this practice, thus the title, to commit double suicide with Rakugo during the age of Showa Genroku.

Role credits

#Anime analysis #showa genroku rakugo shinju #yuurakutei yakumo #yuurakutei sukeroku #sgrs #Sukeroku Yuurakutei #Yakumo Yuurakutei

24 notes · View notes

lyrasilvertongve · 4 years

Text

This is a rant about Pullman being willfully obtuse on twitter about JKR’S terf meltdown. TERFS DON’T INTERACT

This is coming from a place of deep sadness, anger and disappointment, and is very personnal to me as a nonbinary person whose partner is a trans woman. I’m not going to mince my words so like. If you can’t handle me being a little bit mean at Pullman, stop reading now.

So I’m not really gonna go into the whole JKR thing because we all know about it, she revealed herself to be a raging transphobe and that’s that. We kinda knew that already, it’s not surprising but it’s unfortunate that she can reach such a big audience with her bigotry. I feel for trans ppl who love the universe she created and am sending good vibes to them. So.

First off, HDM are my favourite books of all times, extremely influential re how i see the world, how to be a good person, how to relate to the world and the people around me. I stumbled upon them at a key moment in my life and they helped me through many struggles. This is why I feel so strongly right now.

Let’s follow the timeline of his fuckery tweet by tweet, shall we? Notice that I gave him the benefit of the doubt almost all the way,

So, not a great start, doesn’t seem very open to a discussion, but, I told myself, Pullman is an old cishet man, not used to how the internet works, I don’t really expect him to understand the intricacies of gender and sex and I can understand that the dogpiling can be a lot for public figures on twitter. Don’t appreciate the tone policing, but again, he’s a confused old man, doesn’t mean he’s a bigot. I see in the replies, amongst terfs trying to recruit him, many kind, informative replies. He’s got everything he needs to figure it out, I tell myself.

Okay now I’m starting to be annoyed. Because, are there, Phil? Are there kind/intelligent TERFS? What is kind or intelligent about an ideology that is 1) rooted in fear and disgust of trans ppl 2) is actively harming a vulnerable group of people 3) is polluting public discourse with lies, misinterpretations and bigotry? Cant relate to this type of kindness. BUT, I tell myself, hE’s An oLd MAn and some people do react strongly to the terf subjetc, FOR UNDERSTANDABLE REASONS, but he’s still stuck on tone policing. Still redeemable it’ll be okay, he’ll get it.

Okaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyy BUT WHAT IS YOUR POSITION? Your position is that you don’t have a position because people are being mean to you on the internet. Your position is that you don’t understand the debate, it has been for months now. I think i recall him making some similar “i dont understand and everyone is a meanie” tweets last time JKR engaged in terfery. By now, people have calmly explained in replies. People have sent links to documentation, videos, websites. Trans people have offered to talk one on one. THIS MAN HAS ACCESS TO ALL THE RESOURCES OXFORD UNIVERSITY HAS TO OFFER, HE COULD TALK TO GENDER STUDIES PROFESSORS, HE COULD GO TO THE LIBRARY AND FIND A PHYSICAL BOOK ABOUT GENDER AND SEX, HE COULD GO TO FUCKING JSTOR.ORG AND READ FUCKING JUDITH BUTLER.Fuck he’s a public figure and a scholar, he could even email butler directly if he wanted to and she’d probably reply. THIS MAN IS A WRITER, A PROFESSOR. HE IS SMART AND KNOWS HOW TO CONDUCT RESEARCH. HE HAS A DOCTORATE. HE KNOWS HOW TO FIND INFORMATION. At this point I’m really annoyed because i legitimately don’t understand why he would still not get it and what kind of game he is playing.

Look I’m really trying to be generous, here. I really want to believe Pullman hasn’t got hateful boomer disease. But, at this point, it’s becoming apparent that he is being wilfully obtuse. Like why do you insist on coming to twitter to ask for informations anyway???? Do you know, it hardly seems possible, but it seems as if there are some authors on Twitter who actually enjoy playing the victim and being an Olympic champion at fencesitting. I’m going to say it again, this man hails from Oxford U. ANY GENDER STUDIES RESEARCHER, anywhere around the world, receives a call from an Oxford scholar? They’re gonna pick up and be fucking ecstatic to explain gender and sex. That’s a kind of exposure that’s rarely offered to gender studies as a field. He could’ve have done a skype call with one of the dozens trans people who offered to help him. But no, he prefers just sitting there “not having an opinion” because people are mean on the internet. I just DONT GET IT.

Like ok, you don’t understand the terms of the debate. That is fair enough. But if you’re not willing to do the work and listen to people who are explaining, or to do your own research like you are VERY WELL ABLE TO, why do you need to come on twitter and be all boohoo people are mean boohoo i don’t understand boohoo

IT DOESN’T CONCERN YOU you don’t have to get it or talk about it. You could literally just stay in your lane. What it looks like to me, is that he’s actually inclined to agree with JK’s shit takes and he is afraid of the backlash. I’m not saying he is a 24/7 foaming at the mouth terf like JK but he cleary doesn’t value trans lives that much because there is zero effort being made towards understanding and lots of efforts being made towards tone policing and being defensive.

anyway i ran out of steam so peace.

trans rights

fuck the police

black lives matter

#transphobia #rant #hdm #his dark materials #philip pullman #content

31 notes · View notes

themostexpensiveboningknife · 3 years

Text

2020

Failed party, money in drawer, communicate, move house, move boxes, drive in van, walk to shops, buy noodles, think it’s the end, see whole bus of soldiers in Beijing, new area, walk in darkness, think about leaving, leave, think its temporary, in taxi, post stupid photos, check and check again phone, think people with goggles on my plane are over reacting, take off my mask to eat, keep taking off to loosen, arrive back in London. Tube. Cold. Pub. Party at WeWork. Exhibition at Dulwich Gallery. Farringdon. Drugs and drinks. Brockley, South east London. DJ. Ethiopian food. Morley’s Peckham. Walking on the River. Photographer friend’s house. Canal cycle. National Gallery. Car crash, Dalston. Omar Souleyman. Corsica Studios. Meet girl, back to my friends, back to hers, sex. Morning up to mum’s best friends birthday, Covent Garden restaurant. In a van, Sunday roast. Chisenhale Gallery. arebyte Gallery. Getting worse in China, seems nice and easy and calm in England. Camberwell beers and more. Second-hand book shops, Charing Cross Road. Courtauld. Leafed through a book about a man who lived his entire 86.5 years in East London. Still talking to the same girl back in China. Both believe I’ll be back soon. Chicken wings. West London, meal. South London pub. DJing somewhere inside. Kent, see grandma. Rave, Bermondsey. Friends from Israel and Germany arrive. More drinks, more drugs. Mixing friends. Gay bar in Bethnal Green for old friend’s birthday. Acid, confused and hilarious. Tate Britain. Serpentine. Cranes on the bridge. Liverpool Street film screening. Feels shallow, but good. Begin regular E Pellici sojourns. Primrose Hill with Dad. Beer festival with Keaton and co. Peckham, school friend’s house, bad vibe. More drinks, more drugs. Working on first music compilation with Slowcook and Fafa. Begin watching all of the Studio Ghibli movies. Watching Breaking Bad. At some point have huge argument with my brother, it went like this: He came home from work and I was sitting watching Breaking Bad, he asks, “Have you been like that all day?” I either took it in the wrong way or picked up on a sly dig. It was probably me, but at this point I was pretty self-conscious and worried about going back to China and whether or not I would have a job back there. Was getting surprisingly pissed off with my brother mentioning his work, felt like an affront to me. Weird. He goes crazy (he has a short fuse), punching a wall, ready to fight me. My mum is pretty upset. A few days later I go into his room and try to patch things up. Turns into a deeper chat. He feels like I haven’t been a good brother to him, he gives the example of not looking out for him on his first days of school. I say I’m sorry, it’s because I’m a bit scared and insecure. In retrospect I regret a little laying so much weakness on the table, seems his interactions/ways of acting around me have changed a bit. Still not sure how I feel about it all. Considered getting a gold tooth with Matthew. Play with cats, enjoying them more and more. Rave in Dalston, good music from Asia and beyond. Looking at magazines. Not doing much work at all. Being out and about instead. Go to Norfolk. It’s beautiful, but get way too drunk on first night, sick everywhere, wake up naked in sick. Massive fucking shitshow. Majority of people there have no choice but to act weirdly around me now, which is understandable. Still some nice aspects. One girl there surely hates me a lot. Tate Modern. Art stuff by self is good. Corsica Studios, semi-art, semi-music event. Mr. Bao for first time of many. Radio in Tottenham. Take drugs. Pubs. Drive to Asda with brother to stock up on food. It’s March and the reality of the pandemic is hitting. More canal cycling. First and only group chat on Zoom. BH Funk. Probably have taken cocaine and messaged one of three or four girls numerous times by now. If there’s one, in the cold light of day, horrible and disgusting thing I’ve done too much this year it’s this. Incessant messaging of poor girls that I know will react (although increasingly they don’t, I manage to alienate even close friends in this way). Southbank and The Mall with Nick. Reading about Wuhan. List of good texts. Continuing to do some writing. Making WeChat posts for guī WeChat, including mix series and miniessays. Greenwich park with Matthew. Grime quiz online. Delivering food regularly for my mum’s school. Hackney Marshes with Luan. Epping Forest with Mum and Dad. By this point probably have woken up feeling sorry for myself in Ludo’s flat, after untold amounts of alcohol and cocaine. Online rave. Beijing artists only mix. Go to Switzerland, pass through Italy on the way. Its breath taking, the mountains, the expanse of scenery, not used to it. Climbing up mountains with no one around. Rolo and Patrick and Rita smoke too much weed. I really, really, really still hate smoking it. Feel a bit annoyed how long we spend sitting around while they smoke, but this is way outbalanced by the uniqueness of where we are and the beauty all around. Producing more and more, actually getting somewhere. Cooking more and more food. Reading more and more, like: Black and British, The Corrections, Real Fast Food, Bass, Mids, Tops, Zadie Smith, Olivia Lang, Graham Greene, JG Ballard, Monica Ali, Mo Yan, Jenny Zhang, John le Carre, Naked Lunch, Nabokov, Bukowski, Zora Neale Hurston, Wiley, Bitcoin, Murakami, Judith E. Butler, The Painter of Modern Life, Maupassant, Chekov, Video Art, Gravity’s Rainbow (couldn’t finish), Anaïs Nin, The Net Delusion (couldn’t finish), The Establishment and how they got away with it (couldn’t finish), Roddy Doyle, The Secret of Scent, General Intellects, Women In Love, The Intelligent Investor, Lyndon Johnson. Victoria Park more often than I can remember. To Chrissy’s house. Mile End Park. Very regularly sitting on the river in Wapping. Bring the chessboard and play Ludo sometimes, people smile and look at you differently when you’re playing chess and drinking beers versus just sitting and drinking beer. I May Destroy You. Industry. The beautiful wide expanse of Hackney Marshes. My incessant quest to reach 1000 followers in Instagram. More cycling, and I hate to say it but it really was: Here there and everywhere. Margate with my Dad to see my grandma in hospital and saw the Turner Prize exhibition. Light blue like scrubs, the sky and sun felt eternal. Swimming in dirty water. Make a DJ mix of old 2000s Road Rap. Eat cheese in Peckham. Cycle along the canal north, keep going and going through Tottenham, past Enfield keep going, it’s mad how quickly it becomes quiet fields on all sides, arrive to some kind of lake, swim and then back to the centre of town. Outside a Hawksmoor church in Shadwell ate chicken with Karim and Ludo. DJing. From my bedroom window saw a big crane in the middle of the night sitting on the canal. Begin developing the second DCCY compilation this time with BULLY magazine. Go to a house in an old school in Camberwell. Discover new secret riverside spots in East London. Finally give up my apartment in Beijing. Mile End park. Cycle further and further East to a pedestrian bridge I didn’t know existed. Get onto the beach and into the Thames water. Interview Akito. Begin writing more, after few months of wiling away the summertime. My friend Emmy gets married in Rwanda, I give him some money as a wedding gift which he tells me he used to buy his wife’s dress. Protests in HK always on TV. Get more into finances, crypto and trading, and just saving in general. Had sex with an old friend. Now meeting a girl I first knew years ago in Beijing. More secret river spots. Keaton has his baby, Noah. More times on Hackney Marshes. Barbican conservatory. Watching more films, try to watch all the films of some directors including: Jia Zhangke, Bong Joon-ho, Edward Yang, Wong Kar-wai, Apichatpong Weerasethakul. Decide to watch all of the infamous lauded series, go through Breaking Bad, The Wire and The Sopranos. Go to the seaside for a few days, camping also. Henry Wu album launch in a car park in Bermondsey. Go to visit Keaton’s baby for the first time. Good photography exhibition at Photographer’s Gallery. Go to Wallace Collection again. August. Go to Berlin. Swimming in Berlin lakes until I get an ear infection. It makes me drowsy and lethargic, but still seems to spend all my time cycling around the city. On one night cycle for hours to a rave on the outskirts of the city. Like a lot the abandoned airport in Berlin. Oh yeah, vaping. Found a dead bumble bee. Speak with Nevin about projects. Write a piece about the future of the art world for a magazine being started by Nevin’s friend in Canada. Go to Lithuania. Walk around Vilnius, get too drunk by myself. Get to the Curonian Spit and Nida, beaches and new friends. For the Nightlife Residency project. For a short while life is like on a desert island of new food, new people, new locations, quiet and new meaning. Go to the Russian border on the beach. Cycle to the road boarder and get stopped by the police. Go nude on the beach for the first time. Sauna, sand dunes and forests. DJ out for the first time in ages, this time with Nono. To Kaunus and try nice and stodgy Georgian food for the first time. Hackney Wick back for party. Meet a ginger girl online and go on a date. Wallace Collection again. Free beer and pizza. White Cube. National Gallery, Titian. On BBC Radio London with my Dad. Riverside beers. Saw a lost swan near my front door. Meet Keaton near his work, one of many times. Making more and more music, getting better. Decide I need more organisation and clarity, put everything I’ve done on a blog. More or less long since given up on my job at M Woods. But don’t really begin looking for anything new because it’s still sunny. At some point I start getting benefits money. Go to see La Haine in the cinema. Someone blocks me on WeChat because of me. Some pub somewhere. Sunday walks and breakfast with my parents. Go to an exhibition in Woolworth Road with Muzi. Realise how nice it is to run to Victoria Park along the canal. Vicky Park in general. Dinners at friends’ houses. Museum of London. Walking with Michael in some countryside near London, surprising how quickly things turn green. Break onto a pier in Wapping with Jack. Battersea Park. Tate, Bruce Nauman. Old Street Weatherspoon’s with Keaton, drugs. Central London cemetery. Chinese in Camberwell. Chinese in Aldgate. Italian in Camberwell. More and more exercise, running, weights and yoga with my brother. Sadie Coles. Nick, Central London. Gucci Mane. Hampstead Heath more because Ludo and his flatmates are nearby. Ludo’s now house more for days and nights of you guessed it. Borough Market more, with Emma. Alexandra Palace walk and famous sandwiches after. Tate Britian new lights. More time at Muzi’s. Signing up for cycle courier. LYL Radio show. Shave head. Take acid and it hurts my stomach. Camden Arts Centre with Muzi. Christmas party with friends. Birthday. Cake with Muzi, presents and Indian takeaway from family, walk in Vicky Park with Ludo and Karim plus battered sausage and chips. Christmas at home nice and warming meal. Evening to Ludo’s place with more friends. Boxing day with Matthew, pints and then more at his house in Peckham all night long. Next day is tough! Giant turkey sandwiches, turkey soup, turkey curry. Buy first NFTs. New Year’s Eve stay in at Muzi’s, one drink and a cake.

2 notes · View notes

dkettchen · 5 years

Text

BLACK MIRROR S5E1 “STRIKING VIPERS” E X P L A I N E D

-with the help of gender and game theory-

Y’all asked for it so here we go

Some things before we start: -If you were watching the episode looking for gay/trans shit, and got disappointed, I’m sorry but I can’t help you because that’s just not what the episode was about and that is ok. It explored some aspects of queer experience, and the limbo between queer and cis-straight experience, that isn’t usually addressed in such an honest and indepth way, which I think is just as important as trans or gay rep. -I will focus my analysis on the core theme of what certain academics writing about androgyny call the “moment of transgression” so in this case the question of ‘what is Karl/Roxette’s deal & what does that mean for Danny/Lance’s feelings toward and interactions with them?’. -CW: transphobia, homophobia, toxic masculinity, (rpg) uncanny valley stuff, you get it, you know what subjects we’ll be talking about here.

Now!

I’d like to start by pointing out the title “Striking Vipers” to get the phallus talk out of the way right off the bat x’D: It’s a very blatant penis metaphor, and Vipers specifically are venomous, so represent toxic masculinity. The image of them striking signals danger. The repetition of phallic symbols represents the threat of castration (see medusa turning them bois to stone & the heroic masculinity of the mirror shielded boi who managed to defeat her), which to phallocentric masculinity is the scawiest thing there is (losing the phallus = losing manhood = death?? I guess??). Striking Vipers means that toxic masculinity, by nature, is a threat to itself. (I could talk for hours about the exact warped logic of phallocentricity but Imma spare y’all cause I don’t think it’s relevant for this, I’d even go as far as saying this episode was anti-phallic (which I use here as a more inclusive word for “feminist”, as the episode’s core is about two guys, but still focused on them experiencing and embracing feminine power and freeing themselves from phallocentricity(/patriarchy)’s grasp, just like “what men want” was preoccupied with the toxic masculinity of its female protagonist)) That sets up the kind of horror the episode will be about, the male fear of castration, of loss of identity, of having to face the fact that traditional masculinity is toxic even to the people who conform to it. 10/10 title choice.

Next up: the core question of what label to put on Karl and Danny’s VR interactions (‘Fellas, is it gay to fuck ur best friend in a lady body in VR?’). Which leads to the first question which is: what gender is Karl when he’s playing as Roxette? An essentialist might say: ‘Well he’s a man irl so he’s still a man even if he plays with a female avatar. Danny’s attraction to him is either him being trapped or just plain old gay.’ But I don’t think that’s the case. It’s not a trap scenario (have some videos on traps and how they’re not real actually: (x.), (x.)), because both people involved know the exact parameters of the situation. Danny knows this is Karl in Roxette’s body, there’s nothing hidden, no misunderstanding to be had here. I also don’t think it’s gay because if it was this would’ve happened irl or with two male avatars, but it only happened once one of them was in a female avatar, that was the change that made it happen. It’s not a fetishising phallic/trans women scenario either, because it’s the opposite, it’s a man’s mind in a woman’s body. There’s no doubt about Karl being a man irl, a queer man sure, but definetely a man. He’s just too into -womanhood while playing her for me to say he’s still male when he’s in that form, like Karl as Roxette isn’t a trans guy as a man’s mind in a female body usually would be (like f.e. Ranma 1/2), I also don’t think Karl as Roxette is an androgyne/non-binary/third term either, because again, he’s embracing her womanhood and the role that comes with it, to the extreme that is hetero PiV sex, too much. I’d argue what we see is the closest to the liberation and euphoria described by other queer men when doing drag, she’s just a more extreme version of drag, of crossplaying, making the fantasy real, wearing not only the clothes of a woman but the body too. Roxette as Karl’s avatar is an alter ego, who is female, so -on the risk of sounding like the biggest performativist since Judith Butler- Karl as Roxette presents as female, so, for all intents and purposes, is female in that moment, regardless of his irl persona maintaining his male gender outside of that.

But that wasn’t what we wanted to know, was it. Because even if, in the moment that Karl plays Roxette, we can say that person is female, that doesn’t eliminate the fact that Karl, outside of that, isn’t and that he’s still the one playing her. It’s the notion of how the player/actor/performer and avatar/character/persona aren’t the same thing and can have different relationships with someone in real life vs in the game, and how that can be confusing to think about because there is no clear line between the two, something that is called “bleed” in ludology(/game studies, from lat. ludus: game or school; referring to the gladiator schools in like the colosseum), despite their relationships being fundamentally different (in this case friendship irl vs passionate love in game). Take TAZ as an example: The McElroys are related, but in playing a trpg, the DM, usually Griffin, takes up the mantle of all NPCs in the game world, including love interests. Griffin played Julia, Kravitz, and Danny (different Danny lol), but he’s talking to his brother, except he isn’t, is he, cause it’s not Griffin talking and it’s not his brother responding, it’s two characters interacting. A similar uncanny valley can be found in actor/character bleed: Take Ludi and Pom (the actors for Lance and Roxette) in this one: like 80% of their screentime was spent making out or having fake sex. These actors aren’t dating (as far as I’m aware lol), this is their job, to fake love each other on screen, imagine having to do that with a coworker you feel nothing for. It’s the characters that feel something and you have to play that feeling (which is so meta at that point, they’re playing characters that are avatars being played by characters in the show). Also, talking of role-playing, can we appreciate the scene of Danny & Theo at the bar where they’re role-playing and she’s like that was hot and he’s like mental note bae’s into role-playing, because DAMN that foreshadowing of the erotic potential of roleplay as a concept.

But it’s not role-playing really either with Danny and Karl, is it? They’re playing in avatars other than themselves but they’re not fully a different person. They still very much feel the same just in a different form. Their emotions are real even though they might only apply to part of their experience, the in-game part. Yet they obviously take them seriously and personal and get influenced by them outside the game. Maybe the question is what is and is not role-playing? Where does the bleed start and end, and do we even need to know the answer to those questions? They answer those questions for themselves in the end by testing out their feelings irl to see if they track or not, fully ready for both possibilities (which 10/10 character development love it). They want clarity. It’s about the emotional limbo fantasy brings with it. It’s the same question “Are traps gay” is about. (Not the “Is it ok to feel attracted to androgynous ppl” one necessarily, but) “Does feeling attracted to the fantasy mean you feel attracted to the “real” thing underneath?” Are the feelings for the fantasy alone or also for the reality? Are they only applicable to the latter and does that change something about what you thought you knew about yourself? It’s a question about the fringe edges of limited/monosexuality and the very fabric of reality.

Let’s return to Karl to look at his experience as Roxette. We’ve established that she is female, but what is Karl while playing her? In the spirit of queer drag as liberating, it’s almost like he’s taking a break from being Karl when playing as her. Drag, crossplay, or this extreme version of it, functions as a break from the toxicity and limitations of traditional gender roles (so in this case traditional masculinity). It is freeing, though what does it free? Some genderless spirit inhabiting each person? But then how do you explain the firm gender identity lots of people, including for all we know Karl, experience in everyday life? As a trans person I know that there is SOMETHING to gender on some level that can create gender dysphoria (social and/or physical) for people when put in a body they don’t identify with. As a drag performer, trpg enthousiast, and notorious crossplayer, I know that taking a break from that reality and being somebody else can be relieving, a break from your own problems. So what is that part of us that translates into fantasy? I feel like this goes into transhumanist territory which I don’t know enough about to even attempt to provide an answer. I think what it comes down to in terms of gender theory is, this is a situation at the height of where performativism is true and relevant. There is a relativity to the nature of reality and gender itself. Whatever base essence there is that causes gender dysphoria at a mismatch between outside and inside, doesn’t apply here. Both notions (of essential and performative gender) are real and have an impact on people but neither is always the case and neither is never the case. They’re not mutually exclusive.

So, seeing as it seems impossible to pinpoint what gender Karl/Roxette qualifies as (other than all and/or none), let’s look at the nature of Danny/Lance and Karl/Roxette’s interactions and feelings toward those interactions and each other to try and contextualise what label(s) they might fit under. The desire on Danny’s side when faced with Roxette’s form shows itself in a way he’d never feel toward Karl. That visual change, and the social changes it brings with it (in gender role), makes it so extreme, because it pairs the parts of his friend he appreciates and enjoys (personality and whatever deeper connection a close friendship brings with it), with a form that is attractive to him. That change translates to Karl too. In playing with this new form that has a different role and a different effect on someone he’s known for so long, he flows into that, melts into this new persona and lives it up! The way they interact in game isn’t gay. It is very much reflecting how straight attraction and female sexuality works. On one hand it’s based in undeniable difference (hetero = different), and on the other hand Karl/Roxette’s enjoyment thereof is based in being desirable, in having that power of seduction just by existing, that notion of feminine power and the freedom that comes with it. It’s not autogynephilia, that would imply he gets off on the idea of himself as a woman, which is not the case, he gets off on being desired as a woman, which is what female sexuality is about (source: ContraPoints’ Autogynephilia video (which I recommend, it’s very good))

Still whenever Karl tries to get Danny to keep having VR sex with him/Roxette, he talks about her in 3rd person, like a persona. In saying “it’s just like porn” he poses something that is very much a different activity (acting out the porn by -doin’ it-) as a homosocially (social as opposed to sexual/romantic) acceptable one (watching porn together which I’ve been told is a thing). He attempts to differentiate himself from his female persona and enjoyment there-of (by objectifying her, like a porn actress to be watched rather than identified with), himself and Danny from the queerness (in enjoying femininity and in Danny being down with basically fucking a drag-queen) and to retreat back into heteronormative traditional masculinity, away from the scawy unknown of exploring your sexuality. His internalised homo- and transphobia makes him suppose that Danny, as a supposed straight guy, will only respond to the safety of assured non-queerness, which, honestly, I don’t think is the case with him. Karl supposes his cancelling on him and not wanting to do it anymore is out of the fear for his sexual identity or whatever, but from what I can tell, while Danny also seems to be rather confused about what it all means, the reasons he cancels their nightly sessions, and rejects Karl/Roxette, are always about not wanting his marriage to fall apart. He quite clearly prefers hot VR sex to hanging out with his wife, and cancels out of duty to her rather than fear. Even the first time they kiss, Karl is the one to freak out first. Danny seems much calmer about the attraction part of the situation, to the point of in the end being the one to take initiative and make them try it out irl to put an end to the confusion.

The episode hits hard because it takes the way men play video games and brings it to its logical conclusion. Video games are mens safe-space, and they do play with that playful flirty banter. The show takes that and makes it real, including taking it to its extreme conclusion that is -doin’ it-. It infiltrates the male safe space by taking normalised behaviour, and taking it so far that it puts traditional masculinity and heteronormative attraction in question, the very thing the safe space was supposed to protect them from. That’s why it’s existentially horrifying for the main characters (and viewers that identify with them) and qualifies as a black mirror episode even without having a homo-/trans-/biphobic ending (like other media that put traditional masculinity in question usually do, not to mention all the horror based in queer-coding)

Hope y’all enjoyed this journey into a bit of mind-bending game and gender theory! Pls don’t expect me to do this like ever again bc I need to go work on my actual essay rip x’D

#long post #Black Mirror #BM: Striking Vipers #games studies #gender studies

86 notes · View notes

bluewatsons · 4 years

Conversation

Masha Gessen, Interview: Judith Butler Wants Us To Reshape Our Rage, The New Yorker (February 9, 2020)

Masha Gessen: In this new book, you propose not just an argument for nonviolence as a tactic but as an entirely different way of thinking about who we are.

Judith Butler: We are used to thinking strategically and instrumentally about questions of violence and nonviolence. I think there is a difference between acting as an individual or a group, deciding, “Nonviolence is the best way to achieve our goal,” and seeking to make a nonviolent world—or a less violent world, which is probably more practical. I’m not a completely crazy idealist who would say, “There’s no situation in which I would commit an act of violence.” I’m trying to shift the question to “What kind of world is it that we seek to build together?” Some of my friends on the left believe that violent tactics are the way to produce the world they want. They think that the violence falls away when the results they want are realized. But they’ve just issued more violence into the world.

Masha Gessen: You begin with a critique of individualism “as the basis of ethics and politics alike.” Why is that the starting point?

Judith Butler: In my experience, the most powerful argument against violence has been grounded in the notion that, when I do violence to another human being, I also do violence to myself, because my life is bound up with this other life. Most people who are formed within the liberal individualist tradition really understand themselves as bounded creatures who are radically separate from other lives. There are relational perspectives that would challenge that point of departure, and ecological perspectives as well.

Masha Gessen: And you point out that in the liberal individualist way of thinking, the individual is always an adult male in his prime, who, just at this particular moment when we encounter him, happens to have no needs and dependencies that would bind him to others.

Judith Butler: That model of the individual is comic, in a way, but also lethal. The goal is to overcome the formative and dependent stages of life to emerge, separate, and individuate—and then you become this self-standing individual. That’s a translation from German. They say selbstständig, implying that you stand on your own. But who actually stands on their own? We are all, if we stand, supported by any number of things. Even coming to see you today—the pavement allowed me to move, and so did my shoes, my orthotics, and the long hours spent by my physical therapist. His labor is in my walk, as it were. I wouldn’t have been able to get here without any of those wonderful technologies and supporting relations. Acknowledging dependency as a condition of who any of us happens to be is difficult enough. But the larger task is to affirm social and ecological interdependence, which is regularly misrecognized as well. If we were to rethink ourselves as social creatures who are fundamentally dependent upon one another—and there’s no shame, no humiliation, no “feminization” in that—I think that we would treat each other differently, because our very conception of self would not be defined by individual self-interest.

Masha Gessen: You have written before about the concept of grievability, and it is an important idea in this book. Can you talk about it?

Judith Butler: You know when I think it started for me? Here in the United States, during the aids crisis, when it became clear that many people were losing their lovers and not receiving adequate recognition for that loss. In many cases, people would go home to their families and try to explain their loss, or be unable to go home to their families or workplaces and try to explain their loss. The loss was not recognized, and it was not marked, which means that it was treated as if it were no loss. Of course, that follows from the fact that the love they lived was also treated as if it were no love. That puts you into what Freud called melancholia. In contemporary terms, it is a version of depression, even as it admits of manic forms—but not just individual depression but shared melancholia. It enraged me then, as it does now, that some lives were considered to be more worthy of grieving publicly than others, depending on the status and recognizability of those persons and their relations. And that came home to me in a different way in the aftermath of 9/11, when it was very clear that certain lives could be highly memorialized in the newspapers and others could not. Those who were openly mourned tended to lead lives whose value was measured by whether they had property, education, whether they were married and had a dog and some children. The traditional heterosexual frame became the condition of possibility for public mourning.

Masha Gessen: You are referring to the twenty-five hundred mini-obituaries in the Times, right?

Judith Butler: Yes. It was rather amazing the way that the undocumented were not really openly and publicly mourned through those obituaries, and a lot of gay and lesbian people were mourned in a shadowy way or not at all. They fell into the dustbin of the unmournable or the ungrievable. We can also see this in broader public policies. There are those for whom health insurance is so precious that it is publicly assumed that it can never be taken away, and others who remain without coverage, who cannot afford the premiums that would increase their chances of living—their lives are of no consequence to those who oppose health care for all. Certain lives are considered more grievable. We have to get beyond the idea of calculating the value of lives, in order to arrive at a different, more radical idea of social equality.

Masha Gessen: You write about the militant potential of mourning.

Judith Butler: It’s something that can happen, though it doesn’t always happen. Black Lives Matter emerged from mourning. Douglas Crimp, the great art historian and theorist, reflected on mourning and militancy in an important essay by that name.

Masha Gessen: In “The Force of Nonviolence,” you repeatedly stress the importance of counter-realism, even an “ethical obligation” to be unrealistic. Can you explain that?

Judith Butler: Take the example of electability. If one takes the view that it is simply not realistic that a woman can be elected President, one speaks in a way that seems both practical and knowing. As a prediction, it may be true, or it may be shifting as we speak. But the claim that it is not realistic confirms that very idea of reality and gives it further power over our beliefs and expectations. If “that is just the way the world is,” even though we wish it were different, then we concede the intractability of that version of reality. We’ve said such “realistic” things about gay marriage before it became a reality. We said it years ago about a black President. We’ve said it about many things in this world, about tyrannical or authoritarian regimes we never thought would come down. To stay within the framework of Realpolitik is, I think, to accept a closing down of horizons, a way to seem “cool” and skeptical at the expense of radical hope and aspiration. Sometimes you have to imagine in a radical way that makes you seem a little crazy, that puts you in an embarrassing light, in order to open up a possibility that others have already closed down with their knowing realism. I’m prepared to be mocked and dismissed for defending nonviolence in the way that I do. It might be understood as one of the most profoundly unrealistic positions you could hold in this life. But when I ask people whether they would want to live in a world in which no one takes that position, they say that that would be terrible.

Masha Gessen: I want to challenge your examples a little bit. The electability issue can be argued not from the point of view of counter-realism but by saying, “Your view of reality is limited. It doesn’t take into account the number of women voters, or the number of women who were elected in the midterms.” Same with gay marriage--people who didn’t believe it was possible simply didn’t realize what a huge shift in social attitudes had occurred between generations. In a sense, those are easier arguments than the one I think you are making, which is, “You might be right about reality, but this is not a reality we should be willing to accept.”

Judith Butler: I am talking about how the term “reality” functions in social-political discourse. Sometimes “reality” is used to debunk as childish or unknowledgeable points of view that actually are holding out a more radical possibility of equality or freedom or democracy or justice, which means stepping out of a settled understanding. We see how socialist ideals, for instance, are dismissed as “fanciful” in the current election. I find that the dismissive form of realism is guarding those borders and shutting down those horizons of possibility. It reminds me of parents who say, “Oh, you’re gay . . .” or “Oh, you’re trans—well, of course I accept you, but it’s going to be a very hard life.” Instead of saying, “This is a new world, and we are going to build it together, and you’re going to have my full support.”

Masha Gessen: On the other hand, I have been accused by my kids of not understanding how the world works—for rejecting what’s broadly understood to be the way things are. Don’t we also have a responsibility to acknowledge the hardships kids face?

Judith Butler: If the terms of their struggle and their suffering are the ones that they bring to you from their experience, then, yes, of course. But if you impose it on them before they even had a chance to live, that’s not so good.

Masha Gessen: Let’s talk about your approach to nonviolence as a matter not of individual morality but of a social philosophy of living.

Judith Butler: Most of the time, when we ask moral questions—like “What would you do?” or “How would you conduct yourself, and how would you justify your actions?” if such-and-such were the case—it’s framed as a hypothetical in which one person is offering a justification to another person, with the aim of taking individual responsibility for a potential action. That way of thinking rests on the notion that individual deliberation is at the core of moral action. Of course, to some degree it is, but we do not think critically about the individual. I am seeking to shift the question of nonviolence into a question of social obligations but also to suggest that probing social relationality will give us some clues about what a different ethical framework would be. What do we owe those with whom we inhabit the earth? And what do we owe the earth, as well, while we’re at it? And why do we owe people or other living creatures that concern? Why do we owe them regard for life or a commitment to a nonviolent relationship? Our interdependency serves as the basis of our ethical obligations to one another. When we strike at one another, we strike at that very bond. Many social psychologists will tell us that certain social bonds are consolidated through violence, and those tend to be group bonds, including nationalism and racism. If you’re part of a group that engages in violence and feels that the bonds of your connection to one another are fortified through that violence, that presumes that the group you’re targeting is destroyable and dispensable, and who you are is only negatively related to who they are. That’s also a way of saying that certain lives are more valuable than others. But what would it mean to live in a world of radical equality? My argument is that then we cannot kill one another, we cannot do violence to one another, we cannot abandon each other’s lives.

Masha Gessen: And this is where your critique of self-defense comes in.

Judith Butler: Don’t get me wrong--I’ve been trained in self-defense. I’m very grateful for that early training. But I’ve always wondered what that self is that we’re defending. Many people have pointed out that only certain people, in courts of law, are permitted to argue self-defense, and others very rarely are. We know that white men can protect themselves and their property and wield force in self-defense much more easily than black and brown people can. Who has the kind of self that is recognized by the law and the public as worthy of self-defense? If I think of myself not just as this bounded individual but as fundamentally related to others, then I locate this self in those relations. In that case, the self I am trying to defend is not just me but all those relations that define and sustain me, and those relations can, and should be, extended indefinitely beyond local units like family and community. If the self I’m trying to defend is also in some sense related to the person I’m tempted to kill, I have to make sure not to do violence to that relation, because that’s also me. One could go further--I’m also attacking myself by attacking that person, since I am breaking a social bond that we have between us. The problem of nonviolence looks different if you see it that way.

Masha Gessen: In a couple of places in the book, you say that nonviolence is not an absolute principle, or that you’re not arguing that no one has the right to self-defense—you are just suggesting a new set of guiding principles. I found myself a little disappointed every time you make that caveat. Does it not weaken your argument when you say, “I’m arguing against self-defense, but I’m not saying that no one has a right to self-defense”?

Judith Butler: If I were giving a rational justification for nonviolence as a position, which would make me into a much more proper philosopher than I am—or wish to be—then it would make sense to rule out all exceptions. But we don’t need a new rational justification for nonviolence. We actually need to pose the question of violence and nonviolence within a different framework, where the question is not “What ought I to do?” but “Who am I in relation to others, and how do I understand that relationship?” Once social equality becomes the framework, I’m not sure we are deliberating as individuals trying to come up with a fully rational position, consistent and complete and comprehensive for all circumstances. We might then approach the world in a way that would make violence less likely, that would allow us to think about how to live together given our anger and our aggression, our murderous wishes—how to live together and to make a commitment to that, outside of the boundaries of community or the boundaries of the nation. I think that that’s a way of thinking, an ethos—I guess I would use that word, “ethos,” as something that would be more important to me than a fully rational system that is constantly confounded by exceptions.

Masha Gessen: And would it be correct to say that you are also asking us not to adopt this new framework individually but actually to rethink together with others—that adopting this frame requires doing it in an interdependent way?

Judith Butler: I think so. We would need to develop political practices to make decisions about how to live together less violently. We have to be able to identify institutional modes of violence, including prisons and the carceral state, that are too often taken for granted and not recognized as violent. It’s a question of bringing out in clear terms those institutions and sets of policies that regularly make these kinds of distinctions between valuable and non-valuable lives.

Masha Gessen: You talk about nonviolence, rather unexpectedly, as a force, and even use words like “militant” and “aggressive.” Can you explain how they go together?

Judith Butler: I think many positions assume that nonviolence involves inhabiting the peaceful region of the soul, where you are supposed to rid yourself of violent feelings or wishes or fantasy. But what interests me is cultivating aggression into forms of conduct that can be effective without being destructive.

Masha Gessen: How do you define the boundary of what is violence?

Judith Butler: The physical blow cannot be the only model for thinking about what violence is. Anything that jeopardizes the lives of others through explicit policy or through negligence—and that would include all kinds of public policies or state policies—are practices of institutional or systemic violence. Prisons are the most persistent form of systemic violence regularly accepted as a necessary reality. We can think about contemporary borders and detention centers as clear institutions of violence. These violent institutions claim that they are seeking to make society less violent, or that borders keep violent people out. We have to be careful in thinking about how “violence” is used in these kinds of justifications. Once those targeted with violence are identified with violence, then violent institutions can say, “The violence is over there, not here,” and inflict injury as they wish. People in the world have every reason to be in a state of total rage. What we do with that rage together is important. Rage can be crafted—it’s sort of an art form of politics. The significance of nonviolence is not to be found in our most pacific moments but precisely when revenge makes perfect sense.

Masha Gessen: What kinds of situations are those?

Judith Butler: If you’re someone whose family has been murdered, or if you’re part of a community that has been violently uprooted from your homes. In the midst of feeling that rage, one can also work with others to find that other way, and I see that happening in nonviolent movements. I see it happening in Black Lives Matter. I think the feminist movement is very strongly nonviolent—it very rarely gets put in that category, but most of its activities are nonviolent, especially the struggle against sexual violence. There are nonviolent groups in Palestine fighting colonization, and anticolonial struggles have offered many of the most important nonviolent movements, including Gandhi’s resistance to British colonialism. Antiwar protests are almost by definition nonviolent.

Masha Gessen: One of the most striking passages in the book is about what you call “the contagious sense of the uninhibited satisfactions of sadism.” You write about the appeal of blatant and indifferent destructiveness. What did you have in mind when you wrote those phrases?

Judith Butler: It’s unclear whether Trump is watching Netanyahu and Erdoğan, whether anyone is watching Bolsonaro, whether Bolsonaro is watching Putin, but I think there are some contagious effects. A leader can defy the laws of his own country and test to see how much power he can take. He can imprison dissenters and inflict violence on neighboring regions. He can block migrants from certain countries or religions. He can kill them at a moment’s notice. Many people are excited by this kind of exercise of power, its unchecked quality, and they want in their own lives to free up their aggressive speech and action without any checks--no shame, no legal repercussions. They have this leader who models that freedom. The sadism intensifies and accelerates I think, as many people do, that Trump has licensed the overt violence of white supremacy and also unleashed police violence by suspending any sense of constraint. Many people thrill to see embodied in their government leader a will to destruction that is uninhibited, invoking a kind of moral sadism as its perverse justification. It’s going to be up to us to see if people can thrill to something else.

Masha Gessen: That goes back to my question about where the boundary of violence lies. For example, can you describe Trump’s speech acts as violence? He hasn’t himself stopped anybody at the border or shot anyone in a mosque.

Judith Butler: Executive speech acts have the power to stop people, so his speech acts do stop people at the border. The executive order is a weird speech act, but he does position himself as a quasi king or sovereign who can make policy through simply uttering certain words.

Masha Gessen: Or tweeting.

Judith Butler: The tweet acts as an incitation but also as a virtual attack with consequences; it gives public license to violence. He models a kind of entitlement that positions him above the law. Those who support him, even love him, want to live in that zone with him. He is a sovereign unchecked by the rule of law he represents, and many think that is the most free and courageous kind of liberation. But it is liberation from all social obligation, a self-aggrandizing sovereignty of the individual.

Masha Gessen: You describe this current moment rather beautifully in the book as a “politically consequential form of phantasmagoria.”

Judith Butler: If we think about the cases of police violence against black women, men, and children who are unarmed, or are actually running away, or sleeping on the couch, or completely constrained and saying that they cannot breathe, we would reasonably suppose that the manifest violence and injustice of these killings is evident. Yet there are ways of seeing those very videos that document police violence where the black person is identified as the one who is about to commit some terribly violent act. How could anyone be persuaded of that? What are the conditions of persuasion such that a lawyer could make that argument, on the basis of video documentation, and have a jury or judge accept that view? The only way we can imagine that is if we understand potential violence to be something that black people carry in them as part of their blackness. It has been shocking to see juries and judges and police investigators exonerate police time and again, when it would seem—to many of us, at least—that these were cases of unprovoked, deadly violence. So I understand it as a kind of racial phantasmagoria.

Masha Gessen: Just to be clear, you’re not saying that these juries saw violence being perpetrated against somebody nonviolent and decided to let the perpetrator off. You’re saying that they actually perceived violence--in the radically subjugated black body, or the radically constrained black body, or the black body that’s running with fear away from some officer who is threatening them with violence. And if you’re a jury—especially a white jury that thinks it’s perfectly reasonable to imagine that a black person, even under extreme restraint, could leap up and kill you in a flash—that’s phantasmagoria. It’s not individual psychopathology but a shared phantasmatic scene.

Masha Gessen: How did this book come about?

Judith Butler: I have been working on this topic for a while. It’s linked to the problem of grievability, to human rights, to boycott politics, to thinking about nonviolent modes of resistance. But, also, some of my allies on the left were pretty sure that, when Trump was elected, we were living in a time of fascism that required a violent overthrow or a violent set of resistance tactics, citing the resistance to Nazism in Europe and Fascism in Italy and Spain. Some groups were affirming destruction rather than trying to build new alliances based on a new analysis of our times, one that would eventually be strong enough to oppose this dangerous current trend of authoritarian, neo-Fascist rule.

Masha Gessen: Can you give some examples of what you see as affirming destruction?

Judith Butler: At a very simple level--getting into physical fights with fascists who come to provoke you. Or destruction of storefronts because capitalism has to be brought to its knees, as has happened during Occupy and anti-fascist protests in the Bay Area, even if those storefronts belong to black people who struggled to establish those businesses. When I was in Chile last April, I was struck by the fact that the feminist movement was at the forefront of the left, and it made a huge difference in thinking about tactics, strategies, and aims. In the U.S., I think that some men who always saw feminism as a secondary issue feel much freer to voice their anti-feminism in the context of a renewed interest in socialism. Of course, it does not have to go that way, but I worry about a return to the framework of primary and secondary impressions. Many social movements fought against that for decades.

Masha Gessen: You have faced violence, and I know there are some countries you no longer feel safe travelling to. What has happened?

Judith Butler: There are usually two issues, Palestine or gender. I have come to understand in what places which issue is controversial. The anti-“gender ideology” movement has spread throughout Latin America, affecting national elections and targeting sexual and gender minorities. Those who work on gender are often maligned as “diabolical” or “demons.” The image of the devil is used a lot, which is very hard on me for many reasons, partly because it feels anti-Semitic. Sometimes they treat me as trans, or they can’t decide whether I’m trans or lesbian or whatever, and they credit my work from thirty years ago as introducing this idea of gender, when even cursory research will show that the category has been operative since the nineteen-fifties.

Masha Gessen: How do you know that they see you as trans?

Judith Butler: In Brazil, they put a pink bra on the effigy that they made of me.

Masha Gessen: There was an effigy?

Judith Butler: Yes, and they burned that effigy.

Masha Gessen: “Pink bra” wouldn’t seem to be the headline of that story?

Judith Butler: But the idea was that the bra would be incongruent with who I am, so they were assuming a more masculine core, and the pink bra would have been a way to portray me in drag. That was kind of interesting. It was kind of horrible, too.

Masha Gessen: Did you witness it physically?

Judith Butler: I was protected inside a cultural center, and there were crowds outside. I am glad to say that the crowd opposing the right-wing Christians was much larger.

Masha Gessen: Are you scared?

Judith Butler: I was scared. I had a really good bodyguard, who remains my friend. But I wasn’t allowed to walk the streets on my own.

Masha Gessen: Let’s review this “gender ideology” idea, because not everyone is familiar with this phenomenon.

Judith Butler: It’s huge.

Masha Gessen: It’s the idea, promoted by groups affiliated with Catholic, evangelical, and Eastern Orthodox churches, that a Jewish Marxist–Frankfurt School–Judith Butler conspiracy has hatched a plot to destroy the family by questioning the immutability of sex roles, and this will lead white people to extinction.

Judith Butler: They are taking the idea of the performativity of gender to mean that we’re all free to choose our gender as we wish and that there is no natural sex. They see it as an attack on both the God-given character of male and female and the ostensibly natural social form in which they join each other—heterosexual marriage. But, sometimes, by “gender” they simply mean gender equality, which, for them, is destroying the family, which presumes that the family has a necessary hierarchy in which men hold power. They also understand “gender” as trans rights, gay rights, and as gay equality under the law. Gay marriage is particularly terrifying to them and seen as a threat to “the family,” and gay and lesbian adoption is understood to involve the molestation of children. They imagine that those of us who belong to this “gender movement,” as they put it, have no restrictions on what we will do, that we represent and promote unchecked sexual freedom, which leads to pedophilia. It is all very frightening, and it has been successful in threatening scholars and, in some cases, shutting down programs. There is also an active resistance against them, and I am now part of that.

Masha Gessen: How long has this been going on, this particular stage of your existence in the world?

Judith Butler: The Pontifical Council for the Family, led by Pope Francis before his elevation, published papers against “gender” in 2000. I wrote briefly about that but could not imagine then that it would become a well-financed campaign throughout the world. It started to affect my life in 2012 or ’13.

Masha Gessen: And, aside from finding it, as I can tell, sometimes a little bit amusing—

Judith Butler: Oh, no, it’s terrifying. I have feared for my life a few times, and scholars in Bahia and other parts of the world have been threatened with violence. Even the clip you saw online was incomplete—they, the gender-ideology people, made it and circulated it because they were apparently proud of themselves. What they didn’t show is the woman who came after me, running with a cart, as I went to the security checkpoint. She was about to shove me with that metal cart when some young man with a backpack came out of a store and actually interposed his body between the cart and me, and he ended up on the floor, in a physical fight with her, which I saw as I was going up the elevator. I looked back, and I thought, This guy has sacrificed his physical well-being for me. I don’t know who he is to this day. I would like to find this person and thank him.

Masha Gessen: Is that the only time you have faced physical violence?

Judith Butler: Some people in Switzerland, too, were up in arms about Biblical authority on the sexes. This was probably about four or five years ago.

Masha Gessen: Do you see this at all as an indication of your influence?

Judith Butler: It seems like a terrible indication of my influence, in the sense that they don’t actually know my work or what I was trying to say. I see that they’re very frightened, for many reasons, but I don’t think this shows my influence.

Masha Gessen: And, other than that, how are you feeling about your work in the world?

Judith Butler: I’m working collaboratively with people, and I like that more than being an individual author or public figure who goes around and proclaims things. My connection with the women’s movement in Latin America has been important to me, and I work with a number of people in gender studies throughout Europe. Leaving this country allows me to get a new perspective, to see what is local and limited about U.S. political discourse, and I suppose my work tends to be more transnational now than it used to be.

Masha Gessen: What is the work in Latin America?

Judith Butler: I have been part of a grant from the Mellon Foundation to organize an international consortium of critical-theory programs. Critical theory is understood not only in the Frankfurt School sense but as theoretical reflection that’s trying to grasp the world we live in, to think about and transform that world in ways that overcome a range of oppressions and inequalities. We often connect with academic and activist movements and reflect on social movements together. The Ni Una Menos—“Not One Less”—grassroots movement fighting violence against women, in particular, has been really impressive to me. Sometimes the movement can bring one [million] to three million people out into the streets. They work very deliberatively and collectively, through public assemblies and strikes. They’re very fierce and smart, and they are also hopeful in the midst of grim realities. I am also working with friends in Europe and elsewhere who are trying to defend gender-studies programs against closure—we call ourselves the Gender International.

Masha Gessen: Are you still involved in Palestine work?

Judith Butler: It’s not as central in my life as it was, but all my commitments are still there. Israel has banned me from entry, because of my support for B.D.S. [the Boycott, Divestment, and Sanctions movement], so it is hard to sustain alliances in Palestine—Israel controls all those borders. I work with Jewish Voice for Peace. I’m particularly worried about Trump’s new anti-Semitism doctrine, which seems to suggest that every Jew truly or ultimately is a citizen of the state of Israel. And that means that any critique of Israel can be called anti-Semitic, since Trump—and Netanyahu—want to say that the state of Israel represents all Jewish people. This is a terrible reduction of what Jewish life has been, historically and in the present, but, most frighteningly, the new anti-Semitism policy will license the suppression of Palestinian student organizations on campus as well as research in Middle East studies. I have some deep fears about that, as should anyone who cares about state involvement in the suppression of knowledge and the importance of nonviolent forms of advocacy for those who have suffered dispossession, violence, and injustice.

3 notes · View notes

today-only-happens-once · 6 years

Text

Family

Title: Family

Word Count: 3675

Summary: for asofterfan’s Punk!AU. Patton is protective of his little brother, Thomas. ““Pat,” Virgil says in a low voice as he steps closer, alarm twisting his stomach. “Are you hurt?””. Platonic/familial dynamics all around.

Warnings: discussion of violence, injury (lots of bruising mostly), cursing (more than normal in my fics…Punk!Logan curses a lot okay), mention/hints at abuse and neglect, nausea mention, some angst/hurt/comfort, let me know if I forgot anything else.

Author’s Note: Long AN is long, sorry - Behold, the fic that caused me tremendous self-doubt and second-guessing. I am in love with @asofterfan’s Punk!AU. (Special thanks to them for letting me and others create within the context of this awesome AU) I tried to do as much research through their headcanons and art as I could, but I’m sure there are inaccuracies. This will also inevitably pale in comparison to the development of their AU so please check it out if you haven’t because it’s awesome. I kinda wanted to explore Patton’s relationship with Thomas a bit but also the Analogical dynamic and this is what happened. Yikes. The self-doubt and writing insecurity never really went away with this fic (can you tell from how I’ve been rambling?) but like might as well post it, yeah? No? *drops this here and then sprints far away*

Also, editing done by yours truly so all mistakes are mine and mine alone.

Tags: @creativenostalgiastuff, @helloisthisusernametaken, @ren-allen, @lizaelsparrow, @princelogical, @random-pianist, @ravenclawicecream, @erlenmeyertrash, @milomeepit, @at-least-seven-pretty-potatoes, @rileyfirstname, @pinkeasteregg, @sassy-in-glasses, @vigilantvirgil, @generalfandomfabulousness, @lacrimosathedark, @thepoolofthedead, @monikastec, @heir-of-the-founders, @yourworstnightmare999

…

Virgil shakes the can of spray paint as he surveys the brick wall in front of him. He has the image in his mind of the final product, but it always takes him a moment’s pause to figure out where exactly to start. A light, late afternoon breeze tugs at the loose strands of his hair. Logan sits on the ground in the alley with a book in his lap, his back against the wall and one knee propped up.

He turns the page, then glances up at Virgil. “It helps if you actually, y’know, use the spray paint.”

The corner of Virgil’s mouth twitches. “You don’t say?” he quips dryly.“You know, you said you’d keep a look out for me.” He looks at the wall a moment longer before beginning. The hiss of the canister cuts through the sound of birds chirping and tires rolling on pavement as cars passed by, oblivious to the two teens deeper in the alley.

“And I am,” Logan replies. His gaze narrows at the page for a moment before looking back at Virgil. “Although I really don’t think you have anything to worry about. Nobody around here cares much about artists painting on the walls unless they’re police, and those guys don’t really do much around here. There’s about a 99% nobody’s going to even notice us, let alone care to do anything about it. ”

“Yeah, but with my luck?” Virgil sprays another line. “I don’t love those odds.”

Logan smirks and flips the page. He brushes a strand of blue hair out of his eyes. Virgil eyes the book in his lap as he grabs a different color and resumes painting. He coats the red brick in a glistening dark black streak. “What are you even reading?”

Logan glances up, adjusting the frame of his glasses. “Judith Butler’s Bodies That Matter. It expands on the gender performativity argument she proposed in Gender Trouble.”

Virgil arcs a skeptical eyebrow at his friend. “You’re reading advanced gender theory? For fun?”

“Nothing is binary and everything is gay,” Logan replies with a lift of his shoulder. “They want proof? This book offers it, or tries to. At least, the binary part. I’m still reading.”

Virgil continues working, hesitating less between lines as the image starts to take form. Distantly, the wail of police sirens cut through the air; it’s too far away for either of the punks to even look up. For a while, the only sound between them is the hiss of Virgil’s spray paint cans and Logan turning pages. The sound of footsteps makes both boys pause, but as they glance down the alley to the street, the two girls walking by don’t even glance in their direction.

Virgil doesn’t usually tag in broad daylight. But he was trying a new design that he wanted to see in daylight, and sketching it out over and over only made him feel most antsy about finding out what it would actually look like. Before he placed it anywhere that would actually get noticed, Virgil wanted to make sure he knew what he was doing with it. And even though a part of him was more on edge due to the fact that the possibility of him getting caught was higher without the cover of dark, his shaking hands stilled as soon as he’d begun. He supposes art was funny like that sometimes.

It’s almost an hour later when Virgil takes a few steps back and surveys his own work. Logan looks up at him for a moment before marking the page and jumping to his feet to stand by Virgil.

Virgil purses his lips, his gaze narrowing. “That line isn’t straight,” he says, pointing it out to Logan. “It curves a bit to the left.”

“So? I’m never straight,” Logan replies, almost deadpan save for the slight smirk that pulls at the corner of his lips. “It looks good, Virge.”

Virgil is quiet, then reaches for the canister at his feet. “I’m just gonna fix one thing.” He steps back up to the wall, adding a few strokes of the purple to add some dimension where Virgil felt it was lacking. “Hey,” he says as he works, “Logan?” He tries to keep the nervousness out of his voice.

“Hm?”

“Mind if I maybe crash at your place tonight?” he asks without turning around. He can never look Logan in the eyes when he asks, and he hates how often he does so. But last night had been… rough, to say the least. He had a feeling that Logan had seen the bruise on his arm during lunch, even though the teen had tried to keep his sleeves pulled down.

“C’mon,” Logan says. “You know you don’t need to ask.”

…

By the time the two boys get back to Logan’s house, it’s almost five. The sun is low in the sky, just about ready to set. Logan’s driveway sits empty, as usual, as they get closer. It’s not until they’re walking up the driveway when they notice someone sitting on the front steps of his porch.

Logan and Virgil share a glance as they get closer. The familiar head of pastel blue-purple-pink hair is leaned back against the railing, his eyes closed.

“Patton?”

At the sound of his name, Patton opens his eyes.

“Hey, Logan,” he says, his voice sounding oddly strained. Virgil looks at him closer, and notices the way the pastel punk has his arm wrapped around his chest. The way he’s curled in on himself a little. Something is wrong.

“Patton, don’t take this the wrong way but what are you doing here?” Logan asks.

“I, uh…” Patton gives them a pained smile that looks a lot more like a grimace. “I need your help.”

“Pat,” Virgil says in a low voice as he steps closer, alarm twisting his stomach. “Are you hurt?”

“I… yeah.” Logan is already unlocking the door, but his gaze flashes back to them at the answer. Virgil wraps Patton’s arm around his shoulders. He winces as Virgil—who is being as gentle as he can—pulls him to his feet.

“What the hell happened?” Logan demands as Virgil helps Patton inside. His brown eyes are practically blazing with fury. It’s not that Logan isn’t used to patching people up. Usually himself or Virgil after a late night call. (They were both used to that particular arrangement, Virgil thinks with a bitter taste in his mouth.)

But Patton is an entirely different story. Everybody loved him; and if you didn’t love him, then you had done something to get on his bad side and you were afraid of him. Patton was almost a perpetually warm person, sincere and well-meaning even if his love and affection could feel like a bit… much, at times.

Logan may have the sharper temper, but Virgil can feel his own anger bubbling in his chest as the reality that someone had hurt Patton sinks into him.

“I’m sorry,” Patton is saying quietly as they make their way up the stairs. “I didn’t mean to bother you guys, I just…”

“Shut up, Pat,” Virgil tells him, but not harshly. “You don’t have to talk about it unless you want to.”

“Take him to my room,” Logan says. “I’m gonna grab the first aid kit.” Virgil nods his understanding and leads Patton to the door at the end of the hallway.

Virgil flips the light switch as they enter Logan’s bedroom. The room admittedly helps ease some of the uneasiness in Virgil’s stomach. Logan’s room—with its dark blues and blacks on the walls and bedding—always felt safe to Virgil. The teen smiles faintly to himself at his stuffed turtle John and Logan’s octopus Tsugarensis sitting side by side amidst the pillows near the headboard. Bottles of hair dye sit on his desk.

Patton is quiet as he sits down on the edge of the bed, glancing around the room. He catches Patton’s quiet hiss as Virgil extracts himself out from under the other punk’s arm. He notices then that Patton’s hands are bruised, the knuckles split. The teen also has a dark bruise forming along his cheekbone.

Virgil shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. He’s used to the one being hurt. It’s not often that he finds himself on the other side of the situation, and if he’s being honest, he hates it. It’s tying his stomach in knots despite the familiarity and vague sense of safety Logan’s room provided.

“I’m sorry, Virge,” Patton says softly, staring at his hands in his lap. “My mom isn’t home and I didn’t want to scare Thomas. But I needed help and I wasn’t sure where else to go, and Logan lived closer, so...”

Logan interrupts the conversation as he comes into the room with a box in his hands. “Patton, you’re gonna need to take off the vest at least.” There’s a surprising and rare gentleness in the request that Virgil has only ever hear Logan use when Virgil had been injured.

Patton nods, then hesitates. He sucks in a bit of a breath before shrugging out of the turquoise garment. Virgil bites his thumbnail, watching the way Patton clenches his jaw against a wince. Logan glances at the pastel punk out of the corner of his eye, setting the box on the bed beside Patton and kneeling in front of him.

The unasked questions hang heavy in the air of the bedroom. Virgil wants to ask what happened, but he is too well acquainted with injuries one would rather not talk about to force that kind of conversation on Patton. From the subtle glances Logan keeps tossing to him, he’s pretty sure the blue-haired teen feels the same way.

“Can you raise your shirt, Pat?”

Patton presses his lips together, not answering at first. Slowly, he reaches for the hem of his shirt and—visibly gritting his teeth—pulls it up and over his head. He averts his gaze as he sets his shirt beside him.

The sight of Patton’s chest is one Virgil is too well-acquainted with, but seeing it on Patton makes a faint nausea rise in Virgil’s throat before he swallows it down. Across his ribcage is a brilliant—painful—smattering of purple, yellow, and a very angry red. Something that looks suspiciously like a footprint marks his right side. Logan goes suddenly very still for a moment, his eyes widening ever so slightly.

Patton swallows. He offers a weak smile, even though he isn’t looking at either one of them. “Is this where I say ‘you should see the other guys’?”

Guys plural? Virgil thinks, anger sparking all over again in his chest.

“You’re damn right,” Logan replies, his voice deceptively even. “If not after you, then after me.” He looks up at Patton, who still won’t meet his eyes. “Is anything broken?”

“I don’t… I’m not sure,” Patton whispers.

Logan nods stiffly. “Then this might hurt.” Gingerly, he starts prodding around Patton’s chest. Feeling for any broken ribs. Virgil winces in sympathy as Patton sucks in a sharp hiss.

“It was because of Thomas,” Patton says after a long moment of silence, as Logan continues to press around his chest.

Virgil’s gaze flies up. “Thomas did this?” That definitely didn’t make sense. Thomas and Patton adored each other.

“No, no, no!” Patton says quickly. “I…” He sighs, some strands of his pastel hair falling into his eyes. “Thomas has been struggling with some kids in school. This morning when I went to get him up, he yelled at me. I don’t even remember what about. He’d… never yelled at me before. But I told him he had to go to school. He said I…” Patton cuts himself off suddenly, shaking his head. Virgil’s brow pulls together at the unfinished thought, but Logan cuts in before he can ask about it.

“Well, shit, Pat,” Logan replies, pulling his hands back from Patton’s torso. “You could’ve told us. We would’ve backed you up.” He pulls the wrapping off the bandage.

Patton lifts a shoulder. “I didn’t even know. He didn’t tell me what was happening. I waited for him for a while after school but when he didn’t show up, I went looking for him. Found him cornered by a few guys who had him shoved up against the locker.”

Virgil’s brow furrows together. As bubbly and warm as Patton was, one thing you did not do was mess with someone he cared about. Especially his little brother. “You and Thomas fought some guys?”

Patton shakes his head. “I got their attention, and told Thomas to get out of there. He didn’t exactly want to, but he knows I would’ve kicked his ass harder if he’d stuck around. Thomas isn’t much of a fighter.” Patton’s hands curl into fists on his knees. Virgil isn’t sure if it’s in anger or something else.

Logan secures a bandage over the pastel punk’s ribs. “No offense, Patton,” he says, “but you’re hardly the most likely one to throw a punch yourself.” He glances at the bruised and split knuckles along the other teen’s hands.

Patton looks at them too, relaxing his fists and flexing his hand before wincing. “Yeah, well. That wasn’t exactly my intention either.”

Logan takes his hand, cleaning up the abrasions along his knuckles before wrapping them. “You had your knife with you, at least?”

Patton glances up. “You know I don’t bring it with me to school.”

Virgil’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and he fishes it out and checks the ID. It’s a text from Roman.

Have u seen Pat?

The purple-haired teen sighs to himself and texts back. Yeah. He’s at Logans. Why?

R: Thomas just called me. He seemed worried bc Patton didn’t come home.

Thomas had recently gotten involved in theatre alongside Roman in the second half of his freshman year. Roman had given Patton’s little brother his number in case he needed a ride to rehearsal.

The phone buzzes again. U know what happened?

Long story. Just tell him Pat’s safe and with Logan, Virgil texts back quickly.

R: Thomas said he might be hurt???

Virgil hesitates a second before replying. Yeah. He is. I’ll explain later. Virgil pockets his phone and ignores it when it buzzes again. He knows Roman is already plotting revenge, and Virgil isn’t too far behind him, but he has bigger priorities at the moment.

He can see Patton’s jaw jump. He hears how shaky the pastel punk’s long inhale is, even though he tries to cover it with a cough and a smile.

“Hey, uh, Logan?” Patton asks as Logan finishes securing the bandage in place.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.” Patton flexes his grip and finally locks gazes with the blue-haired teen. “You’re good at this.”

Logan and Virgil exchange a quick glance that Patton doesn’t seem to notice before the teen shrugs. “Don’t mention it.”

There’s a moment of silence before Patton sighs again, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I just can’t believe Thomas didn’t tell me.”

Virgil slips his hands into his pockets. He leans back against the edge of Logan’s desk. “Maybe he thought he could take care of it himself.”

Patton runs his fingers through his pastel hair to brush it out of his face. He looks unconvinced. “It’s just… I was always supposed to look out for him, y’know?”

Logan sits back on his heels. “The kid’s not so little anymore, Patton,” he says, but not unkindly. “You’re gonna graduate in a few months, and Thomas is gonna have to know how to fight his own battles. Even when he gets in over his head.”

Virgil snorts. “Oh, he definitely will. Kid’s got a bit a rebellious streak in him, I swear. We’re rubbing off on him. In a few years I bet he gives you a run for your money, Logan.”

Logan jokingly puffs his chest out. “Good! Somebody’s gotta call the teachers out on their whitewashing of history when I leave.”

Patton groans, but a small smile is tugging at the corner of his lips. “Great. So my brother is gonna get into even more fights.” His tone is light, but the real concern leaks through regardless.

Logan pushes himself to his feet and crosses his arms over his chest. “So we’ll teach him how to defend himself before we all go our separate ways.”

Something falls in Patton’s eyes at Logan’s words. He opens his mouth to reply, then closes it. Virgil’s gaze narrows as Patton clasps his hands together, seeming to rethink what he’d been about to say.

“Yeah,” he says. “Sure. That… That’d be great.”

Virgil frowns, opening his mouth to ask what was wrong when Patton’s phone buzzes loudly. The teen grabs it out of the back pocket of his jeans and cringes as he answers. “Hey, Thomas. I’m okay.”

Logan closes the first aid kit and steps out into the hallway. Virgil follows him, wanting to give Patton a moment alone on the phone with his brother. Logan heads straight for the bathroom, sliding the kit under the sink before turning to face the purple-haired punk.

Logan blows out a breath. The spark of fury is back in his eyes. “God damn it.”

“I know,” Virgil says. “But you know Pat got in his fair share of punches.”

Logan’s eyes glance up to the teen across from him. “C’mon, Virge. You saw the same damage I did. That wasn’t a fair fight.”

The corner of Virgil’s mouth twitches humorlessly. “When has anything in our lives ever been a fair fight, Lo?”

“They’re cowards.”

“Yeah,” Virgil agrees. “But Patton’s not.”

Logan opens his mouth to respond, but the sound of the bedroom door opening makes him close it.

“Guys?” Patton asks.

Logan steps out of the bathroom. “Yeah?”

“Thomas is kind of freaking out,” Patton says, his shirt and vest back on, waving the phone in his hands. “I should probably get home before it gets worse. But, uh,” he smiles, awkward and embarrassed. “Thanks, again. For helping me out.”

“Sure. You might want to get some ice on that,” Logan tells him, gesturing at Patton’s chest. “I don’t think anything is broken but it’s still gonna hurt for a while.”

His smile softens into something a bit more sincere, and also a bit sad. “Yeah. I will.” He’s about halfway down the stairs when he stops and looks back at the two of them. “I’ll see you guys at school?”

“Yeah,” Virgil answers for them. “We’ll be there.”

“To beat up some guys if they so much as show their faces,” Logan adds under his breath.

“We might have to wait in line once Roman finds out,” Virgil replies just as quietly. When Patton grins, Virgil can’t quite tell if he heard them or not.

“Don’t know what I’d do without all of you guys,” Patton says, and then he’s down the stairs and out the door.

Virgil smiles a little to himself as the door closes behind him. Logan leans against the wall in the hallway, his eyes still looking at the door Patton had just walked out of. “You think Thomas knows?”

Virgil lifts an eyebrow at the other teen before letting his gaze fall back to the closed door as well. “That Patton would go to hell and back for him? I’m not sure, but I’d bet so.”

The corner of the blue-haired teen’s mouth curls up in something between a smirk and a smile. “I guess Thomas and Pat are kinda like us, huh?”

Logan says it lightly, but there’s a certain weight to his words. Virgil locks gazes with him, expressing the unspoken truth that Virgil would absolutely go to hell and back for Logan. He’d go to hell and stay there for Logan.

For any of them.

And he knows, as much as he sometimes thinks it shouldn’t be true, that they all feel the same way.

Virgil shrugs a shoulder and plays it off as soon as he knows Logan understands. “What? One big happy family?”

There’s a subtle earnestness in Logan’s eyes that catches Virgil off guard. “Sure. Why not?” Logan says. “You know. You, me, Roman, Patton. Hell, even Thomas is practically all of our kid brother at this point.”

Logan pushes himself off the wall, his voice just a little quieter as he continues.

“I don’t know what it’s really like to be part of a not fucked-up family, but I’d guess this is pretty damn close.”

….

#sanders sides fanfiction #sanders sides #punk au #patton sanders #analogical #injury #violence #cursing #wow i feel wildly insecure about this particular fic #i hope it turned out okay!#kjgngfusdf #imma drop this here and go hide now #eep #let me know if any other triggers should be put in the tags

1K notes · View notes

ladynoblesong · 5 years

Text

Tag Meme ♪

Name : Wil

Zodiac sign : Sagittarius, babey!

Favorite food : I love anything with carbs, my good dude. I swear I order burgers more often than anyone my age probably should.

Favorite season : Winter

Jeans or shorts : Jeans!!! I love trousers.

Where are you from : Paris

Last book you read : Bodies that Matter by Judith Butler.

Favorite film : I have so much fondness for the Goofy Movies franchise, don’t even start with me. Other than that, probably any of these.

Dream vacation : I really want to go to New York someday, and watch a bunch of musicals!!

Eye color : Somewhere between blue and green.

Natural hair color : Light brown, but it’s dyed red right now.

Height : 5′5″

Introvert or Extrovert : A bit of both, but leaning toward introvert.

Tea or coffee : Coffee. Mama needs her bean juice.

Do you work out regularly : I try to exercise at least three times a week, but I’ve been doing poorly lately.

Favorite beverage : Can I go with coffee again? Otherwise, I love anything lemonade-like. (The fizzy kind.) Also, fruit juices.

Do you have pets : I don’t, but my mum has a Shetland sheepdog and I love her a lot.

Ideal day off : Good food & snacks, hanging out with one or two close friends, maybe going to the movies at some point. Discussing gay shit as well, probably.

In a relationship or single : I’ve been single for the last 5 years babey! And all my previous “relationships” were with men, so they never lasted.

Something unique about me : I speak f a s t.

If you so choose to, post a selfie: Here!

I was tagged by the lovely @love-in-the-time, thank you honey! Not tagging anyone for now, but do it if you like!

#about me #personal

3 notes · View notes

transgenderteensurvivalguide · 6 years

Note

(1/6) In advance, sorry if this sounds clipped but I'm rewriting an 11 part ask because that's just too much and it feels like it would be rude to send such a long question. Somehow it's still long. So my background is: mostly used to aro and ace communities, don't have much experience with the lgbt+ community at large (trying to work on that), the way the aro/ace communities break concepts like attraction down really helped me figure out what my orientation was. Questioning my gender now and

(2/6) having a hard time finding resources that help me clarify my feelings instead of making me even more confused. I started researching thinking that they would be similar to aro and ace resources, going to the root of things and saying “What even is attraction, let’s define it” and breaking it down into chunks instead of trying to tackle the whole thing at once (see the split attraction model). Instead I found many lists of labels and pronouns, trans 101 that was at the same time too basic (3/6) and not basic enough, and “Gender is a feeling, masculinity/femininity/androgyny/etc are feelings too, no one can tell you what your gender is but you”. My request isn’t for anyone to tell me what my gender is, I’ll figure that out myself. But I feel I’m lacking the tools to do it. So does anyone have any resources, be they articles/blogs/life experiences and stories written by trans people/etc that breaks things like the feelings of gender as a whole, masculinity, femininity, androgyny,(4/6) agender, and dysphoria down (not coded behaviors or presentation, but what they actually FEEL like. These are the things that I’m most confused about and most want some sort of answer or definition for) in the style aro/ace resources do for attraction/orientation? To figure this out I need some sort of starting point or foothold or anchor for this instead of “it’s a feeling” when I don’t know what that feeling could be. But “Nobody can tell you what you are” sounds much more like defeat(5/6) than freedom to me rn. I’ve heard it said that gender is experienced differently by everyone, and if it’s really just some nebulous unidentifiable feeling that literally cannot be put into words then I can learn to live with the fact I’ll just never understand it, but… it just seems like there HAS to be some sort of commonality in the feeling of gender, the feeling of femininity/masculinity/all the rest that could be prevalent enough to say what that feeling IS and used to help people (6/6) figure out better who they are and who they want to be. For the ones like me who don’t even know what they’re feeling or what they want to be, just that they don’t want to feel like they do now.

Kii says:You’ve got a lot here, and you’re right. Gender is really confusing, and it really is something that 100 different people will give you 100 different answers about. Some people do feel their gender is best described by more visible aspects, such as behaviors, clothing, desired body, hobbies, etc, but some people don’t, and for them, it is just a feeling that isn’t describable, they just know internally what gender they are and can’t always explain why.

However, just because there are feelings doesn’t mean that everyone’s feelings are the same, like the commonality you’re mentioning. You know the old “how do we know that your green is the same as my green?” Two people could be seeing the exact same item, both agree that it’s green, but how does anyone know that if I saw the same item through your eyes, I would still call it green? Your eyes might be structured completely differently than mine. Your green might be my purple, etc. I think the same goes for the words “masculine” and “feminine”- I can give you words that I associate with each, but a lot of people might disagree.

Think of a person that you consider to be very masculine (whether they ID as a man or not)- why do you see them as masculine? Is it because of how they dress? What their body looks like? Because they like cars, sports, etc? How they act or other elements of their personality? Do the same for someone who you feel is very feminine (whether they ID as a woman or not). How is your “masculine” person different than your “feminine” person?

Androgyny is usually described as the intersection or mix of masculinity and femininity, so to figure out what you associate with androgyny, you kind of have to figure that out first.

We have a whole page about dysphoria, since that’s a more concrete concept. There are lots of descriptions there on how different people describe dysphoria and how it feels.

We also have this post, which a lot of people have tried to make helpful to questioning people, as well as this ask where various mods described what gender feels like to them.

Harper Says:I would also suggest a broader understanding of gender (and sexuality). You’re looking for a commonality that is not found uniformly in lived/expressed experiences - perhaps you might find it fleetingly, strangely, but I doubt it will come with much uniform clarity. The assumption that there has to be a commonality, a universality, is one that potentially assumes a (purely) medical/psychological account of gender and sexuality. Experiences of gender will necessarily intersect with other forms of systematic oppression: race, disability, and so on; and so each account of gendered experience has to be uncommon.Try instead understanding gender as part of a wider system of oppression rigged to benefit white cis men. In this, bodies, activities, sexualities, (and many other things) are codified and performed within a system of oppression. This is the way as far as I, and many other thinkers, understand gender. When you ask for gender as “not coded behaviors or presentation, but what they actually FEEL like” I think you misunderstand that gender is easily and always both. The performances, the risks, the transgressions, that commonly make up transgender experiences are inescapably coded behaviours - we don’t live in a society that isn’t oppressive. That is why there is such fear and thrill in a trans woman shaving her legs for the first time, or a trans man using the men’s bathroom for the first time. The emotion and feeling wouldn’t be there if such transgressions weren’t coded in a system of oppression that frowns upon such behaviours. Gender is always on some level something that is done and the doing is bound up with being. To strive for a definition that reduces one to the other or excludes one or the other is as far as I understand it, a misunderstanding, and this is perhaps where your confusion comes from.With this understanding I would then say that it is not very surprising that you’re finding dead-ends and confusion by trying to parse an understanding of gender through split-attraction model type thinking. This is a relatively recent way of thinking about sexuality within the LGBT community, (one that I personally find no stock in), butting up against around thirty years of queer feminist thought, and a whole history of LGBT lives and experiences. You will probably find that trying to think through gender in ace/aro modes of thought is an impossible task without this appreciation of transgender history or an understanding of heterosexuality as the oppressive action of gender.I’m not surprised then, that you find defeat instead of freedom; for many, gender is something that is survived. Freedom can only come with the abolition of gender, that is the end of the “material, social, and economic dominance of men and exploitation of women” (Escalante). So to speak of a commonality, perhaps start reading about how these oppressive systems work. Understanding all of this is not an easy task. Below I’ll feed a few pointers on a theoretical level, and as such can throw up inaccessible language. My hope is that if you do struggle with any of it, from here you can google keywords and hopefully find more sources that suit you better.For the theoretical exploration of such see: Judith Butler’s Gender Trouble, and Monique Wittig’s The Straight Mind and Other Essays (see One is Not Born a Woman - I haven’t yet managed to find a pdf for the whole book). Or key words: material feminism, Butler, gender performance, heterosexuality, the straight mind. CW: (this will be quite broad but I know Wittig talks about:) pornography, sexual harassment, slavery.For an account of gender which explores these concepts see Susan Stryker’s My Words to Victor Frankenstein…. In this Stryker mixes a lived personal experience with gender as a trans woman alongside theoretical musings. Key words: transfeminism, transgender studies, transgender rage. CW: surgery, suicide, TERF stuff, pregnancy, birth.I would also recommend investing yourself in transgender voices and histories, so you can see how a varied approach to gender throughout history has been undertaken and lived. How complexities and contradictions have been embodied and embraced complexly by trans individuals. See Paris is Burning for what has become an important moment in LGBT cinema and history. CW death, accounts of violence, mentions of surgery, talk about sex.Also check out One From the Vaults a trans history podcast by Morgan M. Page. (Also available on iTunes, etc. I think.) In this engrossing podcast, Page tells the stories of various trans - or at least gender transgressive - people throughout history, including clips of them, letters, interviews, etc.. It comes with “all the dirt, gossip, and glamour from trans history” and so shows the variety of our trans ancestors throughout history, good and bad, happy and sad; encompassing all different ways of doing gender and different ways of being.In terms of your own personal questioning of gender, I would do as I advised here. Do gender: evoke man, evoke woman, evoke neither. Try things out, see what you feel. Explore yourself and your own embodiment and explore the feelings that arise out of this. At the end of the day, gender isn’t something that originates from books and articles, it is lived and done out in the world.I wish you the very best on your journey!

#harper says #Anonymous #kii says #caps #what is gender #wittig #butler #split attraction model #transfeminism #long post #questioning #trans history #trans media

178 notes · View notes

gfriendlighting460 · 3 years

Text

Dating Sites With Trans Option

Brook Shelley’s previous work for The Toast can be found here, and our previous coverage of trans* issues can be found here.

Hearing about people being afraid of or not open to dating a trans person is just one reason why it is so hard to date as a trans person. And even though I have heard it many times before, it is still hard to confront. I looked at eight popular dating sites to see which are the most gender inclusive. Dating only trans people, at least here in my local community, do not seem like a realistic option since we are too few. Finding the right person would be next to impossible. Well, that was my 2 cents on that. I,m actually surprised by the comments so far. TRANSGENDER, PANSEXUAL, LESBIAN, GAY, GENDER-FLUID, Bi-SEXUAL & NON-BINARY DATING SITE & SUPPORT. We are a Transgender, Pansexual, Lesbian, Gay, Gender-fluid, Bi-sexual & Non-Binary dating site where you can find support, make friends, talk to others about their journey, look for love and so much more. Reddit’s r/t4t subreddit is essentially a personals-style online dating forum for transgender people. While it’s not as detailed as more established trans dating sites, this subreddit is designed.

Welcome to lesbian trans womanhood. I know, we aren’t supposed to say that. Welcome anyway. Let’s assume you know two things: that you are a woman, and that you like other women. Good. That’s a fine place to start. Follow along, and we will get you from this humble beginning, to being a real-live dater.

Take a deep breath. Ready?

1. First, lower your expectations. Whatever you think might happen in the next few paragraphs, or in the next few months, expect less.

Dating Sites With Trans Options

This isn’t in reference to any particular difficulty facing trans women, though there are many; it is always helpful to lower your expectations. Low expectations mean high excitement at small success.

For example, if you expect to dance alone at a bar, you will be thrilled to find that someone beautiful is dancing with you. Repeat as needed.

2. Next, create an online dating profile. OkCupid, Match, or Tinder; it doesn’t really matter where, but you’ll need one. This is how you meet shy lesbians. You may be shy yourself. This could be the best place for you.

3. Spend quite a bit of time agonizing over the photos and your description and hobbies. Be clever. Be charming. Ask a few close friends, “would you theoretically date me based on this profile?” Hear them laugh a little. Tell them, “No, I’m serious. Is any of this good?”

4. Take their advice. If they have no advice, find some other friends. Without them, you will end up posting a photo with kale in your teeth, or where there is clearly a dog using the restroom in the background. You will not notice this on your own.

5. While you wait for responses, go find the queerest bar nearby. Attend events specifically targeted towards lesbians like you. Dance. Get used to dancing. The music will likely not be great. Get used to a mix of pop hits, Shakira, and Bikini Kill. Don’t try to explain why Kathleen Hanna is problematic while dancing.

6. Wonder, “why do so many of these girls have bow-ties on?”

There is no answer.

7. Assume they must not be able to take them off. Do not offer to help them take their bow-ties off. Just dance away.

8. Flirt. Often.

9. Hone your ability to turn a conversation into a fun tête-à-tête. Read the face and responses of the other people. Assume that at any moment, they might sour, and you will need to disengage. Be lighthearted. Be friendly. Don’t press anyone, and focus on enjoying yourself. Cool people enjoy themselves. Cool people are definitely not sweating horribly, right now, as they dance around the room, hoping for a match. When someone asks how you are doing, never mention the harassment, mis-gendering, or stress you’re going through. They don’t actually want to know that stuff yet. Talk to your aforementioned friends about those.

10. Hear, “wow, you’re tall,” at most of these events. Kiss a few people, gently. Brace yourself for the inevitable pre-hookup question or revelation about your body or identity. Practice explaining why “biological woman” is ridiculous. Use lines like “Of course I’m a biological woman, and not a cyber woman… or a giant snake.” At no point be seen unhinging your jaw to devour a goat.

Also try, “Hi, this is how my body works… and this is what I like.”

11. Be prepared for some rejection at this point. Practice your smile and, “Ok, that’s fine, I had fun,” response to “I can’t sleep with you now,” or “I’m just not attracted to (your genitals),” or “I’m a gold star lesbian, I can’t sleep with you.” You may also hear, “you’re so brave.”

12. Find ways to forgive them in your heart for being such shitheels.

13. Be surprised when not everyone rejects you. Bask in the glow of reciprocal attraction when it does occur – it may be rare. You may want to high-five the women who are still attracted to you, regardless of what you discuss. Resist. High-fives are firmly in second date territory.

14. Check your phone. Oh, your mom called. Call your mom back. Remind her that you won’t be meeting any nice boys because you are a lesbian. Yes, you might want to settle down. No, there’s not much going on lately. Yes, you’re really a lesbian. No, this isn’t a phase. Yes, you did get the dress she sent… it’s… nice. Tell her you love her. Hang up.

15. Check your phone again. There sure are a lot of biologists on your online dating site.

How’d they get access to my karyotype? Did they take a blood sample?

What’s that game? You know the one… Where complete strangers ask you about your genitals? https://gfriendlighting460.tumblr.com/post/655947581619388416/dating-anyone-in-carrboro-nc. You’ll be playing this whether you like it or not a lot more often now. It is not possible to win this game.

Does Tinder Have A Trans Option

16. Use some of your flirting skills from being at the bar while you are online. Realize those skills don’t translate. A lot of people online are too shy to go out, so they will not know how to respond to you. You may be seen as forward, or at least not shy enough. Carry on.

17. Talk about books. Talk about food. Talk about anything but how you’ll probably never meet up, and if you do, there won’t be a second date. There often isn’t a second date.

18. Get ready to hear a lot of very surface-level readings of Judith Butler. Take heed that many of your fellow women have taken exactly one women’s and gender studies course in college, and “know all about being transgendered.” (sic) Be prepared to hear girls talk about how they’re “not really feminists, because they like to have fun.” Feel free to shake your head and pour a drink. Get better at reading through their answers to weed out the ubiquitous racism, transmisogyny, littering, and incompatible goals. Remember that you don’t have to settle.

19. You should probably have a pet. I should have said this at the beginning. Choose: cat or dog. Go adopt your choice animal. Start at the top. I can wait. You may be alone for a while.

20. Find a partner or dater. At some point, you will succeed. You will feel like you won the lesbian lottery. You will be elated in your heart that someone cares about you, and wants to kiss you… like more than once a week. High fives may be appropriate at this point.

These dating sites aren’t just for women either. The detailed description of the freebie is published on the blog. Find society & people themes in the same name category at Template/p Read More. JerkBoy – This app has been called the most honest, accurate dating service out there. It’s a tool for users to showcase. 18-25 years old; 26-39 years old and looking for short-term fun; 26-39 years old and looking for girlfriend material; 40+ years old; The Best Dating Apps For Men Ages 18 To 25 1. Tinder is the most popular dating app in the US. You probably have a buddy who met his girlfriend on it. Step further like for example most dating websites, if you want to actually communicate with other members then you need to subscribe to a membership and you get full benefits of the website. If you're serious then out of those 3 go with Match. You will definitely get hit up, probably too many to count and you'll most likely make a ton of guys wonder why girls never respond hahaha. Dating was created and is run by Dan and a group year techies who truly care about what they do. Security and privacy dating top olds at Teens Town, which is why the olds verifies every member and ensures dating no adult content shows up on the site. Teens Town also every to help you have fun and connect with your fellow teens. ★★★★★ Match.com 4.8/5.0. Our expert ratings are based on factors such as. Best dating websites for 19 year olds.

21. Prepare yourself for anyone you date to be called a chaser. It doesn’t matter if they actually care about you for who you are as a person, there are many who enjoy distilling you to your transgender history. Gird your loins against the barbs flung at you and your partner. Learn to laugh, and to cry. Embrace being a really hot lesbian with a super amazing girlfriend. It’s pretty great.

22. Laugh to yourself at all the ridiculously sad people who would want to hurt you and your partner. Try to not be burned by them with every single uneducated, casual insult. It will sting, but you can be strong.

23. But, most of all, have fun! Being a lesbian trans woman is probably the best thing in the world. Be proud of yourself. Be excited. You get to kiss other girls.

Elite dating site. Questions about online dating? Enjoy our ultimate online dating guide; Interracial Dating. If there were previously stereotypes, preconceptions or presumptions about interracial dating, these outdated attitudes are transforming as more and more American singles are seeking partners from other ethnic groups, and couples’ relationships no longer being defined along racial lines. It’s fair to say that our interracial dating community represents the enlightened majority in American society. A Gallup poll in 2013 found that 96% of black people and 84% of white people approve marriage between blacks and whites. This means that 87% of Americans overall see no problem with black-white marriage, up from a meager 4% in 1958 1. Interracial dating: meeting singles serious about love. According to Statistics Canada, the number of long-term Canadian couples in partnerships that can be described as mixed unions has doubled over the last 20 years. 1 For those in lesbian relationships or gay. Interracial dating in SA: meet singles who suit you. When you search for interracial dating sites it can be tough to find supportive platforms that encourage long-term commitment. At EliteSingles, however, we cater for South African men and women who desire more from love; making us the dating site to use if you’re looking for compatible. Interracial dating: meeting singles serious about love. According to the Office of National Statistics, almost one in 10 people living in Britain is married to or living with someone from outside their own ethnic group. Clearly, there are single men and women in the UK for whom interracial dating.

Brook is a queer trans woman living in Portland who hangs out with her cat, and does all manner of technical magic for a software company. She travels as often as possible, and can often be found on her couch, reading and enjoying a cider.

Add a comment

0 notes

itsaudreyhornebitch · 6 years

Text

Kastle College Professors AU Part 2

(A/N: So I made some decisions about Danny and Matt and Maria that I’m hoping nobody hates.)

Part 1 , Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Epilogue

READ ON AO3 HERE

“Hey Karen! Wait up!”

Hearing her voice shouted through the sedate silence of the library pulled Karen from a bout of particularly angry brooding. She stopped mid-stride, whipping around to see Dr. Foggy Nelson, looking red in the face and out of breath, running toward her down the hallway. He stumbled a little bit—barely avoiding a run-in with a group of students who were exiting one of the library’s private study rooms—and pulled a pained face. Karen felt a stab of affection hit her as she took in his appearance: unkempt hair tangled around his shoulders, glasses askew and slipping down his nose, tie coming loose under the brown tweed jacket he wore more often than he should. He looked like every stereotype of an absent-minded philosophy professor rolled into one, and it was rather endearing.

“My god, woman. I’ve been trying to get your attention for the last three hallways,” Foggy slowed to a jog, stopping in front of Karen with his hands on his knees. “Jesus, I’m out of shape,” he muttered to nobody in particular.

“Sorry, Fog,” Karen placed a comforting hand on his back, patting gently as he slowed his panting. “I was just…uh, in my own head.”

There was something in the way she spoke that had Foggy glancing up at her quickly. A tightness in her voice—a kind of forced approximation of calm that wasn’t anywhere close to fooling him. He took in her expression: jaw clenched tightly enough to give an orthodontist a heart attack, lips pursed, and eyes shining with what Matt and Foggy had long-ago deemed “The War Look.”

“Uh-oh,” Foggy stood up slowly, with the caution of a man approaching a dangerous animal. “What’s going on?”

Karen exhaled loudly, deflating her tensed-up shoulders. Leave it to Foggy to read her like an open book. She supposed there was no point keeping her irritation from him—he would find out what was upsetting her one way or another. Looking around surreptitiously, checking that nobody important was within earshot, she lowered her voice. “Fucking Danny Rand.” She whispered his name like a curse.

“Oh Jesus. What’d the trust-fund baby do now?” Foggy rolled his eyes. “No wait—,” he held up a hand when Karen opened her mouth to speak. “Let me guess…he tried to get his undergrads to call him ‘sensei’ in class? Or no—he tried to give them all ‘Chinese names,’ and then went on and on about how transformative his gap year in Hong Kong was when someone tried to call him out on it?”

Karen snorted out a humorless laugh, shaking her head. “No—I wish. I’m afraid it’s much worse than a little cultural appropriation this time.”

Foggy could tell that she meant it. Usually when they were complaining about Dr. Daniel Rand, it was for mostly harmless things—he’d taken the last everything bagel from the faculty lounge or mispronounced the name of a female colleague he’d known for years (because she’d rejected his dinner invitation the week before). But this time, Foggy could tell, Karen was genuinely upset.

“Let me walk you back to your office, huh? And you can tell me all about it,” he linked his arm through hers and began to steer her out of the library.

Stepping outside, they found themselves bathed in sunlight. Blinking away the dark spots as her eyes adjusted, Karen felt a tingle of annoyance that she should be in such a foul mood on such a lovely day. Yet, in spite of the cheery sunlight, it was still penetratingly cold, and they huddled together a little closer for warmth. Karen dug her free hand deep into the warm pocket of her coat and began leading Foggy in the direction of the physics building (it had been almost a month, but she was still getting used to the change of accommodations). Despite the biting chill, campus was bustling. The quad was covered in students bundled up in groups, sharing woolen blankets and passing textbooks back and forth. The sidewalks were a jumble of skateboarders and pedestrians, trying to avoid collisions while still maintaining a brisk pace. And there were even a few students practicing hacky-sack in front of the dining hall (which was surprising, because Karen hadn’t seen anyone play hacky-sack since that scene with Freddie Prinze Jr. in “She’s All That”).

“So….the Danny story?” Foggy prompted, keeping pace with Karen’s quick clip.

“Do you remember how we went out to Josie’s a few months ago to celebrate Matt’s article getting published? And he was being such a bummer, pouting all night because he invited Elektra, but she never showed?” Karen asked.

“Yeah, of course.” Foggy didn’t mention that he remembered that stunning red dress Karen had worn—the one with the slit up the thigh—and how every head had turned when they walked into the bar together. Probably trying to figure out what a woman who looked like her was doing with a slob like him. “But, uh, what does that have to do with Rand?”

“Well, do you remember that project I was telling you about that night? The one about the perspectival positioning of embedded journalists—how I wanted to research the complicated use of second-person pronouns to account for participant-observer witnessing?”

“Yeah, I remember. If I recall correctly, you were slightly tipsy and going on about Judith Butler and Barbara Dancygier,” Foggy smiled at the memory. “Sounded like a really great project.”

“Okay, first of all, I was not tipsy, okay?” Karen yanked gently on Foggy’s arm, forcing him to look at her. She pointed an adamant finger at him. “When I’m tipsy, I sing ABBA. And I was not singing ABBA. I was just really excited about the project—which you might have interpreted as my being tipsy.”

“Uh-huh, sure,” Foggy smirked, deciding against reminding her that, later that evening, she’d actually started up a rousing rendition of “Dancing Queen” with the rather frightening-looking bikers the table over. “Questionable sobriety aside, still not sure how this relates to Danny.”

“I’m getting there. Jesus—have you no appreciation for narrative?” Karen stumbled into his side trying to avoid a puddle. The last thing she needed was to muddy her favorite pair of suede ankle boots on top of the Danny shit.

“I’m sorry. Clearly I’m a story-telling philistine,” Foggy conceded facetiously, “as you were.”

“Anyway,” Karen rolled her eyes. “For the past few months, I’ve been compiling research on the topic to prepare an official research proposal. I mean, I’ve been spending every free moment cobbling together a lit review so that when I finally submit a proposal there’s no chance of it being rejected. I’m talking pronoun theory, witnessing theory, the works. This project, Foggy, has been my baby.”

Karen paused for emphasis, and Foggy made an affirming noise to show that he was still with her.

“Well, I’ve been collecting all of my research on my professional Google Drive rather than my personal, because it will mean less transfer when I finally start the project,” Karen paused as they reached the door to the Physics building, while Foggy held open for her. Unwinding her scarf and breathing in the heated air, she continued. “Problem is…my professional drive is connected to the department drive. Which means everyone in the department has access to it…” She trailed off.

Foggy stopped in his tracks as the direction Karen’s story was headed dawned on him, with sudden horror.

“Oh God. Tell me he didn’t.”

Karen made a humorless little noise and jabbed the elevator button like she wanted to jab Danny’s eyes out.

“Yep. He did,” she ran an agitated hand through her hair, yanking slightly. “I just sat through a two hour department meeting, during which Danny Fucking Rand proposed my research idea to the Dean of the college. And—because it’s a fucking brilliant idea—he was met with resounding approval.”

“What the fuck?” Foggy barely managed to keep his voice down as they stepped into the elevator and hit the button for Karen’s floor. “You didn’t say anything? Call him out on it?”

“No—I mean, what was I going to do? I hadn’t officially proposed anything yet, and we all know that resources in the department drive are fair game for anyone. Plus, Danny has seniority; I’m just a nobody. I fucked up—I should have been more careful.” Karen leaned back against the elevator wall, banging her head gently against its reflective surface. “Plus, you know Danny’s the Dean’s little golden boy. His family donates enough money to keep the department funded ad infinitum. I mean, he has a fucking research library named after him.”

“Still—there’s gotta be something you can do. He can’t get away with this,” Foggy’s voice was hard and adamant. He was just as upset, if not more upset, than Karen. This was something she adored about him—his loyalty. He was ready to brawl 24/7 for the people he cared about.

“Well, the Dean suggested Danny stop by my office some time to get my opinion on some of his sources, so maybe I’ll give him a piece of my mind then. Scare him a bit.” Karen pressed the heel of her palm into her eye socket until she saw spots. “I’m just so…disappointed. You know, I left the journalism field because it was so ruthless and cut-throat, and I didn’t want that kind of negativity ruling my life. But it seems like I just went from the kettle and into the flame.”

“Karen,” Foggy laid a warm hand on her shoulder as they approached her office door. “I got your back on this. Anything you need me to do, let me know. I know some people who could do some real damage.” He raised a conspiratory eyebrow.

“Foggy, stop pretending that your Uncle Darren is a hit man. We all know he went to prison for corporate fraud.” Karen reached out a hand to turn the door knob and push the door open.

As she did so, she was faintly aware of a clicking noise, followed by a whirring noise, emanating from somewhere inside the office.

As she threw the door open, it took her a minute to figure out what, exactly, she was looking at.

“Holy shit,” Foggy whispered under his breath with childlike awe.

Her entire half of the office was filled with a circuitous series of ramps, tunnels, wheels, and swinging objects built out of what looked like her own office supplies. Pencils taped together with napkins (the kind she hoarded from Mama Fu’s) stretched between them to create little pinwheels; highlighters connected end-to-tip, forming a makeshift ramp; binder clips, laundry pins, and a plastic spoon all rubber-banded into a miniature catapult. Papers and pencils and glue sticks and books all thrown together in the most impressive Rube-Goldberg she’d ever seen.

She was so caught up gaping at the improvised machine before her, that it took her a minute to track the billiard ball on her bookshelf as it rolled from one shelf to the other—falling down, down, down. She recognized it as one of Frank’s makeshift paper weights.

“This is so cool,” Foggy was staring wide-eyed from Karen’s side, giddy. He’d never seen a real Rube-Goldberg machine in action—and this one was pretty unbelievable.

The billiard ball continued in its loop around the office, knocking down a series of binders that had been propped up on Karen’s desk. She tracked it on its journey, until it eventually found its resting place. Rolling across the top of her desk, the ball hit her little statue of Socrates (an office-warming-gift from Foggy himself) head-on. As it tipped over, she noticed a little piece of paper taped to the bottom.

Stepping over the now-scattered remains of the Rube-Goldberg—snagging her heel on a stack of spirals and barely catching herself from an impressive tumble—she reached for the paper.

Holding it up, she took in the small, precise writing. She recognized it immediately as Frank’s—he always wrote in these tiny little capital letters.

Hey Dr. Page,

The next time you hold the office hostage to entertain my students, I’ll do more than Rube-Goldberg your side. I know a lot of experiments involving fire.

XX Frank

Karen stared at the note for a moment, before bursting out in a laugh so loud it surprised even her.

“What? What does it say?” Foggy tried to snatch the paper from Karen’s hands, but she was double over, grabbing her stomach as her shoulders shook.

“Fucking Frank,” she managed to get out, clutching her side. “The dramatic bastard.”

She was so busy laughing that she forgot, for a moment, how angry she had been about the whole Danny business. All she could think about was how long it must have taken Frank to set the whole thing up—imagined him hunched over her office supplies, his giant hands taping together her pen collection with such precision. All because he wanted to tell her off for monopolizing the office the other night.

It was ridiculous. It was hilarious. It was so Frank—and it was exactly what she’d needed to brighten her previously-shitty day.

Of course, Karen realized, as she spent the next two hours cleaning up the results of Frank’s little prank (which, she noticed, he had managed to contain completely to her side of the office), that this meant she’d have to get back at him. Frank had to have known that she wouldn’t take this without retaliation. Now, the only question was how she was going to go about exacting her revenge.

Frank had a little spring in his step as he made his way back to the office. It had been two days since the execution of the Great Rube-Goldberg Prank, and he’d yet to see Karen in person. Their schedules had gotten a little wonky—he’d temporarily taken over an extra lab for a colleague who’d been ill, and it had overlapped with the few hours of the day he normally spent with Karen in the office. Plus, she had been leaving work much earlier than normal (he would later find out the only reason she had been staying late was to gather research for the project that had been poached by Danny Rand), which meant they hadn’t had any late-night work sessions.

She had, however, sent him a selfie of herself posing, glaring at the camera, in front of the remnants of his Rube-Goldberg. “You won’t know when. And you won’t know where. But I will get you for this,” she’d written. Frank had chuckled out loud during the department meeting when her text came through, drawing the curious looks of his colleagues (who were not used to seeing Frank show any sense of humor). He’d hesitated for a moment, then saved her selfie to his camera roll. He couldn’t help it—she looked so cute with her arms crossed and an annoyed look on her face (which was slightly undermined by the upturned corner of her mouth).

Opening the door to the Physics building, he was looking forward to the verbal sparring session with Karen that he knew awaited him. It was strange how only a few days without talking to Karen—arguing with her about the stupid duct tape boundary or how many cups of coffee she could drink before it became dangerous to her health—had him on edge. Made him feel slightly untethered. Frank was a man who took comfort in routine, and Karen (somehow, sneakily, without him noticing) had become his routine. He’d grown accustomed to walking into the office (stepping over her coat, which always ended up on the floor), and seeing her bent over her laptop, clacking away. He was even used to the vanilla-scented plug-in she’d put behind her desk to cover up the wet, rainy smell they tracked in, and the way she would get a song stuck in her head for a week straight, humming it non-stop while she worked. (The week it was Steve Winwood’s “Higher Love” was the longest week of his life).

If Frank truly stopped to think about it, he’d realize that Karen had become the only constant in his life. Ever since Curtis had opened his clinic for veterans suffering substance abuse, he only saw him a few times a month. David Leiberman had recently transferred to MIT to take a position in the CompSci department, which meant Frank only spoke to him occasionally over Skype. There was Maria, who he saw less and less because she was spending more time with her new boyfriend; and there were the kids, but he only had them for part of the week. Karen was the only person he saw everyday—the only other adult he checked in consistently. It probably should have made him nervous, how much he had come to depend on her company in the month they’d known each other, but it kind of felt good. Nice. To have someone he could share his days with.

Heading toward the office, whistling under his breath, Frank paused when he heard an unfamiliar voice from behind the door. A masculine voice. He was all set to turn around and come back after Karen’s company had left, but he hesitated when he heard the voice speak:

“Come on, Karen. Don’t be like that. I didn’t steal anything from you, don’t be so dramatic. Isn’t 99% of scholarship all about collaborating? Sharing?”

There was a pause, then Karen’s voice, deadly calm.

“Collaboration?” Her voice was lower than he was used to hearing it—tinted with something dark. Frank felt a twist in his gut. “You think what you did to me constitutes collaboration?”

He could hear the male voice attempting to respond, but he was cut off. Frank knew he should walk away—that it was a private conversation—but he was rooted to the spot.

“I spent months curating those articles—gathering all of the information I would need for a bullet-proof proposal. And yeah, it was stupid of me to upload everything to the drive, but you knew that was my work. You knew it wasn’t intended to be shared.”

“But I—“

“No, Danny. You’re not stupid. You can’t deny that you knew you were poaching my work. That it wasn’t friendly collaboration. And you have the gall to show up at my office, asking for my help on a project you stole from me.”

Danny. A prickle of recognition crawled up his spine. He knew that name—why did he know that name?

“Look, Karen. What’s done is done, right? No use arguing about it now, because it isn’t going to change anything.” That voice—that smarmy voice. Frank knew it from somewhere. He felt a sharp stabbing of something uncomfortable at the idea of that voice speaking to Karen. “What are you going to do?”

Karen laughed bitterly, and it was a sound that rankled. Frank was so used to Karen’s carefree laughter—the kind that bubbled up out of her by surprise—that this hostile sound made him feel cold.

“What am I going to do?” Karen’s voice dipped lowly, and Frank had to lean forward to hear her. He felt a little bit guilty for actively eavesdropping, but it was his office too. And, as strange as it might have sounded, he was beginning to feel like Karen’s business was his business. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, Danny. I’m going to be watching you like a hawk. I’m going to be waiting with baited breath for your research to be published. And I’m going to read it with a fine-toothed comb, looking for every minor mistake you make. And believe me—there will be mistakes. Because from this point on, you will get nothing from me. All of the work you do will be your own; and you and I both know that you don’t know jack shit. And I’ll be waiting right there—patiently—to publish an evisceration of your article. I will rip it apart. I will make a fool of you. Do you understand me?”

Dead silence. Frank was pretty sure he could hear Karen’s quiet breathing if he listened close enough. As he stood there, frozen in place, it dawned on him: Danny Rand.

He did know that name—had heard it muttered under Karen’s breath like a curse too many times to count. He was the “trust-fund man-baby with a penchant for cultural appropriate and social loafing,” to quote Karen, that drove her absolutely crazy. And from what he could tell, Danny Rand was also the kind of asshole who stole other people’s research. The prick.

Frank briefly fought the urge to barge in and kick him out of the office—get him away from Karen. But she seemed to be taking pretty good care of him herself.

Attagirl, Karen.

An uncomfortable silence seemed to drag on from inside the office, and Frank shifted uneasily from foot to foot.

Finally, Danny spoke. His voice sounded falsely confident—like he was putting on a show of being unaffected, trying to save face. But he sounded uncomfortable, clearing his throat unsteadily. “Well, Dr. Page, if you truly won’t cooperate with me, I guess we are done here.”

Frank heard footsteps, and shuffled away from the door just in time for it to swing open, revealing a rather harried-looking Danny Rand. Head down, he brushed passed Frank without so much as a nod.

Tail between his legs, Frank thought with a smile. He stood outside in the hallway for a moment longer, giving Karen some time to recover from her confrontation. He knew her well enough to know that she’d need to take a few deep breaths after a showdown like that. He also knew that she wouldn’t want him to catch her off-kilter. Karen had her pride.

Counting to ten in his head, Frank pushed open the office door and tried to walk in like he hadn’t been standing out in the hallway for the past five minutes.

“Page,” he said gruffly, nodding in her direction as he headed toward his desk.

She jumped a little in her seat, startled by his entrance and still a little on edge.

“Frank,” she tried to cover up the little shake in her voice with a smile. Confrontations, no matter victorious she emerged from them, always made her feel shaky. What could she say—she was a lover, not a fighter. “Feel like I haven’t seen you in days.”

“That would be because you haven’t,” Frank pointed out, surreptitiously studying Karen from his peripheral vision as he unpacked his briefcase. She looked a bit rosy—her cheeks stained red and her lips trembling. But her eyes—they held something akin to pride. She was proud of herself for standing up to Danny. Good, Frank thought, she should be.

“Ah, yes, well…then I guess we solved that mystery.” Karen shrugged with a sheepish look, running a hand through her hair. “Actually, I think the last time I saw you was…before the little show you put on with all my office supplies, huh?”

“Yeah, I got your text. So glad you enjoyed my little gift,” Frank chuckled lowly.

“Yep. Definitely enjoyed the two hours it took to clean up,” Karen raised a brow. “The place was a mess afterwards. Well, to be precise, my side was a mess afterwards.” She pursed her lips, but her eyes were laughing.

“How can you even tell the difference between messy and clean over there, Page? You know, yesterday I almost tripped over a basketball on your side of the office. Where the fuck did you get a basketball from?” Frank made an incredulous gesture toward her area. “And don’t tell me you have a regular pick-up game with your buddies on the weekends, Page. I’ve seen you trip while standing still—there’s no way you play ball.”

“Wha—I did not!” Karen sputtered indignantly. “I have never once in my life tripped while standing still. You are a shameless liar, Frank Castle! I’ll have you know I am actually quite the athlete.” She jabbed her finger toward him in an adamant gesture. “And I actually confiscated that basketball from one of my students. Wouldn’t stop dribbling in class.”

“Confiscated from a student? So you’re telling me there might actually be one, single, solitary student out there who doesn’t get along with Dr. Karen Page?” Frank was having fun now, watching Karen’s hackles rise. She sure was a sight when she got all riled up—it sent a pang of something strong straight to Frank’s gut. Something like admiration, but a bit more primal.

“We actually had a talk after class, and I think we came to a very reasonable agreement about the dribbling business, I’ll have you know. I don’t think I’ll be getting a flaming bag of dog shit on my doorway any time soon,” Karen narrowed her eyes at him. “And you’re just trying to get me off topic—we were talking about the little stunt you pulled the other day. More specifically, I was about to tell you how royally-screwed you are, because I am going to get you back.”

“Oh, is that what we were talking about? I thought we were just shooting the shit. I didn’t know we were talking about entering into a blood feud,” Frank crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. Karen lost her concentration for a moment, admiring the flex of his delicious biceps. Frank noticed the direction of her attention and felt a smirk working its way to his lips. Noticing his smug look, Karen’s eyes snapped back to up to Frank’s.

“Look, buddy. Every feud with Karen Page is a blood feud. I don’t know any other way about it.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” Frank grinned.

“Because I am a force to be reckoned with, Castle.” Karen twirled a pen between her fingers, looking self-satisfied. “A take-no-prisoners kind of woman.”

“Damn right you are,” Frank nodded, his voice dropping into a lower register—one that made Karen’s insides clench. He was suddenly staring at her with such intensity, all humor gone from his eyes. Karen almost dropped her pen, startled at Frank’s change of tone. Startled that he’d agreed with her, and so forcefully.

“Yeah,” Karen smiled, “damn right I am.” She paused. “Hey, you’re not just agreeing with me because you think I’ll call off the feud, are you?” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, ma’am.”

A two weeks later, and Karen still wasn’t sure how she was planning on getting back at Frank. Not that it bothered her too much, not having a plan—Karen was a patient woman. She was more than prepared to wait for just the right opportunity to arise to exact her revenge. No matter how long it took. Though she was hoping that inspiration wouldn’t take too long to visit, because Frank had been busting her balls nonstop about her vow of revenge. Every time he came into the office, he made a big deal about poking his head around the door theatrically, as if looking for a trap. He’d put on a show opening his drawers, tip-toeing around cautiously, checking his seat before he sat down—all the while sending Karen faux-nervous glances as he went about. He was such a sarcastic little shit about it, but if Karen were honest with herself, she would admit that she kind of loved it.

On the plus side, she hadn’t heard from Danny since their stand-off in the office. She also hadn’t heard from the Dean, so she assumed that Danny hadn’t ratted her out for threatening him with academic, if not bodily, harm. So at least he wasn’t a fink, she’d give him that.

After their confrontation, Karen had felt a brief moment of annoyance at herself for letting the whole thing get out of hand. They were adults, for fuck’s sake, and highly-educated adults at that. They weren’t meant to be arguing and throwing shade at each other like bored housewives on VH1. All of that drama was meant to be confined to the undergraduate students, who were barely adults; not the professors, who were meant to be above such things. But all her self-doubt had flown out the window as soon as Frank had breezed into the office. He had a way of making her forget all of the things she had been so worried about moments before—sucked her into playful banter that made her feel lighter somehow.

As she shifted back and forth on uncomfortable high heels, a drink in her hand, Karen wished that Frank were with her now, if only to distract her from how awkward these faculty mixers tended to be. She could just imagine him standing next to her in the corner by the punch bowl, leaning over to whisper mean things in her ear about all of their least favorite colleagues. He’d probably make some snide remark about Dr. Wexler’s god-awful toupee, and Karen would have laughed gleefully as revenge for the time that he’d pinched her butt in the special collections archives when she’d bent over to pick up a book.

But when she’d left for the get-together earlier that afternoon, he’d informed her that it was his afternoon to pick up the kids and drop them off at their mother’s, so he would be late. It was a little weird to be showing up somewhere without Frank. Since they’d been forced to share their office space, they’d taken to carpooling to faculty events—unlike Karen, Frank actually had a car. It was mainly, he said, for driving out to the ‘burbs where his ex-wife lived. And Karen was never one to refuse a ride anywhere; it was just easier (and more eco-friendly) that way. Or, at least that’s what Karen told herself. And if she happened to breathe extra deeply while sitting in the passenger seat of his car, letting his Frank scent envelope her, then that was just her little secret.

“Hey there, Doctor,” Foggy’s voice broke her from her reverie, and she looked up to see her favorite philosophy professor approaching with Matt at his side. She was a little surprised at Matt’s presence—she hadn’t been aware that he’d returned from sabbatical.

“Doctor,” Karen replied, nodding at Foggy. “Doctor,” she repeated, looking to Matt.

“Doctor,” Matt replied, with a gesture toward Karen. It was a silly little bit they did every time the three of them got together—borne largely out of Foggy’s obsession with M.A.S.H.

“You know, Karen, every time I think you can’t get any prettier, you go and outdo yourself,” Foggy smiled, gesturing to Karen’s dress. It was a pale blue, strappy number, and it nearly matched the shade of her eyes. “I would ask Matt to corroborate, but, y’know…” Foggy gestured at Matt’s eyes.

“Come on, Fog, it’s not nice to make fun of the blind,” Matt tried for stern, but the corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

Karen was glad for Foggy’s company, but things with Matt were a little weird. They’d had a kind of “fling” a while back—nothing serious, a few dates here and there. And she’d thought they were on track for a real relationship. She’d liked him a lot—he was thoughtful and intelligent and empathetic (even if, as a Religious Studies professor, he could be a little self-righteous). But then his ex, Elektra, had shown up out of nowhere, and he’d dropped Karen like a bad habit. As far as she could tell, the fling with Elektra hadn’t lasted long either—which, honestly, serves him right. The story she got from Foggy was that Elektra got bored of Matt’s baggage and took off to somewhere exotic, which prompted Matt to take his sabbatical a little early to “get away from it all.”

But now, apparently, he was back. And Karen still wasn’t entirely sure how to act around him. She wasn’t angry at him, per se…it’s not like they’d really been dating. But she was a little bit hurt.

“So, Matt…” she started, a little awkwardly, and took a sip from her cup just to have something to do. “I heard you were working on your research with a group of monks. That sounds…fun?”

Matt chuckled, “Well, I’m not sure you go to the monks to learn how to party.”

“Hey, didn’t Jesus turn water into wine? That guy sounds like he’d be great at a party!” Foggy held up his own cup in a toasting gesture.

“I was in Tibet, Fog. Y’know…Buddhists? So no water to wine, I’m afraid. Though I did drink something called Chhaang while I was there. Not exactly Bud Light, but it did the trick.”

“You know, I bet more people would be monks if they promised to teach them the whole water to wine trick,” Foggy said, looking thoughtful.

“They’d get invited to more parties,” Matt pointed out.

“Get more chicks,” Foggy rejoined.

“Not that they would be able to do anything with the chicks.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes I man just likes to feel wanted, you know?”

Karen watched their exchange, shaking her head. Matt and Foggy were always like this when they were together—bantering back and forth like it was their job.

“Well, sounds like we better get the Pope on the horn, Fog. You’ve got some real effective PR advice to give out.” Karen made a sweeping gesture with her hand, as though she could imagine a billboard with her words written upon them: “Become a monk—never buy alcohol again.” Karen shrugged. “I guess nothing says religion like alcoholism.”

“The Pope wishes he could get me for PR. If I were in charge, I’d definitely play up the Party Jesus angle. Not only is there the wine thing, but also the fact that he hung out with prostitutes. Sex sells, you know.”

“I feel like I should point out that we are all going to hell,” Matt shook his head. “Blasphemers, the lot of us.”

“Maybe you’re going to hell, Matty. I do enough good deeds to make up for my transgressions,” Karen nudged Matt with her elbow, and he stumbled slightly.

“Pretty sure that’s not how Christianity works, Karen,” he righted himself, shaking his head.

“Eh, what does he know?” Foggy dismissed Matt with the wave of a hand. “Tell you what, Karen. When the Pope hires me on as a PR consultant, I’ll put in a good word for you.”

“Well thanks, Foggy. This must be what having real friends feels like.” Karen put a hand to her chest to show how touched she was.

“I don’t know why I hang out with you two,” Matt muttered under his breath. Karen stuck her tongue out at Matt, belatedly realizing that he couldn’t see it, causing Foggy to dissolve into laughter as Matt stood there looking confused.

And that’s how Frank found Karen as he walked into the bar where the staff mixer was held every year (chosen for its convenient location across the street from main campus). Laughing with her friends, head thrown back. Frank’s heart constricted suddenly at the sight, and he felt a whoosh of air leave him without permission. There, standing across the room, in a darkened corner, she looked like a fucking dream. Of course Frank had always recognized that Karen was attractive—since the first moment she’d walked through the door to his office, he’d had a healthy appreciate for the lines of her body, the depth of those blue eyes, the plushness of that smile.

But there was something different between the way a man admired an attractive woman he didn’t know, and the way he admired an attractive woman whose laugh he would recognize anywhere. It was different, knowing that Karen wasn’t just the kind of woman who turned heads on the street. She was also the kind of woman who picked up an extra bagel for you at the coffee place you like when she noticed you rushing in late for work; the kind of woman who wrote encouraging notes at the top of her student’s papers if they were having a rough semester; who looked at people she didn’t understand with empathy—always empathy—first, before reaching for hate; the kind of woman who stood up for herself, and didn’t take shit from nobody. The kind of woman you could talk to for hours, without even realizing the hours had flown by.

And that was special. That was more than just a pretty face. That was something Frank wasn’t entirely sure how to process as he made his way over to her little gathering of friends.

“Frank!” Karen said his name with such joy, it made a man feel good about himself.

“Hey, Kare,” he nodded, tucking his hands into his pockets. He glanced at her friends. He recognized the blonde—Foggy—as the guy Karen got lunch with a few times a week. Nice guy, as far as Frank could tell, if a little bit scattered. The brunette, however, he did not recognize.

What he did recognize was the way the other man’s back went ramrod straight as soon as he heard Frank’s voice. The way the man shifted subtly closer to Karen, until his arm was brushing the outside of hers. Yes, this was something Frank recognized instantly—the stance of a man who felt threatened, who felt the impulse to claim his territory. Which was, apparently, Karen. Frank’s brow furrowed—he didn’t like that idea.

“Oh, Foggy, you know Frank.” Karen gestured to Frank with her cup.

“Well yeah, you talk about him enough,” Foggy grinned, and Frank noticed the tips of Karen’s ears blushing a little pink. “Nice to meet you in person, though.” He held out his hand for Frank to shake.

“And I’m Matthew Murdock.” Matt didn’t wait to be introduced, sticking his hand out with a kind of confidence that bordered on arrogance. Just as Frank knew he would, Murdock squeezed his hand just a little too hard in a rather juvenile show of alpha-male aggression.

“Oh! Matt, you’ve been on sabbatical, so you haven’t heard,” Karen placed a hand on Matt’s arm to direct his attention, and Matt’s face spread in a shit-eating grin at the contact. “Frank’s my new office mate. Well, I kind of invaded his office until the liberal arts building is all dried out. So he’s gotta deal with me 24/7 these days.” Matt’s grin dropped, a change Frank didn’t miss.

“Oh?” He asked, “How interesting. I bet you’re just driving him crazy with how messy you are, huh? I swear, walking into your office used to be a real health hazard for me—not a very blind-friendly place.” Matt raised a brow as Karen wrinkled her nose.

“Actually, Karen’s not that bad,” Frank piped up, earning a smile. “We’ve actually got a little system going to keep it copacetic.”

“See, Matt! I’m not that bad,” Karen threw her hands up in triumph. “In fact, I think Frank’s beginning to rub off on me. The other day, I actually washed out all of my coffee mugs before I grabbed a new one.” She sounded so proud of herself, Frank didn’t want to point out that she’d only washed the mugs because she’d run out of clean ones.

“Well that’s character development if I’ve ever seen it,” Foggy said patronizingly. “Maybe in a few weeks Frank will get you to stop hoarding napkins and paper plates in your desk.”

“The man can’t do miracles, Fog,” Karen shook her head.

“No, I guess he can’t,” Foggy shrugged, “But you know who could do miracles? Monks! If we taught them the whole water-to-wine thing!”

“Are we back to that, Fog? Haven’t blasphemed the name of the Lord enough for the evening?” Karen played at being exasperated. Frank watched the exchange with curiosity—he didn’t know what they were talking about, but he liked that she looked so happy. Foggy made her smile, so he was okay in Frank’s book. Matt, on the other hand, he wasn’t too sure about. The man had been gazing at Frank intensely throughout the exchange, his unseeing eyes strangely forceful.

“So Frank,” Matt spoke up, “you married?”

Karen and Foggy exchanged a look, confused about the sudden change of topic. Frank almost snorted a laugh.

“Uh, no, actually. Divorced.”

“Huh—kids?” Matt pushed.

“Two of ‘em. Lisa and Frankie.”

“Must not leave a whole lot of time for you to date these days, huh?”

“I do okay.” Frank’s voice was tight.

“Oh, so you date a lot, then? Get around?”

There was a tense pause, in which Frank’s jaw ticked dangerously, then—

“Wow, Matt. You just met the man and you’re already trying to feel out if he’s single,” Foggy broke in, chuckling uncomfortably. “I know you’re desperate for some loving, dude, but I don’t think Frank swings that way.”

Matt snorted dismissively, and Frank’s lips drew down into a tight line.

Karen looked back and forth between Matt and Frank. Something weird was going on, but she didn’t quite know what it was. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to. All she knew was that it was a little bit uncomfortable. And that she was thankful Foggy was there to cut the tension.

“Just trying to get to know the guy who’s spending so much time without our Karen,” Matt said lightly, shrugging.

Our Karen, Frank noticed. He didn’t like the idea of Matt trying to claim ownership of Karen, like she could be owned. By anyone.

“Well, super weird get-to-know-you questions, Matty.” Foggy tried to break the edgy atmosphere with a laugh.

Karen was feeling increasingly out-of-place, so when the opportunity arose to dip out of the situation, she was quite grateful.

“Dr. Page,” a diminutive, grey-haired woman Frank recognized as one of Karen’s colleagues in the Journalism department suddenly appeared at her elbow. “So sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering if you might talk to my good friend Dr. Pike over there—he was asking about some of the work you did on that animal cruelty story on Phuket.”

“Oh, sure!” Karen felt relieved to be given an out. Turning to Frank, Foggy, and Matt, she shrugged. “Excuse me, boys. I’ve got some elbows to rub.” Frank watched her hair sway down her back as she walked away.

“Well,” Foggy rocked back and forth on his heels, eyes darting around the room. “I just saw them bring out a new round of appetizers, so I’m going to go grab a handful. Or two.” Foggy created his own little opportunity to escape whatever weird pissing contest Matt was trying to start with Frank.

Which left Frank standing alone, in the corner of the bar, next to Murdock. There was a strained silence, in which Frank looked around for an excuse—any excuse—to disengage.

“You know, I’m actually glad Karen had someone looking after her while I was gone,” Matt spoke, and Frank’s head jerked in surprise. Looking after her?

“Uh, well, I don’t really think Karen needs anyone looking after her. Seems to take pretty great care of things herself,” Frank heard the tiny edge of annoyance in his voice. He didn’t like the idea of anyone thinking Karen needed looking after. It was patronizing. Karen wasn’t a child, and she wasn’t a belonging. She was a human being—and a pretty damn great one at that.

“I can see how you would think that,” Matt tilted his head in concession. “She comes off pretty tough. But when you’ve known her as long as I have, you’ll see that she’s actually very fragile.”

When you’ve known her as long as I have. Frank knew the meaning behind that statement—it was Matt’s subtle way of proving how much better he knew Karen than Frank. Of bringing up the fact that they obviously had some kind of history together that Frank wasn’t privy to. It was a statement designed to stake a claim. But all it accomplished was convincing Frank how little Matt actually did know Karen.

Sure, she was a bleeding heart. All compassion and gentleness. But only with those who deserved it. When push came to shove, Frank knew, Karen was one tough woman. At her core, that’s what she was—strong.

“Yeah, I don’t know about that, Murdock.” Frank clenched and flexed his hands in his coat pockets.

“Well I do, Frank.”

Frank wanted to say something else, but bit his tongue.

“You know, Matt, I think I see a buddy of mine over there,” Frank gestured vaguely to the opposite end of the room, then remembered that Matt couldn’t see it. “I’ll see you around.”

He walked away with a bad taste in his mouth.

Three hours later, and the mixer was starting to wind down. Dr. Wexler and his bad toupee were listing slightly to one side, looking a little more than tipsy, Dr. Nichols had already ducked away into the ladies room for her usual crying spell, and Dr. Ramirez had made his final attempt at getting a karaoke version of “Turn Around, Bright Eyes” going. So, in other words, it was time to wrap things up.

Dipping into the ladies before heading home, Karen noticed a neon pink flier taped to the bathroom mirror.

“Feel like you have an interesting life story? Something to say? Want to volunteer to help out your friendly, neighborhood Journalism 101 students?

We are now looking for volunteers to participate in a journalism project. 2 hour time commitment, sit down and have your story told. Sign up here to volunteer.”

And then there was a QR code posted below. If Karen were a cartoon character, she thought, a light bulb would have gone off above her head.

All this time she had been waiting for the perfect way to get Frank back for his prank. Something that would annoy the shit out of him. Something clever—that he wouldn’t see coming. And here it was. Finally.

She pulled out her phone, took a photo of the QR code, and started typing in Frank’s contact information.

#kastle #kastle au #frank castle #karen page #the punisher

69 notes · View notes

intrepidolivia · 7 years

Text

Alexandria Country Club 3

Pairing: NeganXOlivia (OC)

Warnings: cursing, discussion of violence, sexual thoughts

Summary: AU! Negan returns to work after the parking lot incident. He meets Olivia’s best friend. They have an evening out which increases their desire for one another. Then Olivia returns home to a very unpleasant discovery.

A/N: Somebody help me, I can’t stop writing this fic. Cameo appearance by @adair-donovan Liv’s best friend (and an awesome RP’er). Let me know if you’d like to be tagged!

Mondays were always slow, particularly when it was raining. A retiree or three might come in the club for lunch, but it was unlikely anyone would be out on the green. It wasn’t a bad job, but days like that one were always long.

Negan found himself making security rounds just to pass the time, though his thoughts were preoccupied. He’d enjoyed the previous night. That gave him a lot to think about. He found himself glancing at his phone at frequent intervals, wondering if Olivia had messaged. Wondering if he should.

“Hey, Negan,” a voice behind him broke his reverie.

He glanced back. One of the women who ran the pro shop, Carol, pointed up the hall. “Rick was looking for you.”

He nodded. He’d expected as much, after all. He still doubted Chet had turned him in, but after parties Rick tended to at least glance over the security tapes. The incident in the parking lot would certainly have got his attention.

“Thanks,” he said to her, flashing a wide grin on his way past.

Rick was behind his wide oak desk sorting paperwork when Negan entered, pausing only briefly to rap his knuckles on the doorframe. He flopped into one of the overstuffed leather chairs, leaning back.

“You rang?”

Rick glanced up, his blue eyes mildly annoyed. “Were you going to tell me you beat the holy hell out of three guys in the parking lot, or were you saving the lawsuit for a surprise?”

Negan chuckled. “I didn’t hurt ‘em that bad. And if you saw the footage you know they started it.”

“Yes, they did. You sure as hell finished it, though.” Rick sighed, rubbing his eyes. “Chet Applegate, Negan. His family have been members of this country club since the goddamn Mayflower dropped his ancestors here.”

Applegate, huh? He’d recognized the little punk, but hadn’t put a last name to him. No wonder Rick was pissed. Negan shrugged. “He should have known better than to try to take on security at his family’s legacy club. Has there been a complaint?”

“Well, no,” Rick allowed.

“I don’t think there will be. He’s probably embarrassed he got his ass handed to him. And he probably doesn’t want his bullshit in the cloak room brought up. I told you we need a security camera in there.”

Rick frowned at that. “Was he stealing?”

“Worse,” Negan said. He tried to keep his voice neutral. He’d been pissed before, but now that he’d spent some time with Olivia… He wanted to kick the little shitstain’s ass all over again. “Had one of the bridesmaids cornered in there. Wouldn’t let her out, trying to paw her at least.”

“She all right?”

“I caught him before shit went very far. He was pissed about it. That’s why he and his buddies made the mistake of jumping me in the parking lot after I walked her to her car.”

Rick ran a hand through his dark hair and sighed. “I guess I can’t really blame you,” he grumbled.

“Fuck, no. It’s those little fucks fault I had to go and fuck them up.” Negan grinned, folding his arms behind his head. Rick gave him an annoyed glance and his grin widened. “What? I’m supposed to watch my fucking language out there. I got to let loose sometime.”

“Fine, just try to stay out of trouble. Chet lives out of state going to some ivy league school. If there’s a fuss I’ll tell his parents I fired you. It’s not like they know who the hell you are anyway.”

Negan chuckled and gave him a salute. “Good deal. Am I dismissed?”

“Yeah, I’ll let you know if there’s anything else. And I’ll look into putting a camera in the cloak room.”

Negan stood. “I’ve only been saying we needed one for a year,” he griped. “How’re the kids?”

Rick grinned at that. If there was any subject he loved it was that one. “Good. Real good. Carl’s been on the honor roll. I may have promised we could get a dog if he keeps it up. Judith’s growing like hell, even though I can’t get her to eat anything but macaroni lately.”

“Kids survive somehow,” he assured him. “Tell Carl to keep practicing batting, don’t let him get out of practice because of all that book shit.”

Rick rolled his eyes. “Yes, thank you, I’ll get right on that.”

Negan headed back out, chuckling to himself. He wasn’t at all surprised Mr. Chet hadn’t turned him in. Hopefully the little prick would go back to his ivy-league school and that would be that.

He paused, pulling out his phone. It was nearly lunchtime. He knew it was customary to wait a day or two after a date before contacting the other person. There were rules for how the game was played.

He was also more aware than most people of what wasting time could cost. And frankly, he hated head games.

So, do you do the 9 to 5 thing? Or does your bookstore have weird hours?

He decided to do a quick patrol of the building while he listened for the chime of his phone. The rain outside made things dim, the quiet pattern of sound felt sleepy and relaxing. His phone buzzed in his pocket.

Off today, actually. Over at my friend Adair’s place.

Adair? Should I be jealous?

He smiled a bit. She’d mentioned the name in passing last night, though they hadn’t spoken much about him. He couldn’t resist teasing a little, though.

No :) He’s practically my younger brother. And I’m not his type.

Oh? Are you sure? I thought smoking hot redhead was everyone’s type.

Well, yes, he does appreciate a smoking hot redhead if it’s Michael Fassbender. Also he’s fussing at me to be nice and take the compliment, so thank you. You’re not hard on the eyes yourself.

Good to hear, I don’t even moisturize.

So I’m guessing you’re not exactly busy securing the country club on a rainy Monday.

No, not really. Spoke to the boss man about a security camera in the cloak room. He’s finally going for it.

Good call.

So, when are you free again?

He figured there was little point in being coy. He wanted to see her again, and if she wanted to see him, well, there was no point in delaying. It was perhaps dangerous, getting so involved so quickly, but he couldn’t help himself.

I’m indisposed tonight, but free much of the week. If you don’t mind a late dinner depending on the day. I close the shop Wednesday and Thursday, that’s at 8.

Tomorrow?

It was probably too fast. He didn’t want to come off as creepy or possessive. Or just plain desperate. But the truth was, he couldn’t get enough of her. There was a pause, and he texted again.

Or Friday maybe, if that’s too soon.

No, tomorrow’s great. Sorry that took a minute, Adair was demanding to meet you. Want to pick me up at his place?

Can do, doll. Just let me know where and when.

The next evening took its sweet time in coming, in his opinion. Eventually, though, he was rolling up to a rather sizeable house in what he always thought of as the ‘ritzy’ part of town. The grounds were well maintained, and the house was much fancier than he’d been expecting. He double-checked the address to reassure himself he was correct as he drove up, but there was Liv’s little mini-cooper outside the monstrous structure. Surprised and feeling a little underdressed in jeans and a leather jacket, he rang the doorbell.

He half expected a butler. Instead, the door was opened by someone he first took for a kid. He was small, an inch shorter than Olivia at least, and slender, with a youthful face and dark hair that brushed his shoulders. The impression of youth was only intensified by the baggy jeans and oversized hoodie he was wearing. Big blue eyes flicked up and down, appraising him.

“Yep, you’re Negan all right,” the young man declared. He stood aside to let him in.

Negan raised an eyebrow, stepping in. “Yeah, that’s me. You must be Adair.”

The young man nodded. “Uh-huh. Come on in, Liv’s upstairs doing some hair thing.” He closed the door and beckoned. “Want a drink while you wait?” He padded down the hall and Negan saw no alternative but to follow him.

The house was as well kept on the inside as it was outside. The kitchen was black and chrome, a magnetic strip of knives over a generous countertop, hanging pot racks, and some forms of machinery he wasn’t clear on the purpose of. “Nice place.”

Adair smiled a little. “Thanks, technically it’s my parents’ but they’re out of the country indefinitely. Tea, water, lemonade, coffee? You’re going to be driving I assume so I won’t pull out the booze.”

The boy was interesting. The house certainly spoke of the sort of wealth that was common at the club, but he was pretty sure he’d never seen him before. He had an Asian cast to his features that was fairly distinctive. “Lemonade sounds great, thanks.” He sat at the kitchen island where the boy indicated, watching him get a glass. “So, I take it Liv described me or something?”

Adair smirked, glancing back at him. “Nope. But a rugged silver fox with a voice like melted chocolate, wearing a leather jacket. and who looks like he could kill a man with his bare hands? If there was checklist for ‘things that are Olivia’s catnip’ you’d tick off most the boxes.” He set the glass of lemonade down and leaned his elbows on the counter.

Negan chuckled. The kid certainly wasn’t shy about saying what he thought. “Well, good to know I guess.”

The young man nodded and smiled. “Yeah. I’m glad to see her dating again. And she seems to like you. If you treat her badly they’ll never find your body.” The smile never left his face.

The lemonade paused halfway to Negan’s lips. “I’m sorry. It sounded like you just threatened me?” He was more bemused than angry. Threats usually came in the form of shouting and spur-of-the-moment passion. The casual tone threw him.

“Not that I’m expecting you will, mind you. But while she’s upstairs I just wanted to make things clear. I care about Liv very much. If things don’t work out, that’s one thing. But if you don’t treat her right I’m going to be upset.” The young man propped his chin on his hand, his dark blue eyes steady on Negan’s. “And I will address it.”

Negan paused a long moment. The kid looked deadly serious. He couldn’t help himself; he grinned widely. “Damn, you mean every word of that, don’t you? I’m three times your size and you do not give one single fuck. I got to be honest, I believe you.” He saluted Adair with the glass and took a long swallow of lemonade. “I’m gonna do my best to treat the lady like she deserves. Will that do?”

Adair nodded, his smile a little wider. “That’ll do.” The young man looked up as Negan heard footsteps behind him. “Liv, you didn’t tell me he had the sexy Viking look going on!”

He turned in time to see the pink tinge spread across Olivia’s cheeks. She looked pretty of course, in a snug green shirt and jeans that hugged her curves. Her hair was pulled up in a messy twist, and a delicate choker circled her throat. She rolled her eyes at Adair. “I apologize,” she said, and smiled at Negan. “I see you’ve had the Adair experience.”

He grinned. “Yeah. I approve. The kid’s a badass.”

Adair gave a soft huff, and Olivia chuckled. “He’s a legal adult, not a kid,” she chided.

Negan waved a hand. “Sweetheart, at my age anything under 25 is a kid. 30 if I’m feeling especially grumpy.”

Olivia laughed “I hope he wasn’t too prickly. I haven’t dated in a while and he’s a bit protective.”

“‘He’ is still in the room, Liv,” Adair said.

“Nah, I don’t blame you. Lots of assholes out there,” he said to the young man. He turned back to Olivia. “Hell, you know that, what with Chet trying to paw you the other day.”

He realized too late that she was trying to signal him to silence. He glanced at Adair, who was glaring daggers at her.

“Who’s Chet?” he demanded.

She sighed, looking at the ceiling as though asking for divine intervention. “Just a jackass at the wedding. Negan took care of it.”

The young man turned his diamond-hard gaze on Negan. “He tried to paw her?”

“Yeah, I intervened. He jumped me in the parking lot and I’m pretty sure I broke his arm.”

The young man nodded, a pleased smile spreading over his face. “Oh, good. I like you. Stop calling me ‘kid’ though.”

Negan laughed. He couldn’t help himself. “Deal.”

Adair gave Olivia a sharp look. “This isn’t over, by the way. Some reprobate tries to force himself on you and you don’t think it worth mentioning?”

“I didn’t want to worry you,” she began.

“Well, good fucking job,” he sniffed. He gave Negan an arch look. “Well, this is what you’re buying into, sexy Viking. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. She’s impossible.”

Negan gave Olivia a wolfish grin, his eyes flicking over her. He didn’t bother to hide his appreciative glance. “I think I might be able to handle her,” he purred.

He was thoroughly gratified when her cheeks bloomed pink.

Adair grinned and waved from the doorway as they drove off, and Olivia laughed softly. She rolled her eyes and looked at Negan.

“Jeez, he’s gonna kill me,” she sighed.

Negan chuckled. “He’s just looking out for you, sweetheart. Like I said, I can’t blame him. Lots of dangerous folks out there.”

“There are dangerous folks in here,” she smirked.

He grinned at her, winking. “Yeah, but we’re on the same side. Speaking of, you said you had an idea for tonight. Care to share?” She’d been a good sport about the bar last time, so it was only fair he let her pick for the second date. She hadn’t told him to dress up, so he figured it probably wasn’t too fancy, but she seemed the type to go for a more… elegant scene.

“Yup, dinner with entertainment,” she smiled brightly.

She refused to tell him more, only giving him directions as he drove. Eventually he gave up trying to pry it out of her, and decided he’d just trust her. Finally, they pulled into the parking lot of a Japanese style building, complete with a little bamboo garden and pond outside.

“I probably should have asked if you like Japanese food before we got here, but honestly, this is hibachi. It’s only barely Japanese.” She smiled as she got out of the car.

“Well, I can’t say. I’ve never had it,” he admitted, looking over the exterior.

She linked an arm through his. He was starting to like that. She was a little thing, much shorter than he was, and having her holding his arm made him feel like he was protecting and supporting her. “You haven’t? Oh, you’re in for a treat. There’s going to be fire and flying shrimp, and sake of course.”

He had to admit, she hadn’t been kidding about it being dinner and entertainment. They shared a jug of hot sake while they watched their dinner prepared on the table in front of them. He hadn’t seen quite so many fireballs during a meal since he was a teenager going camping with a bunch of other teenage boys, one of whom was a pyromaniac. They laughed at each other’s attempts to catch the shrimp thrown at them in their mouths. And the food was pretty good, too.

Olivia was delicate and elegant in some ways as well. She handled her chopsticks neatly and with well-practiced ease, and spent half the meal trying to teach him how to use his. He managed to get one shrimp into his mouth with them and declared victory before switching back to a fork.

At the end, her cheeks flushed from the sake, she insisted he try green tea ice cream. It tasted like sweetened grass clippings to him, but he enjoyed watching her eat it, her eyes closing almost sensually as she savored the flavor.

He hated that they both had to work the next day. It was probably too soon to get physical, but watching her enjoy her dessert made him want to see what sort of expressions she made enjoying other things. Every time she leaned on him, every time she adjusted his fingers on his chopsticks, or insisted on pouring his sake for him, he just wanted to put his hands on her.

After dinner, rather than going to the car, she took his hand and led him around the restaurant. To his mild surprise, there was a park. A walking trail of blacktop surrounded a small lake and an expanse of grass dotted with trees. It was getting dark, and lights flickered on here and there, illuminating the trail. She laced her fingers with his as they walked.

For a time, neither of them said anything. Dinner was resting comfortably in his stomach, and the sake left him warm and content.

Eventually, she looked up at him. “We going to do this again?”

“You mean the Japanese or the whole dating thing, darlin’?”

Olivia smiled a little. “Both, I guess.” She bit her lip. “I like you. I’d like to keep seeing you.”

He grinned. “That works out, then. I like you, too.”

“Okay, then,” she said, ducking her head with a wide smile.

He paused, putting his fingers to her chin, tipping her face up. “And I gotta say, you make getting shrimp bounced off your forehead look fucking hot.” He winked.

She giggled, and began to say something. Before she could, he leaned down and took her lips with his own.

They moved to one of the benches eventually. He was careful, not putting his hands anywhere too suggestive, much as he wanted to. He wanted to devour her, mark her neck, taste her. He held himself back, though, letting her set the pace. He wasn’t going to take anything she wasn’t willing to give. And beyond that, there was still a small part of him, still raw and wounded, that held him back.

Her response to his kisses was tender and slow at first, but he sensed the underlying heat. She wanted him, perhaps as much as he wanted her. Even so, they both held back. Never quite crossing the line into a true invitation. They were in a park, true, but the spot they were in was secluded, and no one else was around. They could get away with a great deal, tucked away like that.

Eventually, they pulled apart. She was panting, her lips swollen, her hair mussed. She’d wrapped her arms around him, under his jacket. Her breasts pressed against his chest. She fit so nicely into his arms.

She swallowed, raising a hand to cup his cheek. “I don’t want to stop, but…”

“We both got work tomorrow,” he finished.

She bit her lip. “And… this is fast.”

He nodded. “This is fast.”

Olivia took a breath. “We don’t… we don’t know each other that well yet.”

He stroked his hands up and down her back. “We don’t.”

“I’ve got… there’s things in my past,” she said softly.

He smiled a little, leaning down and kissing her again. “I’ve got a longer past than you, baby,” he said softly.

She nodded, and smiled a little. “It’s hard to care right now.”

“You ain’t fuckin’ kidding,” he chuckled. He sighed, and made himself stand up. Her body pressed close was decidedly not doing anything to help his current predicament. He took her hands, helping her up as well. “So in the interests of our mutual work situations and peace of mind, I guess we should head on back now.”

He didn’t mind quite as much as he thought he would. Yes, he wanted her. He wanted her so badly he could taste it. But he wasn’t going to be an asshole. He could wait for her to say yes properly. Then he would fuck her brains out.

After he dropped her off at Adair’s house, he drove home. It was later than he’d normally have been out on a work night, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. It was worth being a little more tired than usual tomorrow. It wasn’t like there would be any sort of crisis. There were no events planned. Hell, Rick probably wouldn’t even notice if he was late.

He locked his apartment door behind him and eventually settled into bed. He was just drifting off when his phone rang. He picked it up, peering at the screen and frowning.

It was Olivia.

He answered it. “Hey, doll, I miss you too, but isn’t it a little late?”

“Negan…” she said.

He sat up. Something in her voice set off alarm bells in his head. “Livvy? What’s wrong?”

“I… I just got home. Someone put a letter under my door.” She paused, and he heard her take a shaky breath. “It’s a death threat.”

@noodlecupcakes @feistybaby

#negan #au #the walking dead #fanfic

15 notes · View notes