This is not about an actress of color, but please vote against David O. Russell being included in #TIME100. If you are unaware, he admitted to sexually assaulting his transgender niece, and does not deserve any sort of praise or recognition. Reblog to spread the word!
The first birth is common enough, if you ignore the specifics of how it is that two creatures, both technically dead by human terms, managed to conceive a child to begin with.
No one knows…
Crystal Reed attends Audi’s Golden Globes Cocktail Party
LET’S ALL PRETEND THAT THIS IS HOW IT IS, that steve and bucky are just regular people, hipsters, kids that grew up in each other’s pockets and never got sent over the edge of the train, or down with the ship, or into the cryo chamber, or to war. that they made it to the 21st century the same way everyone else did and neither one of them has ever woken up disoriented in a borrowed future. that somewhere deep down in the bowels of the city there is a train running with their initials carved painstakingly into the underside of the plastic seats, each of them using the other’s housekey to carve their bit on the ride home from school, and it’s as close as either one of them has ever come to being memorialized.
let’s pretend that the only time steve’s ever thought bucky was dead was for those six terrible hours last summer, when bucky sprained his wrist at work and there was a mixup at the hospital, a message on steve’s machine that was meant for someone else. that bucky finally took a cab home alone after waiting fucking hours for steve to show up, only to let himself into their apartment and find steve plastered to him a second later, gasping these wet, strangled-sounding breaths against the side of bucky’s neck. that bucky didn’t know what had happened but guessed enough to let his own anger drain away, to close his eyes and wrap his arms around steve’s waist in apology.
let’s pretend that bucky’s never been anyone but himself except on painkillers, a couple of times, so zoned out after getting his wisdom teeth pulled that he couldn’t remember his name; that steve laughed, and brought him ice cream, told him he could be anyone he wanted to. that their hurts are easily catalogued and explained. that underneath bucky’s t-shirt there is a patchwork of freckles and musculature but few scars, nothing that would make anyone gasp and wonder, that if there’s blood on his hands its only his own, or steve’s, maybe, picked up patching him up, trying to hold them both together. that his sleeping dogs are left to lie and even awake, they’re not so terrible, little trespasses, mistakes, nothing that would make anyone bat an eyelash.
let’s just pretend that this is it, the two of them, steve in a sweatshirt and plastic-rimmed glasses and bucky like this, black pants, black t-shirt, his v-neck stretched out from all the times steve’s grabbed him by it and drawn him in for a kiss. let’s pretend that this is just one of a hundred thousand moments before they go somewhere, anywhere — a party or a ballgame, dinner with their friends, the grocery store, even work. let’s pretend that this is the part of their day where steve checks again that he locked the door as bucky leans against the railing on the stairs, eyes fond, mouth parted around whatever conversation is coming easy between them today, and says, “c’mon, rogers, c’mon.”
This is Harry. As a boy Harry was very, very shy.
Some people might have even said that he was painfully shy. As if his shyness caused them pain, and not the other way around. There are many things that can cause a person to recede, to look away from other people’s eyes, or to choose empty hallways over crowded ones. Some shy people try to reach out, and try, and nothing seems to come back. And then there’s just a point where they stop trying.
In Harry’s case, he was slapped in the face and called names designed to isolate him, designed to deliver maximum damage. This because he’d come from another country, and didn’t know the right words to use, or the right way to say them. And so, Harry learned to be still. To camouflage, to be the least.
Some people describe this as receding into a shell, where the stillness hardens and protects. But the eyes, even when they look down and away, are still watching, still looking for some way out, or in. Painfully shy.
Then, in middle school, Harry found theater, where he forced himself to speak through other people’s words. And then dance, where he started to speak through the movements of his body. To be so still for so long when you’re young means a lot of pent-up energy, and it was released there, through work, endless work.
If someone carves into a sampling with a knife, the injury is as wide as the entire trunk. Though that mark will never fully heal, even grow the tree around it, and as you grow, the scar gets smaller in proportion.
If you, right now, are in a shell, you should know that you’re not alone. That there are many, many other people like you, and that there’s nothing wrong with you. It might even be necessary right now, it might keep you safe for a time. But after the danger is gone, after it has exhausted its use, you’ll find a way out.
You may need help, you might need to work pretty hard. You may need to find some ways to laugh at yourself. Or find a passion or friend. But you will find it. And when you do, it will be so good to see you.
This is Harry. As a boy, Harry was very, very shy.
If you are in a shell… (video)
| narrated by ze frank
| choreography and performance by Harry Shum Jr.
This speaks to me so much, and is probably the most important part, but let me tell you, I like this bit more:
What would be great, I think, is if I could hire some kind of old-timey town crier to precede me into any room I enter, shouting “Lesbian coming! Lesbian coming this way!” and possibly ringing some kind of bell. Then everyone would already know before our interaction commenced, and they could be pleasant or horrible as the spirit moved them, but at least we’d be communicating from a place of honesty and I wouldn’t have to worry about whether I’ll inadvertently reveal myself.
… The Winter Soldier killed Howard and Maria Stark…
Bucky killed Howard and Maria Stark.
BUCKY FUCKING BARNES KILLED HOWARD AND MARIA STARK.
Make the goddamn connection. ‘Accident’ my ass…
I know it wasn’t the real Bucky. He was buried underneath a shit ton of Hydra brainwashing and memory loss. But just the idea of him murdering Tony’s parents without even knowing is unimaginable and it hurts my heart. Fuck you Marvel and all your damn feels.
Not just murdering Tony’s parents, but murdering a man Bucky no doubt knew personally and might have considered a friend, murdering someone who helped Steve rescue him from the HYDRA base and who we can be 99.99999% sure Bucky himself would not have wanted to kill.
I didn’t catch this and now everything hurts.
when i said “The MCU is beautiful and nothing hurts” what I meant was “everything hurts forever goodbye”
I love it. Because with the popular “Tony hacked SHIELD and all that info is waiting for him” post going around, imagine when Tony digs it up and finds out the guy who Steve’s chasing around killed his dad. Imagine him cobbling together a slapdash suit without Pepper noticing and jetting to where Bucky is, and being ready to blow him up without him even realizing Tony’s there, only to stop.
Because the man down there doesn’t look like a remorseless trained killer. He’s dirty and he’s thin and he’s sleeping on a park bench. The cybernetic arm he’s got doesn’t work right. The fingers are awkwardly curled where the servomotors have run down. The knuckles on his flesh and blood hand are bruised and scraped from where he had to fight off a couple of drug addicts wanting to roll a homeless guy for spare change.
And Tony would lower the repulsors and pick up his phone and call Steve. And leave before he got there.
Pepper would find him in the morning with a smashed up set of armor and a bottle of scotch and an old album. Drunk and crying.
Tony thinks long and hard before he puts on the suit again.
HATEPIG WHY WOULD YOU DO THISI FUCKING IMAGINED THAT LAST PARAGRAPH AND I CRIED I REALLY CRIED AND I HAVE FINALS IN TWO WEEKS I DONT HAVE TIME FOR THAT SAD SHIT AND HOMELESS BUCKY FUCK EVERYTHING
4 more days until i’m back in united statesia~
Mixed race people are often treated as though they must ‘pick a side.’ People tell them that they should embrace one culture over another as though it were akin to choosing which football team to support. They treat mixed race people as though they must surely feel more strongly connected to one culture over another, as though it is completely inconceivable that they could feel a sense of belonging to more than one racial or cultural identity.
There is a sense of being regarded as fragmented rather than with the comfort of wholeness. It is almost as if being mixed race is not a valid identity in its own right. Being mixed race can feel like constantly having to justify your identity to people. For example, I have recently found myself telling people the ethnicities of my parents as a way of explaining my own. It is almost as if my own ethnicity cannot be validated without my family tree.”
how long must we wait for a lesbian disney princess
or what about a prince who throughout the entire movie you think he’s going to be the love interest but in the end it turns out he’s gay
or how about a lesbian princess
how about a princess whose sexuality doesn’t matter and that doesn’t focus or rely on a love interest????
or a lesbian princess
Another agent, when asked why less than 1% of her submissions were from people of color, captured what seems to be the publishing industry’s general attitude in just 10 words: “This seems like a question for an author to answer.” This is the language of privilege – the audacity of standing at the top of a mountain you made on the backs of others and then yelling at people for being at the bottom […]
The disproportionally white publishing industry matters because agents and editors stand between writers and readers. Anika Noni Rose put it perfectly in Vanity Fair this month: “There are so many writers of color out there, and often what they get when they bring their books to their editors, they say, ‘We don’t relate to the character.’ Well it’s not for you to relate to! And why can’t you expand yourself so you can relate to the humanity of a character as opposed to the color of what they are?”
So we are wary. The publishing industry looks a lot like one of these best-selling teenage dystopias: white and full of people destroying each other to survive.”