A story for all you Jurassic Park loving peeps out there. I learned about
this in my Disaster Response and Emergency Preparedness course that I
just started. In 1992, Jurassic Park was finishing filming on the
island of Kaua'i in Hawai'i. The final day was scheduled for September
11. However, brewing out in the Pacific and headed straight for Hawai'i
was Category 4 Hurricane Iniki. The crew had been keeping an eye on it,
but it was expected that Iniki would turn its course slightly. The
afternoon of September 10, however they were informed that it was going
to make landfall in a few hours, impacting Kaua'i with the main brunt of
it. The crew of hundreds was ordered into the basement of the hotel
they were staying in, and they waited it out that night. (Rather
hilariously, Richard Attenborough slept through the whole ordeal where
others were awake, huddled together and fearing for their lives. When
Spielberg asked him about it, he answered, “My dear boy, I survived the
blitz!” I guess after that, a little hurricane is just pleasant white
noise.) The next day, after the storm had passed, the whole island
was in shambles. Infrastructure was totally destroyed, electricity was
entirely knocked out, and radio service was down. The crew had escaped
harm, luckily, though the sets were totally destroyed. That’s actually
why we don’t see any of Ray Arnold’s journey to the power shed, because
that set was ruined during the storm. Anyway, I digress. The crew
comes out of their basement shelter to find total devastation and a city
in disarray. Even though help would be arriving soon, since the
National Weather Service had been monitoring the storm and knew the
island was hit, there would be no way for the relief efforts to begin
with the infrastructure so heavily damaged. Airstrips and landing pads
had also been demolished in the storm, and hospitals were without power.
There was also no (rather, just severely limited) way to move the
debris that was keeping citizens from aid. EXCEPT a gigantic, highly
skilled and intelligent film crew with lots of industrial equipment and
literally nothing better to do. Within hours of the storm’s
passing, the film crew personnel had dug out their bulldozers and
cranes, jury rigged up whatever else they needed from the animatronics,
and began blazing a path through the wreckage to the air strip where
they cleared the whole landing site, then began working on major city
streets. They also used their set generators to help restore power to
critical city functions, and their satellite phones to call for extra
assistance from the mainland (after they had evacuated their cast, of
course). Even though the ships and helicopters arrived to take the
crew home that day, as planned, many (if not most) of the crew stayed on
Kaua'i to assist in cleanup and relief efforts. It’s estimated by
Emergency Management officials and experts that if the crew had not been
there, the recovery efforts would have been delayed by as much as 3
weeks, as little as 3 days, and several hundred people would have died
in the aftermath of Hurricane Iniki.
Hollywood gets a bad rep for being selfish, but they can save lives and I think that’s really cool.
idk how people can legitimately defend snape as a person like during harry’s first ever potions lesson snape singled him out multiple times, asking him all these questions about potions he’d never brewed or ingredients he hadn’t even heard of before, and he knew harry wouldn’t know all the answers, how could he? it would have been one thing if snape was genuinely asking the class what they knew already but he targeted harry and only harry, and when harry told him several times he didn’t know the answer, snape fucking mocked him for it. a grown ass man was trying to humiliate a first year in front of everyone on his very first day in his class, sneering and tutting and even blaming harry for neville’s incorrectly brewed potion, and when harry finally stood up for himself he was docked a point for giving “cheek” and the entire time harry is so confused, wondering why snape has it out for him so badly, and little does he know it’s hardly even about himself as a person, but his parents. like what sort of adult stoops to that level, not even taking into account that he is a teacher and that he’s supposed to stay professional, but just in general. how can anyone justify that. i don’t get it
It’s not really children, per se. Granted, I’m not fond of them being around, I don’t want one in my house or very often in my immediate presence, and I especially don’t like it if I have to watch one that can’t even talk coherently let alone understand what I’m saying, but all this is because I have no patience and no strong maternal instincts to speak of.
If I’m out in public somewhere and a child looks at me, I will smile at it. If I see a video or gif of a child doing something adorable, I might coo and share it. I don’t actively go out of my way to upset children or even discuss them with most people.
But I hate with all my being the culture that surrounds the concept of children.
There’s an overwhelming societal expectation of a beuterused person that they must not only have children (usually multiple), but that they must desperately want children, often to the exclusion of all else. It’s tied very much into the notion that everyone is supposed to get married and promptly produce offspring and put themselves neatly into heteronormative traditional gender roles so as to be a good adult and a “productive member of society.” Indeed, the mere presence of breasts and a presumed uterus is indicative that a person’s worth is whether or not they reproduce.
And it’s this idea that infests every conversation about health or future or family. It’s this concept that makes those of us who do not want children (especially biologically) have to constantly brace ourselves for potential arguments when we talk about any of these things.
It’s the reason I had to switch doctors when my first one kept insisting that “the ideal” was for me to “remain a virgin until marriage and then marry a virgin before having children.” It’s the reason people with vaginas require checkups for “reproductive health” to make sure everything is “functioning correctly for reproduction” instead of just to make sure things don’t hurt/aren’t infected/need attention. It’s the reason we see language used like “baby-making” for het sex with no stated reproductive intent, why the term “biological clock” is still exclusively used in regards to reproduction, and why there is an over-emphasis on pregnancy and reproduction language in sex (“baby goo,” “baby batter,” “gonna make a baby in you,” etc.). It’s why there’s still so much debate over who gets a say in pregnancy, why pregnancy is still terrifyingly often referred to as a punishment or as a means to control the beuterused. It’s the reason why family, friends, and even strangers feel completely within their rights to ask you about your reproductive plans, to make you justify all of your life choices to them at a moment’s notice, to question your thoughts and beliefs as if they know you better than you do yourself.
It’s the reason why the questions are so intensive when someone asks for lasting birth control. It’s the reasons why we are told over and over the rate of regret, the success stories of people who changed their minds, the horror stories of those who didn’t. It’s the reason why, when you state that you have a “phobia of pregnancy” in the hope that it will make people stop asking you without making you explain yourself or justify your feelings for the umpteenth time, the only advice you get is, “Well, that needs to be fixed before anything else.”
It’s the reason why “because I don’t want children” isn’t enough. It’s the reason why adoption is never seen as an option because “you’ll want some of your own someday.” It’s the reason why people put such value on “extending the family line” and “continuing the family name.”
It’s the reason I have to say I hate children for people to stop questioning me. It’s the reason I have to monitor my conversations with certain people because they’ll say, “Ah, see, you DO like kids!!” It’s the reason parts of my dysphoria kick in hard when I see the sort of things mentioned above. Because, unless something happens to remove or damage a uterus, it is not only expected, but demanded of you to know why you’re refusing “the most precious gift on Earth,” “your womanly duty,” “the greatest love you’ll ever know,” and so forth.
It’s the reason why “I hate children” is rolled off my tongue more and more until finally people just stop talking.
But I don’t hate children.
I hate the culture of children.
I hate the misogyny that surrounds pregnancy.
Most of all, I hate the people who perpetuate this culture, who deny someone else the right to say they don’t want to be part of it, who threaten to make them part of it.
But, you know, it’s so much easier to just say I hate children.
There is a sentence in this that I felt a burning need to address. It’s “Because, unless something happens to remove or damage a uterus, it is not only expected, but demanded of you to know why you’re refusing “the most precious gift on Earth,” “your womanly duty,” “the greatest love you’ll ever know,” and so forth.” Having a damaged uterus does not make you immune.
I’m not going to go into detail, but certain things happened to me as a child and as a result, my entire uterus is a ball of scar tissue. It only works well enough to make me an invalid for a week every month or so. It will never be a productive uterus, and I have absolutely zero problem with this. It means I no longer need to justify my lack of offspring to people like my mother. However, when it was discovered in my late 20s that I was unable to have kids, I requested a hysterectomy because menstruating is such a painful experience for me. I was actually happy about it, it was the magic excuse that would get everyone off my back about biological clocks and crap. I shit you not, the following is the actual conversation I had with the surgeon.
“So, since none of it works or will ever work, can you take it all out? It would be nice to not have to worry about any of this again.” “Uhh.. No.” “Why not?” “You’re under 30 and don’t have children.” “What does that have to do with anything?” “You might want to have children in the future.” “But even if I did, you just told me I can’t. You JUST said that I can’t even have eggs harvested for a surrogate. Is changing my mind going to magically make it all work?” “No.” “So can you take it all out?” “No. You might want children one day.”
It continued in this fashion for a good 20 minutes before she got angry at me for not wanting to become a mother and left my hospital room.
My uterus is such a mess that it has hospitalized me more than once, it doesn’t work properly at all, and yet I’m not allowed to have it removed because… honestly I’m not even sure how to finish that sentence.
Misogyny doesn’t even begin to describe it. I’ve even had medical professionals who know this story tell me that popping out a sprog would cure my depression. It’s outright idiocy. At this point, for me, whether I want children or not is irrelevant. I physically cannot reproduce, and yet the Culture of Children you talk about is so bad that it forces me to suffer through needless pain that could be easily prevented with a simple, common surgical procedure. Any time I ask for that surgery, I’m met with nonsensical cries of “BUT BABIES”.
Thank you for being vocal about this kind of thing.
And thank you so much for sharing!
This kind of thing fills me with rage, because it just illustrates how our knowledge of ourselves and our own bodies, even when completely backed up by doctors, is still ignored and outright rejected because of this nebulous idea that “Well, you’ll want children one day.” Even when going up against logic and plain fact, the “woman = children” (for the value of women that most medical providers only accept) correlation is so strong they don’t even think of going against it and will actively fight you if you reject it.
GOD, THANK YOU ALL.
I’m eighteen. I am physically healthy, identify as cisgendered female, and I don’t want kids, possibly ever, for a lot of reasons (not least of which is that I literally cannot deal with them unless I’m telling them a fairy tale, like what do you even do with children, no thank you). There are people in my town who joke with my parents, IN FRONT OF ME, about being grandparents. Or who hear me remark on how bad I am with kids and go “oh, well, you’ve clearly got some motherly instincts in there.” (In ‘there?’ In, like, my ovaries, waiting to be dispersed through my body like a brand new hormone? In my breasts? What does this even mean?) And when I call them out on it and say “If and when I ever have children, it’ll be because my partner and I want them, not because you think I should have them, but I genuinely do not want kids,” they pat my shoulders and smile patronizingly and say “that’ll change.”
Here’s the thing. My family? My extended family? Not a fun group of folks. My parents are great, don’t get me wrong, and they did everything they could to protect me. But I hate having people grab me from behind because it reminds me of when my grandfather (dad’s side) used to shake me for touching his figurines, and I hate being pushed against walls because it reminds me of when my grandmother (mom’s side) used to yell at me and make my head bounce off the plaster and poke me so hard she left bruises all over my chest. I’ve picked bad friends all my life because I hear ‘mocking’ and associate it with people who should love me. I can’t always do things I enjoy, like writing fantasy, because all I can hear is the voices of my family telling me that I’m nothing, the throw-away grandchild, the kid who can’t pull her head out of the clouds and deal with reality, the girl who will never be good at anything, who will never be anything, because she’s too arrogant, too stupid, too weak. And all of my logical arguments for not having kids–I’m not good with children, I want a medical career, I’m so broke I probably couldn’t afford it–are NOTHING in the face of the fact that I live in absolute fear that my family runs in my blood, and I am completely unwilling to inflict it on a child. I know it’s not logical, but if I was ever to have children, it would be after many years of therapy, and maybe not even then. And hearing people tell me “Well, you’ll want kids someday” makes me want to scream at them about how my blood is fucking poison and I would never, NEVER give it to a child. I don’t trust myself enough now (again, I’m fucking eighteen, why the fuck are you asking me about children before I’m legal to fucking drink) and I might not ever, and that’s allowed.
So yeah. Thank you so much for agreeing that this is a permissible thing. This post made me feel better about myself.
What a great stream of posts. I agree, I agree wholeheartedly. And – shocker –I’m not only female, I’m over 40 and I’m a mother fucking mom. What’s great about the phrase “culture of children” is that it evokes a sense of all that is valued and discarded in one phrase: females have value in society when they reproduce, but are discarded when behavior is outside the norm. Like choosing not to have children or choosing to have one child -and only one child.
I am the proud parent on one child, ONE child, and she’s the most beautiful, talented, gorgeous person I know. And for nearly two decades, I encountered a silent (and sometimes not so silent) judgment that I had chosen to have only one child. The silent judgement most often accompanied by the phrase “well, you’re young,” while the not so silent judgment carried the phrases like “only children are spoiled”, “how could you deny your child siblings?”, or “a siblings’ love is unlike any other and you’re being selfish.” Finally, I got so sick and tired of that bullshit (because that’s exactly what it was) and started answering the questions “how many kids do you have” and “do you have children” with “I have a daughter, she’s my oldest, middle and youngest.” And to several of the people who had the audacity to actually suggest only children were selfish, I’d point out “huh, then how come my kid is the only one in that group sharing toys, saying please and thank you while your kids are hitting other children and hogging the swings? Have an answer for that?”
And, yes, people assumed they had the right to ask me these questions and pass their judgments on me because - you got it - I am female. I never remember a time when my spouse was asked “aren’t you going to have more kids? You’ll want to give your kid a sibling.” And, yeah, my kid may be the best thing that’s happened to me but who the fuck am I to presume that just because having a kid was good for me it would be good for anyone else?
So, when I hear young women say “I’m never having kids,” I remind myself to keep my damn trap shut. It’s their body. They want to dye their hair blue? cool. They want tattoos? Cool. They want to not have kids? Cool. It’s their body, their lives. If someone else has a different thought, just shut the fuck up and nod.
I highly recommend a reread because Harry is freaking hilarious. I mean, not always obviously, but he certainly has his moments. He has a very dry sort of humor and I just love that. Also, I trimmed it down, but sorry if it’s a bit long:
“They stuff people’s heads down the toilet the first day at Stonewall,” he told Harry. “What to come upstairs and practice?” “No thanks,” said Harry, “The poor toilet’s never had anything as horrible as your head down it – it might be sick.”
The tub was full of what looked like dirty rags swimming in grey water. “What’s this?” he asked Aunt Petunia. Her lips tightened as they always did if he dared to ask a question. “Your new school uniform,” she said. Harry looked in the bowl again. “Oh,” he said, “I didn’t realize it had to be so wet.”
At this, Hermione stood up, her hand stretching towards the dungeon ceiling. “I don’t know,” said Harry quietly. “I think Hermione does, though, why don’t you try her?”
“You don’t use your eyes, any of you, do you?” she snapped. “Didn’t you see what it was standing on?” “The floor?” Harry suggested.
“Professor McGonagall told me about the special circumstances, Potter. And what model is it?” “A Nimbus Two Thousand, sir,” said Harry, fighting not to laugh at the look of horror on Malfoy’s face. “And it’s really thanks to Malfoy here that I’ve got it.”
“I know what day it is,” Dudley repeated, coming right up to him.” “Well done,” said Harry. “So you’ve finally learned the days of the week.”
“Why’re you staring at the hedge?” he said suspiciously. “I’m trying to decide what would be the best spell to set it on fire,” said Harry.
He rolled down the window, the night air whipping his hair, and looked back at the shrinking rooftops of Privet Drive. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley were all hanging, dumbstruck, out of Harry’s window. “See you next summer!” Harry yelled.
“There you are! Where have you been? The most ridiculous rumors – someone said you’d been expelled for crashing a flying car!” “Well we haven’t been expelled,” Harry assured her.
“Oh no, not you,” he moaned. “Doesn’t know what he’s saying,” said Lockhart loudly to the anxious crowd of Gryffindors pressing around them. “Not to worry, Harry, I’m about to fix your am.” “No!” said Harry. “I’ll keep it like this thanks…”
Lockhart cuffed Harry merrily on the shoulder. “Just do what I did, Harry!” “What, drop my wand?”
“Are you planning to eat or sleep at all this year, Hermione?” asked Harry, while Ron sniggered. Hermione ignored them.
They swilled the dregs around as Professor Trelawney had instructed, then drained the cups and swapped over. “Right,” said Ron as they both opened their books at pages five and six. “What can you see in mine?” “A load of soggy brown stuff,” said Harry.
“That means you’re going to have ‘trials and suffering’ – sorry about that – but there’s a thing that could be the sun. Hang on… that means ‘great happiness’ … so you’re going to suffer but be very happy…”
“When you’ve all finished deciding whether I’m going to die or not!”
“It was your head, Potter. Floating in midair.” There was a long silence. “Maybe he’d better go to Madam Pomfrey,” said Harry. “If he’s seeing things like – “
“Potter! Weasley! Will you pay attention?” … The bell was due to ring any moment, and Harry and Ron, who had been having a sword fight with a couple of Fred and George’s fake wands at the back of the class, looked up, Ron holding a tin parrot and Harry, a rubber haddock.
“I’ll wait for you, Harry, shall I?” “No, it’s okay, Mr. Bagman,” said Harry, suppressing a smile, “I think I can find the castle on my own, thanks.”
“Listening to the news! Again?” “Well, it changes every day, you see,” said Harry.
“Yeah? Did he say you look like a pig that’s been taught to walk on its hind legs? ‘Cause that’s not cheek, Dud, that’s true…”
“I’ve left a letter telling your aunt and uncle not to worry -” “They won’t.” “That you’re safe -” “That’ll just depress them.” “- and that you’ll see them next summer.” “Do I have to?”
“You’re Harry Potter,” she added. “I know I am,” said Harry.
“You see, I, unlike you, have been made a prefect, which means that I, unlike you, have the power to hand out punishments.” “Yeah,” said Harry, “but you, unlike me, are a git, so get out and leave us alone.”
“We shouldn’t have taken the stupid subject in the first place,” said Harry.“ “Still, at least we can give it up now.” “Yeah,” said Harry. “No more pretending we care what happens when Jupiter and Uranus get too friendly…”
“You’re dead, Potter.” Harry raised his eyebrows. “Funny,” he said, “you’d think I’d have stopped walking around.”
“I wouldn’t go in the kitchen just now,” she warned him. “There’s a lot of Phlegm around.” “I’ll be careful not to slip in it,” Harry smiled.
“Do you remember me telling you we are practicing nonverbal spells, Potter?” “Yes,” said Harry stiffly. “Yes, sir.” “There’s no need to call me ‘sir,’ Professor.”
“No,” said Harry. “No, I suppose that’s true. But wasn’t that dishonest, Hermione? I mean, you’re a prefect, aren’t you?” “Oh, be quiet,” she snapped, as he smirked.
“My whole family are blood traitors! That’s as bad as Muggle-borns to Death Eaters!” “And they’d love to have me,” said Harry sarcastically “We’d be best pals if they didn’t keep trying to do me in.”
“She’ll ban you from the library if you’re not careful. Why did you have to bring that stupid book?” “It’s not my fault she’s barking mad, Hermione. Or d'you think she overheard you being rude about Filch? I’ve always thought there was something going on between them…”
“Nice,” he said. “Classy. You should definitely wear it in front of Fred and George.” “If you tell them,” said Ron, shoving the necklace out of sight under his pillow, “I - I - I’ll -” “Stutter at me?” said Harry, grinning. “Come on, would I?”
“Promise me you’ll look after yourself…. Stay out of trouble….” “I always do, Mrs. Weasley,” said Harry. “I like the quiet life, you know me.”
“I told her it’s a Hungarian Horntail,” said Ginny, turning a page of the newspaper idly. “Much more macho.” “Thanks,” said Harry, grinning. “And what did you tell her Ron’s got?” “A Pygmy Puff, but I didn’t say where.”
“Six years ter the day since we met, Harry, d'yeh remember it?” “Vaguely,” said Harry, grinning up at him. “Didn’t you smash down the front door, give Dudley a pig’s tail, and tell me I was a wizard?”
Thinking about it, the humour in Harry Potter is very, very British, and I’ve heard that a lot of non-Brits don’t get dry/sarcy British humour and often assume we’re being serious (particularly Americans, although obviously not all, and the OP/answerer here uses American spelling).
So does that mean that a lot of non-British readers just think Harry’s really really thick? “I didn’t realise it had to be so wet.” “DUH HARRY IT’LL DRY DUHHHHHH”
Well, I mean, I’m American and from the get-go I was just like “this child…he has sass, I aspire to have this much sass, where can one buy this much sass.” But then again my parents’ parenting technique was, like, ”Let us teach our toddler daughter how to swear vividly and win arguments with other children and present logical arguments and spit dry sarcasm.” So that might have had something to do with it.
guys be like “makeup is why you take a bitch swimming on the first date!!!” but sweetie I got that urban decay setting spray ayeeee
Hourglass mineral veil primer makes any makeup you put on top of it waterproof 💁
WHAT!?!?!? No one told me these things. I been sweating and reapplying make-up in the summers and you folks knew this shit the whole time… THE WHOLE GOTDAMN TIME!?!?
I love this website so much.
Out here saving lives
Cheap alternative to UD Setting Spray is the NYX Matte Finish Spray. I have both and the work the same. And the Porefessional Primer is amazing too
the elf primers are like $6 and work like magic too. they give you a satin finish and the makeup just glides on.
E.L.F is also cruelty free! No animal testing AND cheap!
You don’t have to be grateful that it isn’t worse.
read that.
read it again, and again, and again.
somebody, somewhere, always has it worse than you. there is one person on this planet that has it the worst of all, and that person is NOT the only person allowed to be unhappy with their lot.
if things are bad for you, they are bad for you. period.
if you suspect someone is in an abusive relationship and actually want to help them leave, dont argue with them about it. listen to them, let them talk. when they describe an action you feel is abusive, you can say, as gently as possible, that you would understand if that had upset them. as soon as they get defensive, back off. dont be any more critical of their partner than theyre able to tolerate without shutting off the conversation and writing you off as someone whos safe to talk about their relationship with
there isnt a big moment of clarity for most victims, theres a gradual, growing awareness that the way theyre being treated is wrong, and that they dont deserve to be treated this way. you can help people get there by listening to them and supporting them- something you cant do if they wont talk about their relationship with you anymore, which is what happens when you just keep yelling DUMP HIM
like i realise there’s a good chance i’d die in an alien attack or whatever but i could also write essays about steve rogers for my history class and that is in fact very important
so sometimes i think about harry potter being in the aurors and like
he’d never really thought about child protective services, muggle or otherwise, cause it’d never been relevant, right? like when he was a miserable kid he just thought that was what it was like being an orphan. but then he sees cases come through the department where parents are murdered and there’s kids sitting in their waiting room with copies of the quibbler and water waiting while an auror sits down with a family tree and tries to find whatever relatives this kid might have in the wizarding world, going back maybe even five generations to find anyone living and vaguely related to this child to drop them off with
and he goes to shit apartments in diagon alley after noise complaints and finds children who are black and blue with hexed, bleeding skin who insist they were just playing with a weasley’s wizard wheeze, no really mr. potter
and he thinks about how merope gaunt stumbled into a muggle orphanage and left them a child who would grow up learning fear was the key to harmony, and becoming a god meant safety
and really, how was the headmaster of a school the person who made the call about where he ended up, how was the system so haphazard that a man who wouldn’t be part of his life for another ten years got to make the biggest decision of his life
harry thinks about his cupboard
and then harry potter sits down with hermione and ron and neville (cause of course neville would want a stake in this) and says, “we need to change the wizarding world again.”
okay, time to get real here. i know a lot of people have been on an archive of our own before, i know a lot of people write and post to an archive of our own, so i know it’s not a matter of nobody knowing what i’m talking about. i’m going to introduce to you a novel concept tho
ship tag etiquette:
1. don’t tag in your secondary and minor ships. if your main ship in the fic is loki x hawkeye, awesome; tag that, and anyone looking for loki x hawkeye will basically know your fic is the place to go. if your main ship in the fic is loki x hawkeye, but you also tag the 4 other ships you mention in like one sentence out of the 50k fic you just wrote, then there are going to be a lot of people out there coming to your fic thinking oh hey, at last a thor x sif fanfic sign me up only to find out fast they’re wrong.
2. don’t tag in your
secondary and
minor ships. it doesn’t matter if you dedicate those motherfucking sideships one paragraph out of 53, that’s like promising starving fic readers a treat and giving them a fucking pea. one pea. just one. maybe they are looking for fics with the actual ship whose tag they’re searching in, rather than:
fics where their ship is used as a stepping stone to get to the main one
fics where their ship is tagged in because the writer thinks one mention makes it a ‘minor ship’ (IT DOESN’T, it’s just A MENTION OF IT)
fics where their ship is only tacked on to keep those characters busy and the main character of your fic only thinks about that ship in passing twice
fics where their ship is brought apart, by death or break up or infidelity, in any part of the fic just for the sake of the main ship to happen.
3. don’t tag in your
secondary and
minor ships. it’s just fucking rude. if i wanna get my rocks off reading superhot natasha romanoff x lady sif porn, do you know what i can find by going to their ship tag? DISAPPOINTMENT. because rather than learning that there are three/four fics focusing on their spacewives sex life, i have to sift through the mILLIONTY ONE HUNDRED fics already there, who center around loki. if i wanted to read about loki I’D JUST OPEN THE GODDAMN MCU TAG, IT’S ALL PEOPLE EVER WRITE ABOUT ANYWAY.
4. don’t tag in your
secondary and
minor ships. i don’t care if you’ve done it once or twice, i don’t care if you think it’s necessary. it’s not. if you think it’s necessary, you know what you could do? add a note at the beginning. a OH BY THE WAY GUYS THISFIC WILL ALSO INCLUDE SOME SIDE SHIPS SUCH AS […] or you can let the readers figure it out.
5. don’t tag in your
secondary and
minor ships. because those of us who go into those tags looking for fics about them where they’re appreciated and portrayed well and are the main focus will be left facing the origin of our supervillain story. every. single. day.
6. if you’ve tagged in
secondary and
your minor ships: do us all and yourself a favour and go delete them. do it now. edit them now. you’ll be thanked, and most importantly, you’ll be appreciated twice: once by you readers, once by the people who don’t have to get annoyed anymore at seeing fics promising them an apple and giving them a fucking pea.
So for those of you may or may not know the organization PETA is people against animal cruelty.
Well let me tell you a story that I just found out today.
Our dog Boulder is a show dog and he was at a show a few weeks or so ago. PETA was also there and they were protesting how dog shows are inhumane.
So what did they fucking do? They let all/most of the dogs out of their kennels and put rat poison inside the kennels.
Boulder got sick after the show and as they were doing tests and everything they found the rat poison in his system. PETA killed my dog.
My dog Boulder has cancer now which spread to his kidney and his lungs. He is not going to make it. He has lost a lot of weight and needs to be fed by hand because of fucking PETA.
So I want you guys to spread this like wildfire. Tell everyone about this. Because of PETA we are losing a member of our family who is near and dear to us.
fuck.
Oh my god
PETA Kills at LEAST 90% of the animals they “rescue.” Do not support them. They are a vile, vile organization and they do so much more harm than good.
If you support PETA I’m gonna punch your lights out
People who harm or kill animals for no reason are fucking subhumans.
There was a good episode of Penn and Teller’s Bullshit on PETA and their hypocrisy
I’m always telling people how PETA is full of shit, this is so sad
It’s not really children, per se. Granted, I’m not fond of them being around, I don’t want one in my house or very often in my immediate presence, and I especially don’t like it if I have to watch one that can’t even talk coherently let alone understand what I’m saying, but all this is because I have no patience and no strong maternal instincts to speak of.
If I’m out in public somewhere and a child looks at me, I will smile at it. If I see a video or gif of a child doing something adorable, I might coo and share it. I don’t actively go out of my way to upset children or even discuss them with most people.
But I hate with all my being the culture that surrounds the concept of children.
There’s an overwhelming societal expectation of a beuterused person that they must not only have children (usually multiple), but that they must desperately want children, often to the exclusion of all else. It’s tied very much into the notion that everyone is supposed to get married and promptly produce offspring and put themselves neatly into heteronormative traditional gender roles so as to be a good adult and a “productive member of society.” Indeed, the mere presence of breasts and a presumed uterus is indicative that a person’s worth is whether or not they reproduce.
And it’s this idea that infests every conversation about health or future or family. It’s this concept that makes those of us who do not want children (especially biologically) have to constantly brace ourselves for potential arguments when we talk about any of these things.
It’s the reason I had to switch doctors when my first one kept insisting that “the ideal” was for me to “remain a virgin until marriage and then marry a virgin before having children.” It’s the reason people with vaginas require checkups for “reproductive health” to make sure everything is “functioning correctly for reproduction” instead of just to make sure things don’t hurt/aren’t infected/need attention. It’s the reason we see language used like “baby-making” for het sex with no stated reproductive intent, why the term “biological clock” is still exclusively used in regards to reproduction, and why there is an over-emphasis on pregnancy and reproduction language in sex (“baby goo,” “baby batter,” “gonna make a baby in you,” etc.). It’s why there’s still so much debate over who gets a say in pregnancy, why pregnancy is still terrifyingly often referred to as a punishment or as a means to control the beuterused. It’s the reason why family, friends, and even strangers feel completely within their rights to ask you about your reproductive plans, to make you justify all of your life choices to them at a moment’s notice, to question your thoughts and beliefs as if they know you better than you do yourself.
It’s the reason why the questions are so intensive when someone asks for lasting birth control. It’s the reasons why we are told over and over the rate of regret, the success stories of people who changed their minds, the horror stories of those who didn’t. It’s the reason why, when you state that you have a “phobia of pregnancy” in the hope that it will make people stop asking you without making you explain yourself or justify your feelings for the umpteenth time, the only advice you get is, “Well, that needs to be fixed before anything else.”
It’s the reason why “because I don’t want children” isn’t enough. It’s the reason why adoption is never seen as an option because “you’ll want some of your own someday.” It’s the reason why people put such value on “extending the family line” and “continuing the family name.”
It’s the reason I have to say I hate children for people to stop questioning me. It’s the reason I have to monitor my conversations with certain people because they’ll say, “Ah, see, you DO like kids!!” It’s the reason parts of my dysphoria kick in hard when I see the sort of things mentioned above. Because, unless something happens to remove or damage a uterus, it is not only expected, but demanded of you to know why you’re refusing “the most precious gift on Earth,” “your womanly duty,” “the greatest love you’ll ever know,” and so forth.
It’s the reason why “I hate children” is rolled off my tongue more and more until finally people just stop talking.
But I don’t hate children.
I hate the culture of children.
I hate the misogyny that surrounds pregnancy.
Most of all, I hate the people who perpetuate this culture, who deny someone else the right to say they don’t want to be part of it, who threaten to make them part of it.
But, you know, it’s so much easier to just say I hate children.
There is a sentence in this that I felt a burning need to address. It’s “Because, unless something happens to remove or damage a uterus, it is not only expected, but demanded of you to know why you’re refusing “the most precious gift on Earth,” “your womanly duty,” “the greatest love you’ll ever know,” and so forth.” Having a damaged uterus does not make you immune.
I’m not going to go into detail, but certain things happened to me as a child and as a result, my entire uterus is a ball of scar tissue. It only works well enough to make me an invalid for a week every month or so. It will never be a productive uterus, and I have absolutely zero problem with this. It means I no longer need to justify my lack of offspring to people like my mother. However, when it was discovered in my late 20s that I was unable to have kids, I requested a hysterectomy because menstruating is such a painful experience for me. I was actually happy about it, it was the magic excuse that would get everyone off my back about biological clocks and crap. I shit you not, the following is the actual conversation I had with the surgeon.
“So, since none of it works or will ever work, can you take it all out? It would be nice to not have to worry about any of this again.” “Uhh.. No.” “Why not?” “You’re under 30 and don’t have children.” “What does that have to do with anything?” “You might want to have children in the future.” “But even if I did, you just told me I can’t. You JUST said that I can’t even have eggs harvested for a surrogate. Is changing my mind going to magically make it all work?” “No.” “So can you take it all out?” “No. You might want children one day.”
It continued in this fashion for a good 20 minutes before she got angry at me for not wanting to become a mother and left my hospital room.
My uterus is such a mess that it has hospitalized me more than once, it doesn’t work properly at all, and yet I’m not allowed to have it removed because… honestly I’m not even sure how to finish that sentence.
Misogyny doesn’t even begin to describe it. I’ve even had medical professionals who know this story tell me that popping out a sprog would cure my depression. It’s outright idiocy. At this point, for me, whether I want children or not is irrelevant. I physically cannot reproduce, and yet the Culture of Children you talk about is so bad that it forces me to suffer through needless pain that could be easily prevented with a simple, common surgical procedure. Any time I ask for that surgery, I’m met with nonsensical cries of “BUT BABIES”.
Thank you for being vocal about this kind of thing.
And thank you so much for sharing!
This kind of thing fills me with rage, because it just illustrates how our knowledge of ourselves and our own bodies, even when completely backed up by doctors, is still ignored and outright rejected because of this nebulous idea that “Well, you’ll want children one day.” Even when going up against logic and plain fact, the “woman = children” (for the value of women that most medical providers only accept) correlation is so strong they don’t even think of going against it and will actively fight you if you reject it.
GOD, THANK YOU ALL.
I’m eighteen. I am physically healthy, identify as cisgendered female, and I don’t want kids, possibly ever, for a lot of reasons (not least of which is that I literally cannot deal with them unless I’m telling them a fairy tale, like what do you even do with children, no thank you). There are people in my town who joke with my parents, IN FRONT OF ME, about being grandparents. Or who hear me remark on how bad I am with kids and go “oh, well, you’ve clearly got some motherly instincts in there.” (In ‘there?’ In, like, my ovaries, waiting to be dispersed through my body like a brand new hormone? In my breasts? What does this even mean?) And when I call them out on it and say “If and when I ever have children, it’ll be because my partner and I want them, not because you think I should have them, but I genuinely do not want kids,” they pat my shoulders and smile patronizingly and say “that’ll change.”
Here’s the thing. My family? My extended family? Not a fun group of folks. My parents are great, don’t get me wrong, and they did everything they could to protect me. But I hate having people grab me from behind because it reminds me of when my grandfather (dad’s side) used to shake me for touching his figurines, and I hate being pushed against walls because it reminds me of when my grandmother (mom’s side) used to yell at me and make my head bounce off the plaster and poke me so hard she left bruises all over my chest. I’ve picked bad friends all my life because I hear 'mocking’ and associate it with people who should love me. I can’t always do things I enjoy, like writing fantasy, because all I can hear is the voices of my family telling me that I’m nothing, the throw-away grandchild, the kid who can’t pull her head out of the clouds and deal with reality, the girl who will never be good at anything, who will never be anything, because she’s too arrogant, too stupid, too weak. And all of my logical arguments for not having kids–I’m not good with children, I want a medical career, I’m so broke I probably couldn’t afford it–are NOTHING in the face of the fact that I live in absolute fear that my family runs in my blood, and I am completely unwilling to inflict it on a child. I know it’s not logical, but if I was ever to have children, it would be after many years of therapy, and maybe not even then. And hearing people tell me “Well, you’ll want kids someday” makes me want to scream at them about how my blood is fucking poison and I would never, NEVER give it to a child. I don’t trust myself enough now (again, I’m fucking eighteen, why the fuck are you asking me about children before I’m legal to fucking drink) and I might not ever, and that’s allowed.
So yeah. Thank you so much for agreeing that this is a permissible thing. This post made me feel better about myself.
I’ve noticed this revisionist Greek myth is common wherein Persephone loves Hades and eats the pomegranate seeds in order to evade her overbearing mother, and that’s all well and good. You know, sometimes I’m in the mood for it and sometimes I’m not. But hear this: as long as we’re doing this, why is no one wondering whether Aphrodite might really love Hephaestus?
Think about it. All the gods in their immortal splendor are lining up to marry her, doing everything in their power to impress her, the goddess of love and beauty, and she choses…that guy. A god in technical terms only, a social reject who’s ugly and malformed and um, no fun. Always slaving away in his workshop when everyone else is quaffing nectar and having their eternal beach party up on Mount Olympus. They can’t believe she’d give up all of them for that.
So, because the gods do not take rejection well (looking at you Apollo), eventually they start to say to each other, well, we all know Zeus made her do it anyway. He’s gotta feel guilty for throwing Hephaestus off Mount Olympus that one time. And it quickly becomes thatpoorgirl, stuck in that workshop full of sweat and dirt and cyclopses when she could have had one of us. Because of course they’ve got love all figured out; it’s entirely technical and dependent on who’s the most charming and good-looking and not at all variable and strange and notoriously unpredictable, right?
Meanwhile Ares, only the most arrogant and brainless of the crew, can’t take a hint and is still showing up wherever Aphrodite goes trying to hit on her, so eventually she and Hephaestus decide to rig up an elaborate mechanical trap for him, using her as bait. When all the gods have laughed at him for getting caught he huffily attempts to regain his dignity by telling them, whatever, guys, you want to know the truth, I was meeting her for an assignation. And they all kind of know he’s full of it but they just accept it as the unvarnished truth from thereon in, because they’d love to believe she’d cheat on Hephaestus with Ares. They’d love it. Come on, Aphrodite, get off your high horse and admit you’re just as shallow as the rest of us.
So they talk, but Aphrodite doesn’t really care about their collective jealousy because she dotes on her misshapen genius of a husband with his sooty hands and his sweaty brow who always takes her seriously and is always so hard at work inventing astonishing new things to make her happy, and she loves the volcano they live in with its internal pressures so conducive to the formation of precious stones and its passages lit with glowing lava that so gorgeously offsets her cheekbones, and all the cyclopses worship her because even with one eye apiece they’ve still got more depth perception than most men do where she’s concerned. True it is that as a couple the two develop a reputation for not getting out much, because all those Olympian parties bore them to death and they’d rather spend time with each other (poor Aphrodite, she’s such a vivacious young thing and her husband is so grasping and insecure that he won’t let her go out and have fun), but they do all right.
THIS IS THE KIND OF CONTENT I’M LOOKING FOR
THIS IS MY SHIT, I FUCKING LOVE IT WHEN PEOPLE MAKE ME RECONSIDER THIS SHIT, WRITE ME A NOVEL.
college is just as ridiculous as everyone thinks it is
last term i was 35 minutes into the first day of a roman society class and there was this dude eating burritos in the third row, and the prof asked him a question and the dude just went “i would love to answer, but it just occured to me this is NOT honours environmental economics” and stood up and left
so, there’s a lot of shit going around about banksy right now.
i’m just going to say here that i’m not a graffiti artist. i very much enjoy graffiti but i don’t make graffiti art and these are simply my personal thoughts as an outside perspective.
first of all, i don’t think that tagging and what banksy does are even in the same league. tagging is a specific statement. it takes space, it is a nonviolent way to fight the legality and oppression of the government. it breaks the law in an artistic way where nobody gets hurt. it’s used to claim territory, to immortalize, and to fight against the powers at be. in most cases, its freestyled. it takes hours. the graffiti community is tight knit and exercises a good amount of respect for one another. graffiti is seen by most as a blemish, strange words or names written fantastically on walls that don’t belong to the artist, without permission, and are often covered up by street cleaners because they depreciate business/real estate value.
i do not find banksy as a graffiti artist because he doesn’t do these things. he’s not a radical and he’s not some kind of political revolutionary. he’s not claiming space for the oppressed, he’s just trying to make a buck on a scene he probably thought was cool.
this would be fine with me, if it wasn’t for the inexcusable tragedy that was the years leading up to King Robbo’s death.
this piece was painted by King Robbo in 1985. It was located under the London Transport Police Headquarters in Camden, London. this place was only accessible by water. when most of Robbo’s other works had been covered up, this one remained. for a while it was the oldest piece in London.
by 2009, the piece had gone the way most tags go, everything is transient and every space is fair game for more people to make their marks. this is the nature of graffiti, and to it King Robbo took no offense.
that year, Banksy painted this. It is a wall painter, removing the piece from the walls. he took the oldest piece of graffiti in london, which was no longer even just King Robbo’s, but an impromptu collaboration between many london graffiti artists, and he disrespected it. if it wasn’t enough that they were getting jailed while banksy was making millions for the same work, he disrespected them. he spit on them. he decided his statement was worth more than the oldest piece of graffiti in london and on top of that, THIS IS A STENCIL. he couldn’t even free-hand it! he decided his LITERAL cookie-cutter street art was more important that Robbo’s only surviving legacy.
insulted, King Robbo replied. he was quoted saying
“I was at a place called the Dragon Bar on Old Street. I was introduced to a couple of guys who were like ‘whoa it’s nice to meet you!’. When I was introduced to Banksy, I went ‘Oh yeah I’ve heard of you mate, how you doing?’ and he went ‘well I’ve never heard of you’…he dismissed me as a nobody, as nothing. So with that I slapped him and went ‘oh what you ain’t heard of me? you won’t forget me now will you?’ and with that he picked up his glasses and ran off.” obviously this was an insulting display to King Robbo, who had managed what most graffiti artists can never pull off, he had a timeless piece. he gained some fame, some notoriety. this piece, of all the pieces in london, banksy covered up with a stencil. EVEN SO, Robbo left banksy’s work, whereas banksy deliberately covered his up.
banksy replied. as you can see, very thought provoking. quite profound.
King Robbo corrected the piece.
at this point, an unknown third part covers the wall.
it wasn’t over, as this had become very personal for King Robbo. He painted this work. At this point, many other graffiti artists had already started tagging the streets with “TEAM ROBBO”. many of banksy’s works were being tagged over, like he did to King Robbo’s, in an effort to send a message. Mainstream media called these “defacement” and “vandalism” of banksy Originals, where the travesty against King Robbo went mostly unnoticed outside london and the graffiti community.
as you can see, Team Robbo exploded, giving many of banksy’s pieces the same respect he gave King Robbo’s long-standing artwork.
after being blacked out again, banksy painted this piece. the meaning is lost on me, if you know what it means, let me know. it’s strange and confusing.
this had gone on into 2011, when King Robbo fell into a coma. It was only 5 days before his exhibition, “Team Robbo - The Sellout Tour”. he unfortunately never got to attend his exhibition, and never again woke up. he died in july 2014.
banksy, supposedly making a memorial, made sure he got the last word:
RIP King Robbo.
So what blows my mind is when I first saw this photoset it was billed as ‘tee hee look at this good natured exchange’. Which, without context, I bought.
The fact that these two vastly different narratives exist, and the way context has been stripped from one of them to excuse Banksy, says a lot about… well, everything, including the people doing the painting. It’s one hell of a message. The way people want to sell the story (Banksy) and the way people actually fell about it (Robbo and his followers)
My dad has a doppelganger named Eric. For years people have been coming up to him, thinking he was Eric. Sometimes people get a whole conversation going while my dad stands there politely wondering why this stranger is talking to him before they stop, wide eyed, and realize “you’re not Eric.” None of us have ever seen Eric, but we know he’s out there. Sometimes a couple years will go by without an Eric incident and we worry. But then my dad will come home like “good news guys, Eric’s still alive, I met his cousin today.”
I think it’s hilarious when people are talking about height differences in ships and they think it’s all sunshine and rainbows, but as a friend and I were just discussing: I am tiny (at only about 5'2") while my husband is tall (6'3") and built like a house. I know what it’s like to be in a relationship like this, so please consider:
*The tiny one trying to reach something on the top shelf and the big one coming by to scoop them up and lift them with one hand so they can reach it.
*The big one has a bigger vehicle so they can stretch their legs out and the tiny one has to run and hop into it
*The big one can’t get their shoulders through a doorway and gets stuck like twice while the tiny one just slips through and laughs at them
*(my husband does this to me every so often) the tiny one caught in an uncomfortable conversation so the tall one just comes over and picks them up, puts them on their hip like a toddler, and carries them away.
*The tiny one is the scary one
*The big one is a big softie and a nerd and he just loves the tiny sarcastic one to bits
*The tiny one let’s the big one rest on them every now and then but careful don’t smoosh them
*The big one carrying the tiny one away from an argument over their shoulder
*The tiny one will fucking fight you don’t fuck with their massive teddy bear don’t get stabbed hoe
I’m fucking pissing myself.
You know how all of Jupiter’s moons are named after his lovers and affairs?
Yeah. NASA is sending a craft to check up on Jupiter.
You know what the craft is called?
JUNO.
Who’s Juno?
JUPITER’S WIFE.
NASA IS SENDING JUPITER’S WIFE TO CHECK ON JUPITER AND HIS AFFAIRS AND LOVERS.
i’ve always scoffed at those “oh my god europe is tiny”-posts but we just took the wrong exit driving back to our cabin and we literally ended up in norway and decided to just stay for dinner so yeah
this just happened AGAIN jesus fucking christ there isn’t even a sign that says welcome to fucking norway you’re just there all of a sudden
I could miss an exit and still stay in my state for another 8 hours.
Not many of my followers know, but I’m a bartender and after this weekend (and for the last 5 years) I thought I’d make a quick a simple list of bar manners to mind.
If you use a lime after a shot do not stick your gross ass chewed up lime on the bar. Put it back into the shot glass, on a napkin or find a trash can for the love of god.
If you don’t want a straw in your drink, either say so when you order or put in on a napkin or throw it away. Again, do not stick it in your mouth, suck on it and leave your spit straw on the counter. Have you no manners?
Don’t yell. Use your manners.
I know it looks like I will never look into your beautiful, drink starved eyes, but I can see you even if I’m not looking at you. Trust me.
If I am not looking at you, I’m not taking your order.
If I look at your eyes, that’s a sign that I’m ready to take your order. Which I am not, so don’t wave your hand in front of my face to make me look at you. I might forget what I’m doing an take even longer. You’re only hurting yourself.
If you are ordering multiple drinks, order them all at once. Not one at a time. You get your drinks faster and everyone around you can get served faster as well. It’s a win-win.
I don’t care what you drink, honestly. Like, drink a long island. Or a lemon drop. It makes my gut hurt because sugar. But I Don’t Care. And neither should you, so don’t make shitty comments the person next to you when they order.
Unless you’re putting red bull in grey goose. Save yourself some cash and just get well vodka.
I take it back, there was one time someone ordered a pint glass of half & half and a shot of malibu rum in it and I thought i was going to die.
If I ask you if you want a back/chaser for your shot I’m not questioning your masculinity or giving you a test. I just want to know. It’s easier to do it all at once.
I don’t know that one special drink at another bar, but tell me what you like about it and I’ll try to find you an alternative.
Please. Please don’t ask me to just pour you whatever. Especially when it’s busy. I have to hold back the urge to pour you a shot of grape pucker and call it a day.
If you ask me for a “girly” or “pussy” drink I will pour you fernet branca because I am both girly, in possession of a vagina and that’s all I drink. You’ll regret it.
If you order something gay I will pour you whiskey because that’s what all my gay male friends drink. They also drink fernet as well. It’s a toss up there.
In fact. I serve women, gay men/women and straight dudes all about the same when it comes to whiskey. It’s strange how gender and sexuality have nothing to do with the types of alcohol you drink.
The correct terminology you are looking for is “fruity” or “mixed”
Anyway. Someone once asked for both. After I responded with fernet to his “pussy” shot request, he ordered a “gay” shot.
So I told him I’d make him a gay shot called a dick in his mouth.
I did.
He told me it was “a little stiff”
I told him if there’s a dick in his mouth, you better hope it’s stiff.
maybe wander around the house/stretch a little if you’ve been sat at the computer a while (artists especially: sTRETCH THOSE WRISTS)
reply to that text/message from earlier you’d forgotten about
maybe send a nice lil message to someone having a bad day?
I just would like to thank everyone who ever reblogs this so that it somehow ends up back on my dash because I usually need the reminder (especially the drinking water one)
I highly recommend a reread because Harry is freaking hilarious. I mean, not always obviously, but he certainly has his moments. He has a very dry sort of humor and I just love that. Also, I trimmed it down, but sorry if it’s a bit long:
“They stuff people’s heads down the toilet the first day at Stonewall,” he told Harry. “What to come upstairs and practice?” “No thanks,” said Harry, “The poor toilet’s never had anything as horrible as your head down it – it might be sick.”
The tub was full of what looked like dirty rags swimming in grey water. “What’s this?” he asked Aunt Petunia. Her lips tightened as they always did if he dared to ask a question. “Your new school uniform,” she said. Harry looked in the bowl again. “Oh,” he said, “I didn’t realize it had to be so wet.”
At this, Hermione stood up, her hand stretching towards the dungeon ceiling. “I don’t know,” said Harry quietly. “I think Hermione does, though, why don’t you try her?”
“You don’t use your eyes, any of you, do you?” she snapped. “Didn’t you see what it was standing on?” “The floor?” Harry suggested.
“Professor McGonagall told me about the special circumstances, Potter. And what model is it?” “A Nimbus Two Thousand, sir,” said Harry, fighting not to laugh at the look of horror on Malfoy’s face. “And it’s really thanks to Malfoy here that I’ve got it.”
“I know what day it is,” Dudley repeated, coming right up to him.” “Well done,” said Harry. “So you’ve finally learned the days of the week.”
“Why’re you staring at the hedge?” he said suspiciously. “I’m trying to decide what would be the best spell to set it on fire,” said Harry.
He rolled down the window, the night air whipping his hair, and looked back at the shrinking rooftops of Privet Drive. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley were all hanging, dumbstruck, out of Harry’s window. “See you next summer!” Harry yelled.
“There you are! Where have you been? The most ridiculous rumors – someone said you’d been expelled for crashing a flying car!” “Well we haven’t been expelled,” Harry assured her.
“Oh no, not you,” he moaned. “Doesn’t know what he’s saying,” said Lockhart loudly to the anxious crowd of Gryffindors pressing around them. “Not to worry, Harry, I’m about to fix your am.” “No!” said Harry. “I’ll keep it like this thanks…”
Lockhart cuffed Harry merrily on the shoulder. “Just do what I did, Harry!” “What, drop my wand?”
“Are you planning to eat or sleep at all this year, Hermione?” asked Harry, while Ron sniggered. Hermione ignored them.
They swilled the dregs around as Professor Trelawney had instructed, then drained the cups and swapped over. “Right,” said Ron as they both opened their books at pages five and six. “What can you see in mine?” “A load of soggy brown stuff,” said Harry.
“That means you’re going to have ‘trials and suffering’ – sorry about that – but there’s a thing that could be the sun. Hang on… that means ‘great happiness’ … so you’re going to suffer but be very happy…”
“When you’ve all finished deciding whether I’m going to die or not!”
“It was your head, Potter. Floating in midair.” There was a long silence. “Maybe he’d better go to Madam Pomfrey,” said Harry. “If he’s seeing things like – “
“Potter! Weasley! Will you pay attention?” … The bell was due to ring any moment, and Harry and Ron, who had been having a sword fight with a couple of Fred and George’s fake wands at the back of the class, looked up, Ron holding a tin parrot and Harry, a rubber haddock.
“I’ll wait for you, Harry, shall I?” “No, it’s okay, Mr. Bagman,” said Harry, suppressing a smile, “I think I can find the castle on my own, thanks.”
“Listening to the news! Again?” “Well, it changes every day, you see,” said Harry.
“Yeah? Did he say you look like a pig that’s been taught to walk on its hind legs? ‘Cause that’s not cheek, Dud, that’s true…”
“I’ve left a letter telling your aunt and uncle not to worry -” “They won’t.” “That you’re safe -” “That’ll just depress them.” “- and that you’ll see them next summer.” “Do I have to?”
“You’re Harry Potter,” she added. “I know I am,” said Harry.
“You see, I, unlike you, have been made a prefect, which means that I, unlike you, have the power to hand out punishments.” “Yeah,” said Harry, “but you, unlike me, are a git, so get out and leave us alone.”
“We shouldn’t have taken the stupid subject in the first place,” said Harry.“ “Still, at least we can give it up now.” “Yeah,” said Harry. “No more pretending we care what happens when Jupiter and Uranus get too friendly…”
“You’re dead, Potter.” Harry raised his eyebrows. “Funny,” he said, “you’d think I’d have stopped walking around.”
“I wouldn’t go in the kitchen just now,” she warned him. “There’s a lot of Phlegm around.” “I’ll be careful not to slip in it,” Harry smiled.
“Do you remember me telling you we are practicing nonverbal spells, Potter?” “Yes,” said Harry stiffly. “Yes, sir.” “There’s no need to call me ‘sir,’ Professor.”
“No,” said Harry. “No, I suppose that’s true. But wasn’t that dishonest, Hermione? I mean, you’re a prefect, aren’t you?” “Oh, be quiet,” she snapped, as he smirked.
“My whole family are blood traitors! That’s as bad as Muggle-borns to Death Eaters!” “And they’d love to have me,” said Harry sarcastically “We’d be best pals if they didn’t keep trying to do me in.”
“She’ll ban you from the library if you’re not careful. Why did you have to bring that stupid book?” “It’s not my fault she’s barking mad, Hermione. Or d'you think she overheard you being rude about Filch? I’ve always thought there was something going on between them…”
“Nice,” he said. “Classy. You should definitely wear it in front of Fred and George.” “If you tell them,” said Ron, shoving the necklace out of sight under his pillow, “I - I - I’ll -” “Stutter at me?” said Harry, grinning. “Come on, would I?”
“Promise me you’ll look after yourself…. Stay out of trouble….” “I always do, Mrs. Weasley,” said Harry. “I like the quiet life, you know me.”
“I told her it’s a Hungarian Horntail,” said Ginny, turning a page of the newspaper idly. “Much more macho.” “Thanks,” said Harry, grinning. “And what did you tell her Ron’s got?” “A Pygmy Puff, but I didn’t say where.”
“Six years ter the day since we met, Harry, d'yeh remember it?” “Vaguely,” said Harry, grinning up at him. “Didn’t you smash down the front door, give Dudley a pig’s tail, and tell me I was a wizard?”
1. Stop slandering our natural features. Stop with the dark skin jokes. Stop with the natural hair jokes. Stop dehumanizing black women for our features. Black women–especially young black girls–internalize these “jokes” and grow to sincerely hate their blackness. Cut it out.
2. Respect our choices. All of them. You don’t have to like it but you need to respect it. If we choose to wear our natural hair, respect it. If we choose to wear weave, respect it. Stop chastising us for the choices we make for ourselves. Stop policing how we choose to live our lives. Let us be great. Gahdamn.
3. Stop with the respectability politics. You can’t say you love black women and then pick and choose which black women you’ll respect based on your standards. You still give a black woman respect regardless of how she chooses to live her life. You respect all black women because we are human just like you, not just the ones who wear natural hair, listen to erykah badu and shit.
4. No means no. If you approach a black woman and she says she’s not interested, oh my fucking god, my nigga, just leave her alone. Move on. Let it go. Please do not persist. Take the rejection gracefully. Don’t call her out name, don’t follow her, don’t assault her. Let her be. She doesn’t owe you an explanation. Her “no” is enough and you will deal my friend.
5. LISTEN. Bruh, when black women are telling you something you’re doing is harming them, can you put your ego aside and just L I S T E N. Why is that your first reaction is to get defensive? If you love black women like you say you do, wouldn’t you want to know when you’re doing something harmful to them? Stop getting defensive every time a black woman calls out your misogynoir. Stop brushing that off as “bashing black men.” Stop calling black women “shea butter bitches” for calling out how you harm black women. Black women are just asking for empathy at the end of the day. That’s the least you can do.
6. Stop slut-shaming. Stop shaming black women for their sexuality. Stop calling black women “thots” and all kinds of hoes because her sex life is something YOU disagree with or because she presents herself in a way that conflicts with YOUR standards. Someone’s sexuality has nothing to do with you and you don’t have the right to police what a woman does with her body. Stop reducing a black woman’s worth because you don’t like what she does with HER body.
7. Understand that our identity intersects. Stop telling black women they have to “pick a side.” Black women aren’t black men or white women’s “side kicks.” We are our own people with our own unique struggle that, yes, may have similarities to BM’s and WW’s struggles, but is not identical to theirs. We are black and we are women. You can’t be an ally to black women and not be intersectional when our existence is the epitome of intersectionality. Black women don’t just experience racial violence, we experience gender violence as well. Stop insisting that we have to divide our identity down the middle to suit you.
8. Say something when you see black women being attacked. When you see black women being harassed online and offline, do something. Ya’ll gotta start holding each other accountable. Stop @-ing me telling me how terrible it is that I’m being attacked. @ ole dude who’s attacking me. Tell them to stop. Have my back. Intervene in the best possible way you can. Stop allowing the violence against black women to persist right in front of your eyes.
9. Please kill the “strong black woman” narrative. Placing this title on us constantly, denies us humanity. Black women aren’t allowed to be vulnerable like everyone else. We’re constantly told be strong or we’re written off as only angry and bitter. We’re told how we’re suppose to feel and how to respond to violence against us. Black women are humans. We laugh, we cry, we smile. We can’t be your idea of “strong” all the time.
10. Show up for black women. Black women consistently show up for everyone else but when it comes time for us, hardly anyone is there to be found. Police brutality doesn’t just happen to black men. Recognize it. Know the names of the many black female victims of state violence. Know their stories. Share their stories. Fight for them like you fight for Eric Garner, Tamir Rice, and Sean Bell. Fight for black women like black women fight for you. Organize and show up for black women. Stop leaving us hanging. Stop expecting our support and giving us little to none in return.
