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headcanonsandmore · 3 years

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Gentry and Gentlemen, Chapter Two

Summary: Hermione is slowly settling into life at Ottery Manor, as well as the presence of a certain red-headed blacksmith and odd-job man. However, an encounter with an unpleasant member of the aristocracy may just bring Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger even closer together.

Tagging: @abradystrix @lytefoot @hillnerd @fivenamereveals @femaledoubleagent @nagemeikenu @acnelli @aimless-twig@thehufflepuffpixie @adenei @kember-writes @rosalindthe2nd @shybrunettepainter

Read on FFN. Read on AO3.

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My apologies for the week's delay in this chapter going out; I've been really busy with IRL stuff, and lost several days of potential writing as a result. But I hope you like the chapter despite the wait.

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Hermione Granger sighed, and leaned back into her chair. She was alone in a small room nearby the servants kitchen.

It had been a long day. She had been working with the children for well over five hours, before finally handing them over to their aunt at two o’clock. After sitting down for a while, she was beginning to feel rejuvenated.

A week had gone by since she had arrived at Ottery Manor, and she was slowly settling into her new life in rural Devon. Despite how different it was to her upbringing in Regency London, she found that -in many ways- it was a marked improvement.

For one thing, the pace of life was far slower than it was in the capital. The days were long, but nothing was hurried, beyond the urgency of the children she was caring for. The countryside around them was incredibly beautiful and, although it was less fancy, the food was far more homely than she had ever had in London aside from the cooking of her own mother.

There was also the people. In London, she had found it difficult to interact with others. She had always been something of an outsider, even in a city as apparently metropolitan as the old smoke. Too much of a bookworm, too awkward, too fussy. Not to mention that many people still saw her as a “foreigner”.

Whereas at Ottery, at least with the other staff members, her status as a Londoner was seen as exciting and thrilling, her awkwardness met with redoubled enthusiasm to overcome her “London ways”, and her skin the object of wistful envy.

If anything, it was her status as a governess that divided her somewhat from the other young staff members, as she was often “upstairs” with the children of the gentry, as opposed to the “downstairs” roles inhabited by the scullery maids that she shared her dormitory with.

Not that this seemed to concern those scullery maids that much. Parvati and Lavender were friendly, kind, and immediately encouraging of Hermione, for which she was immensely grateful. The two of them were clearly very close, as they were inseparable and would often rest their head on the others shoulder while they were sat in the quiet hours of the evening. Lavender would often kiss Parvati on the cheek, and vice versa. Hermione had even heard each of them climbing into the others bed on occasion, if one of them had a bad dream. Very close, indeed.

She hadn’t really spoken much to the other members of staff, although the cook was a motherly sort of woman who had insisted on giving Hermione larger portions of food for the first few days. Hermione had been expecting to speak to the other Weasley siblings but, so far, the opportunity hadn’t presented itself. Although she hoped it would. She was looking forward to getting to know Ron’s siblings.

There was also Ron himself.

Hermione felt herself blush.

The blacksmith and odd-job man was-

‘Hello, Hermione.’

The bushy-haired women did a double-take. Ron Weasley was stood a few feet away, holding a stack of letters.

‘R-Ron, hello!’ She stammered, stumbling to her feet. ‘How… how are you?’

‘Can’t complain,’ he replied, looking a little confused as to the squeak in her voice. ‘I was going to head into the village to deliver these letters; I was wondering if you’d like to accompany me?’

‘Oh, I’d… I’d be delighted!’

The redhead grinned, his cheeks showing their signature dimples that Hermione had quickly come to find eye-catching.

‘Lovely,’ he said. ‘I’m not dragging you away from anything, am I?’

‘No,’ Hermione replied, as they exited the servants entrance. ‘The children have been taken by their aunt in Plymouth this afternoon.’

‘Big city, is Plymouth.’

‘Really? Back in London, it’s considered a small provincial city.’

Ron chuckled. The two of them had walked round the side of the house, and had begun walking down the long drive towards the road.

‘I forget just how big London is compared to everywhere else,’ Ron said. ‘I suppose the country is pretty sparsely populated.’

Hermione scolded herself.

‘Er… my apologies, I’m afraid I was being ever so rude-’

‘Don’t think anything of it, Hermione,’ Ron said, smiling down at her. ‘I imagine that, compared to London, Plymouth does seem rather small.’

‘Not to me,’ Hermione said. ‘Ottery is just the right size.’

She couldn’t help but notice Ron’s smile growing after she had said this.

As they approached the road, two figures appeared ahead of them. It was Parvati and Lavender, who were holding hands.

‘Hello,’ Ron said, cheerfully. ‘Have you two had a nice afternoon off?’

‘Hello,’ Lavender said. ‘Yes; we managed to get some nice patterns for Parvati’s shawl. She does look rather lovely in burgundy, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Oh, stop it,’ Parvati said, pressing a quick kiss to Lavender’s cheek. ‘You do go on, Lavender.’

Lavender giggled.

‘Are you two heading into the village?’ Parvati asked, pointing at the stack of letters Ron was carrying.

‘Yes,’ Hermione replied. ‘Mr Weasley thought I might like the fresh air.’

‘Oooh, you wouldn’t believe the stories we’ve heard,’ Lavender said, excitedly. ‘Apparently, the brother of her ladyship is caught up in some sort of scandal!’

‘Yes,’ Parvati said, nodding. ‘According to what we heard in the village, there is an heiress involved, as well as another lord who’s awaiting a debt to be re-paid.’

‘Typical gentry,’ Ron chuckled. ‘Honestly, if I had that much time to waste, I’d learn a new language or do up the forge, not mess around with courtly ladies.’

‘That’s because you are more of a gentleman than the “gentlemen” are,’ Lavender said. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Granger?’

‘Er, y-yes,’ Hermione said, feeling her face burn. ‘Anyway, we really ought to be going, Mr Weasley; the post office is due to close in an hour.’

‘Have fun!’

Ron continued on down towards the road. As Parvati and Lavender passed Hermione, they grinned knowingly at her, before patting her encouragingly on the arm.

Hermione smiled nervously to herself, and hurried off to catch up to Ron.

The village of Ottery St Catchpole was, as ever, relaxed and filled with the sounds of country life; chickens squawking, pigs snorting, and dogs barking, with the occasional shout of laughter from one of the local children.

‘Have you been in the post office yet?’ Ron asked, as they walked down the main street. ‘I imagine your parents are looking forward to hearing how you are adapting to your new role as governess.’

‘You are correct,’ Hermione said, smiling up at him. ‘I sent them a letter the first time I had some time away from the children. I haven’t had a reply yet, though.’

‘Well, London is a long way away, even for the post,’ Ron replied, amicably. ‘I’m sure their reply is on its way.’

The two of them entered the post office. It was a small, cosy sort of building, with a durable and well-polished front desk.

‘Hello, Ron,’ said the person behind the desk, a short, jolly sort of man of roughly the same age. He was blonde, with a kind-looking face. ‘Post for the twins, eh?’

‘Hello, Neville,’ replied Ron, placing his stack of letters on the desk. ‘Yes; mum’s trying to have them round for the summer fete.’

‘I’m sure they’ll love that,’ the man called Neville said, as he began to sort through the letters. ‘And… oh, Miss Granger, do you have any letters to send?’

Hermione stared at the man.

‘How do you know my name?’

‘You’re the local celebrity,’ Neville said, cheerfully. ‘The governess from the big city, and all that. You were right, Ron; she is very sensible-looking.’

Ron’s ears turned pink.

‘Er, thank you,’ Hermione said. ‘I’m not really that sensible-looking, am I?’

‘Actually, Ron’s choice of words were “smart, capable and beautiful”, but I wanted to spare your blushes-’

‘Neville!’ Ron exclaimed, his face flushing under his freckles. ‘Miss Granger doesn’t want to hear about that!’

‘N-no, it’s fine,’ Hermione said, feeling her own face flush. ‘T-thank you, Ron. That’s… that’s very kind of you to describe me as such.’

Ron shrugged.

Neville smiled knowingly at them both, as he processed the stack of letters. As he placed the last of them into its correct sorting tray, he pulled another letter out of the apron he wore over his uniform, and held it out to Ron.

‘Oh, by the way; can you drop off this letter to Tom in the pub?’

Ron let out a sigh.

‘Oh, all right, Neville,’ he said, sighing as he took the letter. ‘But you owe me one.’

‘Sure,’ Neville said, cheerfully. ‘And tell Ginny that Luna sends her regards.’

‘Will do.’

After both of them bade their goodbyes to Neville, Ron and Hermione left the post office, and began to walk up the street, towards the pub that was across the road from the coach stop. A small sign hung on the wall outside the front door, bearing the legend “The Leaky Cauldron”.

‘Er, who’s Luna?’

‘Oh, the woman Neville mentioned?’ he replied. ‘Neville’s next-door neighbour. She’s… well, very close with my sister Ginny.’

‘Oh, so they are like Lavender and Parvati, then?’

‘Er….’ Ron said, looking at a loss for words. ‘Yes… maybe. It’s taking Ginny long enough to realise, but she’ll get there one day.’

Hermione didn’t quite understand this response. Were Parvati and Lavender not as close as she thought? Given the continual displays of affection between the two women, she couldn’t imagine that to be the case. However, she didn’t want to seem stupid, so she didn’t query it further.

Ron pushed open the door, and the two of them entered the pub. It was a homely sort of place; like many country pubs, it acted more as a public meeting place as opposed to simply a building in which to ingest alcohol (although Hermione could certainly smell many pints of cider being drunk).

Several people called out to Ron, and he bade his hello’s to each of them. The Weasleys were clearly an upstanding local family, as everyone seemed to know them. There was a crowd by the bar, behind which was an old, cheerful-looking man. He was clearly the Tom that Neville had mentioned.

‘Sorry; I’ll be back in just a moment,’ he said, apologetically to Hermione.

Hermione nodded, and Ron headed over to the bar.

She ducked out of the way slightly, so that she wasn’t in anyone’s way, and began to gaze at the walls of the pub.

Many country pubs prided themselves on having an extensive collection of assorted knick-knacks attached to the walls, and “The Leaky Cauldron” was no exception. There were various pairs of antlers, several wood-carvings and even one very scrappy-looking oil painting that had clearly seen better days.

Hermione smiled to herself, as she stared round. Ottery St Catchpole was a friendly, welcoming place, and its local pub clearly reflected that-

‘Ouch!’

A man had elbowed Hermione out of the way. Rubbing her arm, Hermione stared at him.

He was short, with a crop of blonde hair and a cold-looking face. Almost like a very pale ferret. His well-tailored clothes marked him out immediately as a member of the gentry, and this was doubly confirmed by the way he looked down his nose at Hermione, despite being several inches shorter than her. He was clearly someone who had been travelling in one of the stage coaches from London.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ Hermione said. ‘I believe I was stood here.’

‘Did I ask your opinion? I’m stood here now; kindly move along. I’m busy.’

Hermione stared at him. She had come across people like this in London on occasion, but it was a shock to see one so rude, especially in an otherwise very cheerful and friendly pub. The people around the tables nearby began to look over, their eyes wary as if expecting to step in at any moment.

‘Sir, I do believe that I wasn’t in any queue as such. An apology from yourself would be expected for pushing me aside.’

The man turned to glare at Hermione, his voice rising.

‘I will do no such thing. I don’t apologise to the dirt for stepping on it, so why should I give yourself the same courtesy?’ he sneered. ‘Devon may be far from London, but I would expect that some assurances remain consistent through Britain. The Britain that my ancestors ruled and that myself and my peers rule now. So, kindly push off, you little harlot.’

Hermione’s mouth fell open.

‘Harlot?’ she exclaimed. ‘Sir, I am a governess of the local manor. How dare you?’

The man grabbed Hermione’s arm. His grip was shockingly tight, despite how thin he was.

‘Shut up, before I make you do so, you little foreign-’

POW!

Ron’s fist connected with the man’s cheek, sending the aristocrat backwards into the wall.

‘Don’t you dare speak to Miss Granger like that,’ Ron said, very quietly.

The aristocrat, his face now colouring around the red mark on his cheek, stumbled to his feet. His face was the very picture of outraged confusion. As if the man couldn’t understand what was happening.

‘You… you foul unwashed nothing!’ he snarled, staggering. ‘What right have you to lay a hand on your social better-’

‘Better? Don’t make me laugh,’ Ron said. Hermione noticed that the other villagers around them were staring at the aristocrat with the same sense of cautious anger that was evident in Ron’s eyes. ‘I’d have thought a man from such an upbringing would have been taught some basic manners.’

The room was now full of shouts, all echoing agreement with Ron’s words.

‘Exactly!’

‘Disgraceful behaviour towards a lady!’

‘How dare you, sir?!’

The aristocrat’s eyes darted between the assembled villagers around him, seeming to notice for the first time that he was not amongst allies.

‘You’ll regret this!’ he spat, pointing a finger at Ron. ‘I’ll have you out on a charge of striking a member of the great and noble house-’

‘You don’t seem that great and noble to me,’ Ron said, in the same quiet tone. ‘Threatening a governess? Causing a scene? What nobility is there in that?’

The aristocrat gave one furious look at Ron, before turning on his heel and striding away out the door, in the direction of the coach stop.

Feeling her heart pound with the shock of what had just happened, Hermione stumbled backwards, and sat down roughly in a chair.

‘Hermione, are you okay?’

Ron’s eyes were filled with concern as he kneeled down in front of her. Several others were stood nearby, their eyes all filled with the same concern.

‘I… I suppose. It’s not much different to what I normally have had to deal with.’

‘Really?’ gasped a woman nearby, sounding horrified. ‘That’s horrible! You’d think London would be more cosmopolitan.’

Hermione smiled, despite herself. It seemed that, to so many, London was seen as the melting pot where everyone could co-exist in peace.

‘Okay, everyone,’ Ron said, standing up and speaking to the assembled crowd. ‘Let’s not crowd Miss Granger; let her sit in peace.’

The crowd gradually begin to shift away back to what they were all doing beforehand, although many of them gave Hermione sympathetic looks as they moved away. She was very touched that so many people wanted to make sure she was feeling better.

Ron sat down in the seat next to her.

‘You… you really shouldn’t have punched him.’

Ron shrugged.

‘He deserved it.’

‘Yes, but physical violence isn’t the answer. Besides; you don’t know those to whom he’s connected. He could have his lordship sack you!’

‘Pffft!’ Ron chuckled. ‘I’d like to see him try; the Weasleys have worked at Ottery for centuries.’

‘But the gentry-’

‘Listen, Hermione; that toff was in the wrong. If he tries to imply I was behaving out of turn, he’ll have to deal with half the village declaring the fact of the matter. He was being a bigot, and everyone knows it.’

Hermione sat, eating her steak and kidney pie, and thinking to herself. The afternoon had passed quickly, and it was now beginning to get dark. The cosy fire in the servants kitchen gave off a warm, comforting presence.

The other staff members slowly began to move away from the table, as they all finished their meal and set off for either the tavern, their dormitories or for home. Hermione was just finished washing her plate, cup and cutlery when-

‘Long day, eh?’

Hermione turned. Ron was sat in front of the fire, his blue eyes flickering majestically in the light of the flames.

‘I… yes, it has been, indeed.’

‘Come on; the fire’s warm.’

Smiling to herself, Hermione eased herself out of her seat, and joined the redhead in front of the flickering fire.

‘I… I never thanked you for doing that.’

‘What? Punching that toff? I thought you said-’

‘That I don’t like physical violence? Yes, that is true. But… I appreciate the sentiment. People don’t always stick up for me like that.’

‘Well, they should,’ Ron said. ‘Its’… it’s not right, people treating you like you don’t belong. Because you do belong, Hermione. In Ottery, or anywhere else you want to go. You’re an intelligent, brave person and I honestly don’t understand why so many don’t see that.’

Hermione felt her heart well.

‘I… thank you, Ron. That… that means so much to me.’

The redhead smiled, hesitantly.

‘Have… have people been unpleasant like that to you a lot?’

Hermione nodded.

‘Most of my life, yes. I remember, my parents sat me down at an early age and explained to me that a lot of people -especially those from money- would treat me badly just because of my heritage. The other staff here are perfectly pleasant and kind to me, although I have noticed that many of the gentry do not take the same approach.’

Ron sighed.

‘It shouldn’t be like that,’ he said, quietly. ‘People shouldn’t be like that to you. I… I know that’s a little naïve, coming from me, but…’

‘I appreciate the sentiment, Ron,’ she replied. ‘I wish it wasn’t like that, either.’

‘Yes, but you have to live with it every day!’ Ron cried. ‘If I scrubbed up nicely and minded my manners, I could be ignored by the gentry. But you…’

‘I can’t just change my mannerisms and “pass” unnoticed,’ Hermione finished.

‘Good grief, I feel like a right prat complaining about the aristo’s when you have it far worse,’ Ron mumbled. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-’

‘You weren’t to know, Ron,’ Hermione said.

‘You don’t need to console me,’ Ron said. ‘I’m not the one dealing with all this.’

Hermione reached out, and placed a hand on Ron’s knee. The redhead’s eyes darted to her own.

‘Thank you, Ron.’

He smiled.

‘You know, I might just make a habit out of punching toffs if it means I can make you smile.’

‘Oh, you mustn’t!’

Ron grinned at her, leaning back against the wall. His muscles strained slightly against his shirt.

‘You say that, but you’re laughing worse than ever.’

‘Stop it!’ Hermione exclaimed, chuckling. ‘You’ll get into so much trouble; it’s a miracle they didn’t send the bailiffs after you.’

‘Trouble is my middle name,’ replied the redhead. ‘Well, actually it’s “Bilius” but he just used to get into lots of trouble, so it still fits.’

‘A wonderful kind of trouble, though,’ Hermione laughed.

‘I try,’ he said, giving a quick wink that send a delicious shiver down Hermione’s spine.

‘And you succeed. I… I rather like your company, Ron.’

‘And I rather like yours, Hermione,’ the redhead replied, his cheeks dimpling. ‘As long as my rustic charm isn’t a little… backward for you?’

‘N-not at all,’ Hermione said. ‘You’re… you’re very charming.’

Ron smiled, his ears going slightly pink in the glow of the fire.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Thanks for reading, everyone; hope you enjoyed the second chapter. If you want to be kept up-to-date with the story as I publish each chapter, please subscribe to the fic on AO3 or ask to be added to the tag list on Tumblr.

#jane austen au #alternative universe #romione #ronmione #romione au #harry potter au #au #tw: food mention #background pavender #ron x hermione #ron/hermione #hermione x ron #hermione/ron #tw: racism #tw: bigotry

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dc-earth53 · 4 years

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#0001: Superman (Clark Kent/Kal-El)

Age: 45

Occupation: Reporter, adventurer

Marital status: Married

Known relatives: Jor-El (father, deceased), Lara Lor-Van (mother, deceased), Jonathan Kent (adoptive father), Martha Kent (adoptive mother), Lois Lane-Kent (wife), Jon Kent (son), Conner Kent/Kon-El (clone “brother”), Zor-El (uncle, deceased), Alura In-Ze (aunt, deceased), Kara Zor-El (cousin), Karen Starr (clone “cousin”), Lucy Lane (sister-in-law), Sam Lane (father-in-law, deceased).

Group affiliation: Justice League of America

Base of operations: Fortress of Solitude, the Arctic

Height: 6’3”

Weight: 235 lbs.

History:

45 years ago:

Jor-El and Lara send infant Kal-El to Earth to escape the destruction of the planet Krypton.

Kal-El’s rocket is found by Jonathan and Martha Kent near Smallville, Kansas. The Kents adopt him as their own son, naming him Clark.

33 years ago: 12-year-old Clark befriends Lana Lang and Pete Ross.

29 years ago:

16-year-old Clark’s latent Kryptonian abilities including super-strength, flight, and invulnerability begin to emerge, thanks to time spent underneath Earth’s yellow sun. The Kents reveal to him his alien heritage, and he begins doing good in secret.

Clark and Lana begin dating, and Clark reveals the secret of his powers to Lana.

24 years ago: 21-year-old Clark graduates from journalism school at the University of Kansas and sets off to see the world, doing freelance reporting during his travels. Clark and Lana amicably end their relationship.

20 years ago:

25-year-old Clark stops an experimental spacecraft from crashing in front of a crowd of people, and the incident leads him to decide that it’s time to come out from the shadows. Martha fashions a costume for him from his baby blanket, emblazoned with the family crest of the House of El.

Clark moves to Metropolis and gets a job at the Daily Planet as a reporter, meeting reporter Lois Lane, editor Perry White, and intern Jimmy Olsen.

Dubbed “Superman” by the media after saving Daily Planet staff from a helicopter crash, Clark makes his costumed debut while his identity remains a secret.

Superman makes an enemy of billionaire Lex Luthor, who believed him to be an extraterrestrial threat to humanity.

19 years ago:

Superman meets Batman, and the pair team up to solve a series of murders.

Superman has his first encounters with opponents such as Mr. Mxyzptlk, Metallo, Toyman, and Rampage.

Clark and Lois begin dating.

Superman becomes a charter member of the Justice League of America after helping to repel an alien invasion of Earth.

18 years ago: Superman meets the Eradicator, a Kryptonian artificial intelligence dedicated to the preservation of Kryptonian culture and driven to turn Earth into a second Krypton. The Eradicator builds a citadel in the Arctic, which Superman repurposes as his Fortress of Solitude.

17 years ago:

Superman discovers the body of his cousin, Kara Zor-El, in suspended animation, when a rocket similar to the one he arrived in crashes to Earth. Kara takes on his colors and symbol and joins the fight for truth and justice as Supergirl.

Superman first encounters Brainiac, a rogue artificial intelligence from the planet Colu, when one of his probes arrives on Earth in pursuit of Kara’s rocket.

The shrunken Kryptonian city of Kandor is recovered from Brainiac and taken to the Fortress of Solitude.

16 years ago: Superman releases Dru-Zod and Ursa, Kryptonian war criminals, from imprisonment in the Phantom Zone, but is forced to re-imprison them when they attempt to take over Earth and turn it into a new Krypton.

15 years ago: Superman is abducted by Mongul, the ruler of the artifical planet Warworld, and forced to compete in gladiatorial combat. He leads a revolution among the slaves on Warworld, and escapes, forcing Mongul to retreat.

14 years ago: Superman first encounters Darkseid, despotic ruler of the planet Apokolips.

13 years ago: Mongul returns to Earth on Superman’s birthday, attacking him with the parasitic Black Mercy plant and trapping him in a world of his own fantasies.

12 years ago:

In the wake of Checkmate’s offensive on the Justice League, revealed to be a plot by Brainiac, Superman moves to disband the team.

Clark proposes to Lois, revealing to her his secret identity as Superman.

11 years ago:

Superman, along with the rest of Earth’s heroes, fight against the Anti-Monitor. Supergirl perishes in the battle.

Superman encounters Bizarro, an early, flawed result of an attempt to replicate Kryptonian DNA.

9 years ago:

Superman falls in battle against the living weapon Doomsday.

The Eradicator places Superman in a Kryptonian healing matrix hidden within the Fortress of Solitude, restoring him to life after a few months of hibernation.

Clark and Lois are wed.

8 years ago:

Clark and Lois’s son, Jon Kent is born.

Superman comes into conflict with pragmatic vigilante Manchester Black and his Elite.

7 years ago:

Superman fights against the Joker, who had stolen Mr. Mxyzptlk’s powers and twisted the Earth into his own image.

A third Kryptonian rocket crashes on Earth, containing Krypto, a dog-like creature belonging to Jor-El and Lara. Krypto comes to reside at the Fortress of Solitude.

Superman and Earth’s heroes fight against the allied forces of Imperiex, Brainiac, and Darkseid.

5 years ago: After a battle against Lex Luthor, who had given himself Kryptonian powers, Superman loses his powers from heavy exposure to red sunlight and temporarily retires.

4 years ago:

Superman’s powers return, in time for him to foil a new plot from Luthor.

Superman foils an attempt from Brainiac to bottle Metropolis, restoring Kandor to its proper size in the process and locating it in the Arctic. Around the same time, Jonathan Kent passes away of a heart attack.

3 years ago:

After failing to integrate with humanity, the citizens of Kandor use Brainiac’s technology to relocate Kandor to a new planet opposite Earth’s orbit - “New Krypton.”

New Krypton, led by Zod and Ursa, declares war on Earth as the new planet proves to be unstable. Superman and Earth’s heroes drive them off, but not without suffering many losses, which leave Superman as the true last son of Krypton.

2 years ago: The Kent family leaves Metropolis for an extended period of time, taking a trip across America to reconnect with ordinary people. Eventually, they settle down in Hamilton County, Pennsylvania, a rural area west of Metropolis.

1 year ago:

Superman defeats Darkseid, who had returned to Earth in search of the Anti-Life Equation, removing his threat from the universe seemingly for good.

Superman receives a warm welcome back to Metropolis when he’s attacked by Hank Henshaw and his Superman Revenge Squad.

Present Day: Clark helps 8-year-old Jon deal with his sudden development of powers similar to his father’s.

Commentary:

Superman’s origin is so iconic that Grant Morrison summed it up in just eight words: “Doomed planet. Desperate scientists. Last hope. Kindly couple.” In light of this, I see no reason to mess with a good thing. That being said, the story of Superman’s public debut has been retold with major differences four or five times now between the various Crises, and that makes things tricky to pin down.

The version I ended up writing is mostly inspired by Superman: Birthright by Mark Waid. (Sorry, anyone who’s a fan of Clark as Superboy. While I don’t hate the concept, it raises the question of “why doesn’t anyone associate Superboy and thus Superman with Clark?” it doesn’t really bring anything valuable to the table that can’t be put elsewhere in the timeline: the Legion is more associated with Supergirl in this timeline, and Krypto is moved to later on.) His post-Crisis history is mostly intact, although with a few notable omissions, mainly Superman Blue. I hope nobody will miss that too much.

Superman’s history sets the timeline for the rest of the universe - while other heroes’ origins occur before his public debut, he’s the first of the major figures of the Age of Heroes to debut, twenty years prior to the present day. The rest of the Trinity follows within a year of his appearance, along with most of the iconic Silver Age DC heroes. This Superman is forty-five years of age at the current point in the timeline: a seasoned superhero who has saved the world time and time again, but who also lives a simple life as a family man with Lois and Jon.

He may be a Kryptonian by genetics, but at his core, thanks to his upbringing from Ma and Pa Kent, he’s a human - one who happens to have to balance his extraordinary powers and responsibility to the world (wait, is this Spider-Man all of a sudden?) with his alien heritage and the complications derived from such. He’s a champion of the oppressed, standing up for the “little guy” and those who can’t defend themselves against powers both great and small. Out of the Trinity, he best embodies hope - when the situation seems at its most dire, Superman’s the one to keep the faith and rally for one last push. He’s the hero who lands on a rooftop beside someone who’s about to jump and just sits beside them while they make their decision.

As for Superman’s costume, he’s currently sporting the Reborn look, sans trunks. I’m not saying the trunks are outright bad or silly, and envision them as being part of his original costume for certain, but the costume in the header is what he currently uses in this universe.

Have any questions about Superman or anything else? My asks are open!

#superman #clark kent #kal-el #profile #dc #dc comics #earth 53

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birdlord · 5 years

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Every Book I Read in 2019

This was a heavier reading year for me (heavier culture-consumption year in general) partly because my partner started logging his books read, and then, of course, it’s a competition.

01 Morvern Callar; Alan Warner - One of the starkest books I’ve ever read. What is it about Scotland that breeds writers with such brutal, distant perspectives on life? Must be all the rocks.

02 21 Things You Might Not Know About the Indian Act; Bob Joseph - I haven’t had much education in Canada’s relationship to the Indigenous nations that came before it, so this opened things up for me quite a bit. The first and most fundamental awakening is to the fact that this is not a story of progress from worse to better (which is what a simplistic, grade school understanding of smallpox blankets>residential schools>reserves would tell you), in fact, the nation to nation relationship of early contact was often superior to what we have today. I wish there was more of a call to action, but apparently a sequel is on its way.

03 The Plot Against America; Philip Roth - An alternative history that in some ways mirrors our present. I did feel like I was always waiting for something to happen, but I suppose the point is that, even at the end of the world, disasters proceed incrementally.

04 Sabrina; Nick Drnaso - The blank art style and lack of contrast in the colouring of each page really reinforces the feeling of impersonal vacancy between most of the characters. I wonder how this will read in the future, as it’s very much based in today’s relationship to friends and technology.

05 Perfumes: The Guide; Luca Turn & Tania Sanchez - One of the things I like to do when I need to turn my brain off online is reading perfume reviews. That’s where I found out about this book, which runs through different scent families and reviews specific well-known perfumes. Every topic has its boffins, and these two are particularly witty and readable.

06 Adventures in the Screen Trade; William Goldman - Reading this made me realize how little of the cinema of the 1970s I’ve actually seen, beyond the usual heavy hitters. Ultimately I found this pretty thin, a few peices of advice stitched together with anecdotes about a Hollywood that is barely recognizable today.

07 The Age of Innocence; Edith Wharton - A love triangle in which the fulcrum is a terribly irritating person, someone who thinks himself far more outré than he is. Nonetheless, I was taken in by this story of “rebellion”, such as it was, to be compelling.

08 Boom Town: The Fantastical Saga of Oklahoma City, Its Chaotic Founding, Its Apocalyptic Weather, Its Purloined Basketball Team, and the Dream of Becoming a World-class Metropolis; Sam Anderson - Like a novel that follows various separate characters, this book switches between tales of the founding of Oklahoma City with basketball facts and encounters with various oddball city residents. It’s certainly a fun ride, but you may find, as I did, that some parts of the narrative interest you more than others. Longest subtitle ever?

09 World of Yesterday; Stefan Zweig - A memoir of pre-war Austria and its artistic communities, told by one of its best-known exports. Particularly wrenching with regards to the buildup to WWII, from the perspective of those who had been through this experience before, so recently.

10 Teach us to Sit Still: A Sceptic’s Search for Health and Healing; Tim Parks - A writer finds himself plagued by pain that conventional doctors aren’t able to cure, so he heads further afield to see if he can use stillness-of-mind to ease the pain, all the while complaining as you would expect a sceptic to do. His digressions into literature were a bit hard to take (I’m sure you’re not Coleridge, my man).

11 The Power of Moments: Why Certain Experiences have Extraordinary Impact; Chip & Dan Heath - I read this for work-related reasons, with the intention of improving my ability to make exhibitions and interpretation. It has a certain sort of self-helpish structure, with anecdotes starting each chapter and a simple lesson drawn from each one. Not a bad read if you work in a public-facing capacity.

12 Against Everything: Essays; Mark Greif - The founder of N+1 collects a disparate selection of essays, written over a period of several years. You won’t love them all, but hey, you can always skip those ones!

13 See What I Have Done; Sarah Schmidt - A retelling of the Lizzie Borden story, which I’d seen a lot of good reviews for. Sadly this didn’t measure up, for me. There’s a lot of stage setting (rotting food plays an important part) but there’s not a lot of substance there.

14 Like a Mother: A Feminist Journey Through the Science and Culture of Pregnancy; Angela Garber - This is another one that came to me very highly recommended. Garber seems to think these topics are not as well-covered as they are, but she does a good job researching and retelling tales of pregnancy, birth, postpartum difficulties and breastfeeding.

15 Rebecca; Daphne du Maurier - This was my favourite book club book of the year. I’d always had an impression of...trashiness I guess? around du Maurier, but this is a classic thriller. Maybe the first time I’ve ever read, rather than watched, a thriller! That’s on me.

16 O’Keefe: The Life of an American Legend; Jeffrey Hogrefe - I went to New Mexico for the first time this spring, and a colleague lent me this Georgia O’Keefe biography after I returned. I hadn’t known much about her personal life before this, aside from what I learned at her museum in Santa Fe. The author has made the decision that much of O’Keefe’s life was determined by childhood incest, but doesn’t have what you might call….evidence?

17 A Lost Lady; Willa Cather - A turn-of-the-20th century story about an upper-class woman and her young admirer Neil. I’ve never read any other Cather, but this felt very similar to the Wharton I also read this year, which I gather isn’t typical of her.

18 The Year of Living Danishly: My Twelve Months of Unearthing the Secrets of the World’s Happiest Country; Helen Russell - A British journalist moves to small-town Denmark with her husband, and although the distances are not long, there’s a considerable culture shock. Made me want to eat pastries in a BIG WAY.

19 How Not to be a Boy; Robert Webb - The title gives a clue to the framing device of this book, which is fundamentally a celebrity memoir, albeit one that largely ignores the celebrity part of his life in favour of an examination of the effects of patriarchy on boys’ development as human beings.

20 The Book You Wish Your Parents Had Read (And Your Children Will be Glad that You Did); Philippa Perry; A psychotherapist’s take on how parents’ own upbringing affects the way they interact with their own kids.

21 The Library Book; Susan Orlean - This book has stuck with me more than I imagined that it would. It covers both the history of libraries in the USA, and the story of the arson of the LA Public Library’s central branch in 1986.

22 We Are Never Meeting in Real Life; Samantha Irby - I’ve been reading Irby’s blog for years, and follow her on social media. So I knew the level of raunch and near body-horror to expect in this essay collection. This did fill in a lot of gaps in terms of her life, which added a lot more blackness (hey) to the humour.

23 State of Wonder; Ann Patchett - A semi-riff on Heart of Darkness involving an OB/GYN who now works for a pharmaceutical company, heading to the jungle to retrieve another researcher who has gone all Colonel Kurtz on them. I found it a bit unsatisfying, but the descriptions were, admittedly, great.

24 Disappearing Earth; Julia Phillips - A story of an abduction of two girls in very remote Russia, each chapter told by another townsperson. The connections between the narrators of each chapter are sometimes obvious, but not always. Ending a little tidy, but plays against expectations for a book like this.

25 Ethan Frome; Edith Wharton - I gather this is a typical high school read, but I’d never got to it. In case you’re in the same boat as me, it’s a short, mildly melodramatic romantic tragedy set in the new england winter. It lacks the focus on class that other Whartons have, but certainly keeps the same strong sense that once you’ve made a choice, you’re stuck with it. FOREVER.

26 Educated; Tara Westover - This memoir of a Mormon fundamentalist-turned-Academic-superstar was huge on everyone’s reading lists a couple of years back, and I finally got to it. It felt similar to me in some ways to the Glass Castle, in terms of the nearly-unbelievable amounts of hell she and her family go through at the hands of her father and his Big Ideas. I found that it lacked real contemplation of the culture shock of moving from the rural mountain west to, say, Cambridge.

27 Dead Wake: The Last Crossing of Lusitania; Erik Larson - I’m a sucker for a story of a passenger liner, any non-Titanic passenger liner, really. Plus Lusitania’s story has interesting resonances for the US entry into WWI, and we see the perspective of the U-boat captain as well as people on land, and Lusitania’s own passengers and crew.

28 The Birds and Other Stories; Daphne du Maurier - The title story is the one that stuck in my head most strongly, which isn’t any surprise. I found it much more harrowing than the film, it had a really effective sense of gradually increasing dread and inevitability.

29 Someone Who Will Love You in All Your Faded Glory; Raphael Bob-Waksberg - Hit or miss in the usual way of short story collections, this book has a real debt to George Saunders.

30 Sex & Rage; Eve Babitz - a sort of pseudo-autobiography of an indolent life in the LA scene of the 1970s. It was sometimes very difficult to see how the protagonist actually felt about anything, which is a frequent, acute symptom of youth.

31 Doctor Fischer of Geneva or The Bomb Party; Graham Greene - Gotta love a book with an alternate title built in. This is a broad (the characters? are, without exception, insane?!) satire about a world I know little about. I don’t have a lot of patience or interest in Greene’s religious allegories, but it’s a fine enough story.

32 Lathe of Heaven; Ursula K LeGuin - Near-future sci-fi that is incredibly prescient about the effects of climate change for a book written over forty years ago. The book has amazing world-building, and the first half has the whirlwind feel of Homer going back in time, killing butterflies and returning to the present to see what changes he has wrought.

33 The Grammarians; Cathleen Schine - Rarely have I read a book whose jacket description of the plot seems so very distant from what actually happens therein.

34 The Boy Kings: A Journey Into the Heart of the Social Network; Katharine Losse - Losse was one of Facebook’s very earliest employees, and she charts her experience with the company in this memoir from 2012. Do you even recall what Facebook was like in 2012? They hadn’t even altered the results of elections yet! Zuck was a mere MULTI-MILLIONAIRE, probably. Were we ever so young?

35 Invisible Women; Caroline Ciado Perez - If you want to read a book that will make you angry, so angry that you repeatedly assail whoever is around with facts taken from it, then this, my friend, is the book for you.

36 The Hidden World of the Fox; Adele Brand - A really charming look at the fox from an ecologist who has studied them around the world. Much of it takes place in the UK, where urban foxes take on a similar ecological niche that raccoons famously do where I live, in Toronto.

37 S; Doug Dorst & JJ Abrams - This is a real mindfuck of a book, consisting of a faux-old novel, with marginalia added by two students which follows its own narrative. A difficult read not because of the density of prose, but the sheer logistics involved: read the page, then the marginalia? Read the marginalia interspersed with the novel text? Go back chapter by chapter? I’m not sure that either story was worth the trouble, in the end.

38 American War; Omar El Akkad - This is not exclusively, but partially a climate-based speculative novel, or, grossly, cli-fi for short. Ugh, what a term! But this book is a really tight, and realistic look at the results of a fossil-fuels-based second US Civil War.

39 Antisocial: Online Extremists, Techno-Utopians, and the Hijacking of the American Conversation; Andrew Marantz - This is the guy you’ll hear on every NPR story talking about his semi-embedding within the Extremely Online alt-right. Most of the figures he profiles come off basically how you’d expect, I found his conclusions about the ways these groups have chosen to use online media tools to achieve their ends the most illuminating part.

40 Wilding: The Return of Nature to a British Farm; Isabella Tree - This is the story of a long process of transitioning a rural acreage (more of an estate than a farm, this is aristocratic shit) from intensive agriculture to something closer to wild land. There are long passages where Tree (ahem) simply lists species which have come back, which I’m sure is fascinating if you are from the area, but I tended to glaze over a bit. Experts from around the UK and other European nations weigh in on how best to rewild the space, which places the project in a wider context.

FICTON: 17 NONFICTION: 23

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alitheamateur · 5 years

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A Taste of Home

Summary: Amelia Calvert is a Boston-born girl returning home after the sur turn of events in her marriage. Her life is turned upside down, leaving her nearly broke, jobless for the most part, and sleeping in the childhood bedroom of her parents home. As if things weren’t shaken up enough for Millie, a familiar face discovers her return to the city, and her world turns to the happiest, most confusing whirlwind of shambles.

Characters: Chris Evans X OFC

Warnings: Slight age gap (9ish years). Language

Back home. Back to square one. Back like things never changed.

Except everything had. You were returning without a job, no abode of your own, and a nixed husband. It was all supposed to be under wraps, but whispers spread like an unrelenting rash. The bad kind of rash that you never want to have to call an ex about… Your city may be a big one, one supposed to be above and beyond all that small-town “he said, she said” nonsense. But, gossip found it’s place no matter the zip code, and you just happened to be square in the center of it.

You much preferred Boston to the sweltering air of rural Texas, but the things we do for love, huh? Your husbands’ home-base office happened to stand in the city of Austin, and at the time, you would’ve followed him to Tim-buck-too had it been necessary. “At the time” meaning before you found him on all fours, belt loose around the ankles with his paralegal. You’d had her in your home, schmoozing her with expensive wine, and an overpaid caterer because you didn’t want to poison her with your shit concoctions in the kitchen. “At the time” anyway….

Leaving your soon to be ex-husband without so much as a “see you later”, Boston called your name. And for the time being, so did your old room on the upstairs floor of your parent’s house. You chose for a few months at least to believe those clichés about “never being too old to go home.”

Your travel blog hadn’t quite caught on with the public yet, and since your divorce wouldn’t be final for countless days, money was nearly nonexistent. You were separating from a lawyer, too. Meaning a substantial monetary settlement in your favor was highly unlikely.

Thankfully, you always had a place at Calvert’s Cup, your family owned coffee shop just a mere 4 blocks from your childhood home. The familiar solace of the place was comforting, and the warm, fuzzy smell of the house blend soothes your aching, confused heart, as well. Sure, the little downward brows of pity from the nosey morning crowd who’d made it a freaking special ops mission to discover your reason for returning to Boston wore you out. But, there was no stopping them. No way, no how. So, you played on with your best smile, and did your due diligence around the little shop.

One Tuesday, with the rain pouring outside like the coffee at morning rush, and thunder rumbling against the loose panes of the front window, you ran back to the register once hearing the twinkling of the entry bell. Your line of sight never raised as you greeted the patron approaching your counter.

“Morning. What can I do for you?”

A cackling, raspy outburst and the clapping of a heavy set of hands swiped your attention.

“Hold on a fucking minute.” The yelping announcement from the very familiar male voice instantly made you want to fall into a cave never to see the light of day again.

You’d know that loud, Boston city charm anywhere. You swiped a loose lock of hair around the curve of your ear, hoping to God your face didn’t appear as heated & humiliated as it felt.

Chris, the always handsome kid that lived two doors down from you your entire childhood, in the flesh & very much grown up. Of course, you were highly aware since his face frequented any slimy gossip column on the newsstand weekly. The two of you hadn’t been extremely tight knit in the category of friends almost 15 years ago since he’d been a handful of years older. But he was a face you spent many an hour daydreaming about.

“Amelia Calvert, in the flesh. God, how long’s it been!? What are you doing here?” He smiled, shaking off the mist of rain settling on his coat.

Yeah, what are you doing here? Let’s hear it. And don’t leave out that part about moving back in with your parents. That’ll be a real smash.

“I uh... I’m back here now. For good, most likely. Some things have just.... well, changed recently.”

Before he had time to retort, his pocket chimed. Pulling the telephone culprit loose, he checked the screen and dismissed its interruption.

“Well, well. How ‘bout that? I’m sure your mom is ecstatic. I know how chipper my mom gets when I’m in town for a break.”

The valley girl in you wanted to squeal a little. He was unfathomably handsome, decked in a dark shaded baseball cap, and a shirt resembling the same. The beard was new, but inexplicably welcomed.

He was simply, well, just Chris. The choir boy who made everyone laugh, and whose house the entire school knew had the best parties. You remember him typically strumming a guitar, and starring in the lead role for every drama club production. Not a single person could ever deny his natural born taking to the stage. And all these years later, the stars, and that damn near perfect beard, had fallen perfectly into the place for him.

You could feel the metal clasp of your diamond earrings warming against the bashful heat of your blush. Here you were, tied into a stained apron, dry-shampoo caked in your fitful hair, smudges of whipped-cream splattered on the glasses you usually never wore in public, standing in front of a literal A-list celebrity. When were the stars supposed to fall into place for you? Those bastards.

“She’s loving it. She and dad both. I did miss the place…”

“What brings you back anyways? Florida, was it?” He questioned cocking a thick eyebrow, endearing little wrinkles appearing above his left eye.

“Texas, actually. Yeah, it was Texas. I guess it was uh, it was just time to hang up my cowboy hat.”

It drew a belly laugh out of him, and he flapped a hand over his stony peck as if to choke back his uproarious reaction. You needed to feel a laugh like that. But instead, as of late, you were only the butt of such laughter.

His incessant mobile buzzed out again, this time in the palm of his hand.

“Hey, a large house blend, please. 2 sugars would be great.” He politely whispered, muffling the speaker of his phone.

Chris moseyed in circles a few feet from the counter, far enough to make your eavesdropping much more challenging as you appeared to innocently make his order to go. He still talked with his hands, boisterously tossing his head about. That had to be the theater upbringing in him. He may live up to his lax, ‘go with the flow’ reputation, but he definitely had a thing for the dramatic, as well.

You sealed the lid tightly on his biodegradable cup, marking his name across the side with your sharpie, and without thinking, dotted the letter “I” in his name with a tiny little heart. Your psyche was clawing it’s way through to the light one way or another.

“God, sorry about that. Agent bullshit, and all that jazz.” He nodded, rolling his extremely bright eyes.

“Living the dream, right? I can only imagine.” An airy giggle escaped you.

His fingers tapped on the counter, the other hand accepting the steamy java you had whipped up. He chewed his lower lip, gnawing back the tiniest traces of a smile, but the crinkles around his nose gave up his jig.

“It’s damn good to see you, Millie.” It was a simple sentiment. Meaningless, really. But, you could feel behind the bold, warm cadence of his voice that he’d meant exactly what he said. It wasn’t one of those things you say to an old acquaintance because you feel like you have to. Chris seemed…genuinely pleased at your unexpected presence. Which caused those same certain warm cadences in your…. areas. Your heart could’ve exploded into a million beating pieces as your nickname fell from his mouth.

Why the hell did he care though? What did your miniscule return to the city matter? There’d been no contact since his golden ticket was stamped, and truly before now, you weren’t sure he would even recognize your plain face in a crowd.

“Well, I’m happy to know that little ol’ me could brighten your day. And that I’m sure that glorious cup of dark roast had nothing to do with it.”

You were rocking fretfully back and forth behind the counter. Your hands fiddled with the loose watch band fastened around your bony wrists. You were fidgeting undoubtably. You were a fidgeter. The soft auburn whiskers sprouted around his sharp jaws made you fidget.

What those jaws would feel like flexing between your thighs…..

“You’re right. I do love the dark roast. Your dad always leaves a bag with my mom around the holidays for me. This cup seems to taste a little better though, I’m not gonna lie.”

Okay. Was he flirting? That was definitely flirting. You were getting a divorce, not dying. But, he didn’t know that. The wretched “D” word news surely hadn’t spread that far, had it?

You let yourself smile, timidly accepting the compliment with apprehension. This guy could have the ass of half of America on a platter had he been that sort of person. Nothing about the saggy, tired circles under your eyes, and your hair tied into a blonde crows-nest at the crown of your head screamed sex appeal in the slightest.

Chris leaned over the counter, fat beads of rain residue still hanging from his coat dolloped on the counter, one catching your finger. You froze in an instant. Your mind already warring whether to suck his slightly chapped lips into your mouth, or faint from the heavenly poison of his scent climbing into your nostrils.

“But don’t tell your dad. Wouldn’t want to ruin my source of supply.” He whispered deep into your ear like he was spilling some undisclosed secret of the CIA. The mans mouth grazed the shell of your ear, goosebumps climbing up your tensed neck.

“Mhmm…” you choked on your tongue trying to clear your throat. “Your uh, your secrets safe with me.”

“Cross your heart?” With one thick brush of a finger, Chris marked an ‘x’ over the now heaving rise of your chest, politely minding not to drag over your breast. The pert of your begging nipple may have made things a bit awkward.

“I’m a fortress.” You gulped, trying to swallow down the unrelenting urge to capture his lips.

He took a long pull of the coffee, never releasing you from his cuffed stares. You didn’t want to look away from his swimming, batting eyes, but something about the way his neck strained with his swallow called for your attention.

“Come to my place, Mills. Tomorrow night, if you don’t have plans?”

Well, your mom would certainly be distraught that you’d miss movie night, but you could probably squeeze in some time for the guy. But, alone? At his place? No one around to hold you accountable for the screaming, near melted center of your body that suddenly ached for him?

Lacking all power of will, you nodded a probably overzealous acceptance, making his mouth open into a pearly-white smile. A movie star smile. Literally.

“I’ll text you the address then! Have a good one. Glad I ran into you, Amelia.” It was as if the light of the room followed him out the door when it closed behind him, and you were left standing in a blissful fog to make some sense of the events of the last 5 minutes.

And what the hell did you have to wear to Captain America’s house?

*A/N: PLEASE let me know if you’d like to be added, or removed from the taglist*

tags: @miidailyinspiration @mollybegger-blog @littleluna98

#Chris Evans #chrisevans #chris evans x ofc #chris evans fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic

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malbrockway-archive-blog · 6 years

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((Hi everybody! I’m K, and this cantankerous asshole here is Mal. I am a sucker for character-driven plots, drama (only of the IC sort, of course!), interweaving storylines, and soul-crushing angst is my jam, so if you’re down for any of that definitely hit me up! I’m EST zone and most often around online weekdays during the daytime, but occasionally in the evenings/on weekends. Anyway, I also ramble, so without further adieu go ahead and peek under the read-more for Malcolm’s character info. Looking forward to writing with you all!))

[ jon fletcher, thirty-six, cis-male, he/him ] ━ hey, I just saw [ malcolm brockway ] walking/*rolling* down the streets of crownsville. they’ve lived in town for [ 36 years ], and you can catch them around town working as a [ chef and restaurant owner ]. I hear they’re known to be [ dedicated & clever ] and [ bitter & jaded ]. if asked, they would say their aesthetic would be [ a cast iron skillet, faded blue jeans, a quiet farm house, early morning sunrises, fingerprints on a dusty bible, the smell of a home cooked meal, an empty pill bottle, a handicapped license plate on an old pickup truck ].

You can read Mal’s detailed bio HERE ...

Otherwise, below are some important highlights:

Mal’s family owns and operates a pig farm just outside of Crownsville (in a notoriously rural region which he will refer to as “the shit end of Crownsville”, which will make sense to anyone who has ever smelled a pig farm...). He was born and raised there, and aside from moving to Atlanta for a couple of years during culinary school he has never really left his hometown.

His father is a hard-ass, his mother teaches Sunday school at the local Evangelical church, and Mal has one identical twin brother named Marshall. Their upbringing was extremely strict, and staunchly religious. Mal’s brother is married with two sons and still lives/works the farm.

Malcolm met Marjorie at a church function when they were teenagers, and the two became close throughout high school. Amid much pressure from their fundamentalist Christian families they married just after graduation, and eventually had a son. The boy, Mark, has special needs and Mal has struggled a great deal with this.

Much to his family’s disappointment, Malcolm refused to follow in his father and brother’s footsteps on the farm and instead left to pursue a career in the culinary field. He attended culinary school in Atlanta and returned to take a job as head chef at a popular restaurant in Crownsville; eventually buying it and turning it into Three Peaches Bistro.

Despite Mal and Marjorie’s foundation of friendship and some effort to make things work insomuch as an Evangelical Christian marriage is supposed to, there was no passion in their relationship and the marriage became increasingly hollow, emotionally crippling, and miserable. Eventually Marjorie came out as a lesbian and asked for a divorce.

Devastated and blaming himself for his failed marriage, Malcolm let his alcoholism get out of control. Shortly after the divorce was finalized, he was in a horrendous car-wreck while drunk behind the wheel. His injuries were severe and life-changing. Recovery, both physically and mentally, has been a long and dark process.

Malcolm is now primarily confined to a wheelchair, and has been for four years now. Since the night of the accident he has not touched a drop of alcohol, though he is dependent upon prescription pain medication. Locals and long time residents would likely be aware of what had happened.

Mal does NOT appreciate being touched, by anyone, at any time. Not casually, not affectionately, not at all.

While he still cooks, he can no longer work the line in his restaurant’s kitchen and is most often found running things behind the scenes.

Although those who may have known him when he was younger might recall that he wasn’t always so bitter and grumpy, he is generally not regarded as the friendliest fellow in town. Still, he’s a good person at heart and ultimately would do anything for his family or the few he considers friends.

Mal’s cousin, Zane, lives with him and works at Three Peaches Bistro.

Malcolm’s ex-wife has relocated to Atlanta with their son to be closer to the boy’s specialized school and medical professionals. While Mal still provides financial support, he seldom sees the child anymore beyond a weekly Skype call and the occasional visit.

Recently, after months of friendship, he and Olivia Bennett have begun a relationship.

#crownsvilleintro #tw: alcholism #tw: drunk driving #tw: substance abuse #tw: injury #tw: everything #[ooc :: k rambles]#[about :: mal]

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victoriahousetx · 7 years

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A Brush With Betty

By Melody Boyd

I sat down on the stoop of LoveYoga to catch up with one of SETX’s most influential artists and entreprenuers, Betty Smith. I may be just a tad biased, as she is one of my most cherished friends and confidants. Nonetheless, she is rather prominent in our ever-growing arts community; what with a number of solo exhibitions under her belt, her personal studio aptly named Betty Smith Creative Works, and her niche window painting business that boasts over 75 clients throughout the Golden Triangle, I may not seem so biased after all. Thanks to her grandfather supplying her with any and all manner of mediums during her upbringing, as well apprenticeships under Geraldine Watson, Rose Stark, and Andy Ledesma, she has made her mark on the world through a vast array of mediums. Soon, she will make her mark in downtown Beaumont, via an upcoming mural project that will feature local artists spanning a variety of styles. She was the first to be contacted for such a project, given her experience muraling, so we caught up on her latest endeavor whilst waiting for more attendees to arrive at the event she was hosting in her space, located in the same building of the yoga studio we sat down at. Serenaded by jays and cicadas, our conversation punctuated by the sound of her daughter skateboarding in the nearby parking lot, it was a fitting atmosphere for her to explain more of her personal background as a piney woods Southeast Texas artist. Tell me more about your personal background as an artist. B: Like most, I draw inspiration from my life and childhood. I explored many different artistic avenues; I studied, apprenticed under, and was mentored by many different artists, trying to discover myself as a creative individual...My work very closely aligns with Southern, rural America - that shabby folk art look that is really popular right now. I almost resent that my style is so popular [laughs]...The important thing is that it comes from an authentic place in me. There are different ways that artists approach such subject matter; some do landscapes or interactive scenes like people swimming in a creek, but growing up, those are not the memories that stuck with me. What stuck with me was sitting on the shore, seeing a little oyster shell and studying it up close. So, how did this mural project even come about? B: Dean Conwell [of the Convention Visitors Bureau] and Greg Busceme [Director of The Art Studio, Inc] had...independently had a similar idea and were able to put their brainpower together and figure out how to bring it into fruition. Why do you think now is the best time for this to finally come together? B: The museums downtown have always been informally known as the arts district, but there is finally a move to get state recognition and make it official, so it’s coming at the perfect time because having more murals downtown and making it more aesthetically appealing should play a part in helping them gain this recognition. Lastly, tell me what you do NOT plan to do for the mural, and also what DO intend to do. B: My kneejerk reaction upon finding out about the project was to do something to promote Beaumont: the oil derricks, bluebonnets, the word itself, the big fire hydrant - and that’s probably going to be everyone’s reaction. What I’m very pleased to find is that is not what they are looking for. They want the work to reflect the artists and their existing work. So, I’m kind of evaluating all my work and I’ve narrowed it down to a few ideas. It’s definitely going to be bright and colorful… Is it going to be botanical or historical, or….? B: It’s either going to be botanical, or small creatures presented larger than life!

#Victoria House Tx #Betty Smith #High Street Times Zines #beaumont texas #Art

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occasionalthoughtsofunimpor-blog · 7 years

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Camp.

That one, simple, monosyllabic word, means so much to me. It contains so many memories, so many people, and so many important moments of my life, it is hard to conceive how just one word could evoke so many thoughts and emotions.

This week, as we take the docks out of the chilly waters here at Camp Lakeview in Seymour, Indiana, it will mark 10 years since I first embarked on this journey known as camp. I could never have imagined where the winding road would lead!

It was 10 years ago that I boarded a plane in Cleveland, OH, headed to the distant Sawthooth Mountains of Idaho, to discover what being a camp counselor was all about...I had never been to Idaho before. Heck, I had never been to a camp before!

My story begins as I feel most great tales of adventure, calamity, and triumph often do, with that most primordial of masculine quests: impressing a girl. Fall semester of my freshman year of college, while searching half-heartedly and fruitlessly for a summer job, I learned that the cute girl who lived down the hall in my grungy dorm, had plans to work at a camp over those months of freedom. I had never been to camp before, let alone considered working at one! But all of a sudden, it seemed like the only logical conclusion to my aimless search for employment was sleeping in a cabin with 12 other smelly human beings.

Now here we must pause to gaze in awe at my infinite brilliance and cunningness. I knew it would be too obvious, too mundane, not impressive enough, to work at any old camp, let alone the same camp that the cute girl was working at. No, indeed not! It only made sense to go spend the summer in some far-flung, mysterious wilderness...as far away from home, and her, as possible! So on a Tuesday morning, having received a tip from my childhood Pastor (unaware of my motives, and who himself worked at a camp while a student) about an organization of many different Lutheran camps, I logged onto the interwebs, loaded a map listing all the various locations on it, and pinpointed the dot furthest away from rural Ohio.

Camp Perkins, Idaho.

I took 30 minutes of spare time between classes to flip through the application and send it on its way to the camp. The wheels were set in motion. This unsuspecting maiden would be swept off her feet by my bold, daring, trek across the country into the great unknown!

If you haven’t already guessed, my start in camp ministry did not have the best of intentions. Truthfully, even though I grew up in a faithful, Christian family; attended church and youth group every week through high school; my faith had taken a backseat in my newfound, liberated, college lifestyle . Sure, I would try to read my Bible a couple times a week, maybe go to church a few times a semester, and for the most part hold to the moral principles I had learned to live by from my upbringing. From the outside, you might even say I was being a model Christian. But on the inside, in the heart that I know, there was simply very little room for an active, living, faith and relationship with the Lord. Indeed, only 30 minutes after I finished my phone interview for a position at the camp, I was headed to a keg party with some friends.

As I prepared to venture to Idaho, the responsibilities leading Bible studies, and sharing the gospel of Jesus Christ, were the furthest things from my mind. There were more pressing matters at hand! Which hiking boots should I get to conquer those mighty peaks?! Would 5 pairs of wool socks be enough?? Is this knife big enough to kill a grizzly?!

It was a warm, sunny day when I landed in Boise. I debarked the plane in my favorite lime green basketball shorts, an ultra trendy t-shirt, and some nike flip flops. After retrieving my 50 lb. duffel bag, bursting at the seams with everything I would need for the next 11 weeks, I crossed the Potomac river like General Washington (translation: walked outside), to meet my ride up to camp. I sat down on my duffel bag at the arrival pick up lane and waited. And waited. And waited some more. In my continuing infinite brilliance, in the age before smart phones, I had neglected to write down a phone number to contact either Camp Perkins or my ride.

After 1 hour, I began to worry I had given the camp incorrect flight information.

After 2 hours, I started calculating how long I could survive on the $45 in my wallet.

After 3 hours, waves of anxiety started crashing down with the humiliating thought of having to recount the tale of my embarrassment and failure to the cute girl down the hall...

After 4 hours, the seas parted, and a chariot of fire (ok, a Subaru Outback) from heaven came roaring into the airport terminal and out popped a young man with a Camp Perkins t-shirt. Salvation at last!

As we began the 3 hour journey from Boise to camp, myself and my driver, (Whose name was Chris, but at camp they called him Bash. I liked that!) fantasized of what adventures would await us this summer. I also marveled at the scenery outside the car window. If you have never been to Idaho, it is the most under-appreciated state in the entire country! I’ve traveled to Colorado, Montana, Oregon, Arizona, Utah, California, and still, there is not sight more beautiful to me than the wild, untouched, mountains of Idaho. However, as we ventured further away from the airport, I begin to notice a worrying sign along the road. You see, we were still over an hour SOUTH of camp, and yet there was already a solid covering of this white, shiny stuff on the ground. SNOW?!?! It’s mid-May!! It was 75 degrees in Boise! In my extensive preparations, I had somehow overlooked this tiny detail...bring pants to camp. I nervously brushed off this small oversight and carried on as if it was no big deal.

We arrived at camp in the waning sunset to the sounds of loud singing coming from somewhere off in the distance. As we hauled our heavy bags across the property to our cabin, we gradually drew nearer to the source of the boisterous chanting, until we came to the top of hill where we could see a group of 40 some people singing and dancing wildly around a fire below. What had I gotten myself into?! These people were crazy!! These people were something I was not! They were loud, joyful, and couldn’t care less what anyone else around them thought! They had a passion and desire to serve the Lord and live out the gospel written on their heart!

These people were something I was not...these people were something I only conveniently pretended to be...

I was not the best counselor that summer. In fact, I don’t think I was even a good counselor! Certainly, not when I compared myself to those around me. I had never supervised kids before, I had never led a devotion before, I had never tried to console a homesick child crying in his bed. There were so many things I had never done before, never even thought about before! And all of a sudden, my life was no longer about serving myself, or doing what I wanted to do. My life was about caring for these little creatures (for some reason, I always seemed to get the youngest campers....), making sure they were having fun, making friends, staying alive, and learning about a faith that I wasn’t even sure I had.

And, through it all, the goods times and bad, the triumphs and failures, I was surrounded, supported, challenged, and loved by an amazing group of people. My fellow summer staff. I could tell you stories about the time I wore a gator skin suit and pretended to be a daredevil, or the camper who wore the same red sweatpants and sweatshirt for an entire week, or the boy who shot an arrow through his hand...the tales are endless! But while those stories are entertaining (at least to me) and exciting, what was infinitely more exciting was the story of God’s working in my heart.

That summer, the Lord led me on a journey to discover Him. I learned how the faith of a child can be the most amazing, beautiful thing you have ever seen. I discovered that God does not only exist in church on Sunday mornings, but in the most competitive game of knockout you’ve ever seen, around the warm glow of a campfire, and even in taking camper Johnny to go pee at 3 freaking-in-the-morning. I saw that God is merciful, patient, and abounding in love to the n-th degree. I found a God who was working in me and through me, in spite of my less-than-Godly motivations.

Camp.

I believe in camp ministry because I am a product of camp ministry. It is a place apart, where for a period of time, whether a summer, a week, or even a day, we can encounter the Lord in the rawness of His majestic creation. It is a place where the concerns and anxieties of daily life seem to melt away; where cell phones go to die; where sinners can go to find life.

10 years ago I first set foot on that hallowed ground that is Camp Perkins. I have seen countless victims thrown into freezing cold lakes. I have been eliminated from more games of dodgeball and knockout, by seemingly innocent children, than I care to share. I have met thousands of amazing people, each with their own unique story. I have witnessed the Lord’s Spirit at work in innumerable lives, none more so than my own. 10 years later I am still at camp because I believe it is a place that changes and saves lives. It did for me.

I could never have imagined the journey the Lord would lead me on over these past 10 years, but I could never be more grateful. I am beyond blessed. As we head into this “offseason”, I can’t but to be excited for the even more amazing things the Lord Jesus Christ is going to do!

And as for that cute girl down the hill, well it’s a funny thing...I returned to school the next fall only to learn that she had transferred to another college! Apparently she was not impressed.

I guess my going to camp was all for naught after all!

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glenngaylord · 6 years

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A PERFECT PLACE - My Review of DIANE (3 Stars)

I’ve been a fan of Mary Kay Place ever since her breakthrough performance as Loretta Haggers on the 70s Norman Lear classic, MARY HARTMAN. She’s been a bright-spirited American treasure ever since, but always in supporting roles. Now, all this time later, she finally gets the leading role of her career, and it seems all those decades toiling away on the sidelines has given her the right edge to tap into the ferocity this great role deserves. DIANE, the narrative feature debut of New York Film Festival Director and documentarian Kent Jones (HITCHCOCK/TRUFFAUT), has its many flaws, but as a showcase for Place, it’s unmissable.

Diane, a widow in rural Massachusetts, spends all of her time in service to others. She visits her dying cousin (Deirdre O'Connell ) in the hospital, delivers casseroles to sick friends, ladles mac and cheese to the homeless at the local soup kitchen, and most importantly bursts in on her drug-addicted son Brian (Jake Lacy) in one gut-wrenching attempt after another to get him back into rehab. We’ve all seen this character before, the pillar of the community who never takes time for herself, but Place makes her so real, so exhausted, and yet, thoroughly relatable.

Jones employs a basic, straightforward approach to his filmmaking, imbuing his talky scenes with a lived-in aesthetic and an eavesdropping, docu-style camera. Occasionally, he’ll punctuate acts with shots of his wintry town from behind the wheel of a car, establishing a slow, laconic rhythm to the film. Rarely stopping at Diane’s own house, the film consists of a repeated series of visits to friends and family, focusing on the building resentments, the aching passage of time, and a lot of deaths. Here and there, Diane lunches with her friend Bobbie (the great Andrea Martin), and their complaint sessions have such a raw intensity. Bobbie may be clueless as she complains about having to host a family Christmas while sitting across from a friend who lives alone and is worried sick that he son could die at any minute, but their friendship clearly has room for the occasional tone deaf pronouncements.

The main thrust of the story centers on her relationship with her son. You get the sense there’s an unspoken past which informs Diane’s intensity, and once revealed, you come to understand the repetitive circle of her life. Lacy matches Place with a wildly unpredictable performance filled with manipulative guilt trips and viciousness. Late in the second act, his character takes an odd turn, one I didn’t see coming and am not sure is successfully rendered, but it all leads to an incredible third act scene between the two where in one line, he sums up their complicated relationship so perfectly. Jones knows these people and allows their back stories to unfold with minimal exposition.

Sounds better than a 3 Star review, you say? Well, unfortunately, Jones makes some choices late into the film which derailed things for me. Using slow motion techniques, dream sequences, and an almost incomprehensible final scene don’t feel supported by his otherwise simple filmmaking style. As they play out, these scenes feel more confusing than anything else. Had he shot the whole film with a more sweeping fashion, he may have succeeded with these scenes. By the end, I truly had no idea what I had just seen. Was the entire film a memory piece told by the person we see at the end? Did we witness a dream or a flashback? The passage of time seems clumsy and the POV shots feel overused.

These choices felt ill-judged after witnessing the beautifully realized story which comes before. Still, Place makes it worth the somewhat troubled journey. A scene in which she gets drunk and dances by herself in a bar, or one in which she berates another soup kitchen volunteer simply blazed across the screen. Jones surrounds Place with a gallery of women who have had long, unheralded careers. Estelle Parsons movingly embodies the role of Diane’s quietly suffering aunt. Joyce Van Patten and Glynnis O’Connor, two welcome blasts from the past, feel just right as Diane’s circle of friends. Jones seems to be celebrating his own upbringing as well as his love for actors he grew up loving. As a first feature, he has done a highly commendable job. It’s unfussy and doesn’t mark him so much as a visual master as someone who can create credible environments from which his actors can shine. Eventually he may discover how to shoot some of his more stylistically complex ideas, but until then, his humanistic voice as is has already made its mark by giving us Place at her best.

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gyrlversion · 6 years

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Inside the life of New Zealand’s worst ever terrorist

The white supremacist mass shooter who murdered 49 worshippers at a mosque in New Zealand has been identified as a 28-year-old Australian who seemingly spent up to seven years travelling the world and became obsessed with far-right and Neo-Nazi ideology.

Brenton Tarrant will appear in court tomorrow charged with murder after he stormed a mosque in Christchurch, opening fire with a semi-automatic shotgun and a rifle on about 100 defenceless worshippers attending Friday prayers. He live-streamed the shootings in a horrifying video posted on Facebook.

Now details of his background are emerging, including his upbringing in the rural New South Wales town of Grafton which he left shortly after his father Rodney died of cancer when Brenton was in his early 20s.

He seems to have spent up to seven years travelling the world, and one woman who knew him before he left Grafton speculates that ‘something happened to him’ during this time.

Tarrant claims in his so-called ‘manifesto’ to have made money trading Bitcoin, enabling him to travel the world. He also speaks of visiting a wide range of countries including Pakistan, and a photograph shows him on a tourist trip to North Korea.

But he seems to have become obsessed with terrorist attacks that happened in Europe between 2016 and 2017. His ranting manifesto is filled with Neo Nazi ideology and hatred for Muslim people.

Brenton Tarrant is pictured as a child being held by his keen athlete father who died of cancer in 2010 at the age of 49. He grew up in Grafton in New South Wales’ Northern River region and worked as a personal trainer before leaving to travel the world

In his manifesto, Tarrant (pictured) described himself as an ‘ordinary, white man’, who was born into a working class, low income family of Scottish, Irish and English decent. He is pictured in the sickening video of his attack, left, and in a social media picture, right

Tarrant grew up in a picture-perfect house (pictrued) in Grafton in New South Wales’ Northern River region

One woman who knew Tarrant before he left Grafton said he worked as a personal trainer who was obsessed with fitness but seemed like a well-adjusted young man.

In a twisted manifesto that he posted online before the massacre, Tarrant described himself as an ‘ordinary, white man’, who was born into a working class, low income family of Scottish, Irish and English decent.

He said in the document he had ‘no interest’ in attending university after leaving school. His father died of cancer when he was in his early 20s, and he left Australia to travel the world shortly afterwards.

His father, Rodney, who was a competitive athlete, died of cancer in 2010 aged just 49 and his mother and sister are rumoured to still live in the area.

While it remains unclear whether any of his relatives – including his mother – still live in the area, the family is very well known in the region.

The gunman wrote that he had ‘little interest in education’ growing up, and did not attend university as he had no great interest in anything offered at the schools.

He claimed he made some money investing in Bitconnect – a type of digital currency – before he then used the money to travel overseas.

Tarrant, who would later go on to become a personal trainer, inherited a love of physical fitness from his father, who reportedly died of an asbestos-related illness.

A woman who claims to have previously known Tarrant through the gym, confirmed it was him in the live stream.

She told Daily Mail Australia that he followed a strict dietary and exercise regime and worked at the gym after he finished school.

Witnesses reported hearing dozens of shots at Al Noor Mosque in Christchurch on the country’s South Island. Pictured is a still from a live-stream of the shooting

Three shootings have taken place in Christchurch on Friday afternoon, two at mosques and another at Christchurch Hospital

The woman, who did not wish to be named, said Tarrant always ‘threw himself into his own personal training’ before he later became a qualified a trainer and started training others.

He was very dedicated to his own training and to training others, she said. While he was very dedicated, Tarrant was more dedicated than most people would be, she added.

‘He was in the gym for long periods of time, lifting heaving weights. He pretty much transformed his body,’ she said.

The woman also said she had not spoken to him or heard him talk about his political or religious beliefs.

‘From the conversations we had about life he didn’t strike me as someone who had any interest in that or extremist views,’ she said.

‘But I know he’s been travelling since he left Grafton. He has been travelling overseas, anywhere and everywhere.

‘I would say it’s something in the nature of his travels, something he’s been around.

‘I know he’s been to lots of different countries trying to experience lots of different things in life and I would say something’s happened in that time in his travels,’ she said.

In a previous Facebook message about a trip to Pakistan on Facebook, he wrote: ‘an incredible place filled with the most earnest, kind hearted and hospitable people in the world,’ The Sydney Morning Herald reported.

‘The beauty of hunza and nagar valley in autumn cannot be beat,’ he stated.

A man wearing military fatigues (pictured) was arrested outside Papanui High School

At least one gunman has opened fire at a mosque in New Zealand , shooting at children and killing dozens of people

Witnesses reported hearing 50 shots and police are responding to the incident at Al Noor Mosque in Christchurch on the country’s South Island

Timeline of terror: How the Christchurch shootings unfolded

Friday March 15, 1.30pm local time (12.30am GMT): Gunman identifying himself as Brenton Tarrant live-streams mass shooting inside the Al Noor Mosque as Friday prayers are underway. The Bangladesh cricket team were on their way to the mosque at the time.

Another shooting takes place at a mosque in Linwood, 3.5 miles to the east.

1.40pm: Police respond to reports of shots fired in central Christchurch. People are urged to stay indoors and report any suspicious behaviour. Shortly afterwards, all schools in the city are placed into lockdown.

2.10pm: Police confirm they are attending an ‘evolving situation’ involving an ‘active shooter’

3.30pm: Two explosive devices attached to a car are found and disarmed by a bomb squad at Strickland Street, not far from the Al Noor Mosque.

4pm: One person confirmed to be in custody. New Zealand Police Commissioner Mike Bush says there have been ‘multiple fatalities’ at two locations – both mosques. Mosques across New Zealand urged to shut their doors.

4.10pm: Prime minister Jacinda Ardern calls it ‘one of New Zealand’s darkest days’.

5.30pm: Mr Bush says three men and one woman are in custody. Australian prime minister Scott Morrison confirms one of those arrested is Australian.

7.30pm: Ms Ardern says 40 are dead and more than 20 are seriously injured but confirms the offender is in custody

National security threat level is lifted from low to high.

7.45pm: Britomart train station in central Auckland is evacuated after bags are found unattended. The bags were deemed not suspicious.

9pm: Death toll rises to 49 and Police Commissioner Bush reveals a man in his late 20s has been charged with murder.

Police are not looking for any named or identified suspects, he says, but adds that it would be ‘wrong to assume that there is no-one else’.

11.50pm: Investigation extends 240 miles to the south where homes are evacuated around a ‘location of interest’ in Dunedin.

In a twisted manifesto believed to have been written by Tarrant, he said he targeted the places of worship because they had ‘far more invaders’.

‘I only arrived to New Zealand to live temporarily whilst I planned and trained, but I soon found out that New Zealand was as target rich of an environment as anywhere else in the west.

‘Secondly an attack in New Zealand would bring to attention the truth of the assault on our civilisation.’

Ms Ardern condemned the attacker, saying: ‘You may have chosen us, but we utterly condemn and reject you.’

‘My thoughts, and I’m sure the thoughts of all New Zealanders, are with those who have been affected, and also with their families.’

Early reports indicated a shooting at Christchurch Hospital. However, New Zealand Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern said the mosques were the lone targets on ‘one of New Zealand’s darkest days’.

Dozens of families spent the night crowding the front doors of Christchurch Hospital, unsure whether their loved ones had survived.

One woman took to social media to ask whether anyone had seen her husband.

‘Assalamualaikum [peace be with you] currently we still don’t have any news on my husband. Please keep him on your prayer.’

The nation’s terror threat level was elevated to ‘high alert’ following the terror attacks, the second highest possible.

However, police have confirmed there are no further suspects.

One of the gunmen live-streamed the mass shooting inside the Al Noor Mosque, which happened at 1.30pm as Friday prayers were underway

The shooter’s weapons were marked with the names of other people who have carried out attacks

Survivors gather near the Al Noor Mosque on Deans Road hours after the place of worship was attacked

AUTHORITIES RESPOND TO THE ATTACKS

New Zealand Police Commissioner Mike Bush confirmed the death toll had risen to 49 as of 9pm local time.

‘This is absolutely tragic. So many people are affected. We don’t know the identities of those who have died yet because those places are in lockdown,’ he said in a statement at about 6pm.

Speaking of the victims, Commissioner Bush said: ‘Our love and thoughts go out to them and all of their family, all of their friends and all of their loved ones.’

He also praised local police officers who responded to the attacks.

‘We have staff around the country making sure everyone is safe, including armed offenders at all mosques. Police staff have gone above and beyond to protect people today.’

Armed police were seen patrolling the Masijd Ayesha Mosque in Auckland after the attack in Christchurch.

He earlier urged Muslims in New Zealand not to go to mosques on Friday.

Commissioner Bush said four people were taken in custody with one later released. He also confirmed there were bombs attached to a car near the scene of the shootings, which were disarmed before they could detonate.

Police escort distraught witnesses away from a mosque in central Christchurch following twin massacres

Armed police push back members of the public trying to reach the mosque to check on fellow worshippers

Armed police maintain a presence outside the Masijd Ayesha Mosque in Manurewa in Auckland after the attack in Christchurch

Ms Ardern condemned the attacks, saying they were ‘an unprecedented act of violence, an act that has no place in New Zealand.

‘This is not who we are.

‘The people who were the subject of this attack today, New Zealand is their home. They should be safe here. The person who has perpetuated this violent act against them, they have no place in New Zealand society.’

She confirmed that police believe the attacks were ‘meticulously’ planned out.

Ms Ardern flew to Wellington from Christchurch to hold a crisis meeting at parliament.

Australian Prime Minister Scott Morrison said he was ‘horrified’ by the ‘callous, right wing extremist attack’.

‘The situation is still unfolding but our thoughts and prayers are with our Kiwi cousins,’ he said.

He and Ms Ardern discussed the repercussions of the attack later Friday evening. Australia’s terror threat level did not change as a result of the attacks.

New Zealand Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern said the shootings were an ‘unprecedented act of violence’

Worshippers in Bangledesh march through the streets of Dhaka to condemn the Christchurch mosque attacks

SICKENING ATTACK SHARED ONLINE

The suspected gunman shared a 73-page manifesto to Twitter before the killings, foreshadowing a ‘terrorist attack’.

He entered the Al Noor Mosque on Friday during afternoon prayers and opened fire, capturing the attack on a camera strapped to his helmet.

The distressing video streamed to his Facebook profile shows the 28-year-old man firing more than 100 shots at those inside.

His guns were scrawled with the names of past mass killers and cities where the shootings occurred.

The gunman’s rampage began when he got into his car wearing military-style body armour and a helmet saying ‘let’s get this party started’.

He then drove to the mosque listening to folk music and military tunes before parking in an alley around the corner.

THE UPBRINGING OF A SHOOTER:

Brenton Tarrant, 28, grew up in Grafton, a small town in northern New South Wales.

Tarrant’s father, who was a competitive athlete and completed 75 triathlons, died of cancer in 2010 aged just 49. His mother still lives in the area.

Tarrant attended a local high school and then worked as a personal trainer at the local Big River Squash and Fitness Centre from 2010.

A woman who knew Tarrant through the gym said he had always followed a strict dietary and exercise regime.

‘He was very dedicated to his own training and to training others,’ she said. ‘He threw himself into his own personal training and then qualified as a trainer and trained others. He was very good.’

‘When I say he was dedicated, he was dedicated more than most people would be.

‘He was in the gym for long periods of time, lifting heaving weights. He pretty much transformed his body.’

The woman said she had not spoken to him or heard him talk about his political or religious beliefs.

‘From the conversations we had about life he didn’t strike me as someone who had any interest in that or extremist views,’ she said.

‘But I know he’s been travelling since he left Grafton. He has been travelling overseas, anywhere and everywhere.

‘I would say it’s something in the nature of his travels, something he’s been around.

‘I know he’s been to lots of different countries trying to experience lots of different things in life and I would say something’s happened in that time in his travels.’

Shooters rampage began when he got into his car wearing military-style body armour and a helmet saying ‘let’s get this party started’

After retrieving one of at least six assault rifles stored in his car, he walked up to the front door and began firing at the first person he saw

After retrieving one of at least six guns stored in his car, he walked up to the front door and began firing indiscriminately at worshippers inside.

The gunman stormed inside and fired quick bursts at anyone he saw. One wounded man tried to crawl away but was shot again after he calmly reloaded.

He fired into crowds of huddled worshipers, sometimes not even looking where he was shooting, reloading numerous times.

When then sound of his gun stopped between magazines, the moaning of wounded people could be heard until the shots began again.

Several times he stood over wounded men, reloaded his gun, and shot them multiple times to make sure they were dead.

Tarrant then walked outside and appeared to fire on at least two targets, returned to his car and swapped his shotgun for a rifle.

AOS (Armed Offenders Squad) push back members of the public following a shooting at the Al Noor mosque

Members of a family react outside the mosque following the shooting in Christchurch

Pictured: Grieving members of the public after the shootings at mosques in Christchurch, New Zealand

Returning to the mosque he walked over to a pile of dead or wounded men in the room and began shooting them in the head to ensure they were dead.

Once he was satisfied everyone was dead, he ran outside and shot another person he saw on the mosque’s front lawn.

The woman stumbled on to the street and was lying face down in the gutter yelling ‘help me, help me’ as the shooter walked up to her.

Tarrant calmly leaned over her and shot her twice in the head.

Seconds later he returned to his car and drove over her body to make his escape, stopping to shoot at least one other person through his car window.

As he drove he expressed regret for not staying longer and ‘burning the mosque to the ground’. Two jerry cans of petrol were earlier seen the the back his car.

‘But, s**t happens,’ he said. ‘I left one full magazine back there, I know for sure. I had to run along in the middle of the firefight and pick it up.

‘There wasn’t even time to aim there were so many targets. There were so many people, the car park was full, so there’s no real chance of improvement.’

Footage from within the Masjid mosque later showed survivors tending to the wounded.

A floral tribute to the victims of the Christchurch massacres is seen on the same avenue as the second mosque

The 73-page document, which he called ‘The Great Replacement’, was published on the morning before Brenton Tarrant opened fire inside the Al Noor Mostque in Christchurch

THE SHOOTER’S MANIFESTO

In a manifesto seemingly written by Tarrant and shared to Twitter, he mentions being inspired by other shooters including Anders Breivik who killed 77 people in Oslo, Norway in 2011.

He said he ‘disliked’ Muslims and hated those who had converted to the religion, calling them ‘blood traitors’.

Tarrant said he originally wanted to target a mosque in Dunedin, south of Christchurch, after watching a video on Facebook.

‘But after visiting the mosques in Christchurch and Linwood and seeing the desecration of the church that had been converted to a mosque in Ashburton, my plans changed,’ he wrote.

‘The Christchurch and Linwood mosques had far more invaders.’

He said he had been planning an attack for up to two years and decided on Christchurch three months ago.

The shooter said he was motivated to carry out the attack by the death of Swedish schoolgirl Ebba Akerlund, a girl who was killed in a terrorist attack in Stockholm in April 2017.

Tarrant said he was a supporter of Donald Trump as a ‘symbol of renewed white identity and common purpose’.

A man reacts as he speaks on a mobile phone near a mosque in central Christchurch, New Zealand

Police rushed to an Auckland train station after reports of abandoned backpacks. The bomb disposal robot (pictured) detonated a bomb in a ‘controlled explosion’ while commuters were cordoned off

Police escort people away from outside one of the mosques targeting in the shooting

A police officer photographs witnesses near the scene of one of the shootings

Witnesses inside the mosque reported seeing 15 people being shot, including children

A man who escaped the mosque during the shooting said he saw his wife lying dead on the footpath

He described himself as ‘just a regular white man’.

He said he was born to ‘working class, low-income family… who decided to take a stand to ensure a future for my people’.

‘My parents are of Scottish, Irish and English stock. I had a regular childhood, without any great issues,’ he wrote.

The gunman said he carried out the massacre to ‘directly reduce immigration rates to European lands’.

He said New Zealand was not his ‘original choice’ for the attack but said the location would show ‘that nowhere in the world was safe’.

‘We must ensure the existence of our people, and a future for white children,’ he wrote.

He wrote that the shooting was an ‘act of revenge on the invaders for the hundreds of thousands of deaths caused by foreign invaders in European lands throughout history’.

‘For the enslavement of millions of Europeans taken from their lands by the Islamic slavers… for the thousands of European lives lost to terror attacks throughout European lands,’ the gunman wrote.

He shared photos to his now-removed Twitter account ahead of the attacks, showing weapons and military-style equipment.

In posts online before the attack Tarrant wrote about ‘taking the fight to the invaders myself’.

‘THERE WERE BODIES ALL OVER ME’

Mohammed Jama, the former president of the Muslim Association of Canterbury, said a man with a gun entered the Christchurch Mosque about 1.40pm local time on Friday.

A man inside the mosque at the time of the shooting said there ‘bodies all over me’.

Witnesses inside the mosque reported seeing 15 people being shot, including children.

A man who escaped the mosque during the shooting said he saw his wife lying dead on the footpath.

‘My wife is dead,’ he said while wailing.

Witness Ahmad Al-Mahmoud described one of the shooters as being white, with blond hair and wearing a helmet and bulletproof vest

The mosque has capacity to hold more than 300 people

Witness Ahmad Al-Mahmoud described one of the shooters as being white, with blond hair and wearing a helmet and bulletproof vest.

‘The guy was wearing like an army [suit]. He had a big gun and lots of bullets. He came through and started shooting everyone in the mosque, everywhere,’ Ahmad Al-Mahmoud told Stuff.

‘They had to smash the door – the glass from the window and the door – to get everyone out.

‘We were trying to get everyone to run away from this area. I ran away from the car park, jumping through the back [yard] of houses.’

Al-Mahmoud said the man was ‘wearing a helmet’ and must have fired ‘hundreds’ of gunshots.

Another witness said he ran behind the mosque to call the police after hearing the gun go off.

‘I heard the sound of the gun. And the second one I heard, I ran. Lots of people were sitting on the floor. I ran behind the mosque, rang the police.

‘I saw one gun on the floor. Lots of people died and injured.’

Another survivor, identified only as Nour, told the New Zealand Herald that the gunman shot multiple worshipers outside before carrying out his rampage inside the mosque where he shot people indiscriminately.

HEROIC POLICE OFFICER INTERVENES

A person suspected of being involved in the Christchurch mosque shooting was taken into custody on Friday afternoon in a dramatic roadside arrest.

Footage filmed by a passing motorist shows the suspect’s grey station wagon wedged between the gutter and another police car, with its front wheels in the air spinning.

The suspect appeared to still be inside, as officers approached the vehicle with their weapons drawn.

One officer reached inside the vehicle and dragged a person out, as a second stood guard with their weapon drawn.

The suspect was seen wearing dark clothing, and in the footage an officer appears to have hit the person.

Police Commissioner Mike Bush said there were ‘some absolute acts of bravery’ during the arrests of four people.

The Bangladesh cricket team (pictured) were on their way to Al Noor Mosque when shooting broke out inside

BANGLADESH CRICKET TEAM NARROWLY ESCAPED

Bangladesh players and support staff have been preparing for the third test of a series against New Zealand, set to begin on Saturday, and were walking through Hagley Park when shooting broke out at the Al Noor mosque.

Tweets from sports reporters and team members say the group ‘just escaped’ the shooting, which saw a man enter the mosque and fire multiple shots at dozens of people as they tried to flee.

The team’s opening batsman, Tamim Iqbal said on Twitter the ‘entire team got saved from active shooters’.

He said it was a ‘frightening experience’ and asked supporters to keep the team in their prayers.

Test captain Mushfiqur Rahim said Allah had saved the team.

‘We r [sic] extremely lucky,’ he wrote. ‘Never want to see this things [sic] happen again… pray for us.’

Shrinivas Chandrasekaran, the team’s performance and strategic analyst said they had ‘just escaped active shooters’. He said their hearts were pounding and there was ‘panic everywhere’.

ESPN cricinfo correspondent Mohammad Isam told the New Zealand Herald the team were ‘not in a mental state to play cricket at all,’ following the horrific attack.

‘I think they want to go back home as soon as possible. I’m speaking from experience, I’m speaking from what I’ve heard,’ he said.

‘Everyone is at the Hagley Park dressing room … two players are back at the hotel. They didn’t come out for the prayers so they are back at the hotel and the entire coaching staff are safe.’

The scheduled test between New Zealand and Bangladesh has been cancelled.

A man was seen with bloodstains on his trousers near the mosque after the shooting, as 48 people are left with gun wounds

A police officer gestures to a person outside the mosque after the shooting in Christchurch

A witness told Radio New Zealand he heard shots fired and saw ‘blood everywhere’.

Mr Jama said four people were injured and that he saw two people lying on the ground. He did not know if they were alive or dead, Stuff reported.

There may have been more than one shooter inside the mosque, the New Zealand Herald reported.

A man inside the mosque said he ran behind the building when he heard gunfire, One News reported.

He said he saw people lying on the ground in pools of blood.

A woman told the Christchurch Star she lay down in her car as four or five men came running towards her before hearing gunfire moments later.

Security expert Paul Buchanan told RNZ the killings were ‘the worst terrorist attack’ ever to take place in New Zealand.

Members of the public react in front of the Al Noor Mosque as they fear for their relatives

Parents refuse to leave without their children as their school, Te Waka Unua School, was in lockdown for hours on Friday

A shirtless man speaks on the phone as an armed police officer patrols the area outside a mosque in Christchurch

The gunman’s rifle and magazines reportedly had the names of other shooters who had killed people at mosques written on them.

A bomb was found in a grey Subaru Legacy three kilometres from the scene of the shooting on Strickland Street, The Guardian reported.

Another witness said people had to smash windows to escape the mosque.

Witnesses reported hearing as many as 50 gunshots at the Al Noor Mosque in Christchurch on the country’s South Island

Police urged people near the area to stay indoors and report suspicious behaviour, describing the incident as ‘critical’

Shocked family members are seen standing out the front of the mosque, unsure whether their loved ones have survived

Twenty armed police officers cleared areas in the suburb of Linwood, and led about five men with their hands on their heads out of a building in the area.

Police Commissioner Mike Bush said the shooting was a ‘serious and evolving situation’.

‘Police are responding with its full capability to manage the situation, but the risk environment remains extremely high,’ he said.

‘Police recommend that residents across Christchurch remain off the streets and indoors until further notice. Christchurch schools will be locked down until further notice.’

The lockdown ended after about three hours.

The gunman entered and opened fire while hundreds of people were inside the packed mosque for Friday prayers

A man who escaped the mosque during the shooting said he saw his wife lying dead on the footpath

The shooting happened near Cathedral Square where thousands of children were protesting for climate change action.

The protesting children were told to go home to ensure their safety.

New Zealand Police said armed officers were deployed to Hagley Park and at Christchurch Hospital.

A witness said they heard at least 50 gunshots and saw people lying on the ground.

Another witness said he saw a car chasing two people from outside the mosque along Deans Avenue.

He said the people in the car began shooting at the two people.

Two abandoned backpacks sparked another bomb scare at Auckland’s largest train station. A bomb disposal robot was used to investigate the backpacks while pedestrians were cordoned off.

A ‘controlled explosion’ was heard soon after.

Pictured: Bloodied bandages on the road after the shooting at the Al Noor mosque in Christchurch

Armed police officers were seen outside Christchurch Hospital after the shooting, remaining there through the night

Christchurch Boys’ and Girls’ high schools were both been placed into lockdown. The restrictions were lifted hours later.

Parents of students at Christchurch Girls’ High School were sent a text message telling them the lockdown was ‘not an exercise’.

The Canterbury District Health Board activated its mass casualty plan and the city council placed its central city buildings into lockdown.

Rugby star Sonny Bill Williams shared an emotional tribute to those killed in Friday’s mosque shooting.

In a video posted to Twitter, a tearful Williams, who is a proud Muslim, said he ‘couldn’t put into words how I feel right now’.

The 33-year-old told followers he was sending prayers to the loved ones of those killed, and praying himself the victims would end up in paradise.

‘Just sending my duas (prayers) and Mashallah (god willing) – everyone that’s been killed today in Christchurch… your families … [I’m] just sending my duas to your loved ones and Mashallah you guys are all in paradise,’ he said.

‘I’m just deeply, deeply saddened that this would happen in New Zealand.’

One per cent of New Zealand’s population of five million are Muslim, according to government statistics.

In his manifesto, Tarrant stated he first planned the attack ‘roughly two years in advance’ but chose the final locations three months ago, The Sydney Morning Herald reported.

He said he initially planned to target a mosque in Dunedin, but changed to the Al Noor and Masjid Mosques because they had ‘far more invaders’.

He wrote about how after attacking those two mosques he planned to drive to a mosque in Ashburton, an hour south of Christchurch.

‘I am unsure as of this time of writing whether I will reach that target, it is a bonus objective,’ he wrote.

Forty-eight people are believed to have suffered gunshot wounds during the attack, with hundreds of family members currently on site at Christchurch hospital.

Worst peacetime gun massacres

New Zealand’s worst ever gun massacre ranks among some of the world’s most horrible mass murders.

The death toll has surpassed Australia’s April 1996 Port Arthur massacre in Tasmania, which saw 35 people gunned down at an historic tourist attraction. New Prime Minister John Howard spearheaded national gun laws in the wake of this tragedy.

It occurred just seven weeks after Scotland’s Dunblane massacre, which saw 16 children and one teacher shot dead near the town of Stirling.

Port Arthur was the world’s worst peaceful massacre until June 2016, when a 29-year-old security guard killed 49 people at the American Pulse gay nightclub at Orlando, Florida. Friday’s Auckland attack has now matched that total.

Just over a year later, in October 2017, a gunman opened fire killing 58 people at the Route 91 music festival in Las Vegas.

The United States has been home to a spate of gun massacres, defined as the death of four or more people.

In April 2007, 32 people were killed at Virginia Tech when a student opened fire at Blacksburg.

In December 2012, a gunman shot and killed 20 children aged between six and seven years old at the Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut.

In November 2017, a gunman opened fire at the First Baptist Church at Sutherland Springs in Texas, killing 27 people, including the 14-year-old daughter of the church pastor.

Until now, New Zealand had not had a mass shooting since June 1994, when David Bain, 22, killed his father Robin, mother Margaret, his sisters Arawa and Laniet , and his brother Stephen.

New Zealand tightened gun laws after the Aramoana massacre of November 1990, which saw 13 people shot dead in a small township near Dunedin , following a neighbourhood dispute.

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travelworldnetwork · 6 years

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By Stacey McKenna

29 January 2019

I read the highway signs aloud as I whizzed past, trying to mimic the sing-songy Québécois twang on the radio. It was early May, and I chattered to myself in French as I cut north out of Québec City, through Jacques-Cartier National Park, passing signs warning against collisions with moose and signalling turnoffs to lakes still cloaked in patchworks of ice. I was headed towards the shores and clifftops of one of the world’s longest fjords, hoping to glimpse whales, ride horses and practice a language that I’ve spoken for most of my life, but never quite embraced as my own.

French wasn’t something I chose for myself. The daughter of a Francophile father, I learned it through the Martine storybooks my dad read to me at bedtime, a toddlerhood spent in Strasbourg and endless dad-mandated classes at summer camps and schools in the US, where I grew up. My dad has loved France since he was young. He’s spent years in the country since his first stay as a high-school exchange student, and when I ask him what he loves about the place, he waxes on about friendships and food, beautiful cities and a particular joie de vivre. I now understand that he always wanted to share that with me.

View image of Writer Stacey McKenna travelled to Québec in hopes of practicing the French language (Credit: Credit: Ken Gillespie Photography/Alamy)

My parents tell me that when I was two or three years old, I did have my own relationship with the language: I refused to speak it with them, yet happily babbled on with my babysitter in Strasbourg. But most of the French interactions I recall from my childhood happened in Paris during my self-conscious adolescence. I would tag along with my dad during holidays, bored by the same long meals and adult conversations he so enjoyed. And when I tried setting out on my own, even my most basic attempts to buy a croissant and talk to people were marked by brusque corrections of my American accent.

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I kept returning to France with my dad well into adulthood, but I did so reluctantly, no longer wanting to talk for myself or explore on my own. I had lost confidence in my ability to get the language right, so I let go of my desire to speak it.

That is until the first time I visited Québec 14 years ago as a graduate student. My decision to study in Montréal had less to do with French itself than with my romantic notion of life in a bilingual city where I could, in theory, speak English too.

A relic of pre-revolutionary France, Canadian French retains old qualities that make it difficult for the uninitiated to grasp. “We use words [the French] don’t use anymore, and make distinctions between sounds they’ve flattened,” explained Emilie Nicolas, a Québec-born linguistic anthropology graduate student at the University of Toronto.

Although my classes were in English, I lived in a French neighbourhood and was met with patience and smiles as I struggled with the mellifluous accent and unfamiliar local words. Something about the Québécois diphthongs and nasally vowels lured me in. My interest in French was piqued – even if my painful linguistic past caused my confidence to remain low.

View image of McKenna’s father, a Francophile, had taught her French as a child, when they temporarily lived in Strasbourg (Credit: Credit: Stacey McKenna)

Québec’s own fraught linguistic history dates back to 1763, when France ceded the area to Britain. For the next 200 years, the local government filtered French out of schools and adopted measures that benefitted English speakers. By the 1960s, francophones remained worse off economically and socially than their anglophone counterparts, and a distinct cultural and class divide permeated the province.

The 1970s brought a push for pro-French language planning, and with it bills – like the Charter of the French Language – that explicitly linked French to Québécois identity and made it the only official language of the province. But, for some, the fear that French will once again come under attack lingers. That tension was palpable for me in the nine months I lived in Montréal. I never knew which language I was supposed to speak in a given situation, and each choice felt rife with culturally charged meaning that piled on my pre-existing anxiety.

So when I returned last spring, the irony wasn’t lost on me. Here I was, searching for personal peace with French in a region where the language has been mired in discord for centuries. But this time, rather than staying in Montréal, I headed deeper into the province and forced myself to plough through my timidity in a place where most people are monolingual.

View image of Although McKenna continued to travel to France with her father, she lost the desire to speak the language (Credit: Credit: Stacey McKenna)

As I stepped up to the car rental counter at Québec City’s Jean Lesage International Airport, I rehearsed my lines with the trepidation that comes from an upbringing of terse correction: "Je m'appelle Stacey McKenna. J'ai réservé une voiture." I forced the words through the lump of nerves in my throat. The woman behind the counter beamed and began rattling off details – all in French. By the time I settled into my little red Volkswagen and set out on the road, I felt ready.

As I traced a loop from Québec City to the Saguenay Fjord and through the region of Charlevoix, French started to feel like a key to the region’s secrets. I arrived in the little town of L’Anse-Saint-Jean just ahead of sea kayaking and whale watching season, so in the morning over breakfast, I asked my bilingual host (guiltily, in English) for advice. He suggested a nearby hike, then asked whether I spoke any French. “I do,” I replied, staring at my plate and pushing my egg around with my fork. “But not nearly as well as you speak English."

“Don’t be shy,” he said. “We like hearing your English accent.”

I felt my belly warm with a newfound affection for the tiny but significant experiences that French – even my imperfect French – might unlock here

According to Richard Bourhis, linguistic psychologist at Université du Québec à Montréal, schooling on pronunciation tends to be less rigid in Québec than in France, which likely creates a difference in how foreign speakers are perceived. “[In France] they're taught that they can’t make mistakes in French, so they don't want you to make a mistake,” he said. “Francophones all over Canada don't mind using English or French with all kinds of accents… so long as we can understand each other.”

As my host had warned, the trail was still slick with snowmelt. I followed it upward – scanning the forest for signs of moose as I went – and soon found myself tromping through lingering drifts.

I turned back before the snow got too deep to cross in trainers, and on my descent, I ran into a group dressed far more appropriately for the muddy spring terrain than I. They asked me in French if there was still snow on top, and to my surprise, I didn’t hesitate. “Je ne sais pas. Je ne suis pas allée au sommet.” (“I don’t know. I didn’t go to the summit.”) They smiled, thanked me and continued their ascent. I felt my belly warm with a newfound affection for the tiny but significant experiences that French – even my imperfect French – might unlock here.

View image of Rather than staying in the bilingual city of Montréal, McKenna travelled deeper into Québec where most people are monolingual (Credit: Credit: Stacey McKenna)

The next day, I headed to Baie-Sainte-Catherine, where I caught a whale-watching boat through the Saguenay-St Lawrence Marine Park. Bracing against the wind and the rocking waves, I squinted, hoping to spot the tell-tale spray from a blowhole. As I listened to the on-board scientist talking easily in French and English about the underwater ecosystems, I wondered whether, by resisting for all these years, I’d squandered my own chance at bilingualism.

It’s a mistake French-Canadians seem less likely to make, as Québec’s French-speaking population is currently driving an increase in Canada’s bilingualism rate. “We’re very francophone still, but we don’t see speaking multiple languages as an either/or thing,” Nicolas said. “It adds. It doesn’t erase or threaten who you are in the same way it once did.”

This attitude was evident all over the province: at the Musée du Fjord in Saguenay; the cafe in Baie-Saint-Paul; the restaurant in Québec City. Over and over again, people encouraged me with their patience, asked where I had learned French and complimented my efforts. Inspired by the chance to practice this familiar language in a new, friendlier setting, I suddenly found myself overwhelmed by the pleasure of speaking French. I started drawing out conversations and asking for directions and recommendations I didn’t need. French had lost its tarnish. But more than that, it was becoming mine.

View image of Stacey McKenna: “I suddenly found myself overwhelmed by the pleasure of speaking French” (Credit: Credit: Pierre Rochon photography/Alamy)

When I returned to Québec City, I walked cobbled streets below matte metal roofs. The sky was grey, and I was reminded of days dawdling around Paris with my father. Grateful for the years he had insisted I learn his favourite language, I pulled out my phone and texted: "Je suis à Québec. C'est bon, mais ça serait mieux si tu étais ici." (“I’m in Québec. It's good, but it would be better if you were here.”) He agreed, and suggested we visit Québec together one day.

French had lost its tarnish – but more than that, it was becoming mine

After five days on the mostly francophone roads of rural Québec, I hopped a train to Montréal, home to the majority of the province’s bilingual residents and much of its linguistic tension. Six months prior, provincial legislators had unanimously approved a motion banning the city’s ubiquitous ‘bonjour-hi’ greeting. For nationalists, the phrase is a symbolic threat against French. But according to Bourhis, it’s an embrace of bilingualism, and a way to welcome people of either mother tongue. And despite the resolution, it isn’t going anywhere.

I dropped my bags at my hotel and headed to a glass-fronted restaurant near Old Montréal for lunch. As I took my seat, the server offered a cheery “Bonjour, hi!”. I returned the greeting, and in French free from fear, asked to see a menu.

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calculatemygrade-blog · 7 years

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how to calculate your semester grade

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