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.

The Clouded Sun

(This is a piece about a character I have previously worked with. I believe there are other pieces with him on this blog, but it has been a while. Anyway, hope you enjoy!…Mark pieces are always strange.) 

Mark knew it was time to hang up his coat, but he just could not bring himself to release the fabric nestled firmly between his fingers. Both hands gripped at the shoulders of his medium length brown jacket with the aspiring-to-truly-be-wood buttons. It was unclear to him why he would feel such an attachment to this coat on this particular day, as the snow had finally ceased for the time being.

Mark decided to simply wear it. Then, halfway to donning the oaken fabric, he paused. Mark returned to his previous position–arms in front of him, fingers gripping the shoulders of the coat. The warm coat. The dustless, soft, burdenless cloth…

I am unable to release the one thing in this world capable of shielding me from the least bit of harm. You see them, hung across the mantle of everyone from tall and gray to portly and crumpled up on the sidewalk. What is the average being to do without a piece of fur to call their very own? The sun is the great betrayer, promising us all warmth and comfort, only to leave us without so much as dry land with which to bring about sustenance. The crippling anxiety of the End, creeping up all around us as the trees breath their final breaths and the animals hide away from the world, damning it for all it has taken from them. Why are we so cursed? Why must the crusted ice of the sill spell so much doom in our deepest of hearts? We do not grow from the seed that sprouted alongside the brightest day, nay. We are the forfeiture of a long forgotten failure, we are the final product of what lived through death and kept going despite all signs of the Apocalypse posted around our parking spot. We brush the snow away from our windshields to live our normal lives and forget that we are the seed that held out. We are the cave dwellers and the food hoarders. We are the fearful, the murderers, the intruders. We are the seed that survived by any means necessary. The world tried to tell us our time was up, and instead we devoured each other, we devoured our own kin, and for what but fear? We know not what lies beyond the gates of the dying woods, and so we quiver and tremble and viciously grasp at scraps and tangle with the desperate need to let go, and the urgent flow of blood and marrow telling us “NO”. Thus we lived and what have we to show for it? We tremble yet but subtely so, behind our coats and our cars and our lies of fine days. We do not care for the planet that tried everything in its power to get rid of us, as we are a parasite and always have been. Yet we lived, and now in spiteful greed we strike back, living as best we can even in the seasons of slow demise. We do everything to take from the planet what made it green and lively and great, and we cover it with gray, the staunch and silent gray it tried to silence us with. We are a mean, hateful entity. We do not live and forgive, but try to make this great round beast feel the pain we felt long ago. Some disagree and try to reason with those of wallets aburst, but they are truly the lucky ones. Those with the most look at all their surplus and all they can see is what their deepest heart truly fears–their stockpile freezing over, decaying, leaving them alone and cold and quiet. Thus they are louder, more greedy than ever, and they–we–will not stop until we have the impossible number, the very soul of Terra torn from the flesh of the Earth in our grasp, giving us the sun itself, bottled and tame. All we wanted was warmth and peace, and in taking that from us, with each passing orbit, we became evil. We are born with the knowledge, the silent hatred of powers outside our grasp. You made us this way, and now, though you are stronger, we will make sure you come down with us.

…Mark blinked a soft blink. Through his lashes, he could see sunlight through wetness. Dew, and daylight, with oaken warmth beyond.

With a nod, he put his coat on its respective rack. He made sure it was not touching any other jackets in the area, and made his way to his desk, giving a wave here, a smile there.

Clouded, the sun slept.