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But Hornet still goes through her grand adventure in Pharloom.
I had a bit of free time at work and decided to draw little something on my phone on ibisPaint. Never used it before, people who draw with their fingers on phones are Godâs strongest soldiersâŚ
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This is kind of a strange post about Billy, but Iâm just gonna let it flow. Iâm gonna start with this, I am a Billy Hargrove fan. I am a black, queer, female abuse survivor and I make no apologies about loving this character. Also, none of what I just said matters, I just think itâs important to note that we are out here. Even if I wasnât those things I would still have the liberty and hopefuly the empathy to feel for his character. Today I want to talk about how Billy was written, why I think thatâs dead wrong and damaging to those of us who survive abuse without a halo, and I am going to use another beloved fictional victim to do it. He also happens to be one of the worldâs most iconic and well known villains. Yes I am going to talk about Darth Vader/Anakin Skywalker, and how his story is real. How it happened to me and itâs happening to someone else right now, and how I see evidence of the same societal failure shown in the films playing out in real time every damn day in the Stranger Things Fandom when it comes to Billy Hargrove. So here we go.
Excerpted from the poem Hand Me Downs by Sarah Kay
read below the cut
I know youâve taken to wearing around your fatherâs hand-me-down anger. But I wish that you wouldnât. Itâs a few sizes too big and everyone can see it doesnât fit you, makes you look silly, hangs loose at all the wrong places, even if it does match your skin colour.
I know you think youâll grow into it, that your arms will beef up after all the fighting and it will sit on your shoulders if you pin it on the right places with well-placed conviction. The bathroom mirror tells you you look good in it, that it makes your fists look a lot more justified, when you dig your hands deep into the pockets youâll find stories hidden he left there for you to hand out to the other boys like car bombs.
And on days when everything else is slipping through your fingers, this you can wrap yourself inside of, this will keep you warm at night, help you drift off to sleep with a certainty that no matter what, it will still be there when you wake up. And the longer you wear it, the better it starts to fit, until some of the stories are your own. Maybe the holes in the sleeve are from the bullets you dodged yourself, so when it rips, snags on a barbed wire fence or someone elseâs family, donât worry. Cos your mother and your sister will help mend it- patch the holes, sew the tears, replace a button or two, help you back into it and tell you how proud they are of you, how good it looks on you the same way it looked on your dad, and your granddad too, and on his dad before him and on his father before him.
But back then, back then there was only sand until someone drew a line, someone built a wall, someone threw a stone. And the crack in the skull that it hit fractured perfectly outward, like twigs on the branches on the limbs of a family tree. So someone threw a stone back, and each fracture, each tiny break wound itself together into thread and the thread pulled itself around him- your great-great-great-great somebody.
And on the other side of that wall they were knitting just as fast, and theirs fit them just as well but only slightly different shade. So Iâm asking, when the time comes, whoâs gonna be the first one to put down the needle and thread? Whoâs gonna be the first one to remember that their grandpa suffered just as many broken windows, broken hearts, broken bones, in the first time you come down to dinner and your son is sitting at the dining table with your hatred on his shoulders, whoâs gonna tell him itâs finally time to take it off?
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