caution for the vain

eshusplayground:

Why is the fallout between Belle and Rumplestiltskin the Evil Queen’s fault?

Oh, she manipulated them? It’s not like she used mind control powers on these people. This is a fairy tale, not Inception.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but the Evil Queen did not …

• Force Rumplestiltskin to fly into a rage.
• Make Rumplestiltskin to throw Belle into a dungeon for pissing him off.
• Tell Belle that Rumplestiltskin wanted his power more than he wanted her.

All she did was pass along information that was available to anyone with the right knowledge or expertise (ie, curses). How the recipient chooses to use that information is not really her responsibility. Were the Evil Queen’s actions opportunistic? Definitely. Taking advantage of gullible people is pretty much in her job description. But that’s a far cry from being responsible for what followed.

Yes, it’s a lot easier for Rumplestiltskin to blame the Evil Queen than to, oh, take responsibility for his anger management issues. Note how in the scene where he goes Hulk-Smash on his castle, he’s raging into a mirror* - a clear symbol of his self-hatred if there ever was one.

*Yes, yes, mirrors are the Evil Queen’s personal spycams, but in this case she was neither watching nor aware of exactly what was going on in that moment. She met Belle on the road then somehow got a hold of her after she left Rumplestiltskin. Those are the only facts available to us at the moment.

There’s something about the way that many viewers romanticize Rumplestiltskin and demonize the Evil Queen that puts me off. It’s quite obvious that they are very much two of a kind. Especially in light of “Skin Deep,” it’s rather funny to see Mr. Gold talk mocking Regina for her lack of subtlety (“Shall I make room for your rage?”) when he’s the one who kidnapped a man at gunpoint (one who is, for all intents and purposes, an amnesiac) and beat the shit out of him with a cane. Just as it’s amusing to hear Regina talk about Mr. Gold trifling with technicalities when so far, she’s the one who’s been using the law and its enforcement as her weapon against Emma.

Nevertheless, there seems to be a tendency of many viewers to interpret Rumplestiltskin’s actions in the best possible light and Regina’s in the worst. I can’t quite shake the feeling that it has to do with sexism and/or misogyny.

A man who is manipulative, aggressive, cunning, elegant, powerful, and openly scorns conventional morality is a Byronic hero. His flaws make him more layered and complex and full of so much depth. Rumplestiltskin, then, becomes part of a tradition of deeply damaged and flawed men who are nevertheless sympathetic and capable of redemption.

A woman who is manipulative, aggressive, cunning, elegant, powerful, and openly scorns conventional morality is nothing but a bitch. There are no layers, no complexities, no depths. And, like a rabid dog, the only way to deal with a bitch is to put her down: physically by killing, disempowering, or imprisoning her; psychologically by humiliating and alienating her; socially by condemning and demonizing her.

This makes me sad. Here’s a picture of Regina being sweet, romantic, and sexy to cheer myself up.

aatombomb:

We were discussing homosexuality because of an allusion to it in the book we were reading, and several boys made comments such as, “That’s disgusting.” We got into the debate and eventually a boy admitted that he was terrified/disgusted when he was once sharing a taxi and the other male passenger made a pass at him.

The lightbulb went off. “Oh,” I said. “I get it. See, you are afraid, because for the first time in your life you have found yourself a victim of unwanted sexual advances by someone who has the physical ability to use force against you.” The boy nodded and shuddered visibly.

“But,” I continued. “As a woman, you learn to live with that from the time you are fourteen, and it never stops. We live with that fear every day of our lives. Every man walking through the parking garage the same time you are is either just a harmless stranger or a potential rapist. Every time.”

The girls in the room nodded, agreeing. The boys seemed genuinely shocked. 

“So think about that the next time you hit on a girl. Maybe, like you in the taxi, she doesn’t actually want you to.”

→ a Dish reader

(Source: andrewsullivan.thedailybeast.com, via starkward)

vivatregina:

Like, seriously, I remember writing tons of obscenely angsty journal entries about how depressed I was and how I wanted to die, and I find it funny (in the way that we do once we’re a little more grown and can see ourselves more clearly—with a healthy mix of embarrassment and humor), but more sad than funny, because I’m so happy now. I mean, in spite of little pockets of drama every now and then, I’m happy. I like my life. 95% of the time, I like the person I’ve become. And I shudder to think of what would have happened (or rather, what wouldn’t have happened), if I had actually succeeded in offing myself when I was sixteen.

I think I was just really lonely. I think I just wanted attention, or wanted to feel like I meant something to someone, without realizing that, at the time, I already did. Maybe I wanted some kind of affection that I wasn’t getting back then. Maybe I read too much sad poetry, or listened to too much sad music. (Though that’s not a bad thing.) I don’t know anymore.

Sometimes, I wish I could travel back in time and talk some sense into my sixteen-year-old self. Hey, I’d tell her. There’s so much world out there beyond the four (plus) walls of this fascist institution you’re stuck in right now. The world is bigger than high school. Maybe your people aren’t here, but they certainly are out there. You just haven’t met them yet. You have so much left to do; you just don’t know it. You don’t even know yourself, not really; you haven’t had enough opportunity to. So wait. Be patient. You have barely scratched the surface of your life.

Sometimes, I think of my friend Camille and wish that I could travel back in time to talk some sense into her. Because where I failed at ending my life at bittersweet sixteen, she succeeded. And I think about all the things we would have done, all the things she would have loved—little things, shallow things, like how amused she’d be by Kim Kardashian’s curves (because she had a J.Lo butt, too), being old enough to party in clubs and dance all night, and meeting other guys who wouldn’t cheat on her, and growing up enough to love herself and have it be more than enough—and I feel so sad that she’s not here, that she’s not discovering how different she is today from what she thought she’d be, the way I am, the way we all are.

I knew when I was sixteen that I wanted to write. Back then, I thought I was good at it. These days, I know better. But I’m working to get there. And really, it doesn’t matter to me that I’m not particularly brilliant, that I’m not groundbreaking, that I’m never going to win a Palanca. I love what I’m doing, and that’s enough.

I never imagined that I’d be spending over fifty hours a week writing about beauty, of all things. I would never have thought that I’d enjoy it so much. But here I am, surprising myself. And I’m pretty sure that, six months from now, six years from now, six decades from now (provided I haven’t died of something yet; I’m not that healthy, you never know), I will still be surprising myself. I can’t tell you how I excited I am about it.

So, if you’re young, and sad, and you think that this is it for you, that it’s never going to change, that you’ll never be happy, I’m going to tell you what I wish I could have told myself. We are not static. Wait. Be patient. You have barely scratched the surface of your life.

And, most importantly, you’re loved. It might not be by the people you wish would love you, but someone loves you. You mean something. Your being in the world makes someone else’s life better.

You’re going to be amazing someday. Just wait.

(via coffeebased)