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filmfactors · 9 months

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opinion on hunter from toh

WARNING: I probably won't get all my thoughts across perfectly. Sorry it's honestly taken me awhile to get back to this anon, I did have thought's but couldn't quite catch myself in the mood to write em! Now let's get started:

Hunter is, by all means, a character I personally should've liked. I did at one point! The Golden Guard easily had my attention, he was sassy and I love my masked characters. It's what they started doing with him that made me less of a fan over time, that and I have a personal grievance with the fandom. Being the rare Belos fan I couldn't go into his tag without seeing it mostly about Hunter all the time.

Obviously I'll state I do not dislike Hunter for having a redemption, rather, it's how Owl House redeems characters that make's him as fascinating as plain white bread. What is this method?

Redemption = Lack of bite, a total lack of genuine flaws... and a reason why their actions can be blamed on someone else.

Let's bring in Amity as another example: Upon her introduction we see her bullying Willow, alone. When Understanding Willow comes around, we see that it's claimed it was her parents, and even later, just her moms fault. Inner Willow says 'you let your friends pick on her for years' but we don't acknowledge Amity did the exact same for no good reason.

Once Amity is redeemed, do we see the attitude? Do we see her hesitations with Willow? Do we even see her trying to make it up to Willow? I am not counting Labyrinth Runners for this because sure we got some closure but it doesn't fix the base issue. Any sort of Amity's actually negative flaws are erased once she is Luz's cool girlfriend.

It happens to Lilith, with her complexes, she never again expresses negative feelings that aren't easy and palpable. She's never superior or with attitude, and she only cursed her sister thinking it'd only be a day. That's a whole other can of worms though.

Point being, Hunter is the exact same. We can blame all his negative attributes on Belos, and once he's good he can no longer have any of those. He's not sassy, or fun, and admittedly is just kind of an angst machine.

I often feel the point of redemption is that it is nice to see someone who did bad things, get help or help themselves. The belief even bad people can change, because in the end they are still human. It's not fun when all your redeemed characters are simply 'misunderstood.' When you can push the blame off of them and instead place it on someone else. Owl House's message is that people are complex, but fails to deliver on this.

An easy comparison to make is Hunter is Zuko, but he's absolutely no Zuko. They both follow a similar principle, it was a family member that led them down the path of ruin. Yet Avatar understood that at some point down the line, your actions are your own. Zuko is conflicted, and hurting but he still does actions that hurt others. He has to apologize, make up for it, etc.

Now I'll say Zuko's redemption is not and has never been the end all be all for redemption. I have a whole slew of thoughts on the matter, point being is that Hunter was this type of redemption. It fails to be anything much other than making Hunter the resident sad but bad boy, and the shows punching bag.

At some point all of his angst was just egregious punching down, as in by Thanks to Them. Flapjack, the possession... it didn't need to happen. In fact it hardly effected anything at all! It just gave Hunter more trauma and powers, but what did it do for the story? Hunter is barely in the finale. I guess let's watch some Boscha and Kikimora hijinks instead?

Moving on from the general issue of Owl House's writing, what else can be said about Hunter? Well he is a screen time leech. Consider, an episode like Labyrinth Runners. Technically a Gus episode, but he once again takes a backseat for other characters. Just like his one other episode! Hunter for some reason knows Willow better than him as well, just for some shipping fuel.

All that to say I don't hate the concept of this episode, I really enjoyed the Gus and Hunter interactions! I find their friendship to probably be Hunter's most compelling relationship outside of Luz. It's only a problem for the fact Gus' whole character is tossed aside by the writers.

He sees Belos' memories, his traumas, etc- what does this lead to? Making Hunter feel better. Gus never actually gets to do anything despite all the set up of his illusion powers, his episodes are overtaken by someone else or a ship. I'll admit this is not just a Hunter problem, but it contributes a lot.

All in all once Hunter was introduced, it left Willow and Gus further on the back burner. No matter what you say, there is an obvious lack of use of these two. Speaking of them, or more specifically Willow:

I'm actually okay with the concept of huntlow! I do not think it's nearly as bad as people in the critical tag claim it to be. It was rushed and not well written, but I felt the writers were on the right track for the idea. However, there have been some pretty bad faith readings of the pairing. Mostly for folks claiming that she 'didn't start liking him until he had powers' which is blatantly untrue.

Willow may not blush at Hunter, the tell tale sign someone in Owl House has a crush. Yet I feel you can pick up on the fact she has an interest in him in Thanks to Them, notably a pre-Hunter powers episode. I won't claim it's extremely compelling, but it's simple and it's cute it just results in some messy things for the sake of ship fuel.

My biggest complaint is that yet again, Hunter steals Gus' role of being a good friend to Willow in For the Future.

I feel there is much more I could say on Hunter, and his character, but I'm bad at writing all my thoughts without specific questions to remind me...

Overall just take it as I dislike Hunter, while also thinking he's one of the better characters of the series. He's got all the right ingredients to make a good cake, but the writers kept adding too much vanilla extract.

#owl talk #toh critical #my biggest hot take is that they shouldve just rolled amity and hunters character into one #also if you bring up the cancelation im going to become a feral animal IK ABT IT but it doesnt change the fact they couldve managed #their time soooo much better

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drarrily-we-row-along · 3 years

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Day 5: Possessiveness

Draco had a lot of toxic traits, or so he'd been told. He'd dated enough men in the past five years to know that not much of his personality was what people were looking for in an ideal partner.

Two months ago, he had started dating Harry Potter. Yes. The Harry Potter. And he was quite determined to put all of the information about the unappealing parts of himself that he'd garnered from previous partners to good use. Harry was the best thing that had ever happened to him and he wasn't going to mess it up, thank you very much.

This was how he found himself, on his twenty-fourth birthday, telling his boyfriend that it was fine for him to miss his dinner party.

"Babe, I'm really sorry," Harry murmured, running his hand through his hair. "I know tonight is important-"

"Stop," Draco said, turning from the mirror he was using to watch himself finish his skin care routine, and leaning in to press a kiss to Harry's nose. "I can only be so gracious about it," he added.

Harry huffed a laugh.

"Just go," Draco said. "I know it's important."

"I could quit," Harry offered for the third time and something about that thought made the corner of Draco's lips turn up. "Sometimes I think this whole working for the Ministry thing isn't working out anyway."

"Go," Draco said, swatting him lightly with his towel. "It's okay."

"It's not," Harry replied.

It wasn't. His boyfriend missing his birthday dinner really sucked and Draco honestly felt quite bitter about it but Harry would never need to know that. "Go," he said again. "Then you can come back."

He felt quite proud that at this moment, he was keeping several of his toxic traits to himself. He'd kept the neediness at bay, kept the whinging at bay, kept the bitchiness at bay, and kept the possessiveness at bay.

Harry leaned in and gave him a kiss, wrapping his arms around Draco's waist, "What have I possibly done to deserve you?" he asked, and he said it so sincerely that Draco couldn't help but believe that he meant it even though there was no logical reason for him to. "I'll try to get back soon."

"What more could I ask for?" Draco asked, even as every part of him want to demand, and argue, and beg that Harry stay with him.

(More below the cut)

"A good deal, I'd imagine," Harry said wryly. "I know my work is a lot-"

"Yes," Draco agreed, "But you were very upfront about it when we started dating. It's not as though I didn't know something like this could happen."

Harry pressed a kiss to his forehead, "You're an angel. I will see you as soon as I possibly can slip away from this stupid function."

He gave him a little smile, "Best be on your way savior," he murmured.

With one last kiss Harry stepped into the fireplace and flooed to the ministry.

Draco counted to five before he let the displeasure he was feeling show on his face. He slumped back over to the mirror to look at himself. He was only able to wallow in self pity for a few minutes before there was a knock at the door.

He smoothed his features, you never could be sure who would come knocking at Harry's bedroom door in grimmauld place, it seemed like there was no end to the number of friends who simply made themselves at home here. "Come in," he called, keeping his voice chipper.

"Everyone decent?" Pansy said as she opened the door, carrying two flutes of champagne with her.

"It's just me," Draco replied, trying not to sound forlorn.

"Oh good," Pansy replied, nudging the door closed behind her and plopping down on the sofa. "And here I thought I was going to have to fight Potter to give me a few minutes alone with you. Where is he? Fetching you some cake?"

"Hardly."

"New shoes?"

He sighed, "He had to go to work."

"What?" she all but shrieked. "You tell me where he is right now and I will go and tell him-"

"I told him to go," he interrupted.

"But-"

"No," he said with a shake of the head. "No buts, Pans. I really like him and I'm not going to mess it up. Just," he sighed, "leave it, alright?"

Pansy gave him a pitying look, but thankfully let it drop.

---------

It was nearly midnight by the time the floo flared and Harry stepped back through. Part of Draco had wished that he'd just gone to bed before the other man got home so he didn't have to pretend that everything was fine.

"Hey," Harry said, making his way over to where Draco was on the couch. He sounded exhausted.

"Hi," Draco replied.

Harry leaned down and pressed a kiss to Draco's temple before sitting down next to him, "How was the party?"

"Fine," Draco replied. "Good."

Frowning, Harry groaned. "You're upset," he said. "I knew it. I'm so sorry, Draco-"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "It's fine. It's really-"

"It's not." Harry turned so he was facing Draco but Draco couldn't bring himself to look back. "I'm sorry, babe. This is all my fault, I should have told them no about that bloody fundraiser."

"Yes," Draco said sarcastically. "That would have gone over well, 'Sorry, I can't come to do a fundraiser for children orphaned during the war. It's my death eater boyfriend's birthday and he's a whiny, possessive bitch."

"I would never say that about you. I would never even think that about you!" Harry protested.

"I'm just saying, Harry, that you are their savior. And I am just your boyfriend."

He ran his fingers through his hair, tugging on the ends, "I don't want to be," he finally burst.

Draco paused, unsure what to say to that. Eventually, he settled on a careful, "Sorry?" Hoping against all odds that Harry wasn't about to break up with him.

"I don't want to be anybody's savior," Harry whispered. "I don't want to be the bloke who saved the world. I don't want to be a war hero. Most of the time I think I don't even want to be an auror; it's just what was expected."

"What do you want to be?" he asked carefully.

"Your's," Harry said, shrugging helplessly.

And the little monster that lived inside of Draco that told him to take, and claim, and hold, and all but smother his partners, raised its ugly little head.

"Sorry," Harry apologized, rubbing his hands over his face and not looking at Draco. "I know it's only been two months and it's a ridiculous thing to say but the only time I feel like me is when I'm with you."

Draco just stared at him, unable to speak, hardly able to even process what he was saying.

"I feel like I'm just Harry when I'm with you and I wish that instead of people thinking 'oh, that's Harry Potter, savior of the world,' that they'd think, 'oh, that's Harry Potter, he was clever enough to trick Draco Malfoy into wanting to be with him.'"

"What?" he whispered.

"Sorry," Harry apologized again, trying to backpedal. "I know, I'm making a mess of everything like always. I've jumped in too fast, and I'm too emotional, and I'm not what anyone thinks I should-"

"Harry," Draco said, finally looking at him, really looking at him. He looked as shattered as Draco felt. "Harry," he whispered again. "You are perfect."

"That's what I'm trying to tell you," Harry said, "I'm not-"

"I hear you," Draco said, hoping that he could convey his meaning and sincerity. "I mean that you are perfect, in all of your faults and flaws. In your sarcasm and the petty things you say about your coworkers, in your ranting and raving about our justice system, in the moments that you choose something you deem selfish like sleeping for an extra hour when you think you should be out doing more, in jumping in too fast and being too emotional, in all that you are, you are perfect."

"Draco," Harry breathed as though he couldn't believe what Draco was saying to him.

"You're not the one tricking me, Harry," he whispered, the confession making his heart ache. "I'm the one tricking you. I'm selfish and whiny. I'm petty and vindictive, and I want you all to myself all of the time. I-"

"Draco, I like those things about you," Harry said. "That little pout you get when I'm about to leave, the way you hold me just a little bit tighter when I tell you that I'm going to have to go soon. The petty little plans you have to inconvenience people at my job when they've annoyed me. And the way you're always putting your arm around me or holding my hand when we're in public, like you're so proud to be with me, like you're ready to fight off a slew of attackers at any moment."

"Admirers, more likely," Draco grumbled.

"I like that," Harry said. "I like your possessiveness."

"Really?"

He nodded and reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind Draco's ear. "Draco, can I be honest?" he asked.

"Always."

"I think I'm in love with you," he said. "And I know it's fast; you don't have to say it back or anything. I know that I-"

"I love you, too." Draco replied before another word could spill from the other man's mouth. "I love you, Harry."

Harry blinked at him, "Really?" he whispered.

Draco nodded and leaned in to give him a soft, short kiss. When he pulled back Harry stared at him with something akin to wonder on his face.

"Please never miss one of my birthdays again," Draco murmured.

Harry pulled him over until Draco was cradled in his arms, "Never," he promised. "Please stop hiding yourself from me," he asked in return.

"Same goes for you."

"Okay," Harry breathed.

And Draco thought this was the first step for both of them in becoming who they were meant to be.

Day 4: Jealousy | Day 6: Proposal

#drarry #day 5: possessiveness #thanks for the prompt anon!#I hope you enjoy #100 drarry drabbles in 100 days #drop me an ask with a word you'd like a ficlet for #drarry drabbles #drarry ficlets

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no-zenbot · 4 years

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My Mother’s Name is Bacardi

And she isn’t welcome in my life.

I had a dream the other night that my mother told me I was worthless and throwing my life away. That I wasn’t living up to my potential. I told her to go fuck herself.

I woke up at 5:55 am to use the bathroom. She had sent me a text message at 5:51.

For some more background: the last time I had any contact with my mother was back in March when I returned home from Chicago during the pandemic. The purpose of that email was solely to let her know that my husband and I were safe and nothing more. The last text message between us was from her in May of 2019. My point is; we aren’t in contact regularly, nor do we text.

This whole thing left me scratching my head. Do we have some kind of connection? If we do I sure as shit don’t want it.

I will start off with this so I am clear: My mother is not a bad person.

I am well aware of the fact that she is human. She is allowed to have flaws and be a person. She isn’t JUST my mother. There are things about her but I also feel like that is a good thing. I honestly don’t want to know ALL about everything she has ever gone through.

However, my mother is also an alcoholic and she has been my entire life. In fact, it is one of the many reasons my parents got a divorce.

I have been struggling the last 24 hours to decide if I should respond to her text message. Someone I don’t know very well told me the polite thing to do would be to respond. I countered that the polite thing to do would be to not drunk text your child at 5 am.

I am reminded of the scene from Notting Hill where Hugh tells Julia to have some perspective and she says “You’ve been dealing with this shit for a few minutes, I’ve been dealing with this for years. Our perspectives are very different.”

And it is true. Small coils of bullshit become a much bigger mounds of bullshit to deal with when it has been piling up for decades. Just toss it on the top of the heap with the rest of the steaming dung. A hill of things that cannot be dealt with and isn’t useful to anyone or anything.

Don’t get me wrong. I tried. I tried so hard to be the tough love, supply the firm support she needed. Handed her truths about life and how I saw things and how I saw her (you are flawed but we all are, you have a choice to make) and nothing works. She is set on being a victim. On having the “good time” she so “deserves.” The honest truth here is that my feelings, needs, wants, desires, have not been on her radar for a very very long time, if ever.

If we want to be even more honest I don’t even know who she is. I don’t have a relationship with my mother and I never have. I have had a relationship with alcohol. I have a mother and her name is Bacardi.

There is, of course, more to all of this. If you have grown up with an alcoholic parent you know what it is like to grow up without stability and structure. You know what it is like to only allow yourself to display the safe emotions which are dictated by the alcoholic at all times. Don’t be sad but for fuck sake don’t be too happy either. You learn from an early age that pretty much any problem you have is a HUGE burden on them. It often leads to meltdowns and breakdowns over how hard life is. How little money there is. How stressful it makes THEIR life. So what do you do? You wear your socks and shoes until there are holes in them. You don’t turn in your lunch money at school and don’t eat. You hide how you are feeling by sneaking food at home and other people’s houses because you are, in fact hungry. You eat when you aren’t hungry because if you don’t you suffer through endless questioning from your drunk mother about if she cooked for you properly.

You make yourself sick and obese. You almost develop cancer at 24. You move over 4,000 miles away to decompress and almost 10 years later you still haven’t managed to.

You realize that your inability to handle even the smallest things in life are because everything was turned into a massive fucking deal. No matter how small everything was blown up into some huge drama that was painful to overcome. Never once in my life was I told “Hey, it’s ok! We can handle this.” NOT.A.SINGLE.TIME.

I remember once my mother lost the password for her bank account and when I couldn’t figure it out (because there isn’t the ‘forgot password?’ link...) she had a meltdown and told me that we would be evicted and it was all my fault.

When I was eleven my sister decided the fun thing to do would be to call our house and leave a message on the answering machine that included a whole slew of swear words. She then blamed it on me. I had to listen as my mom flipped out about us knowing such words and how she didn’t know the word “fuck” until she was raped at the age of 13. Full blown crying, yelling meltdown. At her 11 year old. This was after I had been molested by a friend’s father, mind you.

I could go on and on about the trauma I suffered as a child of an alcoholic. I doubt I could even name all of the ways in which she scarred me. But trust me when I say the list would go on and on.

After speaking with my other friend, one that is way better versed in my history he was like “block her number.” I had totally forgotten that I can actually block a number from texting me. For some reason I had it in my head that I could only block people from calling me.

I told him that I don’t have anything to say to her that would result in the outcome I desire. I’ve said everything I have to say and I am done.

Boundaries are good. You do NOT have to be polite to anyone who has treated you poorly. Not when it jeopardizes your mental health.

I guess the good thing that came out of this is that I am done being silent about all the things I suffered through as a child. I am done protecting people who very obviously do not give a shit about what I want, need, or desire.

I am chill, but I’m no zenbot.

#adult children of alcoholics #trauma #emotional abuse #bad parenting #childhood trauma #alcohlism #boundaries #self care #spilled truth

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sixgoldensuns · 5 years

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Murphy’s Law

It seems like everything is working against me.

In the first week, I did not understand how the car’s immobilizer worked and I couldn’t get my car to start- twice. Stranded, I sent it to the nearest mechanic and had to get it serviced. “That’s okay”, I told myself. “It’s probably for the best to make sure everything is fine”. $200. Then I was told that I needed to send it to another mechanic to get the air conditioner checked out because they couldn’t do it. So I did- I sent my car to the OTHER mechanic and it turned out that it would cost a fortune to get it fixed up. Defeated, I spent the three weeks driving in Broken Hill’s 41 degree summer heat. I remember there was once it was so hot that I only had about four fingers on my steering wheels the whole time.

In the second week, I developed a sharp, radiating pain in my right foot that was so painful it woke me up at night. I had no panadol with me and the pharmacy was closed. “Oh great”, I sighed and grit through it. I had a peek into a life where I lived with chronic pain. As my tiredness overpowered my pain, I tried to make light of the situation, thinking “Guess God likes me fat. So much for being healthy and going for a run!”. When I finally cobbled to the GP the next morning, I was told to get an ultrasound to find out what was wrong. When I made my way to the radiologist, I was told I had to wait a day to get an appointment to do the scan. I survived on painkillers to get through the day. When I finally got in to do the scan, I was told that I had to wait at least a week to get an appointment with the doctor to review the scan. “No wonder mortality rates are so much lower!”, I muttered under my breath and I continued to limp everywhere. I lamented about how much I missed Singapore and Sydney and the relative efficiency of the healthcare system. Thankfully, by God’s grace, it resolved itself in a few days.

In my third week, I haven’t gotten any notice of my placement allocation and started to worry. I sent an e-mail enquiry and was told that if I haven’t already been allocated, the chance of being allocated would be “unlikely”. This made it difficult to plan and move my life forward. I made a choice to shift myself into the semester, albeit not my first choice, and comforted my heart that it meant I would be able to spend more time with family. I also tried to sell my car off this week. Within seconds of posting up an ad for my car, someone enthusiastically replied. She seemed genuine and sincere. It was a lovely, middle-aged couple, who wanted to buy a car for their son. They came to view the car, and asked if it was okay if I could put it on hold for 24 hours and for them to get a mechanic to check it out. “Of course!”, I replied. Anything for a sincere buyer. When he returned my keys, I asked, “How was the car?” and my heart sank when he said, “Unfortunately, we wouldn’t be purchasing it.” He proceeded to point out all of the flaws in the car. He was really kind and nice about it, reassuring that it was “no fault of mine” repeatedly, and he was just attempting to make me aware of the true condition of the car. But at some level, I seem to take it all personally. I felt being called out for poor judgment and not being more judicious with my purchase. I felt like my trust in the previous buyer in not revealing the whole truth was betrayed too. I began to get anxious and worried about not being able to sell off the car before I left. I put up more ads, and I got many replies- offering less than half of what I was asking. I even had a scammer e-mail me. Even through that I prayed that God would help me respond in kindness and love. I wrote him back and said that if he needs a listening ear, he could email me. Eventually I sold it at a great loss. I comforted my heart again, “At least it was way cheaper than what you would have paid for if you rented a car! And at least you did get rid of it before you left! And at least the buyer was really kind, nice and really likes the car!”

In the fourth week, I called in with the airline to try to change my return flight to Sydney after discussion and thinking through what the best course of action would be. What appeared to be a straightforward task that could be resolved in 5 mins, turned out to be a nightmare of repeated explanations of the situation to a myriad of customer service officers, being placed on endless hold, and a slew of bad news- I have to pay close of $500USD just to change my return flight; I could actually buy a round trip ticket with less. I didn’t understand the logic of everything. I was confused, hurt. I just wanted to go home. I just wanted to spend more time with family.

Through all of this, I resolved to remain calm and patient. I resolved not to let my anger get the better of me. These people, though the bearer of bad news, had no part to play in it. I resolved to show love and grace. I prayed over all these with which I struggled. I submitted them in prayer. I asked God to help me. With each hurdle, I thought, “As long as I take it into my stride, focus on things I can change and surrender to God things that I cannot control, things will pick up”.

But it didn’t.

Another wave of bad news. Chaos, confusion, grief and slowly, anger seeps in. “What did I do wrong?” was the question I asked myself. It seemed as if I was making up excuses for God and his “bad behavior”. It became difficult to trust that God works for the good of His people when I felt so abused by life and all its circumstances.

After receiving the news of the situation with my flights this morning, I felt completely overwhelmed and cried. I wondered if God saw how hurt I was and if He was going to do anything about it. I wondered if God knew how hard I have been trying to love others, and trusting in His will and direction in my life. I wondered if He knew how confused I was with all that was happening.

And then the song playing over my earphones reminded me

What if your blessing comes through rain drops? What if your healing comes through tears? What if a thousand sleepless nights are what it takes to know You’re near? What if trials of this life are Your mercies in disguise We pray for wisdom, Your voice to hear We cry in anger when we cannot feel You near We doubt Your goodness, we doubt Your love As if every promise from Your word is not enough And all the while, You hear each desperate plea And long that we’d have faith to believe.

I wiped my tears and allowed for the gentle comfort of the truth to soothe me. I will continue to trust and have faith that God knows and sees more than I do. That even when it feels like the whole world is working against me and I am completely overwhelmed right now, my all-knowing God knows and will use it in ways that are beyond me and my understanding.

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jackblankhsh · 7 years

Text

Inauguration of a Nightmare -- building the avalanche

JANUARY 20, 2017– the resistance begins

Sirens randomly wailed as emergency vehicles screamed towards grim scenarios. For any city native it’s a common sound, though one is tempted to call it foreshadowing. A palpable dread pollutes the dreamlike atmosphere of this fog shrouded metropolis. Any other night it might feel like the start of adventure and perhaps it still does, though one can’t help feeling what lies ahead is too dark to enjoy. Yet, it’s the perfect time for Chicago to feel ethereal. The last few months have certainly felt unreal.

In that time America elected a new president. By many standards the man is barely human. A mass of congealed hate and rotted dumpster meat wrapped in ruby cheeked Peking duck skin, cloaked in a miasmic aura of narcissism, dishonesty, and the kind of childishness one hopes never to see in a world leader; there are many facets to this wicked pig. Like a matryoshka doll many entities exist within his soul: the Twitter crazed tantrum throwing teenager, world’s most successful conman, the unstoppable pussy grabbing hand rapist, demagogue extraordinaire, and gold plated plutocrat. His obvious flaws caused Olympic grade mental gymnastic in many of his followers, while he fought hard to ultimately lose the popular vote, yet still become president.

So on the night of his inauguration thousands gathered in Chicago. In Washington protesters assembled for the event itself, but they got off on the wrong foot. Violence erupted, and though brief, it tainted the message. The goal of these protests is not to spill blood, or burn the world, it’s to avoid silence. Activists want to show where they stand: against what is coming. This is especially necessary now given Trump’s pathological lying, and routine desire to rewrite history for his benefit. Even after winning the election he found it so implausible that he lost the popular vote he began alleging voter fraud. Not only does he operate under the delusion the country loves him he thinks reality is open to revision, particularly if it doesn’t match the fantasy in his head. That’s why people are gathering in order to leave a mark which cannot be denied.

Walking there, distracted by bleak visions of tomorrow – Vlad and Donnie raping Lady Liberty while dead eyed Stepford wife Melania watches, waiting to be told what to think, and press secretary Spicer prepares alternative facts to explain the grotesquery favorably – I wandered down the wrong street. Instead of joining at the designated assembly point, Wabash and Wacker, I strolled down an empty avenue cordoned off by a smattering of cops. However, police made no move to stop a solitary oddity drifting with the trickle of 9-to-Fivers. I blended in, and got a chance to observe the cops in waiting.

Chicago police have a long history with protests, not all of it good, but in that time they’ve learned a thing or two. Instead of trying to herd the rally they simply fortified the only target of assault. The odds of anyone getting within spitting distance seemed improbable, and because I beat them by chance I will eternally regret not taking the opportunity to hork a wad of phlegm at the building. An officer moved a barricade aside to let me out of the area, complimenting my sideburns as I passed. It made me wonder about their feelings. Some may not have voted for him, but are now ordered to protect his property like dutiful centurions. One can only hope that given a crisis of conscious, a moment that requires humanity not slave devotion to orders, they’ll do the right thing. But for now they simply want the night to pass peacefully. They aren’t alone.

Demonstrators assembled loosely, crowding into a tighter collective by Kupcinet Bridge. There to shout across the river at the name TRUMP glowing in blue tinted lights. Among the masses a throng of musicians calling themselves Sousaphones Against Hate provided an odd soundtrack to the evening’s events. One doesn’t think of sousaphones when picturing a protest, but they added a flavor to the affair more clichéd choices would not. There’s something about a brass band playing “The Imperial March” – it put a smile on the face of a man dressed as a nuclear missile, his costume chillingly implicative, but given the music one could only grin as well.

Homemade signs declared the litany of grievances against President Trump from his failures as a human being and business person to his grotesque, undesirable political agenda. It’s unnerving to watch a young woman hold up a sign in hopes of reminding the world she’s deserves decent treatment because she doesn’t expect it in Trump’s America. After all, she isn’t the right color, or on the right side, literally and figuratively, though it is heartening to witness so many gathered to stand with her.

Amidst the activists at least two different publications vied for attention. Handed for free to any who wanted them, one extolled the virtues of socialism, the other communism, while both asserted this presidency is the fault of capitalism. Some took the papers gladly, though a few accepted them with a roll of the eyes destining them for the trash can unread. Wandering the crowd I picked up discussions as protesters tried to comprehend how this reality came into being. Everyone seemed to subscribe to their own theories which tended to lean toward their personal cause. African Americans asserted racism as a primary factor in Trump’s win, while many women blamed sexism, but it’s important to note no one dismissed anyone else’s idea… except for one young man jabbering a slew of Orwellian weed tangled gibberish. Many politely ignored him. The point being that under a microscope everyone there clearly believed in a different cause, specific to their personal lives, yet those factors go somewhat to the wayside as activists assembled to resist the new president.

A problem with contemporary protests is that everyone wants to come together as one but be heard individually. Of one goal, demonstrators expect to be heard in multiple voices, each distinguishable from the whole. This results in a garbled message. However, that didn’t happen here. Whatever a person’s reasons, everyone came to protest Trump. And that message came across.

That made it sad when the various local news outlets seemed reluctant to record anything. I watched camera operators fiddle with equipment, but not shoot a thing. They swapped idle chit chat waiting for, I can only assume, something unpleasant. Riots are ratings gold after all. I thought maybe they wanted to wait until the crowd reached a more sizable proportion, but honestly, the mass never reached anything critical. Though thousands may’ve come a casual glance could tell the number easily stayed below ten, possibly even five… or dare say two. Friday’s rally didn’t have an astonishing turnout, though Saturday would demonstrate perhaps many merely opted to wait to march in solidarity with the women of America.

Still, this is a new era. Reliance on old media is unnecessary. I saw several in attendance recording, live streaming, photographing and video documenting the event. The regular news may not have covered Friday’s protest in-depth, but the irregular new news, beamed out across social media, spoke volumes.

The night started. Chants kicked up then died down, not enough voices joining in. An organizer shouted into a crackling PA system that occasionally cut out, her voice vanishing before returning midsentence in a cloud of static. Volunteers passed out chant sheets, so anyone in attendance would know what to say. Glancing over one I noticed a preponderance of, “2, 4, 6, 8…” followed by rhymes like, “No more violence, no more hate.” After an hour, though, standing around felt like doing nothing, so I went into Hoyt, a nearby hotel tavern. Also I needed to piss.

Inside I found a pair of bottle blondes taking selfies, giggling over white wine without a care in the world. Most eyes glued to the Hawks game on TV. A few tourists glanced out the windows, and as if for the first time noticed the protesters choking the street. They speculated about what could be happening. It didn’t seem clear despite the “fuck Trump” signs and mass of humanity shouting anti-Trump rhetoric. Then in true tourist fashion they hurried to the windows to snap pics, capturing real world souvenirs.

Then midway through a refreshing Scotch I saw the protesters start marching. I slammed the contents of my glass, and hurried outside.

“This is it!” I thought, “The resistance has begun!”

Rushing to catch up I saw the demonstrators halt at Michigan Avenue. Anticipating the attempt police stood ready to hold the movement back. So for a time the protest seemed destined to merely pinball between two streets until a group of activists turned the flow towards the river walk.

Anxious to storm the Tower, the march poured down the concrete steps. Hurrying to lower Wacker the maneuver seemed naïve. Surely police must’ve anticipated such a move, though in fact they didn’t need to. As already mentioned, barricades stood preventing anyone from getting close enough to piss on the gutters out front. But motion feels like action, so the bulk of protesters surged onward. Signs held aloft elicited honks of support from passing motorists. Cheering, feeling rejuvenated, on the road to success, the march circled like a shark.

It was then I saw a couple pausing from the protest to take a picture. Passing by the infamous Billy Goat Tavern, a boyfriend photographed his girlfriend. She posed to have, not only the landmark, but her sign in the photo as well. The march slowly getting away from them, while they made sure to get the right shot.

Shortly afterward I heard two demonstrators talking:

“Which street do we turn down to get to Trump Tower?”

“The next one?”

This exchange taking place a block after the relevant street. I thought about directing them, but momentum seemed in favor of simply wandering the streets, shouting for attention. When an organizer cried out, “We’re going to Lakeshore Drive!” trying to corral the herd to the Chicago landmark I departed from the march. Gumming up LSD with protesters has become a predictable move in recent years. It felt like the obligatory song of a one hit wonder trying to win back fans drifting to the exit. Make no mistake, the spirit is willing, the flesh is not weak, but the movement is already fatigued.

Every day is a fresh pot of awful drunk choking back vomit. This weekend’s protests are important, but they are more indicative of what’s to come rather than anything expected to effect change. It would take god-sized optimism bordering on lunatic naivety to presume protests alone will unseat this “man.” This is only the beginning.

Now that it’s proven a call to action can assemble the masses it’s time to consider the next move. It isn’t enough to simply get people together. Protests, after all, are more symbolic than effective. Their main accomplishment is proving there is a movement, but they have to have an impact on something other than awareness of said movement.

A friend of mine put it best, and if I may paraphrase: it starts with a snowflake building to an avalanche. We now need the avalanche.

#honestyisnotcontagious #politics #not trump #notmypresident #writing #op-ed #inauguration2017 #political #political commentary #chicago #whyimarch

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