#Admitting that allowing men I to women’s spaces will lead to violence is not a scare tactic
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I already posted about this guy but this article goes into more detail about his fetishes
By Genevieve Gluck November 5, 2023
A trans-identified male academic who was previously criticized for stating that it “would not matter” if women were killed as a result of gender identity policies has been appointed to devise ethical guidelines for therapists. Sophie Grace Chappell, a Philosophy professor at the Open University, is now playing an integral role on the core team tasked with reworking the British Association for Counselling and Psychotherapy’s (BACP) national ethical framework, reported The Daily Mail, despite apparently lacking qualifications in psychotherapy or counselling.
News of his role prompted criticism from therapists. James Esses, co-founder of Thoughtful Therapists – an organization of clinical psychologists and psychotherapists from across the UK and Ireland “with a shared concern about the impact of gender identity ideology on children and young people,” said that Chappell should be “nowhere near devising therapeutic ethics.”
An unnamed female counsellor told The Daily Mail: “Professor Chappell is completely unsuitable to be deciding what form our ethical framework should take. I fear this person will insert gender ideology into our professional guidelines.”
Chappell first drew outrage from critics in 2021 when, during an interview for Radio Scotland, he told host Kaye Adams that it “wouldn’t matter” if gender self-identification policies led to a “slight spike” in the murders or rapes of women.
“I think we can rightly dismiss that as scare-mongering. It doesn’t matter… It wouldn’t matter if there was a slight spike in those statistics,” he said.
In the online community Mumsnet, women discussed Chappell’s comments with reactions ranging from anger to shock.
“Sophie laughed while making the point, and then rambled about human rights, seemingly forgetting women have human rights too, one of which is not to be murdered,” said one commenter.
Still others took to X (formerly Twitter) to express their outrage. Some pointed to Chappell’s habit of dressing in a style resembling a young girl.
Aspects of blouses and skirts worn by Chappell share similarities with a genre of pornography wherein men dress as and pretend to be little girls. In some cases, men practice “sissification” in public and record their interactions with others as a type of user-generated pornography.
In a 2022 article on the topic of “being transgender” and “growing up,” Chappell wrote, “Secret time spent dressed feminine was time off from public [sic] being masculine. And that was always a huge relief. Dressing masculine was a weariness to the spirit: it made me feel tired, ugly, constrained, trapped, suffocated, awkward, wrong. It still does. But dressing feminine was, simply, a delight: it brought a sense of serene, calm, happy, relaxed, floating-away euphoria that nothing else gave me, a simple and straightforward innocent childlike joy; just a sense of rightness. It still does.”
Chappell added that the future of feminism, in his view, should focus on concepts such as “live and let live,” “play nicely,” “love is all you need,” and said that he believes women should not “forbid or condemn anything at all unless you really need to.”
In June 2020, Chappell wrote an open letter in response to renowned author JK Rowling’s essay addressing her concerns regarding the gender identity movement. In it, Chappell refutes her expressed concerns on issues involving safeguarding, and advocates for sex self-identification.
“Perhaps you, Ms. Rowling, think that there’s something dark and terrible – and monstrous? – about trans women. You certainly seem to frame us as a threat,” Chappell wrote. “Trans people are one of the most discriminated-against groups in the world!”
He continued to undermine the position that allowing men to access women’s intimate spaces would result in harm. “Women of every kind should be and feel safe in the public toilets. Of course they should; everybody should. But trans women are simply not a threat to women’s safety,” Chappell admonished.
“If we google hard enough, we can find bad anecdotes about trans women attacking other women in the toilets; the tabloids go to town on such anecdotes whenever possible, and so do some trans-unsympathetic feminists. But anecdotes aren’t data.”
He then recommended that JK Rowling seek out educational materials from a trans activist organization which creates “transgender toolkits.”
Previously known as Timothy Chappell, he began claiming to identify as female in 2014 after marrying a woman and fathering four daughters.
He has also been known as Christian Sophie Grace Chappell, and served as the director of the British Association for Counselling and Psychotherapy (BACP) from 2015 to 2018.
But Chappell is not the only trans-identified male with an apparent affinity for age regression and sissification who has been associated with the BACP.
As previously revealed by Reduxx, a prominent psychologist within the Gender Identity Clinic at Tavistock has called for normalizing “age play,” “infantilism,” and “sissification.” Dr. Christina Richards, a trans-identified male and an Accredited Psychotherapist with the BACP, is responsible for a publications which seek to rebrand extreme fetishes as “further sexualities.”
In 2013, Richards co-authored a professional guide on sexuality and gender, in collaboration with Meg John Barker, a senior lecturer in psychology at the Open University. In the writing, Richards places extreme and violent sexual practices on the same spectrum as heterosexuality, homosexuality, and bisexuality.
In the guide Richards introduces age play, which involves “an adult identifying as a baby or young child, and is also known as adult baby/diaper lover (ABDL) or infantilism. There may be a sexual aspect… associated with humiliation.”
Richards goes on to describe how adults who engage in ‘age play’ accumulate various objects and apparel associated with childhood, including children’s clothing. Often one adult will roleplay as being any age from infancy to teenage years, while another adult participates in a dominant sexual role.
“Terms which may be encountered here include daddy’s little girl (DLG) in which an older male top treats a younger female bottom as a nurtured child,” Richard elaborates. “The term ‘sissification’ intersects with age play as it is where an adult male is consensually ‘forced’ to don the clothes of, and behave as, a young girl as part of a BDSM scene. The humiliation the adult male feels at being dressed as a young female is the source of the eroticisation.”
He boasts several other affiliations and titles, such as serving on the Executive Board of the European Professional Association for Transgender Health (EPATH), and as Board-Member-at-Large of the World Professional Association for Transgender Health (WPATH).
Before becoming a board member, he was selected by the executive board of the WPATH to be Lead Chapter Author for Adult Assessment in the Standards of Care Version 8 (SoC v8) revision, the drafts of which were finalized in the fall of 2022.
In addition to his work with the Gender Identity Clinic, Richards serves as the chair of the British Psychological Society and oversaw guidelines that advise mental health professionals that it can be acceptable to refer to a client as a “slut.”
Ok speculation on my part but I found his bio
and based on his dates of birth and marriage he likely came out as trans when at least some of his four daughters were still teenagers. I think this is another case of a man becoming trans when the attention was on the women of the family, they were the ages to start dating, discussing colleges, etc
I so want a mental health surgery of Trans identified people just to see how many come out when the attention is on others near them. It would fit with the higher levels of narcissism in the TQ+ community
#Sophie Grace Chappell is another man who came out after he was married and fathered four daughters#open university#British Association for Counselling and Psychotherapy’s (BACP)#He's not qualified to be contributing to BACP#A father of four daughters dresses up like a little girl#Admitting that allowing men I to women’s spaces will lead to violence is not a scare tactic#TRAs and regular abusive men love to say Be Kind when called out on their crappy behavior#TRAs and regular abusive men love to tell women to educate themselves when they stand up for their boundaries#Timothy Chappell
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"terfs don't like body hair and think every gnc woman is a man" sort of statements are a direct result of every single tra acting like everyone who disagrees with them falls under the "trans-exclusionary radical feminist" label (a misnomer to begin with), but these idiots will never hear that criticism because to admit that not everyone who hates their ideology is some sort of gnc-hating, right wing nut job would shatter their worldview.
i was thinking about this just recently because my phone's news feed showed another case of a female athlete speaking out against a tim athlete, and working with republicans to do so. i obviously know this woman is not a radfem, she's just a normie woman (maybe right wing, maybe not) who is taking whatever limited platform she can find to speak out about an injustice (she was physically disabled as a result of the male athlete's presence). but i also know tras will label her a "terf" because she is a woman who disagrees with them on some level.
also, i can't say that there's no women policing women's spaces to the degree that some actual women are being excluded, because i don't know that for sure. but, if it is truly as much of a problem as they imply it is, i'm a little sickened by the way they weaponize the paranoia some women have begun to present about male invaders (leading to women searching for ways to "clock" tims to maintain some sense of agency and security while facing female oppression by males), which tras themselves have actively fostered by allowing males to invade our spaces, against women. it's not fair that some (fairly rare cases) of actual women who are so naturally gnc (not as in "how they dress," but referring to women with more "masculine" biological features, often as a result of medical conditions like pcos) are being discriminated against under suspicion of being male (though i doubt this is actually as common or severe as tras suggest it is), but i also can't say i blame women or girls for being on high-alert to the point that other women are harmed as collateral when women have been told "some of your violent oppressors will be coming into your spaces because they've decided they have a better grasp on what you are than you do, and identify as "one of you" now, and there's nothing you can do about it (except potentially make these spaces unwelcoming).
basically, i sincerely doubt "(actual) women being wrongly clocked as men and harassed out of female spaces" would be something happening in noteworthy amounts (if at all) if males never invaded our spaces or harmed us, and to act like it's just women being "overly hostile for no reason" is an act of mass-gaslighting. as a feminist, i'm against the insistence that people of one sex are "less like other people of their sex" if they don't meet up to gendered expectations (which is something many tras seem to disagree with me on, but others will say "you're wrong, we're not like that" even though i know many butch women who openly admit that tras will pressure them into identifying as trans due to their gender nonconformity; it's similar with "effeminate" men, too), but i also think it at least borders on misogynistic to imply that women are responsible for the anxiety and terror instilled in them by male violence and patriarchy just because there may be some odd cases of this terror being turned upon other women (especially when, in most cases, the situation resolves itself peacefully).
honestly i'm not sure if i even want you to publish this or not because i'm not fully confident, since this topic hits a complicated middle ground (being anti-gender and in support of gnc women, but understanding why women basically need to be some level of paranoid to survive at this time, since patriarchal society is dangerous to them). the fact that female oppression (including gendered systems) are multifaceted like this is precisely why it's so hard to talk about or combat. nuance is difficult enough to communicate, and people will use complicated situations like this to poke holes in ideologically sound social justice ideologies and movements. i just have a lot of thoughts on the matter (many of which are inconclusive) because of the way it seems like women standing for women can "never be good enough" in the eyes of others, and how i wish we could be better, but i also feel like "better" is next to impossible when we're constantly under attack.
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You are Free to Express Your Ideas, but You are NOT ALLOWED to be an A*****e
We all know technologies are extremely useful tools for our everyday activities. Our whole life is in those tiny box gadgets! We use it to socialize with people, use it as a medium to learn courses, keep up to date with politics, do our banking activities and more. Literally, everything in our lives is contained in our devices that we truly cannot live without them anymore. What I want to stress here is how social media has become a very powerful instrument to convey messages across place and time. It is used strategically in education, politics, and social movements.
Nevertheless, nothing good comes without a price. Freedom of speech is where people are free to articulate their opinions, beliefs and ideas, be it written or oral, and everyone is allowed to discuss them. Social media where millions of people can have access to our content, provides a space for people to leave their comments. Now here is the problem, some people take advantage of the freedom of speech and leave nasty comments that might hurt someone else. If this becomes repetitive, it becomes what we call cyberbullying or online harassment (Marwick & Caplan 2018 p 544). Anyone can be a victim of this, especially the marginalized community.
What are The Limits of Freedom of Speech? (Moore 2022)
Obscenity - Pornographic content that is against the law and has no significant literary, aesthetic, political, or scientific value.
Child pornography – This is obviously wrong, period.
Revenge porn – People posting their former partner’s sexual pictures/videos online.
Defamation – False statements that ruin a person’s reputation.
Incitement to violence – Speech that influences people to start violence.
Threats – Statements/hostile actions to cause harm.
Copyright infringement – People are using content created by others that is protected by copyright laws.
Prohibited disclosure – Disclosure of private information.
Fraud – People deceiving others to gain something.
Many people of different genders, ages, and backgrounds are victims of these activities above. These horrid activities are a way that perpetrators use to take control of the ‘weak’ ones.
There is a study among Internet users in Malaysia ranging from the age of 17 to 30, where 39.7% of them have been victims of cyberbullying, 33.6% people admitted to having cyberbullied someone else, and 61% have witnessed cyberbullying incidences (Balakrishnan 2015). These results prove that online harassment has become a norm and happens to everyone.
Another study also mentioned that women tend to use social media more frequently, as compared to men in every age range, therefore women experience cyberbullying more frequently, compared to men. Plus, Li reported in a study that there is no significant difference between genders, yet men were still more likely to cyberbully than women in the Canadian case (Ali, Ni, & Idrus 2020).
Of course, being a bully does not specifically assign to one gender. You are still a bully, no matter your gender or age or background. I strongly believe that if you hurt someone, no matter physically, emotionally, or mentally, it is wrong, and it is not okay.
The consequence of harassment is detrimental to our overall health. According to UNICEF Malaysia, victims tend to rely on alcohol and drugs, experience physical and emotional issues, and suffer from low self-esteem. All of this can affect our mental health, such as depression and anxiety, which then can lead to poor grades (Ali, Ni, & Idrus 2020) and poor social skills.
Hey! You can still fight those bullies and hold them accountable for their horrible actions 👊🏼
Here is an example of a brave young woman striking her perpetrators using satirical humour and degrading caricature (Vitis & Gilmour 2017 p 341).
Anna Gensler is a talented artist, and she used social media under the name, @Instagranniepants to showcase how her perpetrators spoke to most women on dating applications, such as Tinder. If you go through her profile, you can see how disturbing the way some men talk and describe women. She received multiple threats and was also advised to put those pictures down. Despite it all, she remained resilient because she 100% believed that it was her way to stand up for herself and punish the perpetrators for their crimes (Vitis & Gilmour 2017 p 341).
"The entire granniepants project revolves around the fact that women should not put up with bad behaviour from men. We should be treated with respect and if we aren’t, we shouldn’t have to be pressured into putting up with it. I started the project as a way to stand up for myself."
- Anna Gensler, 2014
Violence is never okay. The increase in mis usage of technology is a constant struggle, and coming up with solutions is never easy. Sure, we can easily block someone, but the lingering fear and anxiety of it happening again is not something that can go away easily. So, it is strongly encouraged that every responsible authority educates the public on online harassment and its prevention. It is a serious offence that should not be taken lightly. Plus, we as a community must stand up for each other and call out these coward keyboard warriors. There is immense strength in the empowerment movement.
The problem with cyberbullying is everything. If you have something mean to say, look in the mirror and tell it to yourself. Maybe you will think twice.
"It's easy to be mean when you’re Unknown Author. There are a lot of people who wouldn’t have the courage to say in person what they do online. But you can’t listen to somebody you don’t even know. Opinions of your friends and family matter, but you can’t listen to somebody who is nobody to you."
– Brendan Dooling
References:
Ali, WNAW, Ni, TQ & Idrus, SZS 2020, ‘Social Media Cyberbullying: Awareness and Prevention through Anti Cyberbully Interactive Video (ACIV)’, Journal of physics. Conference series, vol. 1529, no. 3, IOP Publishing, Bristol, p. 32071–.
Balakrishnan, V 2015, ‘Cyberbullying among young adults in Malaysia: The roles of gender, age and Internet frequency’, Computers in human behavior, vol. 46, Elsevier Ltd, pp. 149–157.
Marwick, AE & Caplan, R 2018, ‘Drinking male tears: language, the manosphere, and networked harassment’, Feminist media studies, vol. 18, no. 4, Routledge, Abingdon, pp. 543–559.
Moore, S 2022, ‘The Limits Of Free Speech’, Forbes, 2 December, viewed 17 May 2023, https://www.forbes.com/sites/schuylermoore/2022/11/30/the-limits-of-free-speech/?sh=607539a073a4.
Vitis, L & Gilmour, F 2017, ‘Dick pics on blast: A woman’s resistance to online sexual harassment using humour, art and Instagram’, Crime, media, culture, vol. 13, no. 3, SAGE Publications, London, England, pp. 335–355.
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First of all CONGRATULATIONSS!!!! U trully deserve it like really your amazing and ur writing is just so perfect.. So I was thinking maybe the reader was close to getting hurt or death during a raid with Javier peña, and them admitting their feelings after a heated argument and then u know what comes after it with all the adrenaline and stuff😏 Again congrats and I am so happy for u, stay safe & sendig love🤍🤍
Thank you bb ♥️ you've supported me for so long and your love means the WORLD to me! 🥰😊😘
Something More
Javier Peña x Female Reader
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1k Followers Celebration
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Word Count: 5.3k
Warnings: 18+ (minors DNI) use and descriptions of guns, physical violence, angry/possessive Javi, angst, friends with benefits, slight nipple play, vaginal sex, cumplay, fluffies, slight mention of cartels and drugs
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A/N: Javi baby I’ll be yours 😍😍🥵
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Javier Peña Masterlist
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At the end of the day, it’s not like he really had a choice. He’s not your boss, he can’t tell you what to do or where to go, or rather, where to not go. It’s not up to him, and if you’re being honest, he had no right trying to convince you to stay in the first place. Javier’s so-called ‘care’ for you made you feel small and weak, made you feel like you were a child to be looked after and not an asset to your team.
In your mind, it was just sex, and you thought he’d felt the same way, too. He doesn’t exactly have a great track record for dating women, he just sleeps around. And truly, you’re no different. So, you didn’t think it’d be a big deal if you slept together. But after doing so a handful of times, Javier’s feelings got the better of him. Maybe it was because he saw you every day, worked with you so closely and got to know you so well. The other women he slept with, he’d only see them if he wanted to. But with you, he had no choice. You were in his space all day, every day, and he just couldn’t fight it anymore.
“Where’s Peña?” Steve asks, glancing over at you in the passenger seat.
“I don’t know,” you respond, twisting up your face as you load your pistol. “Why’re you asking me?”
Steve grins, giving you another sideways glance. Then he shrugs.
“I dunno; he’s on our team.” Steve’s explanation is bullshit, and you both know it. “I don’t know where he is; just figured I’d ask.”
You shoot him a stare as you cock your gun, shoving it into the front holster of your tac vest. Whatever, Murphy. With a slight huff, and another chuckle from your older teammate, you switch off your phone and shove into the middle compartment. You need to get in the right headspace for this and thinking about Javier is not the way to do that.
Javier. It’s funny, you think, referring to him by his full name or his last name while working. Because when he was inside you, it was always Javi.
“Javi, baby, please, please don’t stop.”
“Shh…” he’d cooed, whispering into your ear before placing a furry of tender kisses there. “Nghh, fuck.”
He’d covered your neck in kisses, occasionally sucking on your earlobe while he rocked into you. Javi’s large palms roamed your body, caressing your back, holding your hips, touching every part of you he could. He made you feel so full, but not too full, not to the point where it was painful. He also knew how to use his hips, moving them rhythmically against yours. It made for the most pleasurable experience, for both him and you.
“Javi, Javi, Javi…”
Fuck, stop.
Steve pulls into an alleyway about five minutes later, allowing both of you to approach the scene quietly. You meet Javier and the rest of your team near the edge of the building, your group now reviewing your strategy before executing the plan. Steve stays by your side, or rather, you stay by his. Any excuse to get further away from Javier.
When your group gets into formation, your specific spot is near the rear. There are three men behind you covering your back, and five other officers in front, Javier leading the pack. You are to sweep the building for any possible evidence or convicts. You don’t expect a particularly large group of the cartel to be in here, but you are expecting a few stragglers. With your handgun to your chest, you make your way up the stairs, each pair of you dispersing into your assigned level of the building as you continue your ascent. Your assigned partner for the bust is Agent Romero, but when you step onto the fifth floor, your assigned floor, another agent joins you instead.
“What are you doing?!” you hiss, shooting Javier a glare.
“I switched partners.” He whispers back, eyes not on you but scanning your surroundings.
“Why?”
He doesn’t respond, just sends a quick look your way. A look that says shut up and do your job, or maybe his look says you already know why. Maybe it’s both, and maybe he should be doing his job and stay with his own partner. Regardless, you roll your eyes and remind yourself of where you are.
It’s obvious you’re annoyed with him, but when it comes to your safety, your aggravation doesn’t matter. He knows you can handle yourself; he knows that. But it’s too much stress to see you out in the field and not be by your side, not knowing whether or not you’re okay. So he continues on, taking lead as the two of you scan the fifth floor.
“Let’s split up.”
“What? No –”
But you’re already gone, deciding you can do this on your own. You step off to the left, rounding a couple of abandoned desks. And then you hear something rustle, seeing a small stack of papers fall off the side of the nearest wooden surface.
“Put your hands where I can see them.” you calmly demand, training your weapon on that same desk.
You can see the top of someone’s head, a light brush of dark hair that had been moving slightly. And at your words, they rise, hands still at their sides.
“Hands up and behind your head.”
He does as you say, watching with a stoic expression as you approach him. When you go to reach for one of his hands, though, intending on cuffing him, he swings. His fist hits you dead in the chest and knocks you back. He tries to run but you grab his arm, tugging him back. The force of his blow had stunned you so much that you dropped your gun, and lucky for you, he doesn’t have one, either.
It turns into a full-fledged fight; one you’re not prepared for. But you’ve trained for this, so you handle it as best you can. You’re able to twist one of his arms behind his back, your struggle growing loud enough to draw Javier’s attention. He comes running, seemingly out of breath as he draws his weapon. He sees you restraining the man, but decides to take action anyway. In a few large strides, he’s next to the two of you, grabbing the man’s arms and slightly shoving you aside. You scoff as he does so, watching Javier whip out his handcuffs to detain the man.
To say you’re angry would be an understatement. You feel absolutely embarrassed, and offended. You were clearly in charge of the situation. He could’ve stood by in case you needed backup, not shove you out of the way and take over completely. It made you feel fucking weak, he made you feel weak.
Everyone decided to go out and celebrate, the plan being a complete success. But you choose not to go. You have nothing to celebrate, not personally. You love going out into the field, love taking action and making an actual difference. And Javier took that away from you.
It’s late when you get back to the office, dark outside and dimly lit on the inside. The only people occupying the building during these hours are the janitors, and you already have a key to get inside, so you don’t even have to speak to them. All you’re doing is grabbing a few case files, intending to review them over the weekend in order to get ahead. When you see the papers on your desk, you pile them into a folder with a defeated sigh. Maybe you’ll have a better chance next time.
“Hey,”
You don’t even turn around, you just close your eyes, releasing a frustrated breath.
“Why are you here, Javier?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” He casually responds, walking up behind you and then standing at your side. “Look, I’m… I’m sorry about today.”
“You do this all the time.” You have your teeth clenched; eyes still pinched shut as you try to control your rage.
“What?” he asks, voice quiet yet slightly surprised.
“You constantly undermine me, Javier. Constantly. I’ve done my training; I’ve done my time. I’m not a rookie anymore and more importantly,”
Finally, you spin around, eyebrows furrowed as you stare up at him.
“You’re not my boss.” You then shove past him, folder tucked under your arm. “You need to stop acting like you can tell me what to do.”
“I’m trying to apologize, can’t you wa –”
“Javier,” you scoff, finally stepping away to leave. “Fuck off.”
You make it home, seeing red the entire way. And Javier does the same, each of you stomping into your respective homes and slamming the doors behind you. You opt to take a shower to calm down, but Javier is different.
He plops down on his couch, groaning as he rubs his face. Both the whiskey and cigarettes aren’t far away but he doesn’t feel like reaching for either of them. Instead, he reaches for the phone. Unbeknownst to him, you’re washing away your worries in hot steam, so you don’t answer when he calls. He assumes, though, that you’re ignoring him. Which only aggravates him more. He doesn’t know what to do. He thought he was helping you, protecting you, but at the same time he can see things from your point of view, too. The feelings he has for you… maybe you don’t feel the same. But he reminds himself that that can’t be true. He sees the way you look at him, feels the way you fuck him. None of that is fake.
A few miles away, you finish your shower, wrapping your hair up and stepping out. It made you feel better, refreshed your mental state. You’d also received some bruises from your short fight, the hot water helping the areas that are slowly beginning to ache. Some sweatpants and a light tank top are what you choose for the night, keeping your clothes light and making sure they don’t hug your body too tight. And then you sit down, taking a moment to rest on the couch. It only takes seconds for you to shoot right back up.
“What the fuck are you doing here?!” you spit, opening the door to see Javier. He’d been pounding on it relentlessly, clearly still frustrated. “Why’re you being so loud?”
“Why did you ignore me?” he responds, completely disregarding your questions.
“What?”
He strides past you and through the door, stomping into your living room while he rubs a hand over his jaw. Quickly closing the door, you follow him further inside, watching him move around in his flustered state.
“I called you,” he finally says, hands on his hips. “Why didn’t you pick up?”
“I was in the shower, Javier. I didn’t even know you had called.”
“So, what?” he shrugs, continuing on. “You’re just done with me? Is that it?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” now you’re growing aggravated, the adrenaline you’d felt earlier quickly returning. “When did I ever say that?”
“Sure as hell seems like it, since you told me to fuck off.”
“Look, I was mad, okay? And I had every right to be!”
“I tried apologizing, and you just walked away!” he shouts, feeling incredibly hurt. It stung when you said those words to him and nothing more. It felt like you were walking out of his life.
He surges forward toward you, immediately crowding your space with his toned body and booming voice. His chest drops deeply, now rising rapidly as he inhales his next breath. Hesitantly, he reaches for you, his hands falling on your hips.
“I don’t like you being out there, okay? I don’t like not… knowing.”
“Not knowing what?”
“Whether or not you’re okay.”
You swallow at his response, thinking it over in your head. Javier actually worries about you? But your thoughts quickly turn, convincing yourself that that’s what anyone on your team would do. Honestly, he probably just wants a quick fuck.
“Look Javier, thanks for looking out for me. It’s what anyone on our team would do. But I’m not in the mood to argue, and I’m not in the mood for sex. So, if that’s what you want, go find Vanessa or something.”
“Would you stop being so goddamn defensive?!”
“How can I not be when you act like you’re my goddamn boyfriend but only come around for sex?! You can sleep around, and so can I. This isn’t something that’s exclusive.”
“Well, I want it to be.”
For once, you’re speechless; all you do is stare up at him. Your anger is still there, sure, but only because you don’t want to show him that you’re cracking underneath. You don’t want to believe him, but why would he say it if it wasn’t true? He’s never mentioned anything about being exclusive before, hell, you’ve never even been on a real date before.
“Really?”
“Yes.” he steps even closer to you, the hands he once held at your hips now sliding around your lower back. “I care for you, bonita.” (pretty)
Javi’s left hand rises to brush a strand of hair away from your face, now cupping your cheek. Your eyes flicker back and forth between his, the furious adrenaline coursing through your veins now turning into something different, something pleasurable and exciting.
“I thought, I thought this was…”
“Whatever you thought this was,” he says in that low and slightly rough tone. “It’s not, not anymore. I want it to be something more.”
You don’t often see him like this, so vulnerable with his emotions. He usually remained rather stern on the outside, stubborn and determined. Feelings deeper than that were just that, deep, hidden away where no one could find them. Not even him.
“Is that what you want?” he then asks as his thumb strokes your cheek, worry accompanying the emotions his vulnerability brings. For a moment he waits in silence, terrified inside that you won’t return how he feels.
“I didn’t let myself feel that way for you,” you admit in a hushed tone, and it makes his heart sink. “It’s hard to let you in, because… I feel like it will only hurt.”
His face twists in confusion, his head tilting slightly. The hand on your face doesn’t move, though, and you don’t want it to.
“I didn’t think you’d want me like that.”
Your own hands begin to slide up his front, fingers rubbing slightly at the fabric over his chest. And then, your eyes dip down in uncertainty, thinking about how to translate the thoughts swirling through your head.
“Tell me if you want this.” He begs, licking his lower lip.
Nerves bubble up inside him, anxiety tensing his muscles to their limit.
“I want this with you, Javi.”
Hearing you speak his nickname again makes him melt inside, all of his anxiety brushed away in one deep breath. And when your eyes meet his, he can practically feel you asking for him.
Javi mirrors your need, dipping his head down to capture your lips with his. The hands that you’d placed on his chest slide up to his neck, fingernails brushing against the tips of his hair. He uses his right hand on your back to pull you flush against him, a small moan now purring from your lips. And inside, your heart flutters. It feels strange, fully letting go and allowing him into your life like this. But you hope it’s good, you believe it will be good.
Slowly, you begin to move against the other, feeling the other’s body on yours. Your gentle caresses turn into passionate grabs as you hold each other, because this is unlike anything you’ve felt before. To surrender fully to someone has never been an easy thing for you, but with Javi, you know you’ll be safe with him.
“Oh,” you huff out against him, his full lips insistent on meeting yours.
He molds his mouth to you, disregarding your slight noise as your back hits the far wall. And he easily moves, immediately moves, picking you up and wrapping both of your legs around his waist.
“Oh…” it hits the air gently, your quiet moan.
Javi nudges your head to the side with his nose, his lips and tongue then finding your neck. You hold him against you while both of his hands remain underneath your thighs. His grip is firm, strong, continuing to hold you up between himself and the wall. He’s already grinding into you, his tighter pants allowing you to feel his full length. You’re both an absolute mess of sighs and moans, his heavy breaths hitting your skin with each heated pant. He groans lightly when you tug on his hair, nails scratching against his scalp.
“Do you want to, baby?” he asks breathily against your throat, continuing the placement of his heated and sloppy kisses.
All you do is nod, hands lowering to his face and dragging him up to yours. You press Javi’s full lips to your own, passionately moaning against him. And that’s all he needs.
He knows the layout of your apartment like the back of his hand, having been here so many times over the past few months. Without much guidance from his own eyes, he lifts you from the wall and begins to walk down your hallway. He makes it past your bathroom on the left, and with a few more steps, turns into your bedroom on the right. It makes you smile against him, knowing how well he remembers your home. If only you knew how fondly he thinks of it.
“Baby,” you breathe out, both hands holding his face as he lays you down.
Javi gives you a quick kiss before he stands, turning to switch on the small lamp sitting at your desk. He then lifts his shirt, turning back to you as he tosses it onto your desk behind him. The breath that comes from your chest is one of contentment, watching as his skilled fingers drop to his belt, setting it aside and then sliding down his pants. It’s then that he returns to you, crawling over you on your bed, body hovering over yours. He urges you to lay back, slow yet sensual kisses places directly onto your lips. And while he distracts you like this, his hands work their way down to the hem of your shirt, and you lean up when he tugs at it lightly. He slides it off your form, and like clockwork, he then moves to undo your bra.
“Mm…” he mumbles, pressing his face against them.
“Javi…” it feels natural like this, saying his name. Not his full one, not his title, his name. The shortened word making the moment much more intimate than before.
He savors this moment, really takes it in. You’d only had sex with him in your bed one other time before, the act usually unfolding on one of your couches or on his own mattress. Sometimes even in the back of his jeep, but that’s a story for another time, perhaps.
He’ll never admit it, but over these past few months, Javier has thought of nothing but you. He’d imagined so many women to be you, women he’d kissed and fucked and met a dozen times before. But when he had sex with you, it felt more intimate, felt more natural. It wasn’t just a simple fling for him, it never was. And now that he has you all to himself, it’s like he’s unlocking a world he thought may never be open.
Suddenly, Javi moves down your body, pressing kisses between your breasts as he trails down. The warm wetness of his tongue glides across your skin, those effortlessly tender lips kissing your stomach and hips. You shiver at the feel of it; Javi always seemed to worship your body whenever you were naked with him, and now you know why.
“Oh!” you gasp, feeling him nip at the thin skin of your hip.
He sucks on it, grazing his teeth along it and making sure he leaves his mark. While he’s doing so, his hands hook into the waistband of your pants, sliding them down and kissing every inch of exposed flesh that he reveals. He’s never licked you before, though he’s thought of it often. And while he wants to stick his tongue inside and see how you taste, he decides it’s better for a later date.
All of a sudden, you reach down, hauling him back up to you. He’d begun to remove your panties, but you finish the job for him by shimmying them down your legs and then kicking them off. Passionately, you hold his face, pressing your lips to his over and over again.
“Let me grab a condom,” he mutters, giving you one more kiss, and then another on your cheek.
He remembers you grabbing one from your nightstand the last time you’d had sex in your bed, so he reaches over to do the same. In two quick swipes, the drawer opens and shuts, Javi now returning with the packet in hand.
“Let me do it,” you sigh, reaching out for it. “Let me.”
Javi smiles down at you, always a fan of your eagerness. He’d never met another woman that did this for him, he always put it on himself. But he leans back and upright, resting on his knees so he can allow you to reach him. You sit up, too, following his motions. Your eyes immediately focus on the beautiful erection between his thighs, hanging heavily and waiting. Without pulling your eyes away, you tear the top off of the wrapper, letting the piece fall beside you as you lay the rubber covering over his tip. You don’t have to look up at him to know that he’s watching too, his jaw dropping and broad palms coming to rest on your knees. With delicate motions, your right hand holds him, your left rolling the protective piece down. When it’s fully on, Javi sighs, the sound rough and deep. You smirk to yourself, both hands wrapping around and jerking him slowly. Inside, you can feel yourself pulse, watching him rock his hips into your grasp.
You’ve always loved listening to Javi’s grunts and groans; he sounded so different like this. You’d heard the noises he made while working out or fighting, and while those made you just as hot for him, these ones are just… different. They’re exhaled with more meaning, more passion.
“Cariño…” he groans, now tilting his head up to look at you. (Baby…)
And when you meet those deep, chestnut eyes, you lean back, allowing him to hover over you once again. His loving gaze doesn’t leave, not until he places a kiss on your cheek, and then on your jaw, all while positioning himself between your legs. You let your eyes close when you feel him nudge your entrance, his face now nuzzling into the crook of your neck. Both of your hands move to Javi’s back, holding him against you as he slides inside.
“Javi…”
His groan vibrates through his chest, the ending of it more of a sigh than anything else. In one smooth slide, he’s all the way in, his hips meeting your own. He grinds himself into you, the firm press of it making you moan.
“Fuck, baby,” he breathes out, breaths already becoming hurried.
He presses his face further against you, lets his chest lay over yours though not enough for it to hurt you. His left arm slides up, laying his forearm down beside your head for support. Javi’s right hand decides to travel lower, now holding onto your hip as he begins to move back.
Even the slightest of movements makes your insides glow, sets your body alight with desire and pleasure. It makes you want more, and his body reacts the same, not even pulling all the way out before sliding back in. His lips brush over your skin, the hair above his lips and the stubble scattering his cheeks scratching you kindly. The sensation only furthers the ripple of goosebumps washing over you, making you cling that much tighter to him.
He whispers your name, the coarse tone of the syllables echoing in your ear. And then he moans it again, hips now steadily rocking into yours. When he gives you a particularly hard thrust, your nails scratch down his neck and shoulders, the movement immediately followed by a harsh bite on your earlobe.
“Fuuuck, yes. Javi faster, please.” You whine out, throwing your head back as you rise your pelvis to meet his own.
“Mierda,” the word is hissed against your neck, Javi’s open mouth now panting against you. (Fuck)
At your wish, his thrusts begin to quicken. He dives inside, grunts now slipping past his lips with every fervent shove. Javi’s motions become heated, all while remaining sensual. His hand continues to grip your hip, rising to firmly hold your waist.
“Can I go deeper, bonita?” he asks with a sweet kiss to your ear. “Feels so good when I’m deep.”
“Yes,” you immediately return. “Yes, Javi. Please go deeper.”
All at once, Javi pulls back, the muscles in chest and stomach flexing above you. He lifts the arm he was leaning on beside your head, placing his palm underneath your left leg. He bends your knee, shoving it upward toward your stomach while keeping your other leg down. The new angle allows him to shift his hips, now moving to pound himself down into you.
“Oh my god, Javi… fuck,”
“Ugh,” he chokes out a groan into the crook of your neck. “Feels so good…”
Your nails scratch along his back, the harshness he’s delivering almost painful. The muscles in your legs stretch for him, doing whatever he asks. His nose nudges your head further to the side, sucking on your neck with intent.
“I need this,” he grunts out, lifting his head and returning his lips to yours. “Fucking hell.”
“Baby you’re so, s – s” you continue to stutter, feeling his cocky grin grow beside you. “Strong.”
“Yeah? Is that what you like about me?” his beautiful smirk remains, the curve of his nose tracing a path along your jaw. “Hm?”
“Among many other things, yes…” you sigh out, a wide smile now running across your own lips.
“You sexy fucking thing.” He grumbles, bending your leg even further back. “Look at how well you take me.”
“Fuck, Javi, you make me feel fucking amazing. Baby,”
“Baby, you’re gonna be mine?” he quickly asks, huffing the sentence out in two breaths.
“Yes, Javi. I wanna be yours; I wanna be with you, baby.”
“I like making sure you’re safe, bonita. I know you’re strong, but that doesn’t mean you have to fight.”
You hadn’t expected to hear such soft and meaningful words from him, but they make your heart melt inside, make you go soft beneath him. A sudden gasp forces its way past your lips, your eyes fluttering shut as he hits that very specific spot. He feels your walls clench around him, feels you pulse inside. It makes him groan and growl into your neck.
“Ngh, I can feel it, fuck.” Javi’s panting has grown frantic, his pelvis slapping down onto yours. “Cum baby, I know you can do it. I know how good it feels for you…”
“Javi,”
“Do it for me.”
He thrusts into you harder, his nose now running up your cheek as he nuzzles into you. Then he kisses you there, his hurried breaths fanning out over your face.
You’re still in awe of the pleasure Javi’s been able to bring you since the first time you’d laid with him in bed. He had a certain way with himself, swaying his hips into you at a gracefully powerful pace. It made you feel weak, but in the best way you’ve ever known.
“Yes, yes…”
It’s not sudden, you’d seen it coming. Each shove of his cock inside brought incredible waves of bliss to your system, building you up from the moment he entered. He has such amazing stamina, fully satisfying your needs before his own. And as he does so, he feels you shiver, his right arm snuggling its way beneath your back to hold you close. As soon as it hits, you cling to him, arms and legs wrapping around his firm body. He drops your leg to allow you to do so, letting you bring him in closer. Jesus, it feels so wonderful to finally have him like this, having him and knowing you don’t have to let him go. His beautiful body holds your own, continuing to coax you through your high.
The ripple of his own shaking muscles comes shortly after, his open mouth laying over your skin as he moans. He loves when you wrap your legs around him like this, linking them behind his lower back and shoving him further inside. Your inner channel squeezes him tight, the wet heat of your own cum allowing him to easily slide in and out. His eyes roll back into his skull at the sensation, hips jerking harshly against your own. Each thrust is sharp and deep, the rush of his cum flooding his body with a euphoric high. But before he lets himself release into you, into the covering you’d laid over him, he pulls out.
You shriek at the sensation, head snapping down to watch him. He rips the condom off, tossing it aside on the bed. His movements are almost frantic, kneeling up between your legs with his hand flying down to grip his cock. Javi’s tan body shakes above you, jerking himself off between your legs and into your stomach. He’s gasping and panting, the fingers of his free hand digging into the sweet flesh of your thigh. It doesn’t take long for the first spurt to arrive, shooting hotly across your stomach.
“Oh,” he groans, pumping his hand with his brow furrowed deep. “Ugh.”
Javi’s staring down at where his cum litters your belly, gasping out harshly as it lands on your skin. You gain your bearings enough to lean up, resting back on your forearms as you watch. Your legs lay out on either side of him, breaths slowing down as you watch his release. The grunts from his throat are forceful, sinful, followed by a few satisfied sighs.
“Ugh…” he groans, lowering his body over yours.
His back stays slightly arched, his stomach not pressing over his own cum as he holds you. Both hands slide around to your back, face pressing back into the crook of your neck. And you smile at his loving affections, your hands rising to pet lightly at his dark curls. You can feel him place a few firm kisses, his lips meeting your neck a handful of times.
“Baby,” he grumbles, head turning to the side to place a kiss on your ear.
He then inhales a deep breath, face resting over your soft, sweet-smelling hair. A happy hum moves through your chest, a calm smile forming along with it. He holds you so tightly, slightly rubbing himself over you.
“Baby,” he repeats quietly, “You’re mine.”
Thank you for reading <3
#javi baby#oh my god#pls make me yours#fuck#javier pena#javier pena x you#javier pena x reader#javier pena x female reader#javier pena imagine#javier pena smut#javier pena fanfiction#javi pena#agent pena#narcos#narcos imagine#narcos smut#narcos fanfiction
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CLIPPED WINGS | 2
CHPT 2. WOLF IN DOVE’S CLOTHING
Laszlo Kreizler x female!reader series [SEASON ONE ONLY]
description: Laszlo needs to walk the dark path of the sick person murdering all the young boys. In order to catch their killer he must enlist the help of one.
length: 3.5k+
main masterlist
clipped wings masterlist
ꜝ Trigger warnings for this chapter only ꜝ this chapter is rated MATURE/17+ as it will include, VIOLENCE & MURDER OF A CHILD, mentions of minor prostitiuion - canon to ‘the alienist’, depictions of injury, blood, foul language, drug use/drugging, death, murder etc. Please only read if you’re comfortable with the mature/gory/explicit themes present in Alienist, which is rated 17+. OUTDATED VIEWS/TERMS TO DESCRIBE MENTAL ILLNESS.
As promised, Laszlo was ready well before Sara even arrived. The curiosity bug had been gnawing away at his brain well into the night and by the time morning rolled around, he was practically shaking at the thought of someone like you being open for him to analyse silently the way he did best.
You were latched well into his brain at this point. He felt almost as if he had a new muse, a new project to delve into, and he couldn’t be more excited in the most taboo, almost forbidden way possible considering you were a murderer after all.
But it near fizzled out when he realised they were not headed towards Nightingale Women’s institution, and instead towards the prison on the other side of town. Seeing the confusion written clear on his face, Sara decided in the midst of their small talk to relieve him of his troubles. Knowing Laszlo, he would have soon begun asking her the questions she could sense were bursting their way out of his chest.
“I wrote to the warden at the asylum about speaking to her in person concerning her crimes,” The woman’s voice hesitated after the last word, almost as if she had just admitted it to herself that was exactly what you had done, “They said they’d allow such a thing is under the condition we had the protection of guards and a fortified room. The only ones they were happy for us to use are in the penitentiary.”
“Are there no guards at the institution?” Laszlo asked, mind racing at the new information. He had no idea if you were stable or not, but he didn’t need to be the expert alienist he was to hazard a guess that a men’s prison would not be good for your wellbeing.
“Some, but not enough apparently,” Sara said bitterly, crossing her hand into her lap and staring out the window of the carriage. She shared the same thought as he did, Laszlo deduced from her tone.
“She is a criminal, Sara.” He reminded her, watching her face for any reaction that gave hint to how she felt knowing her seemingly good friend since she was young had slaughtered so many grown men. The woman said nothing and Laszlo didn’t push her for an answer. He had probably struck a nerve, but it was a necessary warning she needed to heed if they were to enter a confined space with someone like you; someone so vicious.
The two rode in silence after that and it wasn’t long before the huge concrete building came into view and the carriage began slowing down. It was certainly different to Nightingale, Laszlo mused to himself, and again he found his thoughts leading back to you. How would you feel coming from an almost quaint manor home to this hunk of rock which housed some of the worst criminals New York had come across? High off opiate or not, the Nightingale Institution seemed like a breath of fresh air compared to this.
He didn’t have long to dwell on his thoughts however as Sara’s footman soon opened the door and waited politely to escort them out, though there were clear nerves in his eyes as he dared a look at the huge jail they stood outside. Sara thanked him and led the way to the front entrance where a burly, red-faced man in a guard uniform stood with the newly appointed Commissioner Roosevelt, who seemed solemn as the two approached.
“Theodore?” Laszlo asked, slightly taken aback that the man was there. He had been under the interpretation it would be just he and Sara visiting you today, though he supposed a serial killer being transported to his prison for questioning wouldn’t go unnoticed by someone as highly ranked as Roosevelt. He also, upon contemplation, guessed Sara would have had to contact the Commissioner to help her pull some strings in order for this inquisition to even be possible.
“Laszlo. Miss Howard.” The Commissioner greeted the two with a low tone and a nod respectively. “I trust you understand the gravity of what it is you’re doing today,”
The warning mixed with something close to anxiety was clear in Theodore’s timbre and he looked between the two as if to search for any hesitation. This was dangerous and his reputation hung in the balance if anything were to happen to either of them or, even worse if you were to escape, so he sure hoped they knew exactly what it was they were proposing.
“I’m quite sure of this, Commissioner Roosevelt. I have faith in your men to keep us safe,” Sara said, the compliment clearly a way to ease the man’s nerves. Theodore nodded, still uncertain, but opened the door for them to enter the penitentiary nonetheless.
There was a lobby area that seemed pleasant almost, certainly cleaner than Laszlo had been expecting of a prison. The walls were bright, the stone floor mopped, though the place still had a bitter coldness to it that had Sara bundling her hands under her coat.
They followed Theodore past the front desk, through a large set of double doors and down a short row of steep, concrete stairs where the temperature only dropped even further and darkness swallowed them. As the steps levelled off and Theodore unlocked another set of heavy doors for them to pass through, Laszlo realised this was where they kept the inmates.
That was when the smell hit. The damp, almost mouldy scent mixed with human urine nearly made Laszlo retch. He saw Sara choke a swallow and raise her scarf over her nose in a menial attempt of covering it. Some of the prisoners in their cells began shouting and banging against their bars to get their attention, one of them yelling such vile things about Sara that his guards began beating him with their batons and ordering him to watch his mouth.
They could tell Theodore was rushing to get them out of the room with the criminals as he picked up his pace, walking around the outskirts of the cells and to the exit that seemed to mask the putrid odour the second they passed through it. Then came the final corridor. Being half underground, there was very little means of lighting other than a few torches and two tiny rectangular windows high on the left wall, yet even they were so covered in mud and moss that they did a very poor job of letting the sunshine in. It left the hallway looking like something from a nightmare, as though every step they took to the doorway on the other side had them closing in on a monster.
When they’d reached the heavy wooden entrance, armed with enough bolts to keep a wild animal at bay, Theodore used the thick metal knocker once and a loud boom reverberated from its drum against the door. A small panel at eye height slid open from the other side and, with one look at the Commissioner’s face, the door was opened.
He led them into the room which seemed to be simply four stone walls, damp and smelling just as muggy as the rest of the building had. There was a single wooden table in the middle, thick oak which seemed to be a partial source of the horrid smell as it was clear the wood was rotting from the slimy, green algae sprouting in between the joints. There was one guard standing against the back wall and the other, who had opened the door, stationed next to it. Both straightened upright in attention as their superior entered. Three chairs sat on the side closest to them, clearly prepared for their arrival, and on the other side sat a woman. You.
Arms crossed over your chest, you seemed to have been wrestled into a leather jacket of some sorts that fastened your hands behind your back. Your face was freshly dirtied on one cheek, telling Laszlo you had at one point been pinned to either the wall or the floor of the filthy building they stood in, seeing as Nightingale Institute had been nothing but pristine when they had visited. His eyes trailed from your arms, over your face to where your lip seemed to have been split and was bleeding slightly.
It was then he saw your eyes and he almost drew back. He had seen the eyes of the deranged and mentally ill. He had looked into the face of people who had no concept of their own actions no matter how twisted they may be. He had seen a boy just that morning who had killed his family dog and his eyes held nothing but childlike innocence, a boy who needed to be taught right from wrong.
But you looked at him with a coldness that he knew was the murderer in you. The thing that made you capable of slaughtering those men; it was in you and it was staring right at him.
The crying, drugged woman was gone and what remained was akin to a starving wolf staring down a wounded lamb.
He was surprised to see Commissioner Roosevelt actually joining them, assumingly who the third chair had been for. Sara sat in the middle, leaving him and Theodore to occupy her sides.
It seemed every person in the room had inquiries perched on their lips. It impregnated the air; questions both from them but also you no doubt wondering what the hell you were doing here. It was Sara and you who broke the silence, seemingly at the same time.
“What happened to your face?” Sara asked as you said:
“I took the plea deal.”
You both went quiet for a moment, taking in the words that had overlapped your own. You opened your mouth to answer her question when the guard stationed behind you responded for you.
“She refused to be put in the jacket. We had to use the necessary means.” His gruff voice sounded and the three people sitting opposite you watched you scoff, turning to look over your shoulder at the man. Laszlo saw the fresh bruise mawing the back of your neck as you did so.
“I’d hardly call four grown men against a little woman ‘necessary means’” You snapped and it was then your eyes moved to Theodore, “I took the plea deal, just like you said. You can’t execute me now that I’ve been pardoned for reasons of insanity.”
“Well, are you?” Roosevelt asked and Laszlo noted that he kept his distance from you, leaning back in his chair and taking the one closest to the door. It wouldn’t surprise him if he was afraid of you, Laszlo himself had his reservations. Seeing the seemingly new woman in front of him that was so different to the trapped bird he had envisioned not the day before made his stomach flip, and yet he had a million of his own questions practically knocking against his teeth. “Are you insane, Miss L/N?”
You smiled wryly and both men noted how Sara straightened at that look. You were not the girl she remembered. The girl she remembered, so happy and sweet to every living creature you came across, wouldn’t have killed seventeen men and mutilated their bodies so violently as you had. A sly look like that didn’t do anything except remind her of the sinister nature you could behold.
“What do you think I am, Commissioner?” You taunted, almost too comfortable to be in the situation you were in. You, a prisoner with a life sentence and supposed madwoman, were taunting the almost Captain of the entire New York Police Department.
Laszlo was stunned.
But he hadn’t missed the almost desperate undertone you’d held when you had spoken to Roosevelt. The way you had the smallest, blink-and-you’d-miss-it, flicker of fear in those cold eyes told Laszlo everything he needed to know. You were scared you were being sent back to the hangman’s noose. It told him there was still feeling in that cold demeanour of yours, still humanity. And just like that, the questions that lingered around you mounted up even further.
“I think you’re of perfectly sound mind, Miss L/N, though I’d argue Doctor Kreizler here could deduce that to a much more professional degree than I could. I believe you were when you killed those men.” Theodore said, clearing his throat slightly and looking at Sara. The pair of them had a silent conversation, where Sara nodded her head for him to continue.
What came out of his mouth next shocked you, that much was evident by the look of unfiltered surprise your expression contorted to.
“It is because I believe you’re of sound mind that the three of us have agreed you’re a huge asset to this case.”
You had only heard rumours of the person terrorizing New York while you were inside the Nightingale Asylum. In your opiated state of mind, you had only caught the bits and pieces of the nurses’ conversations as they had been trying to force-feed you soup of some bland sort. Little boy murdered. You had heard. Something about a bridge or a tower of some sorts, you couldn’t quite remember seeing as the whole thing had been in-between moments where the sleep overcame you and you were dragged into slumber once more. The nurses had sounded close to tears, though, that much you knew.
“What do you mean?” Your voice sounded small, the confusion evident. You were sure when they had dragged you to this awful smelling, cold penitentiary that you were set for death. But now suddenly, you were needed on a murder case. The irony didn’t add up.
“Sara informs me you had a nightly job at the brothel, is that correct?” Roosevelt questioned you, and your eyes narrowed at the woman who looked almost sheepish to have been speaking about you to the Captain of the police. Laszlo himself drew back at the revelation. That had been missed from your file, for obvious reasons.
“I worked behind the bar, if that’s what you mean,” You corrected him with a steely voice, knowing how his comment must have had other interpretations to the other man you guessed to be the Doctor that Roosevelt had been talking about. He was no doubt here to assess your mental state, seeing if you could be trusted to give them accurate information.
But something about those brown eyes, the way they softened yet searched your face with intrigue was so familiar, as though you had dreamed of him not so long ago. He had a soft face. You remembered him, from where you weren’t quite sure, but you knew that softness.
“What has that got to do with the case?” You pressed, confused as to how you seemed to be involved considering you’d been as good as locked up for the past year and a half since you’d been caught. There was no way it could have been you, nor would it have been, even if you were on the other side of the Institute's walls.
“The victim murdered worked in the brothel, a boy named Georgio Santorelli. Perhaps you knew him?” Laszlo spoke up, and it was then your attention was fully on him. He seemed much less confrontational, accusational, than Roosevelt and didn’t behave like he was walking on eggshells like Sara. His presence was calming in fact, as was his voice.
“Georgio?” You echoed sadly. Obviously you had known Georgio, or Gloria. He was one of the smallest boys there, and for that you’d always found yourself watching over him from afar. The men that came in were always so brutish, so aggressive, and you hated the sight of every single one of them. Knowing he had been the one who was murdered stung in a way you hadn’t felt in a while.
“You knew him?” Laszlo’s controlled tone was back, and an essence of pity lingered in his three short words. Empathy and understanding was something you had long since been forbidden, seeing as you now were branded with the title of a serial killer so the world didn’t wish to give you any comfort.
But he imparted it to you anyway and you could only wonder why.
“Of course I knew him,” You spat, but Laszlo sensed it was from sadness not resentment towards him, “I brought him breakfast every morning because his mother was struggling. I would have never hurt Georgio, never even dream of hurting any of them.”
“We don’t think you are the one responsible for this killing, Miss L/N,” Laszlo started, and he looked at his companions as if to confirm with them he was along the right track, “We simply wish for your insight into how someone is driven to killing another the way you did. Georgio’s murderer seemed to have replicated, either knowingly or unknowingly, how you disposed of your victims.”
You laughed, which startled the three people facing you and Laszlo’s brows furrowed at the sight of the coldness returning to your eyes when he’d mentioned your crimes. That seemed to be a raw nerve, he noted. “I can assure you Doctor Kreizler, my motives would be very different to this new murderer on the loose.”
“Do you care to elaborate?” Sara stepped in, and there was a newfound bitterness to her tone that made your eyes narrow on her. The men watched you stare at one another, sensing the tension in the air as you tilted your head in challenge.
“No, Miss Howard. I don’t. I wish to say nothing more to you, infact.” You snapped. Leaning back in your chair, arms beginning to ache from where they had been bound in place for so long. The three visitors seemed to sigh at the same time, realising you were now uncooperative to their proposal. It was at this dejected sound that a spark lit in your eyes, and you observed each one delicately.
Your eyes moved from Laszlo, who was already staring at you with the intrigue that had been there since he stepped into that damp-smelling room, to Sara who was looking at her lap gloomily, and finally to Roosevelt who was signaling to the guard behind you that this session was over.
Just as the guard had moved to lift you out of your seat, your legs unsurprisingly weak considering you had been drugged on a bed for the past week, your voice grabbed the attention of the trio once more.
“Wait.” You commanded, and for a moment everyone stopped, the guard included. You were left half dangling from how heavy handed the huge man behind you was and, as Roosevelt gave a dismissing wave of his hand, you were unceremoniously dropped back into the seat with a short bleat of ache at the impact. “You want my help catching this murderer, yes? You want to know what it is that makes someone do the things I did?” The three of them nodded almost synchronously, hooked on your every word as you looked back at them earnestly, “Get me out of this cell, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Better yet, release me and I’ll help you catch the sick bastard myself.”
With your proposition, the room went so silent a single hair dropping to the floor could have been heard.
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So our girl is bargaining herself out of jail. as. she. should.
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Poets Diary
women cannot neuter our impulse for violence, i’m not going to apologize for this, and to avoid it internally and externally, would be a crime, either time has run dry, and various commitments to liberal modern decroum have flew out of the window, or the energy in men, that energy that makes a man look for adventure, has been so curtailed by modern life, that an overflow of energy has manifested itself in an admitted destructive reactionary way, and its now unavoidable, men are at war, with the internal nature of themselves, and have gone mad within the world to these impulses,
recently when i was talking to tea, she had mentioned that “aggressive” impulse in men, in regards to this, and as she said it, i could feel my own anger bubble and boil, i didn’t challenge her, i listened to her, and on the one hand i understand what she’s saying, but she doesn’t understand as what my friend Thomas once said, “they don’t understand what it is to be a man” she doesn’t understand that, you cannot take away our “aggressive” impulses, if you do, what you get is the contemporary ideal, some male who stays on the sidelines in life, who has alot of friends and maybe a girlfriend, but only has those things because he stays quiet he keeps himself at bay, and allows himself to be led, this kind of man becomes a person who listens to contemporary pop music, who may even say he’s asexual or gay, this is the man of the contemporary times, this is the man the world gives space to,
and no man can be that, no man can accept a life like that, where essentially man is on the sidelines, man is emasculated and made into a fashionable enunuch, i have to admit in this, asking where are all the men ?
because i havent met any, if i have they’ve been a scant few, where are all the men to lead ? and to learn from, to understand how to control these impulses of violence to use them towards positive and creative means ?
all is have encoutnered are what a man should not be, these men who are mediocre, aloof, weak, cowardly, and so on, men who wouldn’t know how to make love to a woman, if they tired, men who are accostumed to video games and anime, like little bitches,
is that all a man can be now ? a little bitch ?
you only have a space for a few expressions,
1. you can be a faux polite cosmopolitan with alot of fake friends and maybe a girlfriend, and you will talk about how you want to go see Halsey perform,
2. you can be a eunuch who plays video games watches anime, and posts on incel reddits or whatever the fuck those weirdos do,
3. you can rush into idiocy via these new neo fascist groups, where you can pretend to be violent, and pretend to know how to fight, but when things get real, you cry and ask for mercy from the police and the courts,
4. you can be real grimey and shiesty, bascially be a snake, getting women pregnant, being a low life, and just all fucked up,
what you can’t be is honorable, what you can’t be is heroic, what you can’t do is the right thing, you cannot lead, you cannot wage a righteous war, you cannot preach, you cannot explore or find adventure, you cannot build and cannot share, in knowledge, you cannot meet a woman and be adults with and decide to grow together and build and sustain life and children with,
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It was at the tail end of 2017 when Cora*, a frontline worker for a south London organisation supporting women who have survived sexual violence, realised that undercurrents of transmisogyny had become a new precedent for her workplace.
“I just remember there being far more comments like ‘Yeah we only support real women’,” Cora says.
Both visibility and hostility were on the rise for trans people in the UK thanks to proposed reform to the Gender Recognition Act. As a result, many junior workers were attempting to ensure inclusivity for trans survivors. But senior staff, made up of cis women, responded by shutting down the conversation altogether.
Cora’s organisation is not an island. On record, gal-dem has spoken to workers in the violence against women and girls [VAWG] sector, who have spent time at organisations including Imkaan, Rape Crisis, Refuge, Amnesty International and Liberty, academics working in the field of gender studies and members of the dedicated gender-based violence branch of union United Voices of the World. Of the workers who spoke to gal-dem, all were too terrified of reprisals to use their real names.
Alongside interviews, gal-dem examined records of public statements made by senior members of organisations like Nia, Southall Black Sisters, and the Centre for Women’s Justice. What emerges is a hostile landscape to navigate for trans survivors of sexual violence, both in accessing immediate frontline services and overcoming ideology that seeks to shut them out of the gender-based violence sector (GBV) in general. With one in six trans women experiencing domestic violence between 2017 to 2018 (and more recent figures suggesting violence against trans people remains high), this landscape’s hostility is undoubtedly already having damaging effects.
At Cora’s organisation, it quickly became apparent that senior staff were deliberately shelving pressing trans-related issues, in the hope that they would disappear altogether. Cora alleges that the CEO Rachel*, who had served as the head of the organisation for nearly three decades, encouraged a culture that was openly hostile to trans women.
Regular requests for the centre’s policy regarding trans women were lodged, but the policy didn’t exist. A lone attempt to create a gender inclusion policy ended with the firing of the employee tasked with producing it. As Cora remembers it, the day after the employee submitted their work, they were told their position was no longer viable. Although it wasn’t cited as a factor in the decision, Cora believes the incident speaks for itself. The policy was not adopted by the centre.
Staff soon began to organise and demand an outright commitment to supporting trans people, pushing the transphobic views of senior management into the open.
“We do get abusive callers on the helpline. But they present as men, not as trans women”
Cora remembers one member of the counselling department declaring that it was “unsafe” for cis survivors using the centre’s services to have people in the building who had not fully medically transitioned. She was challenged by Cora and her colleagues, who explained that this transmisogyny went against the fundamental principles of sexual violence workers: that you must believe survivors.
“I find it fascinating in a horrific way that this bedrock of [sexual violence services] is thrown out of the window immediately,” Cora observes. “They say, ‘Oh, men will just call up pretending to be women, and saying that they’re trans to get into the space to enact harm’.
“Do you not think we are trained in such a way that we are able to speak to someone and know? Because we do get abusive callers on the helpline. But they present as men, [not as trans women]… When you get a call like that, you know. As soon as you pick up the phone, it doesn’t feel right. The gut that you’ve honed so wonderfully and beautifully to do this work, it knows”.
When Cora and her colleague refuted transmisogynistic claims, the goalposts shifted. Senior staff instead claimed they weren’t equipped to work with trans women because they wouldn’t “understand” their experience with sexual violence. Tellingly, one staff member who used such a defence said they would feel comfortable supporting trans men who had “experienced violence as women” – revealing that they didn’t recognise trans men as men.
“There is a real focus on the penis,” Cora says.
Cora left the organisation a few years ago, in part due to the virulent transmisogyny that had become the norm. Rachel stepped down from the CEO position in 2020, after what Cora describes as “successful unionising efforts” from the organisation’s staff. While the new CEO is “far more inclusive”, Cora says, her former co-workers report that hostility to trans survivors persists.
“The problem is much deeper than top down,” she says. “It runs through most of the services.”
Women vs women
Cora’s organisation has become part of a larger war. Transphobia – or ‘gender criticism’ as its proponents like to position it – has become a battleground for a small but powerful pocket of UK feminists. With access to mainstream media platforms, large social media audiences and political influence, these ‘gender-critical’ feminists are attempting to turn trans people from a minority group into a full-scale moral panic.
But where does the antagonism towards trans people in the VAWG sector come from? Academic Alison Phipps, professor of gender studies at the University of Sussex, links it to “political whiteness”. Transmisogyny in the UK is focused on violence against white, cis women and “lasers in” on the male body as the source of that violence, Phipps explains. “There’s a lot of straight, [white], privileged [cis] women involved. Whiteness has a lot to do with it. Whiteness and class privilege.”
Weaponising woundedness against marginalised groups has always been a core component of white womanhood and political whiteness, adds Phipps. “It’s Carolyn Bryant [Emmett Till’s accuser] all over again,” she says. “[Trans-exclusionary feminism] is grounded in fear and, in some cases, a hatred of the Other and a deep need for protection.”
For the last few years, trans-exclusionary feminists central objective – achieved for the time being – was to prevent reforms to the Gender Recognition Act that promised to make the process of legally identifying as trans or non-binary (which isn’t a recognised legal identity at the time of writing) far quicker.
A spotlight fell on women-only services for survivors of sexual and domestic abuse as a result. In order to provide rationale for their aversion to trans individuals, the gender-critical cabal alighted upon whipping up fear around trans women who might need to access such spaces. For trans-exclusionary feminists, the argument goes that allowing self-determination through GRA reforms would open up ‘single-sex’ sites to ‘predatory men’, who would supposedly pretend to be women in order to perpetuate abuse.
Yet trans women, with some exceptions, already have access to single-sex spaces under the 2010 Equality Act, which would remain unchanged by any amendments to the GRA. Furthermore, no countries that already allow self-determination have reported any sudden trend of cis men engaging in such behaviours. A 2018 Guardian investigation found that Ireland, which introduced self-determination in 2015, has seen “no evidence” of new legislation leading to men “falsely declaring themselves female”.
No matter; gender critical feminists in the UK still insist that the sex assigned at birth must decide who is admitted to women-only spaces. Never mind that multiple global studies show that trans women report sexual and domestic violence at double the rate of cis women (with trans women of colour facing the most peril) – but, as with cis women, the perpetrators were most likely to be men.
“Trans-exclusionary feminism is grounded in fear and, in some cases, a hatred of the Other”
Phipps believes many transphobic, white radical feminists also think that acknowledging their own privileges compared to the likes of trans women is tantamount to erasing their traumatic experiences. “It’s as if they think ‘if you tell us we’re privileged because we’re cis, that means we haven’t been raped or haven’t experienced these awful things’,” she observes. “Well of course you have and that’s awful and it’s because of your gender. But that doesn’t mean you don’t also have race and class and cis privileges.”
In the VAWG sector in particular, Phipps says there is the feeling of “living in the past”, with particular aping of the 1970s women’s liberation movement. It’s a notable reference point for trans-exclusionary feminists, many of whom experienced the movement as young women. But they’ve created a warped pastiche that erases contemporary critiques of white radical feminism that were made at the time, says Phipps.
Radical feminist texts of the 1970s were often trans-inclusive. While the likes of Andrea Dworkin held problematic notions around issues like sex work, they weren’t trans-exclusionary and didn’t see the body in “essentialist” terms. In stark contrast, trans-exclusionary feminists of the present, do.
The crusade against trans women is tragic, says Phipps, a focus of energies on completely the wrong target. “There is a war against women worldwide,” she says. “But trans women are also [victims] of this war, not the perpetrators.”
A worsening situation
Frontline VAWG workers say that hierarchical power structures mean transmisogyny is often sanctioned from the top. Close ties between powerful names in the sector mean it is hard to challenge for fear of being blacklisted from multiple organisations. Nevertheless, those who spoke to gal-dem said they did so out of a desire to lift a lid on the situation and encourage more scrutiny of the reality behind the press releases.
“I couldn’t [continue to] work for an LGBTQ charity that poses like it’s inclusive,” says Lily* a former employee of one high profile organisation serving sufferers of domestic violence. She says she witnessed virulent transmisogyny during her time there.
One incident occurred when Lily’s workplace was developing a helpline for clients. She and her colleagues were concerned that the helpline wasn’t inclusive enough because the organisation didn’t have a gender inclusion policy. They asked for clarity on who the helpline was for.
“The reply from [Martha* the director of operations at the organisation] and another senior staff member was that ‘if they sound like a woman on the phone, talk to them’,” remembers Lily. “‘If they don’t sound like a woman, it doesn’t matter if they say they are, hang up. We’re not supporting them’.”
Lily also heard references to “men-women”, assertions that only “biological women” should have access to refuges and accusations from a senior staff member that junior employees were behaving like “perpetrators” by supporting trans-inclusivity as it put them on the side of “men”.
“They told us: if they don’t sound like a woman, it doesn’t matter if they say they are, hang up”
According to those present at one group meeting, a staff member declared that there needed to be a “step back” on giving “privileges” to trans women because they were damaging support being provided to “women”. The staff member is also alleged to have said this view was the organisation’s “policy” as well, blaming trans-inclusive terms like “person with a cervix” for having “erased” cis women.
Allegations of increased transmisogyny are mirrored across the sector. Eva, a non-frontline VAWG worker who has spent time at multiple women’s organisations, says she became aware the issue wasn’t going away in 2016.
One early indicator came when Eva posted on a social media platform, from the official account of one prominent organisation about the death of a trans woman in a men’s prison. The next day, she says, she was handed a social media policy that “explicitly stated” she was not allowed to post about trans people anymore.
Even in supposedly inclusive environments within the women’s sector, transmisogyny simmers, says Eva. Her organisation, which focuses on ending gender violence for Black women and girls, still throws up obstacles when it comes to officially including trans women, including a failure to create and implement a trans-inclusive policy.
She also believes economic factors have caused trans women to become a lightning rod of the frustrations and fears of some cis women within the field.
As she explains it, many of the more senior positions in the modern VAWG sector are filled by women who have been there since its foundation. They’ve seen funding and resources chipped away by successive governments, resulting in resignation that “they’re never going to win a victory over the government”.
Collective fightback
Eva stresses that she doesn’t believe the sector itself to be transphobic and that younger, more junior members of staff tend to be fiercely trans-inclusive. There are some power players in the sector attempting to make change.
Cara English, head of public engagement at trans-led charity Gendered Intelligence (GI), says that she’s been approached by CEOs of VAWG organisations to provide training on trans inclusivity to staff. But plans have been stymied by the individualised structures of centres and refuges subject to the decisions of CEOs.
“[GI] met with the CEO of probably the largest VAWG service provider in the UK,” Cara recounts. “She was saying transphobia is very prevalent and she’s not content with it. But there’s not really a great deal they can do apart from bringing training from trans organisations in house.”
The situation is particularly dire in England and Wales. Scotland however, while no utopia for trans survivors, offers a look at how trans inclusivity can begin to be implemented.
Simple commitments have made huge differences to services says Mridul Wadhwa, manager of the Forth Valley Rape Crisis Centre in central Scotland. One such initiative is the LGBT Charter, a programme which includes education on trans inclusion. Completion of the course sees organisations given a digital “badge” to display on-site, letting survivors know they are an inclusive space.
As a trans woman managing a refuge, Wadhwa says she has received “unnecessary negative attention”, despite over 15 years of experience in the sector. After a recent bid to become an SNP candidate, she was even hit with accusations online that she had “lied” by not disclosing her trans identity when she was first employed in 2005 by Shakti Women’s Aid.
“This was before the Equality Act,” she remembers. “I said in an interview that if [Shakti Women’s Aid] had known I was trans, they would not have hired me. But everyone knew I was trans when I was [hired] for my current position.”
Wadhwa’s experience has taught her that many trans women survivors seeking support are too fearful of being faced with transmisogyny to approach services in the first place. This renders them invisible within the sector, despite being a group disproportionately affected by sexual and domestic violence.
“You have to be explicit that you’re inclusive, you cannot assume that people know,” Wadhwa says, adding that as a member of intersecting minority groups, she expects to be “oppressed in every place I go”.
“You have to wear the badge – these things make a huge difference, as well as word of mouth recommendations spread by survivors who have worked with you. There also needs to be a trans-inclusive workplace policy”.
“You have to be explicit that you’re inclusive, you cannot assume that people know”
For workers who want to push back against institutionalised transphobia, organising collectively offers a glimmer of hope.
Cora tells me that challenging transphobia was a key driver of unionising efforts by herself and colleagues who didn’t feel “safe” enough to do so as individual unprotected workers. Meanwhile, a spokesperson for the workers union United Voices of World, which has a dedicated arm for workers in the gender-based violence sector, says that one of the union’s goals is fighting transphobia in the field.
Those pushing for change recognise that while the pocket of women they’re up against is small and unrepresentative, they’re powerful, with a reach that extends into the upper echelons of journalism, the legal system and the halls of Westminster. All workers who spoke about the transphobia they’d witnessed feared the impact their whistleblowing might have on the sector, which they stressed still does vital work. But as Eva puts it, if the services are not working for all women, they’re ultimately failing in their purpose.
“If frontline services aren’t working for all women, they’re not working for any of us really,” she says. “They’re not rooted in our liberation or justice.”
Pulling trans-inclusive training in-house, as suggested by Cara English is also a key goal. But it will take determination and demand on the part of the workers within those organisations.
And ultimately, it will need the battle-weathered radical feminists perpetuating transmisogyny in the the GBV sector to do something they are unused to: rethink the dogmatic approach that has for so long served as a survival technique but now works to oppress a deeply vulnerable group of women.
The entire situation is, says Cara English, a “degradation”.
“The fact we’re still in a position when we’re actively having to humanise trans women and trans people to services that would seek to exclude us, in order to get into places that we should have the right to access… this is just an obscene position to be in,” she adds.
“It’s a wholesale failure to take into account the needs of trans people. It’s embarrassing. The issue isn’t that trans women aren’t accessing VAWG services. It’s that people aren’t seeing this joint fight against the patriarchy and the oppression of all women.
“That’s where we need to be focusing our attention. It’s about solidarity between all people who need help and an escape”.
*Names have been changed to protect identities
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On June 24, amid great cultural upheaval and unrest, Glenn Yu reached out to Glenn Loury, his former teacher, to record his thoughts about the current moment. An edited version of their conversation follows.
…
You may or may not have an opinion about that, but suppose the question were to arise in the dorm room late at night. Suppose you have the view that you’re not sure it’s racism, and then someone challenges you, saying, “you’re not black.” They say, “you’ve never been rousted by the police. You don’t know what it’s like to live in fear.” How much authority should that identitarian move have on our search for the truth? How much weight should my declarations in such an argument carry, based on my blackness? What is blackness? What do we mean? Do we mean that his skin is brown? Or do we mean that he’s had a certain set of social-class-based experiences like growing up in a housing project? Well, white people can grow up in housing projects, too. There are lots of different life experiences.
I think it’s extremely dangerous that people accept without criticism this argumentative-authority move when it’s played. It’s ad hominem. We’re supposed to impute authority to people because of their racial identity? I want you to think about that for a minute. Were you to flip the script on that, you might see the problem. What experiences are black people unable to appreciate by virtue of their blackness? If they have so much insight, maybe they also have blind spots. Maybe a black person could never understand something because they’re so full of rage about being black. Think about how awful it would be to make that move in an argument.
Suppose someone, a white guy, is arguing about affirmative action with you. Suppose he thinks that affirmative action is undignified because he thinks that positions should be earned, not given, but he allows that he doesn’t expect someone like you to understand that argument because you’re black. That would be terribly unreasonable— even “racist.” Yet I’m hard-pressed to see the difference.
…
People cry, “structural racism.” Is that why the homicide rate is an order of magnitude higher among young black men? They say structural racism. Is that why the SAT test-score gap is as big as it is? They say structural racism. Is that why two in three black American kids are born to women without a husband? Is it all about structural racism? Is everything structural racism? It has become a tautology explaining everything. All racial disparities are due to structural racism, evidently. Covid-19 comes along and there’s a disparity in the health incidence. It’s due to structural racism. They’re naming partners at a New York City law firm and there are few black faces. Structural racism. They’re admitting people to specialized exam schools in New York City and the Asians do better. This has to be structural racism, with a twist—the twist being that this time, the structural racism somehow comes out favoring the Asians.
This is not social science. This is propaganda. It’s religion. People are trying to win arguments by using words as if they were weapons.
…
And just so I don’t sound like a right-winger, observe that if I were a Marxist, I’d be furious at these people going around talking about “structural racism.” Structure, yes. Racism, no. Because if I were a Marxist, which I’m not, I’d understand the driving force of history to be the interaction between class relations and the means of production, the struggle between workers and capital in the quest for profit given the logic of capitalism. Though I don’t subscribe to it, that’s at least an intellectually serious theory. I know what people are talking about when they say we need more unions, when they say we need to break up big companies, when they say that the accumulation of wealth has gotten too great. When someone says that the logic of profit-seeking leads to war, at least I know what they’re talking about. I don’t necessarily have to agree with Das Kapital to understand that it’s a serious engagement with history.
Structural racism, by contrast, is a bluff. It’s not an engagement with history. It’s a bullying tactic. In effect, it’s telling you to shut up.
…
Yu: I’ve had conversations in the past few weeks that have ended very poorly; conversations that have spiraled out of control, where I’m suddenly a racist, so I’m on damage control. I just don’t know how to reach people in a meaningful way, and that’s very disturbing to me.
Loury: It is disturbing. I’m not a seer. My mouth is not a prayer book. I only say what I say based on my subjective assessment of it all. But it may be that, for a while anyway, there’s not going to be a whole lot of effective talking. It may well be that we have to imagine a world where effective deliberation and consensus is not within reach for us, and we’re going to have to manage that situation. It could get very bad. It could go to violence. This is what Sam Harris always says, and he’s got a point. He says that if we can’t reason together, then the only alternative for dispute resolution is violence.
I don’t know if you saw my piece in Quillette about the looting and the rioting, but I pick up these pieces published in the New York Times, respectable left-wing journals. I’m reading them, and the writer is saying, “America was founded on looting. What did you think the Boston Tea Party was?” Or, “You’re talking about looting when George Floyd lies dead? Oh, I see, black lives don’t matter as much as property.” These are, to my mind, incomprehensibly idiotic. I don’t mean that to cast aspersions. The civilization that we all enjoy rests upon a very fragile foundation. Look. I’m in my backyard. It’s very nice. I’ve got a lot of space. There’s a fence. The birds come. I have a lawn. It’s mine!
Now, if a homeless person comes and squats in my backyard, I call the police. I have him removed, forcibly. There should be no lack of clarity about whether George Floyd’s death somehow excuses or justifies burning a bodega to the ground that a Muslim immigrant spends his whole life building. Being confused about that, equivocating about that, splitting the difference about that—I don’t understand how we’re going to have a reasoned discussion. My thoughts go back to, protect civilization. Again, I know how that sounds. It’s hyperbolic. It’s exaggerated—but only a little! My gut response is that this is not the time for argument. This is the time to protect civilization and protect institutions. When people start toppling statues of Abraham Lincoln and spray-painting on statues of George Washington, “a slave owner,” things fall apart. The center cannot hold. We teeter on the brink of catastrophe.
…
Yu: If there’s no available policy intervention, and there’s also no way we can change people’s minds, then is it hopeless? Is disparity always going to be the case?
Loury: Yes. My answer is it’s hopeless. But let me rephrase the question, and I’m channeling Thomas Sowell now. You have two alternatives. You can live with disparities, or you can live in totalitarianism. Again, hyperbolic, I know. No, I’m not talking about Eastern Europe circa 1960, but look at it this way: there can’t be a disparity without somebody being on top. People don’t recognize this.
What groups are on top? What about the Jews? You could say, “There are too many Jews in positions of influence.” If there are too few black lawyers who are partners in big law firms, doesn’t it follow that are too many Jews who are partners at these big firms? If there are too few blacks who are professors of mechanical engineering at places like Carnegie Mellon, why aren’t there too many Korean professors at these places?
…
What is the nature of the world that we live in? Why would I ever expect that there would be parity across the board between ethnic, racial, cultural, and ancestral population groups in an open society? It’s a contradiction because difference is a very fact of groupness. What do I mean by a group? Well, it’s genes, to some degree; it’s culture; it’s networks of social affiliation, of intermarriage and kinship. I mean the shared narrative, the same hopes, the dreams, the stories. I mean the practices of parenting and filial piety and whatever else there might be.
A group is a group. It has characteristics. Those characteristics matter for whether you play in the NBA. They matter for whether you learn to master the violin or the piano. They matter for whether you pursue technical subjects or choose to become a humanist or a scientist. They matter for the food that you eat. They matter for how many children you raise and how you raise them. They matter as to the age when you first have sex. They matter for all those things, and I think everyone would agree with that.
But now you’re telling me that they don’t matter for who becomes a partner in a law firm? They don’t matter for who becomes a chair in the Philosophy Department somewhere? Groupness implies disparity because groupness, if taken seriously, implies differences in ways of living life. Not everybody wants to play the fiddle. Not everybody wants to dunk a basketball. Not everybody is frightened to death that their parents are going to be disappointed with them if they come home with an A-minus. Not everybody is susceptible to being swayed into a social affiliation that requires them to commit a violent crime in order to prove their bona fides. Groups differ. Groups are not evenly distributed across society. That’s inevitable. If you insist that those be flattened, you’re only going to be able to succeed by imposing a totalitarian regime that monitors everything and jiggers everything, recomputing and refiguring things until we’ve got the same number of blacks in proportion to their population and the same number of second-generation Vietnamese immigrants in proportion to their population being admitted to Caltech or the Bronx High School of Science. I don’t want to live in that world.
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Tumblr ate this ask, so here’s the response:
I normally don’t answer asks, but since you weren’t totally rude I think I’ll try to explain my point of view.
Here is a simple post I really like about this subject. I also seriously suggest the blogs transgender-harms-women and shego420.
To put it simply, it’s not about letting people be people. Allowing a man to call himself a woman has repercussions.
To allow a man to call himself a woman, we are:
1) allowing him to reap the few benefits of womanhood
2) erasing the pattern of male violence
3) ignoring the fact that women are an oppressed class
4) reducing womanhood to a feeling rather than a biological reality
5) allowing men to call lesbians bigots for not wanting to sleep with a trans woman
Let’s start with number 1!
When a man calls himself a woman, whether he truly “identifies” as one or not, he becomes able to reap the few benefits of womanhood, such as a female-only scholarship, or a place in women’s sports teams. There is a case of a male politician claiming himself to be a trans woman so that he can get a say in women’s reproductive rights, and there are cases of men / trans women using the concept of “gender identity” to infiltrate women’s spaces with the intent of causing harm.
That leads us into point 2: male violence. I’m not sure how to best explain this, but essentially, if we count trans women as women, then the rates for violence perpetrated by “women” will skyrocket. Trans women have the same rate of violence as “cis” males.
When we refuse to call a violent trans woman a man, we are erasing the patterns of male violence. And YES, there have been cases of trans women attacking, raping, or murdering women!!! In fact, prominent trans activist and trans woman Eli Erlick has admitted to multiple counts of rape, and he issued a statement essentially saying that everybody rapes sometimes and therefore it’s not really so bad. Also, trans woman Jonathan / Jessica Yaniv has made many pedophilic remarks, and celebrated when a judge ruled for girls to have no right to bodily privacy from boys.
Point 3: Women are an oppressed class, and there’s no way to learn that. The trauma of womanhood and the strict roles placed upon us are inherited.
Besides the whole different bodies thing, one of the main reasons why men can’t become women is socialization. Boys and girls are raised different, that’s just fact! It doesn’t matter how the person feels about it, the world will see them as a man or a woman and treat them accordingly. Men are more likely to get jobs or promotions, and women are more likely to get raped, kidnapped, mutilated, etc...
To grow up as a male in a male-dominated world is very different from growing up as a female in a male-dominated world. There is no way a man can ever truly understand what it’s like to be of the female sex, and to claim that trans women are women is an insult. Their fetishistic, fallacious definition of womanhood is insulting.
This leads us to point 4: womanhood is a biological reality. Like I said in my last point, sex-based oppression is real. This essentially means that women are oppressed not because of femininity, but because they have vaginas. For example, a woman in a Muslim country cannot identify out of being forced to wear a hijab, undergo genital mutilation, or marry some older man who will rape her repeatedly; whether she identifies as female or not, these things will happen to her, because she has a vagina.
Trans women use circular logic to define womanhood. They reduce it to a feeling instead of the fact that it is. Their form of womanhood is based off of gender roles and stereotypes, which trans activists claim they’re against. Singer Sam Smith claims to be nonbinary because he “thinks like a woman" sometimes. This logic is prevalent with transgender people, and many radfems find it infuriating, because how exactly does a woman think? We are not a hive mind, we all think and act and live differently.
To quote @gluten-free-pussy,
“[Trans rhetoric is often] rooted in sexist stereotypes. When I see people describe what makes them x gender or identity, a lot of it does match conservative ideology of what masculine and feminine roles “should” be” (ie: “I’m feeling feminine so I’m wearing a dress/makeup and behaving submissive, but some days I feel masculine so I wear pants and behave aggressively. I’m fluid!”).”
Another quote that comes to mind is: “Traditionalists want to make girls wear dresses. Gender identitarians want to make dress wearers become girls. Both are equally regressive.”
Point 5: the cotton ceiling.
The Cotton Ceiling is a rape culture concept invented to call lesbians bigots for not wanting to have sex with trans women.
The concept was invented by a trans woman porn star, and the name is a parody of “glass ceiling”, a concept which describes the phenomenon where women and minorities are unable to rise in hierarchies such as businesses. The “cotton” in the name comes from the fact that most underwear is made out of cotton, implying that lesbians’ underwear is a barrier that needs to be broken through in order to reach equality.
Trans activists will claim that somebody not wanting to have sex with a trans person is transphobic, violent, and harmful. The rhetoric they use to support this belief mirrors the rhetoric of rapists: rapists will say “if you’re a good girl you’ll have sex with me,” and trans people will say ”you’re morally wrong and transphobic if you reject me.“
This concept also echoes conversion therapy, because it implies that lesbians are supposed to analyze and overcome their aversion to penises.
In conclusion, here’s a quote from twitter user @phoenix_hearted, “Trans activism is erasing/muddying the concept of sex and the ability to discuss it at all without censure. If we cannot talk about class differences we cannot fight sex-based oppression. If we cannot talk about sex-based oppression we cannot talk about the violence and exploitation of women for the sake of het dominance, male entitlement to female bodies, and using rape as a tool of warfare and terrorism against women. We cannot talk about reproductive rights (as evidenced in the encroachment on women’s marches, planned parenthood, and even demonstrations ostensibly for the sake of reproductive rights being colonized by trans issues), abortion, the inequity within research.”
#terf#terfs please touch#terfs DO interact#terfs do touch#terfs please interact#radfem#radical feminism#terf safe#ask#me#anon#anonymous
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tbh I think separatism is peak liberalism... just fucking off into nowhere and hoping the government and their misogynist legislations will never reach you. why? I don’t even understand how someone can think they can just seperate from society without that biting them in the ass one day. maybe I don’t understand it bc I’m not american and such stuff is harder to do here? who knows.
but what happens if legislation changes? what if womens right get taken away to a point we’re not allowed to hold land again? what then? sorry for being paranoid but with the right gaining more and more power again all over the world I see that as plausible.
or on a smaller scale, even having the luxury to choose whom you profesionally or personally (let’s face it those are often heavily intertwined) interact with. who has this? I certainly don’t, my mom does not. nurses, doctors, housekeepers, cleaning personel, childcare workers, teachers most majority female jobs that are payed poorly and often heavy on social interaction don’t really have an option to be female only unless you open your own business I guess but who will be able to afford a female only private school or private female only healthcare provider? your regular working women certainly won’t have access to that, only rich fucks will. (or the other way round, I also don’t have the luxury of choosing doctors etc. either I’m lucky if I get an appointment at all, most low income people are)
like yes of course it can be a safe heaven for women, we need spaces like this as long as it’s affordable. but for separatist spaces to exist we already have to have pretty egalitarian legislation to begin with for women to be able to open businesses, rent such huge spaces or even own land without much trouble. (renting is whole different can of worms entirely... idk if this is a thing elsewhere but here more old fashioned landlords sometimes refuse to rent out to groups of women because they think they just want to open a brothel, so hmm yeah maybe we gotta fix that first before we are even able to exit society?)
in countries where women don’t have this luxury such communes have to be heavily armed to protect themselves from intruders but i don’t think this is the safe heaven western feminist picture when they think of separatist spaces you know actually being forced to kill men. besides, seizing some land with armed forces wouldn’t really fly in heavily policed western countries.
as said it can only cater to a tiny minority of women at a time, so it’s a very individualistic approach. it won’t really help elevate the problems women face as a class, it won’t fix abortion legislation, it won’t further research on female specific issues, it won’t fix domestic violence, it won’t fix rape, it won’t fix racism or homophobia.
i remember a similiar discussion from years ago, separatists said “well it’s not my responsibility to fix all this” (and back then I was heavily on the separatist side i admit)
but if you don’t feel responsible to elevate the female struggle on class scale, how are you even feminist?
which is fine, most women are not feminist after all, it’s only natural and ok to care first and foremost for your own, your family or immediate social circle. I just don’t see how it’s a feminist action to build a safe heaven for a few loved ones you personally approve off only (unlike a shelter). sure it’s lovely but that’s not what I personally consider feminism. I want all women to have human rights and safety, even if I personally despise them and don’t approve of their lifestyle, so that’s what I’m working for, what I’m trying to support irl. I personally do not matter to feminism, no one does, we only matter as a collective. feminist actions are actions that benefit all women directly or indirectly, not just you and your tiny group of friends who are exactly like you and are a fit and able to lead an extremely fringe lifestyle
that’s why I don’t really “get” separatism as a feminist movement, it’s more of a “i gave up on feminism and will make the best of my life with other women only under the legislations we already have” - movement in my opinion. which again, sounds nice I often dream about this aswell but it’s just escapism not politics.
kind of related maybe: I do see sex strikes as valid political tactics though. it is utterly sad and depressing that they work but yeah well they do work. I see them as completely seperate from seperatism
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Edge of Forever [BTS Space!AU]
BTS Space!AU [ ♧ ✪ ✿ ☆ ❂ ☾✘ ] “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.” The stage is set and the stars are the guide for the lost souls that have congregated to one point. A fixed constant in the universe for others to discover and fulfill their wishes but will it come to ruin for others?
Pairings: BTS X OC (s)
Genre: BTS Space!AU
Warnings: Graphic Violence, Heavy Language
AO3
Chapter 7- You
"There's a fire within, hate to admit it but always knew
Violence and sin, keeps me fearless.."
“Are you sure it's out there? Looks like a trap..”
Yoongi squinted at the screen as they all viewed the scene before them of the asteroid field where the Antares was being stored for safekeeping. Nyala let out a soft laugh before walking up to Jin, letting him know where the docking bay was. Truthfully, she was also worried that it was a trap since there were so many people interested in them now. Her other worry was that the others would be targeted for helping her. During the second jump, Jin and Yoongi put those worries to rest, partly. Between the both of them, all of them would be able to keep under the radar but who was really able to escape the Armada?
Yoongi’s black eyes seemed to pick up on those worries as he looked at Nyala, a frown forming on his features again. He also seemed to know of the conversation between herself and Jimin, nothing being hidden between the both of them. He wasn’t happy with her that his friend had decided that but he couldn’t hold him back on what he wanted to do.
Jin nodded at Nyala’s words and positioned the ship to where they could board. All of them held their breath until the locking clamp secured itself to the seemingly unassuming piece of rock. Jimin announced that everything was secure and the breath that was being held by everyone was let out. They would be set until they finished what they were there to do. However, the trick was to do it all in zero gravity since the asteroid was in its natural spin as not to seem suspicious to others.
Jungkook, Nyala, and Vairuit started their work of helping to unload what they needed to in the zero gravity while the rest of them made sure that the systems were still going to work for flight. Jin, Yoongi, and Jimin saw to that as they floated into the main cockpit of the ship. It was spacious, at least three times bigger than the other ship and its design was something none of them had seen before. Once they came onto the bridge, lights suddenly turned on and soft beeping could be heard from the various controls. Jimin ran his hand over one such console, marveling at how it almost sounded like music to him.
Life forms detected. Please identify with encrypted code and voice activation.
The three of them looked at each other, speechless at what to do. The mechanical voice repeated itself again as more lights were being lit up as it powered up basic systems. After a few minutes of silence, the voice repeated once more but that time was tinged with hostility and even added a part about subduing the intruders should they not provide the information. Nyala soared right on in, just in time and settled at a station. In her hand was another device that interfaced with the console, giving the code before anything could happen.
“I don’t appreciate this, Nyala. This thing could have killed us—” Jin started in on one of his rants, speaking so fast that she almost couldn’t hear what was being said by the computer systems. Jimin bounced over to him and hugged him, sending the pair of them over towards Yoongi. The man clapped one hand over Jin’s mouth as he tried hard to listen to what was going on himself.
“Vibrissa Class, TLS 1420-SJP. This is Nyala, Second House of the Rajini. Please confirm voice activation.”
The voice that had been warning them suddenly quieted, the system working as the lights dimmed as it confirmed. The boys looked around in alarm and even Jungkook, who had come from the cargo bay with Vairuit, nearly protested when they both floated in. Vairuit was fine since her eyes would allow her to see in low-level light as well as darkness. Suddenly, the lights powered back up and a different voice presented itself to the compliment. It was a light-hearted sound, male but one that was pleasant to most ears.
Nyala of the Ifrit, you are welcomed back to the Antares. I see you have brought friends with you? Should I add them to the crew manifest? And where is Lirael? Is she still damaged?
“Kibeth, we have more things to worry about like getting the ship up and running?”
The voice hummed and new life was suddenly lighting up the entire ship, a couple of projections suddenly popping up for all to see. The screens showed the schematics of the ship and the various levels of each system as they booted up. Jin gasped and floated forward, disentangling himself from Jimin as he watched what was going on. Yoongi looked on with great interest as well while the rest of them looked on as the other consoles lit up. Vairuit floated over to a weapons console and checked the armament. Jungkook accompanied her, looking over her shoulder but the action caused the pair of them to start trading words.
He was suddenly flung away from her, a smirk on Jungkook’s face when it happened. He nearly sailed right into Yoongi, who put his hand on one of the offenders' shoulders--and squeezed. A yelp came from Jungkook’s mouth as the action, surrendering immediately. The voice, Kibeth, gave a soft hum at the antics as it watched from one of the cameras on the ceiling.
My, this might be one noisy complement of crew.
“Are you an AI?” Jimin piped up from where he was, his words directed to Kibeth. At the query, the voice hummed again before answering him. “You won’t suddenly decide to do things on your own?”
Yes, I am the AI that is also apart of ship’s systems. My designation is TLS-1420 but you may call me Kibeth. Do not worry, I have learning capabilities but most of my coding is restricted from having a will of my own. I am completely devoted to the Antares’ Captain and Lirael.
No sooner than the words echoed away did an alarm sound on the bridge. Kibeth announced that there was a ship that had dropped out of Drive Space on the long-range sensors, heading directly for them. It cut itself off mid-sentence to correct itself--there were three ships instead and they showed no signs of going anywhere else but there. Another announcement was made that the lead ship was hailing them and that he was patching it in through audio-only since the main screen wasn’t yet active.
“My, my, my. Nyala, you led us right to the Antares and even so kindly have the Android aboard. Well done. Now surrender or die.” The transmission was cut off before anyone had the chance to retort back. The Pirate had found them a lot sooner than they all had anticipated.
“You all may leave now, they only want me and the ship. If I distract them long enough—”
“Do you really think you can pilot this ship by yourself. I mean, I could but you’re no pilot.” Jin climbed into the pilot’s chair, strapping himself in as he got himself familiar with the controls of the ship. Nyala words were cut off by him but she couldn’t get another word in as Yoongi took a seat with Jimin taking the communications console and chair.
“Nyala, we’ll get all the cargo and supplies we can from the other ship while we still have zero gravity. We can move crap more quickly that way. You focus on getting this hunk of junk ready to fight.” Vairuit grinned at Nyala, bumping her shoulder before she floated away--calling out Jungkook’s name as she did so. The man sighed and followed her out so that way he could help, flashing Nyala a grin as he passed. The ships were still a good distance away so it would give them time to do what they needed to do. They, once in range of their target, could only go so fast and the asteroid field was giving them extra time. Kibeth announced that the ships would be on them in about 20 minutes, given the field was still in its current state. Fluctuations were common due to the high impact of the asteroids with each other. There could have been a sudden shift that would throw everything into chaos, should it happen.
“I have a plan but we really need everything out of my ship that we can possibly get before peeling out of here,” Jin announced, still in the thick of learning the controls. It caught the attention of everyone around him, seeing that his face had turned grim. “We can overload the engines on my baby, causing a significant shift in the field. Still, the reactor core will take 7 minutes to overload and they might be within weapons range by then.”
“So what you’re saying is—?” Yoongi snapped, looking at Nyala for confirmation. She sighed and looked back at her work. It was showing that they still had another 8 minutes left in booting up the systems, even with Kibeth’s help. However, the good news was that the Drive Engines were warming themselves up too. They would just have to clear the field to activate and get the hell out of there.
“He’s right, Yoongi. If we do that, it would give us enough time to clear the field and get out of here. Hopefully.”
Yoongi gritted his teeth and relented at their words. By his calculations, 8 minutes until system-wide re-boot then Jungkook and Vairuit would have only two minutes to finish up what they were doing before the ships were within range of firing. Another 5 for the core and two minutes left to get away safely. That was, if they weren’t blown out of the entire existence by then. Yoongi grumbled and rubbed his face as he started to make preparations himself.
“Kibeth, can you access the Persona’s systems?” Jin called out, nearly finished with what he was doing. The AI confirmed he could, it just had to break through the encryption matrix to take control. The Pilot agreed and let him do that while everyone worked in sync to get their plan going. Once the AI was finished, Jin was ready for flight or at least that he was prepared enough to start calculations that he would need for the hurried trip out of that sector.
The 8 minutes seemed to fly by as fast as Jin would and everyone was given the two-minute warning. The AI was keeping tabs on the ships and the surrounding asteroids, in case of any sudden shifts. The pilot called out to Kibeth to go ahead and fire the Persona’s thrusters so that way the ship could help them turn around. They were going to use the rock that the ship was attached to as a shield, hiding the other ship that would stay behind. Once Jungkook and Vairuit were aboard, the doors were locked as well as sealed. Now they just had to wait for their expected guests to get near them.
However, they had started to blast some of the rocks that were coming by them and causing all kinds of chaos with the asteroids. Everyone took stations, Jungkook and Vairuit at the weapons array; Jimin at comms; Nyala at navigations while Yoongi took up another station and Jin always at the helm.
Jin gave Kibeth the go-ahead for the core meltdown, releasing them from the docked position. Once free, he had the other ship attach itself to the asteroid and they pulled away. Shots were fired once in sight of the ships but the weapons on the Antares were better in all aspects. The rounds fired off as Jin increased speed, maneuvering through the field. They had to go a bit slower than they originally planned due to the debris flying all around them from the gunfire but they finally made it a safe distance away--just as the other ship blew up. The seismic reaction, as well as the energy released from it, took out two ships since they were closer to it and disabled the third. Once clear of the field, the Antares took off into subspace Drive and once again left them to tend to themselves.
#kmultiverse#bangtanarmynet#bts fanfction#bts fanfiction#space!au#bts!space#biasrekkers presents#Edge of Forever#kim seokjin#min yoongi#jung hoseok#kim namjoon#kim taehyung#park jimin#jung jungkook
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Paul Verhoeven and the Form of Satire
Paul Verhoeven is a Dutch filmmaker who made films in America during the 80’s and 90’s.
I will be discussing his best films of his Hollywood period.
Robocop (1987) – Showgirls (1995) – Starship Troopers (1997)
Paul Verhoeven’s films are almost unique in Hollywood in that they satirise American culture by imitating the form of American culture. He uses form and genre to satirise American culture from within.
In ‘Robocop’ the satire hits the hardest and arguably the most successfully. Paul Verhoeven takes the view that the best form of satire is imitation and he makes what is ostensibly a very good action film. The city of Detroit has had its public services privatised. The police now work for the shadowy corporation called OCP. The satire is not exactly caricature, but the corporate greed and lack of humanity are presented almost dispassionately. We are simply shown a world where corporate America has run rampant. By presenting it to us straight the humour is heightened. We see a young executive brutally murdered in the boardroom by ED-209 (a ridiculous deep voiced, chicken legged robot unable to walk down stairs). The scene is presented to us completely deadpan. The satire is given space to breath; we are allowed to consider the layers of irony on display.
We are shown a spectacularly violent murder and then the complete lack of concern for the murder by the CEO of OCP. The lack of concern is a counterpoint to the graphic violence of the murder and the satire is clear. Bob Morton tells the CEO of his Robocop program, he needs a dead police officer and so has placed suitable officers in the more violent precincts so that they might have a candidate sooner. This is a throw away line that shows the filmmakers intention. Murphy has been deliberately put in harms way so that they can claim his body as property. Later in the film we see Murphy brutally murdered and the scene is played very differently. There is no humorous counterpoint or deadpan jokes, the murder is violent sadistic and brutal.
Executive Kenny is brutally murdered by ED-209 in the boardroom. The violence is comically excessive.
Murphy’s murder is vicious and sadistic.
We see Murphy become Robocop, loose his humanity and regain it. By the end of the film he is no longer property, he is no longer Robocop but “Murphy” again. Paul Verhoven gives us an gleefully violent action film and seems to almost be asking us “is this what you want”? When we see Robocop shoot a rapist in the groin, we as an audience are being asked, “is this what you want”? The same can be said of other scenes where Robocop uses extreme violence in relatively mundane police incidents. We are being asked to cheer and then think to ourselves, are we culpable? By enjoying action films and violence are we culpable in creating a culture like this and is it the natural progression of the attitudes this culture embodies? Elements of the film are more overtly satirical such as the adverts and the news segments, all presented with deadpan panache and cartoonish humour.
‘Showgirls’ (1995)
Nomi confronts a robber.
Nomi as a dancer later in the film.
‘Showgirls’ is a misunderstood film. Pure camp schlock at it finest, the film sets out to subvert the ‘girl comes to town wanting to make it big in show business’ trope of Hollywood films. To me the film is the anti ‘Pretty Woman’- (1990). ‘Pretty Woman’ is a vulgar, pandering corporate product that never seeks to satirise the world of wealth and privilege but instead to celebrate it and indeed to fetishize it. The lead character is a street hooker who awaits a “white knight, to climb up a tower to rescue her”. This dangerous and immature fantasy permeates the film. In “Showgirls’ Nomi Malone comes to town with big dreams and a dark past. Nomi is offered work straight away by a man who picks her up as a hitchhiker. He offers her help only to robs her and leave her stranded.
Throughout the film Nomi is confronted by different characters (usually men) who offer her redemption, a form of redemption not dissimilar to the one offered to Vivian in ‘Pretty Woman’. She naively thinks that a man will save her, either the songwriter who sees her potential, or the executive of the company she dances for. She is offered her dream but must pay a price for it, sexual exploitation. In one scene a friend of hers is brutally raped by a famous musician. This scene is unpleasant and unnecessary. But the point is clear. The entertainment industry, exploits women. Then entire industry is depicted as exploitative and vulgar. Vegas never looked more foul and sleazy.
In the end Nomi realises that she cannot ‘make it’ without losing her integrity. She pushes a rival down a flight of stairs and is offered a big role in the show. The rival admits later that she got her big break by pushing another rival down some stairs. She admits that she is an aging and embittered and her career is finished. Nomi realises that the entertainment industry is exploitative and misogynistic. She takes revenge on the rapist and the man who robbed her at the start of the film and leaves town. The film revels in its own camp vulgarity. But again Verhoven is satirising from within. He makes a vulgar exploitative film that satirises the vulgarity and exploitation of the entertainment industry. The lives depicted on screen are not presented as aspirational, instead the homes and lifestyles are depicted as ugly and vapid, hollow and distasteful.
‘Starship Troopers’ (1997)
A progaganda film from Starship Troopers (1997) - Dir Paul Verhoeven
The characters wear overtly fascistic uniforms.
Talking about ‘Starship Troopers’ Verhoeven stated in an interview with Phil Hoad in ‘The Guardian’ newspaper, “So I decided to make a movie about fascists who aren’t aware of their fascism”.
https://www.theguardian.com/culture/2018/jan/22/how-we-made-starship-troopers-paul-verhoeven-nazis-leni-riefenstahl
‘Starship Troopers’ takes the form of a Nazi Propaganda reel. Verhoven has stated that he explicitly “borrowed from Triumph of the Will in the parody propaganda reel that opens the film”. The film depicts a society that worships violence. It takes the form of a propaganda film and presents in its place an exciting, violent action spectacle; this use of irony expresses the idea that perhaps action films are propaganda films? ‘Starship Troopers’ blatantly presents a society that believes in the cleansing power of violence. In the opening scenes a teacher states that, “Violence is the supreme authority”.
But how are we to know that Paul Verhoeven and his screenwriter are not also making fascist propaganda? Well, the humour of the militaristic world is presented as a joke. The propaganda reels and news segments are overtly comical. The older generation of citizens are shown with missing limbs. The training sequences are overtly comic. The lust for violence creates a cycle of never ending murder and warfare. The bugs are never depicted as having any goals other than survival of their species. We are shown through ironic newsreels their motivation for attacking Earth. They are violent insects, yet they are presented almost sympathetically. By the end of the film the protagonist ‘Jonny Rico’ is a violent psychopath, roaring maniacally at his troops. As Paul Verhoven has stated in interviews, he said to the audience “Here are your heroes and your heroines, but by the way – they’re fascists”. Unfortunately audiences did not understand the layers of satire and irony and took the film on face value.
There is no other filmmaker working today who uses the form and genre of American cinema to satirise the very culture it is a part of. This is a great shame, because Paul Verhoeven films prove that you can have your cake and eat it, as long as you understand what it is you are consuming.
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Judy Garland: Reflections on an Icon, Gay or Otherwise
Today, June 22, 2019, marks the 50th anniversary of the day we lost one of the world’s greatest entertainers, Judy Garland. In just a few days time we will observe an even more momentous 50th anniversary, that of the Stonewall Uprising which birthed the modern LGBTQ equality movement. If you’re familiar with your queer folk history, you’ll know there are those who claim this close timing is not a coincidence. But we’ll get to that later.
I first encountered Garland the way most people do--my parents showed me The Wizard of Oz when I was little. I don’t remember much of the experience aside from wanting to be a flying monkey for Halloween, and that “Over the Rainbow” made me cry, which was the first time any piece of media had made such an impact on me. It never really occurred to me that the woman who sang that song could have had a career beyond Oz until 12 years ago when I was just finishing Middle School and becoming interested in the Old Hollywood era. She was the first star I formed an emotional connection to, and as I happily made my way through her filmography and read up on her life I first encountered the phrase “gay icon.”
I knew what gay meant, obviously. I was vaguely aware of the LGBTQ and marriage equality movements, but at the time I mostly knew “gay” as the insult hurled at me seemingly everyday of Middle School for a series of things I never gave a second thought to but were apparently tell-tale signs that I was that way, and thus a figure deserving of torment--how I carried my books, how I sat, how I looked. My basic opinion of being gay at that point was that it’s fine for other people, but dear god don’t let this be my future!
So, when I realized that the star I was idolizing was famous for being idolized by gay men, I did what I’d become very adept at doing, I ignored the implications. Denial allowed me to spend high school working my way through her films, youtube videos, documentaries, and a biography without really examining why this woman resonated so much with me. So now, as we approached these two anniversaries, it seemed like a good time to finally try to sort through what she meant to me. What I ended up with instead is an essay that’s part personal reflection and part mediation on the meaning of the term “Gay Icon” in the era of Marriage Equality and Corporate-Sponsored Pride.
The term “Gay Icon” has been used to mean several similar, but different types of people. To clarify, when I talk about Gay Icons in this post, I’m talking specifically about a subset of gay icons related to the so-called “Diva Worship” culture among gay men. Nobody really seems to know why exactly gay men are so drawn to larger-than-life women, I’ve heard too many reasons to go into them all now, but even if not all of us go for the cliches (Cher, Gaga, etc.) pretty much every gay man has a female figure--real or fictional--they connect with in a way their straight male peers don’t.
Looking back, it’s obvious why Garland resonated with me. She was chronically insecure, especially about her looks--as was I. She spent her life wanting desperately to for someone to love her unconditionally and to be able to love them back, only to be denied this simple happiness time after time--well, of course that would resonate with a gay audience, especially in her lifetime. And she was a survivor, repeatedly cast aside by the press and the industry as washed up, she continually had the last laugh. She had a strength to her that I wanted. It was a different kind of strength than the physical/masculine kind offered by the pro-athletes and superheroes my male peers emulated, but which I found unrelatable and unappealing. Hers was a strength that came dressed in sequins and high heels, and I just thought it was fabulous.
Garland though, is more than just a gay icon, in a lot of ways she seems to be the gay icon. The popular code phrase “friend of Dorothy” is generally assumed to be a reference to her character in Oz. She maintained close friendships with gay men throughout her life, with whom she would frequent illegal gay bars on both coasts. Her father was a closeted homosexual, and biographers have speculated this is why so many of the men she was attracted to, both as friends and romantically, turned out to be gay or bi. She was one of the first celebrities to have their gay following acknowledged in the mainstream press. There’s even footage on youtube of her being asked directly about why she attracts so many “homosexuals,” and she is visibly thrown by it.
To understand why Garland would be so flustered over that question, it’s important to understand how being popular with the gay community was perceived in her lifetime. William Goldman’s The Season,��his influential book about the 1967–68 season on and off Broadway, includes an account from an unnamed screenwriter friend describing a mid-1960s cocktail party that offers a fascinating glimpse at just that:
I can’t explain her appeal, but I saw it work once in this crazy way. I was at a party in Malibu... There were a lot of actors there, the word on them was that they were queer, but this was a boy-girl party, everyone was paired off, and these beautiful men and gorgeous broads were talking together and drinking together. Anyway, everything’s going along and it’s sunny, I’m getting a little buzzed... when I realized, Garland was in the room.
The guy she’s with, her husband, supports her as she plops down in this chaise, and says what she wants to drink and he goes off to get it. And she’s sitting all alone and for a minute there was nothing, and then this crazy thing started to happen. Every homosexual in the place, every guy you’d heard whispered about, they left the girls they were with and started to mass move towards Garland. She didn’t ask for it, she was just sitting there, while all these beautiful men circled her. They crowded around her and pretty soon she’s disappeared behind this expansive male fence. It may not sound like all that much, but I’m telling you, she magnetized them.
I’ll never forget all those famous secret guys moving across this gorgeous patio without a sound, and her just sitting there, blinking. And then they were on her, and she was gone. (x)
Another passage describing one of her concerts in 1967, from Goldman himself, is even more blunt:
Another flutter of fags, half a dozen this time, and watching it all from a corner--two heterosexual married couples. “These fags” the first man says, “it’s like Auschwitz, some of them died along the way but a lot of them got here anyhow!” He turns to the other husband and shrugs, “Tonight, no one goes to the bathroom.” (x)
Both passages, laced with condescension, homophobia, and misogyny, are nevertheless useful windows into a pre-Stonewall way of looking at how far gay culture has come. Today Lady Gaga can sing “Don’t be a drag just be a queen” on a lead single and still reign as a queen of pop music, back then any association with homosexuality was enough to taint you. Garland’s popularity with gay men opens her up to condescending mockery, while gay men’s mere existence at a public event is enough to terrify the heterosexual attendees.
Still, the most revealing part of that last passage might not be the homophobia, but the opening reference to “another flutter of fags, half a dozen.” The fact that a decent amount of gay men evidently felt comfortable enough to express themselves at least somewhat openly at a mainstream public event is notable. In this pre-Stonewall era such openness was generally reserved for bars and other covert safe spaces.
Which brings us back to the first paragraph. If you know any queer folk history, then you’ve probably heard this one--Judy Garland’s funeral sparked the Stonewall Uprising. That fateful night in June the Stonewall Inn was packed with gay men still emotionally raw from losing their idol, so much so that when the police raided the joint they channeled that anger and loss, and fought back, and the modern LGBTQ movement was born! It’s a story that would solidify Garland’s status as the definitive gay icon, a martyr for the cause, (move over Harvey Milk!) Except, it’s not true. It’s been debunked multiple times. Most recently in this video from the NY Times.
I bring it up though, because even if she wasn’t the cause, she was still connected to that historic night, if only indirectly. Even as the NY Times video debunks the myth of her funeral causing it, two of the uprising’s participants interviewed do admit to being at Garland’s funeral, which really was held just hours before the violence started. Other accounts from people who patronized Stonewall have said that “Judy Garland” was a popular fake name to use on a sign-in book at the entrance. In other words, even if she didn’t cause them, she was still an important figure for some of the people who went on to build the modern equality movement.
As a final thought to wrap this all up, I’ve been thinking about Garland and her status as a gay icon. It’s no secret that as the years have passed by she’s been somewhat supplemented by younger icons for younger generations. There’s been some question over whether Garland even has a place in a gay culture that now has people like Lady Gaga and “Born This Way,” openly acknowledging their gay fans in ways Garland never could.
At the same time, I can’t help but feel the recent debate over Taylor Swift’s gay-themed music video demonstrates why Garland still deserves her Gay Icon status, even if most younger queer people today don’t have the same connection to her that older generations did. Swift’s video, chocked full of every out celebrity who would return her calls and saturated in a rainbow-hue, has faced criticism for being “performative activism.” That after being fairly silent on the issue for so long she’s now trying to cash-in on the movement by branding her single a new gay anthem for Pride Month. The fact that with one exception, which misuses the word “shade,” the lyrics to the song sound more like they’re referring to Swift’s online haters rather than anti-LGBTQ bigots, certainly helps the critics’ case. As does the fact that Swift never seemed to have much interest in building a large gay following before this.
Yet there’s also a sense that this was inevitable. Corporations already roll out rainbow colored logos for Pride, in retrospect it seems obvious that celebrities, and their PR firms, would start deliberately trying to market themselves as a gay icon without first taking the time to build a large following in the LGBTQ community. (Gaga’s established gay fanbase undoubtedly blunted similar criticisms of “Born This Way,” for example.) Garland in this case then serves as a symbol of a time when the Gay Icon title wasn’t anointed by marketing campaigns, but emerged organically from a genuine affection for an individual held by a large number of queer people. A reminder of how important that affection was to members of our community, (and still is to many of us) even if it could only go one-way. And perhaps even a warning, of what we might lose if we let this important part of gay subculture be transformed into just another marketing gimmick.
But I’ll leave all that for another time. For now, I’ll just say, thank you Judy Garland. Thank you for all the joy and comfort you’ve given to generations of gay men. And thank you especially for the companionship you gave me while I was still figuring some things out.
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Towards the sun - Part 6: Blood eagle
Pairing: Ivar x OC
Word Count: 1891
Summary: Pia just wanted to go to work, but oh well, shit happens.
Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence
(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5)
They made a camp in the woods.
The sons of Ragnar and Pia shared the tent as she was closest to them. There were five single beds in the room. Pia had two options: to sleep on the floor or with one of Ragnar's sons. Bjorn and Ubbe had wives so she would probably end up with Hvitserk, Sigurd or Ivar.
She wanted to help with something, but wherever she went she was sent back. They said Odin's representative shouldn't do such things. So she sat under the tree and watched the preparations for the battle.
Pia watched as Ivar struggled to tie the scarf on his face precisely. He couldn't find a balance between. Once it was too tight, and then too loose. Pia stood up, brushed off her pants and went to Ivar who was sitting on the chariot. She took the black cloth from his hands and he let her without a fuss. She tied it perfectly covering his nose and mouth. She looked into his ice-blue eyes. She didn't know what Ivar saw on her face, but she knew it was enough to make him turn his head away.
Pia embraced his face with both hands and put her forehead against his.
"Come back to me," she whispered and kissed the space between his eyebrows.
Men and some women left, and Pia could only look at their backs. Slaves, servants and a small group of warriors, who were supposed to take care of their safety, stayed in the camp. Pia quickly found Helga and Tanaruz. The teenager immediately nestled into her chest and talked about what she had seen. While she spoke, she didn't notice how Pia gave her more and more food. Such an amount that her body could get energy from, but that she wouldn't get sick after such a long time of not eating regularly.
Helga looked at Pia with gratitude. Tanaruz fell asleep after a meal on Pia's knees, calm for the first time in a long time. Pia looked at her and tried to imagine how terrified she must have been for the whole time. Pia could communicate with them, she knew where she was and she had Ivar. Tanaruz didn't know Vikings language, she didn't understand why people who murdered her parents kept her. The girl had Helga that's true. But Tanaruz couldn't turn fear into attachment as Pia did.
She was aware of how unhealthy it was, but she honestly saw no other solution to survive. She tried to think of it as a defence system that her mind created in a dangerous situation. People, who were kidnapped behaved similarly. They were emotionally tied to the abusers, and it was impossible to blame them, but the situation.
She didn't want to think, however, that what she was beginning to feel for Ivar was only the desire to be in a sound living position. She wanted to believe, despite his emotional problems, that Ivar was a good man. He took her in and believed her. He let her sleep with him, shared his warmth and cared for her safety.
"Tanaruz thinks you're a slave like her," Helga blurted. The woman was looking at the fire. Pia stopped combing the girl's hair with her fingers and looked at Helga questioningly. “She only allows me and other slaves from her country to touch her.”
"She scared," she whispered. To show that she meant no harm, she hung her head down in a submissive manner. “She see her parents murdered, and now you suffocate her here.”
Helga didn't answer her in any way. The fire consumed her whole attention. Pia closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them a few hours later, she was alone. She rubbed her eyes, wanting to get rid of the remnants of her dreams, and then she went outside. Cold air hit her and she hugged the fur closer to her. It was still bright so she couldn't have slept long. When she looked away, she saw the army returns. People cheered, patted their backs and laughed. Pia searched for the chariot and tried to hear the clatter of wheels and a gallop of a horse. But there was nothing.
She looked around hysterically, panic overwhelmed her body. Without seeing Ivar, she sought the crowd for his brothers. Every next face she was looking at seemed stranger and stranger. She almost cried when someone grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. When she looked up, she saw the man who had praised her singing. Pia looked at him with her big, fearful eyes and his grip eased. Because of her gaze and parted lips, he wanted to have her here and now. But he knew he could not.
"Ivar asked for you," he said.
“Where is he?”
“A few miles outside the camp. He asked me to bring you to him." The man let go of her arm and motioned her to follow him. “I'm Halfdan.”
"Pia," she answered.
They walked through the forest in silence. Pia didn't comment on how he looked at her, she didn't ask about anything, she let him lead her away. Halfdan didn't fancy the silence that fell over them. He wanted her to say something - anything - about herself. Whereas Pia felt like on the job interview. She never knew what to say in situations similar to this, what response they expected from people. She couldn't tell him what she usually did because he didn't know what television or bicycle was. So she said she loved dancing and singing.
“How you see me?” she asked after he admitted that he would like her to dance for him one day. “A free woman or slave?”
“Is Ivar your owner? Are you someone's property?”
They stopped walking. Pia could see and hear Ragnar's sons from that distance. Bjorn, Ubbe, Hvitserk and Floki stood near a hole in the ground. Sigurd was holding a blade to the man's throat so he would not run away. Ivar lay on his stomach and looked down. Pia's eyes returned to Halfdan.
"Free," she said, pointing at herself. The man smiled.
“Exactly. And do not let people tell you anything else.”
Halfdan turned and returned to the camp. Pia watched him leave for a moment, grateful for the fact he brought back her old personality. She felt peaceful again. She walked toward the gathered, her steps sure and fast. Ivar, seeing her, smiled maniacally. A shiver ran through Pia's back.
Floki forced an unknown man to kneel. Pia watched as the Viking's fingers tightened on the man's shirt.
“I've been told your god is a carpenter. And guess what? So am I.”
Pia sat down on a fallen tree and looked away. She didn't want to know if what they would do with him, would cause her to feel the same as a ritual. They had done nothing yet, and Sigurd was assigned to look after the prisoner. Ivar crawled and sat down next to her.
"You will see how we fulfil our revenge, Pia," he murmured.
He leaned toward her and she moved away. She didn't want to hurt him, but it was not her wish to go too fast either. She didn't want to be just a flame. She didn't want him to be just a flame. She put her hand on his to let him know she didn't reject him; that she cared. She searched his eyes and when they found her, she tried to show him how sincere she was. He saw that and squeezed her hand.
Ivar looked around to see if anyone was observing them. Nobody was around them, everyone seemed more occupied by preparations. Bjorn instructed warriors to do a few things, and they didn't have time to watch a girl who claims to know what will happen in the future and a cripple despised by all. He moved closer to her and this time Pia let him stay that way. He embraced her waist.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. “I would never hit you. However, the topic of Margrethe evokes in me a great anger. Just thinking about what she told you...”
“Ivar, please, tell me what happened. I will not judge you. I will not even say a bad word, but I must know if we..." she stopped speaking and looked at him so he would know what she meant.
“Exactly what you said happened. Everyone had her, so I did too. I tried to make her and myself feel pleasure, but I was not able... I could not harden.”
“Apparently you have a different taste than your brothers and Margrethe didn't excite you. Maybe you need more than a naked body under yourself. Maybe your needs are more complex. You have time to explore your urges.”
"We have," he said, emphasizing ‘we’.
Pia blinked several times, shocked as he spoke about it so easily. She didn't respond for a while, letting his words settle in her mind. She opened her mouth to answer yes, we do have time, but Ubbe called Ivar over. Ivar wanted her to accompany him to a group of people. They stood in a circle with torches in their hands. When Ivar chose the right spot to watch the spectacle, he sat down and Pia stood next to him. Hvitserk and Sigurd throw the man on the board. They spread his hands and held them at his wrist so he would not be able to move them.
Pia watched, though she would prefer not to. Curiosity took over her senses. At first, she was not sure, if she wished to know what would happen, but she changed her mind, seeing how excited Ivar was being. She regretted her decision when she saw Bjorn with a hammer. Not a second passed, and the Viking knocked a nail into the man's palm. He did the same with the other one. The man was screaming in pain, but Pia didn't look away.
Bjorn ripped the man's shirt, then went to the fire with the knife that was given to him and warmed up the metal. The man cried in agony as the blade cut the skin on his back. Bjorn dug a knife into the wood next to him, then torn the man's skin with his bare hands. Pia could see blood, flesh and spine. Ubbe gave him the axe, and though Pia was aware of how cruel it was - she was, she really was - but she stood still like a rock.
Bjorn strikes the axe into the man's back once, twice. Suffering visible on the stranger's face. Blood gushed and hit even her. She didn't wipe it. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ivar creep towards the tortured man. He looked at the life that escaped the man's eyes.
Pia didn't react until the morning when Vikings hanged the man's body on his lungs. She ran to the bushes and vomited. She was throwing up until she began to cry. She sat a few steps away, her back to the hanging man. When she placed her head against the tree, she thought she heard someone's voice.
“How the little piggies will grunt when they hear how the older boar suffered.”
A voice spoke, but Pia only saw a raven.
_________________
@unicornbaby741 @ivarandersen @jamierdr @mulders-xfile
#ivar#ivar the boneless#ivar's heathen army#ivar lothbrok#ivar x oc#ivar the boneless imagine#ivar the boneless imagines#ivar imagine#ivar imagines#vikings#vikings imagine#vikings fanfic#vikings fandom#vikings fic#vikings history#ivar/reader#ivar x reader#ivar/oc#ivar x you#ivar/you#ivar x ofc#halfdan the black#floki#vikings floki#bjorn ironside#ubbe#ubbe lothbrok#hvitserk#sigurd
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LADYKILLR (PART 2)
A/N: I got really into this part, I don’t know why. Also the thought of Sonny having a tattoo? Ugh. Part three will be out sometime soon, not sure exactly when but I’ll update regularly.
Summary: Dating a detective certainly has it pros and cons, but when a disheveled criminal is looking to settle a score, he goes after what Detective Carisi loves the most… you.
Word Count: 1494
Warnings: Serial Killer, Murder Victims, Stab Wound, Blood, Violence
<< Part 1 >><<Part 3>><<Part 4>><<Continuous Version>>
Sonny had been sitting at his desk for what seemed like the past 72 hours which wasn’t too far from the actual time elapsed. His normally organized work space was scattered with evidence and photos along with old chinese take out and an ice cold cup of coffee. SVU had been knee deep in a serial killer case for almost a month now, but from the beginning it seemed as though they were fighting a losing battle.
Someone was loose in the streets of Manhattan brutally attacking and murdering women at random. None of the victims could be linked to each other in any way, not their jobs, neighborhoods, or friends. The only thing the women had in common was the way they were killed. Each victim was found in her own home, no sign of forced entry, as if they knew the killer or they were welcomed in with a single stab wound to abdomen.
A couple of weeks ago, they came across a lead that seemed promising. An elderly woman claimed that she saw a delivery man at her neighbor’s door the night of her murder. Even though she claimed he had a neck tattoo, her eye sight wasn’t what it used to be and there was no way of knowing what the tattoo was. There were thousands of delivery men with neck tattoos walking the streets of Manhattan, b t there were only a handful that had previous charges, including one man who was on parole.
Hector Beckett, 37 years old, was out on parole after being charged with battery and attempted rape and had been working as a delivery man for the last few months. And as the sole eye witness describes, on the left side of his neck in old-fashioned tattoo font was the word, LADYKILLR. When Sonny came across his name and put all the pieces together, he got the approval from Olivia and made the arrest. During his interrogation he informed Hector that there was a witness that put him at the scene and his violent criminal past wasn’t going to help the situation.
“You know, when I turned eighteen I told my ma I was gonna get a tattoo,” Sonny smirked from across the metal table. “You would’ve thought I said I was gonna have a limb cut off by the way she reacted. In hindsight, I’m glad I didn’t get it, those things are forever y’know? I wanted the name of my favorite scripture, Proverbs 16:9, in his mind a man plans his course,” Sonny paused for a moment putting emphasis into his words. “But the Lord directs his steps.”
Hector sat straight faced, not interested in the slightest by the detective’s small talk.
“Still would be a pretty good tattoo, come to think of it. But yours? Wow, LADYKILLR? It’s moving, truly touching. How did you choose that one?”
“What can I say? The ladies love me,” he sat back in his chair making himself comfortable.
“I’m sure you love them too,” Sonny spoke sarcastically as he opened up the folder on the table. “I bet you really loved them when you made your way into their homes and stabbed them to death.”
“You got an old lady, detective?” He laughed watching Sonny’s muscles tense at the thought of such an malicious person even thinking about the woman he loved. “Who am I kidding, you’re not really my type, but I know a handsome man when I see one. Maybe I’ll give her a visit when I get out of here.”
“Too bad you’re going to be here for a while,” Sonny stood up exiting the room before he lost control of his temper.
Olivia knew Hector wasn’t going to admit to anything and when he requested a lawyer, they were informed there simply wasn’t enough solid evidence to keep him, and within half and hour Hector Beckett walked out a free man.
Which put Sonny in his current situation now, sitting at his desk, looking over every last detail hoping something would stick out like a beacon that had previously gone unnoticed, hoping to find to anything that would incriminate Beckett. He was tired, he’d had a headache for the last three days, and truth be told, he just needed a break. And as if it was a sign from God, he’d received a text from his girlfriend saying she was stopping by the precinct for a visit. Sonny stared at the clock on the wall watching the hands move so slowly, for a moment he was convinced the battery must have been dead. Knowing that a watched pot never boils, he made his way to the break room and replaced his ice cold coffee with a fresh cup.
“What’s got you smilin’ Carisi?” Fin teased as he held out his mug for a refill.
“My girl’s stopping by,” Sonny grinned, proud to show you off. “And she’s bringing cookies.”
“Oh word, those one’s from the Christmas party?”
“Those would be the ones.”
“It’s about time we got some good news around here,” Fin’s eyes lit up like a child in a candy store.
Sonny put the coffee pot back and returned to his desk, starting the paperwork he’d been avoiding, hoping that busy work would make the time go by faster and it did. By time he’d put his signature on the last sheet, he checked his phone for the time, noticing that you were almost twenty five minutes late. He unlocked his phone and clicked your name to call you but it went to voicemail. He wasn’t sure if it was his own impatience or genuine worry, but he began typing out a message and stared at his phone waiting for a reply.
Are you on your way? Fin’s asked about the cookies twice already.
A few minutes passed, still no reply. Sonny was never the one to double text, he didn’t want to feel like he was bothering someone, but it had now been almost 40 minutes since your intended arrival.
You’re starting to make me nervous, do I need to come over?
When his phone finally vibrated, he practically knocked over his coffee cup reaching to grab it. His brows furrowed as he read the words displayed on his screen.
Sorry I’m L8, got 2 reschedule
He read your words a few more times and couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. If his instinct was wrong, he was worrying about nothing. But it only took seconds to make up his mind and he wasn’t willing to risk your safety in any circumstance. He hurried towards Olivia’s office making sure to knock a couple times before letting himself in. His red scarf was already draped around his neck and he held his tan coat in his hands. Sonny prided himself in knowing you completely, so when he had a gut feeling that something was wrong he wasn’t willing to waste any time.
“Hey, Lieu, I need an hour.”
“Right now? We’re in the middle of an investigation, Carisi.” She looked up at him through the black reading glasses that were rested on the end of her nose. He was never the kind of person to leave work for a non-emergent reason which caught Olivia’s attention.
“I know, but it’s about- it’s a personal thing.” Sonny was flustered and it showed as he ran his fingers through his perfectly styled hair, not worried in the slightest if he messed it up.
“Anything I can help with?”
“I’m not sure, (Y/N) was supposed to stop by today, but she was running late so I texted her to see where she was.”
“Well, Carisi, that’s not exactly out of the ordinary,” she crossed her arms across her chest.
“I know, but this is.” He handed her his phone allowing her to read his text messages.
“She’s never used an abbreviation in her text messages in the entire time I’ve known her. I also tried calling her and it’s going straight to voicemail.”
If it was one thing Olivia prided herself in, it was trusting her detectives completely. So she handed back the phone and nodded, Sonny’s signal that he was free to go. “Call if you need anything,” she said before he all but ran towards the exit.
“Hey babe, it’s me again. You’re making me nervous please pick up the phone.”
He hung up and shoved his phone in his pocket and made his way through the door, choosing to walk rather than drive. If somehow you were still on your way to the precinct, this is the route you would’ve chose and eventually he’d cross your path. With no luck, he’d made it to your building not seeing you once. The walk hallway towards your apartment felt longer than usual and instinctively he held a hand on his gun. He counted the golden numbers on the doors until he reached yours, noticing the door of 3G was slightly ajar.
He removed his gun from the holster, using it to open your door and scanned your apartment. Flowers and milk scattered were across the floor, signalling that his suspicions were right, and he held his gun at attention. Alone in the middle of the apartment, you were duct taped to a kitchen chair. The sweat had caused your hair to stick to your face along with your grey t-shirt. Standing out, was a large crimson stain on your abdomen, which trailed downwards and formed a small puddle by your foot. You looked up when you heard the footsteps walking through the door, finding Sonny with his gun pointed towards you.
You furiously shook your head, trying to signal to him that it wasn’t safe for him to enter as the intruder in your apartment had positioned himself beside the door. Not heeding your warning, he took another step forward before Hector Beckett quietly walked behind him.
“SONNY, BEHIND YOU,” you screamed as you saw the man launch towards your boyfriend. “SONNY!”
<< Part 1 >><<Part 3>><<Part 4>> <<Continuous Version>>
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Nightmares and Dreams in the Thinking Forest
Kohn’s epilogue to How Forests Think serves to place a kind of structural body upon the already-present text, a rabattement which serves to deepen the process of reading and critiquing exactly what semiotic possibilities are present within the larger structure of Kohn’s proposals, their interaction with one another, the semiotic frameworks he proposes. He presents the book as an anthropological text, and it certainly functions as such, but his work here is not primarily as an anthropologist in the conventional sense, describing the semiotics of certain interactions, the Orientalist conceptualization of a lack of interaction where there “must” be one, or the restructuring and appearance of a disparity, dialectic convention within a kind of eternal human self. Rather, he rejects these in favor of developing through anthropological vocabulary a new potential-anthropology, an anthropology of the beyond-human. The Derridean discourse on the “Animal Other” is not opposed by the continuity that Kohn offers; in fact, if it is evoked, it is evoked as an example of a certain sort of interaction which Kohn would describe as holding a particular differance from the ones that he describes within the space of the Forest, the interactions and assemblages within. Kohn defies a constructivist approach in a strict sense, in that he does not reduce the forest to an entirely human concept, a constructed mark that is incomprehensible to the natural. Rather, the forest exhibits a kind of agnostic relationship to the human, “human” being a certain order of subject-object relations implied by the body of the subject and realized within the larger thinking Forest, the assemblage and anthropological space that the Forest has a hyperreal relationship with, being a kind of simulation of an imagined, ideal forest that is not and moreover never was present.
Presence, and the spiritual content thereof, is a major theme for Kohn in discussing the Forest. For the Runa, a consciousness of the presence of animals that belong to the “spirit masters” that reside deep within the jungle is vital to seeing the animals that are present: whereas Kohn uses his binoculars to number a pack of monkeys as about 30 (calling this a generous estimate) it is described to him as being in the hundreds. The hundreds more are not visible in the sense that is most readily called upon, but rather are present through the signification and multiplicatory properties of representation in the spirit realm. The spirit masters have a certain domain resembling and described as “ownership” over the animals of the forest, which are spiritually far greater, more numerous, than any representation of them within the forest can handle. It is an impossible sort of being, such as the image Kohn lifts from a Jesuit priest’s writings that describes a river with fish so abundant, they in fact constitute the river itself. The river becomes not a flow of water containing fish, or a flow within which there is a second-order flow of fish. Rather, the constituting part of the flow is the fish themselves. This abundance beyond abundance is a fundamental part of the spirit realm. When Kohn discusses the Runa concept of the afterlife, the “always-already” of the domain of the spirit masters, the way in which it is restructured specifically by colonial experience, he begins developing a specific example of a larger Deleuzean principle about capitalist development. Certain spirits wear priestly habits even when local priests have abandoned them, for example. Animals within the Amazon are on the property of the spirit master as if it were a farm, they are the livestock, the chicken and pigs of the spirit masters. An important aspect of this is that, within the ontology of the spirit masters, they are represented not as white men, but men who are as if they are white, as if they have already been and always-already are white, even before it became a comprehensible term.
This example of an indexical reference to whiteness shows how it restructures referential frameworks: Kohn remarks upon how Jesuit missionaries were amused at the apparent-material concept of Heaven as espoused by the Runa as much as they were frustrated at the impossibility of Hell. The former concentrates on the aforementioned discussion of the spirits, their realm, the ascendence into a relationship with the spirit masters: in a Catholic interpretation, this is a fully-developed understanding of the notion that all are Saints in the proper sense, rewarded in Heaven in a specific and tangible fashion. The milk and honey that the Jesuits may have spoken of would be rather literal, just as the image of white authority depending on Jesus for its implementation relies again on this indexical whiteness. Conversely, for the Runa there is no hell, with death there is not a danger of losing the spirit except if the spirit is allowed to wander, is not properly sent off through certain rituals. There can be hell, they admit but not for the Runa. Rather, if there is a recognition of hell, it is populated by others, specifically the white and black races that the Runa have come in contact with as a result of colonialism. First, one finds the striking antiblackness of such a statement, in that it implies a metapysics based at least partially in race, with an eternal and marked subjugation of a black race, black bodies, continuing even after death.
However, the body is not the totality of that which it suggests, is not simply confined to its colonial appearance. Kohn references a story where a visiting Spaniard is greeted kindly for his gifts of golden religious items, but when he jokes that he would marry one of the women, they call him a devil. In one account how the Runa gained their identity, it is not through a process of civilization and colonization that the Runa became more like the white colonizers, with clothes and salt symbolizing civilized life. Rather, a flood separated the Runa from part of their population, washed away and eventually descending into a savage state. In this move toward disorder, a spiritual degradation brought about by an absence of this civilizing salt, the notion of an immutability to Runa identity makes itself known. It is through what Kohn describes as the “tools of whiteness” that certain orders of control are signified, and while these are not free from the colonial as some might wish to claim in defense of “civilization,” it would be naïve to insist that there is not a genuine process of engagement with these tools on the part of the Runa. Kohn’s own backpack is such an item, just as his beard is, other objects part of the shamanistic series of syncretic signifiers that make up daily practice, daily life for the Runa. Kohn’s backpack is a signifier of him as some other sort of person, one that is certainly not of the Runa in a conventional sense but by no means alien to them. His location as a Shaman, as holding a shamanistic relationship to others, is at once an indication of him as an outsider and an acceptance, a process of welcoming and recognizing him in kind.
By Kohn’s account, the mixture of pre-colonial, colonized, and post-colonial (and arguably neo-colonial) signifiers results in a kind of Oedipal structure of signification: to reference Deleuze and Guattari describing capitalism as a “nightmare” that lurks in the shadows outside the fire of early man right through into a future-of-futures, the opening of not only the “future” but all possible futures in a fashion that embodies not merely the eternal but the infinite, infinity contained within capitalist totality, one finds that there is a certain sort of totality comprised by the metaphysical, ontological, and epistemic traditions of the Runa within the forest as its own totality. Of course, this is not to say that the Runa are outside of capitalism, as this would lead to a wrongheaded evocation of primitivism that is useless not because of an inherent property of primitivist thought but rather because it constitutes a misapplication. Certain structures of “civilization” are core to this subjectivity, and even in retaining a greater rhizomal structure in opposition to colonial arborescence, this is within a forest that has become deeply embedded within colonial and capitalist violence, striated by the rhizomal creep of capitalist machines like seen during the rubber boom that Kohn evokes. The structure of this is such that the “present” structure of experience, the “current” is structured by a continual process of reterritorialization, an understanding such that the Runa have an identity that does not originate in ascent, but rather as unmarked by the descent of others. In this fashion, one finds the means by which “history” and its domain are rendered external, are unable to be marked upon a dasein that is relayed within the Runa vocabulary, the way that death itself is not imagined as part of the self but rather in relation to the living and the spirit.
Kohn describes how the huaturitu supai, the priestly demon mentioned previously, is not to be gazed upon specifically because of how it creates a kind of Sartrean relationship of objectification: one looks, and by looking one is asserting one’s self, one’s “I”-ness, one’s subjectivity in a phenomenological sense, but by gazing upon the huaturitu supai one is then transfigured into “you” from “I” such that one is being addressed, is able to be understood as an object, is taken forever from the living and moreover the possibility of living. It is in subjectivity, in the interrelation of subjects, that Kohn’s forest thinks, that it begins to make itself known. Kohn discusses the subjectivity of the jaguar, almost in an echo of the Derridean cat, as requiring one’s gaze, one’s recognition, in order for the jaguar to regard oneself as a subject. Derrida’s cat is shameless yet naked, a reminder of one’s own nakedness that reflects one’s own subjectivity back. Meanwhile, it is the jaguar who must recognize subjectivity in the sleeping human, find the possible-gaze in a fellow predator in the closed eyes of a sleeping human, such that the human will be recognized as predator rather than prey, as able to be attacked. The “I” of the eye, the jaguar’s recognition, is a literal recourse from becoming an object in relation to the jaguar as a subject, the recognition of jaguar subjectivity both in communicating toward such a subjectivity, and in recognizing that such a subjectivity will perceive this and respond in kind. The dual structuring at hand, then involves the recognition of certain sorts of objects, subjects, and relating one to another in a fashion that leads to a certain structure that is arborescent in a certain sense, but is overwhelmingly able to resignify and restructure itself if one is careless. The relations at hand are multifarious, can be deconstructed and reversed with certain acts, the taking-on of certain forms, the means by which the spirits of the Forest interact with the human-as-such. When hunting game, a successful kill must be recognized and met with the repayment of the spirit masters. Conversely, making an offering is an attempt to draw out the same relationship, and Kohn describes how an unsuccessful attempt at this is described as “stingy” with the same tone directed at a politician who visited Ávila without any cigarettes or alcohol to give. These relationships take on the “forms” that Kohn describes as certain signifiers, certain carriers and arbiters of semiotic relationships, certain processes of meaning-making.
The structure of “form” in rising up into human construction is, I would argue, not an indication that there is something more basic than human apprehension and construction but rather the transfiguration of the landscape through a radical act of ecological restructuring, one that Kohn rightfully describes as emanating from outside the human but in part determined and overcoded by human forms, a certain conceptual formalism that he uses to describe the ways in which the naming and realization of forms takes place. He gives the example of the stick bug, and refers to it continually: it is named as such because it resembles a stick, an easy enough concept to understand. However, the stick bug was not born resembling a stick, was not created as a mimicry of a stick. Rather, the form-of-a-stick was imparted upon it gradually, through a flow of evolutionary moments, events, where the form-of-a-stick was mimicked by the bodies of its ancestors, and more stick-like ancestors tended to propagate. Some that looked less like sticks inevitably outlived and bred in spite of this, just as some that may have been incredible mimicries of sticks were eaten. The form is part of what Kohn describes as a process of Emergence in the Forest, where the form becomes clear.
Kohn’s “forms” can be incorporated into an analysis of what ecosystems fundamentally stand for, in describing emergent properties, the means by which one finds emergence as linked to processes of development and indeed, colonial hierarchy: the rubber boom structured the relations between colonizer and colonized, as well as intracolonial subjectivities, a kind of knot where an arboreal hierarchically emanated out from the mouth of the Amazon into the smaller and smaller tributaries of the river, each branch and each smaller and smaller division a reflection of the original, a kind of dissolution of hierarchy where form emerges as a higher order, independent from the order it is built upon, contained within, and yet unable to exist without the flow constituted by lower-level structures. As such, there is a continual process whereby the emergence of higher-order structures relies specifically upon lower-order ones that reflect, recognize, restructure themselves around those other flows in acts of resemblance. There is a blurring between exactly how one would apply the models of rizomality and arborescence in strict terms (a heartening thing, given that the strictness often imparted to application of Deleuzean notions of structure implies the very ontology that calcifies and stagnates the flows of schizoanalytic theory) but rather sees the continually resembling, tangled, mess-of-messes, collection of collections that the Runa describe a particular plant as, the disorder within mirroring the apparent disorder of the entire organism. The structure by which, then, this relates to ecological study, the understanding and demarcation of the ecosystem as a sort of form, as a collection of forms and interrelated objects, subjects, subjectivities requires an application of the Virtual as a demarcation of space.
Kohn describes the means by which “Amu” constitutes a notion that is not quite spirit, soul, or other terms applied to it in a kind of colonial determination, but rather a word that is far more like Dasein in its apparent-untranslatability: it is not unable to be translated, as such a notion requires a prescriptivist concept of direct linguistic correspondence, but rather that it holds a certain weight, a means of locating the self in regard to forms and their recognition, the emergence and recognition of forms within the relations of subjects and objects, subjects to one another through objects, the complexities of subjectivities related to one another without a direct contact, at a distance, through the kinds of contact that are created through processes of ecological change, revival, collapse. Kohn describes a “virtual realm of the masters” that is marked through a kind of digital location inside the forest, but reflected in emergence, in the understanding of forest as ecological hyperobject, as not just a present series of objects but in fact an emerging expanse that creates not only future, but the “in futuro” that is vital to the relationship between spirits and humans. It is in specific emergence, dictation of the possibilities of future and possible-possibilities, the expanding presence of potentiality in an ecosystem and the way in which the ecosystem reflects and restructures potential that emergence is understood. This is reflected, of course, in the rhetoric of necessity regarding discourses on ecological collapse. Radical changes to the very concept of ecosystem are needed in order to survive, but a strictly primitivist argument is one that largely misunderstands the means by which emergence in ecosystems presents not merely human as uniquely-human, but the interrelation of subjectivities through inter-species pidgins, the ordering of humans as not merely of a higher order than animals, but in fact of a lower order in relation to the spirit that is relayed through the animal to the higher-order human, the affirmation of the spirit-as-such far more “Real” than many metaphysics would allow. The “Real” then is in fact part of a hyperreal, a kind of simulacra of the ecosystem where understanding of it, the emergence of the ecosystem, is dictated by a relation of subject to object and moreover subjects within greater shared subjectivities such that it is through the emergence of these forms that the notion of civilization, colonization, collapse, and other changes in structure become comprehensible.
The complexity of the ecological as a sort-of-system, a larger structure signified by naming and confining it to singular ecological instances rather than a decentralized, rhizomal weight that is continually pulling down, that is realizing new emergent forms of collapse, producing-production from the greater structure of consumption-production as a first world luxury and third world necessity, the shifting means by which the two are understood as respectively salvageable and untenable, the neocolonialism of capitalist environmentalist ideology, all of this is part of an emerging structure wherein the forms of ecological collapse are dramatic, but cannot be understood without reference to their realization as part of a larger emergence. It is in certain relations that the emergence of the Forest is possible, just as it is in emergence that a larger ecosystem, a larger global body, can be understood. This body is marked, marked-as-one, understood specifically because of how it is able to be structured by subjectivity. Understanding how Forests think, how the relationships of individual experience create emergence far beyond the individual, understanding causality in a sense that opens up the domain of the spirit, of ritual and invocation, of shamanist thinking, the Virtual of the Spirits, is vital if one wishes to assert capitalist expanse, neoliberal ideology, the schizophrenic consumption of late capitalism.
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