tall overprotective gay
I asked myself what style we women could have adopted that would have been unmarked, like the men’s. The answer was none. There is no unmarked woman.
There is no woman’s hair style that can be called standard, that says nothing about her. The range of women’s hair styles is staggering, but a woman whose hair has no particular style is perceived as not caring about how she looks, which can disqualify her for many positions, and will subtly diminish her as a person in the eyes of some.
Women must choose between attractive shoes and comfortable shoes. When our group made an unexpected trek, the woman who wore flat, laced shoes arrived first. Last to arrive was the woman in spike heels, shoes in hand and a handful of men around her.
If a woman’s clothing is tight or revealing (in other words, sexy), it sends a message — an intended one of wanting to be attractive, but also a possibly unintended one of availability. If her clothes are not sexy, that too sends a message, lent meaning by the knowledge that they could have been. There are thousands of cosmetic products from which women can choose and myriad ways of applying them. Yet no makeup at all is anything but unmarked. Some men see it as a hostile refusal to please them.
Women can’t even fill out a form without telling stories about themselves. Most forms give four titles to choose from. “Mr.” carries no meaning other than that the respondent is male. But a woman who checks “Mrs.” or “Miss” communicates not only whether she has been married but also whether she has conservative tastes in forms of address — and probably other conservative values as well. Checking “Ms.” declines to let on about marriage (checking “Mr.” declines nothing since nothing was asked), but it also marks her as either liberated or rebellious, depending on the observer’s attitudes and assumptions.
I sometimes try to duck these variously marked choices by giving my title as “Dr.” — and in so doing risk marking myself as either uppity (hence sarcastic responses like “Excuse me!”) or an overachiever (hence reactions of congratulatory surprise like “Good for you!”).
All married women’s surnames are marked. If a woman takes her husband’s name, she announces to the world that she is married and has traditional values. To some it will indicate that she is less herself, more identified by her husband’s identity. If she does not take her husband’s name, this too is marked, seen as worthy of comment: she has done something; she has “kept her own name.” A man is never said to have “kept his own name” because it never occurs to anyone that he might have given it up. For him using his own name is unmarked.
A married woman who wants to have her cake and eat it too may use her surname plus his, with or without a hyphen. But this too announces her marital status and often results in a tongue-tying string. In a list (Harvey O’Donovan, Jonathan Feldman, Stephanie Woodbury McGillicutty), the woman’s multiple name stands out. It is marked.”
Colours of Potter 1/50
↳ Sonam Kapoor as Rowena Ravenclaw
“Whatever the history books tell you, don’t listen to them. These wizards and witches, who believe themselves to be so progressive? They learned from their white counterparts. (Or perhaps it was the other way around.) Racism has always been present in the Wizarding World. It is just the privilege of the white that they don’t have to see it. We don’t have that privilege.
My initial research has revealed little of where this discrimination came from. Our people have been scrubbed from many of the records. Wizards travel much more than muggles do, but they think anyone they meet with skin darker than their own is “savage” and “uneducated”. They think their magic is better than anyone else’s.
They insist their Latin and Anglo Saxon spells are better than the Sanskrit spells that I know. They don’t understand that wands were made in Egypt long before white people had their hands on them. Two-way mirrors, flying carpets, astrology. All these things come from the lands these white people label as “backward”. They are so close-minded.
My father brought me to this country as a child. I was not even five years old. He had wanderlust after my mother had died and a thirst for knowledge. He thought there was much to learn from this small country. And there is! I do love it here. I love the harsh landscape, the mist that descends on the glens, the waves crashing on the rocks at the coast. As much as I long for India, I have fallen in love with this tiny place where my father brought me. This is why I suggested we build the castle near here.
I helped build this school to open young wizards’ and witches’ minds. No child is born racist. That’s what they say. I do believe that most of the time. I want to squash prejudice before it has the chance to take hold in their impressionable minds. I want to broaden their horizons. I want them to explore what they can do, and test and question what they think they know! They shouldn’t just be taught spells from their parents’ lap.
We have taken on such a huge task. These children are in our hands so we spent so long designing the school. It is our pride and joy. I spent hours designing the ever-changing floor plan, the secret passageways and the moving staircases. It inspires our students to be creative too. They can not only explore the castle here, but explore themselves.
There are two things that press constantly against my mind. One is the future of the school. After we are gone, will the castle fall to ruins? It is my dream for the legacy to last forever: generations of children being educated here. Finding a home, as Godric, Helga, Salazar and I all found. The second, which is much more important, is Salazar’s view on those from muggle families. The others and I are unsettled by him. I can feel the cracks forming in our relationship but I simply cannot let this go. I will not tolerate this kind of discrimination in the heart of the school. Who knows what it will lead to?
God knows what discrimination has led to in the past. I reverently hope that history will not repeat itself – but humans… we never seem to learn.”
– Extracts from Rowena’s notebook, 10th century AD.
OH GOODNESS. This is amazing.
There’s thousands of notes on posts about how unfair it is that there isn’t a wonder woman movie and now that its been officially announced nobody is talking about it?
Like Can I get at least a hell yeah?
[made rebloggable by request]
no but like
there’s a seraph who sleeps in the pews of the city’s churches because it’s the only place she feels comfortable stretching out her wings, feathers nearly blocking out the stained glass windows. At night, the prayers embedded in the stonework whisper to her, a litany of please and help and need, as inexorable and unceasing as the rattle of the subway beneath her.
and there’s an angel of the third sphere who plays pickup basketball with a young prophet—a young man who walks through metal detectors each morning to get to a high school where only fifty percent will graduate, but loves calculus and singing in church every Sunday. “Your jump shot’s insane, man,” the saint-to-be laughs, clapping the angel on the back, right between the wings. And the angel, who can see how the light catches on the young man’s halo, laughs too.
and there are ophanim sitting on the girders of half-built skyscrapers, unafraid of falling; passing sandwiches and thermoses of campbell’s soup between them, speaking in tongues about the traffic on I-90 and last night’s Bears game.
and Israfel sneaks away from celestial choir practice to attend concerts in the park, but he usually ends up absently sketching equations modeling the wavelengths into the grass. There’s an adjunct mathematics professor who sometimes attends, and afterwards they discuss hyperharmonic series in the gathering dusk.
angels in the public libraries, reading children’s books and touching the illustrations with just their fingertips, like beholding a sacred text.
angels moving along the cracks in the pavement and between the alleyways; going without fear into the worst neighborhoods, because they have walked in the valley of death and fear no evil—not even the mastery of it that humanity demonstrates through abject poverty, ignorance, social immobility.
angels glaring at potholes and rolling their eyes at delays (the work of the Deceiver, no doubt) and running to catch a subway that goes not even a hairsbreadth of the speed their wings could carry them.
angels looking up at the statues made in their image, grey forms on grey pedestals with granite wings, and snickering to themselves. (The artist missed a few hundred eyes, they think; mouths and limbs and grace and song and fire and flight—)
but then they gaze up at the brutalist skyscrapers with windows reflecting the flame-colored sunset and low-hanging exhaust, spindly radio towers forming a winking blue halo if you crane your neck just so. And the angels think maybe the humans caught a glimpse of the divine after all.
Elizabeth Minkel, in her article "Why it doesn’t matter what Benedict Cumberbatch thinks of Sherlock fan fiction"
OMG OMG this article, THIS FUCKING ARTICLE. THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU
everyone remember 10/17/14
the day tumblr messed up so badly they changed it back within 2 minutes