#(not to mention that as a muslim woman having even a slight liking to someone who is not muslim and also a guy is seen as the worst possible

[rrrawrf-writes]

lordy lordy loo it’s been a hot minute since i’ve made an original post, i forgot where the button was

so. some of you may have seen the stuff running around about violetvineyard and mvcreates, some of you may not have. i’m just gonna lay out my experiences here, now that other people are talking about it and now that the server has been deleted. i’m gonna try to present a fair and nuanced version; i’m not gonna include screenshots (right now) bc i’m lazy, mostly.

there are several other people who are putting up way better breakdowns than i am. i just figured i might as well toss mine onto the pile bc why not? but if you’re hoping to hear from me a story about how i’ve been wronged, per se, you won’t find much of one, because i played mainly a spectator role, and never had much trouble there. i will have a vague, lukewarm defense of some of the people involved that other people may not agree with, but again, this is all just the whole VV deal from my point of view.

@nuwuhorizons (i haven’t said how dang much i lOVE your url) and @sapiencenotes have very good receipts and breakdowns. if you want a more in-depth (and dramatic, forgive me for using the word, i’m not trying to downplay this), check them out. @time-to-write-and-suffer also has some great stuff on their blog about all of this.

all righty. so. i joined VV not right at the beginning, but soon after it was started. there was an application process, i got accepted, i was looking for a community to help me start writing more. (it didn’t help, but that’s not their fault, that’s mine.) the person who owned the server was called mina, and on tumblr, mina’s url was mvcreates. mina is a nonbinary Muslim woman of color, a professional who i believe works at harvad and deals a lot with things like infectious diseases, iirc. she was doing a whole lot of work when the pandemic came around, and so the past few months wasn’t quite as active as she had been at the start, both on the server and tumblr. 

the very first time mina came on my radar, before i joined vv, was because she had corrected someone’s typo on a post, and it stirred up a minor drama about “don’t give unsolicited criticism” and “is pointing out minor errors like that okay” and blahblahblah. i ran across that on a friend’s dash, and also ran across the promo for vv from that friend’s dash, as well, and joined bc y not.

everything was p cool for a while. it was nice to meet some new people and some of my mutuals on there. mina seemed like a fun person. she was about a year, year and a half, maybe, older than i am. the first things that kind of started rubbing me wrong at the start was how she would kind of dismiss suggestions for the server than i and a friend had, and how she kept bringing up her age - she would often say things like “well i wouldn’t do that but i’m an Old(TM) so maybe i just don’t get it” and i can’t really explain why that bothered me. i think it felt dismissive, like Younger Folks Don’t Know How Things Should Work. also, like. she kept bringing it up. as if it meant something, as if plenty of us on that server weren’t actually around her age. there was a convo on vaccinations where i wanted to make the point that a lot of anti-vaxxers should be educated instead of ridiculed and shamed, but i never really got to making that point bc she jumped in very sharply and explained that anti-vaxxers all come from a class of people who are generally educated. i didn’t bother saying anything else. 

at the start, it was tiny little things like that. i chalked it up to her personality and mine just not quite matching up. i sat down a lot and examined my own internal biases, bc i knew something was bugging me, but i couldn’t tell if it was legitimate, or if i was jealous and petty, or if i was being discriminatory towards her identity. i still wonder that a lot; i want to be careful that i’m examining her actions here, and not the person who made those actions.

because the other thing that bothered me was that she was perfect at pretty much everything. she was a decent, if not good, writer, from what i read. i thought her “art”/edits were neat, even if sometimes i looked at them going “that just looks like an edit, not your own art, but u kno, edits are art too, so i’m not gonna say anything.” she had a lot of motivation, a lot of ambition. soon, this kind of transferred over into me feeling like she acted like she had to be perfect at everything. i think this is probably one of the more “lisa is just being petty” things, rather than a judgement on her character, but she seemed to flaunt her own skills and accomplishments a lot. not that no one is allowed to brag sometimes! but it was just another layer of “this bothers me.”

then there was the hero worship.

people in the server loved mina. i liked her. i had no problems with her, even if there were a few things i was a little “ehhhh” about. vv got pretty big, pretty quickly, and i assume there was a decent amount of turnover and people who just joined to lurk or sometimes share things in the promos channel or elsewhere. but the most active folks just. they adored mina with every fiber of their being. mina could do no wrong. no one ever called her out on anything; everything she did was hailed as fantastic and wonderful. and honestly, for the most part, it wasn’t like she was doing crappy stuff. some of the praise was well-deserved, imo, but it just bordered on embarrassing for some of these people, how much they just worshipped the ground she walked on.

and she didn’t really like, discourage it. like, at the start, i think i remember her being more modest, but in general, she just let it go, and so did i, bc like. i aint that kinda jerk.

the stated purpose of violetvineyard was to have a community that valued reciprocity. reciprocity was mina’s biggest thing. there was a channel for people to post their stuff on, so the rest of us could browse and read and reblog. i, admittedly, didn’t do as much of that as i wish i did, but part of it was because i do have a life outside of the internet, a memory and attention span the size of a gnat, and because like. 90% of the stuff that people put in the promos channel were things like edits, writeblr intros, wip intros, etc etc, when all i wanted was to just read some actual writing. but that’s neither here nor there. what got hilarious to me, though, was whenever mina’s fervent admirers would talk about how mina was, quote, a pillar of the community. how vv was doing something No Other Writeblr Group Had Done Before. how Important and Special this server was.

folks. i’ve been on here for several years now. we don’t have a community. we have a bunch of little cliques who reblog from their friends and complain about people not reblogging them. noah fence, but come on. vv got pretty dang big, but it was still a small corner of a small section of tumblr. like. sorry, all y’all, but them’s the breaks.

also, this was hilarious to me bc there are several big writeblrs who have been running around long before mina and vv showed up. yet, according to these people in the server, mina had Single-handedly Brought Hope To This Desolate Wasteland.

in the end, vv became just another little clique whose members reblogged from their friends. i don’t want to devalue the good that did come out of vv. a lot of the picture being painted rn was that the majority of the server were scary dog-piling people. the majority of the server were just writeblrs looking to promo their stuff and talk about their writing. unfortunately, few bad apples, bad rep, negatives outshine positives, etc etc. but i think it did do some good re: exposure for a few folks, even tho it didn’t turn into what it could have been. 

another one of the things that was a minor irritant to me was that they eventually started archiving the vent channel, which was probably the most-used channel. that didn’t sit right to me, but as always, i was a coward had nothing to say about it, so i didn’t. the reason given was that there were often things in the vent channel that people might regret being there, so it was periodically archived and a fresh channel started.

so i’m rambling a lot about stuff that’s probably boring and inconsequential. that’s 90% of this whole vv thing, tho, you need to understand that. 

the biggest thing that bothered me about mina, i think, came about from the constant hero worship from her adoring fans. and i know there’s a whole argument to be said about expecting labor from people with marginalized identities, which is an argument i agree with - don’t expect someone of a minority group to educate you or to face trauma or to shut down bigots, etc etc. but by now, mina had a lot of followers in general, and in specific, she had quite a few people who would defend her at every single perceived slight.

she made a lot of those fun writeblr reblog games, like “send me a fruit that says this about my writing.” those were cool, i’ll admit that. but she was super into “you have to send an ask to the person you reblog from, RECIPROCITY!!!!!!!!!!!” and seemed to struggle with the fact that sometimes, people don’t follow her established rules on her posts for these games. she’d complain about it every single time that happened in the vent channel, which, again, that’s fine? that’s what vents are for, it’s annoying to not get cool fun asks when you do these games, but also, that’s life for you. she could depend on her fans to send her plenty of asks, whereas the much smaller blogs who reblogged these games would probably get f-all, half the time. if you’ve gone through nuwuhorizons or one of the other blogs i mentioned earlier, you’ll have run across the incident where mina’s friends harrassed an 11 year old for not doing her ask game right.

an eleven year old. 

and this is my biggest grief with mina. she only stopped her friends from dogpiling people... once? maybe twice? that i remember. and not only that, but there were SEVERAL occasions where she would get on the vent channel, complain about someone who had said something wrong on one of her posts (and sometimes, again, these were legitimate!), and then ask if someone in the server wanted to reply to them. reasons for such ranged from “i’m too busy rn” to “they would probably listen more to a white person than me.”

again. this, on occasion, is not necessarily a bad thing. we cannot expect labor and response from minorities. my issue was that she kept doing this. and sometimes it was fine, just someone who would drop a note on the post or send a polite anon. but this, to me, the whole asking someone else to fight your battles for you? that really bothered me. mina is a grown adult. either ignore it, like the rest of us chumps, or deal with it yourself. having friends support you is not a bad thing - if i was attacked on tumblr and my friends jumped in to defend me, i’m cool with that. but i wouldn’t ask them to, and then not do anything myself.

to me, this attitude just encourages dogpiling. this felt like she was taking advantage of the people admiring her so whole-heartedly, and using them to deal with minor grievances. (again, i don’t want to downplay some of the actual racism and xenophobia she experienced on this website, because there was some pretty sketchy stuff that did need someone else stepping in to object to. but then there was “ugh this person asked me what program i use to make my music and i don’t want to answer them bc that’s rude,” and stuff of that caliber. like, mina, you built yourself a pretty big following here on tumblr, you don’t get to complain when people are trying to ask you questions and engage with you when you set yourself up as a knowledgeable person on a subject.)

i’m going to mention @gingerly-writing because she already made a post on the subject, but there was an instance where we were in the vent channel and watched a lot of mina’s friends send anons and reblogs of a hurtful nature to one person. eventually, ginger stepped in to say “hey, i don’t think we need to keep doing this, they are a minor,” and after she did so, i also jumped in, saying something along the lines of, “yeah, i’ve seen this kind of stuff blow up in another server and end in a really regrettable situation where no one was happy, can we stop.” both ginger and i received a private message from the mods (individually) saying that we shouldn’t police the chat, etc etc. not during that message, but on the vent channel, another mod jumped in to say that the people dogpiling the blogger were also minors. as if that makes it okay, and isn’t actually extremely worrying in its own right.

after that, i pretty much took a stance of “all right then i just won’t say anything at all.” i stuck around vv because i hated myself actually really liked a few of the others in the server, including a couple of the mods who are actually really cool people, not all the vv mods are sketch, and because honestly? i lowkey knew that vv was going to crash and burn sometime, and i wanted to be there to watch what happened. due to the pandemic, and her line of work, mina became less active, and the whole server died down a bit. 

then someone reblogged one of mina’s ‘art’ posts and accused her of tracing. mina’s admirers immediately jumped into action. nuwuhorizons has it pretty well documented on their blog. there was nothing in the server about it, except one of the others said “oh man i saw that and it pissed me off,” there was some minor chat, and then i woke up and wanted to know what had happened, and was told “don’t worry about it.”

so, naturally, bc the only thing i thirst for is water and Drama(TM), i went looking for it.

found it on some of mina’s friend’s blogs, where i found who had reblogged and said mina was tracing, and followed those reblog chains, where several of mina’s followers attacked the accuser and made fun of their name and age and defended mina, pulling out progress videos and stuff of mina’s work. the accuser was trans and still a teenager, even if technically an adult, so that made things a lot worse. mina eventually posted something explaining that she was pencil tracing and had a very cheery, false-positive tone to the whole thing.

things sorta ended at that, but then maybe the same day, or the day after, user hyba made that big ol post about the Big Scary Tumblr Mirror Website Copying All Your Good, Hard Work. mina and her friends jumped on this. they threw it in the server and talked about things like intellectual property rights and “i don’t like how this makes me feel :(” and from there, went in to how tumblr was a terrible garbage site and then mina and most of the mod team decided that it was time to pack up VV and leave tumblr completely. 

pretty much everyone i know were mina’s besties have vanished off tumblr. mina made an announcement that VV was “migrating” off tumblr and discord(???) and dropped another application to join the great vv migration. i did not apply bc i just have too freaking much going on in my life and needed to get out of this for the sake of my own mental health. it was tempting as hell, tho, i will say that. 

a couple things about this - at the time, mina is also having some pretty bad things going on in her family. she was very vague on the details, but i think that really contributed to wanting to leave; on top of the pandemic and everything else, she was probably heckin stressed. but also like. she never called out her followers for attacking her accuser. she never made any sort of post talking about it. she never told her friends on the server “hey don’t do that.” she never took accountability for it, or, honestly, for anything else she or her friends have done that didn’t feel too good. the mirror sites aren’t really a big deal. 

after the server was archived, it was left up a couple days so everyone could grab contact info, etc. during this time, i was checking the ‘violetvineyard’ tag and saw someone post “what happened to mvcreates they haven’t answered my application to vv,’ and i responded with “oh, the server closed down bc of the copy cat sites.”

the same day, i got a tumblr DM from one of the former mods asking me not to give away any details about vv leaving tumblr. it was very politely worded and everything, but it was still just like

okay? vv is over? why are you asking me not to say anything. and it wasn’t like i was even spilling any hot goss, i was just repeating the excuse (and i do mean excuse) mina gave us. 

anyway, that mod is off tumblr, too, as far as i know, or else they stealthin. which is fine, u do u, buddy.

uhh conclusion time, i guess? i have a few scattered screenshots of things, but i’m not posting em bc i’m lazy and also running late for a thing. but really, for me, i didn’t have a whole lot of beef with mina or pretty much any of the other folks on vv. i thought that mina and her friends were a bit too eager for blood, and that really bothered me. i’m annoyed they shut down vv completely, because it could actually have been something great. if mina wanted off writeblr, i wish she had given the whole network over to people interested in running it; instead, what was a good thing for a lot of people is now completely gone, with no existing framework for people to build on. sure, anyone can go make their own network/family for writeblr, but now it’s just going to splinter into a bunch of different, smaller groups, and we’re all back to square one.

but whatever. i didn’t get to see the server go down in flames, instead it just ended with a hasty retreat and a few whimpers, and quite honestly i wished my staying in had paid off.

i do want to reiterate - there were quite a few people in vv who i think are great, and this does include some of the mods themselves.

i’ve also gotten a couple messages from a few other folks who had been in vv who have their own real, real sketch stories, which are making me rethink how i feel about mina and her friends, and all the good credit i gave them. i just wanted to present this bc it’s my blog and i do what i want, fight me.

and if anyone wants to chat about vv, hit me up. i keep things as private as you want them to be, and i love love love talking about this nonsense. Give Me The Deets.

[hallaevak]

skam thoughts

hi ok i’m bored n sick so i’m here to give my (maybe unpopular? idk) thoughts on skam + remakes. i have seen most* remakes, but i’ll mention if i have not seen a particular season or not

first off: basic opinions (favorite remakes, favorite characters, etc)

fav jonas/eva remake:

- skam nl (kes/isa) - isa is, in my opinion, the most relatable eva remake. she’s so sassy and lovable! in general i’m not the biggest fan of the season 1 plot, but i think all jonas/eva pairings, chemistry wise, have been phenomenal. isa/kes are just a little bit more impressive in my opinion.

fav noorhelm remake

- this will be of no shock, as this is quite a popular opinion, but wtfock (senne and zoë). most william remakes kind of suck, and the general character dynamic between noora and william is not something i like. i enjoy the plot but a lot of williams are just...ew. i’m interesting in skam españa interpretation (nora and alejandro) but i can’t fully judge their season until it’s over. zoë is such a wonderful character and senne is actually not a dick! i sobbed when they broke up in s3.

fav evak remake

- i’m tied. either skam france/wtfock. i love the (for some reason controversial) dynamic between sander and robbe. i also love elu, like the basic bitch i am. elliott demaury OWNS me.

fav youssana remake

- honestly, i kind of didn’t like any of them (that are released). there’s only two out there, druck and skam france, and i didn’t like any. i’m sorrryyyy i just love sana bakkoush and no one could ever be better than her. oof! disclaimer i have not watched all of amira’s season/druck s4. i wasn’t personally interested but the acting was phenomenal.

alright now to remake-specific comments.

SKAM, the original, the og, love of my life, scandi legend that started this obsession

- honestly one of the best teen shows i’ve ever seen. the development of characters is so prominent. the acting, for mostly amateur teenagers, is mind blowing. maybe american shows just suck? but i’m absolutely in love with every character. they show such realistic stories and i applaud the skam team + actors for portraying their stories so well.

- the one comment i have is the noorhelm relationship. i just? i don’t like it. when i first watched skam i loved it. noora was hilarious (still think that) and the perfect independent woman model. i also liked william. i just wished they showed more of his vulnerability because his kind of static character is not doing it for me. he doesn’t show any evolution or change. idk, he’s still a wet fish in my eyes. obv this has no shade to the actors, thomas hayes is lovely. his character? not so much. i could write a whole essay on how flawed and dislikable william is.

now, the first remake: skam france

skam france, oui oui baguettes this remake really tickles my fancy

- as someone who kind of understands french, i really do like this remake. i have some issues with s1 and s2 but overall it is a solid remake. being the first, it makes sense for the seasons to seems little unoriginal. i still love emma and manon but their characters aren’t very authentic.

- s3 is where they really nailed it. elu’s immense popularity is only a testament to how truly wonderful the season is. the acting, the characters, slight changes in plot. i loved it. a lot.

- i wasnt impressed by s4 but it might just be my extreme love for iman meskini. no one could ever replace her.

- BUT S5. OH BOY. ROBIN. MY BABY. he is such a good actor and i love arthur he MUST be protected! i love that his shame is not romantically related. also as someone who is interested in deaf culture wow! i’m impressed by the research done by skam france. not only is his the first original season but it is excellently executed. noee is my mother i love her.

druck, likely the most liked remake to which i do not disagree with that statement

- druck is legendary. i really appreciate the small changes in plot and character dynamics that create an identity for each remake and druck is so so good at doing that. mia’s season is lovely and so is matteo’s, as well as the other two. i did not finish amira’s season as wtfock s3 started and i was a little too invested in that haha but i liked what i saw. the mia/noora drama annoyed me but it was okay. i saw it in the way how we all beg for evak/elu/nicotino/etc content in later seasons but then complain when noorhelm/jonas and eva content occur in later seasons, which is weird at best or just fetishization of gay couples at worst. take ur pick. i like it when previous plot lines kind of intertwine into the current ones as it shows that people’s shakes are not temporary and have immense effects on others (which is the point of skam, right?

skam italia, the controversial remake that said bye and then uno-reversed itself (thanks netflix)

- a lot of people don’t like skam italia. it’s understandable, as the actress for sana is not a woc or muslim. however, it is slightly understandable (but not defendable, i was way too disappointed when i found this out) given italy and it’s cultural background. it astonished me that they could even produce an isak remake due to their pretty strong religious beliefs. italy is very much roman catholic, and gay marriage isn’t even legal there (this is the only skam where gay marriage is not legalized). so i give them major props to facing potential backlash in producing s2/marti’s season. it makes sense for there to not be a muslim/woc actress because of the demographics in italy. ww1 and ww2 really spun a number on italy’s race, as many jews and romas as well as pretty much any non-italian ethnicity were kicked out. this creates barriers especially when it comes to hiring a woc actress. skam italia is already breaking barriers when it came to controversial topics (literally all of skam would be controversial in italy’s alt-right view, it seems). tl;dr: kudos for being able to produce a pro-gay show but shame for not being able to hire a woc actess.

- i loved marti’s season as was a fan of the other two seasons. they’re well produced and beautiful and more dramatic than the other skams imo! the soundtrack is absolutely gorgeous.

skam austin, the american cousin no one seems to like that really lives up to the american stereotype

- ok. when i first saw austin/the fact that they made an american remake, i hated it. disgusting. i hâte america as it is. it was cringey, the acting was bad (i’m sorry i’m sorry), and it got rid of the charm that skam had.

- when i watched it a second time around, i changed my mind. i think grace’s season redeemed it a lil bit. it’s living proof that skam remakes must be watched twice or more to fully formulate an opinion. it’s still cringey but i mean, it’s very accurate to american culture. i’m ashamed to say that i, an american, have said many phrases that austin has used.

- skam austin isn’t THAT bad as people make it out to be. i think americans esp are uncomfortable with a skam from their own culture, myself included. and it’s fine to not vibe with it and prefer other skam remakes. i think the actors are okay, better when i saw it the second time, and the editing/music/videography is beautiful (ofc julie andem is a part of it). people give it crap for being american.

skam nl, may she rest in peace or pull an italia and 180 us

- man i was so depressed when i heard that lucas vdh was not getting his season. lucas is downright one of my favorite isak remakes and his story would’ve been so interesting.

- besides that, skam italia has one of the best eva seasons. it is my favorite and is usually a lot of others favorites as well. isa is just so relatable. liv’s season is also incredibly well produced. i didn’t hate noah! it was a miracle come true. he redeemed the william character if only for one remake.

- my one comment/critic isn’t even that serious. it’s just? dutch? it sounds so...weird. i’m a stupid american but i cracked up at things that were definitely NOT jokes because of the language. i’m sorry netherlands/holland i do not mean to laugh.

skam españa, also controversial for good reasons but also conflictingly good

- alright folks. i am confused with skam españa. i don’t know if i love it or like it.

- hear me out. we all know of the controversy with the panphobic comment that nora made. it was stupid and uncalled for and really disrespected the whole pan community of viewers. now, not many people are pan but for a show where an original character (even bech næsheim, love of my life) is canonically pan? it was kind of a slap to the face.

- besides the comment i loved cris’ season. it was refreshing to get an isak season where it was a she, one, and where isak was not living with his eskild but instead had a family. it was also beautifully shot and i love irene with my entire heart.

- that said, i liked eva’s season. nora’s season is interesting. maybe it’s because it’s the first i’ve watched multiple seasons live (españa and france) and have no attention span and is more interested in skam france s5? idk. the clips aren’t really doing it for me. i love the viri clips but the nora clips are eh. she just seems very...in genuine? idk. i also hate miquel get his ugly ass out of here. i can’t fully analyze the season until it’s over but i’m not really interested in it. i also don’t like the noorhelm plot or dynamic at all so that may be it.

wtfock, or another controversial remake that imo shouldn’t be controversial

- wow. i love wtfock. s1 was rocky and i wasn’t sure of how it would be. s2 SLAPPED ME THRU THE ROOF. god i love senne de smet so much. zoë is actually redeemable??? and oh my god milan is my favorite eskild like please adopt me.

- season 3 was the first one i watched live. i arrived to the skam scene late so i didn’t get to experience march madness aka 5 live skams at once and i wish i did. but wow. willem ds and willem h really are one of the main reasons why wtfock s3 did so well. they’re amazing actors with incredibly chemistry.

- the controversy that imo should be controversy: the gay bashing scene. i was surprised at the backlash. people were upset over the fact that they showed such...intense events without immediate remediation. it’s understandable to be mad but? they were criticizing things that had no correlation with the scene, like the willems’ acting or the music picked. it was very wild. they also did a lot of bitching about how lgbt people should see gay bashing because it’ll bring back bad memories and that skam was for the gays only and should cater for only lgbt people. which i heavily disagree with. 1) gay bashing in media is so prevalent and downright important. things can’t be fluffy gay all the time. this happens in real life and does such a great complement to noor’s comment about how no one cares that robbe is gay because it’s 2019. THAT. IS. SO. IMPORTANT. it’s so so important to realize that despite the strides made for lgbt people, gay bashing and violent homophobia. still. exist. also. i would like to direct you to these examples of gay bashing where no one blinked an eye : queer as folk, where s1 justin gets bashed in at his prom and has difficulties drawing; s2 (i think? may be s1) skam españa where lucas rubio gets bashed; skam s4 where even and isak encounter a homophobic dick; these examples are endless. the one thing that miffed me the most was that many critics acted as if they were forced to watch wtfock and therefore criticize its every move. like no? you have a choice? no one is forcing you. quite the opposite! wtfock is geoblocked! you’re actually forcing yourself because you’re taking the time to find illicit resources in order to watch it! alright man i’m done with this rant. many also criticized the writing of the show. it was shaky but watching it a 2nd time, where all clips were released, was so much better when it came to clarity. many ‘poor writing choices’ made sense in the larger picture. again another example that you should watch skam remakes twice to understand the big picture.

- tl;dr wtfock is lovely and should not be criticized for one wrong move.

thank u for hearing me out. i have strong opinions but a frail heart. pls be nice!

[lowkeyhockey]

cat and mouse (for a month or two or three) - freddie andersen

Pairing: Freddie Andersen/Single Mother!Reader

Mentions: Mitch Marner, Nazem Kadri

Warnings: Curse words, slight sexual innuendo, two POVs

Word Count: 6.5k

Credits: @hockey-reblogs beta’d this for me, and like. thank g od IDEK what i did to deserve her help and support <3

 Summary: Someone can’t wait to get on the ice, someone wants to meet up off the ice, and someone has an unexpectedly intense reaction to coffee. OR: a story of how you two met. 

 Writer’s Note: This is a standalone fic that’s a part of a bigger verse titled Can I Go (Where You Go) featuring [Y/N], a not-very single mother, Lila, your very opinionated daughter, and Freddie Andersen - a man very happy to be invited along for the ride. 

-------------------------------------

The first thing you notice upon arriving at the Mastercard Centre, your new training facility for the next five seasons (if your contract has anything to say about it) is the noise. The words sound about the same, shouts about cellys and sick dangles and benders and dusters, all the words North American players like to throw around to make it sound like they're from a generation older and greater than they are, but the pitch is - different. 

 A lot higher, for once, the voices a lot softer, and you're frowning even before you turn the corner to the Leafs' locker room. Mitch Marner and Nazem Kadri are standing near the doorway, Naz grinning in a way that you know from watching game tape means he's probably going to lay a hit on someone, and Marner looking - well - scared, but they're not looking that way at each other. 

Which, is probably good. Mitch is as new to the Leafs as you are, which means you'd probably have to take his side against Naz, and you've seen Naz's hits. Game tape. It's weird to think of them as teammates now, with how you've memorized the slightest shifts in their stances to figure out split-seconds before the recoil of their stick exactly where the puck is going to go, but you're good at dealing with weird. 

 Dishing it out, taking it. Part of hockey, and part of being a goalie. You're not good at, however - you're not used to - dealing with the sight that had apparently frozen Naz and Marner into caricatures of themselves. 

 About thirty girls, give or take, all of them minors, in green tartan skirts and hockey skates and green and white sweaters. You wonder if the Leafs are taking another PC shift on the ice crew, though the girls aren't even in Leafs colours. But then you see that half the girls are holding hockey sticks, and suddenly you're feeling just as worried - worried, not scared - as Marner's obviously feeling scared. 

You can't blame him, though. Kid looks about twelve, looks like a couple of the bigger girls could beat him up without breaking a sweat. He's probably worried about his voice cracking in front of them or something. 

 It's Naz who sees you first, shit-eating grin in full effect as he calls you over, but his voice is drowned out halfway through "Yo Andy, get over-" (which, thank you, but no) as a girl shouts, "motherfucker, get on the ice and I'll show you roughing." 

 And then you change your mind. 

 Naz cracks up laughing at the threat and you match Marner's smile, but a woman is there in the next heartbeat - this one, thankfully not in uniform, though you wouldn't mind seeing what she could do to a schoolgirl skirt - pinching the girl's nose in a way that you're almost certain isn't part of the school's disciplinary code. 

Or maybe it was. California didn't have corporal punishment, and it didn't have school uniforms either, and judging by the way you were looking at the woman - the teacher? - up and down and trying to picture her in pumps and tiny skirt and blazer, with maybe a green ribbon in her hair, it was probably for the best. 

The girl doesn't look like she's in pain or anything, so you wander over to the boys, trying to not make any sudden movements just in case the girls could smell fresh blood. "School trip, we're teaching them the ropes," Marner says to you before you could ask, and Naz's expression turns a little wry, his smile a little dry as he adds. "Private school girls, so make sure none of them breaks another nail or we could be looking at a lawsuit." 

*****

 You'd been helping one of the younger girls with her skates when you'd glanced up and saw Freddie Andersen - the Great Dane, the Ginga Ninja, the new goalie for the Leafs - approaching through a break in the cloud of girls, and you bite back a grin that was - okay, maybe a little mean. 

 But his furrowed brow-stoicism was an expression you knew well, from the faces of men who just didn't know what to do with a small army of girls - which, good. You girls can handle your own, which is a weird thought to have when you're on your knees in front of an apprehensive-looking sixth grader, but all the other girls had gotten each other laced up and strapped into protective gear and you wonder whether it was actually necessary for the headmistress to insist that the Leafs drop in to "show you the ropes", as it were. 

 It was a school in Canada, after all, and in Toronto to boot, where hockey wasn't so much a pastime as it was a minor religion. An open, accepting religion - you could be both practicing Christian, or Muslim or whatever and a Leafs fan. There was a reason why games aren't scheduled for the same time as Sunday Mass, or Friday prayers. 

 God and the NHL both knew which one people would rather attend. 

 But Branksome Hall's new to allowing hockey to be played and not just watched at the school, and having been a hockey fan for most of your life (not to mention a young and new teacher, which made you an easy target for assignments such as these) you were an obvious pick to get girls into the sport. 

 You probably won't have a school team this season, but it's always nice to get girls on the ice, and your girls could always use an outlet for their excess energy (not to mention aggression). 

 Brianna's all talk and you tell her that, giving a last, gentle tug on her nose before she pushes you away, laughing, and you turn to the boys just in time to hear the tail end of Nazem Kadri's words. 

 Which, ouch. But not at all wrong, and it's your turn to laugh, though Madame Mercier - who's just as suddenly by your side - is looking considerably less amused. 

 "Branksome Hall takes the health and safety of our girls very seriously," she says, her French accent - French, and not Quebecois, she'd remind anyone with a faux-haughty look on her face and a twinkle in her eyes - thicker than it usually is, and you jump in to alleviate the tension before the boys could apologize - or very pointedly not apologize. 

 "We do, but we also understand how dangerous skating and hockey can be, and the girls and their legal guardians have all signed the disclaimers we've passed along to your organization," you say with a smile - not the practiced one you hold in reserve for overbearing parents, because god only knew what you'd do if you ever ran out of those - but something easy and warm. 

 You'd been an athlete yourself, when you were in school, and you hadn't gone to a school like Branksome Hall, where the Board of Governors could up and decide to introduce a new sport to the school and then have the pull to have some of the best athletes in the sport go and teach it to the girls themselves. Never mind that it's still off-season, and that the boys would probably rather be in board shorts than hockey gear. 

 You're just you, a little messy, a little too casual, you have nothing of Madame Mercier's dignified grace as you offer your hand out to the newcomer. Frederik Andersen, who's all ginger scruff in the early light of day, brown eyes looking a little wary even as he takes your hand. 

 His hand's large, because of course it is, and a little rough, because of course it is, and you feel an impulse to sandwich it between your own for a full study. But a smaller hand covers the back of it before you could embarrass yourself, yanking both your hands down - 

 and you look further down to see Lila coming out from behind Mitch Marner's legs, all toothy grin despite the fact that she was clearly feeling ignored, and you laugh again. "Sorry about that," you quickly say, dropping the goaltender's hand and dropping to your knees to scoop up your little girl. 

 Mitch, sweet boy that he is, reaches out to tickle her sides, and you suppose you're thankful that he's learned his lesson about having his hands too close to her teeth. 

 "I'm [Y/N L/N], and this is my daughter, Lila." Lila frees one of the arms you'd pinned to her sides in an attempt to stop her from squirming out of your arms to give the man a wave, looking almost shy, and Freddie in turn - surprise fading into something that almost looks like shyness, too - reaches out to pat her head, as though copying his teammate. 

 God, if you were just unlucky enough the boys might come to see Lila as some kind of lucky charm to be fussed over or petted, like a team mascot in tiny human form. It seemed a little far fetched, but you know hockey players and how superstitious they could be, and you turn around to pass Lila off to your nanny before any of your dire predictions could come into fruition. 

 When you turn back around, Freddie's hand is still hovering in midair, and you can't help but raise an eyebrow at him, watching a flush slowly spread across his cheekbones as though in slow motion. He looks so dumb, looks something like a piece of art. You'd title it: hockey player vs social situations or something like that. 

 You squash the urge to paint him. 

 "Frederik Andersen, right?" you ask, because he hasn't introduced himself, and smile encouragingly when he nods, feeling like you were talking to one of your younger girls. 

 "Call me Freddie," he says, and you grin, turning to include the other boys in it. 

 "Freddie, Mitch, and Naz," you say as though to check their names, though of course you know them all. "Thank you guys so much for coming, I'm sure all the girls are going to love this. Now, are you guys ready to meet the next group of miracles on ice?" 

A little kitschy, a little corny, but Mitch is grinning back at you, and Naz is looking amused, though you suspect that with the latter that's pretty much his default expression. Freddie's not looking at you, though, and you follow his gaze to the near-empty corridor, wondering if he's looking for an escape route - but no, he's watching Emilie and Lila. 

And you feel - jealous? Emilie's very pretty, and she's so good with Lila, and you were only expecting two hockey players with you today and not three and - Frederik Andersen could do whatever he wants, really, it's nothing to do with you. 

Naz gives you a light punch on the arm, like you're a part of the team, though you're just a teacher for the group of girls he's been made to babysit. "Lets get at it, coach," he says, as he follows Mitch to the entrance of the rink, and you give Lila a small wave before following suit

Madame Mercier doesn't even own skates and she's not about to start trying it at fifty-two, and Freddie Andersen - you realise, then, that he hadn't even been wearing skates. He was still in his coat, for god's sake - he was taller than you even though you're in skates so you hadn't noticed. 

But then the girls are calling for you, tapping their sticks against the ice where they all stand in a loose circle on center ice, and you and Mitch and Nazem hurry up to join them. 

*****

 "Freddie," you repeat to the little girl, all brown, windswept curls and a grin that takes up about half of her face, and her hazel eyes look like they understand but all she does is blow a raspberry at you. And then giggle, like it's the funniest thing in the world, and maybe it is, because her nanny laughs too. 

 Emilie, she'd said her name was, in the same accent that the strict-looking teacher had.  The one that wasn't [Y/N]. You didn't even realise that you hadn't asked her name, and now she's ignoring the three of you, leaning against the glass like she's worried one of her girls might actually break another nail. 

"She's only three, Mr. Andersen," Emilie says to you, and that Lila decides to repeat, the lisped "three!" sounding jubilant in her voice. Emilie smiles down at her, expression so fond, and you can see why. "She has one month before she turns three," Emilie corrects herself, as though the one month makes a difference, and you nod a little dumbly because maybe it does. 

"She looks a little older," you say, though she doesn't. "She looks smart." And she does. There’s something assessing in her gaze, more curiosity than shyness or fear.

You've always liked kids, but they've always looked a little fragile, especially compared to you. And the kids you usually meet are excitable boys either starting out in or already playing hockey, eager to show the world that they have what it takes. 

And Lila's just staring at you with her large hazel eyes, squirming for a moment before she suddenly flops back, body going limp all over until her nanny relents and sets her down on the floor. Her little shoes squeak with each step, and you both watch her as she makes her way - just as determined as any young boy you've ever met - to the rink entrance. 

"Too smart," Emilie says with a smile, and you grin as Lila drops to the ground in a deliberate collapse, patting both of her hands against the ice. It looks like she doesn't want to walk in - she's ready to crawl in instead, but Emilie is on her in the next heartbeat, scooping her up and pressing kisses against her little face. 

"No, silly, your maman said to stay here," she tells Lila. 

 You take the chance to step in then and say, "I can take her in, she'll be safe with me," but the look Emilie shoots you is arch, a little too knowing, and you feel heat rise on your cheeks again. 

"If her maman wanted the little one on the ice she'd take her herself, non?" But her grin turns friendly again as she tilts her head to the ice, before swinging around so that Lila isn't pushing out of her arms to take matters into her own tiny hands. "Now go, before her maman wonders why I'm keeping you."

And you're fairly certain that this isn't in your schedule, that no one's expecting you to stay, but you already have your gear and skates in your bag and you wanted to get some solo training in before training camp, anyway, so. 

 You go. 

 *****

 He's easy on his feet, you realise with a pang. Quiet. You hadn't even realised that he was standing right behind you until Wei Yan slammed into his side, not hard enough to make him stumble, but enough to catch your attention, making you turn around with a slight frown. 

 She's not at all apologetic about it, grinning as she says, "inertia" as though that alone's an explanation, even though it isn't. Freddie's looking down at her like he doesn't quite know what to do with a fifteen year old girl suddenly attached to his side and spouting Newtonian principles at him, which, fair. 

 The girls love to show off what they'd learned in class - little teachers' pets, all of them, and you could relate - and usually, it makes you smile. It means you've done a good job. Nut somehow inertia is always the first thing they remember, probably because it allows them to do things like this, and you can't have them breaking the new Leafs goalie before he's even broken in yet. God knows the Leafs need a good man in the crease. 

"Goon," you shoot back at her, waving your hands like you're shooing off some stray chickens. And you might as well be - wherever Wei Yan led, the rest of the girls usually followed, and soon there'd be no one doing the skating drill you had set up. 

Mitch was in the far end of the rink, coaching most of the girls through puck-handling drills, and Naz is on center ice dropping face off puck after face off puck while girls battled for dominance. You could see his grin from here, delighting in the role he's getting to play in the chaos. 

 When Wei Yan doesn't move, leaning against Freddie's side and giving him a narrow eyed look that he seems intent on returning in full measure, you skate over to them to give her a gentle nudge. "Shoo, you know how hockey players feel about a hit on their goalie," you tell her, and she turns to face you, grin unnervingly like Kadri's.

 "There's no D-men on the ice," she points out, sly, and it takes Freddie by surprise - the laugh he lets out is over-loud, and it looks like the sun had broken out just over his face. 

 You're soon giggling too, more from the sound of his laughter than anything else, and Wei Yan skates away looking smug. 

 Silence stretches after that but it's not awkward, not really, the two of you watching as Wei Yan lands another hit - this time against Marie, who's a full head shorter than her and maybe fifteen pounds lighter, but she's so gentle about it that you can't help beaming. 

 They're good girls, and you're so proud of them, and you're so happy that the school's letting them have this outlet. 

 Freddie's apparently thinking along the same lines because when he breaks the silence it's to ask, voice light but sounding just a hint too serious to be properly teasing, "you went to all the trouble of bringing Lila to the rink and won't even let her skate?" 

You turn to him with brows raised, more amused and curious than annoyed by the personal question, and he smiles a little at you, as though encouraged by your expression. "Seems a little mean, is all," he explains, and you laugh. 

"My dad's a diehard Leafs fan," you explain. "He'd never forgive me if I didn't bring her. But she's still a little too young for skates. " 

 There's a beat of silence, and it looks like he's studying you now, as though he's memorizing the planes of your face the way you'd tried to memorize his hand, and you're already blushing - your gaze sliding from his eyes to his lips - when he asks - 

"Would he forgive you if you said no to the Leafs' new goalie taking you out for coffee?" 

And the colour's exploding over your face in full force, now, you could feel even the back of your neck getting warm, it's like you've never been asked out before. And you might be a single mom but you're only twenty-six and still attractive, still in full possession of a sex drive, thank you very much, you're clever and you're articulate and you're athletic. 

You shouldn't be staring up at him looking like you'd just finished a 5k on the treadmill, mouth in a flat line, arms crossed across your chest. 

 He shouldn't be looking down at you, looking somewhere between confused and mortified, but god that was such a pro hockey player question - I have money, I have fame, I can hit a puck really, really hard, wanna come home with me?

And he'd just been talking about your daughter - Lila, of all people, who absolutely doesn't deserve to be around more hockey players. Once burned and all that. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that," Freddie finally bursts out, and you shake your head. 

"Of course you didn't, Mr. Andersen, I apologize if there's been any confusion," you say, and you know you're using your stern teacher voice, and now he's looking down at you like he doesn't know who you are. 

 Which, of course he doesn't. He doesn't know why you're so opposed to - well, if not hockey players, then hockey players pulling what he'd just tried to pull. 

And you would have let it drop at that but he's moving just a little closer, brows furrowed, looking contrite. "I didn't, I'm not trying to use my position to ask you out. I'm just - I was trying to be funny." 

 He looks half- in pain is the thing, and you believe him. You can certainly believe he's not the best at being funny. You relax a little, make a show of untensing, giving him a small smile and putting a hand on his arm. " It's fine, really. It's just that I'm working - and I have Lila." 

 Not that Lila's really an excuse, with the full-time nanny Sid hired and pays for. But Freddie doesn't need to know that. 

"Can I make it up to you?" he asks, and he still looks like you'd kicked a puppy, and he looks softer than you're prepared for. But when he continues, words tumbling over themselves in the rush to be said, "I can get you tickets for the opening game, you said your dad's a fan and you can bring Lila -" 

 you shake your head, laughing. "I said it's fine, and my dad has season tickets anyway." Honestly, you think it's the biggest family heirloom your family has to your name. 

 He looks like he believes you, he looks like he's relaxed somewhat, and he looks like he's not some pro-athlete dick so you even tease him with an "I'm sure I'll come and see you sooner or later, see if you're any good," 

 and if it sounds like flirting it's possibly because you are, just a little. 

 But he's smiling back at you, looking like you'd given - well, not a puppy, but maybe a dear friend - CPR, and you find yourself smiling back. 

 And become aware, in the next moment, that the girls closest to you have stopped doing their drills, and are looking at the two of you just smiling at each other like idiots with expressions that ranged from surprise to delight.  Which meant that Madame Mercier was probably watching, too, even if you both had your backs to her - which meant you had to disguise what you'd been talking about. 

 "But if you still want to make it up to me," you say to Freddie, voice low, not waiting for him to reply before you skated to the girls. "Line up, ladies, Mr. Andersen's going to get in goal for you. Make sure you show off a little, eh?" 

And the sound of his laughter from behind you, the quiet swish of his skates as he moves to set up between the posts, makes you smile. 

*****

 You go to all the pre-seasons game you have the time to attend with your dad, and once with Emilie, though the poor girl ended up with a headache from all the noise. You - you were in your element, in your old Sundin sweater that still hit you about mid-thigh, usually with blue lines painted under your eyes even though it was just the preseason. 

 After your first game, a young man with a Leafs intern lanyard comes over to your seat with a puck and a kids' jersey, and you're frowning just a little until he tells you that they're both from Marner. You ask the kid to give Marns your number, so you can thank him personally, and when he texts you later that night he tells you that he's just excited to have someone wearing his number in the coming season. 

He's just a sweet kid, and you thank him about ten more times, and you take it to mean that you're going to have to bring Lila in for a game sooner or later. You'd enjoyed watching Marns while he was with the Knights, and you're definitely looking forward to rooting for him on the Leafs - and Freddie, too.

But he doesn't look at you. Freddie, that is. 

 Not during warmups and definitely not during the games, you don't think he sees anything but the puck and there's something almost magical about that degree of hyper-focus. 

It's the night before opening night when he seems to remember that you exist - and it's Marns texting you, not Freddie, and at first you ignore it because Marns has taken to texting you memes you can barely understand, though the girls at your school giggle when you pass it on to them. You won't let him contact any of the girls directly - it would be unprofessional for you to give away any of your students' numbers, and none of them ask you for his - but he seems proud of being the girls' favourite coach. 

 (The girls still practice at the Mastercard Centre, and you're the one chaperoning them more often than not, but with the season coming underway the boys are no longer obligated to show up - the school's hired their own skating and puck-handling coaches, and even a goalie coach though Melanie's the only one interested in getting between the posts, and she far prefers when Freddie's the one to help her.) 

When you finally reach for your phone, deciding that a social media break's allowed after three straight hours of grading physics papers, you're surprised to see a closeup shot of Freddie in his goalie mask - eyes narrowed and staring at you through the grill and phone, like he sees exactly what you're doing and he doesn't approve. It's a little intimidating, more than a little hot. 

You wonder what Marns has done to piss him off - and why Marns decided to send it to you - but the text that pops up after you reply with a simple "???" just says - "he's wondering why u haven't brought lila yet." 

 Which, weird. Also, flattering. Also, weird. You hadn't even been aware that he's noticed that you're there at all.

 "so he can eat her?" you shoot back, grinning a little down at your phone, and marns replies in the next instant with 

"maybe" 

then: 

"rude tho"

then: 

"y don't u ask him urself"

You shoot back a "he didn't ask ME himself", even though it feels at this point like you're two kids passing notes in class, and you're judging yourself for it hard when your phone dings thrice with more text messages. 

From Marns:

"can u imagine freddie taking a selfie"

and then:

several barf emojis, and you don't know why, because Freddie has a pretty decent face 

and 

from an unknown number: 

"Why haven't you brought Lila to any games?"

When your phone dings again, a few seconds later, you see several frowning emojis from the same number, and you hate how you can picture exactly, in your mind's eye, the way Freddie could be frowning at you right then. 

 You save his number under "F.And, L", knowing how hockey players - at least the ones you know - value their privacy, and you wouldn't want his number to get leaked if you somehow lose your phone. Marns is just saved under a frog emoji, and he seemed inordinately pleased about that when you'd told him. 

"Too loud for her," you send back to Freddie, and before you could think twice about it, you send Marns several sweat droplets emojis. You are a teacher - if anyone asks, you could say that you had no idea what they meant, you just know that that's what the kids are texting nowadays.

"Marns is going to be disappointed," Freddie replies, and you're disappointed - despite yourself - because he didn't say that he would be disappointed. 

Another two dings, another two texts, and it's Freddie saying "We'll have to get her in for a practice," while Marns just fills your whole screen with more barfing emojis. 

You shoot them both the okay emoji, and then tell them that you need to get back to work. 

 When you check your phone again before bed, there's two text messages, both of them from Freddie. 

The first: "Good luck with your work, and sweet dreams" 

And then a picture of him, light spilling over him from a bedside lamp, duvet halfway up his bare chest. He looks a little tired, a little shy, but he's smiling up at the camera. 

 A selfie. You wonder what else Marner has told him. 

 And you save the picture.

 *****

 The boys win the first home game of the season, and you couldn't make it because Lila's down with a cold but you send Marns a selfie of you and Lila in Leafs jerseys in front of the TV - you wearing Sundin's number and grinning wide, Lila in Marner's and opening her mouth to show him a mouthful of chewed-up mashed potatoes. You figure it's not too different from a picture of unchewed mashed potatoes, and besides, you're just happy that she's eating. 

 Marns sends back a shot of him flashing a peace sign, flushed with good spirits and (you're pretty damned sure) alcohol he's barely old enough to be drinking, and the way he angles the camera makes you think he's trying to hide the fact that he's in a bar. 

 Which, dumb, but you pass along the congratulations the girls text you to send to him, and there's almost thirty of them, and by the time you're done Freddie's message to you has been waiting for several minutes, unopened. 

 "Thanks for the congratulations," it says, even though you didn't send him one, and you giggle as you lean back to reply. 

 "sorry! had to pass on messages from mitchy's fans first, and there's a lot of them." 

 Freddie: "Yeah? And who were you rooting for?" 

 "david pastrnak," you reply, grinning to yourself as you did it. 

and then before he has time to get into a sulk: "guy has to be a superhero to have gotten one past you" 

 He doesn't reply anyway, not for a good half hour, and you switch the tv to a golf tournament with the volume on low, because of course that's what Lila falls asleep to best. 

And then, from Freddie: "Guess that makes me your kyptonite." 

 Which, okay, he isn't wrong. 

 You're not sure how to reply - you guess this means that he's at least a little bit into you, and he knows you're at least a little bit into him, and - you're not sure how to reply. 

 "you're not wrong," you text him. And then, like a coward, but at least an honest one: "i need to go and tuck lila in. make sure you drink lots of water before bed x" 

 And he sends you a goodnight text, tells you to tell him if Lila's not feeling better in the morning, as though there's anything he can do about it anyway. 

When you wake up the next morning, there's a text from Marns sent at around three am that says, "YOOOOOO WAS TAT SMOOTH OR WHAT" 

Which, okay, he's not wrong. 

 *****

 The boys go through a losing streak like it's nobody's business. Which, is disappointing, but it's the Leafs, and Toronto's a city that's grown accustomed to it. After a home win against Florida that they barely managed by the skin of their teeth (which, it's Florida) Freddie's on your doorstep instead of celebrating at some bar or another, or maybe sleeping the adrenaline off. 

You raise your eyebrows at him, don't move aside to let him in even though you'd known he was the guy at the door when you'd looked through the peephole, and you'd gone and opened the door anyway. He looked rumpled, exhausted, hair a mess but not covered in product - like he'd gone for a shower after the game and then left, not even bothering to swing by his place to change out of his game day suit. 

 And you're in your Leafs jersey still, it's practically a dress on you so you didn't bother slipping any pants on, and the TV's still quietly going over game recaps.

You know this, the look on him, even though you've never seen him this way. He racks up a loss, takes it all on his own shoulders, won't let anyone take some of his burden or even see any of his pain. You've lived this, just not with him, and you're not in the mood for dealing with a moody hockey player. 

It's Lila's birthday tomorrow, and Marns' already said he would come, and he's asked if he could bring some of the boys with him, too. He hadn't mentioned Freddie, and neither had you - Freddie's been on radio silence since the loss against the Hawks, third in a streak that didn't seem like it was going to end. That had been five days ago, which

You're a big girl, you can take it. 

 But you don't particularly want to expose Lila to it. 

 "Look, I know I've been stupid," he starts, the creases in his brow deepening when he sees you're not going to start shit, but he falls silent when you shake you head. 

"Don't make a martyr of yourself, Freddie." It comes out sounding short, impatient, you're a little tired yourself and it's late. 

 And it hurts, just a little, him showing up here and now like you're some kind of fair weather-only friend. You're not even a fair weather fan, or you sure as shit wouldn't still have your Leafs jersey. 

He looks confused, though, raising one hand to rest against the frame of the door, and leans in, like proximity would help. That, or he's too tired to stand straight, which. Idiot. 

 "You lost, and you went and licked your wounds in private. It's fine." You pause, consider that, and decide to go for something a little more honest. "Or it's not fine, I missed you, but if that's what you need to do to get your head on right for your next game then I can live with it." 

 You're a big girl, you've survived worse things. 

 "I'm sorry," he says, and you smile, because - that's one you've never heard before. And you didn't think he'd understand, either, how you needed an apology and not a self-lashing from him, because the latter's designed to make you feel sorry for him more than anything else. 

 Which, you already do. Idiot. 

 You open the door wider, but instead of letting him in you step forward to wrap your arms around him, feeling him do the same to you - one across the back of your shoulders and one around your waist, warm, solid weights holding you in place for a long moment. 

 "I know you were worried about me, I shouldn't have put you through that, all I needed to do was pick up the phone." He pulls back, then, to look you in the eye, and your right hand slips higher to settle on the nape of his neck, to keep him there. 

 "Idiot," you tell him, but you're grinning, and in a moment he's grinning back. "You can come on in. I'm almost done getting things ready for Lila's birthday party tomorrow." 

"Can I help?" he asks, but you brush the offer aside, leading him through the hallway and into the living room, where you give him another push until he's settled on the couch. 

 "Beer's in the fridge, if you want, and Lila's already in bed. We have a spare room if you'd like to use it." He looks a little concerned at that - and, yeah, maybe you are being a little too forward - but you flash him another grin. 

 "What, you're making it up to me, right?" You ask him, voice teasing. "So you're going to do all the barbecuing for the party tomorrow."

He smiles back at you, but then the smile slowly fades, and he says again, sounding like he has to, "I'm sorry. I needed time to myself, but we're - friends, and- " 

 "You shouldn't have gone full radio silence?' You shake your head, amused, but Freddie's still looking at you like you might throw a temper tantrum, so you move to sit on the couch beside him, stretching out your legs so that your feet rested in his lap. 

Physical contact helps. Open communication helps. The slow massage he was giving your left foot definitely helps. After a few minutes: "I was upset, but it's just five days, Freddie. I've gone into radio silence for longer just because I had an assignment due." You give him a nudge with your other foot and he takes the hint, switching feet. "We're still friends," you tell him, the emphasis on the last word unmistakable, and you watch him colour up a little. 

 "Are you free next weekend?" He blurts out, like you figured he would, and you shake your head, biting back a smile. 

 "Nope, I'm chaperoning a school dance." 

 "Can I chaperon with you?" 

And there's no biting back the laugh you have to let out at that, hand covering your mouth so it doesn't wake Lila, and Freddie's looking halfway between amused and embarrassed.

 "The school isn't usually okay with having strangers attend our private school functions. Why don't you come out for coffee with me instead? Say, after your game on Tuesday, even if you lose?"

 The smile he gives you is something like watching the sun coming out, or maybe you're just feeling warm, but either way you'd have liked to be closer to him. 

 And then - voice teasing - "last time I asked you out for coffee you tried to snap my neck." 

 Which, fair, and you shrug a little even as you shift closer, so that you're sitting on the seat beside his on the couch, your bare thighs across his lap. His arm slips down from where it had rested along the back of your couch to around your waist, which. Feels nice. "Nah. Last time it was this kinda arrogant Ducks trade who'd asked me, and I wasn't even sure if he's any good between the posts." 

 A misstep, maybe, because his brows are creased again, and you have an urge to smooth it out with your thumb so you do just that. "So you want to go out with a good goalie," he says, something so uncertain in his voice, something sad in the way he looks down as you as though braced for the worst. Idiot. 

 You kiss his cheek, because you can't help it, then the corner of his lips - pulling back before he could kiss you properly, grinning a little as you drop one last kiss on the tip of his nose. "Yeah, but I'm hoping that's not all you're good at." 

[brattywriters-anonymous]

A Rose In Harlem

OC x Erik story

Based on Teyana Taylor’s VII & KTSE

WARNINGS: Cursing, slow burn, Hate at first sight.

Winter, 2013.

A brisk December day approaches Syeda (Syd for short) in her small Uptown studio apartment that she’s dishing out way too much money for. She rubs her eyes in disdain that the sun is up again, she only just gotten to bed three hours ago, working on her lookbook for her fashion line the entire night prior. Syeda worked hard, and played hard. She not only lived the montra, she loved it. She rose out of her bed and stumbled to her bathroom, conveniently tripping over a pile of the clothes that she wore the day before.

She flipped the switch, the fluorescent light flickered its usual three times before turning on completely as her slender framed mug came into full view.  Her view spanned over her caramel skin complexion. Her face lightly covered with faint freckles over her cheeks, her full lips, and the scar under her right cheekbone that her dog gave her when she was nine. She huffed at the faint mark, the loc of frizzy and curly hair that covered her face moved up and down as she did so. She grabbed her red bandana designed iPhone  from the dresser that was adjacent from the other side of the bathroom door and clicked through her Apple Music until she stopped at her Harlem4L playlist, she decided to start her day by blasting Cam’ron x Lil Wayne “Suck it or Not” She dance/strutted back into the bathroom, grabbed her large tooth comb from the counter and began to lip sync, “Ma, I been huggin’ the block/ That’s right. Hustlin’ rocks./ I know I been puffin’ a lot/ But a nigga wanna know baby girl you gon suck it or not?” Her free arm moving along to every other syllable of every bar as if she was Cam himself, rapping at the Apollo Theatre. She chuckled at herself and moved along to the shower, throwing on her shower cap. She was turning on the hot water..or so she thought. The hot water was out again and Mr. Van Den Berg, Syd’s elderly landlord and the tenant in the loft downstairs, said that the plumber came last month and fixed the issue. She groaned and practically threw on her camel colored Uggs before she stomped out the door.

She swung the door open and immediately walked to her left toward the stairway without looking and bumped into someone. She didn’t even take a second to look back, she just said, “My bad.” and made a beeline for Mr. V’s door. He opened the door before Syd’s petite hand could form a fist to knock on it. “Miss mooie bloem, good morning. Heard your dainty footsteps, I knew you were coming down here, how may I help?” She heard the sarcasm in his tone when he mentioned her footsteps. She rolled her eyes, “Mr. V, the hot water is out again, I can’t shower in cold water, It’s December, you gon’ have me out here with the flu or somethin’!”  He shook his head no and grabbed his cordless phone in the same instant to contact the building’s pumber. Syd pressed the power button on her phone to check the time, 9:47am, “Yo Mr. V, I need him here in the next hour. I have a meeting to go to and I can’t be late!” Mr. Van Den Berg nodded his head and stated that Yasin would be there by 10:15. Syd stomped up the stairs she heard a male’s baritone say, “Yeah, your lil ass neighbor bumped into me, didn’t even look back to see if I was okay or anything, cuh!” That accent, he definitely wasn’t from New York, let alone from the east coast. She twisted her doorknob and mumbled, “Well maybe you need to look where you going, CUH.”

--

Syeda had been pacing back and forth in her cramped kitchen for what seemed like hours, She tapped the home button on her phone. 11:01am Fuck. She thought in her mind. She heard two taps on her front door, she swung it open, and went off, “Do you not think that anyone has a fuckin’ life. You’re over thirty fuckin’ minutes late and I was supposed to be gone by now! ARE YOU DUMB?” This brutha stood at least about 6’2”, about 280..maybe 290 lbs. Syeda couldn’t give a fuck less that she was maybe a quarter of his size. She stepped up to him, thinking her 5’1”, 133 lbs. would match up to him by being closer. She was so busy flying off the handle that she didn’t notice her neighbor across the hall, Ziggy (short for his last name, “Zigler”) and the mystery out of towner she ran into earlier were going downstairs, headed out. By the time she got done yelling, they were at the bottom of the staircase and she heard that voice again, “Aye cuh, Couldn’t be me. I would’ve taught her lil wild ass some manners.” Mystery man was faced toward the door and as soon as he finished his rude comment, he was gone. Syd decided to let that ride, since she figured she wouldn’t see him again, and turned her attention back to Yasin. He raised his eyebrow, and took one step past her into the apartment, still staring at her. “Traffic.” he simply stated then he walked straight back to the bathroom.

--

Syeda’s phone began to vibrate and go off, “BESTIE BIIIIIIIIIIIIHHHH” with too many twin and heart emojis to count ran across the screen. She sneered over at Yasin, he was still seated on her toilet seat reaching over the tub, fixing whatever. She looked above the call and saw 11:52. She sighed and accepted the facetime call. Yani, or Ayana when Syd is mad at her, looked directly into the front facing camera, “BITCH. Wher--I KNOW YOUR ASS STILL NOT AT HOME WITH A GOTDAMN SHOWER CAP ON! YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE HERE IN LIKE, 10 MINUTES. WHAT THE FUCK!” Syd palmed her face slowly and sighed. “Yani, I knowwwwww. My damn hot water went out again!” She pointed her phone to show Yasin in the bathroom. “Oooooh, damn girl, I know it’s some other pipes that he can fix in that lonely ass apartment of yours.” Yani pointed at Syd’s lower extremities. Syd scoffed and rushed her off the phone, “I’LL BE AN HOUR LATE, BYE BITCH.” beep beep beep. 

The line went dead. For sure, Yasin heard what her obnoxious best friend said about her box, she threw her phone on the bed and tiptoed into the bathroom. Once she reached the doorway, Yasin turned around and slightly jumped. “Oh, I just finished up here, ma. I apologize, my Uncle was supposed to fully replace this pipe when he came here last month. He came in the week before he retired, I guess he got lazy and patched it up.” Syd crossed her arms as he stood up and flashed his million dollar smile, “It should be good now.” Syd is all about details. Being a fashion merch graduate, it’s in her nature. She scanned over his dark chocolate frame, the vain in his lower arm bulging out, the tattoos covering the areas above it. She skimmed up to his face. Well, his full lips. The bottom slightly larger than the top. Now formed into a slight grin. Her lip twisted to the right in reaction to it. She blinked her way out of her trance. “Okay.” She finally replied. Yasin smirked as he made strides to the front door, making his exit. He stopped at her doorway after opening the door. Syd trailed behind him and stopped in the foyer when he turned. “Hey, uhh..” He held his hand out to Syd. She searched over his extended arm to see the Arabic saying on his arm and read it aloud, “Silence is the interpreter of happiness.” She blinked, looking up at him. “Oh, I’m sorry?” He huffed, “Your name, Miss?” She grabbed his hand and shook, “Syd.” Yasin squinted at the young woman that was quite smaller than him with an attitude of a giant. “You know Arabic?” She nodded, “Moms was from Philly, she was raised Islamic. You?” he stroked his thick goatee and rebutted, “My family is Muslim, My mom was raised baptist but she transitioned when she met my pops, My uncles, brothers, cousins, grands.. They’re all Muslim.” “Alhamdulillah!” Syd chanted as she threw her hands up and chuckled. Yasin couldn’t help but laugh with her, her humor and contagious laugh was simply irresistible. “Well, Syd, I gotta go to my next client..but if you free for a late lunch later..maybe we can chop it up over a nice meal?” Syd stepped closer looking him in the eye, “I can let you know.” She handed him her phone to put his number in it. He started typing away when her phone vibrated twice, signaling that she gotten a message. Yasin paused, then finished typing, smiling the entire time. “Alright Miss Syd. Later.” He began his descent to the hallway door. Syd closed her front door, and ran to the shower.

--

Syeda ran down 125th Street to cross over St. Nicholas Ave to get to St. Nick Park. Stumbling past bystanders and bikers on the pavement with a thousand things in her hand with her hair blowing wherever the wind takes it, Syd finally makes it to the meeting spot that her and Yani agreed to host the meeting. She placed her things with her personal assistant, Myles, who is a big ball of fabulousness; Always dependable and has an incredible fashion sense. Yani looked at Syd as if she was a bat flying out of hell and quickly flattened Syd’s curly tresses back to frame her face. She was beginning to look like cousin It. Syd thanked her girl for the assist, “Do I look okay?” Yani assessed. Syd was in a rush, but she picked a black long sleeved crop turtleneck, high waisted light denim mom jeans, and leather knee high boots. She accompanied the outfit with her childhood gold personalized “Syd” necklace and “Syeda” one finger ring, along with her new Off-White yellow label belt. Yani nodded as she looked up to her face. Syd had no time to put on makeup, but she threw on a red ombre lip, lashes, and liner; black at the top, white at the bottom to accentuate her almond eyes. Yani smiled in agreeance. “Yes bitch. You look good!” Syd breathed a sigh of relief as Yani took a seat on the bottom step of “Sentra”, the exhibit from Harlem Studio Museum that she dubbed the perfect meeting spot for the occasion. 

The crowd of people that had been calmly chatting amongst themselves had gotten quiet and all eyes were on Syd. She cleared her throat, “Hello Everyone, My name is Syeda Mari. I am owner and the creative behind UPTXWN Clothing. As you all know by the flyer..” As she grabbed one from the ever dependable Myles. “..I have a lookbook that I am preparing to drop on Spring Fashion Week in February. As I know, Two months is such a short time to plot a production as big as I am asking for but just based on the turnout I have here, I know it can be done.” “You got this Syd!” Yani’s supportive mom voice sang out. Applause rang out. “But we gotta band together.. Network. Get this premiere party to be the talk of the town. I need my models on point, I need you all to show up to the shoots, leave that ego bullshit at the door. If I put you in it, I don’t care if it’s a water buffalo coat with silk drawls. Make it look like couture.” The hustler in Syd began to come out. She’s all about having fun and turning up, but when it’s time to work, Syd don’t play. Everyone knew it too, from old college professors at Columbia to ex boyfriends who relish at her success that she’s had since graduating. Syd is a go getter. She took a look at her audience from left to right and saw all familiar faces of former colleagues she worked with in her fashion showrunner days, and a couple more from around the way. She smiled at the great turnout and calmed her tone. “I need for the production crew to be on time as well, I book locations by the time. Not by the day. So please. Be on time.��� She pointed to her photographer, Iyo. Iyo threw up his prayer hands and bowed. Signaling that he heard her and he don’t want no smoke. “I also need my MUAs to plan the looks. I plan the outfits, Gigi, please plan the faces to go with these bomb ass looks.” Gigi stood up, as colourful as she could be in her loud colored fur coat, “Of course Syd, We gotchu.” As her team nodded in agreeance. “Videography, Semaj..Andy..Lon, We need to set up a meeting after this to talk visuals.” Andy tilted his head upward to let Syd know that he heard her. 

“And last but not least, my PR agent. My amazingly amazing best friend. Ayana. Girl. I need you to get the best of the best people at this show. I need you to pull this final product all together to help my baby UPTXWN come alive!” Yani wiped a fake tear from her face and ran to hug Syd. “Of course, you know it’s done.” Everyone roared in applause. Syd yelled over it, “Okay everyone thank you for coming out! Leave your email and phone information with Myles and I’ll see you all at the next shoot!” 

The audience began to separate into their own groups. Syd and Yani floated around to each one until they got to the last cluster. Yani had to get back to the office so she dismissed herself, “Girl, Martinez is on my ass about my time! I’ll meet them at the next shoot! BYE BITCH!” Syd sucked her teeth. Yani knew she hated extracurricular socializing. 

She made her way over to the group to see Ziggy, a renowned photographer. Even though he works for CNN, he liked fashion photography and was looking to expand his portfolio with the lookbook. Two men and a woman accompanied him. “Zig! Thank you for coming out! Or who I gotta thank at CNN?” She queried, completely joking. Ziggy sarcastically responded, “You can thank Anthony Bourdain for giving me the week off, but I’ll be in Berlin next Thursday.” “Oh, you know your landlord is going next week too? Maybe you two could finally get to know each other, trade war stories.” Syd made small talk with him for a while, discussing a couple of his many travels and he explained that his job is why he’s in the studio across the hall, because he’s rarely home anyway. 

Syd nodded in agreeance as she looked around to observe everyone else he was with. “I’m sorry everyone. Nice to meet you. I’m Syeda. Zig is my neighbor. And you all are?” The woman introduced herself first. She had a pecan tan tone and  a short tapered curly cut. She was 5’9”, thick stature yet barely had a midsection so she was athletic. “Nina.” They shook hands. “I heard you needed models, I’ve modeled for Stussy, American Apparel, Yeezy..Zig told me about your line. I love how you repping Harlem. I gotta be a part of this.” “Glad to have you join us Nina, thank you.” The guy next to her spoke, “Uh..Hello. Im Byron, friends call me B. I work in IT, I do editing on the side. If your videography team needs an editor, I’m available.” Syd nodded, “As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what they need. I’m meeting with them next week, I’ll text you the details.” B smiled and thanked her. Ziggy introduced the last person, “Oh Sy, (Zig was the ONLY person besides her parents to call her that) this is Erik. My cousin. Syd blinked and looked up to his 6’0�� frame. She blinked and looked at his face length dreads. She blinked and noticed his mustache, goatee and his thick plump lips. She licked her lips and slightly opened her mouth and before she could speak and introduce herself, that annoying baritone that she heard hours ago rang back up. “Ohhhh.. You the biddy that ran into me. You know, I could’ve been hurt.” he said, putting his hand above his heart. He was completely being dramatic. Syd rolled her eyes in disgust. “You’re a big boy. I’m sure you’ll be fine.” Erik stepped up to her, she noticed a slight gleam in his eyes, “Yeah, I am a big boy.” he grinned and sized her up. “Zig, get your cousin, before I really hurt him.” She squinted her eyes at her last three words. Erik didn’t move one inch away from her. He took her hand, kissed it, and returned with,  “Hurt me, baby.” She scoffed and her hand dashed across his face. “OUCH! MY NAIL!” Syd drew her hand back and noticed that the tip of her red coffin shaped nail was on the ground. Which would’ve been okay if her nails were painted red. They were black. Her finger was bleeding.

--

🌹

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[rumaan]

Doctor From Above

Pairing: Sana/Yousef

Summary: Sana has never had a patient mistake her for an angel before

Rating: G

Written for Day 3 - AU for @skam-month. I thought it was time to try out a Dr Bakkoush/Patient Acar AU

Also on AO3

Sana usually prides herself on her professionalism. She has a good bedside manner, is sympathetic and patient with her patients and generally has never noticed if they are gorgeous or not.

Until today.

Of course, it doesn’t help that this particular patient – Yousef Acar – is groggily waking up after appendicitis surgery and has grasped hold of her hand as if it’s his lifeline and she cannot help but notice how strong his jawline is, how soft his hair looks, and how deep his brown eyes are, even when they are glazed and slightly unfocused.

“Am I dead?” he asks urgently. “I thought this was meant to be a routine surgery.”

“No, no, you’re not dead,” she soothes wanting nothing more than smooth back the lock of hair that has fallen forward and is obscuring part of his face. His hair sits long at the front, falling into his eyes, and usually she would roll her eyes and think snarkily that he should get a haircut, but somehow it suits him.

“Are you sure?” he asks anxiously. “Is this a test?”

Sana can see the nurses snickering a little out the corner of her eye. She imagines what they are thinking as she has a reputation for being a bit of a hard ass. She has to be. She’s a practising Muslim woman who is training to be a surgeon. It wasn’t easy for her dad and he at least had the right gender if not the right race or religion. It also doesn’t help that a lot of the other junior doctors in the hospital think she was employed because of her dad – despite him working at a different hospital.

“No, it’s not a test. Why would you think that?”

“Because you have to be an angel. You are too beautiful not to be.”

She can definitely hear the two nurses laughing now as if expecting her to snap at the patient – not that she would in any situation. She might be tough but she never takes it out on patients. However, she can’t help but find him endearing with how soft his eyes are and it really doesn’t hurt to have someone so attractive staring up at you in such awe.

“I’m just a junior surgeon,” she says.

He tugs lightly on her white hijab “But how can a human be so ethereal?”

Her dimples come out then and she cannot help the little laugh that escapes her. “It’s hospital policy. I wear a white hijab to match my white coat.”

“You should be an angel,” he says with a pout. “I’m certain it’s wrong that you’re not one.”

With her free hand, she pats his shoulder more than amused at how adorable he is and says, “It’s just your medication confusing you.”

He scowls at her then, suddenly offended and she’s confused. “No!” he objects. “You are beautiful and it’s definitely not my meds talking.”

“Okay,” she replies more than a little charmed by his emphatic declaration.

The doors to the recovery room swings open and Consultant Surgeon, Dr Johansen, comes in. Sana tries to extract her hand from Yousef Acar’s grasp before her consultant notices. But she’s out of luck because he’s clinging on with a tight grip and Dr Johansen’s eyebrows rise when she notices.

“Do you know Mr Acar, Dr Bakkoush? You really should have said if you do. It’s hospital policy to declare any personal relationships before treating a patient.”

“No,” she says.

“Bakkoush?” Yousef Acar says, his head tilting as he tries to focus more keenly on her face. “Do you know an Elias Bakkoush?”

It’s Sana’s turn to frown and look confused. “You know Elias?”

“Yeah, he works with some of my kids.”

Her heart sinks a little at his words. He has kids? Her eyes fly to his left hand and there’s no wedding ring, but he doesn’t have to be married or he might not wear a ring after all some people didn’t. Not that it should have mattered anyway. It isn’t as if she is going to see him outside of this recovery room. He’s a patient not a dating option.

“I’m teacher,” he says to her as if knowing that she might jump to the wrong conclusion. “So they definitely aren’t my kids kids.”

“Good to know,” Dr Johansen says dryly, with a knowing smile which she directs at Sana.

“Apparently, he knows my brother,” Sana says to Dr Johansen. “But you were here when I found out.”

Dr Johansen smiles then, eyes how Yousef Acar is still clinging to her hand, but says nothing else much to Sana’s relief. She’s sure the story of how a patient thought she was an angel is going to go around the hospital soon enough, but she really doesn’t want to have to explain the story to a Consultant Surgeon.

“Well, Mr Acar, everything with the surgery went as planned. Your appendix was easily removed and your vitals are all strong. So once the anaesthetic has worn off, we’ll return you to the ward for overnight observation and then, if all goes well, ready for discharge tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Yousef Acar says.

“No need to thank me. Dr Bakkoush here undertook your surgery and did a very good job.”

He smiles blindingly up at her then and she blinks at how radiant it is. “I knew you were an angel.”

“Yes, well, angel or not,” Dr Johansen says with more than a little amusement in her voice. “Dr Bakkoush has rounds to perform now. But she’ll be back tomorrow to oversee your discharge.”

He releases her hand then and she instantly misses the warmth of his touch. “See you tomorrow,” he says contently.

Sana nods, smiles and ignores how her hand still tingles pleasantly from the feel of his skin against hers. With one last look at him, she follows Dr Johansen out of the recovery room.

“Angel, huh?” Dr Johansen says entertained. “High praise indeed.”

“It’s just the meds talking,” she counters.

“Hmm…I’ve seen many different reactions to many different anaesthetics but never such a starry eyed one. Good job your brother knows him. You can probably get his number.”

“Who says I want his number?”

“The blush on your cheeks!”

Putting her hands up to face, Sana mentally curses when she feels how hot her cheeks are. She hates being transparent in the best of circumstances and this really isn’t an ideal scenario. The gossip will follow her for days. However, she can’t help how her heart races when she remembers Yousef Acar’s look of adoration. The desire to see the exact same expression once his anaesthesia has worn off burrows into her chest and she hopes she’s not disappointment tomorrow.

----------

Anticipation fizzles in her blood as she walks towards the surgery ward the next day. Sana knows she shouldn’t be excited, that she doesn’t even know this guy other than he says dorky things, has a beautiful smile, and eyes she could get lost in. However, this knowledge didn’t stop her from counting down the hours until she saw him again.

“Yo, Sana!”

She turns at the sound of her brother’s voice and looks at him with a puzzled expression. “What are you doing here?”

“Can’t I come and see my little sister slay as a surgeon?”

“You don’t ever come to visit me at the hospital.”

“Okay, so I might not actually be here for you,” Elias confesses.

“You’re not hurt are you? You didn’t have to break up another fight at the youth centre?” she asks, concern instantly kicking in as she remembered a frantic call from one of Elias’ co-workers, begging her to come to the youth centre and stitch her brother up. He’d stopped a fight between two of the boys and been accidentally stabbed in the arm in the process. It had been deep and it had taken all her composure to keep her hands steady as she stitched him up. But he hadn’t wanted to go to the hospital and land the two boys in trouble with the police. He claimed that was the last thing that they needed right now.

“No! Nothing like that. I actually came to pick up a friend. He had an appendectomy.”

“Oh, Yousef Acar,” she says unthinkingly.

“Yeah, Yousef. How do you know Yousef?”

“I performed the surgery. He mentioned he knew you when he heard my surname.”

The curiosity leaves Elias’ face at her mundane explanation and she mentally pats herself on the back for dodging that bullet. He’d never let her live it down if he knew that his friend had mistaken her for an angel.

“I’m actually on my way to see if he’s ready for discharge now,” she says, ignoring the slight pang of disappointment that Elias is going to be there when she sees him again. Not that he would have flirted with her anyway, it had just been the meds talking yesterday. But he definitely won’t in front of her brother.

However, when she opens the door to his room, Yousef Acar concentrates so hard on her that he fails to notice Elias behind her.

“I still don’t believe you’re not an angel,” he says in greeting and she cannot help the colour that floods her cheeks or the shy smile she gives him. “You are far too beautiful to be human.”

“Angel?” Elias says confused and then delighted as the situation dawns on him. “Are you flirting with my sister after she took your appendix out?”

Yousef startles then and looks horrified when he sees Elias standing in the doorway, looking between them both as if he’s had a revelation.

“Er…yeah,” Yousef confesses, running a hand through his hair as he winces with embarrassment.

Elias lets out a bark of laughter and pulls his phone out his pocket. “Wait until I tell dad and Hamid about this! Neither of them have never had a patient mistake them for a celestial being.”

“Don’t you dare!” Sana says threatening.

However, her unrepentant big brother just grins and says, “Oh, but I am!”

“C’mon. That’s just mean! What happened to us sticking together?”

“This is too good not to use.”

“Sorry,” Yousef says once Elias has bounced out the room. “I didn’t see him and that sentence sounded a lot smoother in my head.”

“You owe me, Yousef Acar!” she says. “Not only am I going to the butt of all jokes in the hospital but at home now, too.”

“Can I take you to dinner to make up for it?”

Sana narrows her eyes. “What kind of dinner?”

“One fit for an angel – red lobster.”

She laughs then and says, “Let me at least discharge you before you ask me out.”

Once she’s finished her post surgery checks and has officially discharged him, he takes hold of her hand once more and asks, “So it’s a date?”

“It’s a date,” she agrees.

[jamejumah-blog]

1. Observations

Name of Community: Muslim Society of Guelph Place: ‘Jame Masjid’ at the Muslim Society of Guelph (MSOG) 286 Water Street Guelph, Ontario Dates of visit: January 18th, February 8th, February 22nd Notes: This blog will use the Islamic term of ‘masjid’ which translates to ‘mosque’ in English.

The Muslim Society of Guelph abbreviated as the MSOG, is a religious institution in Guelph, Ontario which is also home to ‘Jame Masjid,’ a mosque which I have been visiting occasionally for the past three years. The men in my family, which consist of my brother and father, attend Jumah, congregational Friday prayer every week at this mosque. I chose this community to observe because I have slight familiarity with it, however I have never actually taken the time out to observe my surroundings properly. For this field research project, I attended Jumah at Guelph’s Jame Masjid, three times in a way I had never done before. By this I mean that I attended Jumah and actually observed my surroundings and analyzed the space, rather than just partaking in the ritual as I have previously done. For me, Jumah has always been a ritual I occasionally engaged in because it is a part of my religion. I have grown up watching the men in my family attend Jumah as it is mandatory for them to partake in it weekly. However, despite having knowledge about this ritual and having attended it several times throughout my life, I have never made it a point to observe my surroundings objectively, especially at this particular location. This blog will share my experience attending Jumah prayer thrice at Jame Masjid, making it a point to describe my spatial surroundings, interactions, as well as other observations which may help me to analyze a ritual this community engages in on a weekly basis. 

The initial observations that I made when arriving at the masjid to partake in Jumah prayer were observations regarding segregation. Upon arriving on the property of the Muslim Society of Guelph, I immediately noticed that there were two different entrances for the masjid, the entrance from which I entered was on a different side of the masjid than the entrance my father and brother had to go through. This is something that as a Muslim woman I have encountered many times before through my trips to various masjids. However, for someone who does not know that there are gender-based entrances to Jame masjid, the signs placed around the building would be extremely helpful. I drove by the men’s entrance which was located at the front of the masjid, and marked by a large sign which read “brothers entrance” in both English and its Arabic counterpart. Again, I was able identify the text as Arabic, because of my prior knowledge of the language through Quranic studies. The womens entrance was situated at the back of the masjid, with a sign that read “sisters entrance” again, in both English and Arabic. I noticed while parking outside the masjid, that many families who came together first parked before parting ways to enter the masjid through their respective entrances. I also noticed that younger children who came with their parents, who were infants or toddlers, regardless of gender, went inside the mosque with their mothers (or female guardian). However, boys who surpassed the toddler age, accompanied their father. In my family’s case, my 12 year old brother went inside the masjid with my father.

Upon entering the building, there was a large hallway lined with shoe shelves on which people placed their shoes before making their way into the actual prayer room in which the Jumah prayer was to be offered. Again, I noted the signs placed around these shelves which read “please remove footwear before entering masjid.” I was able to see down the hallway that men were doing the same as women, removing their shoes before making their way into the prayer hall. I noticed right away that the entire masjid was filled with the sound of Arabic verses being recited by a man on the microphone. Once again, I knew that the verses being recited were in Arabic because of the knowledge I possessed of the Quran, the Islamic holy scripture. 

Image 2: Shoe shelves.

On all three of my visits, I arrived to the masjid quite early to give myself ample time to make observations. The prayer was to be performed at 1:35PM, and I had arrived to the mosque at around 12:50PM each week. After removing my shoes, I entered the prayer hall (the masjid itself), and was greeted by the few women who were in the room. They smiled and said “Assalamualaikum,” to me, a gesture which was repeated upon the entry of every woman into the masjid. All of the women were dressed modestly, wearing loose fitted clothing and covering their hair with head scarfs. I also noticed that there was a box of scarves and skirts at the back of the masjid for women to borrow if needed. Regardless of what a woman was wearing, the common aspect was that each woman was completely covered, with nothing but her face, feet, and hands, showing. As for the men, the clothing varied from simple jeans and t shirts, to a few traditional outfits. 

During all three of my visits, there were not very many women present for the prayer. However, on the televisions which streamed the prayer in the men’s hall, it was apparent that already, more than 50 men were present. By the time of the actual prayer, approximately 20-30 women were in attendance (this number varied during each of my visits). On the other hand, numerous men attended every week and after discussing with my father, he had estimated that approximately 200 men attend the Jumah prayer at Jame Masjid weekly. 

Continuing with my observations regarding segregation, I noted that although the prayer hall for the men and women were side-by-side, they were divided with an opaque partition; both having separate entrances as well. This partition was a divider of some sort, which was thick enough to have two television screens hung on it, which streamed a live video of the men’s prayer hall for the women to see. I noticed that there was substantially more space allocated for men than for women. From what I could make out through the television screens, the men’s prayer hall was probably three times the size of the women’s. Furthermore, the women prayed behind the men, with the leader of the prayer, a male, standing at the very front. The leader of the prayer was the only person who prayed with nobody on either side of him. 

Image 3: Mens prayer hall.

Image 4: Womens prayer hall.

The Jumah prayer was preceded by a sermon which was delivered mostly in English with multiple references to the Qur’an (the Islamic holy book) and Hadith (the sayings of the Prophet Muhammad). I noted that the topic of the sermon varied week-to-week, and everyone in the mosque sat and listened to it very attentively. In fact, I overheard a few young girls who were chatting in the masjid being told to quiet down and pay attention to the sermon by another woman. This woman was elderly, who was sitting at the back of the masjid, with her head facing down. She was completely quiet much like the other women in the room, and seemed to be focusing on the sermon being delivered, as she wished for complete silence. These young girls obeyed immediately, and stopped their chatter for the duration of the sermon. On my visit to Jame Masjid on the 18th of January, the sermon discussed the rank of a mother in Islam. The speaker mentioned how heaven lies beneath the feet of the mother, and respecting her is the gateway to eternal happiness. On February 8th, the sermon discussed the significance of charity, through the form of donation and volunteer work. The speaker highlighted various stories of the Prophet Muhammad partaking in charitable acts, which Muslims all around the world could learn from. The speaker encouraged all the individuals who were in attendance to donate anything to the masjid, whether that be their time volunteering or any amount of money. He emphasized that doing good deeds in this life will certainly make for a fruitful life in the hereafter. Finally, the sermon delivered on February 22nd discussed the importance of visiting and taking care of the sick. The speaker emphasized the reward which an individual receives through visiting a sick person, be it one’s neighbours, friend, family member, or even acquaintance. The speaker highlighted the importance of visiting the sick through the narration of stories of the Prophet Muhammad, and his encounters with the ill. Learning from the actions of the Prophet was integral to becoming a good Muslim; a point which the speaker emphasized multiple times. Each of these sermons consisted of two parts, where the speaker sat down for a break before continuing on to the second portion of the sermon. I noticed that during this break between the sermon, some women got up to pray on their own, while some made use of the Qurans placed on a shelf on the side of the prayer room. The Qurans were placed on an elevated shelf, and nothing was placed on top of these scriptures. I knew immediately that these women were reading the Quran (as opposed to another scripture) through the faint sound of their recitation which I recognized through previous knowledge of Quranic verses. 

Image 5: Qur’an shelf.

The athan (call to prayer) was made shortly after my arrival, and the sermon was given for approximately 35 minutes before the prayer began. A man (who was not the leader of the prayer) recited another call to prayer and very quickly everyone in the masjid began to line up shoulder-to-shoulder and prepare for the prayer. I noticed a few women who were insistent on filling the gaps between each other, and made sure everyone was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with no spaces in between them. During my first visit, I did not understand why it was so important to stand so close to one another during prayer. However, during the second time I attended Jumah, I overheard a woman telling a little girl to fill in the gap between another two ladies because “we do not want shaytan to pray amongst us.” This statement really got me thinking, as I had never realized that this may be the reason why people stress the importance of standing shoulder-to-shoulder during prayer. During the prayer itself, everyone seemed to be following the bodily movements of the leader of the prayer. For example, when the leader bowed down to the ground, everyone else followed a few seconds after him. At all times, the leader was the first one to perform a new prayer movement. I also noticed that a few (maximum 3) women were holding up the Qur’an while they were praying. I did not notice any of the men performing this particular act. Seeing a few women perform this act was a bit peculiar for me, as being raised in a Sunni family, I had always been told that praying while holding the Quran was forbidden. Perhaps these few women associated with a different sect of Islam, or simply held different views, I am not too sure. 

After the prayer was over, I noticed that many of the women immediately formed small groups in which they talked to one another in their respective languages. I noticed a few Pakistani women who sat together speaking to one another in Urdu, a language I recognized because it is my mother tongue. They were simply greeting each other, and making casual conversation before parting ways and heading out of the masjid. A few women made conversation with me as well, simply introducing themselves, asking me general questions such as my name, and telling me that they hoped to see me the following week. On my second and third visits to the masjid, a few of the women who had made conversation with me in the earlier weeks recognized me, and to my surprise, greeted me warmly- some even remembered my name. I noticed during my third visit to the masjid, that there were two girls who sat at the back of the room and observed the prayer. I had guessed that they were probably observing the community and ritual in some way. I noted that the girls were wearing their scarf very loosely, where a lot of their hair actually was still left uncovered. This gave me an idea that they were probably outsiders to the community, because as an insider, I know the importance of having all the hair covered when in the masjid. A mid-aged woman approached these two teenage girls and encouraged them to stay after the prayer and join for tea and samosas. I went and spoke with these girls after the prayer had concluded, and to confirm my intuition, they were in fact non-Muslim girls who were observing the Jumah ritual for a grade 12 sociology project.

After Jumah had ended, most people left the masjid after a few minutes of socializing as described above. I made it a point to stay an extra few minutes after the prayer to record some spatial observations. I noted that the masjid was very simple, painted in a light green- almost white colour, with no paintings or posters on the walls. The only item on the walls were televisions, one which was located at the back of the prayer room which listed prayer times for the duration of the month. It was brightly lit, and offered accessible entrances in the case where a wheelchair may need to come through. The masjid was lined with soft, green carpet which was thick enough to provide comfort despite having sat on the floor throughout the entire sermon. I must note that everyone in the masjid sat on the floor, with the only exception being a few elderly individuals who sat on chairs. Washrooms were present inside the masjid with a designated area for wudhu (partial ablution). I also noted signs on the doors to the masjid which stated that no food was permitted inside the prayer room. However, I did note that many of the women carried water bottles with them inside the masjid. The masjid was very clean and well maintained. I noticed that after everyone had left, a man was walking around tidying up the space, making sure that the Qurans were lined up properly.

I do not think my presence had any impact on my observations through my three visits. As an insider in this community, someone who is familiar with the masjid and the Jumah prayer itself, I was already aware of the general rules and regulations of a masjid i.e. the fact that I had to cover my hair as a woman. I did not have much of an interaction with anyone present at the prayer until the actual prayer was over, where I introduced myself to a few women. Moreover, my presence did not seem to be impacting anyone’s actions. The women were all engaging in their rituals, such as attentively listening to the sermon, making Dua’a (prayer) and actually partaking in the congregational prayer, without looking around much at their surroundings. It seemed that everyone was quite busy in their own acts of worship to pay much attention to what others were doing, as long as the others were being quiet and respectful.

Since I had stayed back after most of the individuals had left the masjid, I asked my father if I could introduce myself to the president of the Muslim Society of Guelph. I spoke to him outside of the actual prayer rooms, and simply asked him if I could see the men’s side of the masjid. To my surprise, he was happy to allow me in, as long as prayer was not occurring. I obtained his permission to take a few photos of my surroundings, respecting his wishes to do so once the premises were relatively clear of people. He also provided me with permission to utilize any audio-visual resources which could be found on the masjid’s official website. 

[amyrlintrump]

Chapter 1

The Wheel of Time is the intellectual property of Robert Jordan, this is merely a parody based on his work. Donald J Trump absently fingered the long, seven-striped stole about his shoulders, the stole of the Amyrlin Seat, as he sat behind his wide writing table. Many would have accounted him paunchy and unimposing at first glance despite his resplendent gown of gold and scarlet silk, but a second look made it clear that the severity of his craggy, Aes Sedai face was not a momentary matter. Today there was something more, a light of anger in his dark eyes. If anyone had noticed. He barely listened to the cabinet arrayed on stools before him. Their dresses were every color from white to the darkest red, in silk or wool as each staffer's taste dictated, yet all but one wore their formal shawls, embroidered White Flame of Tar Valon centered on their backs, colored fringe proclaiming their Ajahs, as though this were a meeting of the Hall of the Tower. They discussed reports and rumors of events in the world, trying to sift fact from fancy, trying to decide the Tower’s course of action, but they seldom even glanced at the man behind the table, the man they had sworn to obey. Donald could not keep his full attention on them. They did not know what was really important. Or rather, they knew and feared to speak of it. “There is apparently something happening in Shienar.” That was Stephen Miller, skinny and balding, the only Brown sister present. Green and Yellow also had only one sister apiece, and none of the three Ajahs was pleased about that. There were no Blues. Now Miller's beady eyes looked thoughtfully inward; an unnoticed ink smudge stained his cheek, and his dark gray wool dress was rumpled. “There are rumors of skirmishes. Not with Mexicans, and not Muslims, though raids through the Niamh Passes appear to have increased. Between Shienarans. Unusual for the Borderlands. They rarely fight each other.” “If they intend to have a civil war, they have chosen the proper time for it,” Steve Bannon said coolly. Pink and corpulent and all in white silk, he was the only one without a shawl. The stole of the Keeper around his shoulders was white also, to show he had been raised from the White Ajah. Not Red, Donald's former Ajah, as tradition held. Whites were always cool. “The Mexicans might as well have vanished. The entire Mexican border seems quiet enough for two farmers and a novice to guard.” Michael Flynn's bony fingers shuffled papers on his lap, though he did not look at them. One of four Red sisters there—more than any other Ajah—he ran Donald a close second for severity, though no one had ever thought him plump. “Better perhaps if it did not be so quiet,” Flynn said, his Illianer accent strong. “I did receive a message this morning that the Marshal-General of Saldaea does have an army on the move. No toward Mexico, but in the opposite direction. He would no ever have done that if Mexico did no seem to be asleep.” “Then word of Mazrim Taim is seeping out.” Bannon could have been discussing the weather or the price of carpets instead of a potential disaster. Much effort had gone into capturing Taim, and as much into hiding his escape. No good to the Tower if the world learned they could not hold on to a false Dragon once he was taken. “And it seems that Queen Tenobia, or Davram Bashere, or both, thinks we cannot be trusted to deal with him again.” Dead quiet fell at the mention of Taim. The man could channel—he had been on his way to Tar Valon to be stilled, cut off from the One Power forever, when he was broken free—yet that was not what curbed tongues. Once the existence of a man able to channel the One Power had been the deepest anathema; hunting such men down was the main reason of existence for the Red, and every Ajah helped as it could. But now most of the cabinet beyond the table shifted on their stools, refusing to meet each other’s eyes, because speaking of Taim brought them too close to another subject they did not want to speak aloud. Even Donald felt bile rise in his stomach. Apparently Bannon experienced no such reluctance. One corner of his mouth quirked momentarily in what might have been a smile or grimace. “I will redouble our efforts to retake Taim. And I suggest that a sister be dispatched to counsel Tenobia. Someone used to overcoming the sort of resistance that young woman will put up.” Others rushed to help fill the silence. Rex Tillerson shifted his green-fringed shawl on slender shoulders and smiled, though it seemed a bit forced. “Yes. She needs an Aes Sedai at her shoulder. Someone able to handle Bashere. He has excessive influence with Tenobia. He must move his army back where it can be used if Mexico wakes up.” Too much bosom showed in the gap of his shawl, and his pale green silk was too snug, too clinging. And he smiled too much for Donald's liking. Especially at men. Greens always did. “The last thing we need now is another army on the march,” Sean Spicer, the Yellow sister, said quickly. A slightly plump man, he had somehow never really managed the outward calm of Aes Sedai; there was often a strain of anxiety around his eyes, and more so of late. “And someone to Shienar,” added KellyAnn Conway, another Red. Despite smooth cheeks, her angular face was hard enough to hammer nails. Her voice was harsh. “I don’t like trouble of this sort in the Borderlands. The last thing we need is Shienar weakening itself to the point where a Mexican army could break through.” “Perhaps.” Bannon nodded, considering. “But there are agents in Shienar—Red, I am sure, and perhaps others?—” The four Red sisters nodded tightly, reluctantly; no one else did. “—who can warn us if these small clashes become anything to worry us.” It was an open secret that every Ajah except the White, devoted to logic and philosophy as it was, had watchers and listeners scattered through the nations to varying degrees, though the Yellow network was believed to be a pitiful thing. There was nothing of sickness or Healing they could learn from those who could not channel. Some individual sisters had their own eyes-and-ears, though perhaps even more closely guarded than agents of the Ajahs. The Blues had had the most extensive, both Ajah and personal. “As for Tenobia and Davram Bashere,” Bannon went on, “are we agreed that they must be dealt with by sisters?” He hardly waited for heads to nod. “Good. It is done. Now. Does anyone have fresh word out of Arad Doman or Tarabon? If we do not do something there soon, we may find that Pedron Niall and the Whitecloaks have sway from Bandar Eban to the Shadow Coast. Jeff Sessions, you have something?” Arad Doman and Tarabon were racked by civil wars, and worse. There was no order anywhere. Elaida was surprised they would bring it up. “Only a rumor,” the Gray sister replied. His silk dress, matching the fringe on his shawl, was finely cut and scooped low at the neck. Often Donald thought the man should have been Green, so concerned was he with his looks and clothes. “Almost everyone in those poor lands is a refugee, including those who might send news. The Panarch Amathera has apparently vanished, and it seems an Aes Sedai may have been involved . . . ” Donald's hand tightened on his stole. Nothing touched his face, but his eyes smoldered. The matter of the Saldaean army was done. But they had not even asked his opinion. It was done. The startling possibility that an Aes Sedai was involved in the disappearance of the Panarch—if this was not another of the thousand improbable tales that drifted from the western coast—could not take Donald's mind from that. There were Aes Sedai scattered from the Aryth Ocean to the Spine of the World, and the Blues at least might do anything. Less than two months since they had all knelt to swear fealty to him as the embodiment of the White Tower, and now the decision was made without so much as a glance in his direction. The Amyrlin’s study sat only a few levels up in the White Tower, yet this room was the heart of the Tower as surely as the Tower itself, the color of bleached bone, was the heart of the great island city of Tar Valon, cradled in the River Erinin. And Tar Valon was, or should be, the heart of the world. The room spoke of the power wielded by the long line of men who had occupied it, floor of polished redstone from the Mountains of Mist, tall fireplace of golden Kandori marble, walls paneled in pale, oddly striped wood marvelously carved with unknown birds and beasts more than a thousand years ago. Stone like glittering pearls framed the tall, arched windows that let onto the balcony overlooking the Amyrlin’s private garden, the only stone like it known, salvaged from a nameless city swallowed by the Sea of Storms during the Breaking of the World. A room of power, a reflection of Amyrlins who had made thrones dance to their calling for nearly three thousand years. And they did not even ask his opinion. It happened too often, this slighting. Worst—most bitter of all, perhaps—they usurped his authority without even thinking of it. They knew how he had come to the stole, knew Comey's and Russia's aid had put it on his shoulders. He himself had been too much aware of that. But they presumed too far. It would soon be time to do something about that. But not quite yet. He had put his own stamp on the room, as much as possible, with a writing table ornately carved in triple-linked rings and a heavy chair that raised an inlaid ivory Flame of Tar Valon above his puff of golden hair like a large snowy teardrop. Three boxes of Altaran lacquerwork were arranged on the table, precisely equidistant from each other; one held the finest of his collection of carved miniatures. A white vase on a simple plinth against one wall held golden roses that filled the room with sweet fragrance. There had been no rain since he was raised, but fine blossoms were always available with the Power; he had always liked golden roses. They could be so easily pruned and trained to produce beauty. Two paintings hung where, seated, he could see them merely by lifting her head. The others avoided looking at them; among all the Aes Sedai who came to Donald's study, only Bannon ever so much as glanced at them. “Is there any news of Elayne?” Sessions asked diffidently. “Or Galad? If Morgase discovers that we have lost her stepson, she may begin to ask more questions concerning the whereabouts of her daughter, yes? And if she learns we have lost the Daughter-Heir, Andor may become as closed to us as Amadicia.” A few men shook their heads—there was no news, and Conway said, “A Red sister is in place in the Royal Palace. Newly raised, so she can easily pass for other than Aes Sedai.  She is well trained, though, quite strong, and a good observer. Morgase is absorbed in putting forward her claim to the Cairhienin throne.” Several advisers shifted on their stools, and as if realizing he had stepped close to dangerous ground, Conway hurried on. “And her new lover, Lord Gaebril, seems to be keeping her occupied otherwise.” Her thin mouth narrowed even further. “She is completely besotted with the man.” “He keeps her concentrated on Cairhien,” Bannon said. “The situation there is nearly as bad as in Tarabon and Arad Doman, with every House contending for the Sun Throne, and famine everywhere. Morgase will reestablish order, but it will take time for her to have the throne secure. Until that is done, she will have little energy left to worry about other matters, even the Daughter-Heir. And I set a clerk the task of sending occasional letters; the woman does a good imitation of Elayne’s hand. Morgase will keep until we can secure proper control of her again.” “At least we still have her son in hand.” Tillerson smiled. “Gawyn do hardly be in hand,” Flynn said sharply. “Those Younglings of his do skirmish with Whitecloaks on both sides of the river. He does act on his own as much as at our direction.” “He will be brought under control,” Bannon said. Donald was beginning to find that constant cool composure hateful. “Speaking of the Whitecloaks,” Miller put in, “it appears that Pedron Niall is conducting secret negotiations, trying to convince Altara and Murandy to cede land to Illian, and thus keep the Council of Nine from invading one or both.” Safely back from the precipice, the women on the other side of the table nattered on, deciding whether the Lord Captain Commander’s negotiations might gain too much influence for the Children of the Light. Perhaps they should be disrupted so the Tower could step in and replace him. Trump's mouth twisted. The Tower had often in its history been cautious of necessity—too many feared them, too many distrusted them—but it had never feared anything or anyone. Now, it feared. He raised his eyes to the paintings. One consisted of three wooden panels depicting Nixon, the last Red to have been raised to the Amyrlin Seat, a thousand years before, and the reason no Red had worn the stole since. Until Donald. Nixon, tall and proud, ordering Aes Sedai in their manipulations of Artur Hawkwing; Nixon, defiant, on the white walls of Tar Valon, under siege by Hawkwing’s forces; and Nixon, kneeling and humbled, before the Hall of the Tower as they stripped him of stole and staff for nearly destroying the Tower. Many wondered why Donald had had the triptych retrieved from the storerooms where it had lain covered in dust; if none spoke openly, he had still heard the whispers. They did not understand that constant reminder of the price of failure was necessary. The second painting was in the new fashion, on stretched canvas, a copy of a street artist’s sketch from the distant west. That one caused even more unease among the Aes Sedai who saw it. It was of a black man parasailing, tall and dark, with graying hair. It was the negro who caused the fear, who made even Donald's teeth clench. He was not sure if it was in anger, or to keep them from chattering. But fear could and must be controlled. Control was all. “We are done, then,” Bannon said, rising smoothly from his stool. The others copied him, adjusting skirts and shawls in preparation for leaving. “In three days, I will expect—” “Have I given you leave to go, daughters?” Those were the first words Donald had spoken since telling them to be seated. They looked at him in surprise. Surprise! Some moved back toward the stools, but not with any haste. And not a word of apology. He had let this go on much too long. “Since you are standing, you will remain so until I am done.” A moment of confusion caught those half-seated, and he continued as they straightened again uncertainly. “I have heard no mention of the search for that woman and her companions.” No need to name that woman, Donald's former opponent. They knew who he meant, and Donald found it harder every day even to think the former rival's name. All of his current problems—all!—could be laid at that woman’s feet. “It is difficult,” Bannon said evenly, “since we have bolstered the rumors that she died of pneumonia.” The man had ice for blood. Donald met his eyes firmly until he added a belated “Mother,” but it too was placid, even casual. Donald swung his gaze to the others, made his voice steel. “Tillerson, you have charge of that search, and of the investigation of her escape. In both cases I hear of nothing but difficulties. Perhaps a daily penance will help you increase your diligence, daughter. Write out what you think suitable and submit it to me. Should I find it—less than suitable, I will triple it.” Tillerson's ever-present smile faded in satisfactory fashion. He opened his mouth, then closed it again under Donald's steady stare. Finally, he curtsied deeply. “As you command, Mother.” The words were tight, the meekness forced, but it would do. For now. “And what of trying to bring back those who fled?” If anything, Donald's tone was even harder. The return of the Aes Sedai who had run away when that woman was defeated meant the return of Blues to the Tower. He was not sure he could ever trust any Blue. But then, he was not sure he could ever bring himself to trust any who had fled instead of hailing his ascension. Yet the Tower must be whole again. Conway was overseeing that task. “Again, there are difficulties.” Her features remained as severe as ever, but she licked her lips quickly at the storm that swept silently across Donald's face. “Mother.” Donald shook his head. “I will not hear of difficulties, daughter. Tomorrow you will place before me a list of everything you have done, including all measures taken to see the world does not learn of any dissension in the Tower.” That was deadly important; there was a new Amyrlin, but the world must see the Tower as united and strong as ever. “If you do not have enough time for the work I give you, perhaps you should give up your place as Sitter for the Red in the Hall. I must consider it.” “That will not be necessary, Mother,” the hard-faced woman said hurriedly. “You will have the report you require tomorrow. I am sure many will start returning soon.” Donald was not so certain; however much he wanted it—the Tower must be strong; it must!—but his point was made. Troubled thoughtfulness marked every eye but Bannon’s. If Donald was ready to come down on one of his own former Ajah, and even harder on a Green who had been with him from the first day, perhaps they had made a mistake in treating him as a ceremonial effigy. Perhaps they had helped put him on the Amyrlin Seat, but now he was the Amyrlin. A few more examples in the coming days should drive it home. If necessary, he would have everyone here doing penance till they begged mercy. “There are Tairen soldiers in Cairhien, as well as Andoran,” he went on, ignoring averted eyes. “Tairen soldiers sent by the man who took the Stone of Tear.” Spicer clasped his plump hands tight, and Flynn flinched. Only Bannon remained unruffled as a frozen pond. Donald flung out his hand and pointed to the painting of black man parasailing. “Look at it. Look! Or I will have every last one of you on hands and knees scrubbing floors! If you have not the backbone even to look at a painting, what courage can you have for what is to come? Cowards are no use to the Tower!” Slowly they raised their eyes, shuffling feet like nervous girls instead of Aes Sedai. Only Bannon merely looked, and only he appeared untouched. Spicer wrung his hands, and tears actually welled in his eyes. Something would have to be done about Spicer. “Barack Hussein Obama. A man who can channel.” The words left Donald's mouth like a whip. They made his own stomach knot up till he feared he might vomit. Somehow he kept his face smooth and pressed on, pushed the words out, stones from a sling. “A man fated to go mad and wreak horror with the Power before he dies. But more than that. Arad Doman and Tarabon and everything between is a ruin of rebellion because of him. If the war and famine in Cairhien cannot be tied to him of a certainty, he surely precipitates a greater war there, between Tear and Andor, when the Tower needs peace! In Ghealdan, some mad Shienaran preaches of him to crowds too great for Alliandre’s army to contain. The greatest danger the Tower has ever faced, the greatest threat the world has ever faced, and you cannot make yourselves speak of him? You cannot gaze at his image?” Silence answered him. All save Bannon looked as though their tongues were frozen. Most stared at the black man in the painting, birds hypnotized by a snake. “Barack Hussein Obama.” The name tasted bitter on Donald's lips. Once he had had that man, so innocent in appearance, within arm’s reach. And he had not seen what he was. His rival had known—had known for the Light alone knew how long, and had left him to run wild. That woman had told him a great deal before escaping, had said things, when put hard to the question, that Donald would not let himself believe—if the Forsaken were truly free, all might be lost—but somehow she had managed to refuse some answers. And then escaped before she could be put to the question again. That woman and the Blue had known all along. Donald intended to have her both back in the Tower. She would tell every last scrap of what she knew. She would plead on her knees for death before he was done. He forced himself to go on, though the words curdled in his mouth. “Barack Hussein Obama is the Dragon Reborn, daughters.” Spicer's knees gave way, and he sat down hard on the floor. Some of the others appeared to have weak knees as well. Donald's eyes flogged them with scorn. “There can be no doubt of it. He is the one spoken of in the Prophecies. The Dark One is breaking free of his prison, the Last Battle is coming, and the Dragon Reborn must be there to face him or the world is doomed to fire and destruction so long as the Wheel of Time turns. And he runs free, daughters. We do not know where he is. We know a dozen places he is not. He is no longer in Tear. He is not here in the Tower, safely shielded, as he should be. He brings the whirlwind down on the world, and we must stop it if there is to be any hope of surviving Tarmon Gai’don. We must have him in hand to see he fights in the Last Battle. Or do any of you believe he will go willingly to his prophesied death to save the world? A man who must be going mad already? We must have him in control!” “Mother,” Bannon began with that irritating lack of emotion, but Donald stopped him with a glare. “Putting our hands on Obama is more important by far than skirmishes in Shienar or whether Mexico is quiet, more important than finding Elayne or Galad, more important even than Mazrim Taim. You will find him. You will! When next I see you, each of you will be ready to tell me in detail what you have done to make it so. Now you may leave me, daughters.” A ripple of unsteady curtsies, breathy murmurs of “As you command, Mother,” and they came close to running, Tillerson helping Spicer wobbling to his feet. The Yellow sister would do nicely for the next example; some would be necessary, to make sure none of them slid back, and he was too weak to be allowed in this council. Of course, this council would not be allowed to continue much longer in any case. The Hall would hear his words, and leap. All save Bannon went. For a long moment after the door had closed behind the others, the two men met each other’s eyes. Bannon had been the first, the very first, to hear and agree with the charges against his then-rival. And Bannon knew full well why he wore the Keeper’s stole instead of someone from the Red. The Red Ajah had favored Donald unanimously, but the White had not done so, and without wholehearted support from the White, many others might not have come round, in which case Donald would have been in a cell instead of sitting on the Amyrlin Seat. That is, if the remains of his head were not decorating a spike for the ravens to play with. Bannon would not be so easily intimidated as the others. If he could be intimidated at all. There was a disturbing feel of equal-to-equal in Bannon’s unwavering gaze. A tap at the door sounded loud in the quiet. “Come!” Donald snapped. One of the Accepted, a pale, slender girl, stepped hesitantly into the room and immediately dropped a curtsy so low her white skirt with its seven bands of color at the hem made a wide pool around her on the floor. From the wideness of her blue eyes and the way she kept them on the floor, she had caught the mood of the staffers leaving. Where Aes Sedai left shaking, an Accepted went at great peril. “M-Mother, Master P-Putin is here. He said you w-would see him at th-this hour.” The girl swayed in her crouch, on the point of falling over from stark fear. “Then send him in, girl, instead of keeping him waiting,” Donald growled, but he would have had the girl’s hide if she had not kept the man outside. The anger he held back from Bannon—he would not let himself think that he did not dare show it—that anger welled up. “And if you cannot learn to speak properly, perhaps the kitchens are a better place for you than the Amyrlin’s anteroom. Well? Are you going to do as you were told? Move, girl! And tell the Mistress of Novices you need to be taught to obey with alacrity!” The girl squeaked something that might have been a correct response and darted out. With an effort, Donald got hold of himself. It did not concern him whether Becky DeVos, the new Mistress of Novices, beat the girl to incoherence or let her off with a lecture. He barely saw novices or Accepted unless they intruded on him, and cared less. It was Bannon he wanted humbled and on his knees. But Putin, now. He tapped one finger against his puffy lips. A stoic, powerful man, who had appeared at the Tower only days earlier in heavy military boots and camo pants, his meaty bare chest glistening with man-sweat, seeking audience with the Amyrlin. Oh how masculine he was, with his riveting accent and cool eyes.  If not for the long list of pillow-friends Donald kept he would have peppered Putin's chiseled jaw with gilded kisses. Bannon was still looking at him, so icily complacent, just a hint in his eyes of the questions he must have about Putin. Donald's face hardened. Almost he reached for saidar, the female half of the True Source, to teach the man his place with the Power. But that was not the way. Bannon might even resist, and fighting like a farmgirl in a stableyard was no method for the Amyrlin to make his authority plain. Yet Bannon would learn to yield to him as surely as the others would. The first step would be leaving Bannon in the dark concerning Master Putin. __________ Vladamir Putin put the frantic young Accepted out of his mind as he stepped into the Amyrlin’s study; he was a toothsome bit, and Putin liked them fluttering like birds in the hand, but there were more important matters to concentrate on now. Smearing another dollop of baby oil on his chest, he ducked his head suitably low, suitably humbly, but the two awaiting him seemed unaware of his presence at first, locked eye-to-eye as they were. It was all he could do not to stretch out a hand to caress the tension between them. Tension and division wove everywhere through the White Tower. All to the good. Tension could be tweaked, division exploited, as need be. He had been surprised to find Donald Trump on the Amyrlin Seat. Better than what he had expected, though. In many ways he was not so tough, he had heard, as the woman who had sought the stole before him. Harder, yes, and more cruel, but more brittle, too. More difficult to bend, likely, but easier to break. If either became necessary. Still, one Aes Sedai, one Amyrlin even, was much like another to him. Fools. Dangerous fools, true, but useful dupes at times. Finally they realized he was there, the Amyrlin frowning slightly at being taken by surprise, the Keeper of the Chronicles unchanging. “You may go now, daughter,” Trump said firmly, a slight but definite emphasis on “now.” Oh, yes. The tensions, the cracks in power. Cracks where seeds could be planted. Putin caught himself on the point of giggling. Steve Bannon hesitated before giving the briefest of curtsies. As he swept out of the room, his eyes brushed across Putin, expressionless yet disconcerting. Unconsciously he huddled, bunching his shoulders protectively; his upper lip fluttered in a half-snarl at his flabby back. On occasion he had the feeling, just for an instant, that he knew too much about him, but he could not have said why. Bannon's cool face, cool eyes, they never changed. At those times he wanted to make them change. Fear. Agony. Pleading. He nearly laughed at the thought. No point, of course. Bannon could know nothing. Patience, and he could be done with him and his never-changing eyes. The Tower held things worth a little patience in its strong rooms. The Horn of Valere was there, the fabled Horn made to call dead heroes back from the grave for the Last Battle. Even most of the Aes Sedai were ignorant of that, but he knew how to sniff out things. The dagger was there. He felt its pull where he stood. He could have pointed to it. It was his, a part of him, stolen and mired away here by these Aes Sedai. Having the dagger would make up for so much lost; he was not sure how, but he was sure it would. For Aridhol lost. Too dangerous to return to Aridhol, perchance to be trapped there again. He shivered. So long trapped. Not again. Of course, no one called it Aridhol any longer, but Shadar Logoth. Where the Shadow Waits. An apt name. So much had changed. Even himself. Vladamir Putin. Mordeth. Ordeith. Sometimes he was uncertain which name was really his, who he really was. One thing was sure. He was not what anyone thought. Those who believed they knew him were badly mistaken. He was transfigured, now. A force unto himself, and beyond any other power. They would all learn, eventually. Suddenly he realized with a start that the Amyrlin had said something. Casting about in his mind, he found it. “Yes, Mother, the pants suit me very well.” He ran a hand down the mottled pattern of green and brown and gray to show how fine he found it, as if garments mattered. “ ’Tis a very good pair. I am thanking you kindly, Mother.” He was prepared to suffer more of Trump trying to make him feel at ease, ready to kneel and kiss his ring, but this time he went straight to the heart. “Tell me more of what you know of Barack Obama, Master Putin.” Putin's eyes went to the painting of the parasailing black man, and as he gazed at it, his back straightened. Obama's portrait tugged at him almost as much as the man would, sent rage and hate roiling along his veins. Because of that man he had suffered pain beyond remembering, pain he did not let himself remember, suffered far worse than pain. He had been broken and remade because of Obama. Of course, that remaking gave him the means of revenge, but that was beside the point. Beside his desire for Obama's destruction, everything else dimmed from sight. When he turned back to the Trump, he did not realize his manner was as commanding as the Amyrlin's, meeting him stare for stare. “Barack Hussein Obama is devious and sly, uncaring of anyone or anything but his own power.” Fool man. “He’s never a one to do what you expect.” But if he could put Obama in his hands . . . “He is difficult to lead—very difficult—but I believe it can be done. First you must tie a string to one of the few he trusts . . . ” If Trump gave him Obama, Putin might leave him alive when he finally went, even if he was Aes Sedai.

[judefan825-blog]

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[thetruthseekerway]

The Islamic Jesus

New Post has been published on http://www.truth-seeker.info/oasis-of-faith/the-islamic-jesus/

The Islamic Jesus

By Mustafa Akyol

Throughout the whole Qur’an, there is only one woman mentioned by her name. She is exceptionally praised, as someone that God “has chosen over all other women.” There is a long chapter named after her, and even another chapter named after her family.

Guess who she is. Those unfamiliar with the Qur’an might suspect that she must be someone related to the Prophet Muhammad — maybe his mother, or his wife, or his daughter. She is, however, none other than Mary, the mother of Jesus.

Jesus himself is also venerated throughout the Qur’an. We read that he was born of a virgin, he was “the Messiah,” and he performed amazing miracles. The Qur’an even calls Jesus “the Word of God” — a very powerful term, especially for those who are familiar with the beginning of the Gospel of John.

These are just some of the many facts that can make a Christian warm up to the Qur’an. However, the same Qur’an also denounces key aspects of Christianity — such as the divinity of Jesus, and the Doctrine of Trinity.

That is the case, for every new religion that comes into being says something about the earlier ones. That is why while the Old Testament is totally silent on Christians, the New Testament has certain teaching about Jews. Similarly, while the New Testament is totally silent on Muslims, the Qur’an has certain teachings about both Jews and Christians.

Some of these Qur’anic teachings about the former monotheistic faiths are appreciative. The Qur’an says that Muslims believe in the same God with Jews and Christians, and Muhammad is just another prophet in the line of Abraham or Moses. Other teachings of the Qur’an, however, are critical. Jews are criticized for being disobedient to the prophets God sent to them — including Jesus. Christians, on the other hand, are criticized for divinizing Jesus — who is, for the Qur’an, an exceptionally holy servant of God, but still a servant of God.

Like other faith communities often do about their texts, Muslims often go “selective” about these diverse themes in the Qur’an. Those Muslims who seek harmony with Christians focus on the commonalities between Islam and Christianity. They see the Islamic Jesus, in other words, as a bridge between the two faiths. Other Muslims who are hostile to Christians — out of political grievances, or mere religious bigotry — see the Islamic Jesus as a gap.

A careful re-reading of the Qur’an, however, suggests that the gap might be narrower than even what the mainstream Islamic tradition has considered.

Consider the term, “Son of God,” which the Qur’an condemns. Muslims are typically appalled by the term, seeing it as an insult against God. When one looks at the terminology of the Qur’an, however, a nuance emerges. In Arabic, there are two different terms for “son”: Walad, which is always a biological son, and ibn, which can be a metaphorical son. And while the Qur’an rebukes those who say, “God has a son,” it almost always uses the word, walad. It condemns, in other words, the notion of a deity who has sired a child through sexual intercourse with a woman. No wonder it proclaims: “God has taken neither a wife nor a son.”

When we look at the context of the Qur’an, the discussion becomes clearer. Pre-Islamic pagan Arabs believed in an array of carnal deities who — just like the Greek gods — had wives, daughters, and sons. So, perhaps, the Qur’an’s condemnation of divine filiation was directed at Arab polytheism — Islam’s archenemy — rather than Christianity.

Some medieval Muslim scholars, such as Al-Razi, the great exegete of the Qur’an, had noted this nuance and argued that Jesus’ “sonship” to God was perhaps a metaphor, just like Abraham’s “friendship” to God, a concept with which Muslims have no problem. But today that nuance is lost to most Muslims.

Another bone of contention between Christians and Muslims is the latter’s common denial of Crucifixion. This is based on a much-discussed Qur’anic verse about Jesus that reads: “They did not kill him, nor did they crucify him, but it was made to appear like that to them.” Most Muslim commentators have interpreted this by suggesting that someone else was crucified instead of Jesus— curiously reminding an early Christian heresy called “Docetism.”

However, the Qur’an’s polemic above is directed not at Christians, but a certain group of Jews. It says that Jews did not kill or crucify Jesus. It does not say that nobody else — such as the Romans — killed nor crucified Jesus.

These are just a few of the many points that I call on fellow Muslims to reconsider about Christianity in my new book: “The Islamic Jesus: How the King of the Jews Became a Prophet of the Muslims.” But I also call on Christians to reconsider Islam. One reason is that Islam’s peculiar view of Jesus — venerating him as the prophet and Messiah of God, but not as divine — is rooted within Christianity itself. In particular, “Jewish Christianity,” a heterodox strain in the early Church that followed Jesus as the Messiah but also kept following the Jewish Law, has teachings that strongly resemble those of the Qur’an — a much-overlooked fact that opens intriguing questions about the origins of Islam.

Finally, the most important bridge Jesus offers between Christianity and Islam is his wisdom. The nature of Christ will continue to be a gap between the two faiths, but the teachings of Christ on faith, law, and morals are binding.

Muslims, in fact, desperately need that wisdom today, as I argue, for they suffer from the exact same problem that Jesus saw at the Pharisees of his time: Obsessing about the minute details of religious law while forgetting its moral purposes.

Hence I argue in my book: We Muslims do not worship Jesus as Christians do, yet still, we can follow him. He, after all, is the very prophet whose “Second Coming” is foretold in the Islamic tradition. Maybe that is what Prophet Muhammad really meant when he told his followers: “I am the beginning of this community, and Jesus the end.”

———

Mustafa Akyol is the author of the newly released, The Islamic Jesus: How the King of the Jews Became a Prophet of the Muslims.

Taken with slight editorial modifications from Huffington Post.

[habibialkaysani]

okay, let me preface this with a little note about my identity. I am a queer, mentally ill muslim british cis woman of colour. specifically, I was born in britain and my parents both hail from bangladesh. I am not white or black or latinx. so my opinions will - understandably, I hope - be from the perspective I am offering based on the intersecting parts of my identity.

so, let’s start with that. as a nonblack woc, I think it’s pretty patronising to be told that you don’t have to be black to be a person of colour. I know that. I don’t need that explained to me when I am literally not even black to start with. nowhere in my post did I say a mixed race pairing requires a black person. of course it would be interracial if someone was latinx. rene/thea is interracial. so is cisco/caitlin, and amy/jake, and those are just off the top of my head. pairings involving asian people are also interracial - wally/linda, for instance, and lena/jack. and while not latinx myself, I am aware of the issues latinx people face, enough for me to know that of course they are people of colour. I never said that latinx people face the exact same struggles as black people. I know they don’t, although they do overlap at least insofar that they’re groups that deserve far better.

my focus on black people in this post, btw, was partly to address the antiblackness I see in my own racial community. but also, me making the focus on antiblackness in my post does nothing in and of itself to dismiss other poc or, as you’ve suggested, throw other poc under the bus.

and that brings me to my main point. as far as I was aware, for a character to be considered racial representation and thus a person of colour onscreen, I thought the person portraying that character had to be, at the very, very least, a person of colour also and preferably also at least the same race as the character purports to be.

let me put this another way. as a desi woman, I would not have considered jack spheer to be desi if he was portrayed by a white actor who’s a bit tanned, calls himself bengali onscreen and calls his mother “amma” and, idk, eats rice and curry every day, and thus I would not consider him bengali representation because he was whitewashed. I was under the impression that a similar logic could be applied here, because, yes, maggie calls herself nonwhite and andrew kreisberg called her latina and she spoke spanish to her father, but floriana lima is still white. if you personally feel like whitewashed representation counts as representation, fine. but to me, sanvers is just another white wlw ship that the racist white non straight fandom flocked to because god forbid they give an interracial ship, irrespective of genders, a chance. I listed it because I was trying to make that very point - and, absolutely, if maggie were portrayed by an actual latinx actress, I would never suggest that sanvers is the same representation wise as clexa, wayhaught, cophine, avalance, etc., because there would be a person of colour who could potentially make the pairing important and groundbreaking and different. but she’s not. floriana is white. chyler is white.

now, I don’t know a lot of latinx people on here, so I’m not sure what the general consensus is on this. but I have seen latinx people speak out against maggie being whitewashed. at the same time, I fully acknowledge that I am not latinx myself, so if you think that representation that is so watered down and in your own words flawed is still adequate, fine. but put simply, me slighting maggie sawyer or sanvers with regards to racial representation isn’t me slighting latinx people at all. because maggie, to me, at least, and to a fair few others, isn’t truly latinx when she is portrayed by a tanned white actress. just like an ~exotic-looking white woman does not desi representation make. *coughamyjacksoncough*

I feel like poc should be in solidarity with each other. and if I said anything against samantha arias, rosa diaz, amy santiago, cisco ramon, rene ramirez or any of the other latinx characters on tv who are genuinely portrayed by actual latinxs, I do apologise. but in this instance, I can’t in good conscience consider maggie a woman of colour when the actress portraying her is white and she is clearly whitewashed, and therefore, I don’t see sanvers as a truly interracial relationship when they clearly are not in reality.

fandom racism is a huge problem, I agree. but you pointing this out doesn’t help. in this instance, I’m pretty sure it was supergirl and floriana lima who whitewashed a character who was meant to be a woc, not the fandom. the fandom whitewashing actual poc played by poc is what you should be calling out - zari tomaz, for instance, is often whitewashed in edits, and people assume sameen shaw is white even though she’s persian. people lauding chyler leigh and caity lotz, two straight white women, for being lgbt ~allies when maisie richardson sellers and keiynan lonsdale, two non-straight black people, are right there being as straight and white as a rainbow, is fandom racism. the 100 fandom practically starting a riot over a fridged white lesbian who wore brownface and a bindi and then staying radio silent or, worse, defending poussey washington’s death is what you call fandom racism.

I get that you mean well, but I did not say anywhere in my post that I felt nonblack poc were in any way less important than black people. me focusing on one race of people in no way diminishes the importance of other (nonwhite) races. if you truly consider maggie sawyer a woman of colour, good for you. I don’t, and I won’t until they decide to recast her with an actual latinx person (which is highly unlikely). so please don’t assume all other poc share your view, and don’t label my behaviour as ignorant or careless. 

- same anon as before, that's understanable. and i'm sorry for the racism that you do get. i'm glad you're able to just ignore it, and that most people respect you. (and for the a*dena,l*xa,s*ra thing) that makes sense. i like them all as characters. but the fandom saying that l*xa is wearing the helm of awe? (not sure if that's what they call it, but it is a bindi, that's just awful. s*ra being shipped with only white women, makes sense. i haven't watched lot for awhile. - p1

p2. but i did hear about the fandom shipping her with “new” character called a*ya? ev*? i’m not sure. and i was a bit confused, if they had like 5 lines together. (if ev*) now that i think about it, she is white right?

yeah, her name is ava, and they’re clearly building up to it and that’s - whatever, but just. five white women and one fleeting poc (leonard) and one woc who isn’t even mentioned by name this season does not diversity make. 

it’s sad that that more subtle racism exists, but what’s sadder is that fandoms on the whole don’t want to admit that it’s a thing and that we’re complicit in that racism. and I say “we” because I’m guilty of it too. I remember when I was watching poi and I was for some reason reluctant to ship carter with reese. just like how I was initially reluctant to ship sara with jax romantically. even tho in both cases the ships had wonderful dynamics. I’m not saying that everyone who brotps them is racist. but this refusal to view black people as love interests for white people is definitely a worrying trend - look at finn in star wars, for example, or even iris west with barry allen and to some extent amaya jiwe with nate heywood. it’s this less blatant racism that most if not the vast majority of us are guilty of to some degree that I think we need to recognise in ourselves and try to do better with. and that doesn’t mean you can’t ship sara with ava, or kara with lena or cat, or, hell, even maggie with alex, but I just think we also have to recognise that that racist bias exists and is a real thing, and, I don’t know, just try to do better by taking a step back and seeing where that racism inherent in all of us is manifesting itself.

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Manoj Dr Zakir Naik never visits this page. How idiotic of you to say that he deleted your comments. He is not so free that he sits and reads your vulgar comments. U call Dr.Zakir Naik A terrorist? Terrorist is someone who kills people….if u r a little logical then tell me who was killed by Zakir?  people killing in the name beef .God Found Some Of The Strongest Men And Made Them Teachers Shirt. i dont know why haryana Gujarat uttar Pradesh karnataka Rajasthan muslims silent in this issue. if any one is trying to kill u , u can kill him. this is moral of quron and our country law.

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if u are not ready to protect u then no one protect even allah dont protect u……why prophet and his friends created army and made war against who was trying to kill them ….if they kill a innocent then you should kill the one of culprit . then they will kill two or more innocents then u should kill one or more culprit.. it is going on continiously.. then our country split no of countries…internal war will be occured between people communities… if they identified atlast it leads to splitting of country then they will have fear and automatically stop killing innocents….why u are killed merely with out doing any wrong . if u killed more culprits and lost ur life then u will get sahid in this world and that world

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yes god is independent. it is mentioned in quraan..Verily, His command, when He intends a thing, is only that He says to it, “Be!”– and it is!) [Surah Yasin:82). why speak big things if you don’t understand? Where India ever had Social security till 2014??? affordable life insurances etc were introduced recently. She needs custom, not made to measure. There is a difference. Made to measure uses a block pattern that they modify based on your measurements, but there is only so much you can modify when starting with a pattern. When you get custom, there are more measurements and the pattern used to make the clothing is made from scratch with your measurements.

God Found Some Of The Strongest Men And Made Them Teachers Ladies Tee

God Found Some Of The Strongest Men And Made Them Teachers Shirt, V-Neck, Tank-Top, Long Sleeve T-Shirt

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Exactly. There are rolls and plops of fat on a lot of people that won’t allow for made-to-measure. I know my funky hip fat thingies won’t fly in this sort of gear.  I sell custom and it drives me crazy when places like Jos a bank tell you they now offer custom, when really it is made to measure, made to measure it’s fine for some. But not for most.   Yes Sarah i agree, i work for a small sewing shop where we make custom costumes and I was an Alterations manager at David’s Bridal and ohhh the horror stories about sewing for people and their expectations on fit.

God Found Some Of The Strongest Men And Made Them Teachers Unisex Tank Top

Part of the problem is not just tailoring it’s picking the right clothing for your shape and frame. I have been in woman’s clothing for over 30 years. Her body shape is an inverted Triangle with a slight hint of Oval. She is also petite with a very short torso. Empire waists are great for this. The pencil skirt was great, the yellow skirt made her look frumpy & square because the fit was off and Bunchy. Love the crop top but a slightly longer fitted pencil or fit n flare skirt in yellow or any color would have been More flattering.

God Found Some Of The Strongest Men And Made Them Teachers Unisex Longsleeve Tee

She has shoulders that are broader than her hips so she must pick lines that accentuate her hips and waist to even out her broader shoulder. The polka dot shirt no matter how it was tailored was not a good choice for her. The Red Dress if tailored correctly with accurate measurements would have been a home run choice. God Found Some Of The Strongest Men And Made Them Teachers Shirt. Look at how the v neck takes away from the shoulder span and accentuates her curve to appear more hour glass. Bottom line is just ordering things to your measurements does not work unless you are picking the correct shapes for your frame. Best to do your homework first before randomly ordering items because you like them. Also be sure you are taking accurate measurements. If woman could buy “anything” and look great in it retail would be booming.