#!! a girl that attended my university wrote her dissertation about this

[buttacake80]

Gotta ask, you’re a lawyer, social worker, writer, NHL fan who’s been to many many games, you hold two degrees across various fields and universities, etc etc…how did you manage to do it all??? What is your life story??? Genuinely asking bc it is very admirable.

Black girl magic.

Genuinely.

When I was 4, I was sexually abused by a relative, then abused again at 6 by a neighbor. Around that same age, I was called nigger for the first time.

My dad was a military officer. I attended 6 different schools between K-8.

Through my dad, I am Black & Native. Through my mom, I am Black & Irish. My paternal grandfather was the product of rape, so he never knew his Native family. My maternal grandfather was a white Irish-American man who grew up in a sundown and attended lynchings as a young man. We learned about his racist past when my aunt went through his chest and found momentos & photos from the lynchings.

When I was a teenager, this same grandfather developed Alsheimers & would call me nigger, tar-baby, and porch monkey when I went to visit my grandma. Other times, when he didn't recognize me, he would approach me with just in his eyes. He would comb down his blond hair, adjust his clothes, then approach flirtatiously. I would have to avoid his hands.

We called him "Mr. Howard" and not grandpa.

In high school, my parents divorced, and we moved to my mother's hometown, where I befriended Black kids who were members of GD, VL, and LK. I got in trouble for fighting and was suspended and expelled from school activities for a semester.

Within a two year period, I lost 6 classmates to car accidents, including my senior year locker buddy.

In high school, I met a junior hockey player who had a crush on my best friend. He invited us to a game where he got in a fight & knocked a dude's tooth out. Thus, I fell in love with hockey.

I attended a PWI on a merit scholarship. I befriended mostly white girls, so that's how I learned about their inner group dynamics.

Got into law school. Did bad my first year. I never learned how to study. I have an excellent memory, so I would read something and retain it. That worked well in undergrad but not so well in law school. I turned my grades around by my final year, but in that same year, I lost my paternal grandfather and my roommate. My roommate died at her computer. They did multiple autopsies but never determined the cause of death. Marta just exhaled and died.

I was interviewing for a prosecutor role in Chicago when I started to have nightly visits from an old hag. I would be in lecture and have an impulse to jump from my seat and shred my clothes with my nails. I was representing a DV victim in her employment case when I had a panic attack and missed an administrative hearing. That was when I decided not to become an attorney.

After law school, I got a job at Amazon.com during its early days. I was there before the Kindle launched, and Jeff B was in my chain of command. I would get 3am emails from him. Had to leave when I found one of my coworkers sleeping under their desk.

So I moved to Ireland and got another degree. Wrote my dissertation on White Men, then returned to Amazon for a few months before jumping to work in government.

I have worked in the court system. I have been a child welfare social worker. I was hand selected to serve as a discharge social worker, working at an inpatient & FORENSIC hospital where I worked with pedophiles, murderers, and rapists. I was assaulted and left brain-injured by such a person.

I had to relearn how to walk and talk properly. I have lost jobs due to my disability and fought off abusive landlords who tried to evict me when I refused to sleep with him.

I have faced legitimate moments when I thought about ending my life, but I have such a strong desire to live. Tomorrow always brings a new day with new opportunities. I know every hardship & every trauma had only made me stronger.

Thank you for asking.

[theasstour]

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓑𝓲𝓻𝓽𝓱 𝓸𝓯 𝓥𝓮𝓷𝓾𝓼 𝓫𝔂 𝓢𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓻𝓸 𝓑𝓸𝓽𝓽𝓲𝓬𝓮𝓵𝓵𝓲

𝓯𝓲𝓬 𝓹𝓪𝓰𝓮 | 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓭 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓽: 21k 𝓝𝓑: 𝓮𝔁𝓹𝓵𝓲𝓬𝓲𝓽 𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓾𝓪𝓰𝓮, 𝓼𝓮𝔁𝓾𝓪𝓵 𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓷𝓽

A/N: my baby @shepherald... grazie mille my dear one! i’ll never be able to thank you enough for what you’ve done for bb, and i’ll never be able to put into words how much you mean to me! i love you so much! thank you!

A/N2: so, this is it! last chapter of bb! it honestly doesn’t seem real, and i’m so sad i have to let painter!harry go cos i’ve grown quite fond of him the year i’ve spent thinking about him and this fic! what bb represents is what makes this fic so special to me. i - a plus size woman - never felt like i belonged anywhere. i assumed i was unloveable from never seeing a bigger person like myself in a book or a film where that person was deemed attractive. they were always the clown, or ‘the fat character’, or their entire storyline was based around them needing to lose weight. i’ve gotten pretty fucking tired of never seeing myself represented properly in fiction or irl or ANYWHERE for that matter, so i decided to take matters into my own hands, and i cannot begin to tell you how LIBERATING and AMAZING it felt! to each person who reached out to me saying bb made them confident, made them feel like they weren’t alone, opened their eyes to what life as a bigger person is: i love you all. this is the exact reason why i wrote bb. fat doesn’t equal ugly, it doesn’t equal unloveable, it doesn’t equal any negatively charged words. fat equals beautiful, it equals human. and anyone who ever tries to tell you otherwise can choke lmao. enjoy this last instalment of bb, i love you all so much x

Sunday, 1 March 2020

Y/N had always thought that the biggest changes were those you didn’t pay immediate notice to. Like the changing of the seasons, aging on your birthday, when the clock struck 12 and a new day began. Changes that were caused by time; that could not be prevented. Loads of changes couldn’t be prevented, but it was impossible to escape time. Manmade to make life simpler to live, and yet it’s what kills us in the end. However, Y/N had come to learn that some changes – the biggest and worst of them all – pained you so much, they didn’t fully leave your body. Like a volcanic eruption, they’d come every now and again, but would leave you scorched and burning for days. She chose not to think about those changes.

But it was hard when she was out shopping with her younger sister and said younger sister would not stop bloody chattering. The first day of spring had brought nothing but clouds and the occasional fall of some rain. Y/N wasn’t impressed. Wasn’t a new season supposed to bring something else? So far it just felt like any other winter day in south England.

“Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

Looking up at Portia, it was painfully obvious Y/N hadn’t been paying attention to anything her sister had been saying.

Portia raised her eyebrows. “Are you taking the mick right now?”

“What?!”

“You’re not even listening to what I’ve been saying.” Portia scanned her Oyster card and walked on into Haggerston station, leaving Y/N sighing behind her. Y/N scanned her own card and followed, knowing that her sister would not stop being annoying unless she asked what she’d been talking about. The second she began talking again, she’d forget Y/N wasn’t listening to begin with.

The two were on their way to Victoria Station, Portia was going back home after having stayed with Y/N in her shared flat in Hackney for two weeks, having had some modelling jobs to attend to. And now that she was done, she would be going home to their mother and staying there for a week until she had to come back down to London for some more jobs. Y/N was getting rather sick of her little sister staying with her when she could easily find her own flat, but she figured she’d bring that conversation up another time. A time when she hadn’t pissed her sister off already that day.

“Tia,” Y/N said as they reached the Southbound platform, the windy remnants of the storm that had just been making it freezing to be taking the Overground and wait outside for the next tube to arrive. “What were you saying?”

“Do you even care?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Fine.”

“This bloke I’ve been going on dates with while I’ve been here, right,” Portia started crossing her arms over her chest as the tube started approaching, knowing that a gust of wind would accompany it. “He’s got this friend that’s been eyeing me up the two times I’ve met him. He’s fit and everything, but I’m seeing Azeem, you know.”

“Tell Azeem his mate makes you feel uncomfortable and he’ll do something about it till next time you meet.”

“But he doesn’t make me feel uncomfortable, that’s the thing.” Portia sighed as the two girls walked up to the yellow line, waiting for the train to stop so they could get on. “I just think it’s annoying.”

“That men find you attractive?”

“That the fit one’s are always the ones I can’t have.”

“Oh, my days, Portia.” Y/N mumbled, getting on the Overground and sitting down in one of the orange and brown seats. Portia sat down next to her, putting her bag on the ground beside her feet.

“What, Y/N?”

“You just sound like a bellend.”

“How?”

Y/N gave her a look.

“How?!”

“’The fit one’s are always the ones I can’t have’? At least you’re dating someone, and they’re interested in you.”

“And Azeem is delicious, but his mate’s got…”

“Got what?”

Portia sighed. “Got nice arms.”

Y/N leaned her head against the wall behind her, it swayed with the moving coach.

“I know it’s not all about looks.”

“It really is not.”

“But I still can’t help myself.”

“You’re such a prick.”

“Don’t be rude.” Portia nudged her sister’s shoulder. “If you’d just go out and date people as well, you’d have the same problems.”

Y/N huffed, looking at Portia. “Doubt it.”

Portia rested one leg on top of the other, examining her nails. “You’re so boring sometimes.”

“Cheers.”

“No,” Portia glanced at Y/N again. “But isn’t it boring to just be sat inside all day?”

“Oh, it’s incredibly boring to get an education.”

Portia rolled her eyes.

“Go out of my mind going to lectures, writing my dissertation, doing other assessments, and applying to thousands of jobs a day.”

Portia crossed her arms, looking ahead.

“So boring.”

“I know you pride yourself on the fact you’re gonna be a vet.”

“Shouldn’t I?”

Portia sighed, refusing to answer. The two kept quiet after that. Y/N knew in order to make Portia shut up, she just had to bring up her education. Portia was fully aware that Y/N was the smartest one out of the two of them – quite frankly, the smartest one in their entire family – and if Y/N rubbed it in, Portia would keep quiet. Reminding her sister how she’d gotten into the University of her dreams and was doing great, was a low blow, Y/N knew that. But at the same time, Portia just pissed her off so much sometimes that she simply could not help herself.

The two got up as they reached their stop at Canada Water, and walked off towards the Jubilee line once the tube doors opened. Portia’s bag kept bumping into Y/N as they walked, and though she would normally tell her to piss off, to keep her bag closer, she didn’t know. Giving Portia a reason to start shouting at her in the middle of a tube station was not ideal. She was mad enough as it was.

They got on the escalator, Y/N was just about to tell Portia what direction to walk in once they reached the bottom since her little sister always forgot, but Portia gasped before Y/N got the chance. Looking up at her sister, Portia’s eyes were wide, a small smile lingering on her lips. She pointed to the digital posters that lined the wall along the escalator, making Y/N look to her right to see what had gotten her sister all excited.

It was the colour that stood out first. She remembered the exact shade of it. The painting stood out second, then the colour of the person’s hair, the shape of their body, the shoes. The landscape, the warm colours. It was her. It was the same day she’d found Viola. The same day Harry had supposedly… No, she couldn’t even finish that thought. She’d tried not to think of him for months now. As they passed another one of the posters, she looked at it again. In white and bold letters, the text on the poster said ‘H. Styles’ exclusive and limited new exhibition. 11:00-18:00. 23rd February – 1st March. Dover Street, Mayfair. £10 admission.’

“Y/N, what the fuck?” Portia said, tapping her finger against the screen multiple times as they passed yet another one of the posters. “What the fuck?”

The exact same statement was going on repeat in Y/N’s head as well. Seeing the painting, seeing herself on that poster, it brought back so incredibly many memories from a time she had tried to forget.

Ever since they had parted ways, Y/N and Harry had only talked on a handful of occasions. They would text one another – very early on, Harry even called her twice (only after making sure the time zones weren’t fucked and she wasn’t asleep) -, and they did so for a long while, but then Harry’s answers got shorter and shorter, and Y/N felt like he might be falling out of love. She didn’t want to ask him in case she was reading too much into things, afraid of what the answer might be. She was still in love with him, would probably be so till the day she died, but she didn’t want to force him to talk to her if he wasn’t feeling it anymore.

As time went on, their text conversations got less frequent, and by Christmas, they weren’t talking at all. Y/N had tried to forget about him, thinking that he might have just viewed what they had as an intense summer romance and that was it. After all, he was a passionate and artistic man, maybe he fell in love with the thought, image, and what she represented to his summer more than her person. It all hurt to think about, which was why she rarely allowed herself to think about him at all. She hadn’t seen him in almost seven months, she was terrified of what that distance had done to them. To his heart. Because hers still longed for his in every way a person could yearn for another. It proved hard living apart from a person whose name you had etched onto the organ that kept you alive.

They reached the bottom of the escalator and the two girls stepped off, Y/N blinking a few extra times because she simply could not hold tears back when she was thinking about Harry. Portia walked beside Y/N, mouth agape.

“Y/N,” she said. “We have to go.”

Y/N sniffled, pretending it was because she’d caught a cold. “Why?”

Portia glanced at her as if she was insane.

“What?”

“Don’t even start, Y/N. We’re going. I need to see those paintings and so do you.” Portia walked onto the Jubilee tube, Y/N following straight after. They held onto a pole, and when Y/N averted her eyes to the advertisement on the walls of the coach, she saw Harry’s poster again. They were everywhere, how hadn’t she noticed them before?

“Dover Street.” Portia said. “Right by Piccadilly, innit?”

“Yeah.”

“Brill, we just jump off at Green Park and walk for like five minutes and we’ll be there.”

Y/N sighed, suddenly feeling like she needed to throw up.

Portia grinned, looking at Y/N. “I’m excited now.”

“Portia, this is a bad idea.”

“It’s a splendid idea.” Portia corrected. “I need to see all the paintings. I’m sure they’re amazing.”

Y/N had never told Portia she hadn’t seen the paintings herself, that Harry hadn’t let her. But then again, there were a lot of things she hadn’t told Portia about last summer and H. Styles. Her heart was beating way faster than normal, she was suddenly sweating. The notion that Harry might be there was overwhelming, that he had probably been in London for a while now but not contacted her made her entire body ache in a way it had never done before. Though Harry being at his own gallery didn’t make sense on any other days than the opening one, Y/N was still sick thinking about meeting him. He wouldn’t be there, but she still was wary of going.

“What’s gotten into you, you look faint.” Portia pointed out, raising her eyebrows.

“I think it’s a really bad idea to go to that exhibition.”

“What the fuck, Y/N?” Portia groaned. “These are paintings of you. You’re literally the star of the whole thing.”

Y/N shrugged.

“Besides, I don’t think we have to pay a tenner since you literally spent all summer with him so he could paint you. Free admission equals ‘why the fuck not’.”

Would Harry even want her there? They hadn’t talked after all; he hadn’t told her he was in London. Maybe he didn’t want her to come see the paintings. Maybe he just wanted her to stay away.

She hated how much she was overthinking this. The last thing she wanted to do was step on Harry’s toes, especially now that they hadn’t spoken in a while. Especially because she loved him and was afraid he didn’t anymore. However, realising the reason she was overthinking in the first place, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. It was because Harry meant so much to her. Never could she face him now without knowing if he felt the same way about her.

Portia dragged Y/N off at Green Park, walking towards the exit with an excited gleam in her eyes. Y/N’s stomach hurt so much she didn’t know what to do. She wanted to lay down in a foetal position and die. This was all so sudden, so overwhelming. They exited the underground, and as they reached the outside again, the sun was shining and the wind didn’t seem as horrible. It didn’t ease Y/N’s nerves one bit, though.

It took them a total of three minutes to reach Dover Street, and the exhibition was one of the first things that caught Y/N’s eyes. The entire front was made of glass, covered in a baby blue sheet that read ‘H. Styles’ new exclusive exhibition.’ Portia gripped Y/N’s arm, squealing before she looked both ways and crossed the street. Y/N knew Dover Street was known for having numerous contemporary art galleries, but looking down the street, none stood out as much as Harry’s. It was impossible to view any of the paintings through the windows, undoubtedly leaving people wanting to pay the 10 quid to do just that. Y/N was torn between actually wanting to walk inside or sprint back to Hackney.

“Why’re you hesitating? Come on!” Portia took Y/N’s hand and opened the door with the other, forcing Y/N in first.

The reception was dark, absolutely everything covered in black from the floor to the ceiling. There was nothing on the walls, nothing that stood out. But in the middle of the room stood another black wall, covering the proper entrance to the actual exhibition. In front of it stood a reception desk in the same colour, and behind it sat an old man, but he was accompanied by a figure Y/N recognised right away. Portia walked straight up to the desk, a huge smile on her face.

“Good afternoon, miss,” the old man said, smiling right back at her.

“Hi, my sister and I would love to just enter the exhibition, please.”

“20 pounds, then.” Jamie said, standing bent over a pile of papers that they were signing and reading over.

“No, you don’t understand,” Portia started, turning around and beckoning Y/N over. “My sister is a good friend of H. Styles.”

Jamie looked up, their eyes immediately landing on Y/N. And just like that, she was brought right back to last summer and everything Jamie had told Harry on one of her last nights there. So many memories washed over her that it made her a little dizzy. The car rides where she and Jamie would sit in the backseat and discuss animals, life, or anything else that would’ve caught their attention. The other times when they’d wait for Harry to get ready downstairs. She didn’t know how to act. Did she give them a hug? Did she smile? Did she say something? This was exactly why she didn’t want to go.

“Y/N,” Jamie said, standing up straight.

“So you recognise her!” Portia was elated. “Can we just walk on in then?”

Jamie and Y/N didn’t break eye contact, both at a loss for words. It was clear that something went down between them, that there was something unspoken in the air of the reception hall. Y/N looked away, not wanting to have Portia ask her about Jamie once they entered the gallery. She didn’t want to tell her; didn’t want to recount anything from her time in Italy.

“Yeah,” Jamie hastily reached for two brochures, locking eyes with Y/N again as he handed them to her. Portia raised her eyebrows, catching on that something was going on. She looked at Y/N. “Don’t take any photographs, if any of our guards see you do so, you will be asked to leave and pay a fine. Other than that, I hope you enjoy.” Y/N knew they were talking to both her and Portia, but by the look in their eyes, she felt as though they were talking to her alone.

“Thank you very much.” Portia smiled, taking one of the brochures and walking away from them.

Y/N looked at the brochure, just as baby blue as the sheet that had covered the front of the gallery, the same writing on it as well. Her eyes met Jamie’s again, and there was something about the way they glanced at her that was so sad. Somewhere in the wrinkle between their eyebrows Y/N saw an apology of sorts. Regret so deep and intense that she could feel it herself. They didn’t say anything, but Y/N felt the agony; saw something in their eyes that she hadn’t experienced herself, but that they needed her to see. She gave them a small smile before following Portia and walking around the wall behind the reception desk, keeping her eyes on the brochure in her hands.

If meeting Jamie had her shaken up this bad, she didn’t even want to begin to think what an encounter with Harry would bring. The leaflet was shaking in her hand, begging for her to open it. What would it even hold? Copies of the paintings? No, if they weren’t allowed to take pictures inside, why would he have them attached in leaflets for anyone to see?

“Oh, my word.” Portia said, making Y/N look up.

The entrance to the gallery had her halting. Just like everything else, she recognised it right away. All over the wall was a painting she’d seen on her first week last summer; seen on one of her last days when she’d shown it to Harry.

“When I first moved into the flat, I found a painting in this wardrobe.” She pulled it down, taking a glance at the autumn painting depicting a gravel path leading nowhere into darkness. Turning around, she walked back over to the bed, handing the painting to Harry. “That’s only one of like, two of your paintings I’ve really seen, other was one of the sea back in your house. Mind if I ask what inspired this one?”

A projector planted it on the dark surface, welcoming the guests to the gallery. A gravel path leading off far into the dark distance, tall oak trees surrounding it, filled with the rich colours of autumn. Though it was filled with yellow and green, two colours that would normally have positive connotations, Y/N couldn’t help but get quite the opposite vibes staring at it, just like all the other times she’d seen it. There was something about it she couldn’t put her finger on. Like there laid a secret at the end of the path; an explanation in the black of the unknown.

“It’s the drive to my house back in Manchester. The drive up to my childhood home, or… this is facing the other way.” He explained, dragging his finger gently along the gravel path. “It’s what you see when you’re leaving.” He shifted the attention of his finger to the trees of different colours. “Autumn, the dull colours…” he trailed off, as if reliving a memory he’d almost suppressed; something he’d pushed so far into the back of his head it had almost vaporised and disappeared into nothingness. “This was when I left home, when I first moved to London.” He pointed at the darkness at the end of the gravel path. “That’s the end of the road, I couldn’t make it out clearly. My future, I mean. It’s all supposed to represent uncertainty.”

Portia looked over her shoulder at Y/N, squealing. The darkness at the end of the painting was a hallway, a dark corridor that seemed to be leading off into nowhere. Her sister stood there waiting for her, reaching her hand out so they could walk through the darkness together. But Y/N needed to take a moment and just look at the wall, because it was one of the very first of his paintings she’d ever seen, and now she was about to see all of the other paintings he had refused to let her see. Taking a deep breath, she walked forward, took Portia’s hand, and the two walked into the dark hallway. Y/N felt her grip on Portia’s hand tighten for each step they took

“Why didn’t they just put some bloody lights in here?-“

But just as Portia said that, the exhibition was revealed to them. It was black. Dim white lights lit up the room on the walls and ceiling, illuminating the floating balls that were lined up down the room. Looking at the walls first, Y/N realised the light appeared as stars. Dotted along the walls and ceiling, lighting up the room and revealing the huge round objects that appeared to be floating, but was held from the ceiling and the floor by metal poles. The first one was completely dark, and as the two sisters walked on closer, Portia gasped a little.

“Y/N,”

“What?”

“How many planets are there in our Solar System?”

Y/N frowned, but as her eyes met Portia’s she understood immediately. Taking a step to the side, she looked down the room, seeing that there were quite a few others visiting the gallery as well. Harry was an immense painter, after all. Everyone knew who he was. However, Y/N couldn’t focus on the other people in the room with her, she started counting the different sized round objects that were nicely lined.

“Eight.” Y/N answered.

“And how many-“

“-Eight.”

Portia squeezed Y/N’s hand, eyes wide with some kind of realisation. The sisters looked at one another for a minute before Portia opened her mouth to speak again.

“Why the fuck has he done that, Y/N?”

Y/N shook her head. “Dunno.-“

“-You do.” Portia said. “That’s why that person back there looked at you all intense as well, wasn’t it? What happened last summer? You never spoke of it.”

Y/N sighed, closing her eyes. “Portia, it’s… it’s incredibly complicated and… and it’s a long story.”

Portia groaned, clinging to Y/N’s arm. “I don’t care, Y/N. I want to know. For fuck’s sake, look around you,”

Y/N opened her eyes, doing as her sister told her to.

“It’s so painfully obvious, Y/N.”

 Y/N refused to believe it was. She didn’t want to believe that what Portia was insinuating was true, because it would mean the last few months had been for nothing. It would mean the countless hours she’d cried, the times she stopped herself from thinking about him, from yearning for him, from going back to a time spent with him and cursing herself for doing so; it was not worth it. Trying to forget him had meant nothing.

Portia tapped Y/N’s arm, catching her attention. She gestured at the painting they stood in front of, giving Y/N a little smile. Y/N looked at it, and she was immediately taken back to the exact moment of it.

There was a hole in the planet in the shape of the canvas, white light washing over it to reveal it completely to the gallery visitors. Portia opened the catalogue as Y/N studied the painting Harry had never let her view. His first painting of her.

“Miss Sweeney,” Harry said, pointing at the hill. “You-“

“-You can just call me Y/N.”

“You need to stand far away.”

Shocking. But there was no use making that comment. She took her cardigan off, putting it along with her purse in the backseat of the car.

“You will find a tree further down if you just walk straight ahead, it’s got a blue ribbon on it. Stop there with your back facing me. And don’t move until I tell you so.”

As she started walking down the hill, she could feel Harry watching her, studying her every move and every surface of her body. She supposed he wanted to make sure she found the ribbon, as well as to see what he was working with.

An abundance of colours surrounded her; green, grey, yellow, brown. She could barely make out the baby blue dress amongst the nature swallowing her, there was no way of knowing the colour of her hair, the proper colour of her skin, or any of her characteristics. The only thing that stood out was the colour of her dress, but even that wasn’t as prominent as she remembered the colour to be.

“Won’t that smear the paint everywhere?”

Harry looked at her, those two familiar lines appearing between his brows. “How?”

“Shouldn’t it be left to dry or something?”

“It’s dry.”

She frowned back at him. “Already?”

“I finished a while ago, left it to dry for around an hour.”

The memory made her smile some, regardless of how infuriated she remembered being. It was the fact that they had started out like that; polar opposites with absolutely nothing in common. Two people who couldn’t see eye to eye on anything. That fact was easy to note in the first painting, seeing the insignificant role she played in the actual painting. The Tuscan landscape could’ve done fine without her presence in it, she wasn’t even placed in the middle of the painting where nature parted to reveal Fosdinovo, but somewhere to the right of it, in the middle of the trees.

Portia tugged at Y/N’s sleeve, motioning for her to follow her to the next painting behind the first one. It was the same as the first one; a rectangle shaped hole in the dark planet, lights surrounding it to show it off. She smiled again.

“It’s beautiful here.”

“Do you see that rock over there?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes.”

“Sit there facing me.”

She knew there was no use saying anything back, so she simply walked over to the rock and sat down like he wanted her to. It wasn’t comfortable to sit on, and she didn’t think she’d be able to sit there for two hours straight. Then again if she decided she needed a break, the painter would undoubtedly show his annoyance in some way. He instructed her to straighten her legs, crossing them at the ankle, leaning back on her hands. He said he wanted her to “be looking directly into the sun.”

“That could literally ruin my eyes.”

“Art goes beyond comfort.”

“I want to be able to see said art.”

Y/N felt like she was transported right back to the moment of the painting, like she could feel, see, smell everything. Though she had known that would probably be the effect once she saw the collection, she hadn’t been aware it would be this intense. The notion Harry had painted these of her; that he had painted them before, during, and after everything happened between them, it struck her. He’d been working on these for so long; she had been a forced part of his life for so long. Maybe that was why they’d stopped talking. He’d gotten tired of her. Gotten enough of her.

The colour of her dress was the same as the previous painting; it stood out, but not in a contrasting way like you thought the colour of baby blue would when surrounded by woods. The white sunlight lit up most of her surroundings, making them blend well with the dress, but then again, she could recall quite clearly how bright the sun had been that day. Though she had hated the heat of the Italian weather in the beginning, towards the end she’d gotten kind of used to it. It was almost cold coming back home to a normal British summer.

Y/N groaned, positioning her head like he wanted her to. “Went to this baker Wednesday.” It just slipped out. She had genuinely not meant to say it, but now that she’d already mentioned it, she might as well go all the way.

Harry didn’t respond.

“Said you were known around town as the grumpy Brit.”

She didn’t see him stop painting, but she could tell he halted a little. “Who said that?”

Trying not to smile as she had somehow managed to capture his attention. “Does it matter?” Y/N didn’t know why people wanted to know what someone else thought of them. It was out of their control. Then again, she supposed, she’d brought it up so it was partly her fault he asked in the first place.

Harry huffed.

“What?”

“Hm?”

“What was the –“ Y/N imitated his exasperated huff.

“Whoever said that,” Harry said, bending down a bit and disappearing completely behind the canvas. “They’re a fucking knobhead.”

Y/N nodded her head, pursing her lips before she clicked her tongue loudly. Harry glanced up. “Great argument.”

It was weird how there had been a time prior to how she was feeling now. That at the time of this painting, she hadn’t been in love with Harry. The hands that had created this artwork hadn’t yet touched her; hadn’t yet loved her. She wanted to reach through the glass that separated the canvas from them; wanted to feel the paint and the memories that came with it.

But Portia was impatient, having already started walking around the planet to the next one. She looked down into the brochure, a furrow to her brows and concentration on her face as she read something on it before taking in the third painting. This was the one Y/N almost remembered best. This was the one that changed her and Harry’s relationship in a way neither of them was made aware of till after. You don’t realise the pivotal moments in your life till after they’ve happened, but as they’re happening, you don’t understand their incredible impact. Harry nor Y/N knew how big of a role Viola would play in their lives. What her presence would do to them.

“Is that a smile I see?” she teased. “You got a rise out of me, and now you’re pleased with yourself?”

He bit his bottom lip, shaking his head without looking away from the painting before him.

“Right then.” Y/N said, eager to get the conversation going again. “What’re you best at? There’s a lot of stuff you can do with gymnastics, innit?”

Harry wasted no time. “Swing bar.”

Y/N’s eyebrows immediately shot upward. Trying to be subtle, she let her eyes fall to his muscular arms, his broad shoulders and the curve of his slight biceps. The tan he’d gotten did wonders to the outline of his muscles. Stop, stop, stop-

“Explains the arms.”

Oh. My. God. Immediately she felt her cheeks heat up. And her blushing got worse when Harry looked up at her. He huffed.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve been checking me out.”

She rolled her eyes. “I have not.”

She walked closer, feeling her bottom lip start to wobble as she saw the painting. Harry had depicted the cliff, the ocean, the forest, the atmosphere of that clifftop perfectly. It was exactly as she remembered it. Just looking at it brought her back to finding Viola, to watching Harry pet her to calm her down, the closeness in the back of Gioele’s car. How willing Harry was to help. How good he’d smelled. How hot his skin had been against hers. That was the first time she’d ever seen him smile; first time she’d seen him happy. It was the first time she saw him show compassion; saw him worry. She hadn’t known then, but she knew for certain now, that if Viola hadn’t stepped out of the woods at that second on that day while Harry and Y/N hadn’t been talking, then none of this would’ve happened.

“What?” His voice was a whisper, the small word leaving his lips like a simple puff of air that hit her jaw, sending a storm of goosebumps up and down her back.

“Your…” she started, swallowing thickly before looking down at the cat in her arms. “Your moped.”

“I’ll get it later.”

She hated that he sounded like he wasn’t faced by the close proximity at all.

“What if someone steals your painting?”

Looking up at him, she realised once again how close they were. They might have been close earlier when he helped calm the cat down outside, but this… this was close. She felt his hot breath against her lips, in her nose; felt his eyes on her like there was nowhere else to look in the car; felt everything too much. He was… so handsome. So incredibly good looking. There was undoubtedly sweat along her hairline and cupid bow, but she literally could not reach up to remove it right now. She was unable to move, not only because of the cat, but because of Harry.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Y/N,” Portia said, pointing at the painting. “What’s that?”

Y/N walked over, looking at what Portia had asked her about. Though she didn’t see it at first, having mistaken it for a dark rock or something alike, Y/N gasped a little when she realised what it was. Small pointy ears, fur a dark brown with some striped black and desert brown and a tail swaying upward. The cat was so tiny, hidden amongst the tall grass by the forest, looking at Y/N with big pleading eyes. Y/N had almost forgotten what Viola looked like, but seeing her on the canvas, it was like being back in Fosdinovo, walking the cobblestoned streets with the little kitten following her every step.

“Viola.” Y/N answered, blinking a few times as her eyesight started to blur.

“What?”

“A cat.”

“A live one?”

“I, uhh,” Y/N nodded. “The day of that painting we found an injured cat in the woods and brought her to the nearest vet so I could help nurse her. She’d broken her foot.”

Portia looked at Y/N, raising her eyebrows. “And you called her Viola?”

“Yeah,” Y/N didn’t take her eyes off the cat. “She stayed with me the rest of the summer.”

Portia turned to face her sister. “Where is she now?”

“Dunno.” Y/N sighed. “I… dunno.”

Y/N looked at Portia, giving her a little smile before walking towards the next painting. Looking at Viola and knowing that she’d left the cat in Harry’s house in Fosdinovo, also knowing Harry had most likely moved out of the Italian mountain village, it hurt. She had no idea what happened to the cat after she left. Absolutely no idea of how she was doing or who was taking care of her now. There were many times when Y/N had cursed herself for not bringing Viola back home with her. After all, they had created a little bond between them that Y/N now realised would stay with her forever.

Walking up to the fourth painting, Y/N felt herself halt some, watching as Portia walked right up to it to study it properly. Y/N wasn’t sure if it was because Harry had taught her about how he painted during the summer, if she was getting an eye for these things, or if she was just that observant, but she could swear there was something about this one that set it apart from the other few she’d seen up till now.

It dawned on her that for each painting, her figure had gotten closer and closer to Harry. As if the focus shifted from the nature around her to her alone. From far away in the first one, to taking up the whole lower half of the canvas in this fourth one. Her figure was the first thing you saw. The baby blue dress that only barely covered her bum, her bare legs, her white knee socks, her white docs.

“Don’t bend your knee that much.”

Y/N readjusted her knee.

“No.”

“Then how?!”

The grass shifted behind her, and looking to her right, she noticed Harry walking over. For some reason, Harry getting closer got her heart beating so hard she heard it in her ears and her muscles tensing. He sat down before her, a concentrated furrow to his brows that wasn’t at all intimidating. He just looked focused, deep inside his own head, constructing and planning his new painting.

For some reason, she hadn’t thought of the reason for Harry coming over, only that he was. So when he reached for her leg, she almost jumped.

She blinked as she remembered the first time Harry touched her willingly like that. How he had barked orders at her in the beginning, to coming over and moving her leg like he’d done. It made her thigh seem very cold all of a sudden.

“You’re not being serious right now.” Portia hissed, sliding her finger in the air along with the outline of the mountains at the far back of the painting.

They were dark against the pink, orange, and blue sky, so was the forest, making Y/N stand out majestically against everything else. The hint of a small white outline in the sky showed the presence of the early moon, welcoming the oncoming night. Y/N couldn’t remember seeing the moon that afternoon, but then again, she didn’t remember much besides the fact that she laughed with Harry that day and he touched her bare thigh. But Portia had miraculously seen what had captured Y/N’s attention as well. The landscape in the painting, though it wasn’t blatantly obvious, it resembled her figure. It swayed where her hips did; dipped where her legs did. It did so in a natural manner, Harry had made them seem like actual mountains and not just a replica of her curves, but Y/N couldn’t see anything else.

“The blue,” Portia said, pointing at Y/N’s dress and then at the slight streak of blue in the sky. “Kinda looks alike, does it not?”

Y/N didn’t pay much attention to it. She started walking away, eager to see the next painting, which she knew was a very special one because it might be the one she remembered the most clearly. As she rounded the planet and started walking toward the fifth one, a huge white orb caught her attention. The detail in all of Harry’s creations caught her off guard, but the moon she was looking at right now looked so real it took her breath away. She saw herself standing in the water; saw the baby blue dress; the knee socks and her Dr Marten’s in the sand. It all looked like a photograph, only the moon was abnormally big. But all his paintings looked so real it was almost like if you stripped the display of the glass protection, you could walk right into the world he’d created on the canvas and live there forever.

“What about you?” he asked again, voice low like a mumble.

Y/N hoped he couldn’t tell how fast her heart was hammering, how every nerve in her entire body was on high alert, how every cell was screaming for him to get closer. “What about me?”

“You’re never as alone as your head makes you believe. The moon is always there.” He said, eyes searching her face. “What about you?”

“Will I always be there?”

He just looked at her, clearly thinking that his look was answer enough.

Her breath hitched somewhere in her throat, and she hoped the rush of emotions that was running through her didn’t show on her face. Portia looked at her with an open mouth before taking in the fifth painting. Y/N knew exactly how her sister was feeling; that overwhelming need to ask herself and everyone else in the room if this was an actual painting, or something from someone’s most desired fantasy captured exactly as it was and printed onto canvas. And maybe it was. But Harry had taken days, weeks, months to finish these paintings, Y/N knew. She remembered those times when she’d watch him paint and he’d refuse to let her see them. She didn’t know why he didn’t want her to see them.

It was so beautiful it was hard to believe someone had made it; it just seemed too celestial for it to be real. She wanted to touch it where Harry had touched it, feel the strokes he’d made, the lines of paint. There was something about this one that sent a shock of pain through her heart no medicine could cure.

“I’d stay up only to get a small glimpse of you.”

She balled her hands into fists, digging her fingernails into her skin to hold herself back from crying. Because all she could remember was how fast Harry had kissed her back when she’d kissed him, the feeling of his lips against hers, and the taste of peach tea on his tongue. His hands roaming her body, gripping onto her thighs as she hooked her legs around his waist. His body against hers, their cells mingling, the moon shining her white light down on them, and the ocean swaying around them.

Portia walked around the planet and onto the next one, and giving the moon one last glance, Y/N followed her. Y/N couldn’t even remember this one. Maybe it was because everything that happened after the wedding blurred together, or maybe she’d just not thought about it enough for it to take up space in her head. But as she got closer, the idea of her being a model for this painting seemed unlikely.

The canvas was black as night, a huge moon in the centre of it like the one before. A figure was floating in the middle of the white moon, a baby blue gown clinging to its form and floating up behind them like they were sinking. As she got closer, Y/N saw that this wasn’t her. All the other paintings were of her, but this one wasn’t. This was Harry.

His arms were floating at an almost 90-degree angle, the baby blue gown hovering behind his arms and torso, just barely covering some of his thighs and crotch. One of his knees was bent a bit more than the other, and the tattoos he had up and down his muscular legs were very visible, making Y/N think back to a time she’d been allowed to touch them. His neck was craned backward, eyes closed and mouth parted ever so slightly, bubbles of air leaving him and making a hasty return for the water’s surface. She remembered his fright of the dark, how much he hated the ocean, but his facial expression showed one of peace. He didn’t seem afraid; didn’t seem like he dreaded any of it. It seemed like he was okay; ready to reach tranquillity and the ultimate meaning to life. He was surrendering himself, it seemed.

“Y/N, I swear to you,” Portia said, pointing at different places on the painting. “Look.”

“At what?”

“You mean you don’t see it?”

“See what, Portia?” Y/N knew she must sound irritated, but with everything going on and all the emotions she was feeling at once, she simply could not hold her anger back.

“The painting,” Portia directed Y/N’s attention back to the canvas. “Do you see?”

Y/N took a closer look.

“Do you see all the blue?”

And it was like her little sister flicked a switch, and suddenly, Y/N saw it. Blue. Baby blue. It was hidden in the waves along the top of the painting, in the shadows of the water, in and around the moon, in his hair, his body, his gown. Taking a few steps back, Y/N wondered how she hadn’t picked up on the blue right away. It was all over the painting. Most of the details on that canvas were baby blue.

Quickly, Y/N walked all the way back to the first painting. Portia just watched her, unsure what was going on, but not wanting to interrupt something if Y/N had come to some sort of realisation.

The only blue in the first one was her dress, in the second one, the sky resembled her dress some. In the third, the sky, ocean, and a bit of the grass surrounding her held the same colour as her and her dress, and in the fourth the landscape swayed along with her form, the sky, the woods, and certain highlights were the exact colour of the dress. How hadn’t she seen it all the first time around? Because once she took a few steps back, the baby blue stood out starkly against everything else. Marching straight past the fifth and the sixth, Y/N wanted to see the last two. Because the second to last put the finishing touch on everything.

The entire canvas was baby blue. Her form was outlined in white, but none of her features were shown. Her breasts, face, or any other part of her body was not included. But Y/N would remember that exact pose till the day she died and long after that also. Because it was the one where Harry had drawn on her; her arms above her head, her knee bent, leg resting over the other. She wondered if this had been the one he’d painted when she laid on the floor of his loft, but why had he been so incredibly detailed when he painted on her if he was just going to erase it forever? Not include it in one of his masterpieces? It didn’t make any sense.

“You let him draw you like one of his bloody French girls.” Portia hissed, about to burst out laughing when she stopped herself. The room was silent as people walked through the exhibition, neither of them wanted to be thrown out or something to that effect.

Y/N looked at her sister. “Yes.”

Portia’s eyes got wide. “Shut the fuck up.”

“He painted on me.”

“Shut. Up.”

Y/N glanced at the painting again, noting that the only thing on that canvas was the very careful outline of her.

“Exactly how well did you fuck him for him to do that?”

“Portia!” Y/N hissed. “Leave off.”

“I’m serious, Y/N, this seems like the summer of your entire life.” Portia smiled, raising her eyebrows suggestively. “Did he do you good at least?”

Y/N only gave her a look.

“Oh, come on.” Portia pouted. “I just found out my sister has been shagging with my boss all summer, I want the deets.”

“Can that happen another time? I’m a little busy-“ Y/N gestured around her and Portia nodded, clearly eager to be done here so she could hear Y/N explain everything to her over the phone on her commute home.

“You know,” Portia started, holding up the leaflet. “If you’d just bothered and taken the time to look in the brochure, there’s a lot of information about all the paintings.”

Y/N frowned.

“I kind of had my suspicions about the two of you before you even said something just now.”

Y/N looked down at her brochure, reading the front of it again as she walked toward the last painting. She wanted to go through everything one more time and read the leaflet, she needed to know all the details and all the reasons why Harry had done what he’d done. When she glanced up again, the first thing she noticed was how the planet surrounding the canvas was glowing. A dark golden colour, looking a little like the moon, but as if it was on fire on the inside, the surface of it pure gold. She turned around and looked down the row of planets, meeting Portia’s eyes right after.

“The first one is black,” Portia said. “And the last one is golden.”

Y/N felt her heart hammering faster, felt herself begin to sweat.

“With each planet, you slowly fade into-“

“-Venus.” She finished, looking at the last planet she’d been named after. Y/N Venus Sweeney. She was so overwhelmed she felt a little faint, though she hadn’t known what to expect from the exhibition, this – all of it – was not it. She didn’t want to draw conclusions and think this whole collection was about her, but right now, looking at everything around her, it was hard to think anything else.

She still had one more painting to go, so she grabbed the leaflet and walked to stand in front of it. Instantly, she remembered it. She’d seen this one before. It seemed like ages ago, but she had seen this painting. It was the same one Gioele had stolen from Harry’s house and given to Salvatore and Carina as a wedding gift. Y/N had no idea why that one would be in the collection, what had made Harry put it there. She was just about to open the brochure and read what it said about this particular one when she heard a commotion behind her. The screeching of joggers against the floor as if someone was running, some gasps, Jamie shouting something.

Y/N turned around, and she recognised him right away. Her heart immediately started screaming his name. He walked down the row of planets in a haste, frantically scanning the crowds surrounding each quickly till he came to the last one where she stood. He stopped abruptly as his eyes landed on hers, a sigh of relief leaving him in between pants for air. Had he been running? Quickly, he swallowed, trying to regain his composure before he did anything. While he did that, Y/N took him in.

His hair had grown, he must’ve trimmed it some since last summer, but his curls were lush, his hair thick, and just as brown as she remembered it. He was wearing a colour-block patchwork cardigan with all the colours of the rainbow, a white tee shirt with some blue artwork printed on it, washed denim jeans, and his signature pink Converse. He looked healthy, maybe not as tan as she remembered him to be, but he looked good. He looked like the same Harry she had fallen in love with back then; it was still him. He was here. Right before her. After months apart, he was here.

“Y/N.” He said, voice faint as he took a reluctant step forward. It was like he realised what he was doing – getting closer to her when he had no idea if she still wanted that - and was almost about to take a step backward again but stopped himself.

She was unable to say anything at all. One second she had been about to take in the last painting of the collection, and the next Harry had rushed into his gallery and now he stood right in front of her. It didn’t seem real. The months they hadn’t talked, the months they hadn’t seen each other. They all hung in the air between them, pushed them apart from one another; demanding them to keep separated. She wanted to defy their distance, wanted to fling herself into his arms and melt into him like she had done so many times before, but the uncertainty, the separation, and the many curious eyes watching them stopped her.

Harry was about to say something else when his eyes fell on something behind her, clamping his mouth shut.

“Hi,” Portia said. “Don’t know if you remember me.”

“I-I do, I…” Harry’s eyes fell to Y/N again as he trailed off, glancing back at Portia after clearing his throat. “Portia.”

“And you’re H. Styles.” Y/N could hear the smile in Portia’s voice, and Y/N knew instantly she was taking the piss, telling Harry she knew exactly who he was and why he was here. Whispers were heard, as if the visitors all suddenly realised who they were looking at. Someone gasped and someone on the other side of the room started walking closer. Harry looked around him as if he just understood what he’d done by coming here. Their eyes met again, and Harry let out a sigh.

“Can we talk?” he asked, eyes big and pleading. “Please.”

Y/N looked at everyone around them, then back at Harry, hoping he’d understand that she didn’t want to do it in front of everyone else. Taking a few steps backward, Harry began walking towards the exit of the exhibition, making sure Y/N caught up with him before he started walking normally. Y/N glanced at Portia over her shoulder, but Portia was grinning so widely Y/N knew her sister was okay with her leaving her behind for a bit.

The next room they entered was just as dark as the first one, but the paintings were huge projections onto the walls, ceiling, and floor, showcasing all the details each of them portrayed. Harry walked quickly through the room, having seen this multiple times before – having created this -, but Y/N slowed. The attention to detail was incredible; it looked so real, yet it still looked like art. She was never able to really put her finger on it, but then again, she supposed that was what creativity was. The lines between what was certain and what was a craft from someone’s imagination, blurred to the point of doubt, yet it’s human nature to find an explanation for everything; but in art we find an excuse not to have one. Maybe that was what drew people to it; it was real, but not real enough to need reason.

He held the door open for her, leading her to a smoking area in the back of the gallery. Two trees rose up, some dead grass sprung up between the stone flooring, and, thankfully, no one was there. The sun was still shining, and somewhere not too far off, an ambulance siren was going off. It was weird to be with Harry in an environment other than quiet, warm, rural Fosdinovo, it was almost as if she associated him with the peace of the Italian countryside now. But she didn’t mind having him here in London. Not in the least. In fact, she liked it very much.

“Y/N,” he repeated, almost as if he didn’t really know what else to say; almost as if he had to repeat her name over and over and over again to tell himself that she was really here. He just looked at her, studying her intently, probably to make sure she was okay.

“I didn’t know…” she started, blinking a few times. “Didn’t know you were in London.”

“I’m in London.”

“But I didn’t know you were.”

“But I am.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

Harry sighed. “No.”

“Why?”

Harry opened his mouth but hesitated. “I… I just… It’s not as if I…” he ran a hand through his hair, sighing again. “I didn’t know if you wanted me to.”

She frowned. “What made you think that?”

“We haven’t talked in a couple of months, have we? Maybe you’d forgotten about me.”

“You think I’d forgotten about you?” Y/N crossed her arms. “I’m not the one who got disinterested and pulled away.”

Harry’s face screwed up into that familiar scowl she had seen so many times before. “I never bloody lost interest, what’re you on about?”

“Seemed that way over text.”

“Those are text messages!” Harry gestured with his arms, very obviously frustrated. “How much can you tell from a text?!”

“A lot!”

Harry groaned. “Y/N, please.”

She stood her ground, looking at him and waiting for him to say something that would change her mind. How had they gone months without talking, months before that with barely any communication, and he didn’t think she’d be annoyed at him for that. She was annoyed at herself, too. It takes two to communicate.

“I don’t want to fight.” He said. “I… I just… I don’t want to fight. Can we just talk?”

“We’re talking.”

Harry’s eyes fell to the ground, nodding a bit before he dared look up at her. “What’ve you been up to?”

Though she wanted to yell at him, tell him that she’d been busy writing and researching her dissertation, that she had been busy missing him, she composed herself. She might be frustrated, but Harry was trying, so she should as well.

“Uni,” she simply said. “And you?”

Harry let out a short breath through his nose. “Figured, stupid question, really.”

She couldn’t help the slight tug at the edge of her lips.

“Been travelling the world, showing off the exhibition.” He gestured back at the gallery. “It’s been wonderful, but I’m glad it’s over now. Can relax for a bit before I start painting for clients again.”

“It’s quite the exhibit.”

Harry nodded.

“Almost a little too extra.”

He let out a chuckle, eyes falling to the ground again. “You think?”

“Wasn’t it hard travelling around with all of that?” Y/N asked, thinking about the huge planets – or rather Venuses – back in the exhibition. Seemed unlikely that they travelled far distances with all of that, but then again, what did she know, she hadn’t talked to him in a long while. And when they did talk, it wasn’t about the transportation of his collection from country to country because he never talked about it.

“No, we drove around most of the time, then by plane when it got to travelling from continent to continent.”

She nodded. “Fair enough.”

His eyes flicked between hers, inhaling slowly. The sun hit the top of his hair, making his locks shine like gold, and Y/N remembered the countless number of times before she’d seen his hair like that in the early morning light, or a bright sunset. Memories are supposed to bring you joy, especially those remembered with fondness, but those are also the ones that hurt the most to relive.

“Are we really gonna chat about anything but what we want to chat about?” Harry asked, face very serious all of a sudden.

“Which is?”

“Us.” Harry said, something in his throat making the word almost sound choked. “And… and…”

She waited, feeling her heart beat harder in her chest.

“And us some more.”

She let out a small chuckle.

“What?”

“Start then.”

She could tell he wanted to frown at her, as if he wanted her to have a certain reaction. But he didn’t, instead he let his shoulders fall a bit, taking her in for a few moments more before he decided to start talking again.

“I thought you’d forgotten about me.”

It hurt every time he said that, as if he didn’t believe that what she’d felt this summer wasn’t half of what he had.

“Tortured me to think about you.”

She took a little step backward, not wanting to listen to him talk on about how she’d hurt him.

“But the thought of you also brought me peace, as it always has. Brought me inspiration and motivation.” He took a step closer to her. “I miss you. I’ve missed you since the day I was brought into this world, I never knew I did till I was without you.”

Those three words radiated throughout her entire body, her heart screaming them right back at his. I miss you I miss you I miss you I-

“Please don’t…” he trailed off, balling his hands into fists as if he was mad at himself for not finding the right words for what he was feeling. “Don’t leave.”

She swallowed, not wanting the hundreds of butterflies and warm feelings in her chest to get the better of her when she answered. “Don’t leave… now? In general?-“

“-Don’t leave me. If not as a lover, as a friend. I need you in my life to some capacity.”

“Harry-“

“-I’m in love with you, Y/N.” His voice was so soft, yet urgent. He needed her to feel the same way, to understand what he was talking about. “I love you.”

Every cell in her body vibrated with the effect of those words, telling Harry she felt the same. In every way one person could love another, she loved him.

“If you even feel a fragment the same, please tell me.” His eyes were so big, pleading with her.

She felt so much all at once, finding the right words – finding words at all – was difficult. Every single part of her tried, her brain working hard and fast so she wouldn’t leave him hanging. But that was exactly what she did. So overwhelmed with absolutely everything today had brought, she couldn’t do anything but feel.

Harry’s jaw visibly tensed with the lack of response. “Or don’t.”

She opened her mouth, brain working a hundred miles a second to find words for him.

“If you don’t, then that’s fine. I won’t pretend it’s not gonna hurt and I’ll need some time to come to terms with it.” He sighed, eyes falling to the ground as if he couldn’t look at her now. “I… I was terrified this would happen.”

She couldn’t just stay fucking silent, she had to say something. Speak you bloody nonce, don’t do him like this. “Harry-“

“-What I’ve been most scared about since we stopped talking is that I played an insignificant role in your life, when you played the most significant in mine.” His eyes were still on the flooring, gripping the ends of his colourful cardigan. “A part you won’t talk about with others, that you keep a secret.”

“I’m not ashamed of this summer, Harry-“

“-I feared you’d never need me like I need you.” He said, voice thick with something resembling torment. “Because I just… I know we have no power over who we end up loving, you meet someone and before you know it, they’re so important to you that imagining a life without them in it is like staring uninspired at a blank canvas. But I’ve chosen to pour every ounce of my love onto you. I’ve chosen you, and I’ll continue to choose you without hesitation and without fail, for the rest of my life.”

She felt her eyes sting, fearing that she’d start crying if he continued on talking. Why was it that before their first kiss, Harry hadn’t been one for talking, but after it he hadn’t dithered? Everything he’d told her since had been so heartfelt and true, she felt like he was putting words to her very own feelings.

The right words wouldn’t come, and she felt like the longer she left him standing there in silence, the longer she let him ramble on, the more catastrophic this would get. Because she felt the same for him, but what she felt was so enormous and she was afraid she’d never find words for it. She wasn’t one for art or expression. She studied science and medicine and animals, she knew all that, but she didn’t know how to tell someone like Harry what he wanted to hear. Most of the time, at least before, he didn’t need her to say anything. Her presence, her touch, her comfort was enough for him. He never expected anything else from her but to reciprocate his feelings. Which she did. Oh, did she love him. More than she thought possible.

“I-“ she started, but cut herself off as she didn’t know where it was going. Harry looked up at her instantly, instant hope in his eyes. “Your exhibit.”

Not the appropriate thing to be talking about right now, she thought to herself, but better than nothing.

“Could you explain it to me?”

He blinked. “Explain it?”

“Yes,” she said, feeling every surface of her body heat up. “Because I knew you were painting me, but I didn’t…”

His eyes lingered on her lips for a second, but he quickly composed himself, a slight redness appearing along his cheekbones. A wave of goosebumps ran up her spine.

“I didn’t expect…”

“Didn’t expect the whole exhibition to be about you?”

She just looked at him, biting her bottom lip.

Harry let out an amused chuckle. “You’re the smartest person I know, thought you might get it right away, to be completely honest with you.”

“It took me off guard.”

“Right, should I walk you through it, then?” Harry gestured at the gallery. “Want to see it?”

She sensed irritation in his voice and sighed. “You don’t have-“

“-Don’t fucking say I don’t have to. You asked about the exhibit. You don’t understand, even though I just made it very clear for you. So, let's.”

He walked toward the door, flinging it open and beckoning for Y/N to walk through it first. Walking first, he stomped straight through the entire exhibition, right past people who were leaving. They all looked over at Y/N and Harry as they walked the opposite way, a few raised eyebrows and some whispering. Portia still stood in the first room with the eight planets, looking up as Y/N and Harry came back. A smile first graced her features, but seeing the look on Harry’s face and how fast they were both walking, she quickly pieced together that something was happening.

“This,” Harry said as they reached the reception, pointing at the wall with the projection of that painting Y/N had found in the flat in Fosdinovo. The drive to his childhood home in Manchester. “You recognise this?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

She gave him a look to tell him she didn’t appreciate his tone. He didn’t seem to care.

“Told you the path leads to uncertainty, hence the darkness at the end of it. I didn’t know where my life would lead me and I was terrified. Now,” he pointed to the dark corridor. “What does that lead to?”

Y/N blinked a few times, looking up at Harry when he didn’t continue talking. But he was already glancing down at her, raised eyebrows and a stoic look on his face. Though she was tempted to tell him to shove it if he was going to keep that attitude up, she didn’t. She needed to tell him how she felt, that he wasn’t alone in wanting more. She needed to find the right words. But right now, knowing Harry, he’d just get furious with her if she told him now that he was putting the effort in and showing her what everything meant.

“The paintings.”

“It leads to the exhibition.”

“That’s the same thing.”

Harry didn’t respond, he just walked towards the corridor without looking back. Y/N felt her anger bubble up, but she tried to control it as she followed him to the first room of the exhibition.

“Hope you know what the solar system is.” Harry shouted back to her.

She dug her nails into the palm of her hands, gritting her teeth from responding. Portia was standing at the other side of the room, watching them with wide eyes. Everyone else had left, she realised. The gallery was closing, and Harry’s exhibition needed to be taken down so the next one could be put up. This was his very last day showing his collection. Y/N gave her a look to keep quiet, the last thing Harry needed now was Portia intervening.

“Our solar system’s got eight planets-“

“-I bloody know how many planets there are in our solar system-“

“-But to me and my life,” Harry walked to the side of the room, pointing down at the last planet. The full Venus. Her plant. “In my universe, there’s only one.”

She didn’t know what to say to that.

“They each fade more and more into Venus. Notice how the first one’s black.”

“Like the end of the painting I found in Fosdinovo.”

Harry’s arm fell to his side, having proven his point on why he’d chosen space to be the theme for his exhibition. He walked on over to the first painting; straight past Y/N, jaw still tense and the look in his eyes enraged. She realised this was torturing him. Going through everything without knowing how she felt, and probably fearing – and believing – the worst. She had to say something.

“This one,” he pointed. “We can barely see you. You were a fucking pain in my arse.”

“Hey!”

“There’s only one dot of baby blue, you’re far away from where I’m standing.”

“If you don’t-“

“-Next one,” he walked onto the second one without Y/N even having reached him and the first painting. “You’re closer to me, still not very close, still not a lot of blue. Only some in the sky. Didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Harry, slow down-“

“-Third,” it seemed he was on a mission, wanting this to be over with as quickly as possible. “You’re close. You can see baby blue in the sky, ocean, your dress, some in the grass. Still not doing it on purpose.”

She jogged over to the fourth as he did, really wanting to take a grip of his arm and tell him to calm down. But she had no right. Not now. But she was still getting annoyed with him.

“Fourth is when I start doing it deliberately. Realised I caught feelings for you, and you can see that in the landscape, how it follows the outline of your body.” Harry pointed just as the lights inside the planets went out. “There’s baby blue in quite literally everything.”

The lack of lights to showcase the paintings didn’t stop him, Harry walked on. She ran after him, about to tell him to slow down again when he walked right past the beach painting with the huge moon.

“The night you changed the moon for me forever. Now I do as you said you do; I talk to her. Every night.”

Y/N felt her heart ache. She wondered, if they were both talking to the moon at the same time, if they were talking about one another, why didn’t the moon whisper Harry’s words into her ear and hers into his? Why didn’t she help them?

“You’re further away in that one ‘cause I realised I’d have to let you go at the end of the summer, didn’t want to get too attached.” A dry laugh slipped past his lips. “Look how well that worked out.”

They stopped in front of the second moon painting, where he was floating in what looked to be the middle of a huge and dark ocean.

“You once told me the moon knows all your deepest secrets and biggest desires,” Harry pointed at himself in the painting. “Here’s me surrendering myself to her.”

“Why’re you in the ocean?”

Harry chuckled, running both hands over his face as if he couldn’t believe her.

“What?”

He looked at her for a few seconds while clenching his jaw. “I used to be terrified of the dark and the ocean. You taught me monsters won’t magically appear just ‘cause you can’t see. They’re just as likely to show themselves in sunlight.” He glanced at the painting again, blinking a few too-many times as he looked away from her. “If you take your time to understand and truly look at this painting, you’ll understand it.”

She was about to open her mouth when Harry said, “And don’t use your ‘I only know science, I barely know how to interpret art’ rubbish.”

“Well, it’s true.” She mumbled, but Harry only clicked his tongue, disinterested in her insistence on not understanding art. He walked on to the next one, the one that was completely baby blue, where her body was carefully outlined in white.

“Here you can clearly tell-“

“-I have a question,” Y/N said, making Harry shut up. “That painting of me… the one where I’m… Where’s that one? I mean…”

Harry stared at her for a few seconds, waiting for her to continue, but when she never did, he mumbled another question right back at her, “You think I’d put a painting of your naked body on display in my exhibition?”

She just looked at him, seeing something in his eyes that was vaguely familiar but too far away to fully grasp.

“I’m keeping that one-“ he stopped himself, swallowing hard. “It’s private.”

She nodded.

“Anyway,” Harry went back to the painting before them. “You represent baby blue to me, so here’s your colour – you -,” he paused for a second. “Becoming everything.”

She looked at him, feeling everything within her wither and bloom at the same time. The painting seemed to take him back to a time long ago, every urge he had to do this as quickly as possible seemed to leave him when he looked at that painting. They still had one left, but he forgot about that, losing himself in a memory. And Y/N lost herself in him. Suddenly, proper lights lit up the room and the stars that had illuminated everything prior, disappeared.

“Harry!”

Harry didn’t meet Y/N’s eyes as he stepped away from the row of planets, looking up at Jamie how had shouted his name.

“Closing time. We need to pack up, mate.”

Harry nodded, looking over at Y/N who suddenly felt her heart pick up speed.

Jamie clapped their hands together. “Come on, you lot, you need to leave.”

For a few moments, it was like the two of them moved in slow motion. Harry took a few steps so he could face the other way, ready to leave through the backdoor, not breaking eye contact with Y/N. Once they looked away from one another, the rest of the world would resume being and they had to leave. Y/N had to say something, she had to tell him. But everything was clogged up somewhere in her throat, she wasn’t able to say anything. This whole exhibit… it was about her. Harry had cared so much about her and he still did. But she couldn’t find the right words. She had to say something. Had to let him know she felt the same way.

Harry’s jaw clenched again before he looked away from Y/N and started walking back down the way he’d taken Y/N before. Everything inside her went into panic mode.

“Harry.” She said, but he didn’t turn around. She started jogging after him. “Harry.”

“Y/N-“

“-Just a sec, Portia!” Y/N continued to follow Harry through the now lit exhibit. “Harry!”

He didn’t turn around still.

“Harry, please.” She took a grip of his arm.

Harry stopped, dragging his arm out of her grip. “Y/N, stop.”

The force of his words took her off guard and it took her a few seconds to compose herself. “I’m sorry.”

Harry nodded, looking behind Y/N at the closing exit door. “What?”

“I… I need to tell you that…” she swallowed, feeling her palms get clammy. “You said earlier that…”

Harry looked at her expectantly, something in the frantic way his eyes moved over her face and the quick breath he took made her think he detected reciprocation in her voice. “Yes?”

Her mouth opened, but no words came out. Her heart was beating hard and fast, she was beginning to sweat.

“What, Y/N?”

“I can’t, I-“ She ran both hands over her face, frustrated with herself. She groaned.

“What?”

“I know how I’m feeling, but I don’t know how to say it.”

Harry took a small step towards her. “Say what?”

“How I feel for you.”

He let out a small breath. “And how’s that?”

“Just how you feel about me.”

There was a single second when Harry’s eyes were filled with elation; like he was ready to embrace her, kiss her, and never let her go. Wanted to become one with her right then and there, to never leave her side again. A ghost of a smile grace his features and his shoulders lowered; his entire composure seemed to relax. As if all the anger he’d been carrying around with him in the gallery disappeared. But the next second, realisation sunk in and he glanced away for a second.

“Need to hear you say it.” He said, voice weak. “Know you say you’re not one for words, but there are moments in life when words are everything.”

Y/N felt a drop of sweat run down her back. Her head was spinning.

“I deserve to hear you say it yourself.” Harry said.

“I know! That’s why I’m trying so hard to say something!”

Harry nodded, eyes falling to the floor. “You’re not ready.”

Y/N frowned, sure her panic showed on her face. “I am ready. That’s why I followed you out here, isn’t it?”

“No, Y/N, you’re clearly not. You might feel it, but being vulnerable is hard for you. Admitting to being vulnerable isn’t something you know how to do.”

Y/N’s mouth fell open.

“Your whole life you’ve put up this cold and hard exterior to protect yourself from feeling too much. You’ve had a hard time receiving the love you needed while growing up, and you’ve been burned in the past-“

“-Don’t psychoanalyse me.” She pointed a finger at him. “You know I have a hard time opening up to people completely.”

“You have a hard time admitting to letting your guard down. You do it willingly, but there’s a part of you that just doesn’t want to admit it.”

“I said don’t psycho-“

“-I know, I’m sorry.” Harry took a few steps back, as if getting ready to walk away from her. “I’ll wait.”

She blinked. “For what?”

“You.”

“Me?”

Harry nodded, just about to turn around and leave when she called his name again.

“You just begged me to tell you I felt the same way, and I did.” Y/N said, taking a few steps toward him, but stopping herself. “I told you.”

“That you felt like I did.”

“Exactly.”

Harry let out a small chuckle and though it sent a swarm of butterflies straight to Y/N’s stomach, it also hurt because she knew the next few words would send her into a panic. “And thank you for that, but I told you how I felt. Now you need to tell me. Physical show of affection is nice, but proper verbal confirmation that someone loves you…” he trailed off, looking at her in silence for some seconds. “It’s key.”

“Harry-“

“-I love you.”

She fell silent, taken off guard. But the words warmed her so that she was sure she’d never freeze again. He started walking away.

“I’ll wait, you need to figure this out on your own. I know,” smiling he continued, “Now I need you to comprehend.”

Mouth falling open as she tried to force herself to say something, she cursed herself over and over again for having built up that humongous wall around her. Being vulnerable was like admitting that you were weak, and she knew those two weren’t the same thing at all, but she’d associated them with one another her whole life. She needed to stop.

“I’ll wait for you.”

And just like that, Harry left her this time. She was tempted to run after him again, but to what purpose? To have him tell her yet again that he needed her to tell him she loved him when she couldn’t bring herself to? To hurt him again? No, she was going to deal with her struggles to admit vulnerability herself. He deserved to hear her say everything he’d just told her and much more. And hopefully Harry would still love her the way he did now by that time. How terrified she already was that he didn’t.

But if that was the case, at least she’d have taught herself the importance of vulnerability.

Thursday, 10 September 2020

“Smile, baby.” Elaine brought her phone up, snapping a picture of Y/N with her diploma in hand, standing in front of her University.

It was a nice day; the sun was shining through a thin layer of clouds and the temperature was high, but not so high that Y/N was struggling to breathe. All her course mates were milling around behind, beside, and around her, saying their last goodbyes before everyone was to part ways after this. It had been bittersweet saying goodbye to her mates. She knew she was going to see them again and knew she would be happier now that she didn’t have to care about uni, but it would be sad not seeing them and not knowing when she would meet them next. Though she hadn’t really been close with any of them, she still counted them as her friends and would miss their time together.

Portia stood beside Elaine and gave Y/N a little applause, grinning from ear to ear as her sister walked over to them again. “Look at you, all smart.”

“Yes,” Y/N said, doing a little dance with her diploma. “I’d like to think I am.”

“Look,” Elaine begged Y/N over so she could look at the pictures she’d taken of her. “You look lovely, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, the lighting’s amazing.”

“So peng.” Portia said, zooming in on Y/N’s face.

Y/N playfully hit Portia in the head with her diploma, making the two sisters chuckle before they turned back to their mother. Elaine smiled at Y/N, there was a look in her eyes Y/N wasn’t accustomed to seeing on her mother’s face when looking at her. It was something she often directed at Portia, but Y/N rarely got this. Pride. It almost made Y/N’s eyes sting with oncoming tears.

“Come on, girls,” Elaine said, taking each of her daughters’ hands. “We need to celebrate. What’s a good pub around yours, Y/N?”

“Hmm,” Y/N thought for a few seconds. “There’s a Gregg’s two minutes away.”

“Sausage rolls!” Portia exclaimed.

“We’re not celebrating you getting a degree at bloody Gregg’s, are you dim?” Elaine huffed, unlocking the car once they reached it. “We need to get a pint each, and a fancy dinner later.”

“Reckon we could afford a fancy dinner in London, Mum?” Y/N sat down in the car, putting her seatbelt on as Elaine started the car. “I’m skint.”

“Well, you’re not the one paying for the dinner, are you?” Elaine raised her eyebrows at her, driving away towards Y/N’s flat in Hackney. Portia reached into the backseat where Y/N sat, squeezing her knee before she sat back and focused on the city they were driving in. Y/N leaned forward and squeezed Portia’s shoulder.

“Thank you for coming, P. Know you have a lot going on at the moment, but it meant a lot to me that you bothered to come.”

Porta looked over her shoulder at Y/N, studying her sister for a second before she smiled. “Might be busy, but it’s your graduation. It’s important to me.”

Y/N felt her cheeks heat up a bit, something they always did when she managed to discuss her feelings. “Thank you anyway.”

“You’re very welcome.” Portia’s smile widened, and she grabbed Y/N’s hand, kissing it before turning to look ahead again.

Y/N smiled herself, sitting back in her seat and looking out the window.

She’d never really gotten attached to London. Maybe it was because she didn’t really have anyone she was close to, or the constant fast-paced lifestyle you had to lead to live there. Y/N had always preferred a slow life, like the one she had grown up knowing in Maldon. Essex was calm, it was what she’d known her whole life and what she wanted to know forever. Regardless of where she wanted to live and where she felt she belonged; she’d gotten a job at North London Veterinary Clinic so she didn’t really have much of a choice in where she could settle down for a little while. North London wasn’t as busy as Central, so she wouldn’t be as overwhelmed as she usually was. She’d have to move and though the thought stressed her out, she was ready for a little change. It would be good for her.

“Do you remember that guy I was chatting to for a little while?” Portia suddenly asked, snapping Y/N out of her reverie.

“Drake?”

“No.”

“That Felix lad?”

“Not him.”

“Ezra?”

Portia shook her head.

“Jackson-“

“-Oh, for fuck’s sake, Y/N,” Portia turned around in her seat. “Do you have to rub it in?”

“That you date a lot of men? I don’t have to do that; you know it perfectly well yourself.”

Portia rolled her eyes. “Azeem.”

“Ahh! Azeem!” Y/N nodded her head, giving her little sister a smile. “Remember you talked about him, yes. Ages ago, though.”

Portia seemed to think back to the time she was talking to Azeem, getting lost in her own thoughts for a few short seconds before she blurted out, “Anyway, I met him on a night out like two days ago.”

“You did? What’d he say?”

“Just that it was nice to see me again.” Portia said. “Told me I looked good. And then he walked me home.”

In an attempt to come to terms with how she was feeling and letting other people know, it had been one of the first things Y/N had done. She sat Portia down when she came back to London, told her she loved the fact her sister came down and that they got to spend time together because it brought them closer – and she wanted to be close to her sister since they’d struggled being just that growing up -, but Portia needed her own place. If she was going to spend that much time in the capital, she might as well move there permanently. Elaine had struggled to come to terms with the fact that her youngest daughter would be moving out, especially considering how much time and resources she’d put into Portia and her career. But both the sisters had convinced their mother that this was what Portia needed to do. She needed to become independent. And besides, Portia wouldn’t be alone in London, Y/N lived there as well.

“And…?” Y/N urged, raising her eyebrows to show she was eager to know what happened next.

“He asked me out on a date.”

“He did?!” Y/N grinned. “Why did you stop seeing each other in the first place?”

Portia sighed. “It was hard to not see him very often, we lived far away from one another, and all that. But now that I live in London, maybe it’ll work out.”

“Is he a decent bloke, Y/N?” Elaine looked in the driving mirror back at Y/N. “I won’t take Portia’s word for it. You know she’s blinded by a good shag when she’s got one.”

“Mum!” Portia exclaimed. “Don’t say that! You’re not allowed to say that!”

“Say what? What you always tell me? You talk about lads and your sex life constantly.”

“I do not! Oh, my God!”

Y/N laughed, zoning out as her little sister and mother started arguing in the front. They soon reached Hackney and Y/N’s flat building. It felt weird knowing that Thursday next week, she’d be moving out of this flat and into a new one. Though Hackney wasn’t the nicest place to be living in London – or the nicest place to just be walking through – it had been Y/N’s home for five years now. Sure, she spent loads of time in Maldon and Essex, but this was her place in London. But soon, Hampstead would probably be it. It wasn’t that the commute would be horrible from Hackney and up to North London, but she would rather have a stroll to work in the morning instead of using public transit. It was bloody unbearable on the tube in the mornings sometimes.

They exited the car and Y/N rummaged through her purse for her keys, giving them to Portia when she reached her hand out for them.

“Thanks, babes.” Y/N said, getting her diploma out of the car seat before closing the door and letting their mother lock the car.

Portia glanced at Y/N for a little while, a grin spreading out over her lips.

“What?” Y/N asked, gesturing for her sister to unlock the door so they could walk on in.

“Dunno,” Portia shrugged, putting the key in the hole and turning it. “You never call me ‘babe’ or anything like that, but you’ve started recently.”

“Been watching too much Love Island.”

Portia laughed, holding the door open for her mother and sister. The lot of them walked up the stairs to the second story, about to let Y/N change out of her heels so they could go have a pint and then go out to dinner. Though she wouldn’t look as smashing as she did with her heels on, they would ultimately kill her feet and she was not about that life today. She’d just gotten a degree, she was going to feel good all day. So fuck heels.

They reached Y/N’s door and she let Portia unlock that one as well. Her flat was as simplistic as always; one single room with a small kitchen, a bed, a desk, and a door to a small bathroom. Elaine walked over to the desk, sitting down in Y/N’s office chair while Portia bent down and picked up something behind the door.

“Mail.” She said, giving Y/N a few envelopes.

“Thanks.” Y/N took it, looking through the envelopes to see nothing interesting. A couple of bills, some rubbish, and…

“Where are we going after this then?” Elaine asked, looking from Y/N to Portia. But Y/N didn’t hear what Portia was answered because she was too busy reading the small slip of paper that told her she’d gotten a parcel. Everything that was too big to slip through the mail slot was out into a cupboard on the outside of Y/N’s flat. Beside her front door was another, smaller door where her electricity metre was. If she wasn’t in to receive the parcel herself, she’d written on her mail slot to just pop it in there.

She put all her mail down on the kitchen counter before walking outside to check the cupboard. Upon opening it, she saw a single brown parcel, though it looked more like a gift than anything. She reached for it, bringing it out into proper lighting. She read her own address on the front, and when turning it around, she found it a little hard to breathe. Had he…

Y/N walked back into the flat, closing the door behind her and placing the package on the kitchen counter so she could unpack it. She knew Elaine and Portia were talking behind her about something, probably where they were going to go have their pint, but Y/N could not focus on anything but what was right in front of her. Ripping the paper off, a sea of colour was revealed to her and she recognised what she was looking at right away.

“A sunny morning in Essex.” Y/N smiled, looking at him. “The most beautiful sight in the world, if I may say so.”

“Oh, is it?” he asked, putting the brush away and placing his hand on her thigh, turning to face her.

“Uh-huh.” Her smile widened some as he moved closer to her, brushing his nose gently against hers.

“I can think of more beautiful sights than a sunrise in bleeding Essex.”

She ran her hand over it, feeling the strokes of paint she’d put there with Harry’s help. It wasn’t nearly as beautiful as the paintings in his collection, but it was the most breath-taking creation she’d ever laid her eyes upon. It was something she’d made with Harry. It was art. Picking it up, something fell to the kitchen counter. An envelope.

“What’s that?” Portia asked, but Y/N couldn’t answer.

She put the canvas back down on the counter and reached for the envelope, tearing it open. It was his handwriting and she suddenly longed for him again. Months had gone by, but she thought about him every day. He was always with her, always motivated her; made her want to be better. And seeing something the two of them made a year ago, reliving the memory of them sitting close and creating something beautiful in the warm Italian summer night, it made her yearn in a way she never had before.

‘Complimenti per la laurea, celeste.’

Looking down on the canvas again, she suddenly recognised it. The landscape resembled the one in Tuscany, the one she had walked through and lived in all last summer. And in the corner was a white house, almost like a mansion of sorts, but not as big as some of the houses she’d passed on the countryside. She didn’t remember painting that. In fact, she barely remembered painting anything but the colour of the sunrise. Orange, yellow, blue. Harry must’ve completed the painting after she left.

“Y/N,” Portia said, now standing by her sisters’ shoulder. “Is that one of his paintings?”

Y/N just looked at he canvas, unable to say anything.

“Is that one of his fucking paintings?” Portia gasped, looking at Elaine and back at Y/N. “Imagine how much that is worth!”

“I’m not gonna sell his painting, Tia.”

“No, but-“ Portia gestured at the artwork, squealing. “What’d the card say?”

“Think he’s congratulating me on graduating.” Y/N put the card down, looking at the painting again. The room fell silent as nosy Elaine probably didn’t know which of her questions to ask first, Portia looked dumbfounded at the canvas, and Y/N yet again lost herself in daydreams of Harry. He knew she was graduating today. Sent her their painting. He congratulated her on finally getting her degree. He was still thinking about her like she was thinking about him. One of Y/N’s fears with taking so long to figure herself out, he’d somehow move on. But she believed in him enough, knew how she felt well enough, to know that they’d see each other again.

“You have to leave.” Portia said. “Y/N, it’s been six months.”

“I know.”

“You have to go to bloody Italy right this second.” Portia looked around Y/N’s flat. “Where’s your bag?”

“What about my life here? I’m starting a new job next week, I’m moving.”

“Figure that stuff out next week.” Portia smiled. “You’ve grown so much in the last few months, Y/N. You’re softer now, not so prone to fighting people for not having the same opinion as you, but you listen and you’re willing to change. Not for the world, but for yourself. Harry didn’t tell you to embrace tenderness just so you could admit how you were feeling about him, but also so you’d be nicer to yourself.”

“But I already am.”

“I know, but he wanted you to allow more love into your life. By seizing love and allowing yourself to feel, not only self-love, but the love of others, you allow yourself to live fully and completely.” Portia squeezed Y/N’s shoulder. “Without regret, without apology.”

Y/N smiled a little at her sister, studying her face. “Portia Cressida, when the fuck did you become so wise?”

“Can’t let people know I know shit or else I’ll ruin my dumb image.”

The girls laughed, and Portia rested her head on Y/N’s shoulder, glancing at the painting Harry had gifted her sister.

“Go, Y/N.”

Saturday, 12 September 2020

She remembered Italy to be hot, but something about Italy in autumn was almost unbearable. Everything was still a lush green, nothing had changed outdoors since last year it seemed, everything still looked the same. But Y/N wondered how that was possible when she wasn’t even in the southern part of Tuscany anymore, she was in Veneto, a county further up north. North-west Italy looked as summery in autumn as Y/N would’ve expected it to, and she loved it. Though she didn’t like the sun much, she’d come to appreciate it more than the rain of England. Besides, she could stand the heat if it meant meeting Harry again.

She’d called Jamie yesterday, asked them where she’d be able to meet Harry. She knew she could’ve just asked Harry, but she also wanted to see the surprise on his face when he saw her on his doorstep. So, she hadn’t told him she was coming. Which could either end with them living happily ever after or him saying he didn’t feel the same anymore. Thinking about the latter gave her a panic attack.

She hadn’t brought much with her, just a small bag as a carry-on and the clothes she was wearing. A see-through red, yellow, white, and pink tie dye crop top, showing off her cute black bralette underneath, a washed-out pair of high-waisted boyfriend denim jeans, and a black pair of Dr Marten’s. Though it had gotten a bit chilly on the plane, she knew Italy would be hot, and she had been very right about that. Besides, she needed to look extra cute now that she was seeing Harry again for the first time in six months.

The bus ride wasn’t as bumpy as the one she’d taken to Fosdinovo, the bus was new, and she trusted the driver to know if something was wrong. She hadn’t trusted Gioele to know the same, which she applauded herself for in retrospect. The bus was fairly new and the road to Padua, Veneto was nice. She’d done some research and figured out the reason why Harry might’ve moved up north and close to Padua. It was a city known for art; spectacularly pretty and often overlooked by Venice, a mere hour-drive away. Knowing Harry, he’d probably walk through the quieter streets of Venice to get inspiration or sit on a corner café in Padua to people-watch. She knew he wanted to get out of Fosdinovo, but he hadn’t been able to remove himself entirely from the Italian culture he had immersed himself in. His love for that country was too great for him to ever truly leave.

Reaching Padua, Y/N got off and got a taxi right away. She told the driver where she was going, and though it was a bit out of town and onto the countryside – not to Y/N’s surprise, Harry liked quiet after all – he agreed to get her there. It took them about 30 minutes to reach the house, and when they did, it was a simple gravel path. She obviously had to walk for a bit to get there, but she was glad she got to take in Harry’s new residence in the calmness that was the outskirts of Padua. She could make out the white house at the end of the road, the newly sown trees that lined the path, and knew when they had grown to their full height, they would envelope the drive like a tunnel of green leaves and nature. Y/N smiled a little to herself as she imagined it, knowing that Harry most likely had the exact same thought in mind.

It was nice seeing how he decided to live now, especially after everything that happened in Fosdinovo. Secluded, but a couple of neighbours a few minutes’ walk up or down the cemented road she’d just been on. It was undoubtedly his new paradise. And by the looks of it, the closer she got, it seemed he was still working on the house. White and grand, with huge French windows and sheer curtains on either side of them all, there was still some construction work going on on the outside, though the workers weren’t working today it seemed. It was only 12pm, but maybe Harry wanted them to take the day off to relax. She’d ask him, she told herself, because she was now in the driveway, viewing the red front door, looking in through the windows to see if she saw him. Her heart was hammering so fast in her chest that she noticed her tie dye top vibrating with each beat.

Reaching forwards, she pressed the doorbell, taking a step back so the door wouldn’t hit her in the face when he opened it. Nearly as quickly as it had gone off, she heard something very familiar inside the house. Spending time around animals nearly all the time, Y/N’s puppy radar went off when she heard the tiny barks of a baby dog inside. Immediately, her mouth fell open, and she walked to the closest window to look inside.

Down a white tiled corridor, the light from the massive windows on the other side of the house shining down on him, a puppy came running down on his big paws, his tail wagging so wildly his little bum moved with it.

“Hi.” Y/N cooed when he reached the window, standing on his back-paws to get a better look of her and bark some more. “Who’re you then? What’s your name?”

He sniffed the glass as if trying to get a sniff of her, but he whimpered when he couldn’t. And as Y/N got a good look of the little guy, she realised something very quickly that made her almost fall backward onto the gravel of the driveway. A Scottish deerhound.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Y/N said under her breath, walking back to the front door and ringing the doorbell again. Why was it that Harry had trouble answering the bloody door every time? She stood her ground this time, the puppy still barking at her and watching her in anticipation, ready to jump onto her the second Harry opened the door. But he didn’t. So this time she knocked on his door with her fist, not about to wait around for hours. She knew he was in. A puppy couldn’t be left alone in a big house like this, he’d either have to put him in a cage or take the pup with him.

With no response, Y/N decided to explore the outside of his house. Giving the pup a little wave, she stepped down from the front step, taking in the marble pillars on either side that held a small roof above the front door. The house was incredibly elegant and new. Had he built it himself? She walked around the side, admiring the huge garden and the tall stone fence that secluded it from everything else. There were a couple of trees that stood around a tiny pond, and it seemed he’d taken the time to put a grey stone bench beside it. The rest of the garden was newly trimmed and grand, though pretty empty still. There seemed to be the start of a pretty big doghouse beside another tree, and something else that might be the start of a veranda. Maybe he’d just about moved in. It would explain why everything looked so new, anyway.

It felt like Harry, though. All of it. Elegant yet simple, big but not too much. He was a simplistic person who loved grand things. The thought of him moving into a new house, probably a little anxious to meet new people and to get acquainted with his new life in a new town, it made her smile. He was restless and would move in a few years, but for now, this was exactly what he needed, she knew.

Faint, but Y/N still heard it with every single part of her being, a meow sounded from behind her. Turning around, there stood a striped cat looking over at her. She hesitantly moved forward and Y/N felt like breaking down crying.

“Viola,” Y/N hunched down. “Hi, baby.”

The cat made her way over quite hastily when she recognised who the person was, rubbing herself against Y/N’s outstretched hands. She’d grown, yet Y/N would know this little creature anywhere. She’d often wondered what happened to Viola, because when she left, she assumed Harry would take care of her till he left. But here she was. Had he brought her with him everywhere? She reached down, pressing a soft kiss to Viola’s forehead like she always did, and the cat meowed in response. Y/N giggled, the feel and sound of Viola brought her right back to her time in Fosdinovo. The cat had been there for her every single day, putting a smile on her face. They gave each other a home for a month.

Thinking she might explore more of the grounds, she stood upright, and Viola immediately perked up, ready to follow Y/N wherever she decided to go. Her eyes suddenly landed on a glass house attached to the mansion, and then on the figure standing by the open door leading into it. The inside of the winter garden was fully furnished, unlike the rest of the property that lacked the same attention. She couldn’t believe this. Not only was this Harry’s dream home, it was hers as well.

Their eyes met, and a jolt so intense rocked through Y/N’s body that it shook up everything. She fell in love with him all over again, seeing him there, looking right back at her with a look of startlement and longing and relief. She couldn’t wait any longer, she had to be close to him. Taking the first few steps, she felt the inside of her tummy vibrate as the butterflies inside her came to life again. The closer she got to him, the more every single part of her body tickled, itching to hold him again. And when it seemed to have dawned on Harry that this wasn’t a dream, he started walking toward her as well. The closer they got the more they picked up the pace. It had been too long, they had taken too much time, they had worked on each other for one another and for themselves.

Y/N threw herself into his chest and Harry wrapped his arms around her so tightly she was sure she’d fade into him. Though it had taken them so much to get to this moment, it had taken them a while for a reason. People needed to work on one another and for each other to make a relationship work, it didn’t just magically happen. And sometimes people need to be apart for a little while to gain perspective and mature enough to return. Harry needed someone who could be as open as him, and Y/N needed someone who wasn’t afraid to be himself to the fullest, without apology.

They broke apart, eager to look at one another again. Harry’s eyes moved over her frantically, taking her in again. He was wearing another silk shirt, tucked into high-waisted washed out denim jeans, and barefoot. Something about his bare feet was adorable. And the fact they were basically wearing the same jeans made her stifle a laughter.

“Hi,” she said, unsure how else to greet him.

He chuckled. “What the fuck, Y/N.”

“What?”

“You’re here.” He said, smiling at her. “I… I had no idea. But you’re here.”

“I’m here.”

He took her hand, squeezing it, looking her up and down. “Here.”

She smiled as well, feeling her hand heat up here his skin met hers. When he looked up at her again, eyes glistening, face lit up more than she’d ever seen before, dimples as deep as ever, she felt like tearing up. This was the man of her dreams; the man she wanted to spend every day with till death. And even after that she’d find him in their next life, or she’d find him in her afterlife, or wherever else they’d end up. There was no one else. Would never be anyone else.

“This is a big place.” She said, gesturing at the house and the rest of the estate.

“Yeah,” Harry nodded, still looking at their joined hands. “Started building it back in March.”

“Big place for a big lad.”

Harry laughed, looking up at her again. “Need enough space for Viola and Gopher to wander.”

Y/N’s heart did a dreamy sigh. “Gopher?”

“Oh!” Harry pointed behind him at the house. “He was the one barking.”

“The puppy?”

“Yeah.”

She bit her lips together, looking down at their hands. “You adopted a puppy.”

Silence for a few moments before Harry said, in such a soft voice she swore it felt like a caress, “He’s been waiting for you.”

She glanced up again, happiness so overwhelming filled her to the point that she felt like flying. Eyes landed on the house and then back on Harry as he ran his thumb over her hand.

“Don’t you remember that day in the car last summer, when you first met Jamie?”

She didn’t at first, but it hit her like a truck and she almost gasped out loud. Harry only smiled a little at her, having remembered her words this whole time.

“A Scottish deerhound.”

“They’re quite big, aren’t they? Can’t remember how they look, but I think I know.” The phone was in Jamie’s hand, typing the name of the breed into the Google search bar.

“I’ve always wanted one. Always wanted to move to the outskirts of Maldon with two deerhounds. That’s where I want to settle down, I think.” She said. “With a winter garden and a big property so the dogs can run freely.”

She shook her head, not wanting to believe Harry had done this.

“Harry…”

“It’s not Maldon, or Essex, or England for that matter,” he said, stepping aside so she could look at the house. “But I tried to make it like you said, with some pieces of me in it, if that’s okay.”

The resemblance it held to the last painting of Harry’s exhibit was incredible, the same painting that had been stolen by Gioele. The painting Harry had an emotional attachment to of sorts. It was because it was this. It was the house. It was the place he hoped she’d settle down. With him.

“Wanna take a look inside?”

She smiled at him. “Please.”

He smiled back, letting go of her hand so they could walk into the winter garden. Viola followed them, strolling in through the door before Harry closed it. He took her into his arms and walked over to the door that led into the house, opening it and letting Viola walk away before closing the door again. They were left in silence, a few of the windows were open to let some air in or else the room would undoubtedly get incredibly hot with the sun shining right in. The roof was shaped like a spire, the whole glasshouse a half-circle, and green plants lined the window wall. Vines hung gracefully along some of the stiles, and in the middle of it all stood a big blue velvet ottoman. The whole place had a gothic feel to it and Y/N absolutely adored it. When she’d pictured a winter garden, she’d just wanted a place she could relax outdoors during wintertime, but this was something else entirely. It had a Harry feel to it, but it also felt like her.

“What do you think?” Harry asked, leaning his back against the windows.

“It’s amazing.” She mused, looking around. “Harry… I’m speechless.”

“Tried to make it into something that I knew you’d like. That’s why I painted it first and had an architect sketch the outline of the house after.” Harry explained. “Hope it falls into liking.”

She looked over at him, for the first time in ages, seeing the hint of doubt in his eyes again. Simply not able to help herself, she walked over to him, hesitating a bit before placing a hand to his cheek. He leaned into her, closing his eyes for a second and letting a sigh of relaxation leave his lips.

“I love it, I haven’t even seen the inside of the house, but I love it.” She told him, studying his dark eyelashes against his cheekbones. “And I love you.”

Harry’s eyes shot open, looking straight into hers. The absolute joy in them made the colour of his irises more radiant, and it was almost as if the sun shone a little brighter. As if the world fell into place; like how it was supposed to be all along.

“I love you.” She repeated, softer this time around.

“Yeah?” Harry’s voice sounded like a whisper; a plea for her to really, really, really feel it – what was between them – like he did.

“I’m in love with you, Harry.”

He grabbed the back of her neck, swallowing hard. “I love you, too.”

She couldn’t help it when the sides of her mouth tipped upward. “I know.”

Harry smiled. “Smug bastard.”

She laughed, leaning her forehead against his, feeling his fingers stroke her scalp tenderly. God, it felt good to have him touch her again. It felt good to be close to him. It felt good to not be ashamed of saying ‘I love you’. It felt amazing to let someone else know how deeply you cared for them and see them light up in response because they felt the same way.

“Now fucking kiss me before I go out of my mind.” Harry said, an undertone to his voice that made a hot tingle run up Y/N’s spine.

“How about you kiss me?”

Harry frowned.

“After all, if I hadn’t kissed you in the ocean that night, would we even be here?”

“You take pride in that, don’t you? I would’ve kissed you eventually.” Harry said, and Y/N raised her eyebrows at him. “I would’ve!”

“Yeah, alright. When? The opportunity presented itself a couple of times, but you only had the nerve to kiss my hand.”

Harry gripped her hair hard in his hand, bringing her lips to hover above his. She gasped, looking down at his lips and then feeling it against her thigh. Very quickly, she felt hot all over, and the need to be closer to Harry grew so fast it made her dizzy.

“Got the nerve to fuck you good now, don’t I?” Harry said, voice so deep she felt it vibrate through her bones.

Y/N bit her lip. “What gentleman talks like that to a lady before he’s even kissed her for the first time in a year?”

“You want a gentleman?”

She ran her hands down his torso. “Depends on the situation.”

Harry kissed her jaw, leaving wet kisses down her neck. “Hmm, does it now?”

“Want a gentleman to walk the little puppy with, to make breakfast with, or to take me out for dates.”

“Do you want a gentleman between your thighs, baby?”

She closed her eyes at the feel of Harry’s lips on her, bit her bottom lip as he pressed her body closer to his. “Depends on how well that gentleman knows how to treat a lady.”

Harry chuckled, the feeling of his laughter against her skin was like heaven. “I’ll be a gentleman, the devil, an angel; I’ll be whatever you want me to be.”

She huffed. “Thought we were doing dirty talk, and here you go turning it romantic.”

“I need you to shut up,” Harry said as his lips hovered above hers. “Because I’m about to kiss you and then fuck you on that sofa.”

She grinned, tilting her head to fit perfectly against his. “Kiss me.”

And he did. Hard and passionately. They wasted no time, slipping their tongue into one another’s mouths, clinging to one another, touching all over. They tasted the other, felt them right there. There were some birds singing outside, rustling of some leaves, but the two of them didn’t care. Harry pushed her backward till her legs hit the couch, but she stopped herself from falling back into it. Instead, she turned them around, pushing Harry back onto the ottoman.

“Let me show you how much I love you.” She said, and Harry let out a shaky breath at her words.

He quickly undid the buttons of his silk shirt, threw it somewhere behind him before he leaned on his elbows. “Nothing you’ve ever said has turned me on more.”

She giggled, taking her jeans and knickers off and straddling his lap. He sat up, attaching his lips to hers once again, grabbing onto her bum, begging her to grind against him. They both wanted some friction, and she knew that if he pressed her harder onto him, there would be wet marks from her left on his jeans. But in the moment, neither cared. They just wanted to be as close as humans could be, wanted to feel ecstasy. She buried her hands in his hair, dragging out the tongue filled, wet, lustful kisses. It was excruciating, and the heat between her thighs got more and more intense the more time went on. A wave of excitement and adoration ran through her as she felt Harry’s hand run up her back, reaching for her bra. He wanted to see all of her.

She let him, throwing her shirt off and letting her bra fall to the floor. Harry kissed her the second she was done undressing, moaning her name against her lips. She felt her centre ache, reaching for the zip of Harry’s jeans as quickly as possible. She couldn’t bare it any longer, she needed to be skin to skin; soul to soul. Y/N found that the people she had sex with, she formed an emotional attachment to them in a way that was unexplainable. There might not even be real feelings there, but you’d shared an intimate moment with someone, and it was a moment neither of you would ever forget. But with Harry, it was more than that. It wasn’t just a single moment she shared with him when they were like this; it felt like sharing an entire lifetime. It felt like happiness; it felt like the rest of her life. And she knew she was right to have spent time away from him, because she would tell him this over and over and over again, and she wouldn’t be ashamed or feel weak for admitting how much she loved him.

They got Harry’s jeans and boxers off, and as she took a grip of his cock, Harry stiffened. Their eyes met.

“A condom.” He said, reminding her what they were about to do.

She shook her head. “It’s fine.”

Harry gripped her thigh, squeezing her.

“You pay for the pill.”

He smiled, kissing her for a long time. “Fuck me, please.”

Slowly, she sat down on him, gasping at the familiar feeling of him inside her like this. Harry didn’t take his eyes off her the entire time, mouth opening wider for each centimetre he moved inside her. Positioning her feet on the floor, she started moving her hips over him. He instantly moaned, not able to help himself because it felt so good. He moved his hands up her thighs, her sides, her back, wanting to feel every single little part of her. Wanted her to know how much he appreciated every little thing about her. There wasn’t a single part of her body, of her soul, of her existence he didn’t love. She felt all his emotions in his touches, in the kisses he left along her collarbone, in the soft way he moaned her name.

She tried to push him down onto the ottoman, wanting to have him watch her as she rode him, but Harry stopped her. He shook his head, curls tickling her jawline and cheek.

“No,” he simply said, wrapping his arms around you. “I’m staying right here.”

And though he hadn’t meant it that way, Y/N still took it as him telling her he’d stay with her like this forever. After all, she’d been the one to leave him in the first place, but they were here now. Never was she going to leave him. He was the best thing that had ever happened to her, the truest thing in her life, and her best influence. Had she ever been happy before she’d met him? Had she known true happiness till now? Because right now, feeling Harry’s bare skin against hers and hearing him repeat her name, she wasn’t so sure the happiness she’d felt before him could be counted as just that, happiness.

Harry squeezed her hips. “Like that,” he moaned, burying his face in the cook of her neck.

Nothing mattered besides the magic they were creating between them; nothing mattered but Harry and eternity. The soft skin of the inside of Y/N’s thighs against Harry’s hips and sides, pressed to him, sweaty. His tattooed body against her bare one. Heavy breathing, the occasional moan.

The burn in her core was really starting to build up now, and she knew it would burst any second. Harry moved his face so it was right in front of hers, studying her moving form above him. Her sliding hips, her desperate hands, her exclamations of pleasure. The butterflies in her stomach went crazy, all of them flying wildly in a single circle to intensify the oncoming orgasm. Harry’s hips moved more with hers, staring at her as she closed her eyes, digging her nails into his shoulders.

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” Harry said, hands trembling against her back.

She didn’t know why that almost brought her to tears, but it did, and she bit her bottom lip to stop herself from crying. No one had ever made her feel as stunning as Harry. Though she was confident in her body and on her own, being with Harry made her feel on top of the world. His love, his encouragement, his compliments, it all made her feel so incredibly good about herself in a way nothing ever had before. She had no idea how she could ever thank him for that.

Their hips moved rhythmically, hard against one another, desperate for release. Everything felt electric, everything felt hot. Y/N wanted to melt into him and have the two of them sitting like this forever. Wanted to feel him close, feel his love, feel his skin. Having him inside her like this, feeling him grip her hard, whimpering against her lips, moan her name; she felt powerful, beautiful, strong, and so so so good.

“Harry,” she moaned, looking into his eyes. “I love you.”

“I love you too, baby.” He said, bringing her closer. He reached between them, knowing that in order to come properly, she needed him to flick her bud. “Let me watch you come.”

“Oh, God.” She gripped his shoulders harder, moaning loudly as he rubbed her clit like he knew she loved so much.

“Yeah?” He watched her, flicking her faster. “Come for me, baby.”

She came hard. Harry watched her intently, clearly holding back his own release till he knew she was completely done with hers. She grinded on top of him, looking deeply into her eyes as hot flames lashed threw her body, rocking up her entire reality. She gasped for breath and moaned and repeated Harry’s name over and over and over again until it let like it was the only word she knew. Her legs were shaking, and it was hard for her to move properly so he could come to.

“Say it.” Harry said, his neck vein about to show and his face reddening with the oncoming climax. “Tell me.”

She knew exactly what he needed to hear. “I love you.” She whispered against his lips, pressing a tender kiss to the side of his lips as she continued to rock over him. “Everyday, for the rest of my existence, I’ll love you.”

“Fuck.” Harry moaned, not able to look away from her. “Y/N. My love.”

She held his face in her hands. “Never leave me. I love you too much.”

“Never.” Harry said, a moan escaping his lips. “Shit.”

He came, not looking away from her. A furrow appearing between his brows, lips parted, and Y/N had never seen anything so hot and beautiful. He stilled, neck vein showing, and he moaned and moaned and moaned. She watched him till he came down, feeling his cum inside her, feeling his breathing against her, his arms around her.

“You need to go meet Gopher now.” Harry said after a little while.

“My puppy.”

Harry laughed. “We’re gonna have a house filled with fucking animals, aren’t we?”

“And what about it?” Y/N smiled. “Don’t you want to see me happy?”

Harry’s eyes softened, smiling slightly up at her as he took her hand, bringing it up to his lips. He kissed her hand, then her palm, then the pulse of her wrist. “For the rest of my life, celeste.” His smile widened as he felt her beating hearts against his lips. “My baby blue.”

the BIGGEST thank you to all my beta readers! you lot have saved me and helped me more times than i can count! love you!

@aileenacoustic @sunflowervolumeeleven @emotionally-imbruised @fromyourstrulyh @harryisadogperson @harrysthighles @mellowstyles94 @toolazymyguy @clorenafila @dearest-rebecca @tpwkceline @tasteslikestrawberriesharry​

and thank you to you! thank you for reading baby blue! thank you for the love sent both mine and bb’s way! thank you for letting me tell you yet another story, the fact that you sit down each sunday (or whichever day tbh) to read bb and immerse yourself in the bb-verse means so much to me!

as for what i’m gonna do next cos i’ve gotten quite a few questions about that! i won’t be posting writing on tumblr or wattpad till may, but in the meantime i’ll be over at patreon posting! there’ll be a poll there where some of my patrons can vote for what they want me to write next and i’ll post something every week!

my next fic will be announced sometime in april (tho i’ve talked about what it’s gonna be multiple times lmao), and the first few chapters will be available to read on my patreon before it starts posting on my other platforms!

ANYWAY, i love you all so much! thank you again! bb!harry and bb!mc appreciate you very much, as do i :’’)

thank you so much. till next time, stay hydrated.

your bestie, nora x

[queerchoicesblog]

A Promise Kept (OH/WT Crossover, Harper Emery & Ellen Thompson, Friendship)

As anticipated, my very first (official) crossover fanfic for the entry Friendship of the @choicesjulychallenge hosted by @kinda-iconic  ❤️

As I was playing Wishful Thinking I had this crazy idea: I started picturing an Ellen Thompson & Harper Emery friendship. They’re about the same age, they’re both devoted and esteemed professionals (dealing with scumbags like Ellen’s boss and Declan Nash *cough cough*)...long story short a friend-ship canon started shaping. And that’s the result: hope you like it!

Disclaimer: The fic contains a reference to this previous work as well as a personal background and FC (Gugu Mbatha-Raw is not the perfect FC but I get Harper vibes) for Dr. Emery

Prompt: Friendship

Word Count: 1988

Perma Tag: @brightpinkpeppercorn @melodyofgraves @bhavf @begging-for-kamilah @abunchofbadchoices @silverhawkenzie @kennaxval @strangerofbraidwood @crazypeanat @desiree-0816 @universallypizzataco

Harper Emery Tag: @bubblygothzombie @emeryharper @korrasamixfan  @delphinusbae

If you like this, please consider a like, comment, and/or reblog.

_____________________________

"Holy crap! How come I missed this?"

Aurora froze gaping at the box placed on her aunt's new desk. She stopped by to return her set of keys before starting her shift and found Harper unpacking her stuff in her new, well previous smaller yet comfortable office as "Head of Neurosurgery, Edenbrook Hospital". She had never been there before: she had only seen it during video calls but it was the first time she actually set foot there. There were a couple of boxes around filled with the little decor the place needed: her aunt's degrees, a few framed photos (graduation picture with beaming Dad, Grandpa and Nana; a rare shot of Harper and her mentor, Dr. Rabinovits, posing for the cameras and was that Alexander Evans, that former patient she heard of? Well, probably a family photo of the Evans wearing Santa hats), a small ebony sculpture, a painting of a Caribbean landscape and a set of wrist and hand stretchers. Books had already been organized over the shelves.

But that one...that was unexpected.

"What, Rory?" Harper asked, checking her bookcase.

Aurora's fingers grazed a frame before picking her up in her hands.

"You have been interviewed by Ellen Thompson? The Ellen Thompson?" she asked, showing the newspaper article that caught her attention.

Harper slowly diverted her eyes from her previous chore and let them linger a moment over the old article before moving closer and gently taking it from Rory's hands. A tiny smile filled with nostalgia formed on her lips: her younger self flashing an enigmatic smile to the camera casually sit on her desk was still in the dark of the tough challenges her career had in store for her. She was just happy, proud of herself; she was just forgetting for a moment the harsh reality of "that cruel science called neurosurgery", as Dr. Rabinovits put it. But the memory of that day was pleasant, comforting in a way.

"Yes, it was her last article she wrote before being promoted daytime anchor. I thought you knew? I'm pretty sure Nana has a copy of this, Marcus too probably..."

"Yeah probably...I must have missed it. I was too busy with college and my dissertation at the time probably..." Aurora considered. "But how?! I mean, I'm not trying to belittle your achievement, it's just...Ellen!"

"I know, I was surprised too at the time" Harper laughed softly.

"I bet!"

"I didn't think she would accept it. Because of bias, you know? She confessed that it had been quite a tough call for her, she's an incredibly talented professional and being accused of being biased is a capital sin in her field..."

"Biased? How could she be biased?" Aurora furrowed her brows, confused.

Harper took a pause and gave her an amused look.

"Because we're friends, Rory! Don't you remember?"

"You're friends??" Aurora gaped, plopping down on the sofa. "I really slept on this for years?"

"Well, we don't see each other as often as we once did now but we never truly drifted apart. And oh, you were probably too young to remember but she attended my graduation. Nana probably has pictures of that day...there was a small group of friends celebrating with us: you surely remember Bethany - she visited a few months ago, Nate, her college boyfriend, Ricardo, Alison, Elliott-"

"Oh I do remember Elliott! Your college sweetheart, dressed up to the nines and all googly eyes" the young Emery giggled.

"Glad you remember" Harper made a scene of rolling her eyes, smiling. "...and the most elegant of all was Ellen. That Ellen"

Aurora took a moment to reminisce the few memories she had of that day. Yes, probably...no surely! That girl in a gorgeous pink dress clinging her glass and chatting with Nana was Ellen. And...oh gosh, her younger self had even been so nosy to ask Ellen, that Ellen where she bought that dress because she wanted one just like hers. Luckily, Harper spoke again, saving Rory from the embarrassment of that moment.

"As I said we had somehow kept in touch over the years, against all odds. We were both so busy...her internships, her field jobs, my residency. But we managed to check on each other every now and then. Small things, even just a message in the voicemail or a quick call"

She smiled - a quick soft smile- and handed the framed article back to Aurora.

"When I became 'the youngest Head of Neurosurgery in the history of Massachusetts' she showed up at my door" she said, nodding behind her. "And announced that she was gonna interview me. It wasn't even up for debate, she would have signed that article"

"The hell with the friendship bias?" the niece asked, more and more involved in the story featuring two of her personal role model.

Harper smiled again, but it was a weaker one this time.

"Apparently so. She claimed that there were very good reasons to write it, even ethical reasons if you wish. She said that it was a story worth being told, that I could have inspired people out there, little girls in schools, things like that."

She sighed, shooking her head.

"Not sure I lived up to that inspirational role, but I tried, right?".

Aurora diverted her eyes: she knew what her aunt was referring to. She remembered the conversation they had the night before the hearing, their argument during the break of that hearing...and frowned. 

The weight of the last few words lead to a brief silence, interrupted only by the sounds of steps along the corridor. 

"Oh this must be Tanaka with Dr. Yannick. I asked them to stop by to sign those papers...excuse me, it won't be long"

That said, she hurried to meet the colleagues, leaving Aurora alone in her office. 

The Emery girl absentmindedly eavesdropped the three of them discussing a surgical oncology procedure but she got lost in the surgical medicalese the doctors spoke. So her eyes fell on the article in her hands again. She started reading:

“A Promise Kept: Why You Should Know The Story Behind Edenbrook Hospital New Shining Star" 

As some of you probably know, this will be my last article. Before you start getting sentimental about it, I do not regret it: I've spent so many years of my life typing behind a laptop and as much as they will always be an important, essential maybe, part of my life, I'm ready and eager for what comes next. You are going to hear my voice and see my face on your screen, brace yourself, dear readers.

I must confess that I was full of doubts about writing this article because I value ethics and professionalism. But I soon realized that ethics and professionalism are the main topics of this piece I'm writing and well, the very reason why this article should see the light of day.

So, for one last time, let me tell you a story.

More than a decade ago, I was a college student, an ambitious hard-working journalism major struggling over a research project. My professor asked the class to think outside the box and choose an issue we were not familiar with so that we were forced to document, do some real fact-checking and so on just like real reporters do. I spent hours in the library trying to find the perfect issue for a project I wanted to be A+, but nothing came. I was losing all hope when I noticed the notes of the girl sitting in front of me. They were complex anatomy schemes: she was a med student. Frustrated by my current situation, I did what I rarely do: ask for help. So I tapped her shoulder and asked her about controversial issues in the medical sphere she would like to see debated or brought in the spotlight. Just one, it was for a journalism project. The girl took her time to think about it then handed me a piece of paper with her answer:

Less than 19% of surgeons in this country are women and the percentage drops considerably if we consider specific specialties and women of color. It is a truth universally acknowledged yet publicly denied that women are still overlooked for surgical positions: the fair sex is emotional, tends to get to involved in the medical cases, not to mention potentially hysterical and suffering of that dangerous 'lack of refrain' so well known (?) to their male colleagues. They make better nurses than doctors and better GP than surgeons. 

That was a promising start. I thanked the girl and wished her good luck with her upcoming exam. Actually, I saw that girl a few days later: she passed her exam with flying colors and was now standing by my side at a rally. We became friends and one night, the first night of our senior years we made a pinky promise: a solemn silly pinky promise not to give up no matter what obstacles we will have to face later in our careers. A solemn silly pinky promise to be one day the best journalist and best doctor we could ever be. For ourselves and the others out there.

Well, I'm glad and proud to announce that about fifteen years later, that mystery girl has become the youngest Head of Neurosurgeon in the history of Massachusetts. Daughter of an archeology professor and another legend in the surgical field, Eloise Emery, the Haitian born cardio surgeon who successfully performed the first domino heart transplant on pediatric patients at Mount Sinai Hospital, NY, in 1989, Harper Emery is already exceeding any reasonable expectation. Colleagues describe her as 'headstrong, devoted and passionate, a doctor who would go above and beyond for her patients' while prestigious medical magazines crowned her 'the most brilliant neurosurgeon of her generation”.

At first, I thought that I accepted to write this article because I know Harper Emery and I value and respect her dearly both as a friend and a professional. But that is not completely true.

I accepted to write this article because I know Harper Emery and I know that she will always keep her promise. She already did.

Good luck, Dr. Emery!

Author: Ellen Thompson

Aurora swallowed down the lump threatening to form in her throat: that was the aunt she knew and looked up to basically her whole life. An aunt she thought irremediably lost...but maybe she was wrong, after all. As that realization crossed her mind, her phone beeped. It was a message from...Dr. Trihn? It was a selfie of her new flatmates waiting for her at the cafeteria. They had already bought her a cappuccino and a saved her half donut. Oh right, 'roomies breakfast', she had almost forgotten. She cautiously placed the framed article on her aunt's desk and was about to exit the room when she almost bumped into Harper coming back to her office.

"Gotta roll?" she asked.

"Hm yeah. The new roomies want to grab a coffee together at the cafeteria...I suspect, no I'm afraid that is some kind of a 'shining happy people' ritual" Aurora sighed, hanging her head.

Her aunt chuckled at her reaction to a friendly gesture.

"I'm sure it's not as bad as it sounds." she teased then smiled. "Have fun, Rory!"

The Emery girl nodded, even though she wasn't fully convinced, and picked a set of keys out of her pocket.

"Oh here's the keys and...Aunt Harper? You should hang that article to the wall"

Dr. Emery threw her a quizzical look then joked:

"Because it was written by Ellen? It would certainly give me celebrity points to impress the poor souls visit-"

"No, Auntie, you got it all wrong. Hang it to inspire yourself"

Aurora flashed her a quick confident smile and left the room headed to the cafeteria as Harper met once again the fierce joyful gaze of her younger self smiling back at her behind the framed glass.

[mobilewint]

Alter ego band shreveport la

I did teach in Bend, at Yew Lane and Kingston. Russ Acheson hired me for my first year in Medford. I attended Willamette two years and then graduated from Southern Oregon University in 1963. Joan wrote: My life, in a nutshell, has been great. Joan married Bill Wheeler and became an elementary school teacher. She was a Water Pageant Princess her senior year. She served on the Assembly Committee and competed in the Music Contest. She was a Kids’ Day Official and a Junior Rotarian. She was elected Student Body Treasurer her junior year and Girl of the Month. She was a member of Quill and Scroll and Pep Club. She was on the Bear Tracks staff as Co-Assistant Editor one year and Co-Editor another year. She served as Regional Vice-President of Future Teachers of America. She was in Girls’ League, the Girls’ Athletic Association, and Future Homemakers of America. She participated in the International Relations League, was a member of the National Honor Society, Girls’ Athletic Association, and a member of Girls’ League, She competed in the United Nations Speech Contest and the District Music Contest. SUZANNE ALEXANDER (STRAWS) – Suzanne served as Treasurer of the Future Homemakers Association and represented our school at the FHA State Convention. Another daughter in the Cook Islands (where they have no covid, but no tourists either) and a son in Montana. Son and family in Japan, Daughter and family in Calif. My biggest fear is that with this covid thing I will not be able to see my kids and grand kids again. If winter will ever end here in Alaska I will go fly fishing. “The Truth will set you free”, but not on FB.įor those of you seeking happiness here is a formula: H=X+1 where H is happiness, X is the number of fly rods you own. Currently fed up with senseless lock down. I read scientific research and post on FB the truth about Covid, masks and vaccines, for which I have been kicked off FB 3 times–15-30 days at a time. Last employment was with the Department of Corrections as a Mental Health Clinician. From Michigan I moved with family (wife and 4 children) to Billings Montana where I worked at Yellowstone Treatment Center and also private practice. Did my two year internship in Michigan where I established a private practice until 1986. Along with others, I published two journal articles based upon my dissertation research. Left CCC to go to graduate school with major in Clinical Psychology. Left teaching to work with Campus Crusade for Christ for the next 5 years. Graduated 1963, then taught 7, 8, and 9th grade math in Eugene for two years. Ken went to SOC (now SOU) along with Brad Flanary and Bruce Evers. Kenneth became a psychologist and resides in Alaska. He was the Vice President of the Student Council and a Growler’s Yell Leader his senior year, as well as Principal Russ Acheson’s son. He was a member of Boys’ League, National Honor Society, Lettermen’s Club, and Key Club. He was a wrestler in junior high school and lettered in wrestling his sophomore and senior years. Kenny was an excellent student and athlete.

[didanawisgi]

For Heller, thank the scholarship of Joyce Lee Malcolm

Arlington, Va.– In the hours after February’s school massacre in Parkland, Fla., Joyce Lee Malcolm watched the response with growing annoyance:

“Everybody seemed to leap upon it, looking for a political benefit, rather than allowing for a cooling-off period.” As a historian, Malcolm prefers to take the long view. As a leading scholar of the Second Amendment, however, she is also expected to have snap opinions on gun rights, and in fact she often has engaged in the news-driven debates about violence and firearms. “Something deep inside of me says that people never should be victims,” she says. “And they never should be put in the position of being disarmed by their government.”

Malcolm looks nothing like a hardened veteran of the gun-control wars. Small, slender, and bookish, she’s a wisp of a woman who enjoys plunging into archives and sitting through panel discussions at academic conferences. Her favorite topic is 17th- and 18th-century Anglo-American history, from the causes of the English Civil War to the meaning of the American Revolution. Her latest book, due in May, is The Tragedy of Benedict Arnold, a biography of the infamous general. She doesn’t belong to the National Rifle Association, nor does she hunt. She admits to owning an old shotgun, but she’s unsure about the make or model. “I’ve taken it out a couple of times, but the clay targets fall safely to earth,” she says in an interview at George Mason University’s Antonin Scalia Law School in Virginia, where she’s a professor who teaches courses on constitutional history as well as on war and law.

She is also the lady who saved the Second Amendment — a scholar whose work helped make possible the Supreme Court’s landmark Heller decision, which in 2008 recognized an individual right to possess a firearm. “People used to ask, ‘How did a nice girl like you get into a subject like this?’” she says. “I’m not asked that anymore.” She smiles, a little mischievously. “Maybe they don’t think I’m a nice girl anymore.”

Back when Malcolm was a girl, she lived in Utica, N.Y. A state scholarship sent her to Barnard, the women’s college tied to Columbia University, where she majored in history. “It was a process of elimination,” she says. “I took calculus and chemistry, but history seemed the least narrow. You could study the history of math or the history of science. It had the widest scope.” She got married as an undergraduate — “people did that in those days” — and by the time she was 23, she was both a college graduate and a mom.

Malcolm wanted to continue her education. Living outside Boston, she applied to graduate school at Brandeis University, thinking that she might attend part-time. Administrators, however, talked her into the normal, full-time option. So she launched into a Ph.D. program, focusing on England in the early modern era. “I really liked the period,” she says. “It was wonderfully complex, with divisions between the rights of the state and the rights of individuals.” For her dissertation, she moved to Oxford and Cambridge, with children in tow. Now separated from her husband, she was a single mother. “It took some balancing. I’m not sure I was the best parent I could have been, but my kids grew up seeing what you can do when you put your mind to working.” (One of them is Mark Johnson, a Pulitzer Prize–winning health and science journalist at the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel.) In Britain, she met a Scotsman who became her second husband. She brought him back to the United States and took his surname.

Malcolm’s doctoral dissertation focused on King Charles I and the problem of loyalty in the 1640s, and much of her scholarship has flowed from this initial work. The Royal Historical Society published her first book, and she edited a pair of volumes for the Liberty Fund, totaling more than 1,000 pages, on political tracts in 17th-century England. As she researched and wrote on the period, she noticed something peculiar. “During the English Civil War, the king would summon the local militia to turn out with their best weapons,” she says. “Then he would relieve them of their best weapons. He confiscated them. Obviously, he didn’t trust his subjects.”

At a time when armies were marching around England, ordinary people became anxious about surrendering guns. Then, in 1689, the English Bill of Rights responded by granting Protestants the right to “have Arms for their Defence.” Malcolm wasn’t the first person to notice this, of course, but as an American who had studied political loyalty in England, she approached the topic from a fresh angle. “The English felt a need to put this in writing because the king had been disarming his political opponents,” she says. “This is the origin of our Second Amendment. It’s an individual right.”

As she researched, Malcolm taught at several schools and worked for the National Park Service. In 1988, she took a post near Boston, at Bentley College, a school best known for business education (and now called Bentley University). Fellowships allowed her to pursue her interest in how the right to bear arms migrated across the ocean and took root in colonial America. “The subject hadn’t been done from the English side because it’s an American question, and American constitutional scholars didn’t know the English material very well,” she says. Some Americans even resisted looking to English sources because they wanted to stress their country’s uniqueness. Moreover, law-school textbooks and courses skimmed over the Second Amendment. “The subject was poorly covered.”

Her research led to a groundbreaking book on the history of gun rights, To Keep and Bear Arms. Before it went to print, however, she faced something she had not expected: political resistance. “I had a hard time finding a publisher,” she says. After several years in limbo, To Keep and Bear Armscame out in 1994, from Harvard University Press — an excellent result for any scholar in the peer-reviewed world of publish-or-perish professionalism. “The problem was that I had come up with an answer that a lot of people didn’t like.”

The Second Amendment, she insisted, recognizes an individual right to gun ownership as an essential feature of limited government. In her book’s preface, she called this the “least understood of those liberties secured by Englishmen and bequeathed to their American colonists.” Confusion reigned: “The language of the Second Amendment, considered perfectly clear by the framers and their contemporaries, is no longer clear.” The right to keep and bear arms, Malcolm warned, “is a right in decline.”

She aimed to revive it at a time when governments at all levels imposed more restrictions on gun ownership than they do today. Many legal scholars claimed that the Second Amendment granted a collective right for states to have militias but not the individual right of citizens to own firearms. With To Keep and Bear Arms, which received favorable reviews and went through several printings, Malcolm joined a small but increasingly influential group of academics with different ideas. Her allies included Robert J. Cottrol, of George Washington University, and Glenn Reynolds, of the University of Tennessee (and best known for his Instapundit website). “I was so naïve,” she says. “I thought the idea of research was that you find information and people say, ‘Good! Now we know the answer!’”

She learned the truth in 1995, when House Republicans invited her to testify before a subcommittee on crime. The subcommittee’s ranking member was Representative Charles Schumer, Democrat of New York (and today’s Senate minority leader). In his opening remarks, Schumer scoffed at Malcolm and other witnesses. “The intellectual content of this hearing is so far off the edge that we ought to declare this an official meeting of the Flat Earth Society,” he said. “Because the pro-gun arguments we will hear today are as flaky as the arguments of the tiny few who still insist that the Earth is flat.”

Malcolm still bristles at those words. “I was a Democrat at the time,” she says. “I was raised a Democrat. I was just there to tell them what I had found out. It wasn’t a political issue for me. But the Democrats were nasty. Schumer was nasty.” After the hearing, Malcolm came to a realization: “For some people, opposition to individual gun rights is an article of faith, and they don’t care about the historical evidence.” Ever since, she has received regular reminders of this fact. In 1997, for example, Supreme Court justice Antonin Scalia praised Malcolm’s “excellent study” but also erroneously called her “an Englishwoman.”

The unfortunately named legal scholar Carl T. Bogus jumped at the blunder: “Malcolm’s name may sound British, and Bentley College, where Malcolm teaches history, may sound like a college at Oxford, but in fact Malcolm was born and raised in Utica, New York, and Bentley is a business college in Massachusetts.” This irritates Malcolm. “They’re always trying to write me off because of Bentley, this ‘business college,’” she says. “It reminds me of the saying that if you don’t have the law, argue the facts; if you don’t have the facts, argue the law; and if you don’t have either, attack your opponent. The attacks have helped me grow a really thick skin.”

Along the way, the popular historian Stephen Ambrose provided Malcolm with inspiration. “He spent most of his career at the University of New Orleans,” she says, noting that it’s not considered a top-flight school. “He said he wanted to write himself to the top of his profession. It doesn’t matter where you teach. So I tried to write and write and write. You can lift yourself.”

Even so, some people continue trying to keep Malcolm down. The latest slight occurred at a symposium sponsored by the Campbell University School of Law in February, when the legal scholar Paul Finkelman equated the Supreme Court’s Heller decision with its notorious 1857 ruling in Dred Scott, which denied citizenship to blacks. Right after this provocative claim, Finkelman raised the old canard about Bentley in a bid to damage Malcolm’s credibility moments before she addressed their audience.

It didn’t matter to Finkelman that Malcolm had written her way up in the academic world’s pecking order: In 2006, she left Bentley and became a professor at George Mason’s law school, now named for Scalia. By this time, not only had Scalia praised her work, but so had other judges, including Supreme Court justice Clarence Thomas, who cited To Keep and Bear Arms in an opinion.

Then, in 2008, came Heller, arguably the most important gun-rights case in U.S. history. A 5–4 decision written by Scalia and citing Malcolm three times, it swept away the claims of gun-control theorists and declared that Americans enjoy an individual right to gun ownership. “If we had lost Heller, it would have been a big blow,” says Malcolm. “Instead, it gave us this substantial right.” She remembers a thought from the day the Court ruled: “If I have done nothing else my whole life, I have accomplished something important.”

A simple idea has motivated her work: “For me, trust in the common man is such a basic principle. Few governments actually allow it. They want to keep their people vulnerable and disarmed. I find it awful that people wouldn’t be allowed to protect themselves.” She also calls attention to a cultural aspect: “City people who grew up without guns think it’s just a bunch of rednecks.” She recalls an incident at Bentley, years before Heller: “I was in my office one day and a groundskeeper came up. ‘I just want to shake your hand and thank you,’ he said. What else could I have been writing about that anyone would want to thank me for?” She pauses. “There’s just so much vilification of the people who want to ‘cling’ to their guns,” she says, echoing the words of Barack Obama, who as a presidential candidate in 2008 said of rural and working-class whites — future Trump Republicans — that “they get bitter, they cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who aren’t like them.”

Malcolm is now a Republican herself. When she hears gun-control advocates say they don’t want to ban all guns — “just the ones that look scary,” as she puts it, with a tone of contempt — her thoughts turn back to Britain. In 2002, she published Guns and Violence: The English Experience. It showed, among other things, that crime rates were low in the 19th century, a period with few gun restrictions. Things are different today: Crime has worsened in the United Kingdom, while gun ownership is rare. “Britain has gone down the road of taking away guns,” she says. “And look where it got them.”

She points to a website of the U.K.’s Police National Legal Database, which includes an online forum called “Ask the Police.” One question inquires about self-defense products. Are any legal? The answer: Only one, a “rape alarm” that looks like a car remote. Its panic button emits a screeching sound. The website also warns against using nontoxic sprays against assailants. If “sprayed in someone’s eyes,” such a chemical “would become an offensive weapon.” In other words, potential rape victims can push panic buttons but must not dare to injure attackers — not with sprays, let alone knives or guns. “Can you believe it?” asks Malcolm. “They don’t let people protect themselves.”

Americans probably won’t face such a predicament, even in the aftermath of the Parkland killings and whatever reforms are enacted as a result. State legislatures have taken strong steps over the last generation to protect gun rights, and the Supreme Court has clarified the language of the Second Amendment. Even so, Malcolm is worried. “Some judges are ignoring Heller, and unless the Supreme Court agrees to hear these cases and overturn them, we’ll see an erosion,” she says. Liberals in the media and at law schools cheer on the renegades. Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg has called for the overturning of Heller itself, and if a single seat now held by a conservative were to flip to a liberal, she could get her way.

In the meantime, however, the right to bear arms will not be infringed — thanks in part to the pioneering scholarship of Joyce Lee Malcolm.

[beautifulrzilience]

And suddenly you know...It's time to start something new and trust the magic of [new] beginnings.

Spiritual Guide Book

Hey everybody! 😘

I hope you’re doing well on this beautiful Sunday! It’s 10:40 a.m here on the East Coast and I’m getting settled in so I can write  about this last week, which has been quite the warm and soul nurturing one for me.

For those of you who know me, know that I am a very organized person. I have a big calendar hung up on my wall of my desk, a planner in where I divide up my homework for the week, and then I have my Passion Planner, which serves as a birds-eye view of my goals (both personal and academic) for the week.

Now, what I really love about Passion Planner’s is that not only can you break down your hour by hour schedule, but if you notice (below) on the left hand side there are boxes that say “This Week’s Focus,” “Good Things That Happened,” and a little quote with some kind of challenge or mantra for the week, to incorporate a mindfulness for your mental health wellness. I really appreciate it and have found myself taking up these mental health challenges seriously.

For this week (4/15-4/21), the quote was “Never say ‘no’ to adventures, always say ‘yes,’ otherwise you’ll lead a very dull life” (Ian Fleming) and the challenge was to say ‘yes’ to five new experiences and to reflect on what I learned by the end of the week.

As you all now, Sundays at 11:00 am on the dot, I go see my therapist, Michelle, and this past Sunday was no different. As usual, our session was beautifully profound, enlightening, painful, and eye-opening. There was definitely a lot of crying. The focus was on re-claiming how I define strength, vulnerability, and finding closure for myself to continue on my path towards radical self-care, self-love, and healing. 

One huge take away I had was that many times we have this understanding that to be strong is healing, however, Women of Color have time and time again redefined healing as strength. And while I was writing this letter to my former partner, pouring out some  of my most painful childhood memories, in the hopes of shedding some understanding of some of the choices I had made in our relationship, I was feeling like I was actually falling deeper in love with him, as opposed to simply writing to find closure in our relationship. I was having a hard time figuring out the fine line between how much to share (for transparency and honesty) and protecting my heart. 

But in this session, Michelle helped me have 4 important epiphanies: 1) remind myself that I actually don’t have a problem sharing my personal life, 2) while most people fear sharing intimate details of their personal life because they fear that it will be used against them (which makes the process of healing a little more complicated), I actually fear being vulnerable with people because I am not confident in their ability/care to actually listen and/or empathize with my pain, 3) the times that I have tried to be vulnerable with people, I have felt uncomfortable with people’s responses because they are not used to seeing me in pain, I am the friend who (for the most part) listens and empathizes with my friends’ pain and suffering, so I really live in this box of either I am happy go lucky or broken, but don’t have the people to hold space to hold me in my in between of happy and broken, and finally  4) realize that I can be strong and (rather than state ‘but’) cry; I am strong and I have gone through pain; I am human; and it doesn’t take away from me being a ‘strong Xicana.’

I know. Some deep shit.

Now usually post-my 45 minutes of soul searching and understanding with Michelle, I go home and write my post-therapy notes in my journal to decompress and process everything that I said and felt in Michelle’s office, all the while burning either some sage, cedar and tobacco, or some palo santo.

Interestingly enough, the day before, while I was perusing on Instagram, I had come across this flyer for a writing and wellness workshop for “Woke women and girls of all ages” hosted at Cafe Con Libros (one of my favorite coffee shop/book stores in Brooklyn), curated by a woman named Leah Hart (@her_musing). Whether it was already written in the universe or was coincidental, the theme for this workshop was to explore Personal Truths while tackling the tough question: When did you last belong to yourself? Granted, it was going to take place at 7pm in Brooklyn on April 15th (my therapy days). Knowing that I usually like to sit with myself in my apartment on those days, I was debating on whether or not to buy the $10 ticket to attend.

But for whatever reason, when I got home, wrote up my post-therapy notes, I felt this urge to go. Something about the theme of the workshop and asking myself “When did I last belong to myself” was so relevant to me, especially post my break up with my former partner.

Then I got a text from my homie Beto, “What are you doing?” So I let him know I was heading to Cafe Con Libros, to which he responded, “I’ll meet you there.” So I hopped on the 4 train and within 45 minutes, found myself beating the rain, sitting comfortably perusing through some of the new books that had arrived and were carefully placed on the shelves of CCL. 

So, this workshop became my first yes and my first adventure of the week.

1. {Personal Truths} When Did You Last Belong to your Self?, HerMusing 

[SIDENOTE: So you may be wondering, why is Beto’s bald ass doing in the picture and in the workshop? He actually had no idea that the workshop was exclusively for WOC, but as his mom always says, “The universe always provides,” and dealing with some of his own hurt and pain of this particular week, maybe without even realizing, he needed a safe space with WOC to work out some of the challenges he was dealing with, guided by the workshop question. I’m glad Leah didn’t boot him out when he joined our circle because I learned how crucial it is for men of color to also have spaces to meditate and heal.]

It was beautiful to sit in a circle with all these Women of Color (of all ages) to talk about our reflections on the question Leah had posed for us to write about during the workshop. Although I found it difficult to write in the journal she provided, I just pushed myself to write. Maybe I wasn’t ready. Maybe I would’ve preferred to have written in my own personal journal. But Leah was so encouraging and patient with us. Reminded us that it is our duty to write our personal truths so that we could share with others and the power  that is in the act of writing. It reminded me of Audre Lorde’s quote “Your silence will not protect you” and Zora Neal Hurtson’s “If you are silent about your pain, they’ll kill you and say you enjoyed it.”

One thing I found so interesting during the workshop, was that although there was diversity in age in our group, a lot of the women were in their mid to late 20s, which Beto and I later wondered if that spoke to the kind of healing and soul-searching that people in our age/generation are experiencing as a collective. Serves as a reminder, that you-I-we are never alone. One thing I really appreciated was that Leah, at the beginning of her workshop asked us to thank ourselves for showing up for ourselves, because by showing up to the event, on a NYC rainy day, spoke to our commitment to reclaiming ourselves and our space. I was so grateful for all the stories, words of encouragement, and love that all the women (and Beto) shared with one another in what became more than just a workshop, but a healing circle that was guided by all the ancestors and inner children that folks said they brought with them to the space when Leah had asked us to introduce ourselves. 

After getting treated by Beto with some Jamaican Jerk chicken (my favorite) and hanging out at his place, I took the 4 train at midnight back to my home in Harlem. I was having a hard time staying up on the train, so hearing my own inner voice and intuition, and perhaps Leah’s voice, I pulled out my journal, and really began to reflect on the question, when did you last belong to yourself? And I came to the conclusion, that I never really have. And it dawned on me, me being 26 (going on 27 this May! Go Gemini Baby’s!) in the city of New York, is the perfect place for me to be on my journey towards finding radical practices of self-love, self-care, and healing.  

2) Decolonizing Memory Studies Graduate Panel, Columbia University

One of the members of my dissertation committee had (months ago) let me know that Columbia University (which turns out is literally a 27 minute walk from my place) was hosting this graduate student panel on Decolonizing Memory Studies. Given that I am interested in this kind of work, I had set my heart to attend the event. However, due to the snow storms in NYC, the event had been postponed a couple of times. Finally, when the day arrived, I had made sure to plan accordingly to attend the event. Funny enough, the world tested me to see if I was really committed to this being one of my 5 adventures for the week. I had originally thought that the event started at 6:30, so I had left the Graduate library at 5:15pm. But when I was looking at the event flyer, I quickly realized that it actually started at 6:00pm. I arrived to 116th St. Harlem at 5:40pm. I was tired, it was cold, and I was hungry. To go or not to go? With the weeks challenge ringing in my head, I started power walking. I was hoping that even though the event was supposed to begin at 6pm, that the introductions would buy me time. 

After climbing more than these 100 steps that I did not know I would have to climb to get to Columbia, sweating like a little meatball, I found the building where the event was taking place. I saw this side door with a doorbell. I started ringing it only to find this Latino man coming towards the door.  When he opened it, assuming he was Latino, I said “Hola!” and had asked him if this was the entrance to the campus.  He said that I actually had to keep walking up towards the gate to the university to get in. I’m sure he could read the dissappointment on my sweaty face and with some compassion, he said he would let me go through the worker’s corridors, but to hurry because he could get in trouble. I was so thankful! Asked him for his name, to which he responded, “Luis.” So with a huge smile, I thanked him and said “La Raza siempre tiene que unirse!” 

So with his help, I was able to make the event and as I stepped in the room, filled with all these white and old academics, they were barely about to start the event! Winning! Even though the event wasn’t what I expected, I enjoyed my walk to the campus and was inspired to come back just to enjoy the quiet and peacefulness of the university.

3) Neuyorican Poets Cafe

NEUYORICAN POETS CAFE! I had been itching to come to this famous poet’s cafe but never had anyone I wanted to go with. So I kept putting it in the back of my head, but since I had gotten back into writing poetry, I was itching not only to see other people perform, but I wanted to speak my truths into a mic in this space. So last week I had asked my friend J if he wanted to join me, which he had responded with an eager yes. However, me havin issues with commitment, was proloning on buying the tickets. Not sure why I was being so hesitant! It was actually annoying me. So when Friday rolled up, one of my new homies, Martin had hit me up to see what I was up to. At that moment, I was like, man fuck it, I’m going to this event, and invited him to come through. I didn’t think he would say yes but when he did, I ended up getting ready, hopped on a train to J’s house, and from there we took an Uber to NPC. The tickets had to my horror sold out online, so we made sure to get to the cafe by 9pm. As the line grew, I worried that I would disappoint J because I dropped the ball in getting the tickets and that we wouldn’t be able to get in. But to my wonderful surprise, we were so close to the front, and were able to get in! Man! As we walked in the building, African dance hall, old school hip-hop, the new hip-hop was blaring off the Dj’s set. The place was bumping!! Turns out it was the Grand Slam Finale so it was no ordinary Friday. We got to see some amazing poets and it definitely inspired me and J to come back this upcoming week.  

4. Women of Color in Solidarity: Transnational Resistance as Healing, 2nd Annual Conference, April 21st & 22nd, NYC

When I had started opening up to my close friend’s about my breakup, one of my former students then-turned friend, Diana had let me know she was coming to NYC for this Women of Color Conference which was being hosted by WOC for WOC. When I started looking into the event, it had definitely peaked my interest, but I wasn’t completely sold. I wanted to see the itinerary. The ticket was only $7 so I should’ve just bought the ticket, but I kept pushing it back. Until the week of, 4 days before the conference, Diana had forwarded me an e-mail with all the workshops that were being hosted. With titles like, “Altar Building as Storytelling to Reclaim Ancestral Knowledge,” “Regular Degular Feminism: A Hood Feminist,” and “Women of Color in The Academy,” I realized that I needed and wanted to attend this conference! So I immediately scrambled to see how I could get a hold of ticket. Thankfully, I was able to do so and on early Saturday morning, rushed out the door to head to the conference.

However, since I had stayed out late the night prior, attending the Grand Slam Finale of Neuyorican Poets Cafe, I had arrived home at 1:30 am and woke up  at 7:45 am. This resulted in me quickly showering, making myself a shake, realizing I had forgot my headphones at J’s house, and not have a meal prepped to take to the conference. Consequently, I was hungry at the conference, and there was no lunch provided by the conference, it was beginning to be hard to stay present during the workshops. Eventually, Diana and some of the other women, and I left the conference to get some food. My body was really shaky and wasn’t feeling too well. After getting some sushi, I hopped on the 6 line to head back home. I made myself a quick bite and took a nap. I thought my night was going to be over. I definitely wanted to get rest for Sunday. 

[One of the workshops I attended was how to make yourself an altar. The curator of the workshop was Amanda Everich (@amandapoints), a Brooklyn teacher, and naturist. She encouraged us to pick whatever earth materials we were drawn to and build ourselves an altar. I ended up building one for myself. Mine is the one with the black and red felt. She later encouraged us to make a story out of our collective altars. My group and I noticed that our altars carried the theme of youth and ancestors, life and death, symbolizing the cyciclical nature of life. I decided to take my altar with me and put it in my personal altar at home. Really appreciated getting to sit down and go with the flow of my ancestors.]

5. Hanging with my A Squad Papis: Beto & Nick

[Beto, Matt, Nick and I ended up at one of “Nick’s” bar spots, called La Marcha Cocina, Dominican owned grill & bar. There were a lot of beautiful people, great music. Definitely makes me want to come back again!]

Now on that same Saturday night of the conference, I had had it in my head that I was going to stay in and rest. I didn’t want what had happened to me on Saturday to be the case for Sunday. I didn’t get to work out, didn’t meal prep, felt rushed out the door, which resulted in me feeling off balance. So again, when I finally got home, I made myself a quick shake to appease my growling stomach, and took a two hour nap. Earlier in the day, my homie Nick had invited me to go out with his friend who was visiting from London. I wanted to go because when my girl Tatiana had come, I had invited Nick to come out and he did. I wanted to show that same reciprocity, but when I woke up and saw his messages asking me if I was coming, when I looked at the price of the Uber, it was going to be $40 roundtrip! So I let him know that I was going to stay in. Turns out he had invited Beto out too and when I had sent him that text, Beto and he insisted I go. I let them know that it was too expensive to Uber. This is where my heart kinda melted. “I got a dub on it,” I read in my text message from Beto. “Do you want me to spot ya,” replied Nick. These fools clearly wanted me to come. Now usually, I don’t like taking money from friends let alone asking for it. But since my contract ended with one of my side hustles, I don’t have much cash flow coming in, and NYC is no joke in terms of living expenses! So I said, “Ok fuck it!” So I got ready, got an uber, and headed out to Nick’s. Got to meet his friend who had come from Japan (who was NOT Japanese haha) and we all went to this really cool Dominican food spot/bar. I enjoyed some witty British banter and shit talking and by midnight, took an uber back home.

So what did I learn this week?

As the week progressed, I started noticing I was having a hard time committing to doing the very things that I was interested in! It was so annoying lol. And the more I pushed myself to say yes to adventures, I realized how much fun I was having, and how quickly the week was zooming on by. I think the huge take away for me was that I need to stop second guessing myself and just commit to saying yes to new people, things, and experiences in my life! If not, I am going to be missing out on all this fun and laughter, and personal growth that I have been seeking to have. I am only young and 26 once in NYC, it’s time I take the city by its reigns, and go about with my bad self. By saying yes to these adventures, I was really saying yes to myself.

what i like about her is that she blooms. whether you water her or not. whether you give her light or not. she exists without your existence 

-@Counseling4AllSeasons

BTW!

Don’t think I haven’t been keeping up with my fitness challenge! This marks Week 4! 

While it hasn't been easy, having constant internal battles of whether I really want to love myself or not and not loosing motivation, here are the results: 

4 more weeks to go!

Can't believe I'm at the halfway point of this fitness challenge.

[margaretrosegladney]

Activism and Involvement in Racial Justice and Issues of Civil Rights

Gladney was in 7th grade when President Eisenhower ordered federal troops to enforce the desegregation of Central High School in Little Rock, Arkansas. Gladney recalls a conversation on the playground at lunch where she told her classmates that she didn’t think her parents would object to Black students coming to their schools. That discussion continued in the classroom, and the teacher said to Gladney, "If that's what you think, why don't you go on over to Mayfield," the school for Black students in Homer, LA. Gladney was very embarrassed and remembers thinking that she would have gotten up and walked out if she knew where Mayfield School actually was.  Mayfield School was not far away, being only a few blocks from Gladney’s maternal grandparents, but she had never been to that part of town because growing up White and female in a racially segregated town in the 1950s entailed not being allowed to go to certain parts of town due to racial fear. When Homer public schools were desegregated, Gladney’s parents, aunts and uncle, helped build Claiborne Academy--an all-White academic institution to deter desegregation--and following this, her mother taught there and her younger siblings graduated from there (1972, '74, '76).1

By 1961 Louisiana law required all high school students to take a six-week course on communism. Though Gladney had attended a school sponsored anti-communism crusade in Shreveport, she thought that The Communist Manifesto had some good ideas. Gladney would continue to have a complicated relationship with communism, exemplified through an interaction she had when she attended a Presbyterian Missionary conference in Montreat, NC. Gladney was standing in line for dinner next to African American girl from Arkansas who asked her, “Do you believe in integration?” Gladney wanted to say yes but had been taught that racial integration was part of the communist agenda,  so she answered, “I don't know.”2

Recommended by Northside H.S. principal, Gladney attended seminar at Memphis State U. In “Teachers of English to Culturally Deprived Children,” she met some of the most experienced and highly qualified African American teachers in Memphis city schools. From them, she learned  and also grew in dissatisfaction with the policies of the Memphis City school board. They had only one black member and had failed to promote Black individuals in upper levels of administration. Soon, she became friends with Eloise Forrester, a teacher in Albuquerque, attending the seminar because she could leave her daughter with her mother in Alabama. Eloise was a lifesaver to Gladney when she moved to Albuquerque for graduate work. Gladney then returned to Northside HS, ready to implement new ideas in her classroom. At her first faculty meeting, she sat with two colleagues, Bernice Burton and Frances Gandy, and heard about organizing a meeting of AFT. Attending this meeting, she saw several of the teachers she had met through that summer seminar. She was chosen to be one of the organizers, so that it would not be seen as an all black union. From then on, to the White faculty Gladney was “outside” a person of suspicion. Gladney felt naive, sure, but she didn’t really know what she was getting into. In these efforts, she marched and supported “Black Fridays” by wearing black when students boycotted schools to protest . Ultimately, she testified in court in support of reinstating students who had been expelled for protesting. The students were reinstated and she was informed she would not be rehired. Gladney then challenged this, knowing she could afford to do so because she had no family to support and didn’t have to stay in Memphis, as other activist teachers did. When the school board met, Southwestern college students protested in Gladney’s favor outside while that school board meeting was going on. The Board decided to reinstate her, dock her 2 weeks pay, and send her to one of the oldest black schools in Memphis (Manassas), where the principal was known to be very strict with teachers. That was Glandney’s first law suit. She won, but chose to go to grad school rather than to Manassas High.

Margret Rose Gladney was also extremely implicated in the issues of racial justice because of her connection to her hometown of  Homer, Louisiana. Within her parish, following the legal imposition of integration, White fear and racial prejudice from community leaders and White parents led to the establishment of private academies. These private institutions provided modes for all-white education--avoiding the integration of the American public school system--that were supported by the wealth, time, and talent of several White communities. Meanwhile, as a teacher in Memphis attempting to create harmonious relationships between the Black and White students of the Memphis public school system, Margret Rose Gladney came to hate the presence of racism perpetuated by White folk in the South. In fact, Marget became especially upset because of the involvement her family held in the creation and continuance of the all-White Clairborne Academy: her father and uncles donated the land for Clairborne Academy, her mother taught at Clairborne Academy, and her brothers, sisters, and cousins all attended Clairborne academy. Consequently, her family grew increasingly divided as she vocally detested the existence of all-White private academies and the participation of her family in these institutions. Fueled partially by the hate of racism in the South, Gladney left the South to study at the University of New Mexico in the American Studies program. At UNM, Gladney obtained a PHD in American Studies and went there because she was interested in studying AF-AM lit. A professor had told her there is no such thing as African American lit, all protest lit., but if that’s what you want, look into American Studies. Using her academic platform, Gladney wrote a dissertation about the history of private, all-White academies--using the Clairborne school as a frame of reference for the totality of her dissertation.  Through this dissertation, Gladney denounces the existence of these all-White institutions because of the way they recreate and perpetuate racism and elitism of the American public education system and American society more broadly.3

Furthermore, as part of her academic career, Margret Rose Gladney was able to delineate the southern history of race and queerness through the letters of Lilian Smith. In 1970 Women’s Studies was just beginning. The first WS course taught for credit at UNM was offered through the AMS Dept, spring 1972, Women in Literature. Gladney audited it. The Frist question presented to her was “Are you a feminist?”. Which she responded with “Sure, I believe in women, I’m a feminist.” Her class pushed her to read Lillian Smith, Killers of the Dream(KOD), which is how she was introduced to Lillian Smith. Reading KOD, weeping, Gladney told her roommate, “This woman is writing my life.” Here was a white Southern woman who could have been a younger sister to her maternal grandmother, yet she was explaining and challenging everything she was trying to understand about racism, and sexism, and she had chosen to stay in the South and challenge all its taboos, and she had managed to live and write there. Lilian Smith, despite being a White women, presented herself as one of the most vehement critics of the South, America, and the rampant social and racial injustices she had viewed.4 She showed Gladney it is possible to live in the place you love, with people whom you both love and whose beliefs and values you see as only destructive and dehumanizing. But, Gladney could not write her dissertation on Lillian Smith because her life was too large. Also, she felt she had to confront her own immediate struggle with her family’s commitment to maintaining racism through building segregated private schools to avoid public school desegregation and thereby destroying public school systems. Instead, by exploring Lilian Smith’s queerness through the love letters between Smith and Paula Snelling, Gladney was able to add a deeper dimension to southern activism by exploring the intersection between race and sexuality.5

Notes:

1:Gladney, Margret R.(1974) . I’ll take my Stand: The Southern Segregation Academy Movement. University of New Mexico. 2:Ibid. 3: Ibid. 4: Jackson, Jacquelyn L. (1994). Clearinghouse Column: Letters of early advocate for racial justice. Center News, 6. 5: Sears, James T (1997). Lonely Hunters: An Oral History of Lesbian and Gay Southern Life, 1948-1968. Milton: Routledge.

[discoveringhistory]

Dissertation Weekly: Making Discoveries & Changing My Interpretation and Perception

As I write this week’s blog I am anxiously awaiting the arrival of an important letter from the great-great grandson of Douglas and Kate Bemo! 

One of the pitfalls of graduate school is that you never seem to get enough time to conduct research on your chosen dissertation topic while you are 1) up to your eyeballs in coursework, 2) opt to add an additional 15 hours of coursework for a graduate minor to your program of study, 3) and are prepping for your comprehensive exams.  At this juncture in my graduate career I am past all three of these important milestones.  I also had the good fortune to come into my program with roughly 90% of my research completed (something that is rare in my field).  To date I have written the prologue, epilogue, and first two chapters of my dissertation and am working on the remaining three so I can hopefully stay on track to defend in early May and graduate in July 2019. (Note: I had hoped to be further along at this point in time. Moving, settling in to my new residence, my wedding, taking on my step son and his mental health and legal challenges, and my own near exhaustion has slowed down my progress more than I ever imagined!) One of the challenges I face is writing while researching and attempting to fill the gaps and little nooks and crannies that remain so I am have as much material as possible to flesh out the life and experiences of Douglas Bemo as an AfroMvskoke/Seminole man living in a very complex and ever-changing world in the Indian Territory in the mid to late 19th century.

The front page of the American Missionary in January 1873 touts the evangelizing work of Rev. D.B. Nichols at Howard University. In July 1872 Douglas was enrolled in and left at Howard University where he was a student in the Model School and a member of the Military Department’s Corps of Cadets until he left in 1874. Note the area highlighted by the pin box.  The “Creek Indian” Nichols refers to in his description is indeed Douglas. His presence at Howard and his connection to the non-denominational church founded by Nichols made excellent PR material.

As of late I have been able to flesh out details of Douglas’ life that 1) his wife Kate NEVER mentions in her one sided portrayal of him in her diary and 2) I never thought I would discover. To some the details may seem minor, nothing of consequence.  However, when you are writing about an AfroMvksoke/Seminole man-- a person of color-- who has been marginalized in his wife’s diary (a primary source of great value to historians) and rendered voiceless by most histories of Indian Territory, the responsibility to flesh out the small details is imperative. Being able to find Douglas’ pay slips from the Mvskoke Nation, his appointment letter as a prosecuting attorney for the Mvskoke Nation, the American Missionary article that mentions him simply as a “Creek Indian”, or a fragment of a school essay he wrote while at the Tullahassee Mission provides me with insight into him that helps me as a historian or recover his voice. When Douglas died in 1898 his wife elected to not run an obituary in any of the local papers. For historians and geneaolgists obituaries are little goldmines of information and help us to pull threads of a person’s life together. For Douglas, however, his erasure from the “go-to” local history sources silences his voice. At this point in the writing of my dissertation I almost see the project as an extended obituary for Douglas.  Despite the best attempt of his wife to erase him from memory and control how he was viewed by anyone reading her diary, my work is an intervention and call to change how we use our sources as historians. What are we missing by simply looking at them from one perspective?  LOTS is the easy answer. In my case, as I am discovering every day, the little details are the most important and telling...and so critical to my understanding of this complex interracial marriage at a time when such unions normally followed a predictable pattern of an Anglo-American male paired with an Indigenous female. 

This news snippet about Minnie Tappan, a Cheyenne survivor of the infamous Sand Creek Massacre, intersects with my look into Douglas’ time at Howard University.  Douglas and Minnie were classmates at Howard and as the only American Indians enrolled at Howard at the time they surely closed paths.

Just this week I discovered that Douglas attended Howard University with a young woman named Minnie Tappan.  A Cheyenne, Minnie was “orphaned” after the infamous Sand Creek Massacre in Colorado Territory during the Civil War.  (Note: I use the term orphaned in quotes on purpose. Even though her parents were killed, Minnie would have been taken in my Aunts, Uncles, or other members of her mother’s clan. Anglo-Americans did not recognize this cultural practice with respect to American Indian peoples.) Taken back East by Samuel Tappan, Minnie was enrolled in Howard University.  In 1873 Minnie contracted consumption and died in her dorm room at Miner’s Hall on the Howard Campus.  News of her death surely filtered among the student body. For Douglas this must have been a terrifying prospect-- would he contract consumption and be next? The presence of another American Indian face on the Howard campus surely reassured and lifted Douglas’ spirits. In letters to Kate, back in Indian Territory teaching at a Mvskoke Nation agency school, Douglas mentions the passing of an Indian girl from Colorado. To some this may seem a trivial detail. However, for Douglas seeing Minnie’s face on campus meant there was someone else like him, he was not an Indigenous island unto himself. So the small bits and pieces of his life are now coming into sharper focus and making him seem so very real.

A photo of Kate Edwards Bemo Mitchell as an older woman. This photo surfaced online and after comparing it to a verified photo of Kate in her younger days there is no doubt it is Kate.  

While looking for the traces of Douglas’ life, more details about Kate keep cropping up.  The photo above is a recent discovery that stopped me in my tracks.  Seeing the face of Kate as an older woman I was struck that Douglas did not get the privilege of living into his later years to watch his son grow into adulthood, marry, and have his own family.  Douglas never got to be a grandfather and share the stories of his life with his descendants. Their views about Douglas come solely from Kate’s very partisan telling of her life and how she was impacted by her unfortunate marriage to her “worthless” Indian. Not only was history robbed of Douglas’ voice but his descendants as well. Now, I am even more determined to search as many archival sources in Oklahoma as possible in the hope I will find an image of Douglas to counterbalance Kate’s well crafted image.  While this goal may not be realized during the writing of my dissertation I do hope that one day an image will surface. Looking into the life of Douglas’ brother Alec (Alexander) --who spent his life living in the Seminole Nation with his wife and large family-- may be the only chance to see what Douglas may have looked like, so the search for an image of Alec is on! 

My scheduling calendar and book are a crazy patchwork colors and scribbles.  This is the only way I can keep all the tasks related to my work, research, and family life in some semblance of order.

Of course the most difficult part of this entire process of writing a dissertation is keeping research, writing, thinking, reading, and family life scheduled and organized.  My calendars/schedules (seen above in glorious colors) are nothing short of a form of managed chaos/controlled insanity at the moment. At this juncture I am really soul searching and looking at my progress, deadlines, and thinking about the fact I MIGHT have to push my defense off until October 2019 and graduate in December 2019. This would mean I missed my target deadline of earning my PhD and Graduate Minor in museum studies in four years start to finish by one semester. Part of me wants to push forward and graduate in July (so I can walk in may graduation and participate in departmental convocation) while the other part of me wants to produce an important dissertation and knows deep down that I need the time. Stay tuned, resolving this dilemma will be an interesting ride.

So, in my quest to flesh out Douglas’ lived experience in the Indian Territory I will be heading to Oklahoma City and the amazing collections of the Oklahoma Historical Society at the end of February. Add to that a trip to Howard University in D.C. (February), Western Kansas and Fort Wallace (March) and the Presbyterian Historical Society in Philly (April) and a possible research swing to the Seminole Nation in Wewoka, OK and you get an idea of what it is like to write and research simultaneously. Thank goodness for frequent flyer points, my husband’s willingness to pay for trips, and my love of travel...for I truly am a historian on the road.

Thanks for reading, hope you have enjoyed this edition of Dissertation Weekly.  Stay tuned! Next week I will share about one of my recent research experiences and the need for document preservation in local communities!

Cheers,

Michelle and Josie the Kitten

Josie supervises the writing of a fellowship application. She is an excellent proofreader as long as you don’t want her to flip the pages.

[ecotone99]

[RF] Los Angeles - The city of angels

I saw through the window a moltitude of lights: it was now evening and the plane on which I traveled was about to land in Los Angeles. It was love at first sight. I rushed, without really knowing where I was going, to take the luggage then went out immediately to finally breathe a bit 'of fresh air. I had made a stopover in New York and I was not able to leave the airport. I also want to smoke a cigarette. I lit two in a row. I looked a bit 'around bewildered. I had come halfway around the world. I proceeded to objectives. My destination was the hostel where I stayed for my two-week stay. I relied a direct shuttle services from the airport. Within a few minutes I was on the road again. While I was on the bus a stranger offered me a piece of candy. I accepted it. I am a bit 'naive and I tend to have good faith in others. It was good. The impact with the wide, endless highways took my breath away. A sense of freedom comes over me from the inside. It was the first trip that I faced alone. I was fascinated. We reached our destination. I paid the TAXI. Twenty-one dollars had already left. The hostel resembled in all respects to one of those typical American houses in a rustic style. When I entered I saw a melting-pot of people who watched TV. They didn't look at me. I soon realized that it was something quite normal considering the bustle of people who frequented the place. But someone stepped forward to me: a young innocuous-looking black guy and rather serious. He wore glasses and his hair cut short. He introduced himself, "Hello my name is Pedro, Welcome to Free Housing, I'll show you the house." He was a crew member who ran the "cabin". My english, school, had yet to turn up and during the home tour I nodded my head. I carried the luggage in the room that I was given and that I had to share with three other people. I paid in advance the bill for the night. I spent one hundred and fifty US dollars. From then on I had to live with ten dollars a day. I tried to ask my first question. "Where can I buy cigarettes and a lighter?" I'm a heavy smoker. The answer thankfully was simple and painless. "Down down the road." I followed that one indication and in fact I was faced with one of the classic American open day and night supermarkets. I took a pack of Marlboros and a lighter with ergonomic enclosure which I keep still. It 's strange to me because lighters have always been short-lived. I returned to the hostel without looking around much. It was dark. My priority was fall into bed to write to my family and to my girlfriend that I was fine. So I did. I was ready to fall asleep when I realized that it was impossible. There was a guy who snored worse than anyone else. It made a loud noise and by the way he sobbed. This went on for hours although eventually stopped and I managed to get to sleep with the ardent hope for him to go on his way as soon as possible. The next morning I woke up early and I was more lively than ever. Among other things I noticed, looking in the mirror, that my tongue was once again become pink. My body had already disposed of the accumulated stress before the trip. I put it in my suit and went downstairs where I uttered a timid "Hello" to me and I arranged to have breakfast. From what I understood each roommate was free to take the supplies they wished, place them in the appropriate shelves or in refrigerators and cooking. So I headed back to the Rite Market to buy some drink and some snacks. It was early November, the sun was already shining and did not at all cold. I noticed that the path along which I was was dotted with palm trees. I bought a "tank" milk, an orange juice and cereals. So, to begin with. So I went home and put something in my teeth. I already knew what would be my next move. I had, as agreed, to make an important phone call. I had to call Sam Lane, executive producer of cannabis for free, to arrange a meeting in order to present the project that I realized hoping that acquire the rights. I had read that he spent fifteen thousand US dollars a week to produce an episode of his show so I was hoping to make a good shot. No sooner said than done. I locked myself in the bathroom and dialed the number. He answered almost immediately. I was not ready to have a conversation in English and even more so "business" but God though I did not pray more for some time helped me anyway. "Hello Sam, I'm Michael." I paused. "I'm in Los Angeles." "When we can meet?". I was already out of breath as my future at that time depended for much from him. He responded with some enthusiasm, "Michael! Send me a message saying your address this afternoon I send you to take a car. " "Okay, great," I said. "See you later". My heart was pounding. I was thinking what I would have done if he had not replied. I was playing around. I had right away, however, a strange feeling. Too good to be true. I did not lay down and after lunch I was ready to start exploring the city. Before going out I checked the e-mail account. My best friend wrote me: "Hello Michael, How was your trip? I know what you felt just before we left. Enjoy this adventure and believe it all the way. California is one of the most beautiful places in the world. Take care. Andrew "I put the signed blacks pants, a T-shirt printed with a picture of James Dean and a three-button jacket between the elegant and casual. Since I had your hair cut almost to zero also I put my funny gray cap with the visor. Instead of going to South as I had done up to that point, once out in the street, I proceeded northward along Crenshaw Boulevard until I reached the intersection with Wilshire. I was carrying a briefcase with inside the project that I had to present to anyone who could also be only minimally affected and in hand clutching a list of possible contacts divided among talent agencies and television production companies. I chose Los Angeles because of it. I decided to start with the talent agency. The problem was to find them. Wilshire Boulevard is one long highway dotted with skyscrapers and buildings on both right and left and numbered in a specific order. I had to get to the number 10250. Where I was at that moment I was more or less at number 700. Once I discovered which way the numbers were going in up I reached the goal and rang the bell. I was very nervous because of the research that I had conducted found that in almost all cases the answer was "We do not accept unsolicited material." I showed up with a weak voice, "Hello, I'm an Italian guy and I want to introduce you to the pitch for a new animated series". The answer was clearly the one I anticipated. First door in his face. First of a long series. No problem. I looked through the list of contacts an address close to where I was at that time and I noticed that for better or worse many were located along the Wilshire although to a variety of civic. I made another attempt, but the answer was the same. It seemed to me a completely absurd policy. At about half past four p.m. I sent a text message to my primary contact. I asked him if it was confirmed the meeting and took the opportunity to invite him to eat a pizza. Meanwhile I sat a moment. I had already ground several kilometers and I was pretty torn down because it does not like being told no so openly. I began to get really afraid of not succeeding. Mr. Lane replied apologetically that he had an important business meeting and then we would not have been able to see that day. He could stay. Then I resumed walking towards one of the most famous of the city agencies. I arrived at the base of the skyscraper which housed intending to pretend a university student who wanted the opinion of one of the trade concerning his dissertation. I talked to the porter who advised me, since it was quite late, to come back the next day and discuss with a young lady named Alice. I came out more than satisfied because at least he gave me an answer that was not entirely negative and that gave me some hope. I stopped at a fast-food, ate a sandwich along at least twenty centimeters so I went back to the hostel. It was not yet very clear in my head the projects in which I had ventured. That evening I met the rest of the team who ran the house. AJ was high, egocentric and gym-lover. Mike seemed rather reserved and had the air of being always tired. The youngest, Chris, had already taken part in several commercials while Dan, the General Supervisor, took the part of thirty libertine. Also I made a first friendship with a French girl named Valentine who wished to become a make-up artist and which briefly told her my story. He advised me saying any more upside to be the best. That night I slept like a log because the snoring man was gone. The next day I went back to the building where I had "appointment". I was even more agitated than usual. After a short wait in came a young girl who asked me politely what she could do for me. I stammered my unusual request. I was all sweaty hands. My English was still quite sparse. He brought up the top floor of the building where there was the agency's focus. Before joining I had to ask permission from the Director reception. It was a private company. He asked me some general information such as first and last name and what kind of university course I attended. Then politely he said "At the moment there is no one, in case you recall." I accepted gladly the answer and walked away. I already knew that I would not receive any phone call and that in fact there had to be someone. Stay within those offices was like being one step from heaven. Were companies that were earning hundreds of millions of dollars a year and who ran the biggest talents on the planet. In the afternoon I wrote to Sam to find out what had happened. He replied that he was at the Westin Bonaventure Hotel in downtown Los Angeles. I rushed there. It was evening now, and walking through the streets of Downtown I realized where we were really arrived. Skyscrapers. Exclusively tall and majestic skyscrapers. It was an impressive sight, amazing and breathtaking. I tried to take some pictures but I lost myself in admiring such beauty. Certainly there are many who argue that there are no feelings in a heart of steel. I personally find it endearing. I see it as a boost to want to rise to the top. The hotel where we were to meet was one of the most luxurious of downtown. I sat in the lobby and I wrote to him that I had arrived. Meanwhile I talked with some of the demonstrators who were participating in a movement called "Stop the war on drugs!" And to which he also attended my contact. He replied apologizing again. He told me he was already gone, and he had forgotten our meeting. He asked to see us the next afternoon. I naively believed him. I returned to housing. Valentine introduced me to that point a man in his fifties. He told me he was very intelligent and who had just met. His name was Gabriel. From the looks of a poor man. The sound of his voice, however, was very special. Sweet, to be that of a man. I showed no fear my project and he said: "It 'spectacular!". It excited me a lot. Then he asked me if I had protected with copyright and I said: "Of course!". He made a good impression right away because he told me to be a former French billionaire who had lost everything because of the crisis and who was in Los Angeles to meet his daughter, fashion designer. Before falling asleep, I sent this message Sam: "It is said that America offers everyone a chance to become great. You are mine. See you tomorrow. Michael ". He replied with a smiley. The next morning arrived in no time at all. I returned early in the Westin Bonaventure and sat, waiting, doing up and down the elevators as they faced the outside of the main building giving directly on the city. I had lunch in a small restaurant inside the hotel and took a quick tour in the conference room where they held a debate on the huge number of arrests because of drugs. Mr. Lane does not was felt. So I took with the situation, and I wrote him that I was there waiting for him. He told me to make me find the blue elevator base. "Here we are!" I thought. I rushed to the place indicated and after few minutes of waiting came. He was a man in his forties, dressed in a simple way, with a little 'of beard and long hair down to his shoulders, but collected with a pigtail. He greeted me and invited me to go to her room. I could not wait to talk to him. I was charged more than ever. He let me in and introduced me to some of his collaborators. I noticed, to my surprise, that on the sofa there were bags full of marijuana. I was hoping to get to join the club. Finally I opened the bag pulling out the silhouettes of the characters and the file with its description. "That's Sam, this is an American doctor, good-looking and with the medical card for Marijuana, who runs his beautiful home as a rehabilitation center. He looked interested and sometimes closed his eyes. I went to explain its main features: "It 'a bit' crazy, hyper-active, often giggly and head in the clouds". "It feels like Peter Pan." With the same determination I introduced also the remaining components of the pseudo family: the adopted adolescents, the natural children, the fat housekeeper, the hippie visionary and the priest Rastafarian. He did not give them time to finish that stood up and motioned for me to follow him to the door. I could not understand. We went out. He asked, "Are you here on vacation?". I replied "No Sam, have come specially from Italy to introduce this project." Then he asked, "Are you from a good family?". I in all honesty told my mother was not well and that the money was gone. "Well," he told me at that point. "I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I am an activist! I have no money to develop your project. " while we were moved to the hotel and when we were out in front of his car did not have time to say anything but he left. He told me to give my phone number to a certain Paul. "I will invite you to my house to surf!" He exclaimed. Three days of waiting for five minutes went very badly. In those moments I thought that if it had happened a miracle would come home defeated, empty-handed and with more debts than before. I returned to the hotel I spoke with Gabriel. I told him how the meeting had gone, and put, for the first time since I was there, a joint in my mouth. He said clearly: "He's trying to fuck you." I immediately plugged in everything that had happened: the three days of waiting, the questions about my family status and that concerning the purpose of my trip. I was surprised. My brain was pervaded by continuous electrical shocks that are transformed into images just as happened to me before we left when I was smoking marijuana with my friends. The reality was beginning to distort assuming the guise of a picture already painted. Gabriel added, "Never trust of businessmen." The world of Hollywood show business opened before my eyes: a cruel reality and most armored of a maximum security prison where those who hold the reins of the game are producers, high finance sharks, always looking for new ideas for which, however, are not willing to shell out a penny. I took his words as a dogma. The conversation became interesting. We were sitting on the couch under the gazebo in the small courtyard of the residence. I wanted to know more. Something magical was happening. He added, "Why are you here?". I replied saying that limiting beliefs, sex online poker and had reduced me to poverty. She made a face that earned him a thousand words. I had fallen into death traps. He kept saying "You look like a nice guy." He had already understood everything. Then he asked me "What do you want?". I immediately replied, "I want the money." "So you want success?" He said. "The money is with the success". I confirmed faster and with more conviction than I had ever done up to that point, "Yes, I want success." Already I hung on his every word. The lesson was not over yet. Gabriel spoke again: "If you want to succeed you will have to sacrifice everything." I listened. I would also have accepted a deal with the devil. "You'll have to rely on yourself and look like a millionaire." "Remember that the snake do not comes from the castle but from ruin","It 's so for all successful men". I had just met, I knew little about him and already his words sounded like the commandments in my ears. The goal was became clear: when I presented my project I had to look a prominent businessman, a wealthy entrepreneur, or even better a Hollywood secret star. To get to the big boys, get their attention and take home the pot I had to bluff. It was created a 'particular understanding that it would be further strengthened with the passage of time. Then I spoke and said, "When you smoke marijuana I see the world differently". He replied "Marijuana cures your depression." I breathed a sigh of relief. I thought I was schizophrenic. I began to see better the design. I had managed to reverse my perdition tunnel. He said, "Let's go back to the person you met, tomorrow write them a message and tell him you're going to go back to Italy because you have people involved there too." "Okay," I replied. Finally he said, "Tomorrow is another day." I went to bed happy as ever because hope had fed again. The next morning I wrote what Gabriel had suggested and more added that I had already registered the subject and to actually be a businessman. He answered almost immediately and I did not believe what I was reading. "Michael, come to my house this afternoon at Sunset Beach. I want you to discover another side of California. I told Paul to leave. " I replied that there was no need. I wrote "Mr. Lane knows that I like to move relying only on myself. " Gabriel advised me to go with nothing. So I did. I studied the path on the Internet and undertaken. I took a piece and then walk a stretch on the subway. It was an opportunity to see outside the Staples Center. In a moment the memories resurface. It had been at least ten years since I dreamed of becoming an NBA star. I arrived in Long Beach. I thought to have come to Paradise: palm trees everywhere, open spaces, fresh air, blue sky and bright sun. For the first time I saw the ocean. He immediately transmitted a feeling of omnipotence. I took a bus that would take me almost to the finish line and I remember having no loose change to pay for the ticket came forward a smiling woman who paid him in my place. Dropped in Seal Beach and proceeded on foot on the Pacific Coast Highway: a wide road that was developed parallel to the ocean. The sun was already setting. It was a unique spectacle. It was like living in an impressionist painting. I wrote a message to my mom, one of the few that I sent since I was there and I told her that I was realizing my dream. I was unaware that he had another kidney crisis due to his medical condition and voltage. They were taking her to the emergency room. I arrived at their destination: the house was situated in front of the beach. Sam was outside waiting for me. We watched the sun disappear behind the horizon in a few seconds improbable. He asked me if I wanted to smoke pot. I agreed, and we entered. He went down there malice. I faked myself in the part that had to represent. The trip took me to say I was in fact a seller of ideas, that every time I have to propose a project fixed a budget for the trip, beyond which I can not go, and then I was back in Italy because I had run out of cash. I also said that my sister's boyfriend was a very wealthy guy and then I made him intuit that they are well covered. "I am like a snake" I said almost hissing. I expressed calmly, I held my legs crossed, I moved my hands and had a relaxed attitude precisely because I knew I had the trump cards in hand. He made his move. He offered me ten thousand US dollars. I had crushed. My heart started beating me in the chest for a few moments. Ten thousand dollars for something that I had done in twenty days. "No" rest. "How much?" He asked. I looked him straight in the eyes and made my counteroffer. Slow motion said "A hundred thousand." She told him not to resent. They had too much money to put on a project at the embryonic stage. I had raised dramatically. Then he asked me to be his partner. Among the show's creators in addition to his name figured would also my and I would receive a share of the future profits of the series. I refused even that proposal. He got angry. He was about to lash out at me when I asked him to calm down. There I had in hand. I told him I had to think about it. I did not close the deal because its transformation had annoyed me. I had left twenty US dollars in the wallet. He gave to me another twenty. "That's my friend keep them", "If you want I can help you sell the project to the big majors" he said. Already I imagined the characters I had created come to life magically within the animation studios. Foretaste of the idea of arousing the interest of the major television networks in the nation and to sign a multi million dollar contract. I left convinced potermelo hold good in case the following week I was not able to get much better. Going back to the hostel I noticed a large dog outside a hotel. I went down to cuddle. He also had hair before her eyes. I asked the owner of a photo scattarci. I wanted to send it to my girlfriend. I knew that she would like. Then he invited me to a party of artists that was held in his hotel. He introduced me to his companion and made me compliments for eyeglasses that I carried. Gabriel had suggested me to continue to wear them because they gave me even more the air of being an intellectual. I did know a journalist who left me her contact details. Exhausted, I sit down in a closet full of paintings. A couple entered. He was a business man. She was drunk and was convinced that I was homosexual. The man left his business card on a table. I picked it up. It said the film producer. I took it and put it in my pocket. From that day I turned around the cards on the table. First I wrote an e-mail to that contact asking him on a date. Gabriel pointed out to me that I had forgotten to prefix the name of the recipient with the correct name. He did not answer. I put aside the reality, as they do with a dress out of fashion and began to smoke more marijuana. I found myself catapulted into an experience of transcendental life, metaphysics and mysticism. I reach the headquarters of a major television network. I tried to go in and say to the secretary, "I have an appointment", and pulling straight for the offices. I stopped by an employee and waved in the face characters. "Have you ever heard of an American doctor well-to-do and middle-aged ...?" I shouted against. He got excited and sent me upstairs. There, I stopped at the front desk. "It 's showtime!" I exclaimed. They called security. I began to understand how companies were structured. Before you talk to a potential decision makers you had to pass at least two levels: receptionist and assistant. People were paid on purpose to keep away guys like me and represented the last two steps of the stairs that would lead me to success. I had to step on them. In the evening, I polishing a technique and began to write notes on my phone to remind me of what I should have said. I organized amazing presentations as I began to immerse myself completely in the part of the arrogant young yuppie, bold and confident. I saw the results. I was able to get the email of a major film producer. I convinced the secretary to call the assistant then I KO him by telling that I wanted to propose to his boss to play himself in a film about the pitching. Unconsciously, I used a mix of sales techniques and persuasion. I sent details of the project. He said, "Hello Michael, Thanks for introducing me your idea. I appreciate your enthusiasm and your hard work, but unfortunately it is not a matter on which I will focus. You are right in believing that it is an easily marketable and eligible project but the story has to be something that interests me and that's not the case. It considers that it is very difficult to develop this type of projects even when I myself firmly believe in the idea. So, ultimately, I can not spend my time working on projects for which they are not certain. Of course this is just my opinion and you should certainly continue to show your project to people who could answer you better than I did. Sorry can not help you but I wish you luck. Best wishes. Bob". I did not demoralizing. I made business cards and began to introduce myself as a film producer. I began to live a dream. To really become one. I showed also the American Film Market. It was a film event that was held at a hotel in Santa Monica, and where there were hundreds of manufacturers and distributors. To enter you had to buy a pass for two hundred dollars. Potendomelo not allow smoked a little 'Marijuana and positioned myself in the lobby waving the characters as a street vendor. A girl, fresh of his first short film, gave me the attendant number of a famous producer telling me to try to contact her. I walked all day, every day. At one point I bought an ointment because I had an inflamed foot tendon. Every day new contacts. People telling me where to go and people encouraged me not to give up. I had begun to see the origin of a new project: a TV series set in the hostel where I was staying. Those guys who ran were so simple and common in their diversity that could well become the protagonists of a new and interactive TV show set right there. I spoke with people from all over the world and they all had their own stories to tell. Moral of the story: one hundred episodes and ten seasons. Gabriel, however, also suggested to me an idea for a movie. He whispered, "A boy from Senegal flying to Los Angeles with nothing but his ideas and become a Hollywood producer." "Americans love fairy tales with a happy ending," he concluded. The young man could be me, or better yet, I could use my adventure as an integral part of what would become a screenplay. Strong of these three ideas my rat race was esplanade. I spent a weekend to scream. That Saturday night I went to a famous Hollywood nightclub with a Milan boy named Cristian, a Mexican and a French. We arrived with a sporting car. We entered after an hour. To jump the queue you had to tip the bouncer. I was not in the mood to spend money. Cristian, said piciu, had just lent me one hundred and fifty euro and had to be enough. There were incredibly sexy girls who smoked marijuana and occasionally, from above, showered dollars. I spent the night in the car. Sunday we strolled along the Venice Beach. It was full of street vendors who proposed the most diverse gadgets and street artists who performed in exceptional performance. I could hang out with most of the girls who attended the hostel. Even the seductive girlfriend of Dan told me she liked me. I had the eyes of a tiger, and I had turned into a predator of dreams. However, I was always in a hurry and I preferred to spend his evenings confront Gabriel. The latter gave me other valuable information. "Never look back", "Never talk about money", "Never give up," he said. Then he added, "You do not like money, it's money that like you". Music for my ears. "Go after lunch appointments, we talk better with a full stomach." He concluded . I asked him "How many lives you saved?". "Three maybe four," he said. I did not notice the time passing so much that I decided voluntarily to lose the return flight to stop there a little '. I knew I was on the right track and I wanted to prove to myself and to the world that I could do it. Meanwhile my girlfriend decided to leave. The relations were strained for several days due to the fact that I was completely gone. I had been sucked into the City of Angels. My mom bought me another ticket. It remained a few days left. Gabriel and I went to Universal Studios. My goal was the production company Munchies 2 that according to what my contact said could be interested in my project. I smoked grass Ak47 from the pipette that Mike had lent me. The high caught me prepared. I was more than ever determined to go all the way and soon after I walked in the direction of the offices set out in the background the refrain of a popular song that said "It 's all written in the stars". At that moment I realized I could be destined to do something great and I really felt the protagonist of a film. Everything made me think it would be the final scene. I spoke to the security guard, and I convinced him, almost threatening him, to call someone from the inside. Came a girl. I was exuberant as ever. I began to talk of the project with an uncontrollable enthusiasm, without stopping and with a toothy grin on my face. I felt exalted and almost possessed. Nonetheless I paid attention to how I asked myself, and what I said. I KO'd in the third round even the most skilled of Wall Street brokers. My English had become American pure. I had turned from neophyte to showrunner. Miss told me to wait there. I felt good vibes. When she came back out she told me that the leaders were out and that she would give me the forms to fill out in order to present my idea. Haughty and almost offended I said "Not interested." I went back to Gabriel telling him that I would certainly have tried again and I reached the finish line at all costs. already felt the smell of money. I could not wait to return to my mom and my sister everything I had taken away. I would have stayed in LA. I bought a loft and invited my best friends. The nights by lions we dreamed of spending by teenagers were there waiting for us. We returned to dinner time. I made friends with Joseph, a gentle Scottish alcoholic and Anthony, a homeless man who tattooed me the word "California" on the right leg. All I've got was another free day. Then I would have broken down. Gabriel, meanwhile, had gone. He had disappeared that morning suddenly. He had left his email and his cell phone number. I prepared for a new all-in. I searched the headquarters of a home production of cartoons called Cartoon Machine. I showed up at the reception saying with conviction, "I am the best young Italian-American producer who you'll meet", "I want to speak directly with the manager because I'm running and I have to submit a project that I am convinced will be a success." The receptionist told me to wait there. I followed him without delay and found myself face to face with Corey Wright, CEO and financial partner. I asked him five minutes of his time. I told him "I love America" and showed him the tattoo. Then I threw myself in what was the most spontaneous and spirited conversation I had ever sustained. I took advantage of my whole repertoire of sound bites. I tried to run the show and take it by the throat. I put before his eyes the image of pseudo-family I had created and asked him to carefully observe it. Do not let him time to respond. I had to convince him that I possessed a gold mine. "I see the most original animated series and subversive that could ever be devised" I exclaimed. "The characters are innovative, fun and sarcastic." "They represent America nowadays. "We can create hundreds of episodes and point to a growing market." "Americans love the crazy things!" He concluded. I was convinced that he would accept my proposal. I asked him to work for him. "I like Michael," he said. However, he replied that he could not make a decision just like that. He would leave his e-mail address to which I would have to send the project in detail. I played my last card. "Life in a hostel" I said. When I did her eyes lit up with bright light so much that he left the race exclaiming "This is a nice idea!". I had in mind to make one more effort then I headed for Hollywood Hills in search of the American base of the company which cooperated with a famous Italian director. I found myself facing a simply home. The matched address. I wrote the idea of the film on a business card and tucked it in the mailbox. A damsel, passionate yoga and country music, offered me a ride up to number 448 of Crenshaw Boulevard. It was time to go home. I gave the best of me and already I was planning my next move. Bollywood was the future. That evening I chose to go out with a New York girl who did not even know to be in the world. We toasted to life and health in the last five dollars that I had left. I packed my bags, and Anthony, who also had to go to the airport to welcome one of his three girlfriends, offered to accompany me. After smoking I soon began to fear that something would happen because it was night and we had to pass the most dangerous areas of the city. "Are you with me friend" told me to calm down. We took a bus. They climbed two mothers made of cocaine that brought with them the visibly sick children. "Welcome to California" told me the driver. Arrived at 'LAX, Anthony prepared me dinner with what he had in the suitcase. He did first, second and managed to even offer me coffee warming water and pouring an instant solution. We watched a football game and then fell asleep on a sofa in a small restaurant. The next morning he said to me before I left "Are you crazy man, just like me, that's why we get along." I cried bitterly when the plane took off again and I saw the city from above.

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Image copyright DC Thomson & Co Ltd

Image caption An illustration from 1977’s The Nine Lives of Kitty Foster, which features in a new exhibition on girls’ comics in Dundee

Perceptions that comics and graphic novels are just about city-wrecking scraps between superheroes and super villains are being challenged by a growing number of women in Scotland interested in the genre.

Among these women are a university masters degree graduate and artists and writers from across Scotland.

In their own words they tell of why they are passionate about comics and how they are so much more than stories about caped crusaders.

Tanya Roberts: Comic and graphic novel artist

Image copyright Tanya Roberts

Image caption Artist Tanya Roberts and examples of her artwork

Edinburgh-born artist Roberts has illustrated comics based on Star Wars spin-off Clone Wars, as well as Toy Story and Strawberry Shortcake.

Among her current projects is creating a graphic novel called Abeyance, with her husband.

She believes that now is a good time for female artists, writers and readers, but also for comics generally, irrespective of gender.

“There are a few good reasons for it,” she says.

‘Emotional connections’

“Comics, the characters that are within them and the worlds that they create are now people’s playgrounds.

“People can write about them, dress up like them even create alternative universes or fan art for them.

“All of this of course is then posted to various online social media type things and perpetuate people’s interest in that particular fandom. That, in turn, sells more comics.

Image copyright Tanya Roberts

Image caption Art from Roberts’ graphic novel Abeyance

“I think the differences in attracting a male/female readership is subtlety small. Because I go to conventions and sell my material to people I get feedback and notice who is buying my artwork.

“Females seem to appreciate character relationships and that emotional connection between them a bit more. I know I do, as a female reader, get inspired when there’s great characters in the story with interesting relationships to others.”

Roberts believes there to be a healthy female audience for comics.

She says: “Girls don’t only seem to cosplay as their favourite characters they also buy comics too.

“I always get excited talking to people who are inspired by comics and even more so to learn that they have taken their passion even further, that it in turn has inspired them to create something, like fan art, fiction or even their own original stuff.

“To which I say to them: see you next year at the stall next to mine selling your own comic.”

Louise Quirion: Comic book exhibition curator

Image copyright Louise Quirion

Image caption Louise Quirion giving a tour of a new exhibition on comics in Dundee

French-born Louise Quirion is a graduate of University of Dundee’s MLitt course in Comics and Graphic Novels.

She is also the curator of Girls in Print, an exhibition running until 21 October in the university’s Tower Building Foyer.

The exhibition includes more than 30 original artworks from a number of Dundee publisher DC Thomson’s titles such as The Topper, Bunty and Twinkle.

“When I began looking into this area, I was amazed at the range of stories covered by girls’ comics,” says Quirion.

Image copyright DC Thomson & Co Ltd

Image caption An illustration from 1977’s Spellbound comic story Beware the Mystery Dolls

“As well as school and ballet stories, there are also sports stories, historical dramas, science-fiction and tales of the supernatural.

“This exhibition is a great opportunity to discover or re-discover the high school stories of the Four Marys or the space adventures of the Supercats, while appreciating rarely seen original art.”

To show how comics have evolved today, the exhibition also features work by current female comics artists such as Kate Charlesworth, Tanya Roberts and Gillian Hatcher.

‘Marketing strategy’

During her research for the display, Quirion became interested by how publishers in the UK target readers with gender-specific titles, which is a different approach to other parts of Europe.

She says: “I find it fascinating because France and UK are geographically very close, and yet their comic cultures are based on very different ideas.

Image copyright Maria Stoian

Image caption Modern works also feature in the Girls in Print

“I feel like this separation girls/boys is mostly a marketing strategy. They are still using it in Japan and it works great there.”

But she adds: “Everyone reads comics in France, whatever their gender or age is, so the best strategy is more to appeal to everyone.

“I know American comics are pretty popular right now, but I encourage anyone that likes comics to also read other things.”

Team Girl Comic: Scottish-based collective of comic book creators

Image copyright Clare Forrest

Image caption Artwork by TGC artist Clare Forrest

TGC was set up to as a support network for women cartoonists across Scotland, and features in Louise Quirion’s Girls in Print exhibition in Dundee.

Gill Hatcher, editor and founder of the group, says: “The number of women and girls in Scotland both attending comic events and making comics has exploded in recent years.

“When TGC began in 2009 we were a very small tight-knit group, but the number of people getting in touch and asking to join keeps on growing.

“There are a lot more opportunities for young people to learn the craft of writing and drawing comics, and lots more channels for them to get their work out to a wider audience.

“And gradually, as more women have got involved in the Scottish comics scene, the more it has opened up to new creators who might have previously felt intimidated or unwelcome.”

Image copyright Cover of That Girl Comic

Image caption Ren Wednesday’s cover art for TGC’s anthology That Girl Comic

Hatcher says the subjects women want to tackle through comic stories and art are wide-ranging.

She says: “Our contributors write about all sorts of subject matters, often highly personal and touching on politics, identity and feminism.

Image copyright Gill Hatcher

Image caption An illustration by Gill Hatcher

“There’s often a lot of humour in the stories we tell too.”

Hatcher adds: “Our latest anthology, That Girl Comic, featured our artists’ different takes on the theme ‘growing up’ and we ended up with a great mixture of childhood memories, teenage angst and present-day reflections, as well as some more surreal and whimsical interpretations.”

Vicky Stonebridge: Artist and comic book fan

Image copyright Vicky Stonebridge/Northings

Image caption Vicky Stonebridge and an example of her comic book illustrations

Stonebridge, a painter, craftworker and co-organiser of the Highlands’ popular but now defunct HiEx comic convention, is based in Lochcarron in Wester Ross.

Growing up in the Highlands, she recalls pouring over a comic her dad bought her when she was three or four.

“It wasn’t the Dandy and Beano I later came to love, but a ‘boys’ comic with sci-fi, action and crazy perilous monster stories in it. I loved it,” she says.

“I was an early reader, but didn’t really get what was going on, there was a giant rat man who was mugging people and being generally menacing.”

‘Geek culture’

Stonebridge’s interest in comics was reignited later at art college when a friend showed her a copy of the British sci-fi and fantasy adventure comic, 2000AD.

She says: “It blew me away. I was the only other person I knew who read it, it was for a long time the only comic I knew.

“I even wrote part of my dissertation about it. I loved the escapism, the action, satire, punk attitude, fantasy and adventure. I was never a girly girl so stories of ballerinas and public school girls were never going to cut it with me.”

Image copyright Vicky Stonebridge

Image caption Stonebridge fell in love with sci-fi and fantasy art at a young age

She adds: “My love of sci-fi went along similar lines, with a teacher taking a book off me when I was seven as it was ‘too old for me’.

“I still remember vividly the aliens, mutants and space paradoxes that excited me, and the feeling of resentment at being told it wasn’t for me.

“This is why I enjoy working with young people and encouraging their interests in comics, geek culture , genre fiction and art, because I think it is important to support them in their journey of discovery in order to foster creativity and imagination instead of closing doors.”

‘Always evil’

Stonebridge says a big challenge with comics is challenging the way female characters can be portrayed in the illustrations.

“There are lots more examples of strong female characters in comic books and film adaptations coming to the fore,” she says.

“2000AD always had some strong women, but often these were sidekicks to the main male character.

“The character Psi Judge Anderson is an interesting character, some writers and artists have given her real depth, and yet there still persists other artists who still portray her as a pouting doll with ridiculous breasts.

“A more consistent 2000AD female character was Aimee Nixon. She switched sides and her allegiances were muddy, but she was always fierce and kick-ass.”

Stonebridge adds: “As I’ve become middle aged myself I crave to see older women characters, as all these idealised slim attractive comic women just don’t resonate.

“I love to see diversity in comics, characters who reflect the real world. There are always gnarly old men characters, but where are the women – apart from being super villains of course, because everyone knows that older women are always evil.”

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[genevievewrites]

Chapter One - Ready to Launch

I heard once on NPR that our memories can’t be trusted. This is especially true for the ones we revisit the most. Because every time we recall a moment from our past, it gets a little less true. Through the process of bringing back that memory, we are changing it without even realizing that we do. 

I don’t completely trust this story, because I have told it so many times. It’s one of those touch stones in my life that I use to contextualize who I have turned out to be. 

In my story, I am ten. My parents, who got me tested as a kindergardener to ensure I was in the gifted and talented class, and who were at this moment in the process of figuring out how to use the magnet program to make sure I could attend a better middle school than the one in our neighborhood, sat me down. They told me that they couldn’t afford to send me to college, so it was up to me. I needed to work very hard, get good grades, and get a scholarship. So, I did. 

In fifth grade, my teacher, Mrs. Barbee, asked us all to draw rocket ships and write our dreams on them. I don’t remember what any of my classmates wrote, but I do remember mine. I wanted to graduate with an International Baccaleureate diploma, and I wanted to become a Pulitzer prize-winning journalist. 

That is a lot of pressure for a young person just starting middle school. 

Now, I’m twenty-nine. I did not get an IB diploma, because I was too busy being a Drum Major in the marching band, a lead in the one act play, the president of the French Club, and working on my near-perfect GPA. I also did not become a journalist. By the time I got that full tuition scholarship to a small liberal arts school a few hours from my home town, many more dreams had come and gone. More would soon come to take their place. One thing was constant - I was going to do something truly remarkable. Something I cared about. Something that mattered. 

I kept a card my aunt sent me when I graduated high school, because it spoke to the core of my being. “Where your talents and the needs of the world cross, there lies your vocation.” 

Thanks for nothing, Aristotle.  *** My last semester of college - which I would finish in four years, debt free - was when my carefully constructed life plan would start to unravel. I didn’t realize it then, but as I embarked on a graduate degree in Women’s and Gender Studies that was supposed to propel me into wild success as an academic whose true passion was molding young minds and creating the feminist future, I was beginning to fall apart. 

There were things I had expected to happen while I was in college that never came to pass. I hadn’t met the love of my life. In fact, I was graduating totally single. I had found plenty of love, and like, and lust on that small campus in the city. But no one who stuck like they were supposed to. 

I didn’t feel especially enlightened or grown up. I felt more like a child than I had when I’d arrived - an eighteen year old full of that grating self-assurance that they know everything there is to know about life before they’ve even started to live it. I had applied to graduate school with the intention of pursuing a doctoral degree and becoming an incredible feminist professor after writing an insightful dissertation on Buffy the Vampire Slayer and the patriarchy slayer who lives in each of us. By the time I was actually heading off to school, the plan had changed again. 

I sold my car and all of my possessions that wouldn’t fit in my suitcase or my closet at my mom’s house. I wasn’t ever coming back, I told my friends and family. I was going to get my master’s degree in Women’s and Gender Studies, find an internship at a women’s rights nonprofit in New York City, and never look back. 

When I landed in New Jersey with one hundred pounds of luggage, I managed to find my way to New Brunswick by New Jersey transit. I grabbed a taxi from the train station and, proud of myself for making it alone across the country to start this new phase of my life, confidently told my taxi driver that I needed to go to Rutgers. 

“Which campus?” he asked me. 

“Campus?” I replied, confused by his question. 

“Yes, which campus do you need me to take you to?”

“I don’t know,” I said, panic beginning to set in, “I need to get my keys and ID card to move into my on campus housing.” 

Unlike my alma mater, a small school of 5,000 students landlocked to two square miles in the middle of a medium-sized city in Texas, my graduate school was a complicated maze of disconnected and sprawling campuses in multiple cities. I was far away from home and completely unprepared.

I somehow managed to figure out exactly which of Rutgers’ five campuses I was going to, and the address of a building where I could get the necessary key to open my room. It took so long for the patient cab driver and I to find the office, the after hours staff were the only ones there when I arrived. 

When I finally found the small house that I would live in, rolling all of my belongings in a hundred pound bubblegum-pink suitcase across the Cook/Douglass campus, I felt a huge wave of relief. I dropped my bags, pulled out my new key, and reached for the door - which didn’t have keyhole. Instead, I saw a card reader. I did not have a card. 

Since I had arrived after hours, I wasn’t able to take a picture and get the ID card that would have opened the front door of the house. I did have a key to my individual room, which I hoped one day I would get to see. 

It was hot, and late, and by this time my phone was dead. First, I sat down and cried like any twenty-two year old would do. Then, I walked to the house next door and knocked. 

In a stroke of pure luck, one of the girls had already moved in next door. And she was willing to let a perfect stranger use her cell phone to call the emergency after-hours number for graduate housing. They would bring me a temporary key card, but it would take about an hour. 

Maha helped me get my things on to my porch.  Then, she invited me into her house, where she gave me a glass of water while we watched TV and waited for my card to arrive. 

It was dark by the time the RA got around to dropping off the temporary card. I thanked Maha and finally opened the door to my on-campus graduate housing. 

I had selected a room in a small house, in a row of ten similar houses. This was the cheapest housing option for graduate students on campus. While I had my own room, I would be sharing a bathroom with the other two girls on my floor. Five of us were assigned to the house in total. I was the first to arrive. 

It seemed hot inside but I was starving. Finding the air conditioner would have to wait. I had assumed that New Brunswick would be an extension of New York City - compact, walkable, without the need for a car. I would eventually learn that the university had it’s own bus system that was complimentary for students, so we could travel between campuses and residential areas. But on that first night, I had no intention of leaving my house. I found the number for a pizza place in my welcome packet that the after-hours housing staff had given me with my room key and ordered a large pepperoni pizza. Then, I sat on my twin bed in my gray room in New Jersey and cried a little more. 

Once my tears had started to pool with my sweat, I thought it was time to figure out the air conditioning situation. There was no thermostat in my room. New Jersey may not be Texas, but that August day the temperature was in the high nineties, and it wasn’t cooling to much less. After a fruitless search of all the common areas, I realized that I hadn’t seen a single vent. My room had a radiator, which I only vaguely recognized from movies that took place in cities where snow actually stayed to accumulate on the ground, but no vent for conditioned air to blow through. 

I, a native Houstonian who had spent ten out of twelve months in icy air conditioned comfort for the last twenty-two years of my life, had moved into a house with no AC. 

Still reeling from the shock that there were buildings made without air conditioning, I opened the windows and moved my bed closer, hoping to catch a breeze. As I waited for my pepperoni pizza to arrive, a thunder storm rolled in. And that was when I learned that while the screen could keep out mosquitoes, it certainly didn’t guard against rain. 

My pizza arrived, expensive and unexceptional. I saved most of it, as I didn’t know how I was going to get to a store to buy food any time soon, and cried into a slice of pepperoni pizza as rain splattered the edge of my bed. 

What had I done? How had I made such a huge mistake? I was stuck there in New Jersey, in a sad room in an old house without air conditioning, far away from everything I knew and loved. 

While most of the buildings on the Cook/Douglass campus had recently been upgraded with wifi, these houses were the last on the list and I hadn’t thought to bring an ethernet cord with me to New Jersey. I didn’t even have the internet to distract me from my lonely, scared, exhaustion. 

I curled up in my bed, as close to the window as I could get without risking the rain, and thanked whatever gods were listening that I had all seven seasons of Buffy on DVD. Joss Whedon’s brilliance temporarily disctracted me from an unsettling truth - for the first time in my sheltered, Millennial life, I was not sure what was going to happen next. That first night, I cried myself to sleep. 

[publicdisplaysofreflection]

The Invention of Empathy: Rilke, Rodin, and the Art of “Inseeing”

Empathy, an orientation of spirit decidedly different from sympathy, has become central to our moral universe. We celebrate it as the hallmark of a noble spirit, a pillar of social justice, and the gateway to reaching our highest human potential — a centerpiece of our very humanity. And yet this conception of empathy is a little more than a century old and originated in art: It only entered the modern lexicon in the early twentieth century, when it was used to describe the imaginative act of projecting oneself into a work of art in an effort to understand why art moves us.

That improbable origin and its wide ripples across the popular imagination are what Rachel Corbett explores in You Must Change Your Life: The Story of Rainer Maria Rilke and Auguste Rodin (public library) — a layered and lyrical inquiry into the personal, interpersonal, and cultural forces behind and around Rainer Maria Rilke’s iconic Letters to a Young Poet, a book so beloved and widely quoted in the century since its publication that it has taken on the qualities of a sacred text for secular culture. Out of its origin story Corbett wrests a larger story of “how the will to create drives young artists to overcome even the most heart-hollowing of childhoods and make their work at any cost.”

Recounting her revelatory first encounter with the Rilke classic, a gift from her mother, who had in turn received it from a mentor as a young girl, Corbett captures the singular enchantment that this miraculous book has held for generations:

Reading it that evening was like having someone whisper to me, in elongated Germanic sentences, all the youthful affirmations I had been yearning to hear. Loneliness is just space expanding around you. Trust uncertainty. Sadness is life holding you in its hands and changing you. Make solitude your home.

[…]

What gives the book its enduring appeal is that it crystallizes the spirit of delirious transition in which it was written. You can pick it up during any of life’s upheavals, flip it open to a random page, and find a consolation that feels both universal and breathed into your ear alone.

What most people don’t know, Corbett points out, is that as Rilke was bequeathing his poetic wisdom to the recipient of his letters, the nineteen-year-old cadet and aspiring poet Franz Xaver Kappus, he was also channelling his own great mentor — the French sculptor Rodin, for whom Rilke worked for a number of years and whom he revered for the remainder of his life. Despite their staggering surface differences — “Rodin was a rational Gallic in his sixties, while Rilke was a German romantic in his twenties,” Corbett writes, likening Rodin to a mountain and Rilke to “the mist encircling it” — the sculptor became the young poet’s most significant influence. But Rodin’s greatest gift to Rilke was the very thing that lends Letters to a Young Poet its abiding spiritual allure: the art of empathy.

Corbett writes:

The invention of empathy corresponds to many of the climactic shifts in the art, philosophy and psychology of fin-de-siècle Europe, and it changed the way artists thought about their work and the way observers related to it for generations to come.

Empathy may be a concept saturating today’s popular lexicon so completely as to border on meaninglessness, yet it was entirely novel and ablaze with numinous meaning in Rilke’s day. Its invention is the work of two unlikely co-creators — Wilhelm Wundt, a German doctor who “accidentally forged the birth of psychology in the 1860s,” and Theodor Lipps, a philosopher from the following generation. In seeking to understand why art affects us so powerfully, Lipps originated the then-radical hypothesis that the power of its impact didn’t reside in the work of art itself but was, rather, synthesized by the viewer in the act of viewing. Corbett condenses the essence of his proposition and traces its combinatorial creation:

The moment a viewer recognizes a painting as beautiful, it transforms from an object into a work of art. The act of looking, then, becomes a creative process, and the viewer becomes the artist.

Lipps found a name for his theory in an 1873 dissertation by a German aesthetics student named Robert Vischer. When people project their emotions, ideas or memories onto objects they enact a process that Vischer called einfühlung, literally “feeling into.” The British psychologist Edward Titchener translated the word into English as “empathy” in 1909, deriving it from the Greek empatheia, or “in pathos.” For Vischer, einfühlung revealed why a work of art caused an observer to unconsciously “move in and with the forms.” He dubbed this bodily mimesis “muscular empathy,” a concept that resonated with Lipps, who once attended a dance recital and felt himself “striving and performing” with the dancers. He also linked this idea to other somatosensory imitations, like yawns and laughter.

Half a century later, Mark Rothko would observe: “The people who weep before my pictures are having the same religious experience I had when I painted them.” He was articulating the model of creative contagion — or what Leo Tolstoy called the “emotional infectiousness” of art — that Lipps had formulated. Corbett writes:

Empathy explained why people sometimes describe the experience of “losing themselves” in a powerful workof art. Maybe their ears deafen to the sounds around them, the hair rises on the backs of their necks or they lose track of the passage of time. Something produces a “gut feeling” or triggers a flood of memory, like Proust’s madeleine. When a work of art is effective, it draws the observer out into the world, while the observer draws the workback into his or her body. Empathy was what made red paint run like blood in the veins, or a blue sky fill the lungs with air.

But although empathy originated in the contemplation of art, it was psychologists who imported it into popular culture, largely thanks to the cross-pollination of art and science in early-twentieth-century Europe. Corbett writes:

In Vienna, the young professor Sigmund Freud wrote to a friend in 1896 that he had “immersed” himself in the teachings of Lipps, “who I suspect has the clearest mind among present-day philosophical writers.” Several years later, Freud thanked Lipps for giving him “the courage and capacity” to write his book Jokes and Their Relation to the Unconscious. He went on to advance Lipps’s research further when he made the case that empathy should be embraced by psychoanalysts as a tool for understanding patients. He urged his students to observe their patients not from a place of judgment, but of empathy. They ought to recede into the background like a “receptive organ” and strive toward the “putting of oneself in the other person’s place,” he said.

The concept, of course, was far from novel, even if the language to contain it was — half a century earlier, across the Atlantic, Walt Whitman had articulated the very same notion in his timeless treatise on medicine and the human spirit. But Lipps devised the right language to infiltrate the popular imagination and placed himself in the right place, at the right time. When he became chair of the University of Munich’s philosophy department in 1894, his students included the great Russian painter Wassily Kandinsky, who would later come to echo a number of Lipps’s ideas in his writings about the spiritual element in art, and Rilke, who enrolled in Lipps’s foundational aesthetics course as soon as he arrived in Munich from Prague.

Central to Lipps’s invention of empathy was his notion of einsehen, or “inseeing” — a kind of conscious observation which Corbett so poetically describes as “the wondrous voyage from the surface of a thing to its heart, wherein perception leads to an emotional connection.” She writes:

If faced with a rock, for instance, one should stare deep into the place where its rockness begins to form. Then the observer should keep looking until his own center starts to sink with the stony weight of the rock forming inside him, too. It is a kind of perception that takes place within the body, and it requires the observer to be both the seer and the seen. To observe with empathy, one sees not only with the eyes but with the skin.

The concept struck Rilke as a particularly revelatory way of looking at not only art but life itself. He wrote in a letter to a friend:

Though you may laugh if I tell you where my very greatest feeling, my world-feeling, my earthly bliss was, I must confess to you: it was, again and again, here and there, in such in-seeing in the indescribably swift, deep, timeless moments of this godlike in-seeing.

Corbett captures the crux of Rilke’s insight:

In describing his joy at experiencing the world this way, Rilke echoed Lipps’s belief that, through empathy, a person could free himself from the solitude of his mind. At the same time that Rilke was studying at the zoo in Paris, Lipps was in Munich working on his theory of empathy and aesthetic enjoyment. In his seminal paper on the subject he identified the four types of empathy as he saw them: general apperceptive empathy: when one sees movement in everyday objects; empirical empathy: when one sees human qualities in the nonhuman; mood empathy: when one attributes emotional states to colors and music, like “cheerful yellow”; and sensible appearance empathy: when gestures or movements convey internal feelings.

Out of this dynamic dialogue between inner and outer arises the most elemental question of existence: What is the self? This invites an auxiliary question: If we ourselves can possess a self, how can we know that others are also in possession of selves? Corbett writes:

[This] was the question to which Rilke’s old professor Theodor Lipps’s empathy research eventually led him. He had reasoned that if einfühlung explained the way people see themselves in objects, then the act of observation was not one of passive absorption, but of lived recognition. It was the self existing in another place. And if we see ourselves in art, perhaps we could also see ourselves in other people. Empathy was the gateway into the minds of others. Rilke’s prodigious capacity for it, then, was both his greatest poetic gift and probably his hardest-borne cross.

In the remainder of the spectacular You Must Change Your Life, Corbett goes on to disentangle the intricate mesh of influences and interdependencies that shaped Rilke’s enduring legacy and its broader implications for the inner life of artists. Complement it with Rilke himself on writing and what it means to be an artist and the life-expanding value of uncertainty.