Also in this scene they made poc dress as the natives too the white kids were the pilgrims, excluding Wednesday, and the nerdy boys. Wednesday acknowledged her privilege and shut that shit down.
Emotional And Expressive Photographs Showcased By The NYC Dance Project
Fashion and beauty photographer Ken Browar and dancer and photographer Deborah Ory are the founders of the NYC Dance Project have explored the world of dancers intimately through their lenses, documented in a book called the Art of Movement.
like! people always reference pride & prejudice as the archetypal “normal girl falls for mysterious brooding antihero” story but they overlook the part where lizzy drags darcy so fucking hard he leaves town and then apologizes for talking to her the next time they meet even though they’re at his literal house
why would i fuck a demon? simple, the status. imagine rolling up into hell already havin had ur back blown out by one of their own. imagine you and a gang of other losers standin at the gates of hell, they’re all crying, scared to death about having a pitchfork up their ass for eternity and you just walk into the arms of your sugar demon? legendary.
this post spoke to me on levels many of you will never understand
it is tiring, being endless political just as someone existing. my teacher asks me if i’m writing more of that “feminist poetry.” a lot of it is just talking about me, being a woman, being afraid in the city. i write about walking a line, about how i am expected to choose between home and work, how each comes with a slew of its own insults; how it feels when i am wearing shorts and there are too many men outside. these are just facts of my life. someone in the comments says, “where are woman even coming up with these crazy generalizations in their feminism?”
i hold hands with the prettiest girl i’ve ever seen and someone sighs when they see me. “do they have to make everything gay?” she asks her friend, loudly, “like, do you have to force those views in my face all the time?” i can’t stop blushing. my girlfriend holds my fingers tighter, tighter, tighter, until my knuckles are white, and i let her. somehow, this is us, protesting.
my father’s cuban blood stains my skin, i think. when i am honored with a position in the dean’s private council, a boy sneers, “you only got in because you’re hispanic.” did i? i spend the rest of our meetings wondering if i was selected for my stellar academic record, for the multiple recommendations, for the clubs i lead - or if i was just a move the dean made, to make use of me. when we all take a picture, the dean brings me in the front. in the first three we take, i am not smiling.
it is odd. “i exist.” i say, “i deserve to exist.”
“oh my god,” he groans, “we get it, you’re a feminist.”
You’re born with the ability to see a person’s internal pain as if it were a physical injury. Most people have at least a few scratches, while some people look like they’ve fallen off of cliffs. One day, you see someone in the worst state you’ve ever seen anyone before.
Their fingers were mangled, scars riddled their body, bruises made their skin look darker than it was originally. Their eyes swollen shut, their legs shouldn’t have been working. Yet there they were crooked nose, from so many times it had to have been broken. Cracked and split lips parting to the missing teeth. Broken arms moving as if nothing was wrong.
Tears streamed over the open wounds on their cheeks.
“Weclome to burger shop what can i get for you!” came their cheery question but i was too stricken to speak. Her warm smile and cheery voice were so drastically different from what looked to be a nearly decapitated corpse. With their skin peeling off their face slowly.
The vision shifted and once again they were “normal”
“Uhm… A number 4 with special sauce please.” you utter a distracted reply.
“Small medium or large?” they ask again uncommonly cheerful. Their eyes shining with a dull beakness that makes you feel like the abyss was calling for their soul alone.
“M-me-medium please.” you stutter.
“And will that be for here or to go?” they asked curiously.
“To go.” you says with more conviction while the cashier hands you your cup.
“Here you go love, that’ll be $6.57.” they smile at you; But all you see is the pain as their nose starts to bleed profusely, visions of convulsing and a silent scream of angish.
“Your drink?” the question breaks your concentration.
“Oh right thank you.” you mumble after giving her a 20$. “Please. Make sure you keep the change for yourself.” you insist. You get the feeling they need it…
They stare at the money you gave them in shock as actual tears start trailing down their cheeks.
“No… No… I cant accept this” they insisted counting the change and handing it back to you. “I have 2 other jobs. With how things are in this world, i can’t accept this.” they shake their head while you watch on in pity.
*pity*
Sniffing they shut the drawer and walk away before you could do anything more.
————–
“Welcome to burger shop what can i get for you?” you ask the next customer as they walk up to you with the saddest expression on their face, not just that but the blindness in one eye, a scar that trailed down his neck well under the collar of their shirt.the missing ear… The more you look the sadder they seem.
“Uhm… A number 4 with special sauce please” they smile softly but only for a brief moment as if doing so hurt them worse than if they didn’t.
“Small medium or large?” you ask as cheerfully as you can muster. Hoping to brighten up their day, if only a little bit.
“M-me-medium.” the stammer looking away as if they did something bad. Their hands shaking almost violently. Covered in blisters and shallow cuts.
“Here you go love. That will be $6.57” you smile at them while you reach over to pick the larger cup.
Its when they hand you the 20 and stare at you one blue eye moving to see you better that you pause.
Please… Make sure you keep the change for yourself.“ they says sincerely.
The first thing that runs through your mind is the lack of food in your fridge. This would put something in it… If only til next pay period.
However… You cant take this money. That would be selfish… Wrong…
No… No i cant accept this… I have 2 other jobs” you explain while hurriedly counting the change and printing out the receipt. You press it into their hand before they can protest and insist more.
Your heart racing while you try to shake away the thoughts of doubt, anger, confusion…
You want to cry, scream… You sit down in the break area and stare at the ceiling while the sounds of the kitchen fade in and out of focus for you. You have another shift at the other restaurant to get ready for.
A lot of ‘humans are weird’ posts play with the idea that humans are one of the few species that actually evolved as a predator and, as such, we are unusually strong and fast— but what if we’re not.
What if we’re tiny?
What if, to the majority of species in the galaxy, ten feet tall is unusually short— it basically only happens due to rare genetic conditions— and the average human is basically cat sized or smaller?
Instead of being terrified by our strength, the aliens’ most pressing concern is how exactly they’re going to communicate with us when we’re all the way down on the ground.
There are experiments, with aliens crouching low or humans standing on high platforms— but it usually ends up being either uncomfortable for the alien or dangerous for the human, or both, and just generally impractical for everyone.
But, while the diplomats and politicians are trying to figure out a dignified and simple solution, the ordinary people who actually have to work with the aliens have found one. Humans are, generally, pretty good climbers, and most species have conveniently places scales, feathers, fur or clothing that can act as a hand or foothold. Sure, some humans have a fear of heights, but those aren’t typically the ones going into space. Besides, climbing on a living alien often feels safer than climbing up a rock or something— at least you know you’ve got somebody to catch you.
Soon it becomes accepted that that’s the way humans travel with aliens— up high, easy to see and hard to tread on (there were quite a few… near misses, in the first few meetings between humans and aliens), balanced on somebody’s shoulder like the overgrown monkeys that we are.
Many humans see this as kind of an insult and absolutely refuse to go along with it, but they aren’t the ones who end up spending a lot of time with aliens— it’s just too inconvenient to talk to somebody all the way down on the ground. The ones that do best are the ones who just treat it like it’s normal, allowing themselves to be carried (at least, it’s ‘carrying’ when the aliens are within earshot. Among themselves, most humans jokingly refer to it as ‘riding’), and passing on tips to their friends about the best ways to ride on different species without damaging feathers, or stepping on sensitive spots (or, in at least one case, ending up with a foot full of poisonous spines…).
The reason they don’t feel patronised by this is that they know, and they know that nearly everyone else in the galaxy knows, that humans are not just pets.
After all, you’d be surprised when a small size comes in handy.
Need somebody to look at the wiring in a small and fairly inaccessible area of the ship? Ask a human.
Need somebody to fix this fairly small and very detailed piece of machinery? Ask a human, they’re so small that their eyes naturally pick up smaller details.
Trapped under rubble and need somebody to crawl through a small gap and get help? Ask a human— most can wriggle through any gap that they can fit their head and shoulders through.
If you’re a friend, humans can be very useful. If, on the other hand, you’re an enemy…
Rumours spread all around the galaxy, of ships that threatened humans or human allies and started experiencing technical problems. Lights going off, wires being cut— in some cases, the cases where the threats were more than just words and humans or friends of humans were killed, life support lines have been severed, or airlocks have mysteriously malfunctioned and whole crews have been sucked out into space.
If the subject comes up, most humans will blame it on “gremlins” and exchange grim smiles when they’re other species friends aren’t looking.
By this point, most ships have a crew of humans, whether they like it or not. Lots of humans, young ones generally, the ones who want to see a bit of the universe but don’t have the money or connections to make it happen any other way, like to stowaway on ships. They’ll hang around the space ports, wait for a ship’s door to open and dart on in. The average human can have quite a nice time scurrying around in the walls of an alien ship, so long as they’re careful not to dislodge anything important.
Normally nobody notices them, and the ones that do tend not to say anything— it’s generally recognised that having humans on your ship is good luck.
If there are humans on your ship, they say, then anything you lose will be found within a matter of days, sometimes even in your quarters; any minor task you leave out— some dishes that need to be cleaned, a report that needs to be spellchecked, some calculations that need to be done— will be quickly and quietly completed during the night; any small children on the ship, who are still young enough to start to cry in the night, will be soothed almost before their parents even wake, sometimes even by words in their own tongue, spoken clumsily through human vocal chords. If any of the human are engineers (and a lot of them are, and still more of them aren’t, but have picked up quite a few tricks on their travels from humans who are) then minor malfunctions will be fixed before you even notice them, and your ship is significantly less likely to experience any major problems.
The humans are eager to earn their keep, especially when the more grateful aliens start leaving out dishes of human-safe foods for them.
This, again, is considered good luck— especially since the aliens who aren’t kind to the humans often end up losing things, or waking up to find that their fur has been cut, or the report they spent hours on yesterday has mysteriously been deleted.
To human crew members, who work on alien ships out in the open, and have their names on the crew manifest and everything, these small groups of humans are colloquially referred to as ‘ship’s rats’. There’s a sort of uneasy relationship between the two groups. On the one hand, the crew members regard the ship’s rats as spongers and potential nuisances— on the other hand, most human crew members started out as ship’s rats themselves, and now benefit from the respect (and more than a little awe) that the ship’s rats have made most aliens feel for humans. The general arrangement is that ship’s rats try to avoid ships with human crew members and, when they can’t, then they make sure to stay out of the crew members’ way, and the crew members who do see one make sure not to mention them to any alien crew members.
The aliens who know, on the other hand, have gotten into the habit of not calling them by name— mainly because they’re shaky as the legality of this arrangement, and don’t want to admit that anything’s going on. Instead they talk about “the little people” or “the ones in the walls” or, more vaguely, “Them”.
Their human friends— balancing on their shoulders, occasionally scurrying down and arm so as to get to a table, or jumping from one person’s shoulder to another, in order to better follow the conversation— laugh quietly to themselves when they hear this.
Back before the first first contact, lot of people on Earth thought that humans would become space orcs. Little did they know, they’d actually end up as space fae.
Space fae… I love it… aliens would wake to a full hot breakfast ready… and maybe some missing currencies
