This post was triggered by something that @roachpatrol said over here about the expectation for girls to be sweet and clean and harmless:
Holy shit, if I was eight years younger and wandering into fandom for the first time, I can guarantee that the culture right now would’ve fucked me up and ground me down and taken away all my healthy outlets.
Picture: you are a girl at the tender young age of mumbledyteen. Up until this point you have been taught that all dark thoughts are literally hand-delivered into your head by the devil, and that the only correct method of dealing with negativity is to ignore them and pray harder. Concentrate on what is good and righteous and pure to the exclusion of all else, this is how you be a good person.
You are also a fully-functioning human being, one who can feel stressed or lonely or angry or any number of bad things. Mostly, with emotions that are still working themselves out, you feel this rumbling, white-hot white noise under everything, all the time. Sometimes it rolls in like a thunderstorm and everything else gets drowned out, and sometimes it’s only quietly muttering in the distance. Either way it’s always there, and the sound shreds uncomfortably at the inside of your brain.
When you were younger, before you were in charge of your own media consumption, your brain would shred up a myriad of saccharine stories to try and match the noise of the shredder in your head. Bad things happening, people getting hurt, characters trapped in unhealthy relationships of all kinds.
Fanfiction, the product of a hundred thousand other mumbledyteens whose brains are all screaming the same way, makes something in your brain go ping.
Unfortunately, if the planet had ever been united on any single message, it was probably that no matter how you feel: 1) your feelings weren’t unique 2) they didn’t matter 3) they didn’t matter because they weren’t unique, they were shared among millions of hysterical, worthless teenaged girls just like you.
Fandom was confirmation of the first, but (with some hiccups along the way) outright rejection of the last two. Fuck you, our feelings do matter, and this is a story just for us.
A disclaimer: these aren’t good stories, otherwise they wouldn’t have to be defended. Their flavor of topic is not within societally acceptable bounds. Fictional characters have sex and get tortured and raped and abused, but their screaming harmonizes with the pitch of the shredder when it’s burrowing deepest.
As a teenager I never thought that my feelings were important enough to deal with, but these stories let me look at them sideways. Audience catharsis is the whole point of tragedy, after all.
And hell, these days I’m a happy, healthy adult who barely even has the urge to go looking for whump fic when I’ve had a bad week. I’m not going to forget just how much bad stuff that fic helped me air out, though, not ever. (Not to mention that thanks to all of those abuse!fics, I can recognize an unhealthy relationship at 500 paces, even if the fictional abuse was depicted as something loving and romantic. Abusers in real life don’t go around with helpful warning tags on their sleeves anyway.)
But holy shit, can you imagine if I’d found fandom as it is today.
Yes, your church is right, your family is right. Horrible things in stories are only there because they were written by horrible people, and they’re only popular because horrible people read them. The very concepts they address corrupt everything they touch.
That shredder in your head, the one that takes innocent cartoons but then shits out sadness and mayhem? That’s disgusting, you’re disgusting. How dare you think about minors having underaged sex, you minor? How dare you consider another person getting hurt? Your feelings don’t matter, they aren’t unique, they’re shared with all kinds of worthless shitbags just like you.
Every ounce of what you read and write and enjoy is going to be weighed for sin and tested for purity. You know, just like the rest of your life, except this time there’s no deity who’s handing out second chances.
Maybe that’s what bothers me most about all of this. It’s the same petty fandom bullshit as always, but “you’re wrong for liking a ship because IT WILL NEVER BE CANON” is a hell of a lot easier to laugh off when you’re young than “you’re wrong for liking a ship because YOU’RE AN ABUSIVE PEDOPHILE AND IF SOMETHING BAD HAPPENS IT’S YOUR FAULT FOR PERPETUATING IT.”
My fault, my bad thoughts, no outlet for any of them. The message to repress all the bad things so I can look like a good person, but my brain is so full of unprocessed shit that it’s solidified. Nobody actually saved any real children, but my brain sure is getting a second dose of fucked-up.
Are the people getting attacked going to be okay, will they be able to go and address their braingremlins somewhere else? I’d also ask if the people doing the attacking are okay, with all of the denial and repression they must deal with, but it seems like they’ve got venting pretty well handled by taking it out on strangers.
Hey, c’mon, calm down friends. I bet I’ve read a story that’s got a character screaming at just the same pitch you are.
It helps to read one of those and harmonize your voices, I promise.
holy shit, dude, this is powerful. i’ll delete this reblog if you don’t want the extra attention, but thank you for your thoughts.
Roachpatrol speaks my mind on this matter.
Posting because I know so many traumatized people, and so many of them just really need to see this, right now, for so many reasons.
“Audience catharsis is the whole point of tragedy, after all.”
A thousand times yes. This, some scholars believe, WAS the point of Greek tragedy. It wasn’t for teaching specific lessons (don’t do this or that will happen), it was for creating pity and fear. Pity is, of course, feeling badly for the characters you’re watching/reading. Fear is the understanding that these things can happen to you, or things like them, and that you may not necessarily be able to protect yourself from it. You may never accidentally kill your father and marry your mother, but you can watch Oedipus do it, see his downfall, and empathize with the kind of human frailty that caused him to try to outrun fate in the first place. Empathizing with him doesn’t mean you want to off your dad, it means you have made and will make mistakes too, that were based on consequences you hadn’t foreseen, and his distress resonates with yours. This pity and fear is what causes the emotional purging we know as catharsis.
Furthermore, Nietzsche (yes we’re citing Nietzsche too) basically considered tragedy a dress rehearsal for real-life suffering; if we see, say, a fictional character in great pain, when we are faced with great pain it’s easier to see that we can survive it too, that we have survived bad things and we are capable of surviving more of them. Even if it doesn’t end well. Because suffering is human, and we are humans, and human life can go on in the face of great suffering.
So yes, I read and created dark horrible fic, that is not directly related to the horrible things I have experienced (I have never been abducted by strexcorp or forcibly reeducated or kept in a lab with abusive creators), and I feel pity and fear for the characters and I recognize that I have seen some shit, and that they have too, and that all people have. Was Sophocles a sick incest creeper for writing Oedipus Rex? Or was he just giving us a chance to purge intense, and intensely human, emotions?
(source: my primary partner, who has been teaching Greek drama at NYU for more years than he’d care to admit; any remaining mistakes are my own but if you come at me with “hubris is just pride” i will fight you.)
(ETA fixed spelling of Nietzsche; autocorrect why are you like this)
This. This. A quintilian times this.
me, anytime i see a superhero’s female love interest: GOD I’M GAY
one of the more valuable things I’ve learned in life as a survivor of a mentally unstable parent is that it is likely that no one has thought through it as much as you have.
no, your friend probably has not noticed they cut you off four times in this conversation.
no, your brother didn’t realize his music was that loud while you were studying.
no, your bff or S.O. doesn’t remember that you’re on a tight deadline right now.
no, no one else is paying attention to the four power dynamics at play in your friend group right now.
a habit of abused kids, especially kids with unstable parents, is the tendency to notice every little detail. We magnify small nuances into major things, largely because small nuances quickly became breaking points for parents. Managing moods, reading the room, perceiving danger in the order of words, the shift of body weight….it’s all a natural outgrowth of trying to manage unstable parents from a young age.
Here’s the thing: most people don’t do that. I’m not saying everyone else is oblivious, I’m saying the over analysis of minor nuances is a habit of abuse.
I have a rule: I do not respond to subtext. This includes guilt tripping, silent treatments, passive aggressive behavior, etc. I see it. I notice it. I even sometimes have to analyze it and take a deep breath and CHOOSE not to respond. Because whether it’s really there or just me over-reading things that actually don’t mean anything, the habit of lending credence to the part of me that sees danger in the wrong shift of body weight…that’s toxic for me. And dangerous to my relationships.
The best thing I ever did for myself and my relationships was insist upon frank communication and a categorical denial of subtext. For some people this is a moral stance. For survivors of mentally unstable parents this is a requirement of recovery.
A young traveller and his two companions had reached a great city. Stopped by guards, all three were taken to the city’s palace. The old king was a madman, but could see that the traveler was a true warrior.
“Throw them a feast!”, he ordered, and it was done.
While the traveller ate, the king looked down upon him, and concluded that he was indeed a hero above all others. To test him, however, the king would have to put him through three trials. When the traveller refused this, the king grew cross and took his companions captive until he complied.
First, the boy had to fetch a golden key from beneath a waterfall. The boy succeeded, but when he requested that the king to set his friends free, he refused.
The second task was to find the king’s hare. The boy, thinking this easy enough, found a small hare without any interference. Suddenly, a beast came into view, and charged at the boy, startling the hare and sending it off into a panicked sprint. They boy chased the hare until in escaped into a hole in the wall, and was left cornered by the charging beast. It was only then that the boy realized– the beast was a large hare itself! The giant hare’s manner instantly changed to that of a mild pet’s, and the boy returned it to the king.
“I am ready for the next challenge,” he announced.
For the third task, the king pointed to his right side, where stood a wicked looking man with an iron claw and a scythe, and then to his left, where stood a large warrior with an axe.
“Your final test is a duel,” explained the king. “You may choose your opponent.”
The boy looked from the metal armed man to the the giant, and made his decision.
“I choose you!” he declared, pointing to the feeble old king.
The king’s eyes widened, then fell into a grin.
“Wrong choice.”
The king threw off his robes, and he was fuckin ripped son,,
so anyway that’s the plot of the 5th episode of Avatar: The Last Airbender
Consider: Jim, in the early days of his relationship with Spock, genuinely worried that he loves Spock more than Spock loves him, because he loves Spock so much, and Spock is still learning how to navigate his romantic impulses and Jim reads that as reluctance. And besides, why would Spock love him when he’s the exact opposite of everything Spock seems to value?
And then Spock, in the early days of their relationship, genuinely worried that he loves Jim more than Jim loves him because Spock runs on 100 percent devotion and he doesn’t do anything halfway and when he looks at Jim he sees forever and he’s so worried that, to Jim, this could be some passing fancy. Besides, why would Jim stay with him when he could have literally anyone?
But they’re also intelligent, perceptive nerds who are too in love with each other to function but know each other better than anyone in the universe, so Spock learns to make concessions and begins to call Jim Vulcan words of endearment that mean a great deal but don’t come off as outwardly emotional so they allow him to be himself; and Jim begins to prove to Spock that he’s in this for the long haul by introducing him to his parents over video, and insisting they keep clothes in each others’ closets (even though their rooms are right next door, it’s the thought that counts).
And anyway, after a while they just stop worrying so much because every moment together is a subtle confirmation that this is real and it’s theirs and it’s okay to love like this because that love is returned, in all its overwhelming intensity and in its own unique ways.
jack tends not to get drunk on purpose very often, so when he’s the DD/only sober guy hanging out with the crew, he’s come to notice the weird but distinct drunk personalities of all his friends and has even named them:
bitty gets 110% more southern and 110% less filtered after a few drinks. he calls everyone out on their shit, dances super provocatively (RIP jack), and uses idioms that literally no one else in the room can understand. jack calls this persona Moomaw, because he’s met the actual Moomaw and the similarities are many and frankly disturbing. bitty hates him a little for it, and withholds kisses until jack stops calling him that. (out loud, that is)
lardo remains very much herself – quiet, confident, mysterious – until someone falls over or says something dumb and then she literally Ron Swanson giggles for twelve minutes straight. he calls this the Gigglemonster and Lardo does NOT know about this because she would probably kick him in the shins for it if she did
ransom’s the rare, lucky Happy Drunk. everything is great all the time and god everyone in this bar is fucking ‘swawsome!!!! what a great night!!! he’s the easiest to corral into jack’s truck after a night of partying. jack calls him Mr. Smiles and ransom is 100% ok with this
holster’s the opposite, the fucking Mess. he gets into weird arguments with strangers, loses all concept of an inside voice, and serenades literally any girl (or hot guy) if left alone for more than a few minutes. falls down stairs a LOT. has no understanding of personal space or manners. his persona is called Chad because he’s kind of a dick and he resents jack for this more than he hates him for the Cruel Sheep Empire. chad will only listen to mr. smiles, but mr. smiles is easily distracted and not good at telling people off, so it’s usually up to moomaw and then things get dicey.
shitty is a Drunk Crier, point blank. cries when he’s happy, cries when he’s sad, cries because jack bought him mcdonalds to shut him up, cries because lardo is the coolest person he’s ever known, cries because of social injustice in the world, cries because bitty snuck individually packaged jello shots into the club in the pockets of jack’s cargo pants – literally he’ll cry for any reason and it happens at least once an outing. Jack calls him Weepy McGee and shitty rolls with it.
one day tater will get drinks with jack and the crew and will ask, loudly, why holster is arguing with the bartender over the exact mixture of crap in his long island iced tea and jack will simply answer, “oh, that’s just Chad being Chad,” and all hell will break loose when holster overhears.
so i just wanted to share a story about the director of my guild at my renn faire who just recently passed away, under the cut
Her name was Pam, and she was a stubborn West Virginian grandma who ruled our court with a loving, iron fist. She had forgotten more about the Renaissance than I will ever know and just wanted to share that passion with every single person who walked through our gates in the morning.
As our director, it was her job to make sure everything we (the nobles) were involved with ran smoothly. And because she was stubborn as hell, she was directly involved with every little thing, even when we patiently explained that Pam, you are super old and mildly broken, you cannot singlehandedly move six cinderblocks, especially when there is a pack of healthy twentysomething guys literally right over there, Pamela, Pamela you set that rock down RIGHT NOW PAM PAM which was ironic, because she was normally the one bossing us around. Didn’t reverence the queen properly? Pam saw. Pam saw, Pam knows, and Pam will sweep over and make you do it again, and again, and again, until you are less of a fuckup.
Her pride and joy was our Glade, and rightly so, because it was GORGEOUS. A stage adorned with pretty white curtains and flowers, the queen’s tables set for a feast, rugs rolled out for us to walk on as we approached the queen, the works. Really, just the loveliest place. She was a tyrant when we set it up every morning, making sure every detail was *just so* and it always turned out lovely under her watchful eye.
One day last season, me and Pam were a bit uphill of the nobles’ Glade, shopping at one of the vendors’ stalls, when it started to rain. We took shelter in with the vendor- he wasn’t getting any more customers anyway- and Pam just sort of turned towards the Glade with a contemplative look in her eye.
Pam: I hope the boys have packed up the rugs so they don’t get moldy. Me: I’m sure they have. They know the rugs should go away. Our boys aren’t stupid. Pam: … Me: … Pam: … our boys? Me: Okay fine we will go check on them the second the rain lets up a little.
Once the rain is down to a mere drizzle me and Pam book it down to the Glade to make sure everything is all right. It’s covered with some sails so the seating areas are at least dry, but our rugs lay out in the open. We arrive to see all of our lovely courtier boys playing with the patrons in the nice dry covered seating areas, completely ignoring the rugs.
They are nice. They class up the joint. They were donations to our broke-ass little nonprofit festival, and if they get gross and moldy, we will simply be rug-less, and that will Not Do in Pam’s eyes.
I look at Pam. She looks at me. Her voice was weak last season- her last season- and there was no way she could shout over the rain and the boys being idiots and the patrons enjoying themselves.
So Pam looks at me, and she says, “Go for it.”
I nod, and then I walk over to the boys and shout as loud as I can, in my best Pam voice, “GENTLEMEN, ROLL UP THESE RUGS BEFORE THE RAIN COMPLETELY SOAKS THEM AND WE MUST DEAL WITH MOLD, WHAT ARE YOU ALL DOING STANDING AROUND WHEN THERE IS WORK TO BE DONE, AND WHY MUST YOU BE REMINDED BY THE TEENAGE GIRL?” All the boys abruptly notice that they’re idiots, and moreover that Pam is standing there seeing them be idiots, and immediately hop to and start fixing our shit. I remember standing there and like, smirking, because is this what Pam felt like all the time?
I remember I looked over at her and just saw her smiling. Her court was working smoothly, making sure everything would be Just So. That was because of her, and her wonderful presence. She kept us running smoothly, out of love for and fear of her.
She has left behind tremendously large shoes to fill, and I will miss her every day I walk into our Glade, because it just won’t be the same without her.
And I’m posting this online because everyone says the internet is written in ink and nothing on it ever goes away, and I want this bit of Pam to never be forgotten.
I am laughing so hard right now … and I know the four are excruciatingly grateful that I set their primary story in medieval Emelan rather than in the modern Emelan `verse!
