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dearlazerbunny · 5 years ago

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Jane Eyre AU (untitled, Ch 1 of ?)

Pairings: Kylo x Reader

Genre/Ratings: Jayne Eyre AU

Words: 4000

Summary: someone requested a Jane Eyre AU and for some reason my brain refused to keep it a ficlet. I have very little written for it so far, but many ideas. Currently also untitled, but if I don’t post it to give me motivation I’m afraid I will never finish it.

I have always thought that carriage rides were much conducive to thinking. The pit-pat of the horses’ hooves, the gentle crunch of wooden wheels on dirt and cobblestone, an occasional punctuating crack of the riding crop. Such intricate monotony lends itself to the mind wandering where it pleases. I have never been apt at daydreaming in times of stress, so my thoughts as of now tend to list towards the more practical- taking stock of my situation and surroundings, and putting my thinking into orderly, manageable rows.

I come to the conclusion that my current surroundings have never been so nice as this. The carriage is functional, but with plush detailing that whispers of wealth and elegance the likes of which I have never seen before. My seat is cushioned and covered in a soft fabric; the curtains drawn to the sides of the windows are velvet, if my limited knowledge of the finer things in life rings true. The scenery passing outside may as well be a painting on some artist’s easel: green grass dotted with the most delicate flowers wave in the light breeze, topped by a sky bluer than a newborn’s eye. Clouds float by lackadaisically, as though they have all the time in the world to get wherever they might be going to, and one would think you could lie back and wish the world away curled amongst their feathery fingers.

I take a breath and marvel at how easy and light the air is this far from the city. It tastes of honeysuckle and a babbling brook; cotton warmed by sunshine on a summer’s day, sensations I have only read about in books or dreamt of in the dead of night. The hour’s journey has already purged the ash and soot of home from my lungs. Indeed, I find it hard to recall what it was like to not breathe so easily, so intrinsically. The matched pair of horses drawing my coach whinny with pleasure, in time to my admiration of the surrounding lands.

My fingers find the worn handle of my suitcase to clutch. I would be lying if I said I did not feel out of place in such an idyllic countryside. I was born to an industrious cityscape, surrounded by brick and stone, coal and human filth. A place where it is nigh impossible to wash all of the grit out of your hair, or avoid the noise of the bustling crowds. My ears ring with the absence of market chatter and factories clanging in the distance- that harsh dissonance is now replaced with birdsong and the rustling of foliage. I shake my head. How abruptly my life has changed in just a few days.

The notice, written on paper much too fine to be tacked onto the warped message board as it was, called for a governess- full time and live-in- for the child of a master I had never heard of. But as I passed, the address caught my eye. So remote, so far from the city and its struggles, and further still from the war and its efforts that continuously cripple the entirety of the country along with its people. I have no formal training, really, and no specific qualifications that would give me the authority to nurture a child. But I read and write as well as anyone, perhaps better, since the time most women my age spend working in the war factories I in turn spend in libraries and my cozy attic, consuming stories and penning whatever thoughts come to mind. I could teach sufficiently, I think, if the pupil would be willing to listen, and given adequate books on various subjects. So I went home and wrote a response, offering my services, posted it to the address stated with a few coins dug from the bottom of my bag, and prepared myself to wait in cautious optimism.

Imagine my surprise when not even the day after next a letter arrived for me, in the same hand as that illustrious address that first drew my attention. My application- could you even call it that, bare bones and plain as it was?- had been accepted. A coach would arrive for me the next morning.

I suppose in that moment it was a strange sort of blessing that I had little to pack. A few sets of clothes and an extra pair of boots; what little writing materials I had managed to scrounge up the past few years. They all fit easily into my little suitcase, with room to spare. My satchel, in contrast, was heavy and filled to the brim with every book I had ever acquired. I refused to leave any behind- they were hard won and much loved, despite most of them having cracked spines and wrinkled pages. Besides, I supposed any sort of teacher worth their salt would most likely arrive with some sort of collection of novels.

And so here I sit, in a carriage I fear I am contaminating with the dust permanently ground into my clothes from the city’s smog, my meager life packed into only two bags, with no idea what lies ahead other than an address and what I could glean from the handwriting of my new employer- which was not much. I never claimed to be a detective, after all. But the view is more exquisite than I had even hoped for; my worries bleed out of my person and mix into the fragrant air. I think I could survive any assignment set in such a place. Should I, god forbid, find myself beaten and bloodied by a madman, at least my soul will rest in a place with lasting happiness.

I scold myself for being so morbid. How bad could this possibly be?

At this very thought, the carriage creaks to a halt. I risk a look outside the window. The manse before me is stately, with rich brickwork contrasting the pastels of the grounds on which it sits. Vines climb their way up to the second story windows, worming their way into the nooks and crannies that have been weathered away as the years have passed. The lawn and its walkways are generally neat, with only a hint of overgrowth beginning to creep through the cobblestone. Balconies dot the upper-story.

In short, it looks like a fairy-tale; the home of a shut away princess condemned to roam the hills barefoot for the rest of her days, or a faerie house magicked to grow ten sizes, large enough for humans to live in. I am sure the house is far from the most impressive in this countryside- I have seen renderings in the papers of castles that could house all of London within its walls- but this estate holds much more character than those extravagant flauntings of wealth. I can practically hear each brick singing with its own stories to weave and whisper into my ear. My fingers are already itching for my pen.

The coachman opens my door, seeing as I have not emerged myself; too charmed by the villa to move. I shoulder my satchel, ignoring the muscles that strain under the weight of my books, and take my suitcase by the handle. Stepping into the fresh air feels as though I’ve dived into a clear river for the first time. My skin prickles as the breeze winds its way around me and lifts the corners of my skirts; a child wishing to play.

“The Master is expecting you, ma’am,” says the driver, and I nod at him in thanks. Rather than lead me up to the door, he simply sits back on his perch and turns the horses away, trotting back down the path we just traversed. All right then, I suppose introductions are up to me. Shouldn’t I feel anxious, as my boots click along the stone path, carrying me towards this unknown new life? That would probably be the rational response to the complete upheaval of one’s life in less than a week. Despite all that, my heart feels at ease and indeed almost at peace- far more than it ever was in my old home. Perhaps some sort of guardian star has led me to this place, knowing that my destiny, whatever it might be, awaits here.

The door is twice my height, with a carved brass knocker the size of my head hanging in the center. I go to let it fall against the wood, but think better of it. If I am going to live here, I will not put up any ideas of pretentiousness or good breeding, as I have none of that and furthermore no use for it. I shall come just as I am, and they will have to decide if that is sufficient enough for them. I ignore the wrought brass and instead rap my knuckles against the door succinctly, eager to see who or what will greet me first on this new adventure I have stumbled into.

As it turns out, it is a boy. He looks to be around ten to my unfamiliar eye, with untamed hair and sharp green eyes that look at me with cautious curiousness. It is a gaze of intelligence, and he holds himself well amongst the soaring architecture. Despite his size, he isn’t swallowed up by the surrounding space. “Who are you?”

Straight to the point, then. I believe I like him already. “Well, my name Jayne Ruth Linton, though you can call me Jayne if you like. Who are you?”

“Ben.” He doesn’t seem to want to offer any further information as he studies me closely, from my scuffed boots to the bag slung over my shoulder and in my hand. His shoulders sag. “He went and hired another one, then.”

“Beg pardon?”

“You don’t really look like a proper governess though. I guess he’s getting desperate.” Loud footsteps approach from further inside the house, and the boy- Ben- turns to address I would assume the person responsible for them. “I’ve told you, I don’t need a bloody nanny! Can’t you just leave me alone?”

“Benjamin, language,” a tired voice scolds, as though he has done it ten times today already, and then the door opens wider to reveal a tall man with worry lines furrowed between his brow. “You must be Miss Linton.”

“I prefer Jayne, please.” I shift my luggage to the opposite hand and hold out my right to him. “Mr. Ren, I presume?”

For a moment he looks at my outstretched hand as though it is an alien thing come to life. I am about to apologize for overstepping some invisible boundary when he stands aside from blocking the entrance. “Please, come in.”

The second I do, Ben is off, running to who knows where. I suppose I shall find out soon enough. I study his retreating form. He is by all accounts a handsome boy, and though I’m not sure where serpentine green eyes were inherited from in the family genealogy- possibly his mother?- it is clear that his dark curls, his sharp features, and cool gaze come from the man now leading me further into the house. They must be father and son, or otherwise the younger is some outrageous science fiction clone of the elder. I have to keep myself from giggling at the thought.

We emerge into, by all accounts, a well-loved sitting room. Books and papers are strewn about, along with oddities that might attract a child’s attention and just as quickly lose it. To my relief, the furniture is not gilded and upholstered in finery- the sofas are meant to be sat upon; the coffee table has scratches at the corners. It is far more utilitarian than one might expect from the exterior of the house, but I find that to be a comfort. At least I have most probably not walked into a place where manners the likes of which the Queen uses are mandatory.

“Please, sit.” Mr. Ren gestures to a seat and after relieving myself of my baggage, I do so. He remains standing, pacing the room slowly but efficiently a few practiced times before he speaks. His spine is ramrod straight, his shoulders back, his footfalls heavy and sure. Military, a voice in the back of my mind says, but the assessment doesn’t make much sense- why would a military man of some obvious rank be so sequestered in the countryside?

“I trust your journey was comfortable?” His tone of voice indicates he most likely does not care, but I answer nonetheless.

“Extremely. The coach was very fine, and the weather is excellent today.” He nods, but does not respond, his mind seemingly elsewhere. After a minute of glancing around the room, noting this and that, I clear my throat. “Well, Mr. Ren, I see you are not a man to mince words. Perhaps we should start with your intention on hiring a governess?”

He sighs heavily, and for an instant, despite his posture, I can almost envision the heavy load that weighs upon his shoulders. “Ben,” he says simply, as though that answers every question a philosopher might ever pose. “He is an extraordinary child, and he needs more than just I in the house. I have my strengths, but giving a child a proper education is not one of them.”

“I see. And I take it you have hired help before?”

Mr. Ren nods. “Several. Benjamin can be… contradictory, at times.” He eyes me wearily, as though these few words will already send me running for the hills. “And he doesn’t take to new people well.”

“Indeed, I don’t believe I should be entirely thrilled for a strange woman to be moving into my house.” I rise and straighten my skirt. “Well, then, if you will point me in his direction, I shall make proper introductions, yes?”

Brown eyes take in my face, as though searching for some unseen agenda. But I am apparently deemed satisfactory, because he simply nods and holds a hand out for my case. “I will take your things to your room. It is down the hall from Ben’s- up the stairs and to the left.”

And so while my new employer turns into the depths of another hallway with my things, I part from him in search of my ward. It isn’t hard to find him- scuff marks and crumbles of dirt lead to a well-worn door that has clearly been slammed one too many times for its hinges. I knock lightly on the wood. “Benjamin? It’s me, Jayne. May I speak with you a moment?”

There is a long pause, then some shuffling, and finally the boy cracks his door just a hair, so that I might not see what lies within. His glare is stony. “What.”

“Well, I wanted to apologize for earlier. I did not mean to upset you.”

Benjamin opens his mouth in order to what looks like give a fiery retort, but the words never pass his lips. “A- apologize?”

“Indeed. Might I come in? Only for a moment, then I shall leave you be.”

Many gears appears to be turning in his head- the gleam in his eyes gives it away- but finally he stands back a little, allowing me entrance.

His room is what I might imagine a wizard’s lair should look like. Books strewn across every surface, shoved onto shelves and teetering in giant stacks in the corners of the room. Lamps are strewn haphazardly in seemingly no order. Tinkering projects- gears and oil smudges on the desk, bits and bobs set about like they have been forgotten- dot the room. The small wizard must dance and turn in order to avoid knocking over this or that covering the floor to get to his bed, which mimics the rest of the room in its untidiness. Still, it has a sort of charm about it, or a coziness- a little hideaway from the rest of the world, full of oddities the owner sees loveliness in. It quite reminds me of my little attic, in fact.

Benjamin sits on his bed, cross legged, and shifts a few times to make himself comfortable. It occurs to me that he most likely does not let just anyone into his sanctum. “I’m quite fond of your room, I must say.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Really? You’re just saying that. Everyone else just nags at me to keep it clean or to shelve my books correctly.”

“Often I find rooms like these are indeed organized, but rather than by normal methods, by the owner’s specific and unique standards.” I tilt my head, taking in an oddly shaped pile of tomes under the nightstand. “For example… do you know what books lie in this stack? Without looking,”

“Mostly ecology books. Geology and the like. I was studying the rocks I found by the pond.”

I give him a small smile. “See? So long as you know where things are located, I see no reason to upend your personal space.”

“Hm.” He looks down at his hands, clasped in front of him, and I get a look at his features illuminated in the lamplight. I would guess he is eleven or twelve, certainly no more than thirteen. “Maybe you are different.”

“I can assure you I am, even without knowing what I am being compared to,” I tease, and I am pleased when I am rewarded with a small grin. “Different than…?”

“The others father has hired.” He glances at me, and I can see the worry in his eyes. “They were all horribly overbearing. Never leaving me alone, telling me to do this and that and always exactly their way. And most of them were stupid as well. They never listened,” he mumbles, and his fingers twist.

“Well that sounds perfectly horrible. I can see why you were upset.” Holding up my skirts so I don’t trip, I lithely jump from empty space to empty space on his floor until I can reach the bed. He watches me with razor precision. I have a feeling if I were to misstep, some delicate trust that has been forged would all be lost. And so, I do not fall. Instead, I land next to him and pat my skirt, as though the effort was nothing. “Now then, Benjamin- or do you prefer Ben? I would like to make a deal with you, if you will hear my terms. I think you will find them quite agreeable, but I am always open to negotiation.”

“Ben.” He vaguely gestures with his hand. “Go on.”

“Well, Ben. I have been hired to give you an education. Education is important, even when we must study the things we do not like. However,” I say, glancing around the room, “I can see you have already found more than enough interests that please you, and I am happy to explore them with you as our time allows.”

“Really?”

I nod. “In addition, I promise to always recognize that you are your own person with your own boundaries. If we are going to work together, we both need our space from time to time. I will not encroach on yours if you do not encroach on mine. Does that seem reasonable?”

For an instant, I am afraid I have overstepped, because his face is blank and unreadable. But then, in a moment of sunshine, a smile splits his face, and he holds out his hand as though we have signed and sealed an official document. “I think that sounds perfect.”

The handshake is firm. “Excellent. I believe we will get along famously, don’t you?”

To my delight, he giggles, a happy sound that contrasts with his serious face. “Won’t father be surprised.”

“Hm. Indeed he might be.” I give him a conspiratorial wink. “Let’s see if we can make that a habit, yes? He looks as though he could use a good shock every once in a while.”

Ben dissolves into muffled laughter and steals my heart right in the very same moment.

A/N: I’ve imagined the story in sort of a steampunk era. Their technology and society is more advanced then ours of the eighteenth/early nineteenth century, but they still use petticoats and carriages.

Jayne is named for Jane Eyre and Catherine Linton in Wuthering Heights

#star wars #Star Wars fanfic #kylo ren #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren x you #reader insert #jane eyre au

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darkpaladinchris · 6 years ago

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Of PMA and Pancakes, Ch. 1

Disclaimer: I don’t own any of these characters. All rights belong to our lord and master Sean William “Jacksepticeye” McLoughlin.

Summary: Anti is used to having it easy. Outside of doing videos for Jack, he has no life. But when an accident happens while everyone is away, how will Anti react to having a huge responsibility shoved on his shoulders? Will he crack under the pressure? Or will he grow closer to one of the only beings in the universe he can bring himself to harm? Read to find out. This is my first fanfiction. Let me know what you think. No flames please.

Normal speech

Anti’s thoughts

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Anti woke up this morning looking forward to the next couple of days and began going through his morning routine of push-ups, VR knife target practice, showering, and cleaning and checking his neck scar.

I’m glad this thing finally healed, but I’m almost going to miss it. With all the time I spent in Schneeps med lab and Marvin’s library trying to get it to heal the three of us really bonded, compared to when I first showed up and Sean accidentally stabbed Gerald the pumpkin in the head. Poor guy thought he was going crazy. Not to mention the others looked like they wanted to immediately murder me.

Leaving the bathroom with the towel wrapped around his waist, Anti went to his dresser pulling out an outfit for the day deciding on wearing his usual black pants with the first, and only, Christmas gift he had ever received which just so happened to be an Overwatch shirt with the character Reaper on it that was given to him by Sean. His outfit decided, Anti proceeded to get dress and set about making breakfast for himself, deciding on pancakes while also thinking on what to do with his time the next couple of days.

With Sean in L.A. and no filming for any of the egos planned, the boys had all decided to follow Sean’s lead and take some time for their own lives. Schneep had gone to attend a medical conference in Australia and wouldn’t be back until next week. Jackie and Marvin were in London for the weekend, touring the city, visiting Signe, and attending a showing of Wicked at the Royal Albert Hall and weren’t set to return home until Sunday. Jameson had gone to Ireland with a local animal organization to help at a fundraiser for the local dog shelter as well as oversee the opening of the second site of his new antique store and didn’t know when he would return.The whole process had thankfully been made easier by the fact that Marvin and Schneep had finally found a way to allow Jameson to physically speak.

Sean had obviously been on tour for a while and was currently finishing up his much needed vacation in L.A. The YouTube creator had become so overworked and mentally unstable in the weeks before the start of summer that even Anti himself was encouraging Sean to take some time to himself and to go visit Mark, Ethan, and the rest of his friends in L.A. if only to reduce everyone’s stress levels, especially Chase’s.

I keep telling Sean he needs to take better care of himself. Then again maybe pranking him with multiple nightmares of walking in on Jackie and Marvin defying gravity together was a little to much.

Having thought of Chase Anti’s thoughts turned toward the bro average star and all he had gone through over the past few months. The poor man had it almost as hard as Sean. Chase had gotten a call from Angus, Stacey’s new husband who also happened to be a survival trainer in the American armed forces. This was no surprise to anyone since when Angus had first called, he explained that even though it seemed Stacey wanted to keep Chase as far away from their kids as possible, Angus felt Chase had a right to know how they were doing and had started calling Chase around the start of first segment of Sean’s tour. Angus would call periodically since then to inform Chase of what they had been up too, sometimes even sending him pictures or videos of the kids which everyone could tell Angus had been careful to ensure Stacey wasn’t in any of them. It had even been on the second or third call that Chase had learned that a couple months after Angus met Stacey she had birthed a third child, a son named Trey. It didn’t take long for the men to put two and two together and figure out whose son Trey was. According to Angus, at 19 and attending college Trey was “exactly like his father”.

Sadly the most recent call two months ago hadn’t gone so well. According to Angus had called two nights before Sean left for L.A. and informed Chase with some bad news. Apparently one of the girls hadn’t been feeling so well and asked to go to the doctors. What Angus told Chase next was so shocking that he would have fallen down the stairs he was traversing had Sean not caught him. Chase later explained to everyone that Stacey had been diagnosed with leukemia. Thankfully they had caught it early on though and thus treatment had really good chances of succeeding according to the doctor. Sean had immediately made last minute arrangements for Chase to come and stay with him while in L.A. so that he could be close to his family whilst Stacey went through treatment.

Anti gave a small chuckle at this thought.

Even after all that she put him through, he still cares for her.

Since then Chase had checked in periodically with the others to inform them of what was going on. He told everyone that all the time he spent in L.A. finally forced him and Stacey to work out their problems with some help from Angus. Though things would never be what they once were between the two, they had both agreed upon staying good friends and keeping in contact with each other more mainly for the benefit of the kids. During this time, Angus had also taken Chase to the college in California where Trey was currently attending school over the summer to become a forensic scientist for law enforcement. Though a little unsure at first, Trey finally opened up to Chase after a couple of hours of them talking, eventually breaking down in his father’s embrace from emotional stress of worrying about Stacey’s condition and his sisters.

I swear Chase can make anyone break down in his arms crying. Heck, he’s even had me bawling into his shoulder a few times back when my neck was still freshly sliced, not to mention when Schneep and Robbie made me believe that I actually killed Sean when we filmed the Kill JSE video. Anti smirked a little at this thought while flipping a few of the pancakes as his thoughts returned to the recent developments Chase had told them all about.

Over the weeks Chase told everyone how he had spent more time with Trey, being the father to the boy he always wanted to be ever since he learned of the kid’s existence, and spending more time with his daughters. At the insistence of Stacey and Angus, after having told both father and step-father to do as much as they could to keep the kids from worrying about her, Chase took Trey and the girls to the beach for Fourth of July where Chase learned just how much like him Trey was. The boy was almost Chases equal when it came to being a daredevil, even showing his knack for surfing by doing multiple backflips on his board while riding a few waves. It was also that day that Stacey told Chase over video chat who one of their children’s role models was besides Chase himself. A few weekends later around the start of August, Stacey was given a clean bill of health to which the whole family went out to dinner to celebrate both that and Trey’s birthday. Unbeknownst to Stacey and the kids, Chase and Angus had made a call earlier that day, and when they got to the restaurant to the girls excitement and Trey’s bewilderment, they found waiting outside to meet them none other than Sean who Chase introduced as his friend and business partner. Later in the evening Sean, Angus, and Stacey surprised both Trey and Chase. Sean had apparently worked some magic and got the pair two VIP All Access Passes to PAX West in a couple of weeks. Chase’s latest call to Sean and the egos a couple days ago had him describing all of the fun Trey and him had at PAX. In addition to that Angus and Stacey joined in with Chase in telling Sean and the egos that at the end of the year Stacey and Angus were going to be moving to Brighton due to Stacey’s job. Due to Angus’s work with the armed forces, he would be allowed more leave to spend time with his family and take care of the kids, but would still be gone months at a time. As a result Angus and Stacey had both started working on getting part custody of the children back to Chase so that they could have some one they trust watching the kids while they were away. This would prove to be difficult however since not only had Stacey been on a rampage when she claimed full custody the first time and wanted to make it next to impossible for Chase to fight the court order, but they were all worried that Chase’s recent past as an alcoholic would complicate matters even more. When they mentioned this Anti merely snapped his fingers announcing, to everyone’s surprise, that any records of Chase that would complicate the matter had just been deleted from all global databases. Knowing the general scope of Anti’s powers, Sean and Chase told everyone to just drop the matter before either anyone could ask any questions.

I hope everything goes well with their case, Chase really deserves this win. Anti then poured himself a glass of orange juice, picked up his plate of pancakes that he had just doused with syrup and proceeded to the living room where a large 48 inch 4k plasma screen television, which somehow was a gift from a group of super fans at one of Sean’s recent shows, awaited him. Just as he was about to sit on the sofa, Anti paused for a second before setting his food on the table in front of the sofa and proceeding out of the living room down the hallway.

“Know what, I don’t feel like being alone today,” Anti spoke aloud to himself as he proceeded towards the elevator that led to Schneepelstein’s lab and medical bay where, unbeknownst to Anti, a certain someone was in need of a little company and PMA.

#jacksepticeye #jacksepticegos #antisepticeye #sam septiceye #chase brody #jse community #marvin the magnificent #jackieboy man #henrik von schneeplestein #jameson jackson #jse egos #jse fandom #jse fanfiction

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floraexplorer · 7 years ago

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Behind the Blog: The Power of Passionate People

“Mi-mi mi-mi mi-mi mi-mi-miiiiii!”

A group of travel bloggers stand in a small library, facing a keyboard. On the Caribbean island of Antigua, in a stunning resort studded with pineapples and palm trees, they are practicing their vocal warm ups.

“Ma-ma ma-ma ma-ma ma-ma-maaaaa!”

Behind the keyboard stands Mike King, a professional vocal coach and our choir master for the week. His mouth opens and shuts like a piece of elastic, his hands skipping along the plastic keys as the music flows.

“May-may may-may may-may may-may-mayyyyy!”

But why on earth are we singing in the Caribbean? Why am I suddenly part of a choir? Is a passion for singing a pre-requisite for being a blogger now?!

Let’s start at the beginning.

In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve barely written anything this past year. Dealing with my dad’s inevitable death – and then with the aftermath of all-encompassing grief – stopped every one of my steps in its tracks.

October to March was a dark, dark time. Yet somehow, as the sun began to appear more often and as the daffodils began to bloom in the park close to my house, I felt the stirrings of inspiration. Instead of watching Netflix and crying with the curtains closed, too exhausted to do anything else, I remembered what it was like to create.

I began to remember my passions again.

The major problem standing in my way was how rusty I felt. If your creative mind is like a mechanism of nuts, bolts, cogs and screws, it felt as if too many of my internal components hadn’t stretched themselves for months. That might not have been too problematic in itself — except I’d also spent those dark months scrolling passively and depressively through all my social feeds, lamenting that my co-creators were achieving fantastical things and moving their careers forward while I felt fundamentally STUCK.

Things first began to properly change when I attended a retreat in Spain – an experience I still can’t find the words to explain online just yet, except that it was one of the most surreal, magical, eye-opening, life-affirming, heart-lifting weeks of my life. I’d expected to face up to my compounded grief and loss in Spain, but I hadn’t been prepared for the physical side of the work we did. Aside from our daily yoga sessions each morning, we spent significant time lost in ‘intuitive movement’ – something which, if you’d asked me about beforehand, I’d have immediately shut down.

“Nope, not for me, definitely not!” I’d have said. ” I hate dancing. Always have.”

In actual fact? I bloody loved it.

For most of my life, I’ve unequivocally stated that I can’t dance. I get embarrassed on dance floors, I think I look stupid, and I usually try and avoid dancing as a general rule (except when I’ve drunk enough to not feel self conscious). Honestly? I can’t even remember what precipitated this opinion

But somehow, in Spain amongst this beautiful group of women, my body intuitively knew what to do. I managed to quieten my mind to the extent that it was patiently waiting in the background while my limbs skewed themselves into contortions I didn’t know I wanted to create.

It felt incredible. I felt truly changed by it: like I was embracing and setting free some true, deep part of myself which had been hidden for so long.

Eyes closed, heart open, soul ready

For a long time, I’ve felt as if something was missing in my life. I attributed this to grief: I assumed my mum’s death had shaped me irrevocably, marked me out as different and separate from others. I didn’t know if this feeling would ever change. I assumed it wouldn’t. Yet during this past week, spent on retreat at @quarterlifehealthproject, I honestly feel that my life has changed. For the first time, I both witnessed and was intrinsically part of the sheer power which comes from a group of fiercely vulnerable women sharing their stories and emotions with complete openness and honesty. In yoga, meditation and intuitive movement we rose together, moved together, and turned inward together. We danced wildly in thunderstorms, connected in silence, and held space for each other in sharing circles and fire rituals. In just six short days, we became connected. We became sisters, in the truest, oldest sense of the word – and that’s exactly what I didn’t know I was looking for. Women, we are wise, strong, and so very powerful. Please never forget how much magic you hold inside yourselves

A post shared by Flora The Explorer (@florabaker) on Apr 24, 2018 at 12:59pm PDT

I left the Spanish coast with a newly formed group of soul sisters and a fierce pride in myself – and only a few days later, I checked into a flight bound for the Caribbean along with forty social media ‘influencers’ (the latest buzzword to describe what we do. I dispute this monicker wildly, and prefer the more humble ‘content creator’, but there we go).

Despite being good friends with many members of this Antigua crew, I was still nervous about being in such a big group. I’d just spent a week engaged in intense introspection, and suddenly I was with forty outgoing personalities, all with so much focus on the ‘outward’. I didn’t feel prepared for constant cameras, videos and social media updates – and to be honest, even being expected to be ‘on’ all the time felt exhausting.

I could never have guessed how much this outward behaviour would lift me up, and that it was exactly what I needed.

And it all started with the singing.

Joining a Caribbean choir

Our week in Antigua had been arranged by Traverse Events and the Antigua & Barbuda Tourism Authority for two reasons: firstly, to attend a small influencer conference, and secondly, to experience all the exciting adventures the island has to offer. Part of that excitement was the opportunity to join a singing workshop led by Mike King, who already runs singing retreats in Barbados and will soon do the same in Antigua.

While I don’t have the same mental block about singing as I do with dancing, I still haven’t sung regularly since I was at school. I used to love being in choirs, but like so many childhood passions it eventually faded out of my life completely, to the extent that when signing up for the Caribbean choir I felt the first stirrings of possible embarrassment. What if all my singing skills had totally vanished and I sounded awful?

Mike King was the perfect antidote. He’s unashamedly passionate about singing. Passionate about music. Passionate about bringing groups of people together – even those who protest that they’re terrible at singing and will just drag the whole group down – to sing.

And from our first practice together, it was obvious that collective passion had the power to completely override any of our nervousness.

Mike deftly explained how our week of choir rehearsals would play out: three morning practice sessions of two hours each, culminating in a little performance for our friends and other hotel guests at the end of the week. Before we had time to panic about singing in front of other people (!), song sheets were thrust into our hands and the stretching of our vocal cords began.

In next to no time we’d been divided into tenors, altos and sopranos, all belting out harmonies for Al Green’s ‘Let’s Stay Together’ – and we sounded pretty good.

But the more magical occurrence was how we all felt. Sheer joy and jubilation erupted in claps and cheers whenever a particularly gorgeous note rang out; utter pride at the end of a completed song; huge grins and hugging by the end of the session, as we all walked out of the room with grins we couldn’t shake.

“The energy in there was incredible!” my friend Shu said to me – and she was totally right. It was an intoxicating feeling to realise we’d created something unexpectedly beautiful out of nothing by working together.

Learning some comparative home truths

Later that day at the first Traverse conference sessions, I listened to Gemma Holmes talk about ‘comparanoia’ – something all too relevant in today’s online-obsessed world. As a fully-trained cognitive hypnotherapist, Gemma urged us to switch our usual narrative: instead of playing comparisons with the people you see as competitors, use their success as inspiration to instigate change and action in your own plans.

For me, this constant comparing with my peers rang disturbingly true – because deep down I’ve always known what’s at the root of it.

If I’m jealous that another blogger has written a book, it’s because I know that’s the ultimate dream for me – which means I have to actually DO SOMETHING about it. When I look at other social media influencers achieving great things it reminds me I’m not yet reaching out to the people and companies I’d love to work with because I’m afraid they might say no – but I have to take those leaps regardless, because that’s the best chance of actually achieving them.

A new way of thinking: our competitors are actually co-creators in our success, because they inspire us to be better.

Gemma’s session reminded me of a workshop I’d attended recently in London with the blogger Anna Hart, all about personal branding for bloggers. Anna had talked passionately about knowing your audience: who they are, why they keep coming back to your content, and what it is you’re offering them. More crucially for me, she stressed the importance of knowing which people you want to speak to – something which can really only be achieved by honing your unique selling point.

All my thoughts were swirling at this. Suddenly I was imagining my site, and by extension my brand, with different eyes. I saw it as a reader who might not know what they’re getting when they click on ‘Flora The Explorer’ – and I realised some more specific changes need to be on my blogging horizon.

I’ve spent so long explaining, “I write travel narratives!” but in all honesty that’s much too vague for me. What I’m really passionate about is the fascinating way my inner journeying affects my outer ones, and how mental health and grief change the way I see the world at large. The crux where travel and trauma meet is something I have a unique perspective on, and it’s up to me to take that idea further.

Cogs are turning slowly (despite the rust) – but until I work out the kinks, it’s back to Antigua.

What do influencers do in their natural habitat? They create.

When you send forty bloggers, photographers, YouTubers and Instagrammers to spend a week in Antigua, chances are they’re going to do exactly what you’d expect: they’ll utilise every moment to create content, in as many ways as possible.

I haven’t indulged that side of myself for a while, and it was so freeing to snap constant photos and scribble down notes about everything that interested me – but I also kept tabs on the way my friends and fellow content creators explored the island.

Some were vlogging to their cameras, others disappeared for little photoshoots or sat hard at work editing in the spare moments we had. Everyone had a different idea about how to interpret our collective experiences, and it was inspiring to watch.

The more I watched the other creators around me, the more I remembered just how damn GOOD it felt to be truly passionate about something. Moreover, to feel galvanised and excited about moving forward with all those beautiful, colourful, too-big-to-mention ideas which swirl around inside your head.

Realising the power in other people’s passion

One afternoon, I sat on the beach with a few bloggers who’ve been publishing content online even longer than my seven years of it. Someone suggested that ultimately we’re all each other’s competition – and I found myself switching the narrative.

“Call me naive,” I said, “But I still feel that being a blogger is about being part of a community first. I don’t think I would ever have reached the industry level I’m at now if I hadn’t made so many lasting connections with people who do the same!”

Instead of focusing on how many competitors there are in the blogging world, all vying for similar partnerships with similar organisations, I chose to see how inspiring all those creators are, and how lucky I am to work amongst people who are equally passionate about the same things I am.

Anything but a competition: three photographers are better than one!

And that’s when it hit me. As bloggers, as content creators, as influencers — whatever you want to call us – we’re the type of people to actively embrace the things that others won’t. We’re constantly in situations where unexpected activities are offered to us, and we’ve managed to rewire our minds to always think, “Hmm… that could feasibly be good content!”. So we go for it.

I remember being so scared of going caving in a Bolivian national park – but I did it, because I knew I could write about facing that fear. I remember almost backing out of white water rafting in Australia, but the thought of sacrificing an article about the topic forced me to say yes. (Ok, I haven’t actually written that article yet, but I WILL!)

It’s like the best kind of vicious cycle: we’re primed to challenge our comfort zones in order to perpetuate our passions.

A Caribbean singing performance at sunset

One evening, we gathered at the Outhouse at the very top of our resort. Ahead of us was the wide blue sea, flanked by bright pink blossoms. A keyboard, like usual; big speakers and three microphones. A palpable energy filled the little wooden structure as we glanced nervously at each other, wide grins hiding our vulnerable internal thought processes.

What if we didn’t sing as well as usual? What if nobody came to see us perform? What if, what if, what if?

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But at sunset in the Caribbean, there were chills. Reverb on the mic which made everyone’s eyes open wider. Under piercing blue lights we sang our little blogger hearts out, and there was so much happiness and pride.

For the rest of the night, we sipped rum punch and danced under the stars. A group, brought together by our shared passions for creating and, this week at least, for singing. For art we’ve worked long and hard to be good at — and for the thrill of an unknown challenge.

What makes you unique?

For a long time I’ve felt both exhausted and confused at not feeling part of the blogging industry in the way I once was. At some point I got weighted down by negativity: I assumed my style of creativity wasn’t going to make me money, and I lost my passion in the face of being overwhelmed.

Luckily we’re all unique in the way we create. That’s what’s so utterly fantastic about it. If you’re getting too stuck in the professionalism of something you’re passionate about, try remembering why you started in the first place. Remember your initial passion and go with that as your primary focus.

For me? I forgot that writing feels like home – and sharing it with other people makes me feel like I’m flying. I adore the feeling when words pour out of my fingers – and so to hell with all the rest of it. I want to create. I live to create! And neither grief nor falling statistics will stop that.

Spring cleansing

There’s something uplifting about this time of year. Perhaps it’s the daffodils blooming everywhere, one of my dad’s favourite flowers; perhaps it’s the air, which suddenly feels fresh and light; perhaps it’s the extra hour of light each day. Or perhaps I’ve finally reached my limit of indoor bedrest, curtains drawn, sobbing silently into my duvet. Grieving for five months straight has taken so much out of me, but it’s also emptied a space I get to re-fill. Last week I stood amongst the spring blossoms in Peckham Rye with @alizejireh, hoping my years of internal awkwardness didn’t show as she snapped photo after photo of me (this outing a thirtieth birthday present to myself). We talked about how beautifully vulnerable a photoshoot can be, and as I stared out over this green space I’ve known my whole life I felt something inside me shifting, something quiet yet monumental. Spring is the time for a new start. A stronger, more determined, live-your-life-with-passion start. I feel like spring is wiping me clean and making me happy again.

A post shared by Flora The Explorer (@florabaker) on Apr 4, 2018 at 10:58am PDT

So surround yourself with people full of passion. People who willingly push the boundaries of their industry and the boundaries they’ve imposed upon themselves. Look at your competitors and decide where the last line is. Are they “taking opportunities” from you? Or are they inspiring you to push forward further?

Passion is what drives all of us. Music. Art. Singing. Photography. Writing. All of it is pure, unbridled creativity. It’s the purest way to make a connection – and I can’t believe how easily we sometimes forget about that aspect.

Thank you so much to this gorgeous group of travel ‘influencers’ for putting the passion back into my creativity. Ever in love with puns, we called our choir ‘No Direction’ — but as a group of content creators, I think we’re anything but.

I think the passion that drives us is taking us in exactly the right direction.

What are you truly passionate about? Who inspires you to create more? Let me know so we can inspire each other!

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chryso71 · 4 years ago

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LN2001 2020/21 – Identity Project

Blog Task: Discussion of my Project

Prof. Luke White

Chryso Yiallouridou

For my final animation I decided to show my hand holding my phone and scrolling on Instagram whilst a comet is falling from the sky in the background and a UFO traverses the earth atmosphere alongside it. On the screen of my phone, flashing briefly, I put all the things I like to see on my wall when I log into my account. That includes celebrities, such as Angelina Jolie, contemporary art collages, illustrations and art in general, clothes from different stores, food recipes and quotes about mental health. The phone is the central object in my animation because it’s at the foreground and in the center. The viewer can also see that I’m drawn to it, I keep scrolling no matter what happens around me. It is a part of me that I cannot be without even if it was the end of the world. Which brings us to the background of my animation: the comet does not necessarily have to be a comet falling from the sky. It can represent any event happening outside of me that I do not pay enough attention to. Like, recently there have been elections in the US and the whole world has been preoccupied with it but for me, news about it seems just like a comet coming and going. The UFO could be somebody close to me or even an acquaintance who seems like an “unknown flying object” in my universe. My whole world is concentrated in my phone in a way that makes people that exist outside of it almost indifferent to me or unrecognizable. Because most of my interactions even with my closest friends are now done through my phone, the food I eat I find online either by looking at recipes or ordering food, most of the stuff I share with friends and family is also things I find on the Internet, and my schoolwork is done online. In this way I used symbolism to portray the concepts of my project: the phone symbolizes my identity, the comet symbolizes the world, the events that happen around me, and the UFO symbolizes the people that seem foreign to me.

Some of the concepts from the papers I read can be relevant to my project. For example, Woodward (2000) mentioned in her essay that in some cases our identity is chosen for us by an external structure, in my case, the Internet and technology. The Internet itself defines me, the images that I look at everyday made me who I am over the years, and I set my own standards through the pictures that I see from my social media accounts. If there wasn’t an Internet or a device to connect myself with it, I would probably be constructing my identity differently.

Just like Edward Hopper, I tried to represent my feelings at the time being, feelings of alienation and isolation. The quotes about mental health describe the situation that I’m currently in and the stress I have from online classes (and how can I not feel alienated when I only interact through a screen with my teachers and peers at the moment when I was so excited to live a true college experience); the food recipes help me when I meal prep in order to have food ready every day because it is really hard to balance studying and eating well. Furthermore, the online clothing shops show my addiction to shopping, the art pages I follow show my interest in art and specifically contemporary art, and the famous actress, Angelina Jolie, simply shows the beauty standards that every female girl looks up to. Using Althusser’s concept of “interpellation” I can say that these are the things that “call me” to identify with, the things I recognize myself in. Like, there are many more things on Instagram but I find myself identifying with clothing because I like being fashionable and up-to-date with the fashion standards. Again, this is an example of structure and agency. I have the freedom to choose my clothes and present my identity as I like myself to look, but fashion itself (or the marketing that takes place through Instagram) presents me with specific types of clothing that I choose from.

Finally, I would like to close my essay by reflecting on the concept of “cyborg” that Turkle (2011) talked about in her book “Alone together”. I identify with Turkle’s theory the most because I, too, cannot see myself without this piece of technology and it is almost as if I am one with it. You will never see me without my phone whether I'm outside with my friends, at the mall or at the table eating dinner with my family. In conclusion, “I” (myself, my identity) cannot be imagined outside of my device, my phone is an extension of my body and my mind, a part of myself.

References

Woodward, K. (2000). “Questions of identity” in Woodward, K. (ed.) Questioning identity: gender, class, nation. London: Routledge, pp. 6-41.

Turkle, S. (2011). “Always on” in Turkle S. Alone together: why we expect more from technology and less from each other. New York, pp. 151-170.

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some-thoughts-and-crosses · 7 years ago

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And so it begins...

Week 1 in Rome and at the WFP

Alternative title: Things Jon Snow and I have in common…

Context: I have left South Africa in a complete whirlwind to take up my 6 month post with the World Food Programme. I cannot quite believe my luck. I am working in the IRM-O team (Integrated Roadmap - Operations). The IRM is a huge initiative that will change the way the WFP functions and touches every country office it operates in. It is aligned to meet the WFP’s aim of zero hunger by 2030. Among other things, it looks at creating sustainable models focusing on drives like food security and placing more control in the hands of the local country offices.

I arrived in Rome on Saturday afternoon, 15th July. Took a shuttle from the airport to my address, where my landlord and his family were waiting for me. Since the wifi hadn’t been installed, they took me to get a local SIM card and train and tram tickets for the work week. Turns out I bought 10 extraneous train tickets since the tram ticket is valid on the train, so long as it’s within 100 minutes.

Getting around is not quite as seamless as in London for example. To get to work I walk 5 minutes to my tram stop, catch the tram for 5 stops, get to Trastevere station (train not metro / tube equivalent), and take the train to a stop that’s a 5 minute walk to the office. It usually takes around 45 – 50 minutes one way. Unless I walk to where I’m going, any trip will use a combination of these modes. This is true for most people who use the public transport. Driving is difficult (not that I plan on), as the streets are busy and usually single, narrow lanes.

Also bought an iron, hairdryer, and some grocery necessities. By the time I got back to the apartment, I felt sick and tired. After a cereal supper, I called it quits for the day. Sunday I decided to take a trial trip to work to make sure I wasn’t lost and flustered on work day 1. More groceries and errands, and that was day 2.

On Monday morning I realised I wouldn’t be sitting at head office but next door, since the project I’m working on has a large team, and there wasn’t room enough for all of them in one location. Security traded me a temporary access card for my passport and brought me into the offices. I was met by the lovely Sabrina, across from whom I’m sitting. She took me for coffee, showed me to the main building, got me my access card, and had lunch with me. Since then she’s been my go-to person for office matters and Italian vocab queries – all of which she has been unfailingly gracious about. It has struck me just how nice everyone is. Uber polite and friendly. All of them. It’s lovely…albeit a little unexpected. I was warned to be vigilant, especially around Termini train station in Rome central. I should be aware that gypsy thieves operate there! One ruse is to have a baby thrust upon you! While you stagger in confusion you are robbed. Good to know…

Between the dictionary app on my phone and pictures of what I need, I’ve been getting by. But a working knowledge of Italian would definitely make life easier. Thankfully everyone works in English but the majority of the WFP shops and canteen employees only speak Italian. Outside the WFP, I use my dictionary even more.

I completed my mandatory security training (hectic – based on if I was in remote locations on missions…there was stuff on how to recognise land mines! Luckily not much risk in Rome…). There are apparently other mandatory courses I should complete in a 6 week timeframe. I’ll get to them – there’s been loads of other admin. Tuesday I met my manager, and started going through meeting notes and compiling questions and acronyms for clarification. There are a lot of these. The UN has its own, very specific language.

About this time I started feeling pretty stressed about ever being able to understand this world, this huge and seminal project, and being able to contribute anything worthwhile. Coupled with missing my people and not knowing how anything worked, the local unknown language, getting lost (was there ever any doubt), physically not at peak, and a clogged shower, I was feeling somewhat overwhelmed. Wednesday I had a chat with a colleague which helped ease the sense that I was supposed to be delivering immediately (a throwback from Consulting where you need to justify your existence and start delivering from the first).

Thursday dawned a lot brighter. Sat in on a cool “gazebo” session at head office with the Deputy Exec Director and the Country Manager for Ecuador, where they discussed the project, followed by a good meeting with my manager. Also applied for my compulsory Italian ID card and Fiscal Code. Also had coffee with 3 colleagues from the Gender Office who I met on the train home on Tuesday. They live in Trastevere too and gave me a google map printout with highlighted places to look out for, what to avoid, and some WFP insight too. Also went to the WFP doctor – both the medical centre and pharmacy are on site. Upon making the appointment I realised I was covered by a medical aid for my contract duration – bonus!

It is a very international community. This is a little borrower’s library nook I found. You can take a book and leave one if you can. I spotted English, German, French, Spanish, and Italian.

I also signed up for beginner Italian language classes at the office. They are twice a week until mid August. I’ve missed 4 lessons already but the teacher doesn’t seem like this is a problem. I’ve started a vocab list on my phone and love when an Italian word has roots I can recognise. E.g. Porta (portal) is door; portare via (is takeaway); attraversiamo (cross over – traverse). I said my first full sentence yesterday, “Uno cappuccino porta via per favorre”. The coffees come smaller than we’re used to and are very good J

My ‘hood

I live in Trastevere, which is a hip and happening area (referred to as mo vida!) that has medieval roots. Many parts are absurdly pretty! I have to remind myself that it’s not staged (like Monte!). The landmark closest to my apartment is Piazza de S’ Cosimato. There’s a screen set up to show movies in the evenings (all Italian). Mondays to Saturdays the square has fruit and vegetable vendors in the morning. The square also has a lovely little play area along one side.

Down the street is a gelateria I found and have been to twice. The gender trio rated this very highly and I found it on my own. Good to know I still have my instincts! Note the name on the cup…

Like the rest of Italy, this area has many little specialty food shops: one for cheeses and breads, one for meats etc. The grocery shops have limited stocks and brands. (The Polizia cordon is for construction…the cheese shop is not a crime scene).

In the parts of Rome I’ve been travelling around, people dress very casually and colourfully. The WFP dress code seems very relaxed too. What I find myself enjoying is the lack of self-consciousness from everyone…very much a live and let live kind of place. It’s one of the traits I’m adopting J The pace is also slower in general. You don’t catch Italians running to catch the train! Though it can be an undignified mob to get on and off public transport.

There’s an afternoon / early evening tradition called ‘aperitivo’. You have drinks with friends at restaurants and they bring you at the least small snacks – but often larger portions that end up serving as dinner.

My apartment is lovely! It’s spacious – rare considering the many other pics I’ve seen during my search. It’s painted white, has high ceilings, is airy, and gets lots of light. Tours will be conducted on request.

The apartment (as most do apparently) has a very strict recycling policy. There’s a camera in reception to monitor people don’t transgress! Using the wrong bins on wrong days etc. It’s a little odd considering the streets have litter and smoking isn’t as criminalised as I’m used to. (Remember this if you sit outside at a restaurant – actually any outside space is fair game to smoke).

This is a sign outside my street that gave me pause…

I went exploring a bit yesterday evening…herewith obligatory pasta pic (which was delicious!)

On the way back, just some guys sitting around a square…

After work today I will aim to get to a cheap home ware shop called “Flying Tiger”…a Copenhagen import. For the weekend I’m aiming for more exploring and settling in and eating gelato.

Despite some anxious moments, it’s been a good week overall. Ciao for now[1]

[1] Credit: Aatish

Disclaimer: “The information posted on this blog reflects my personal views and opinions and does not necessarily represent those of my employer.”

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allofbeercom · 6 years ago

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Khizr Khan on being vilified by Trump: ‘The far right feels that their voice has been heard’

When the father of a Muslim American soldier killed in Iraq spoke at the Democratic national convention in July, he found himself under fire from Donald Trump. Since then, Khan has been bombarded with hate mail and even asked to run for office

As you look out from Khizr Khans home in Virginia, the Blue Ridge mountains sweep magnificently to one side. Monticello, Thomas Jeffersons idyllic estate, is a few miles in the other direction. And in between, still spiked into his neighbour Richards front lawn, is a plastic campaign sign that says TRUMP.

Maybe hes going to leave it up for the next four years, says Khan, with a smile that turns into a sigh. Shaking his head, he takes a sip of tea and reaches for a small box of chocolates.

It is a month since the man who taunted Khan and his wife Ghazala following their headline-making appearance at the Democratic convention was elected to the worlds most powerful office, and reminders of Trumps victory are everywhere.

But around the Khans living room, so too are mementos of having lived through much worse. Their late son Humayun stares down from one wall, handsome and steadfast in his army portrait. His posthumous Bronze Star and Purple Heart awards are nearby. Humayun, a captain who was killed defending his unit from a suicide bomber in Iraq in 2004, would have turned 40 this year. We miss him so very much, says Khan.

Still, Khan is shaken by Trumps win and a subsequent spike in hate crimes across the US. Muslim friends say their children are being bullied. A doctor from Long Island told him a new patient refused to be treated by her when he saw her headscarf. Hostility toward Muslims is more intense than at any time since Khan arrived in the US in 1980, he says.

The far right feels that their voice has been heard and they have a licence to commit these crimes, he says. I have seen the fear of immigrants heighten after turmoil in the past. But never to this degree.

Khan has taken advice from the police about securing his home. He advises the women in his family not to travel alone. He is furious at Trump for not doing more to help. These are your people, whom you have encouraged to commit these crimes, he says. You have a responsibility as a leader to end it.

Rather than move to calm the anti-Muslim fervour, Trump has made one of its most prominent advocates his national security adviser. Mike Flynn, a retired army lieutenant general who described Islam as a vicious cancer and said fear of Muslims is rational, will help Trump direct US military policy. Suggesting that Flynn is ill, mentally, Khan is deeply concerned about the implications for foreign relations.

Not that the appointment should be surprising. Having dismissed Mexican migrants as rapists and criminals in his first campaign speech, Trump told voters rattled by terrorist attacks in California and Paris that he would ban all Muslims from entering the US. He later proposed barring only those from countries compromised by extremism.

Khan doesnt expect Trump to actually implement the ban, nor a new registry of Muslims he also floated. These were more likely cynical ploys to get votes from the simple-minded people that fell for it, he says. But damage has still been done.

It was Trumps announcement of the Muslim ban last year that led a reporter to call Khan, who was quoted hailing his sons patriotism and sharply criticising Trump. Muslims are American, Muslims are citizens, he said. An aide to Hillary Clinton saw the article, and invited Khan to appear at Julys convention in Philadelphia. His six-minute speech, with Ghazala at his side, caused a sensation.

Khizr Khan gives a stirring speech at the Democratic convention in honor of his son, Humayun

You have sacrificed nothing and no one, he told Trump, who avoided serving in Vietnam because of alleged bone spurs on his feet. Waving a miniature US constitution that hed pulled from his jacket pocket, Khan asked Trump if hed even read the document. I will gladly lend you my copy, he said, to thundering applause. Khan keeps a stack of the booklets on a table beneath Humayuns portrait. Visitors struggle to leave without one.

Incapable of letting a slight go unanswered, Trump called Khan very emotional and suggested he didnt allow Ghazala to speak because of their religion. He moaned on Twitter: Mr Khan, who does not know me, viciously attacked me from the stage of the DNC and is now all over TV doing the same Nice!

Horrified Republicans disowned Trump. Khan said he had a black soul. The dispute was pencilled in as a chapter in the political obituary Trump seemed to be writing for himself.

Things turned out differently. As the results rolled in last month, the Khans were VIP guests at Clintons election night event in Manhattan, where Ghazala was treated as a rockstar by actual rockstars. A lady comes to Mrs Khan and says: Mrs Khan, can I take a picture with you?, he recalls. She pulled the hood on her hoodie down and it was Cher. Katy Perry and Lady Gaga did the same, he said.

But then, it all got quieter. Tearful supporters, who had been dancing in the aisles, traipsed out of the hall as the outcome became clear.

Khan, 66 and on a break from work as a legal consultant, has tried to stay upbeat by stepping up a speaking tour that grew out of his convention appearance. He has been preaching tolerance and pluralism to schoolchildren across the US. Never be disheartened, he tells them.

The packed schedule has exhausted him. Sniffing and coughing, he visibly drains over the course of our two-hour conversation. He is posing for photographs with a team of Japanese journalists as I arrive; an evening function beckons after I leave.

But he is energised by encounters while traversing the country as a recognisable face. Sitting in the eighth row on a recent flight home from Ohio, he was approached by two men sitting in first class. They shook his hand and offered him their seats. We voted for Trump, but we want to thank you, they told him. He politely declined.

As we speak, Ghazala, 65, is busy with one of their four grandchildren, who are between eight months and five years old. She and Khan were born in Pakistan and met at university in Lahore. They came to the US after a spell in Dubai, and live in a smart but unflashy four-bedroom house on a tranquil bluff a few miles outside Charlottesville. They have two adult sons, who advised them against getting involved in politics.

Sinking slowly into his sofa, Khan says the volume of abusive emails he received following the convention has declined, but he still deals with a couple of racist messages each day. He wont show the worst, saying he erases them. In one new arrival on his iPhone, though, a man named Scott Glover felt the need to gleefully remind Khan: Trump won the election and you, Hillary and the rest of the deplorable libs lost.

Rightwing websites including Breitbart News, run until recently by Trumps top adviser, went after the Khans with undisguised venom following the convention. One spurious story, based on a 33-year-old essay Khan wrote, claimed he championed sharia law. Another accused him of taking money from the Clintons. It was actually another lawyer named Khan.

Such was the vitriol that Clinton, who knows a bit about brutal media coverage, asked him when they met at a rally in New Hampshire: Oh my God, how are you putting up with all this? He told her it was worth it, and she assured him: Youre doing something good. He has no regrets about entering the political warzone: There comes a time when one has to take a stand.

Khan at his sons grave. Photograph: Brendan Smialowski/Getty Images

And much of the response has been cheering. Their dining room table is covered in fanmail from across the world. Letters addressed with only their names and Charlottesville now find their way to the house. Khan is particularly proud of one letter, which he pulls from an A4 brown envelope. Mayor of London, the header says.

As Salaamu Alaikum, meaning peace be unto you, the two-page handwritten letter from Sadiq Khan begins. Saying that he was deeply moved by the convention speech, Londons first Muslim mayor tells Khan it demonstrated the power of diversity, tolerance and liberty.

These great American values are also Islamic values, the mayor writes, and your determination to live by these values has inspired many Londoners of all faiths and backgrounds.

A bitter argument has broken out among Democrats since Clintons defeat about whether she spent too much time on these issues of identity and not enough appealing to struggling white males from the rust belt. Khan sides with those who dismiss this as a false dichotomy.

I am biased, he says, but sometimes a moral stand has to be taken, and its worth the cost. I am glad that she spoke up. I believe in equal dignity. We all have equal rights regardless of our gender or our preferences.

Nonetheless, Khan, a political independent who voted for both Ronald Reagan and Bill Clinton, does think Hillary also failed to stress the dangers of Trumps wild economic threats against China to the farmers and factory workers of the midwest.

You will not be able to sell your soybeans if we have a trade war with China, he says. They will rot right here, and we will have the same people who voted Trump in standing outside the White House trying to throw him out.

He makes the case better than Clinton did, but has no interest in running for office. He reveals Terry McAuliffe, Virginias governor and a close ally of the Clintons, asked him to. But it would limit me, he says. Just let me speak. He is also, he notes, still not a Democrat.

It may be the tiredness talking, or the practised search for optimism of a parent who has lived through the worst possible grief. But Khan veers from despair about Trumps election to predictions that maybe it wont be as bad as it seems. We just have to hang in there a little longer, he says. When he moves to Washington, things will surely be different.

One thing hes sure about, though, is Trump needs to come off Twitter. Khan stays away from social media, having seen its perils. In his legal career, Khan specialises in electronic evidence discovery. In one case he worked on, a driver involved in a deadly 2007 vehicle crash was told by his lawyer to erase a Facebook photo showing him holding a beer and wearing a T-shirt that read I Hot Moms. But the other side had already downloaded it. The lawyer is now serving a five-year suspension.

Nobody is telling Trump the damage it can do, says Khan. He does not, however, offer his services as a consultant to the president-elect.

At a loss for many more words of his own, Khan unfolds a printout he shows his student audiences. It is a quotation by Elie Wiesel, the writer and Auschwitz survivor, who died in July. It is what he believes.

We must always take sides, Wiesel said. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented. Sometimes we must interfere.

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/%e2%80%8bkhizr-khan-on-being-vilified-by-trump-the-far-right-feels-that-their-voice-has-been-heard/

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dragnews · 6 years ago

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The Personal Wake-up Call to Prayers, a Ramadan Tradition, Is Endangered

New Delhi — For nearly 60 years, Mohammed Shafiq has braved New Delhi’s hot temperatures, a bad knee and evil spirits to wake up his neighbors for morning prayers and a final meal before sun rise during the holy month of Ramadan.

But nothing prepared him for the rise of New Delhi’s electricity grid and its many cellphones.

The 68-year old Mr. Shafiq is known here as a town crier. The job has been made gradually obsolete by the arrival decades ago of the city’s electricity supply and recent improvements to the grid, powering up smartphones throughout the night and their alarm clocks that wake people up for prayer.

Mr. Shafiq’s sense of religious duty compels him to soldier on, adding his special, personalized touch, he said. He prefers to wake up neighbors by shouting out their names, rather than leave them to the clanging of alarm clocks.

From a cramped one-room apartment, Mr. Shafiq explained the hazards of the job — including fending off those evil spirits, a headless man and a beautiful vampire — as he sat on the floor, the walls painted a bubblegum pink. His shock of white hair burst out in tufts from a black skullcap adorned with rhinestones and sequins from every hue of a neon-colored rainbow, his protruding belly covered by a mustard-yellow tunic.

This year will be Mr. Shafiq’s first making the rounds alone. His brother used to make the rounds with him but he died eight months ago. His son decided he wouldn’t carry on the tradition, he recalled as his wife looked on solemnly.

In his neighborhood of Old Delhi — the original city center of the capital, New Delhi — Mr. Shafiq was once one of dozens of other town criers servicing thousands of homes, each assigned a zone. Today he is one of a handful.

“As children working with my father we covered 70 lanes, hundreds of houses,” he said. “Today, my bad knees don’t allow me to do more than four lanes. It’s lonely work and when I go, the tradition will die, too.”

He starts his duties at 2:30 a.m., armed with the verses he has memorized from the Quran to ward off the evil spirits and a stick for the wild dogs.

Traversing Old Delhi’s windy, narrow alleyways one recent morning, underneath a canopy of exposed electricity wires and a tangle of thick, fiber optic internet cables, Mr. Shafiq relentlessly rang — and kept ringing — neighbors’ doorbells and banged on metal doors with a wrinkled fist.

“Those who are fasting, wake up! Nassim, wake up!” he yelled, calling a neighbor by name.

“All the neighbors, front and back, wake up! It’s the night for prayers!”

His wails reverberated along the alleyway.

A gaggle of children emerged on the street mocking him. “It’s the night for prayers!” they mimicked, before lining up to shake his hand.

The holy month of Ramadan marks the start of the prophet Mohammed’s Quranic revelations from God, one of the five pillars of Islam, an obligation the devout must fulfill.

In much of the Middle East, Mr. Shafiq’s job is called “the suhoor drummer” or “musharati,” and the waking up of the neighborhood is done not with the incessant ringing of doorbells as in New Delhi, but with a large drum. The musharati call for the devout to wake up, eat their suhoor — a predawn meal — and perform prayers.

But that tradition, too, is dying, replaced by reliable alarm clocks or the rise of megacities, making the door-to-door wake up call impossible as individual homes make way for high-rise apartments.

A lot has changed since Mr. Shafiq began making the rounds with his father and brothers when he was 10. Troupes of Quran-memorizers once walked these alleyways reciting verses from their holy book. But people became fatigued with their expectation of nightly alms and stopped giving.

Electricity has also transformed Old Delhi’s peaceful but eerily quiet streets into a bustling jumble of night markets. Under the glare of bare light bulbs, shoppers buy greasy fried chicken and juice from stalls and purchase gifts for loved ones or groceries for the home.

Electricity, Mr. Shafiq grumbled, has meant not just the death of his work, but of the sacrifices expected of all Muslims during Ramadan.

With a constant power source, Muslims have shifted their hours. They sleep in the day and move around at night, allowing them to skirt the expected struggle: to abstain from food and drink during daylight.

Mr. Shafiq’s work — as a volunteer, he stressed — means the solace he once found crisscrossing the winding, quiet alleyways is now an exercise in dodging screeching motorbikes and boys playing cricket in the streets, a festive atmosphere that he finds less than holy.

The streets quiet down as he finishes his rounds and walks home. Vendors and families rush back to perform their prayers and eat the last meal they can before the sun emerges.

And that is when he gets the most trouble from the evil spirits.

A beautiful woman waits for him on dark street corners, her anklets adorned with bells that jingle merrily, until you notice that her feet are reversed and she speaks through her nose, he explained.

“I’ve seen things that would scare most, but I recite the suras, and they go away,” Mr. Shafiq said, referring to chapters in Quran. “But that woman! She is made beautiful so men look at her, allowing her to suck their blood from her eyes.”

As Mr. Shafiq walked toward his home, down an alley with a canopy of colorful paper lanterns and silver and gold metallic streamers, he continued to cry out to the remaining houses. It was now just after 3 a.m., but the temperatures were stubbornly high and Mr. Shafiq was drenched with sweat and wheezing from the guttural cries he had been emitting nonstop.

He walked by a bunch of young men, lounging on benches and the seats of their idle motorbikes. They greeted Mr. Shafiq respectfully.

“We’ve seen him since our childhood, so we have an attachment to him,” said Mohammed Kashif, 23. “He’s not just an alarm on our phone.”

When asked why his generation wasn’t interested in keeping alive the tradition and taking the reigns from Mr. Shafiq, he shrugged.

“It’s a bit embarrassing to go around, yelling at people to wake up,” Mr. Kashif said. “People now have alarms on their phones.”

As if on cue, the nearby mosque’s speakers blared a deafening, elongated wail, similar to the alarm that once reverberated across London during the blitz in World War II, to warn citizens to take cover under enemy bombardment.

“And now we also have that,” Mr. Kashif said, wincing with the earsplitting noise.

He then went home to eat and pray.

The post The Personal Wake-up Call to Prayers, a Ramadan Tradition, Is Endangered appeared first on World The News.

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party-hard-or-die · 6 years ago