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I read some stuff on the race/fandom discourse and got angry.
Title: Five Reasons Why Charles Gunn Doesn't Wear a Do Rag
Author: seraphcelene
Rating: G
A/N: Race and Fandom collapsed under the weight of character and stereotype. This is the result. Summary from Langston Hughes' Theme for English B. Written with only a cursory pass at canon and character, much heated, itchy personal angst, and no real apology.
Archiving: Essential Imperfect, everyone else please ask.
Feedback: Yes, please!
Disclaimer: Angel and all related characters belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the Warner Company, et al. I'm just taking them out for a little exercise
Summary: So will my page be colored that I write?
I. Cordelia
Yeah, he's hip, dangerous, got plenty of street cred and his name is whispered with fear by the vamps in the hood, but there's something about the way that little white girl looks at him that makes him re-think things ... just about every damn thing, really. It's as if she knows something that he doesn't. Something that maybe doesn't come from her rich, white, suburban California upbringing. Something that has more to do with the stain of blood beneath her fingernails, hazy red despite all the manicures.
Cordelia sees right through that thin layer of cloth and into Gunn's head, to his past and his parents and Alanna. Maybe it's the whole “I See Visions” thing, but he can't knock it. Can't blow off the way she looks at him and sees him: Gunn, Charles Gunn. With two N's.
II. Angel
Getting past the vampire thing was hard. No, it was damn near impossible. Lost him points, rep with the other gangs fighting the good fight in the streets. But doing good ... it had to be about more than just carrying in the dying and the dead from battles lost. It had to mean more than turf and keeping the night at bay with his bare hands.
Angel was a vampire and working for a vamp was the last thing Gunn ever thought he'd do. But the guy was alright for a bloodsucker. Went above and beyond to protect people, take care of them. That could earn a man respect. Trust, if he wasn't careful.
Gunn didn't have the words, not much of a guy for deep and meaningful. He knew he was the muscle and that was okay. It was something he could live with. But without the words, all he could give Angel was the naked shine of his scalp in the moonlight.
III. Fred
Fred liked the rags, but didn't get the meaning. She'd been gone too long, and Plyea twisted her inside out. She forgot a lot of what it meant to be human on Earth. But, somehow, he doubted she ever really knew what that cloth meant in the first place. The streets had never been part of her corner of the world.
When people saw them together, her white hand tucked into his and she's all cuddled up into his side the way that he loves, well, that was a neck ruffling I-don't-want-to-have-to-fight-you feeling. Not that she noticed. If he wore the rag it would be worse. Ten times worse. Bad enough for even Fred, in all her naviete, to take notice.
Gunn didn't want that for her. Not for Fred, his taco loving baby girl. There are enough bad things in the world.
IV. Wolfram & Hart
He's come a long way, and the rag doesn't go with the suit. Something about the cream walls, the steel and glass windows demand hair. Gunn grows his out and that changes everything. The span of cloth doesn't lay right anymore, doesn't fold over his head, doesn't seem to fit. Too much hair, perhaps. Too many responsibilities, too many thoughts.
So, Gunn tucks them away into the bottom of his sock drawer because he can't throw out pieces of his past just because they chafe a little around the edges.
Besides, maybe, one day, they'll fit again. Maybe, one day, his head won't be so full of the things he's seen and his suits won't take up so much space in his closet.
Maybe.
One day.
V. Gunn
He lost a bet and for a year he wore that damn wave cap.
Way back in the day, his mama once told him, a many greats grandfather added the second N for distinction. He wanted to be special, something different. A doctor. But that was back when colored folk didn't do things like that. He died a share cropper with nothing but that second N attached to his last name.
Gunn had that story knocked into the backside of his head by his mother's palm, and later, Alanna's. Gunn grew up and yeah, he was down with the people and keeping it real. And he never, ever sold out to The Man.
But the rag ... well, that was a stereotype. And Charles Gunn was not a stereotype. He was himself and no one else and that piece of cloth meant things that had nothing to do with him.
Then Wesley went and got shot for him. Took a bullet for him and it was as if he really was somebody out in the world and not just in the neighborhood after dusk. That pale, dumb ass, clueless English took a bullet for him and it meant more than black, white or vampire.
Gunn knew he was going to die young, but he also knew that he would die with more than just dirt under his nails and the weight of years settled into his chest. He would die Charles Gunn, with two N's, a champion.
Title: Five Reasons Why Charles Gunn Doesn't Wear a Do Rag
Author: seraphcelene
Rating: G
A/N: Race and Fandom collapsed under the weight of character and stereotype. This is the result. Summary from Langston Hughes' Theme for English B. Written with only a cursory pass at canon and character, much heated, itchy personal angst, and no real apology.
Archiving: Essential Imperfect, everyone else please ask.
Feedback: Yes, please!
Disclaimer: Angel and all related characters belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the Warner Company, et al. I'm just taking them out for a little exercise
Summary: So will my page be colored that I write?
I. Cordelia
Yeah, he's hip, dangerous, got plenty of street cred and his name is whispered with fear by the vamps in the hood, but there's something about the way that little white girl looks at him that makes him re-think things ... just about every damn thing, really. It's as if she knows something that he doesn't. Something that maybe doesn't come from her rich, white, suburban California upbringing. Something that has more to do with the stain of blood beneath her fingernails, hazy red despite all the manicures.
Cordelia sees right through that thin layer of cloth and into Gunn's head, to his past and his parents and Alanna. Maybe it's the whole “I See Visions” thing, but he can't knock it. Can't blow off the way she looks at him and sees him: Gunn, Charles Gunn. With two N's.
II. Angel
Getting past the vampire thing was hard. No, it was damn near impossible. Lost him points, rep with the other gangs fighting the good fight in the streets. But doing good ... it had to be about more than just carrying in the dying and the dead from battles lost. It had to mean more than turf and keeping the night at bay with his bare hands.
Angel was a vampire and working for a vamp was the last thing Gunn ever thought he'd do. But the guy was alright for a bloodsucker. Went above and beyond to protect people, take care of them. That could earn a man respect. Trust, if he wasn't careful.
Gunn didn't have the words, not much of a guy for deep and meaningful. He knew he was the muscle and that was okay. It was something he could live with. But without the words, all he could give Angel was the naked shine of his scalp in the moonlight.
III. Fred
Fred liked the rags, but didn't get the meaning. She'd been gone too long, and Plyea twisted her inside out. She forgot a lot of what it meant to be human on Earth. But, somehow, he doubted she ever really knew what that cloth meant in the first place. The streets had never been part of her corner of the world.
When people saw them together, her white hand tucked into his and she's all cuddled up into his side the way that he loves, well, that was a neck ruffling I-don't-want-to-have-to-fight-you feeling. Not that she noticed. If he wore the rag it would be worse. Ten times worse. Bad enough for even Fred, in all her naviete, to take notice.
Gunn didn't want that for her. Not for Fred, his taco loving baby girl. There are enough bad things in the world.
IV. Wolfram & Hart
He's come a long way, and the rag doesn't go with the suit. Something about the cream walls, the steel and glass windows demand hair. Gunn grows his out and that changes everything. The span of cloth doesn't lay right anymore, doesn't fold over his head, doesn't seem to fit. Too much hair, perhaps. Too many responsibilities, too many thoughts.
So, Gunn tucks them away into the bottom of his sock drawer because he can't throw out pieces of his past just because they chafe a little around the edges.
Besides, maybe, one day, they'll fit again. Maybe, one day, his head won't be so full of the things he's seen and his suits won't take up so much space in his closet.
Maybe.
One day.
V. Gunn
He lost a bet and for a year he wore that damn wave cap.
Way back in the day, his mama once told him, a many greats grandfather added the second N for distinction. He wanted to be special, something different. A doctor. But that was back when colored folk didn't do things like that. He died a share cropper with nothing but that second N attached to his last name.
Gunn had that story knocked into the backside of his head by his mother's palm, and later, Alanna's. Gunn grew up and yeah, he was down with the people and keeping it real. And he never, ever sold out to The Man.
But the rag ... well, that was a stereotype. And Charles Gunn was not a stereotype. He was himself and no one else and that piece of cloth meant things that had nothing to do with him.
Then Wesley went and got shot for him. Took a bullet for him and it was as if he really was somebody out in the world and not just in the neighborhood after dusk. That pale, dumb ass, clueless English took a bullet for him and it meant more than black, white or vampire.
Gunn knew he was going to die young, but he also knew that he would die with more than just dirt under his nails and the weight of years settled into his chest. He would die Charles Gunn, with two N's, a champion.
no subject
Date: 2006-09-27 08:56 pm (UTC)From: