Something that deeply unnerves me, and likely a lot of my audience too, is how often people bring up the fact that Gooseworx is a trans woman, as if that somehow excuses her behaviors recently with the "nega" jokes and her old, frankly disturbing, tweets.
Marginalized identity is not a shield against accountability. She is still a white person, and being queer does not exempt anyone from perpetuating anti-black racism. This situation alone shows a desperate need for a BASIC understanding of intersectionality.
Being a woman does not erase her white privilege. Being a trans woman does not exempt her from anti-black behavior. Neither is calling those things out misogynist or transphobic.
And even if she weren't white, like the friends she was laughing with, identity defenses still fail: being a POC person doesn't erase anti-blackness when you are not a Black person. Non-black POC people can, and absolutely do, perpetuate anti-black racism.
P.S.
Now that we have heard gangle is revealed be Indian (or black, mixed reporting).. lots of questions as to why exactly your (you, Gooseworx) self insert, Jax, is so comfortable humiliating and harming gangle who is found out to be that in your canon...
Feels like another Vox and Rosie thing with Alastor situation that Viziepop suspiciously of her only black ace character.
The unexpected voice jostled Copia from his brooding, causing him to jump slightly and let out a little "ah!" in response. He hadn't noticed anyone coming into his makeshift "office", and was caught off guard.
He took a moment to compose himself, smoothing down his suit's lapels in an (mostly unsuccessful) attempt to smooth out his nerves, then cleared his throat.
"I, eh, could ask you the same question."
"I'm awake because you didn't come to bed, and I got worried."
"Ah. Well..." He couldn't counter that.
His Prime Mover, clad in her maternity nightgown and robe, moved from the doorway to the side of the couch, arms folded over her (very) swollen belly, and a look of concern on her beautiful face.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Nothing." Copia made a little show of fussing around with a stack of papers. "Just, eh, working late, you know? Being the big boss means a lot of–"
"Bullshit."
It was every bit a statement, and nowhere near a question. Hell, it might have even been a little bit of an accusation.
It annoyed him slightly, but the concerned gleam in his wife's eyes smoothed over the tiny prick of irritation. He dropped the stack of papers back onto his "desk", sat back on the fancy piss-yellow sofa, and threw up his hands.
"Yes. It is bullshit. This whole thing is bullshit!"
"What whole thing?"
Copia ran a gloved hand down his face, and grumbled softly. He was hoping to avoid having this conversation, to avoid having to talk about it, to avoid having to admit things out loud, but...
Larysa was already motioning for him to scoot over, giving her room to sit next to him. He did so, and carefully (and perhaps somewhat overprotectively) guided her as she slowly lowered her heavily pregnant self down onto the plush cushions. After taking a brief moment to adjust her position and settle in, she turned to her husband.
"Tell me what's wrong."
Copia sighed. What wasn't wrong?
"Well," he began, "Eh...my whole life was kind of a lie. I didn't know my real parents even were my real parents until recently. And once I performed my last show as Papa, my mother died. That's what's wrong."
Larysa nodded. "But that's not all."
Another statement, and not a question. He really should have foreseen his wife's in-built Bullshit Detector™ working on him, like it did with everyone else. Oh well.
"No, Rysa, that's not all." He rubbed at his face again, then continued, "I get to take over her job—which I did not want to do, by the way—and get replaced by a twin I never knew I had. Then, we get driven out of our old place by fire, and I don't even have a real goddamn office."
He folded his arms and took a breath, then pushed onward.
"And while I am struggling to figure all of this out...my so-called brother comes in, steals my spotlight and my schticks, and gets all the glory and recognition!" He clenched his fists in anger.
"He 'took us to number one the Billboard chart' right away, but he could never have done that without the groundwork I laid down for years!" He slammed his fists down onto his lap, and felt his anger beginning to give way to sadness, as tears began to well up in the corners of his eyes.
"And nobody recognizes that! Nobody appreciates the blood and sweat and tears I put into being Papa! They all praise him and they don't care about me anymore..."
He slumped back against the couch, closing his eyes and trying to will the tears away. After everything he'd done for the band, for the church, for Satan himself...
"You're still important."
"To who?" Copia asked, bitterly.
"To me, dickhead."
He barked out a laugh at the insult, and opened his eyes, looking over to Larysa, who was rolling her own.
"You're important to me. And Allie. And little Becca. And this one." She grabbed one of Copia's hands by the wrist, and gently placed it on her baby bump. "You're important to us. To our family."
Copia smiled, rubbed his hand in slow circles, and was struck by a soft pang of joy as he felt the baby kick in response.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." Larysa reached over to stroke his cheek with her thumb. "You're a loving and supportive husband, and a caring and nurturing father."
Copia felt a sense of pride and warmth swell inside his chest, giving the bitterness and broodiness scant room to stay.
"You formally adopted Allie, at her own request. Becca loves it when you read to her and sing her lullabies. This baby–" Larysa paused briefly and gestured with her chin to her belly, "–loves it when you talk to her. And I..." She leaned over, closer, and gently bumped Copia's nose with her own. "...just love everything about you, Big Papa."
The pride and warmth now grew to the point where it left room for nothing else, and Copia wrapped his arms around Larysa and kissed her deeply, enjoying the softness of her lips and the secure feeling of her arms around him.
"You always know what to say, baby," he murmured into her neck, holding her close. (Or as close as the nearly-to-term fœtus would allow, anyway).
Larysa nuzzled her husband's cheek, then pulled back.
"Okay, now that I've reassured you, can you do the same for me? I can't tell if I just pissed a little, or if my water broke."
God, I love this app but when I have people trying to guilt me into donating to their GoFundMe when I myself am struggling financially makes me want to throw my phone in a lake.
Please stop sending me messages telling me how it makes you upset that I didn't donate. I'm sorry you're going through whatever it is, but this past year has been a hell storm for me and I'm struggling in so many ways. I don't need little people in my phone making me feel like a bad person because I can't give them money. I'm really sorry, but please stop.
This is nothing against GoFundMe or the people that use it, nor is it directed at people who may send asks about it. This is in reference to the ones who directly message me multiple times trying to make me feel guilty and make me give them money. I'm sorry, but I can't. I have to micromanage my spending to make sure I have enough for my basic expenses, and I'm in the process of trying to find another job because my current one keeps cutting my hours. If you think I have the emotional energy to deal with you guilt tripping me you've got another thing coming. Please stop directly messaging me. If you want me to reblog your stuff I can, so it reaches more people, but if I wanted someone to nag and make me feel like a bad person for doing my fucking best I'd move back in with my parents.
