Interpretation of OitnB S4 Final Scene

This entire season is, of course, hugely emotional. With that in mind, it must be stated that whatever I state here will inevitably lack any sort of intelligent discourse. I am running off of pure emotion as I finish my repeated journey through season 4 of Orange is the new Black. Good. Now that we have established you are reading the opinion of a brainless twat, we can continue.

The first time I finished this season, it would be easy to say I had a lot of questions. What season of any show leaves one without questions to be answered? It is the nature of media to leave the mind of the viewer wondering after whichever loose ends have been introduced, or what cliffhangers keep one intrigued enough to care when the next season/movie/book/installment comes into the world.

This time around, I had one question only, and it isn’t original by any means. I wondered, “Why Daya?”

I don’t know the real answer. I’m not smart enough for that. However, I have my own answer after rewatching, and I can’t help but share it because even if it is way off base, I feel it is super important.

We see more than one woman experience pregnancy and caring for children throughout the show, that much is clear. Hell, motherhood is a central theme. Still, I see Daya as the most visceral experience of motherhood in this setting and in this story. Her baby is seen not only as a problem for the generic white male guard Bennett, but also as a solution to rid the prison of the most corrupt generic white male guard present at the time, Pornstache. We see Daya suffer, we watch as she copes with her child being a problem as well as a solution, the humanity of mother and child itself morphed into this strange yet necessary dynamic of, “how do we turn the actual beauty of life into something useful?” To be certain, it is a journey.

Before I get too off base with that, let’s just fast forward to the point I’m trying to make here. Daya, at the end of season 4, holds the gun against possibly the most sick and twisted man presented to us in this series–Humphrey. I mean Pornstache at least had an infinitesimal amount of decency in that he cared for a child that he thought was his…? Perhaps Piscatella is worse, and that is certainly an argument that can be made. Also the other white male guard who did some of the worst shit you could imagine while deployed. Whatever. All men suck. Especially the white ones. For the sake of this argument, let’s say that Humphrey is portrayed as the worst this season, because we witness him inflicting psychological mayhem upon Maritza. He uses his power to do whatever the fuck he wants, which is nothing short of torture, a repo of female agency, and unmitigated corruption. Basically every single factor we have been shown in this show that is wrong with privileged males calling the shots in a women’s prison.

 

This is why Daya holds the gun.

 

The essence of motherhood, of womanhood, of everything it is to be an oppressed female of color in our modern society and the very gender that allows any of us to exist, is placed against this absolute abomination of male existence. It is the comeuppance of everything Woman, given the choice to put down the sick, rabid dog that is Man.  It is the cliffhanger and the question anyone who truly considers themselves a feminist inevitably wonders. Is it morally correct to simply kill that which plagues us? Whether Humphrey deserves it doesn’t really matter, when the scene is placed in this context. Does the male gender, with all that it has done to oppress, intimidate, and control women over the course of, I don’t know, all of history ever–deserve to finally be put down?

I wonder at the mind that sees the moral value of this as, “no life should be taken as such. Administer punishment otherwise, and let them live in the hopes that they will learn, that they will do better.”

At this point, with all that has occurred, with everything currently occurring in our nation, in the world at large…I mean…fuck them. Fuck us. Fuck men and their relentless disregard for half of the human race, and fuck white men in particular for using their privilege to further cause harm to people of color, women of color, and women as a whole.

I don’t have the mental fortitude to argue a possible reason for Daya, or the show’s writers, to allow Humphrey/a symbol of male power and privilege, a single additional breath.

 

Pull the trigger, Daya. Do us all a favor. Shoot the patriarchy right in its dumb fucking face, once and for all.

I Mean, How Do We Know?

People who attempt suicide say they become overwhelmed with thoughts of how they don’t want to end it all. They remember their lives, and think of what they are truly worth.

 

I mean, isn’t that just our survival mechanisms kicking in? I would say it’s our biology taking advantage of our clearly-feeble emotions in order to continue the existence of our being, since like…I dunno, that’s what instincts do.

So how does one know, in that moment, if they really do want to end it all? Someone certainly does, right? It cannot be that every life taken by the one who previously lived it was one worth living. There are some shitty feelings felt by people, and some see no end in sight.

 

I’m just asking, y’know. How do we know?

 

I like how this post is the first in a while, and it’s all suicide-y and lightly seasoned with tin foil. It’s like, when people go through my shit at the end of my life, they can be like, “well here you can see the post where his mind began to truly falter. Sad, sad tale, that one. Such a great man, with his medium height and lack of ambition. He really could have been something!”

 

ART.

I’m Sorry, Home Depot Guy With the Crackers

Long ago, in a distant land, a young boy was incredibly grumpy. He was hungry, and he was bored. To top all of that off, he was in the one store every child with moderately handy parents dreads..

Home Depot.

Yes, it was in this gray and orange, smelly, musty establishment, that we find our hero. He is whining, moaning and groaning. Nothing, nothing in the world will fix his mood. He is beyond help.

His cry for sustenance is met only with impatience by his mother. She does what she can to keep him quiet enough for her to be in and out of the dreaded depot as quickly as humanly possible. She wishes should could stuff some food in his whiny little face and shut him the hell up, but she cannot. Alas, she is a mother who takes care of this little brat all on her own, and spends every penny making sure the two of them keep a roof over their heads.

An employee, probably on his way to save some cats from trees or babies from burning buildings, stops to try and reconcile the increasingly irritated child. His heart is pure, despite the dust and must present atop the vest of his chest.

“I’ve got some crackers you could have,” he practically sings. He is a golden beacon of hope for the mother, who just wants her child to, for once, shut the hell up.

“I don’t want CRACKERS,” the child screams indignantly.

“Get over here, you do not talk to people that way! Sir, I’m sorry,” the mother does her best to remedy the situation. The hurt on the man’s face is small, but present. The child, remorseless, continues on his way, convinced the world is out to starve him right to death.

 

Sir. I’m so, so sorry. You were so nice to me. I can’t believe I was so rude to you. You offered what you had, to someone you had no connection to. I tear up to this day, thinking about how incredibly kind you were to me that day, when I gave you less than a single reason to do so.

You deserved better, and I hope you got it from every other waking moment of your life. The world needs people like you. People who simply want to help, just to help. People who do not care if the person in need seems to deserve it, they try anyway, just to make the world a little brighter.

 

Thank you so much for offering your crackers. I’m sure they were very delicious. That little brat I grimly think of as past-me didn’t deserve a smile from you, let alone a nice package of salty, crunchy crackers.

More than anything, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I hope I didn’t ruin your day. I hope you forgot about me, and kept on helping, with that big, dust-free, pure heart of yours.

Fourth of July was Okay

Yay, independence! 

Look I get it. Important shit happened! I’ll never be able to understand exactly how significant gaining our independence as a nation is/was. I’ve come to terms with that. Thank you, Americans, past and present, for making this land I live in pretty sweet, despite the obvious flaws. 

We went to a municipal center by bus, the SO and I. It was alright. A few too many people asking us to sign things. A few too few stands with swag and samples. Didn’t bring enough blankets, or any chairs. Didn’t bring anything to do, either, which was apparently a big mistake. 

I haven’t done anything for this holiday in so long that I just didn’t know you needed certain things. At least I packed plenty of food and water, and brought a towel for us to lay on. It was cute, in a we-are-obviously-poor-or-stupid-or-both kind of way. 

The fireworks were cool. Hadn’t seen em in a decade, which brings me to the next point I have. Why the hell are they still the same? I mean I’m a fan of “if it ain’t broke don’t fix it” and all, but geez. I saw those things before I was tall enough to get a plate for myself, and they’re the exact same?? The hell, America? Or at least Aurora. 

Some parents behind us brought their kids into the know on the classic “oooo, ahhh” reaction. Like, non-ironically. It went on for too long. 

The youngest was cute though. “Hello, 4th of July! I love youuu!” Over and over. I liked it. 

The kids were all awesome. They were all having the kind of fun I did when I was but a youngling. That was cool, as a thing that hasn’t changed. I expected more iPads in front of little faces, but nay!  Swordplay, pretend games, dancing! They were having a blast. 

Now we are back home. The bus ride was long, but we have donuts. Used my last three dollars to get us donuts. Bae took off her AMAZING makeup, and now we will commence to chill. 

Cameron’s ADD Meds–Pretend Game Bus Rides

My friend Cameron was the funniest mother fucker around in grade school. He always had that perfect delivery, that perfect sense of how to tell a joke. I loved that kid, and I miss him.

He was on medication for ADD at the time. He always appeared to be incredibly hyper, which doesn’t seem like what was supposed to happen. Either way, it did. He was always such a joy to be around.

We would ironically play those pretend games that kids play where it’s basically an improv exercise. It usually took place in the mornings, on the sunlit bus ride to school. They say they shot you, you say “but pretend I’m okay because of forcefield,” they respond with, “but pretend you weren’t because I had forcefield bullets,” and so on. It was an amazing way to start a sleepy, school-ridden day.

I could never beat him. He was so fast, so quick with his comebacks. Just a barrage of, “but pretend you weren’t,” “but pretend you weren’t,””but pretend you weren’t,”…on and on, he had a defense for anything I could possibly say.

 

I talked to him after high school, reminiscing about those moments. “Man, remember how funny it was when we…” you know the drill.

I thought he would laugh and respond in kind. Instead, his voice took on a sad tone, hidden beneath a half smile.

“Yeah, I was on a lot of meds back then…”

Followed by an awkward silence.

In that moment, I realized I wasn’t talking to my friend. I was talking to a different version of him, but one that I didn’t recognize. A version that felt like, who he was at the time…wasn’t really him.

It feels like I was friends with a ghost, y’know? I feel bad for taking joy in thinking back to those times, because for Cameron, those moments didn’t involve him. They didn’t exist in his memory like they did in mine.

I think…I think things like this are what scare me away from getting psychiatric help.

Pizza and Depression

As a teen, there were many days I would get off the bus and just be crazy depressed. Usually for no good reason beyond the fact that I hated home. I mean, who didn’t?

For a long time, my mom would be all like, “do you want to stop and get a pizza from Little Caesars?”

For a while, I was like, “*sniffle sniffle*…yeah…”

It worked, man. I loved that pizza for whatever reason. Didn’t feel guilty either, because that shit was cheap.

Then, a day came when my mom asked, and I said, “No.”

I remember her silence. I can imagine her thoughts at that moment. “Shit, this kid might be really depressed today. I don’t know what the fuck…hmmm…”

I feel bad for her. There was nothing she could have done. I was a moody asshole. Simple as that.

I never appreciated her enough. I mean she’s still alive, so I tell her now. But, at the time…God, dude. Thank your fucking mom for being such a trooper.

I don’t know why that moment sticks out so much in my memory. I haven’t had a Little Caesars pizza since.

It’s like…is that good, or bad?

The Teen Finally Sleeps

D.A.R.E. was weird, right? We can all agree that was strange and jarring.

I thought I would never smoke marijuana until I was 16 at my friend’s birthday party. They were right about one thing–that peer pressure tho!

I kept smoking through the rest of high school. You might think that messed me up. Made me worse, slowed me down.

Man…all I know is, I could finally…finally sleep.

It was so great. I was a bit high sometimes, which can make you feel like you aren’t yourself. But Christ on a damn crutch, I felt more like myself than ever before. I slept about 4 hours on average each night as a kid. From sophomore year on, whatever bullshit weed did to my brain…it was worth it. I was finally able to sleep.

 

Hot Pockets were a lot better, too. I legitimately got a boner eating a Four Cheese, once.