Yet, in trying to portray the migrant experience, the video turns migrants into one-dimensional characters: humble, heroic, noble, self-sacrificing, so “good” that no one should ever question our worth or worthiness. A six-minute video could never do justice to our varied and complex identities and experiences. I get that. But it’s also possible to do better. It’s possible to advocate for immigrants without falling back on the “deserving,” “good” immigrants, “felons not families” narratives that throw those of us who can’t fall under those categories under the bus. While I understand the impulse to emphasize our goodness, especially as the Trump administration paints us as rapists and criminals to justify our detention and deportation, idealizing migrants as heroes and saints also dehumanizes us. It’s possible to say we belong in this country because the freedom of movement is a basic human right. It’s possible to tell migrant stories and sing freedom songs without claiming that our value comes from “getting the job done.”
The Wren babies have started hatching and the Bluebirds’ second set of babies is close to fledging. I am going to miss watching the babies in the box when they are gone, but hopefully there will be a repeat next year.
i use my tags as like….a secret whisper space….like…..idk how many of u actually read them but i know not all of u do obviously so it’s like the BONUS FACTS part of the book or something. the special fan club secrets. U Know Me A Little Better If U Read My Tags.
People who use tag readers and yell at you for your mumbled asides are committing a terrible faux pas
And this is how The End is stopped. Not by the gods or goddesses, the other races than man, no. It is Tumblr. As a mass running after a now confused and tail tucking Fenrir, whining softly as the crowd chants “PUPPER! PUPPER! PUPPER!”
Better yet: Fenrir escapes his chains and lopes forward to destroy the earth, and is met by a crowd of people. An army, Fenrir thinks, and bares his teeth in a ferocious snarl and charges toward them.
They cheer.
Wait … cheer?
Fenrir slows, confused. He smells no fear, senses no rage. This is … a very strange army.
The first hand—weaponless!—reaches for him; he tenses, ready to tear the offending limb to shreds, and lets out a high little yippy whine when it pats him about the ears.
Immediately the noise is reproduced by some four or five of the nearest humans; he smells excitement; more hands are patting him.
It’s nice.
The humans crowd around him, patting him and scritching him and shuffling around to give others a chance. Voices coo, and make puppy noises, and someone catches just the right spot and he cocks his leg and scratches himself, drawing a multitude of oohs and ahhs and cheers and squees.
At some point, his hunger awakens at the scent of burnt flesh; a human has brought him what he later learns is a hot dog; he swallows it in one bite, to more cheering, and looks around hopefully for more.
It is not long before more is bought: steaks and Big Macs and bacon; it seems like much of the group has brought him a snack of some kind and was hoping for a chance to give it to him.
The End of the World is supposed to be at hand, but Fenrir does not care. His hunger sated, his battle-lust swept away by a tide of gently petting hands, he rolls over, careful not to crush his many companions, and takes a nap.
“Who’s a good boy?” they ask him, over and over.
Is this some psychological warfare, he wonders, designed to undermine his confidence and remind him that he is nothing more than a monster who needs to be chained?
“Who’s a good boy, huh, huh?” “Who’s my good boy?” “
And then one of them answers the question for him.
“You are!”
‘Me?’ he thinks. But if there was any doubt, she confirms it.
“You are, yes you are.”
Fenrir’s tongue hangs out of his mouth as he grins. ‘I’m a good boy!’
Urocyon's Jaunts 2.0 
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