YAAAAAAAA I mean. *ahem* Black Widow says: About damn time.
FUCK YES!!! COME TO ME, NATASHA!!!!
Posts tagged can i get a fuck yeah?
When you’re 45th in civil liberties, 19th in economic freedom, and #1 in prisoners per capita, I think it’s officially time to stop bragging about being the “freest country on earth”–and maybe time to start thinking about how to rebuild that image.
Can we have one in Chicago? Have a stop on the Metro or South Shore that takes wizard kids home? :D
The oldest formal wizarding school is Chicago School for Sorcery, or “Chess,” as the students insist on calling it. Founded by Hermetics and Western Esotericists in the 19th century, Muggles would recognize it as the old Chicago Water Tower.
(When they were designing it, there were a great many arguments over whether the old-style castle structure wouldn’t draw a lot of attention from Muggle passers-by. Finally, the planning committee elicited the help of William Boyington, a squib engineer who agreed to help disguise it as a pump station. They thought themselves very clever for that solution.)
(Also, this is the reason that the water tower was among the only structures spared by the Chicago fire—though initially the professors had cast the spells to protect it from destruction of the students' making.)
In addition to the tower itself, Chess boasts a warren of underground hallways and classrooms—including their crowning achievement, a dining hall and library whose ceilings offer a view of Lake Michigan from below. As for curriculum, they’re a pretty traditionally European wizarding school, though since the 70s there has been significant push to make the curriculum more inclusive, and bring some diversity to the teaching staff.
Students who live within the city limits (or near enough) can take the CTA—the Chartreuse line, whose conductor takes great delight in hopping the tracks and playing chicken with the morning Express lines. Many witches and wizards have lodged complaints. None have been acknowledged.
Students from out of state are free to make use of Amtrak’s Midwest Mongoose line, which has no set route or destination but must be summoned by writing your name, fare, and destination on a piece of paper, stuffing it in a glass bottle, and shattering the bottle on the curbside.
Students always emerge from Union Station bleary-eyed and pale after taking the Midwest Mongoose, mumbling about service advisories.
#there’s another chicago wizarding school in bronzeville on 47th street #it was founded during the great migration; when CheSS turned away the young black wizards claiming ”over-enrollement” #and up until about the end of world war II it was considered one of the foremost all-black wizarding schools in the country #and those are just the formal schools; recognized by the National Council for Magical Education #as an Irish-American enclave Bridgeport was always home to the Druidic Syncretic tradition; they taught it out of their kitchens #in church basements #there’s slavic peganism in polish downtown and the stock yard district #they say that old town is still saturated with the centuries of magic worked by the Potawatomi Miami and Illinois #the German Catholics came in with runic magic #mexican and puerto rican wizards moved into the northern suburbs in the last decade or so—but they say #that brujeria is quickly becoming one of the most widely-practiced traditions in the city #SO HEY GUYS DO YOU THINK I’M IN LOVE WITH THIS CITY OR /WHAT/ #harry potter #rinais
Excuse me, I just started drooling.
An open letter to the ‘nice guy’ who tried to hit me because I stopped him from taking home a drunk girl who was begging him to leave her alone (or: why you should never ask a poet if she’s really an ugly cocksucker or if that’s just her day job):
The thing is, everyone assumes that by taking away our rights, you make us weak.
In reality, just the opposite occurs. We are used to the sling of insults - there is nothing you can say that hasn’t already been said to me. We are used constantly being on the outlook for our aggressor - so yes, I can spot an asshole from across the room and it’s because I often have to.
The thing is: you are making our skins thicker and our spines stronger than anyone who doesn’t have to put up with the shit that we do. We are the same generation that can wear pretty dresses and cut up your corpse in the same moment: because trust me, we know how to get blood out of our clothing.
You think women are little helpless flowers but I know at least a quarter of my lady friends with self-defense classes under their belts, at least half who can fight their way out of a chokehold with nothing but their carkeys like daggers in their fists, at least three-fourths who are so used to any kind of slur you can throw at them that they have four witty comebacks just resting on their backburners, and all of them - all of them - are baptized in the fire of another person’s violation, whether verbal or otherwise. You are not making the submissive housewives or the shy secretaries of your wet dreams. You have made dragons.
You have made mothers with sharp teeth who can balance eight different tasks and still remember your favorite dinner. You have made CEOs who do better work because they’re used to being told they’re sub-par. You are making artists and poets and musicians who’ve seen the dark in the world. You are making social justice warriors - I use this not as a defamation but as a banner, as the way they brand themselves because it is a battle, isn’t it, and nobody’s come out without their share of scars - you are making a generation of caustically beautiful ladies who have seen more shit by six a.m. than you have all your life and they still walk better in heels than you do in your boat shoes.
We do not invite your ‘nice guy’ into our beds, you’re right, because the nice guys of our lives have been our fathers asking us if we ‘are really going out in that,’ have been our best friend telling us that his girlfriend should give up sex because he’s paid for dinner, have been our uncles and brothers and the great gentlemen who hang out of their cars and laugh when the thirteen-year-old they just honked at jumps and looks terrified (but should totally accept the compliment as if it was a gift instead of the moment she recognizes she’s never going to be safe) -
you wanna know why we don’t let nice men into our beds? Because we rarely find them.
They’re out there, I know it, but they’re not the ones wetting themselves when a woman asks ‘why do you think that?’ instead of sitting back and letting him laugh with his buddies about femi-nazis. They’re out there and they’re probably as pissed as we are that at least one third of their population has openly admitted there are times when they think it’s okay to force their significant other to have sex: they’re out there, and the sad thing is, if you’re a male, you’re statistically not one of them. As far as we know, you don’t exist. You are a white knight only you believe in.
Here’s the thing about forcing people down: eventually they’re going to get strong enough to push right on back, and when you’ve spent the whole time sitting on your ass sinking your teeth into your healthy wage gap, you’re not going to be ready for it.
You’ve hurt us, over and over. When the time comes for us to hurt back, do you know how many of us are going to ask ‘Where was the mercy when I was begging like he is now? Where was that mercy when I got pregnant? Where was that mercy when I was called selfish for being a single parent? Where was that mercy when he forced himself on me? Where was that mercy, in anything?’
The thing about oppression is that it can only last for so long. You are not making yourself dominant, you’re making yourself weak. I’ve seen men crumble because they feel uncomfortable when they get hit on by other men as if the stench of their own mistakes is strangling them. I’ve seen them get impassioned because a teacher preferred females and I’ve laughed because I had eight other classes where it was reversed and in all of those eight, it went uncontested. I have legitimately punched a boy who said that a show for girls was shameful because it tries to teach lessons instead of catering to his desire for sex - as if just by liking something, he owns it. I’ve seen boys growl about women’s history month and had to wonder if they’ve ever held a textbook where the only names of girls are tiny footnotes. I’ve seen fathers ask why the curriculum I use for my six-year-olds is carefully gender neutral, why I let his son play at cooking or his daughter be a doctor.
I have never heard a mother complain except to beg me to get her little girl to talk more, to do more, to succeed - do you see? Do you see?
Here’s the thing about stepping on us: we have learned to stop licking your boots
and now we want to ruin you.
sometime I just think about how easy it would be to market superheroes toward little girls and I am filled with rage
like do these people not realize how fucking easy this shit would be
there’s the dazzler she’s like a popstar and a superhero do you know how many 4-12 year old girls would dig that shit
there’s the wasp and her superpowers are seriously like zapping jerks, flying, and being cuter than everybody else. also she’s a famous fashion designer. and she’s better than you. (like she shrinks and stuff too but mainly her power is being better than you)
she-hulk is like this nerdy chick with the power to get bigger and greener and be spontaneously tougher than everybody in the vicinity like I don’t even know a little girl who wouldn’t slit someone’s throat for the ability to be stronger than all the boys when they pissed her off
little girl likes magic? scarlet witch
little girl likes science? invisible woman
little girl likes spies? black widow
little girl likes aliens? karolina dean
little girl likes bionic arms? misty knight
little girl likes flying horses? wow. guess who has one of those? valkyrie. valkyrie does.
My point is that’s it’s so fucking easy so chop-chop, Marvel, get on it. Seriously, I went ten years of my life thinking superheroes were boys. That’s ten years of you not profiting off of my inability to refrain from buying even the crappiest merchandise you offer if it has a character I love on it. Little girls are an enormous market; they will buy all your shit if you just suggest to them that maybe they’d like to.
or you could just keep on not profiting when you could be making money selling literally any object that has enough space to plaster a female superhero’s face on it. that’s cool too.
Today, The Toast published an illustrated-essay/comic I wrote in November called “What Would Yellow Ranger Do?”. You can read it here. It’s about a few things, but two of them are the frustrations of being an immigrant(and the constant reminders of not fitting in) and exoticism. There’s quite a few drawings of the Yellow Ranger too, who I think is really cool.
I think it’s my first fully autobiographical piece, and it’s kind of harsh, and a bit mean, and pretty dismissive at times. I actually winced a bit while reading it over yesterday, because I don’t think I’m portraying myself in a particularly pleasant light. If just five years ago, if I’d met the rude, brash, unapologetically feminist person I am today, I’d be appalled.
In the six weeks between when I wrote this and today, the #NotYourAsianSidekick hashtag exploded all over Twitter(organized by the remarkable @suey_park). It’s about a lot of things, but the thing that struck at me the most was about carving out space for an radical brand of Asian American feminism that’s rooted in solidarity with other people of colour and rejecting the presumptions of white feminism when they do not work for PoC.
I’ve spent a lot of time buying into the myth that the only way for the marginalized groups to be heard is by politeness. Subservience, even. Logic. Intelligence. Scholarship. Proof. Evidence. Charts and graphs and studies and sources.
Postcolonial study has always been an undercurrent in a lot of the work I do, even if its mostly implied(it’s hard to make work that references museums a lot, without acknowledging how the concept of a museum actually started). But even when talking about race and feminism more overtly, I’ve always been academic about it, practically Spock-ish in my approach.
And I’m not sure it really works anymore, because I’m just not that kind of person. I’m not a great public speaker; I freeze up when I’m angry. I have lots of feelings and emotions when things are important to me, and my hands shake when I try to argue for them. But, it’s not my job to handhold people through the intricacies of postcolonial and feminist theory. I’m perhaps - a little bit tired of referencing Gloria Andalzua and bell hooks and Edward Said when what I really want to say is FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU FOR NOT LISTENING TO ME.
Which is to say, I think I’ve been spending an undue amount of time telling people why they should listen to me, why I’m worth listening to, why I’m smart and intelligent and make good points - rather than just standing up and speaking.
And I’ve been thinking a lot about how to make work that is more aggressively “me.” And it occurred to me, after decades of believing that there were just certain ways for women(of colour, especially) to behave or they just wouldn’t be heard, that the best way to make work that is aggressively me is to be aggressively me. And, I’m not very nice sometimes. I’m loud and frequently impolite, and sometimes I’m an antisocial hermit, and sometimes I’m gregarious and entertaining, and sometimes I’m an asshole. I am vast, I contain multitudes.
But, I don’t have to be logical to be heard. I have a voice, and I have the internet, and that is enough. I won’t always be right, but I deserve to speak, just as loudly as anyone else(besides, apologizing is something I’m pretty good at). I don’t have to be afraid that I am not speaking for all women, because I’m speaking for at least one woman of colour, and that’s enough. I will talk, scream, write and paint and sculpt and write and write and write because I am valid. My feelings are valid. My emotions are valid. My anger is valid. My sadness is valid. My happiness is valid. My disappointments are valid. My internal conflicts are valid. My mood swings are valid. My bad days are valid, as are my good days, and all the days in between because they are mine, mine, mine.