The Weight of Being Seen

People think the hardest part of being a pilot is the flying. The technical knowledge, the split-second decisions, the responsibility of hundreds of lives. And sure, those things are challenging. But they're not what keeps me up at night.

What keeps me up is wondering if the sheep in 23B felt safer after seeing my co-pilot was a banteng. If the deer family in row 15 would have booked a different flight had they known a dhole would be in the cockpit. If the parents clutching their children a little tighter when I walk through the cabin will pass that fear down to the next generation.

Being a pilot is hard. Being a predator pilot is harder. Being a predator pilot who actually gives a shit about what that means is exhausting.

---

This morning, I stopped at my usual coffee shop. Different one than I used to go to—I switched after six months of the owner never learning my name despite daily visits. The palm civet who runs this place at least pretends to remember me, though I notice she always wipes down the counter after I leave. Not obviously. Just... thoroughly.

"The usual, Kakak Berlian?" she asks, already reaching for the espresso.

"Please."

While she makes my coffee, a mouse-deer comes in with her daughter, maybe four years old. The kid stares at me with that unfiltered curiosity children have before they learn to be subtle about it.

"Mama, look at her teeth," the girl whispers. Not quietly enough.

The mother's ears flatten. "Shh, that's rude."

"But they're so big—"

"We don't stare," the mother says firmly, pulling her daughter to the far side of the shop.

I pretend I didn't hear. I'm good at that. Years of practice.

The palm civet hands me my coffee with an apologetic smile. I smile back—lips closed, because I learned a long time ago that showing teeth, even in a friendly smile, makes prey nervous. I pay, leave a tip, and walk out into the Jakarta morning.

Just another day of being carefully, consciously, unthreatening.

---

At work, I'm First Officer Berlian. Three gold bars. Boeing 737-800 qualified. 2,000 flight hours. Spotless safety record. Mentor in the cadet program. Featured in aviation magazines.

I'm also the dhole in the cockpit. The predator who has to be twice as good to be considered half as competent. The one who doesn't get invited to certain crew social events because my presence might "change the dynamic." The one whose every mistake confirms someone's bias while every success gets dismissed as an exception.

"You're very articulate," a passenger told me once after I explained a delay over the PA. Very articulate. For a predator, she meant. Like I'd somehow overcome my natural instinct toward grunts and growls to form complete sentences.

I thanked her politely. You learn to translate compliments. "Very professional" means "surprisingly not savage." "Great temperament" means "doesn't seem likely to snap and kill everyone." "Perfect for the job" means "has successfully convinced us to forget what she is."

Captain Suryanto is one of the few who just treats me like a pilot. No asterisks, no qualifications, no subtle amazement that I can handle the responsibility. We flew together this morning, and when I executed a tricky crosswind landing in Makassar, he just said "nice work" like it was normal. Like I was normal.

I almost cried in the bathroom afterward. That's how starved I am for simple, uncomplicated recognition.

---

The thing about being one predator among ten prey is that you're always aware of the ratio. Always counting. Always calculating.

At the preflight briefing: five crew members, I'm the only carnivore.

In the terminal: maybe thirty people visible, two carnivores including me.

At the gym: fifteen people, I'm alone.

At the supermarket, the mall, the bank, everywhere—always counting, always aware of being outnumbered, always conscious that I'm the minority in every room I enter.

And among predators, I'm even more alone. Indonesia has species diversity that would make other countries jealous—over 700 species they say—but most predators here are felids or small canids. Dholes? We're rare. Practically exotic. I've met maybe three other dholes in my entire life, none in Jakarta.

So I can't even find solidarity among my own kind. Can't swap stories with someone who really understands what it's like to be simultaneously feared and invisible, dangerous and dismissed.

Sometimes I see wolves or foxes around the city and feel this pull, this desperate desire to connect with someone who might get it. But we don't really have that community here. Predators tend to isolate, keep our heads down, avoid drawing attention to ourselves. Easier to assimilate individually than organize collectively.

Easier, but lonelier.

There's a certain irony in it. Dholes are pack animals by nature. We're supposed to be social, cooperative, built for community. But here I am, one dhole in a city of millions, unable to find even a handful of my own kind. The evolutionary instinct for pack bonding just sits there unfulfilled, this constant low-level ache I've learned to ignore but never quite goes away.

I joined a canid social group online once. Thought maybe I could find some connection there, even if it was just digital. But it turned out to be mostly North American wolves and coyotes complaining about problems I couldn't relate to. Their struggles were real, don't get me wrong, but they had numbers. They had communities. They had the option of surrounding themselves with their own kind.

I had a forum full of strangers who couldn't even pronounce "dhole" correctly.

---

My family doesn't really understand. They love me, they're proud of me, but they don't *get* it.

My parents grew up in Ciguguk, a small village where everyone knew everyone. My father sold rice to the entire village for forty years. The herbivores trusted him because they needed him, and because Islam taught them that species shouldn't matter. It was simpler there. Smaller. More personal.

"Why do you care so much what strangers think?" my mother asked once when I complained about the judgment, the stares, the constant navigation of other people's discomfort.

Because it's not just strangers, Ibu. It's colleagues who doubt my competence. It's passengers who request different flights. It's the flight attendant who seats me away from families with young children even though I never asked for that accommodation.

Because every interaction is an opportunity to prove them right or wrong about predators, and the weight of representing my entire species is crushing.

Because I can't just be a pilot. I have to be a predator pilot, which means being a walking PR campaign for carnivore competence.

My father understood a little better. "You chose a difficult path," he said. "But you're strong enough to walk it."

Strong enough, maybe. But some days I'm so tired of being strong.

My brothers don't quite get it either, though they're closer. Teguh and Gagah, the twins studying computer science in Jakarta, face their own versions of this. They've told me about professors who seem surprised when they excel, about study groups that somehow always meet without inviting them, about internship interviews where they get asked if they can "work well under pressure without getting aggressive."

But they're in STEM fields where the work speaks for itself more clearly. Code either runs or it doesn't. Algorithms either work or they don't. They can hide behind screens, communicate through text, let their work prove their worth without having to physically stand in front of people and ask them to trust them with their lives.

I don't have that luxury. Every flight, I'm visible. Every time I walk through a cabin, I'm a reminder of what I am. Every time I make an announcement, passengers have to reconcile the professional voice with the predator image.

---

Bintang sees me differently.

Bintang—my boyfriend, my rabbit, my impossibly sweet disaster of a partner—looks at me and sees Berlian first. The dhole thing is just... a fact about me. Like being 175 cm tall or left-handed or allergic to shellfish.

When we first started dating, I waited for it. The moment when the novelty would wear off and he'd start seeing the predator instead of the person. When he'd start tensing when I touched him, or suggesting we stay in instead of going out because of the stares, or asking me to be "careful" around his friends.

It hasn't happened.

He sprawls on my couch in his ridiculous hoodies, feet barely reaching the floor, completely comfortable in my space. Falls asleep on my shoulder during movies. Kisses me goodbye in public without checking who's watching. Introduces me to his coworkers as his girlfriend, not his "predator girlfriend" or his "unusual relationship."

"You're thinking too loud," he said last night. We were in bed, him tucked against my side, his ears tickling my chin.

"Sorry."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just... you're not afraid of me."

"Why would I be afraid of you?"

"Because I'm a predator. Because I'm bigger and stronger and my instincts literally evolved to hunt things like you."

He propped himself up on one elbow, looking at me seriously despite his sleep-mussed fur and crooked glasses. "Berlian, I work in IT. I've seen you rage-quit video games because you lost to a boss twelve times. I've watched you cry during romantic comedies you claim to hate. You apologize to furniture when you bump into it. You're about as dangerous as a particularly grumpy teddy bear."

"I could be dangerous if I wanted to be."

"But you don't want to be. That's the whole point. You choose not to be, every single day. That's not weakness—that's strength."

He said it so simply, like it was obvious. Like my entire existence wasn't a constant battle between what I am and what people expect me to be.

"You see me," I said quietly.

"Of course I see you. You're kind of hard to miss."

"No, I mean... you see *me*. Berlian. Not just the dhole."

He kissed my forehead. "I've always seen you, sayang. That's why I love you."

---

But even with Bintang, even with his acceptance and love and complete lack of fear, I'm still lonely.

Because I can't talk to him about what it's like to be predator in a prey world. He can sympathize, can offer support, but he can't truly understand. Can't know what it feels like to walk into a room and watch everyone unconsciously take a step back. Can't understand the specific exhaustion of modulating every word, every gesture, every expression to make yourself seem less threatening.

He tries. He listens when I need to vent. Gets angry on my behalf when people are cruel or dismissive. Holds me when I'm tired of being strong.

But he's prey. And that fundamental difference means there are parts of my experience he'll never fully grasp.

Sometimes I wish I could talk to another dhole. Or even another canid. Someone who'd understand viscerally, not just intellectually. Someone who could say "yes, me too" instead of "I'm sorry that happens to you."

There's a snow leopard pilot at Garuda Indonesia. I've seen her around the airport a few times, always wanted to approach her, start a conversation. But I never do. Because what would I even say? "Hey, you're also a predator, want to bond over our shared experience of systemic speciesism?"

We just nod at each other in passing. Acknowledgment without engagement. Two predators in prey spaces, both too isolated to reach out.

Last week I saw her in the crew lounge. She was reading a flight manual, sitting alone in the corner like I usually do. Our eyes met for a second—that flash of recognition, of seeing someone who gets it—and then we both looked away. Because acknowledging it makes it real. Makes it a thing we'd have to talk about, to name, to admit hurts us both.

It's easier to pretend we're fine. To maintain the professional facade. To be the exceptional predators who don't need support or community or solidarity.

It's easier, but God, it's lonely.

---

I've gotten good at reading the microaggressions. The tiny tells that show what people really think.

There's the way flight attendants arrange the food cart to create maximum distance when they need to speak to me in the cockpit. The casual mention from scheduling that I've been assigned to "less sensitive" routes—domestic flights with primarily Indonesian passengers who are "more used to diversity" rather than international routes where foreign passengers might be "uncomfortable."

There's the pilot I've flown with three times who still asks me to "double-check" every calculation I make, even though he never asks the prey first officers to do the same. The HR representative who told me during my annual review that some passengers had "expressed concerns" about my presence but assured me it was "nothing personal, just instinctive reactions."

Nothing personal. Just millions of years of evolution telling them I'm dangerous.

There's the way people word things. "Despite her background, First Officer Berlian shows excellent judgment." "You'd never know she was a predator from how professional she is." "She's different from other carnivores."

They think they're complimenting me. They don't realize they're insulting every other predator in the process. Don't realize they're reinforcing the exact stereotypes they claim to be moving past.

I used to correct them. Used to explain why those comments were problematic, why "you're not like other predators" wasn't the compliment they thought it was.

I stopped after a particularly exhausting conversation with a senior captain who genuinely couldn't understand why I was offended. "But I meant it as a good thing!" he kept saying, hurt and confused that I wasn't grateful for being told I'd successfully distanced myself from my own species.

Now I just smile and say thank you. Add it to the collection of backhanded compliments I've received over the years. Save my energy for battles that might actually change something.

---

The worst part is knowing it might never change.

I could fly for thirty years. Could become a captain, then a training captain, then chief pilot. Could have a perfect safety record, could mentor hundreds of cadets, could win every aviation award that exists.

And there will still be people who see the teeth first.

There will still be passengers who request different flights. Still be colleagues who ask if I can "handle the pressure." Still be children who get pulled closer when I walk past. Still be people who think I'm an exception that proves the rule about predators rather than evidence that the rule is wrong.

I've done everything right. I've been twice as good. I've never lost my temper, never let my guard down, never given anyone a reason to say "see, I told you predators were unsuitable."

And it hasn't been enough. It will never be enough.

Because the problem isn't my competence or my temperament or my choices. The problem is what I am. And I can't change what I am.

Sometimes, late at night when I can't sleep, I imagine what it would be like to be something else. A deer, maybe. Or a rabbit like Bintang. To walk into a room and have people's shoulders relax instead of tense. To smile without worrying about showing teeth. To be assumed safe until proven otherwise instead of assumed dangerous until proven safe.

To just... exist. Without the constant performance, the endless proving, the weight of representation.

Then I remember that I like being a dhole. I like my strength, my reflexes, my spatial awareness that makes me excellent at flying. I like the connection to my ancestors, to the pack animals who survived through cooperation and intelligence.

I don't want to be something else. I just want the world to let me be what I am without punishing me for it.

---

There are moments of hope, though. Small ones, easily missed if you're not paying attention.

Last month, I spoke at a high school career day. The principal had been hesitant to invite me—I could hear it in her voice on the phone, the careful way she asked if I'd be "comfortable" speaking to a room full of prey students. But she invited me anyway, which was something.

The students were wary at first. Sat in the back rows, maintained distance, watched me with that careful alertness prey show around predators. But I talked about flying, about the physics of lift and drag, about the feeling of breaking through clouds into clear sky. About working hard and believing in yourself and not letting anyone tell you what you can't do.

And slowly, they leaned in. Started asking questions. Got excited about the idea of flight, of possibility, of futures beyond what they'd imagined.

At the end, a young mouse deer approached me. Tiny thing, couldn't have been more than fifteen, with huge nervous eyes.

"Can I ask you something?" she said.

"Of course."

"Do you ever get scared? That people won't trust you because of... you know."

I looked at her—really looked—and realized she wasn't asking about me. She was asking about herself. This small, prey-species girl who probably got underestimated and overlooked and told she was too tiny, too fragile, too weak for whatever dreams she had.

"Every day," I told her honestly. "But I fly anyway. Because being scared of failure is not a good enough reason to not try."

She nodded, something resolving in her expression. "Thank you."

I don't know what she'll do with that. Maybe nothing. Maybe she'll forget me by tomorrow. But maybe—maybe—I planted a seed. Maybe she'll remember that someone who looked scary turned out to be kind. That first impressions aren't always right. That anyone really can be anything, even if it's harder for some of us.

Maybe that's enough.

---

I don't get offended anymore, mostly. You can't maintain that level of anger for years without it consuming you. So I've learned to let most of it slide.

The subtle stuff—the seat changes, the nervous glances, the careful distance—I barely notice now. It's just background noise. The water I swim in.

The overt stuff still stings sometimes. The direct comments, the explicit prejudice, the people who say the quiet part loud. But even that I've learned to absorb, deflect, move past.

What gets me isn't the individual incidents. It's the accumulation. The weight of thousands of small moments adding up over years until you're carrying this invisible burden that never gets lighter.

It's knowing that every day for the rest of my life, I'll have to prove I deserve to exist in spaces that weren't designed for me. That I'll have to be consciously, deliberately unthreatening until it becomes so automatic I don't even realize I'm doing it anymore.

It's the knowledge that my success will always be qualified, my failures magnified, my presence tolerated rather than welcomed.

It's exhausting. And lonely. And sometimes I wonder if it's worth it.

There are days when I seriously consider quitting. Not flying—I could never give up flying—but quitting the commercial airlines. Maybe get a job doing cargo runs, where I wouldn't have to interact with passengers. Or become a flight instructor, working with students who chose to learn from me rather than passengers who get assigned to me.

Anything where I wouldn't have to see that flash of fear in people's eyes when they realize a predator is flying their plane.

But then I think about all the predators who quit before me. The two from my pilot training class who couldn't handle the pressure. The snow leopard at Garuda who I heard is thinking about switching to ground operations. Every predator who decided it wasn't worth the fight.

If I quit, I'm just one more predator who couldn't handle it. One more data point confirming that we don't belong in these spaces.

And I'm too stubborn to give them that satisfaction.

---

Yesterday, something happened that reminded me why I keep doing this.

I was deadheading back to Jakarta—flying as a passenger on another airline's flight because my shift had ended in Denpasar. The crew didn't know I was a pilot; I was in civilian clothes, just another passenger.

The family next to me—a buffalo, his sheep wife, their two kids—were nervous fliers. The mother kept gripping the armrests during takeoff, the father explaining to the children how planes work in a voice that was trying too hard to sound calm.

Then we hit some turbulence. Not bad, just normal clear-air stuff that happens over the Java Sea. But the mother gasped, grabbed her husband's hand, and the kids started asking if everything was okay.

I didn't think. Just leaned over and said, "It's fine. Just some bumpy air. The pilots are probably climbing to a smoother altitude right now."

The mother looked at me—really looked, saw the teeth and the eyes and the predator—and I watched her calculation happen. Danger versus information. Fear versus reassurance.

"How do you know?" she asked carefully.

"I'm a pilot. With Trans Indonesia Airlines. This is completely normal."

The father's ears perked up. "You're a pilot?"

I nodded. And then—because apparently I'm a glutton for punishment—I pulled out my TIA ID card and showed them.

The mother's expression did something complicated. I could see her brain working, reconciling "predator" with "pilot" with "person giving my children comfort during a scary moment."

"That must be exciting work," the father said after a moment.

We talked for the rest of the flight. About flying, about their vacation in Bali, about their kids' school. Normal conversation, like I was just another person. By the end, the kids were asking me questions about planes, and the mother was showing me pictures from their trip.

As we deplaned, the mother touched my arm. "Thank you," she said. "For explaining things. For being patient with us."

She didn't say "despite being a predator" but I heard it anyway. Still, she'd said thank you. She'd let me talk to her children. She'd seen past the teeth, at least for a little while.

It's not enough. It's never enough. But it's something.

---

Then I get messages from young predators asking how to become pilots. From carnivore girls who see my posts and dare to dream bigger. From parents who tell me their children pointed at the sky and said "I want to do that too."

Then I execute a perfect landing and see genuine respect in Suryanto's eyes. Or mentor a cadet and watch them grow confident. Or speak at a school and see kids—prey and predator both—listening with wonder instead of fear.

Then Bintang curls up against me and says "I'm proud of you" without qualifiers or asterisks. Sees me completely, loves me anyway, believes in me absolutely.

And I remember why I keep fighting.

Not because I think I'll single-handedly change society's mind about predators. Not because I believe I can overcome millions of years of evolution and instinct. Not even because I think my success proves anything about predator capability—exceptional cases don't disprove general rules, and I'm self-aware enough to know I'm being positioned as an exception.

I keep fighting because giving up feels like admitting they were right. Like accepting that this space isn't for me. Like agreeing that I should know my place.

And I've never been good at accepting limitations.

---

There's a term I learned recently: "minority stress." The chronic strain of existing as a minority in spaces not designed for you. The constant vigilance, the identity management, the repeated experiences of discrimination and prejudice.

It's not in my head. It's not me being too sensitive. There's actual research showing that minorities have higher rates of anxiety, depression, and stress-related illness because of this constant low-level trauma.

Knowing that should be validating. Should make me feel less alone, less like I'm making too big a deal of small things.

Instead, it just makes me sad. Because it means this is the reality for every predator trying to exist in prey-dominated spaces. This exhaustion, this loneliness, this weight—we're all carrying it. Every single one of us.

And we can't even talk about it without being accused of playing the victim or being too sensitive or making everything about species.

I tried once, in a pilot forum online. Made a post about the challenges of being a predator in commercial aviation. Got responses ranging from "just work harder and people will respect you" to "maybe predators aren't suited for passenger aviation" to "you're being paranoid, nobody cares about species anymore."

The worst response came from another predator pilot. A lynx, older than me, probably been flying for twenty years. He said: "I've never experienced any discrimination. Maybe you're doing something wrong."

That hurt more than the overtly speciesist responses. Because he was basically saying that my experiences weren't real, that if I was just better at my job or better at managing my image, I wouldn't face these problems.

He was buying into respectability politics. The idea that if we're just perfect enough, just non-threatening enough, just exceptional enough, we'll be accepted. That the problem is us, not the system.

I wanted to tell him that his denial was making things worse for all of us. That pretending discrimination doesn't exist doesn't make it go away. That he's been worn down so thoroughly that he can't even recognize the ways he's had to accommodate and adjust and make himself smaller.

But I didn't. Because what's the point? He's surviving the only way he knows how. And who am I to tell him his coping mechanism is wrong?

---

Bintang asked me recently if I'd ever consider leaving Indonesia. Moving somewhere with a better ratio of predators to prey, where I might face less discrimination.

"Like where?" I asked.

He'd done research, of course. He'd found statistics on predator populations in various countries, looked at anti-discrimination laws, read forums about predator experiences.

"Canada has a higher predator population," he said. "And better legal protections. Or maybe Singapore—it's closer, and they're supposed to be very progressive."

I appreciated the thought. Really, I did. The fact that he'd spent time researching this, trying to find a solution to my pain, meant everything.

But the answer is no.

Because Indonesia is home. This is where my family is, where my language is, where I understand the culture and the context and the unwritten rules. Moving to another country would mean starting over completely, learning new social dynamics, facing different but equally challenging forms of discrimination.

Besides, running away feels like losing. Like letting them win. Like admitting that predators don't belong in Indonesian skies.

I'm not ready to admit that.

Maybe that's pride. Maybe it's stubbornness. Maybe it's just exhaustion with the idea of having to prove myself all over again in a new place, with new people, with new biases to navigate.

Or maybe it's hope. The stubborn, probably naive hope that things can get better here. That the next generation of predators will have it easier because I stayed and fought and refused to disappear.

I don't know. But I'm staying.

---

My alarm will go off at 4:15 tomorrow morning. I'll make my coffee, put on my uniform, drive to the airport. I'll go through security while the guard holds my ID just a fraction too long. I'll attend the briefing while the flight attendants maintain careful distance. I'll walk through the cabin while passengers calculate whether to feel safer or more worried about the dhole in the cockpit.

I'll fly the plane with perfect precision. I'll execute every procedure flawlessly. I'll keep hundreds of lives safe.

And most of them will never know how much effort it takes. How much conscious performance goes into every interaction. How carefully I've learned to make myself smaller so they can feel bigger.

They'll just see a pilot doing her job. If I'm lucky, they won't think about the species at all.

If I'm really lucky, maybe someday that will be normal. Maybe someday predator pilots won't be remarkable. Maybe someday kids will see us in uniform and just think "pilot" without the qualifier.

Maybe.

Until then, I have this: the sky above me, the controls in my hands, Bintang waiting at home, and the stubborn refusal to let anyone tell me I don't belong here.

I'm Berlian. I'm a pilot. I'm a dhole.

And I'm still here, still flying, still proving that anyone really can be anything.

Even if we have to work three times as hard to prove it.

Even if we're always a little bit lonely.

Even if we're never quite sure whether people see us or just see what we are.

We're still here.

And that has to count for something.

---

Sometimes, in the quiet moments between flights, I allow myself to imagine a different world.

A world where I could walk into a cockpit without wondering if the captain requested a different first officer. Where I could smile freely without calculating whether showing teeth will make someone uncomfortable. Where my presence in uniform would be unremarkable, just another pilot doing her job.

A world where Bintang and I could hold hands in public without people staring and whispering. Where our relationship would be judged on how happy we are, not on how many millions of years of evolution we're defying.

A world where I could meet another dhole and not feel this desperate, pathetic gratitude just for having someone who shares my species. Where predator pilots could form actual communities instead of nodding silently at each other in passing.

A world where "anyone can be anything" is a reality, not an aspiration with a thousand invisible asterisks.

But then I open my eyes and I'm back in this world. The real one. The one where I have to be twice as good to be seen as half as capable. Where every success is qualified and every failure is magnified. Where I'm perpetually one mistake away from confirming someone's bias about predators.

And I get up. Put on my uniform. Go to work. Fly the plane. Come home. Do it all again tomorrow.

Because what else can I do?

Give up? Let them win? Prove them right?

Not happening.

I'm Berlian. First Officer, Trans Indonesia Airlines. Dhole. Pilot. Partner to a rabbit who sees me instead of what I am. Daughter of rice farmers who sold their belongings so I could chase my dreams. Sister to brothers who are watching to see if it's worth fighting for their own dreams.

I'm tired. I'm lonely. I'm carrying weight that most people will never see or understand.

But I'm still here.

Still flying.

Still fighting.

Still hoping that someday, somehow, the weight will get a little lighter.

And maybe—just maybe—by the time I'm old and gray and ready to retire, I'll be able to look back and see that all this effort, all this exhaustion, all this stubborn refusal to quit actually meant something.

That the next generation of predators has it just a little bit easier because I stayed.

That would be enough.

That would make it all worth it.

Until then, I have the sky. And Bintang. And my own stubborn pride.

And somehow, impossibly, that's enough to keep going.

One flight at a time.

One day at a time.

One small victory at a time.

I'm still here.

And I'm not going anywhere.

—

Story and character: Berlian the Indonesian dhole by  Berlian the Indonesian dhole

Art by:  Orilas_/orilas_

—

Tags

berlian iiioridasiii orilas_ female indonesian javan javanese indonesia dhole cuon_alpinus_javanicus asiatic_wild_dog canine predator carnivore southeast_asian asian 3d_art 3d_artwork 3d_render 3d_model render standing clothed clothing pilot_uniform pilot uniform professional first_officer copilot busty well_endowed thicc curvy curvaceous brown_fur green_eyes backstory history lore background racism speciesism social_commentary racial_commentary discrimination long_story glasses aviator_glasses