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.

No Story For the Wicked

It wouldn’t be long now before I met the final bitter moments of my short, pathetic life. What an ending–such a tragedy. I never got to be rich and famous for the sake of my mother’s smile. I patted at my pockets weakly–Out of cigarettes, too. What a uselessly cliche picture. Cue the noir music already, would ya?

That’s better.

Blood dripped from my busted lip, down my neck as I chuckled. I tried to move my legs, but couldn’t. The old man had proven to be more of a challenge than anyone I had ever  killed before. Someone that had gotten real attached to my character would say I’d won. Thankfully, there’s no chance of that. You can see as plainly as I can that this–this is no victory. This is a sad, sober man, bleeding out on a beautiful artisan rug in the rain.

Did I mention the roof had been blown out? Well, it had. I’m not exactly known for being less than showy. Especially not with such a big target.

Sometimes, people want you dead. That’s normal. People are assholes. Not a one that passes me on the street can say they truly deserve to live. Ha. They’ve all said some shit or pulled some shit that solidifies their soul as pure, brown and black, lifeless and smelly shit.

Maybe it comes with the territory. I’m sure folks are nice somewhere out there.

Anyway. This guy, laying right over there? Yeah. People wanted him really dead. They wanted him so dead, his sorry excuse for a spirit couldn’t even take a step towards the pearly gates to ask forgiveness. He didn’t deserve that. No one who ever shook his hand did either, but that’s just me. I made sure none of them would ever get that chance. Especially him.

Now I’m no saint. You might think I’m a good guy for at least ridding the city of this asshole, but trust me when I say this rain-ridden evening is witnessing the departure of two villainous scumbags.

Probably why I don’t have a cigarette. God hates smokers, I can tell you that much about the big guy.

I cough and gag as the cough causes the blood in my mouth to choke me. I cough some more, half on blood, half on laughter.

“This…this right here…” I gurgle out a few useless last words.

“This…sucks.”

Sirens. Naturally. The last thing a criminal wants to hear before passing on. Such bullshit. The hell is this body doing, not bleeding out faster? I punch at my chest, but my arm doesn’t have the strength to expedite the process like I was hoping. With my last bit of energy, I grab my signature hat, and lay it at my side. For all the good times and the terrible, rain-ridden nights, this hat was there. You’d know that, if you knew my story.

I gave one last look to the lighter across the room. Etched with the runes of passing, I could still see the bastard’s soul in there, trying to escape. Trying to keep this tale alive, to be told another time.

Sadly, there’s no story to tell. Not anymore. It dies with me, rotten and alone. Shame, really. There were a couple funny parts, and you would’ve…you would’ve liked em…

 

 

Art is an edited piece from thelocksmith.me, and is not my original work.

Life is Fast and Nonsensical (Poem)

Rated PG-13 for language(I secretly don’t know how to tag it as such, so there you go).

This is also a bit different than my other stuff. I feel weird today. I bet you do sometimes, yeah? Well if it’s today, this is for you!…and, I mean, the rest of you too. Fuck, I….

 

Trip turned violet

learn and burn for curdled urns.

 

fast and vialed essence churns

out a separate reality where

trees do naught but listen and climb

while others tend to eat in the recesses of

icy caverns to sustain

every bit of sanity left within the

in betweens of their temples, they

have nothing to do really, that is to say–

 

I cannot recall a time

when every grained gleaning

started all to call at once for

the rapture of a separate universe and

knew that knowing led to one fact

–I shit you not, this will kill you when you read it–

that everything and nothing are exactly the same.

that all the things you’ve learned have already been learned

and that your death will only result in life.

what the fuck, right?

I don’t know myself,

I’m just here

with you

and we dance this stupid dance of

late bill payments

and broken assets

to one day lie on the side of a street wondering

how that fucking truck thought

going 70 in a 30 zone was even a little bit cool

but that’s fucking life for you

that’s how the cookie burns and floats away as ash

before even a single tongue

can taste what would have really happened

if one had just put chips in it

and wrapped it up

sent it to some child who

for the life of him,

couldn’t get a single sweet.

He deserved that cookie,

but it just burned away.

He doesn’t need anymore god damn

Ashes.