curiousgeorgiana

ink-splotch:

There comes a point where Susan, who was the older girl, is lost to Narnia because she becomes interested in lipstick. She’s become irreligious basically because she found sex. I have a big problem with that.” - JK Rowling

Can we talk about Susan’s fabulous adventures after Narnia? The ones where she wears nylons and elegant blouses when she wants to, and short skirts and bright lipstick when she wants to, and hiking boots and tough jeans and big men’s plaid shirts when she feels like backpacking out into the mountains and remembering what it was to be lost in a world full of terrific beauty— I know her siblings say she stops talking about it, that Susan walks away from the memories of Narnia, but I don’t think she ever really forgot.

I want to read about Susan finishing out boarding school as a grown queen reigning from a teenaged girl’s body. School bullies and peer pressure from children and teachers who treat you like you’re less than sentient wouldn’t have the same impact. C’mon, Susan of the Horn, Susan who bested the DLF at archery, and rode a lion, and won wars, sitting in a school uniform with her eyebrows rising higher and higher as some old goon at the front of the room slams his fist on the lectern. 

Susan living through WW2, huddling with her siblings, a young adult (again), a fighting queen and champion marksman kept from the action, until she finally storms out against screaming parents’ wishes and volunteers as a nurse on the front. She keeps a knife or two hidden under her clothes because when it comes down to it, they called her Gentle, but sometimes loving means fighting for what you care for. 

She’ll apply to a women’s college on the East Coast, because she fell in love with America when her parents took her there before the war. She goes in majoring in Literature (her ability to decipher High Diction in historical texts is uncanny), but checks out every book she can on history, philosophy, political science. She sneaks into the boys’ school across town and borrows their books too. She was once responsible for a kingdom, roads and taxes and widows and crops and war. She grew from child to woman with that mantle of duty wrapped around her shoulders. Now, tossed here on this mundane land, forever forbidden from her true kingdom, Susan finds that she can give up Narnia but she cannot give up that responsibility. She looks around and thinks I could do this better.

I want Susan sneaking out to drink at pubs with the girls, her friends giggling at the boys checking them out from across the way, until Susan walks over (with her nylons, with her lipstick, with her sovereignty written out in whatever language she damn well pleases) and beats them all at pool. Susan studying for tests and bemoaning Aristotle and trading a boy with freckles all over his nose shooting lessons so that he will teach her calculus. Susan kissing boys and writing home to Lucy and kissing girls and helping smuggle birth control to the ladies in her dorm because Susan Pevensie is a queen and she understands the right of a woman to rule over her own body. 

Susan losing them all to a train crash, Edmund and Peter and Lucy, Jill and Eustace, and Lucy and Lucy and Lucy, who Susan’s always felt the most responsible for. Because this is a girl who breathes responsibility, the little mother to her three siblings until a wardrobe whisked them away and she became High Queen to a whole land, ruled it for more than a decade, then came back centuries later as a legend. What it must do to you, to be a legend in the body of a young girl, to have that weight on your shoulders and have a lion tell you that you have to let it go. What is must do to you, to be left alone to decide whether to bury your family in separate ceremonies, or all at once, the same way they died, all at once and without you. What it must do to you, to stand there in black, with your nylons, and your lipstick, and feel responsible for these people who you will never be able to explain yourself to and who you can never save. 

Maybe she dreams sometimes they made it back to Narnia after all. Peter is a king again. Lucy walks with Aslan and all the dryads dance. Maybe Susan dreams that she went with them— the train jerks, a bright light, a roar calling you home. 

Maybe she doesn’t. 

Susan grows older and grows up. Sometimes she hears Lucy’s horrified voice in her head, “Nylons? Lipstick, Susan? Who wants to grow up?”  and Susan thinks, “Well you never did, Luce.” Susan finishes her degree, stays in America (England looks too much like Narnia, too much like her siblings, and too little, all at once). She starts writing for the local paper under the pseudonym Frank Tumnus, because she wants to write about politics and social policy and be listened to, because the name would have made Edmund laugh. 

She writes as Susan Pevensie, too, about nylons and lipstick, how to give a winning smiles and throw parties, because she knows there is a kind of power there and she respects it. She won wars with war sometimes, in Narnia, but sometimes she stopped them before they began.

Peter had always looked disapprovingly on the care with which Susan applied her makeup back home in England, called it vanity. And even then, Susan would smile at him, say “I use what weapons I have at hand,” and not explain any more than that. The boy ruled at her side for more than a decade. He should know better. 

Vain is not the proper word. This is about power. But maybe Peter wouldn’t have liked the word “ambition” any more than “vanity.”

Susan is a young woman in the 50s and 60s. Frank Tumnus has quite the following now. He’s written a few books, controversial, incendiary. Susan gets wrapped up in the civil rights movement, because of course she would. It’s not her first war. All the same, she almost misses the White Witch. Greed is a cleaner villain than senseless hate. She gets on the Freedom Rider bus, mails Mr. Tumnus articles back home whenever there’s a chance, those rare occasions they’re not locked up or immediately threatened. She is older now than she ever was in Narnia. Susan dreams about Telemarines killing fauns. 

Time rolls on. Maybe she falls in love with a young activist or an old cynic. Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe Frank Tumnus, controversial in the moment, brilliant in retrospect, gets offered an honorary title from a prestigious university. She declines and publishes an editorial revealing her identity. Her paper fires her. Three others mail her job offers. 

When Vietnam rolls around, she protests in the streets. Susan understands the costs of war. She has lived through not just the brutal wars of one life, but two. 

Maybe she has children now. Maybe she tells them stories about a magical place and a magical lion, the stories Lucy and Edmund brought home about how if you sail long enough you reach the place where the seas fall off the edge of the world. But maybe she tells them about Cinderella instead, Sleeping Beauty, Rapunzel, except Rapunzel cuts off her own hair and uses it to climb down the tower and escape. The damsel uses what tools she has at hand. 

A lion told her to walk away, and she did. He forbade her magic, he forbade her her own kingdom, so she made her own. 

Susan Pevensie did not lose faith. She found it. 

wonderland-inalice

hippies-like-us:

I like Halloween in Australia because I can buy 5 packs of fun-size chocolates in preparation and know that at the end of the day the only bitch eating them will be me because no bitch kid trick-or-treats around here no matter how hard Woolworths tries to make it a thing.

literally the only place in aus we ever trick or treated was at duntroon and that’s cos it’s essentially a private suburb what with half the military at your doorstep

shacess

spyderqueen:

misandrwitch:

Hands up if large groups of aggressively loud white boys in your vicinity freak you out

One of the things that bonds women, POC, and LGBTQA+ together: The fear of white men in numbers.

I was trying to explain this to two of my white girlfriends the other month - it was weird, like they couldn’t get how I have this deep seated, primal fear of white men in numbers. Especially when i’m walking by myself.

wasarahbi

supernatural-tardis:

i had a crush on this guy and i decided to pull a Pavlov on him by offering him whenever i saw him  this brand of candy he seemed to really like and after a while whenever he saw me he got excited for a second then you could see his expression shift to wondering the why the hell was he so happy to see me and i swear it was the evilest thing but also the most hilarious i made a guy like me by conditioning him into associating me to a candy he liked

pushyfemme
Thirteen? And it’s even worse because Bill Cosby has the fucking smuggest old black man public persona that I hate. Pull your pants up, black people. I was on TV in the ’80s. I can talk down to you because I had a successful sitcom. Yeah, but you raped women, Bill Cosby. So, brings you down a couple notches. I don’t curse on stage. Well, yeah, you’re a rapist, so, I’ll take you sayin’ lots of motherfuckers on Bill Cosby: Himself if you weren’t a rapist. …I want to just at least make it weird for you to watch Cosby Show reruns. …I’ve done this bit on stage, and people don’t believe. People think I’m making it up. …That shit is upsetting. If you didn’t know about it, trust me. You leave here and google ‘Bill Cosby rape.’ It’s not funny. That shit has more results than Hannibal Buress.
Hannibal Buress, calling the shit out of bill cosby [x] (via bluemoonofkentucky)
thecloneclub
I think that a character like Cosima has value for a number of different reasons. She’s complex and defies a number of stereotypes, but she’s not so far off the rails that her humanness is rendered ridiculous and beyond belief. She’s vulnerable and fallible. She’s an interesting mix of confidence and insecurity. She is neither of all “brains” and objectively clinical, nor all emotion-driven and entirely subjective. She isn’t interesting simply for her sexiness, or sexuality, she’s interesting because she’s complicated and self-contradictory—like all of us. Her personality isn’t blown out of proportion one way or another for the sake of making an easy narrative, or for prescribing particular ways that women should be in the world. And that in itself is valuable for TV. I think this can be said of all the women in Orphan Black, not just this character. They’re difficult characters to produce because they challenge—they aren’t derived from lowest-common-denominator concepts about what constitutes women, scientists, mothers, daughters, lovers, criminals, or Pollyanna tropes. I have to give a LOT of credit to the writers for thinking so critically about how they want to represent these women. And I think there are a number of programs out now that also challenge calcified concepts of what it means to have personal agency, and how this affects women specifically. But it’s not just about women. It’s also about the variability and complexity of humans more generally, and offering different ways to contemplate those things.
Orphan Black Science Consultant Cosima Herter (via acodetojoy)
cwnerd12
LA is sickening sometimes. Literally sat and watched Justin Bieber’s entourage pick girls and deny girls to go back to his apartment after the club last night. Girls were literally told they weren’t pretty enough or not good enough. Some were crying and some ditched their friends who weren’t selected. So disgusting. I had to go to his stupid ass apartment and get my keys from MY friend and his scrawny ass bodyguard had the nerve to tell me “You don’t live here” and I said “BITCH, you don’t either. You couldn’t afford this fucking rent. Get out of my face.” Being from Missouri, I have never in my LIFE seen women treated so blatantly like a piece of fucking meat or pussy ass men who THINK they are the celebrity they are “protecting” waiting in the bushes for Justin’s leftovers. I wanted to sock his bodyguard in the fucking face. There is nothing worse than reading about shit and hoping it’s fake and then seeing with your own eyes how fucked up shit actually is. Girls: Do NOT ever sacrifice your dignity and pride for some random ass person who does not give two shits about you beyond your vagina. It is not that serious and you are worth MORE. If any girl from last night is reading this: you are BEAUTIFUL, you looked BOMB AS SHIT and no little midget fuck in a suit that looks like he just auditioned for Men In Black 4 has the RIGHT to tell you otherwise. Have a blessed fucking Saturday!
Kingsley’s tweet about Justin’s entourage turning girls away at a club last night (Oct 17)