What I think is really interesting about the papyrus account of the workers building the tomb of Rameses III going on strike to demand better wages is really fascinating to me because if you look at the description given by the royal scribe you see that there was an attempt to satisfy the workers by bringing a large amount of food at once but that was rebuffed by the workers who declared that it wasn’t just that they were hungry at the moment but had serious charges to bring that “something bad had been done in this place of Pharoah” (is poor wages and mistreatment). They understood themselves as having long term economic interests as a -class- and organized together knowing that by doing so they could put forward their demands collectively. It so strongly flies in the face of narratives that are like “in this Time and Place people were happy to be serve because they believed in the God-King and maybe you get some intellectual outliers but certainly no common person questioned that”. If historical sources might paint that sorta picture of cultural homogeneity it is because those sources sought not to describe something true but invent a myth for the stability of a regime.
Since this is getting notes here’s a link to a translation of the papyrus scroll and here’s an article that gets further into the economic situation surrounding the strike and giving an explanation of the events. The workers didnt just refuse to construct Rameses III’s future tomb, they actually occupied the Valley of the Kings and were preventing anyone from entering to perform rituals or funerals. Basically they set up the first ever recorded picket line
Again the workers went on strike, this time taking over and blocking all access to the Valley of the Kings. The significance of this act was that no priests or family members of the deceased were able to enter with food and drink offerings for the dead and this was considered a serious offense to the memory of those who had passed on to the afterlife. When officials appeared with armed guards and threatened to remove the men by force, a striker responded that he would damage the royal tombs before they could move against him and so the two sides were stalemated.
Eventually the tomb workers were able to win the day and acquire their demands and actually set a precedent for organized labor and strikes in Egyptian society that continued for a long time
The jubilee in 1156 BCE was a great success and, as at all festivals, the participants forgot about their daily troubles with dancing and drink. The problem did not go away, however, and the workers continued their strikes and their struggle for fair payment in the following months. At last some sort of resolution seems to have been reached whereby officials were able to make payments to the workers on time but the dynamic of the relationship between temple officials and workers had changed – as had the practical application of the concept of ma’at – and these would never really revert to their former understandings again. Ma’at was the responsibility of the pharaoh to oversee and maintain, not the workers; and yet the men of Deir el-Medina had taken it upon themselves to correct what they saw as a breach in the policies which helped to maintain essential harmony and balance. The common people had been forced to assume the responsibilities of the king.
[…]
The success of the tomb-worker/artisan strikes inspired others to do the same. Just as the official records of the battle with the Sea Peoples never recorded the Egyptian losses in the land battle, neither do they record any mention of the strikes. The record of the strike comes from a papyrus scroll discovered at Deir el-Medina and most probably written by the scribe Amennakht. The precedent of workers walking away from their jobs was set by these events and, although there are no extant official reports of other similar events, workers now understood they had more power than previously thought. Strikes are mentioned in the latter part of the New Kingdom and Late Period and there is no doubt the practice began with the workers at Deir el-Medina in the time of Ramesses III.
Couples receive “parent points”, which they can use to purchase their children. Most parents wait for a few thousand, but you chose to buy the cheaper, 100 point child.
Shane knows what it’s like to be a 100 point child. He knows how it feels to see potential parents–potential families–come through the facilities doors, faces bright with excitement. He knows how it feels to see them reading the little plaques on the nursery doors, scanning the lists there for the right bits of knowledge and etiquette and grace that they want their baby to have.
He knows how it feels to see their faces pinch outside the window before they hurry to the next room.
Shane grew up in a 100 point nursery. They had torn, ratty, books and no teachers, and when snack time came, the tray was pushed through a slat in the door. They were called “unruly” and “damaged” and “stupid.” A lot of the other kids threw tantrums and broke furniture (and sometimes other kids). A lot of the other kids went quiet after the first few years when they realized they’d never be adopted until they were old enough (or pretty enough) to be useful. A lot of the kids cried and didn’t stop until they got taken away or were aged out.
Shane’s grown up a lot since aging out. He put himself through school, got himself a job, shed his 100 points like the torn clothes he’d left the facility in. He’s powerful now, successful, and he’s grown out of the twisted nose, big ears, and gap-toothed smile that had made him one of the less attractive 100 point babies. Or maybe he’s grown into them. Who’s to say?
It’s taken him a long time to get enough Parent Points to do what he wants. Being a man is, for once, somewhat hindering as most of society equates “parental” with “maternal.” He’s lost count of how many social workers have politely hid expressions of surprise when he told them he wanted to adopt stag, that he’s willing to take the classes, get the grades, make the oaths to get even one Parent Point.
Very accidentally, the main and indeed only bedtime story my toddlers want to hear at night is one about Gaiman’s Sandman.
Please believe me, I didn’t plan this deliberately. I don’t think I could have.
There’s a kind of delirium state parents enter when they reach exhaustion and will say anything to make their kids lie down quietly.
You say anything, hoping it’ll have a calming effect.
I’d be unsurprised to hear footage of myself reciting Chinese restaurant combo meals.
At some point, I must have started rambling about the Sandman. It’s on my mind enough; I teach it to middle schoolers.
My kids had me in the endless loop of, “Daddy, I want a kiss. And a hug. And a high five. And a fist bump. Put my blanket on!” So I mentioned the Endless.
I rambled out something about Morpheus and kept going. It was made in an impaired state of consciousness and never intended to be repeated.
Until the next night.
Eager eyes. Blankets clutched.
“Daddy. Tell me the Sandman.”
A bedtime story is a ritual, and children will inform you when you are doing it wrong.
Through a state of narrative natural selection, our family has settled on an orthodox telling of Gaiman’s Sandman for Toddlers.
To whit:
“If you close your eyes and lie still-”
This is the Very Important Part for the parent side of the equation.
“…then the Sandman, Morpheus, the Prince of Stories, the Lord Shaper, the King of Dreams will come…”
One must take care not to get the order wrong.
“…He’ll come with his bone helmet, and black robe, and glowing red necklace, and bag of magic sand…”
Yesterday, my two-and-a-half-year-old son politely informed me that I had forgotten the necklace, but no recriminations would be made if I immediately made a correction.
“… and he’ll put his magic sand on your eyelids…”
The children have reasoned out for themselves that “magic” sand doesn’t hurt your eyes the way normal sand does. They’re familiar with the anarchy of the daycare playground.
“…and he’ll send you to the Dreaming and give you amazing dreams.”
There is wiggle room in the descriptive word. Awesome dreams. Incredible dreams. Fantastic dreams.
Never “good dreams.”
I don’t believe Morpheus would approve of that promise.
If one cares, one can mention meeting Matthew the raven, Merv Pumpkinhead the scarecrow, or Lucien the librarian of all the Books That Never Were.
This is generally just garnish.
The ritual is complete. The children are appeased.
Sometimes, I will have to do it twice.
Even if they’ve both in the same room, six feet apart.
Separate performances will be demanded.
My greatest hope in this is that one day they’ll be rebellious gothy teenagers, deep in the epoch wherein Dad Is Not Cool.
They’ll approach me with the family copy of Preludes and Nocturnes in hand and eyes overflowing with questions.
@wodneswynn is evidently dedicated to tumbl-ing (ha! get it??) my papacy!
Good on you! You do you! More power to ya! By papal decree, since this is your path, it’s a good one!
This is most excellent.
*Sits back in fancy cardinal chair, waiting to see who the winner is so that I may kill them and take the papacy for myself, in the finest Cardinal tradition.*
Ah-ha, but my plan is to dethrone the sitting Witch Pope and put *nobody* in their place. I may or may not build an evil wizard tower on the ashes of the papal palace, but either way my death shall profit you nothing.
Okay, but ‘build an evil wizard tower from the ashes of your defeated enemies’ is actually in the finest tradition of the witch pope, and also a great idea so I’m still down.
Aha! Except instead of a pope you shall have a QUEEN, and I shall not be dark, but beautiful and terrible as the morning and the night! Fair as the sea and the sun and the snow upon the mountain! Dreadful as the storm and the lightning! STRONGER THAN THE FOUNDATIONS OF THE EARTH! ALL SHALL LOVE ME AND DESPAIR!!!
*cough*
I’ll, uh
I’ll be in my room
Are we about to have multiple feuding Witch Popes, each excommunicating all the others, and holed up in various sacred sites? Because this is a level of historical recurrence I can get behind.
We weren’t before but we sure are now
Sounds like a plan.
Imma get the man-thing to help me bunker down now.
me at 14: wow, protagonists in media my age! how relateable!
me at 28: WHY ARE THERE SO MANY CHILD SOLDIERS? WHERE ARE ALL THE ADULTS? WHO LET THIS HAPPEN AND WHY ARE THEY NOT BEING PROSECUTED BY LAW WITHIN THESE FICTIONAL UNIVERSES
In the same vein:
Me at 14: oh protagonists that are 17-20-ish, they’re basically adults, right?
Me at 28: Oh my Gods you’re babies who left you in charge?!
Ariel: Daddy, I love him! Me at 14: Yeah, girl, you tell him! Me at 30:
Marnie in Halloweentown: I’m thirteen, okay? I’m practically grown up! I’m certainly old enough to make my own choices – right?
Me at 7: Right!
Me at 13: Right! …Well, okay, maybe not practically grown up, but still, right!
Me at 28:
You either die young or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.
We know she’s just mad cause they have more melanin than she’s used to seeing
Lol I used to work at target and know for a fact that that’s literally one aisle sandwiched between several containing several an array of bland white dolls why would you fake a struggle like this?? It’s so flawed 😩😂
^^^^^^^
White girls are so pathetic
And…there’s absolutely no reason she couldn’t’ve bought one of those for her cousin, anyway? (I mean, no reason beyond “that cousin is probably being raised just like her and would do terrible things to the doll”)
i found this post on facebook this morning and went to My Generation to tally their dolls by skin color just to see how absolutely out of proportion the OP was blowing things.
they have 106 dolls total on target’s website. 87 of these dolls are white. 46 of those white dolls are blonde. counting all their total dolls of color, you get 19 (and that’s being generous and tallying any exceptionally tan ones). only one of these dolls resembles someone east asian.
so yeah, this lady only found 8 dolls (two of which are from seperate brands) and she’s still steamed when the brand she was looking at has 87 white dolls for her racist ass to choose from.
Artisan Scribbles 