#Georgia services over 18

[gallaghersgal]

tell me about baseball because I know nothing but would like to learn!

FEVER PITCH pro baseball!lip headcanons

TAGS & WARNINGS: mature, 18+. sexual content but non explicit, drinking mention, emotional angst, pregnancy. but also fluff!! silly shenanigans, second chance romance, lip is stupid in love.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: this is my brain child omfg. tysm for sending this ask, honestly. i yapped!!! there was also more to this but i've been adding to it for days and its getting long for hcs so. lmk if anyone wants part 2 teehee

WC: 1.4k

when he was younger lip always played shortstop, his arm was powerful but not quite precise enough to pitch, but he never minded. pitchers have to remember too much, shortstop just falls into the rhythm; watching the pitch, listening to the crack of the bat, and tracking the ball as it rocketed through the field. the two of you met in college, lip played two seasons at university of chicago before transferring to a better athletic program. there was a mutual breakup before parting ways, but whenever he's in town you can't fight the urge to see each other.

he's picked up on the MLB draft straight out of college, after captaining the national championship team, and sent to an affilliate somewhere warm in the south, georgia or maybe louisiana. he calls you often to boast the climate, while you complain about the stress of your masters degree. over time the calls come less frequently, but each conversation feels like no time has passed at all.

it takes three years for lip to work his way up to the big leagues, where he joins the chicago cubs for his rookie season. now, lip plays centerfield. he's a quick runner, and his powerful arm sends balls to their respective bases at record speed. he's efficient, most teams don't stand a chance.

he doesn't know how to tell you he's coming home again, back to chicago. and back to you. you find out from your best friend, who overheard fiona talking about it at patsy's. you two along with fi & veronica find the money for tickets at centerfield, right where lip will be.

fiona whistles through her fingers the second she reaches her seat and waves down her brother, whose cheeks immediately turn bright pink. if a teammate pointed it out he'd surely brush it off as the chilled march wind, but you know him better than that. he greets the four of you nervously, opening up as he gets sight of the smiles you wear. no one cares he didn't tell, your joy at his homecoming tops any negative in your minds.

after the third inning a guest services rep brings the four of you a handful of meal and beverage vouchers, a gift from lip. later you'll learn he'd tried to have your seats upgraded but was denied, too low on the totem pole for that sort of request. so you pile your arms with hot dogs, pretzels, cheese fries, diet coke and fancy ipa brews.

the game flies by, you and fiona sit side by side and shout teases down to lip, watching his face light up. this is the first time you really see his talent, how he's developed as an athlete. he finally has somewhere to put all of that pent up energy he keeps inside, using it to jump up in the ivy wall for a catch, to react as quick as the ball and sprint in the same direction. when he catches the game-winning out, a fly ball straight to centerfield, he tosses it up into the stands. it sails directly to you, tipsy giggles spilling from your lips as you scrawl your phone number onto the white canvas before throwing it back down.

lip wants to fog up the windows of your honda right there in the parking lot but you have the presence of mind to drag him towards his own parked car while he trails sloppy kisses down your neck. the sex is amazing, it always is, but there’s something different in the way he holds you this time. you pretend not to notice it, until you have a reason to bring it up.

three weeks later, two pregnancy tests sit on the gallaghers bathroom counter. you'd only brought one along, but fiona dug another out of her bedside table drawer when you became anxious at the two pink lines. when the second test reads positive, v offers to call lip for you and you let her.

it's hours before he can get to you, even without a game there's still training, a players meeting, and dinner afterward with franchise sponsors. he's busy, you get it. fi gives you the spare key to his apartment—a studio unit in a high rise downtown, somewhere you couldn't imagine a gallagher living—and lip pays for a cab to take you there.

once you lay eyes on the space it becomes a little more believable that lip gallagher lives there. a box spring and mattress are stacked together in one corner, topped with the classic navy blue sheets and two pillows. he has a small couch (loveseat, more like) that you decide to wait on, favoring it over the bed. his tv sits on the floor against the wall, with the remote balanced precariously on top. flipping through channels is a nice, mind numbing activity to soothe you, and you fall asleep after landing on old sitcom reruns.

the sun has long set when lip comes in the door, eyeing your sleeping frame. he decides to let you sleep while he washes the grime of the day from his body. he kneels by you when he's clean and fresh, clothed in nothing but blue gingham boxers. "'ey kid, wake up," he mumbles, smoothing your hair away from your brow. when he sees you blink up at him he continues softly, "y'can live here with me, until the baby is born, m'kay? an' we can decide what we want to do." "about?" "about us."

you smile up at him, he offers you the bed and insists on taking the couch, not allowing himself too much of a good thing. he's already over the moon you want to keep the baby, his baby. he doesn't want to scare you away. he only makes it a week cramped up on that tiny couch. later in your relationship you have something funny to look back on, old photos of lip with his knees tucked up and one arm hanging awkwardly off the cushions.

when he can't stand the couch anymore he orders you a pregnancy pillow, and you order a bedframe, all on his card of course. you don't even need the pillow yet, most nights of your first trimester you're up and down, in and out of the bathroom. each time you come back to bed lip is on his stomach, arms curled around that damn pillow as he rests on it. he says it helps his sore muscles. whatever the reason is you don't really care, the toned expanse of his back makes a good pillow anyway.

you get into a habit of ordering furniture, decorations, and other home goods while lip is away. he doesn't mind, always makes sure you use his card, he wouldn't know what to do with all that money anyway. little by little the studio apartment starts to feel like home, and lip starts to feel more like a serious boyfriend than a hookup turned baby daddy, for lack of better wording.

before you know it the season is over, lip receives a large bonus after the cubs make the playoffs, and the two of you are kissing over a bottle of sparkling cider as you christen your new two-bedroom townhouse, complete with a downstairs office space and large backyard. october turns the leaves beautiful hues, and the calmness of this new neighborhood soothes your mind, your due date in december rapidly approaching.

between the new place, increased proximity during the off-season, and your pregnancy hormones, you find yourself bickering more and more with lip. it comes to a head one night when he shouts at you, and you feel the baby kick in response before you break down completely. the fight was about something small, insignificant. it had started with you talking about baby names. lip isn't sure how he let it spiral this way.

dutifully, with regret painted on his features, he kneels down beside your crumpled form on the bed. he takes your hand, muttering an apology and promising to make things work. then he says softly, "i like lucy. as a name for the baby?" you just stare at him, and he continues, "could be short for lucille. an' you liked olivia for a middle name, yeah?"

"lucille olivia gallagher. it's so pretty, lip, i love it." you smile in awe, reaching out to cup his cheek. "i love you," you say, and now it's lip's turn to stare. but a moment passes and he smiles, gathering your frame into his arms to pull you into his lap. "love you too, pretty girl."

by new years day you have a healthy baby girl in your arms, and a pretty diamond ring on your left hand.

© gallaghersgal, 2024. dividers © cafekitsune (x)

[ssinnerplazahotel]

╭──────────.★..─╮

*Chapter Nine*

╰─..★.──────────╯

WC: 8k

Warning: 18+, age gap, smut, fluff, toxic elvis, manipulation, drug use, it’s the 50s/60s, painful-difficult-devastating-life-changing-extraordinary love

Pairing: elvis x black reader

Disclaimer: full of inaccuracies, inaccurate timeline, inaccurate depictions of Graceland, historically inaccurate themes and items

Masterlist: Prologue, Ch. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8

Time is a strange thing. It has a way of going by slowly and in a hurry all at the same time. It doesn’t wait for you or let you catch up. You discovered early on that if you focused too much on time it drifted by slowly. If you kept yourself busy and focused on other things it went by without you noticing too much. So you kept yourself as busy as possible.

Although you had plenty of money saved, you got a job within your first week of being in Atlanta. You waited tables at a small diner just a few blocks from the apartment you were renting.

It wasn’t the nicest apartment. It was above a family-owned restaurant and your landlord wasn’t the most forgiving woman in the world, but it was in the heart of the city and close enough to your job.

It wasn’t entirely without incident that you’d ended up there. When you arrived at the train station you’d decided to take the first train leaving that was going the furthest away.

Regardless, you didn’t regret the decision. It was a busy city, and you needed to be busy.

When you called Dawn that first night, from a hotel in the middle of a completely different state, she tore into for nearly thirty minutes. You were able to convince her that you were fine, and that you were doing what was necessary. You weren’t having a breakdown, you were trying to prevent one.

You didn’t expect to spend the next month searching for a place to be. That month of aimlessly wandering was unnerving, but now you were settling nicely in Georgia now.

You had left Memphis behind and you were gaining important life skills and managing your finances. It wasn’t the most ideal job, but you were able to throw yourself into your work everyday.

You were happy with the way things were going. And the more consumed you were with work and surviving, the less effort it took not to think about him.

You missed him every single day, a part of you always would. But it didn’t hurt as much anymore. The hole he left in your heart was still there, hollow but numb now.

“You got company, treasure,” Your coworker called out to you from the kitchen.

“Give me that sirloin, Chuck, I asked for it first.” You ducked your head to talk to him through the service window. “You get around like an old man.”

“You got one coming in hot,” He responded. “If you were nicer maybe you’d get your shit faster.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Looks like somebody’s lost,” Sinclair, a fellow waitress at the restaurant, said as she walked over to grab her order. You followed her gaze to the man taking a seat in your section. It wasn’t a segregated restaurant by any means, but only a certain demographic of people really ate there—this man, wearing a fancy suit and sunglasses in the middle of the night, didn’t fit into any of those boxes. “Let him know this ain’t Sterling’s.”

You laughed. “I might let him think it is for a big enough tip.”

“Speaking of big enough.” Sinclair called out to Chuck through the service window. “Where’s that sirloin?”

“Hey, next one’s mine.” You took your notepad and pen out of the front pocket of your apron. “I’m coming right back for it, Chuckles.”

“I’ll have it for you, treasure, don’t worry. I’m only one man.”

You rolled your eyes and made your way over to your section. You stopped to check on a few people before you made it to the man’s table. He wore dark shades even though it was nighttime and he kept his head down looking at the menu until you spoke.

“Hello,” You said, getting his attention before introducing yourself. “I’m going to be taking care of you tonight. What can I get started for you?”

He hesitated as he read your name from your name tag. He had an odd tone when he spoke but you couldn’t make out his expression behind the sunglasses.

“Yes.” You smiled politely, preparing to write. “What can I get started for you?”

“Well I’ll be, it is you.” He laughed. “What are you doin here?”

“I think you have me confused with someone else.” You smiled uncomfortably. “Just one of those faces~”

“Oh, no, it’s me.” He stood and removed the glasses.

“Joel?” Your stomach dropped. “Oh my god.”

Joel laughed, hugging you enthusiastically. “I haven’t seen you since you took off.”

You froze when he hugged you, uncomfortably patting his back with one hand before he pulled away. You glanced around the restaurant to see if anyone was watching, catching a few eyes before looking up at him again. “W-What are you doing here, Joel? Are you here with someone?”

“No, I’m alone.” He still looked stunned to see you.

“I-I hardly recognized you for a second,” You stammered.

“You look~ I mean~ you haven’t changed.” He laughed. “I only been out here a couple weeks or so with my parents.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, my dad opened up a repair shop just off the highway.”

“Auto repair?” You presumed.

“Yeah, he wanted me up here with ‘im. He’s got me fixin cars all day.”

“Why Atlanta?”

“I guess he thinks city folk have more car trouble,” He chuckled. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Why here?”

You shrugged. “I just found myself here. No reason really.”

“It’s a strange city,” Joel said. “I don’t think I’ve slept a wink since I been here.”

“I guess that explains the sunglasses in the middle of the night?”

“Oh, yeah, not to mention that I’m so hungover I can’t see straight.” He smiled when you laughed. “I don’t get out much but I pay the price when I do.”

“Well, sit down, I’ll bring you some coffee.” You smiled and turned to walk away before he stopped you.

“Maybe we can catch up,” He said. “You’re the only familiar face I seen since I been here.”

“I’m working right now.”

“After?”

You hesitated. “I-I don’t know…”

His face fell slightly. “That’s fine, I understand.”

You felt bad about declining the offer. He was a familiar face and he’d had a good rapport with Dawn and you would consider him an old friend, even though you rarely ever spoke. “…I’m off in the next hour. If you’re willing to wait.”

“Yeah.” He nodded with a smile. “I’m not in any rush.”

You smiled. “I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be right here,” He said, retaking his seat.

Sinclair looked at you with narrowed eyes as you walked over to the service window. “You know that man?”

“He’s an old friend,” You said, leaning down to talk to Chuck. “Give it to me, baby.”

“I got you,” He said. “Order up in five.”

“Order up now.” You walked away to pour up the coffee.

“How do you know him?” Sinclair asked as Chuck served her orders through the window.

“He knows my aunt,” You stated simply. “Why?”

“Just curious,” Sinclair said, checking her tickets. “Can’t I ask?”

“I never said you couldn’t.” You took your orders out of the window and loaded them onto a serving tray. “Thanks, Chuckles.”

“You’re welcome,” He said. “You gone in an hour?”

“I’m gone in forty-nine minutes.” You dropped your orders at your other tables before taking Joel his coffee. He ordered his food and you took the ticket back to Chuck.

The final hour of a shift was always the hardest to get through, but you managed to finish out strong. You set up the next waitron before clocking out in the back.

“See you tomorrow,” You called to Chuck and Sinclair, waving at a few coworkers on your way over to Joel’s table. He perked up a little when he saw you, closing one of the four travel pamphlets he was reading to pass the time. “You know anything about Vegas yet?”

“Not unless you’re interested in a Tropicana Holiday,” He said, holding up the brochure. “Three days, two nights.”

You smiled and sat down across from him, draping your coat over the back of your chair and sitting your purse on the ground beside you. “How’s your head?”

“Like it never happened.”

“Good.”

One of your coworkers approached your table. Her name was Monica, that was just about all you knew about her. “What can I get started for you guys?” She asked, eyeing the two of you strangely.

“Are you hungry?” Joel asked.

“I’m fine,” You insisted quickly.

“You should eat,” He argued. “It’s on me.”

“Joel, really, it’s fine.”

“I insist.”

He ordered you something off of the menu for you and Monica jotted down the order before walking away.

“You know I can’t let you pay for it,” You said when she was gone.

“Let me. Consider it a favor from an old friend.”

“I’ll pay you back.”

“I won’t let you.” He chuckled, pushing his hair out of his eyes. His blond curls still framed his face like they did when you first met him, though they were longer now—nearly dusting his shoulders. It made him look boyish even though his features were mature. “What made you leave Memphis?”

“I needed a change of scenery.” You had repeated the same lie to everyone you encountered, so much so that you were starting to believe it yourself.

“D’you still talk to Elvis at all?”

“Why would I?”

He shrugged indifferently and moved on. “I saw Dawn before I left.”

“You did?” You perked up a bit, grateful for the immediate change in subject. “How was she?”

“She was good, still workin at the house,” He said. “She’s the same old Dawn.”

Monica returned with your order and the two of you sat there talking until you finished eating. Joel was interested in hearing about the places you’d been to around the city and you were happy to tell him. You had more than enough stories to tell after being on your own for so long.

Thinking back, you weren’t sure how you’d done it. As you were recalling the memories you were also recalling how afraid and completely lost you were—fear had been the only thing you’d felt in months. You were so constantly afraid that you were used to it.

“You live near here?” Joel asked after paying the bill. “I can take you home.”

“I usually walk,” You said, grabbing your things and standing with him. “My place is just a few blocks from here.”

“I’ll walk you~”

“You don’t have to go out of your way~”

“I don’t mind, really. I want to make sure you get there alright.”

You couldn’t convince him to let you go alone, so the two of you left the restaurant together.

The entire night had been so surreal, you never expected to see anyone from Memphis again. “I can’t believe we ran into each other like this.”

“It’s funny. All these people and we still managed to bump into each other.”

You hummed in agreement. “I guess you stumbled into the right diner.”

“I guess I did.” Joel sighed. “I ain’t talked to anyone outside of my folks in a while.”

“I haven’t had time to make any friends.”

“It’s harder to make friends in the city.”

“Yeah?”

He nodded. “Back home, you step outside your house and you make all kinds of friends just from right there on your front porch.”

You laughed at that. “It was never that simple for me.”

“I’ve met some good people that way. You meet people everywhere here but you don’t know anyone.”

“So, what I’m hearing is that you hate Atlanta?”

“I don’t know…I think I’ll start to hate it less.”

After Joel dropped you off that night you didn’t see him again for a couple of weeks. You figured that you would see very little of him even though you were in the same state. However, he did show up again eventually.

“What are you here for? Another cure?”

“I’m sober as a judge.”

You laughed. “I would take your order but you just missed me. I’m off now.”

“Then I’m right on time.” He smiled. “I wanted to take a look at the old coupe deville. You were telling me about it.”

“You came to look at my car?” You asked incredulously. “It’s ten o’clock at night.”

“Time still doesn’t exist to me, I guess.” He shrugged sheepishly. “I understand if you have plans.”

“I don’t have any plans, Joel, it’s ten o’clock,” You said, making him laugh. “You don’t need an excuse to come see me, y’know?”

You meant it as a joke but Joel’s face still flushed slightly at your words. “Can I walk you home?”

“Just let me grab my stuff,” You said. “I’ll be quick.”

“You better be. It is ten o’clock, y’know?”

You cut your eye at him and walked to the back to get your things.

“Yo, treasure, that guy bothering you?”

“No, Chuck, didn’t I tell you he’s an old friend?”

Chuck scoffed and mumbled something under his breath before getting back to what he was doing.

“That white boy’s out there for you again,” Sinclair said, sauntering through the door.

“His name’s Joel,” You said.

“And what does Joel want with you?” She asked. “He’s been here three times now.”

“I think I know what he wants with her,” Chuck said, walking back out into the kitchen.

“Fuck you, Chuck.” You shrugged on your jacket and faced Sinclair. “He’s been here three times?”

“He came while I was covering your shift last week,” She said. “Speaking of, I’m gonna need you to return the favor. Wendell has a parent-teacher conference at school Friday night and Marc can’t make it.”

You nodded, distracted. “I can do Friday night.”

“It’s three to eleven, my usual.”

“I’ll make it work, don’t worry.”

Sinclair thanked you and wished you a safe trip home before getting back to her tables. You put on a smile as you met Joel, admittedly drained but not wanting to let it show.

“How was your day?” He asked, his hands shoved casually into the pockets of his acid washed jeans as you walked along the quiet sidewalk.

“Okay,” You responded. “Long.”

“I hear you,” Joel sighed.

“My coworker said you came by sometime last week,” You mentioned. “You weren’t looking for me were you?”

“I don’t know.” He smiled, embarrassed.

“Why were you looking for me?”

“I don’t~”

“You have to know. A person doesn’t just do things without knowing why.”

“I don’t know,” He said anyway, making you shoot him a glare. He laughed it off. “Maybe I wanted to see you.”

He looked away as he spoke, kicking at the loose rocks on the sidewalk.

“Is that bad?” He asked when you didn’t respond, still looking down at the sidewalk, watching the rocks as they skidded ahead each time he kicked them.

“No, I don’t think so,” You said. “Do you think it is?”

“I don’t know,” He said, laughing in realization. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to~”

“It’s fine.” You smiled.

“I was already out tryna to get away from my parents, so I figured I’d try you again today.”

“Do your parents smother you?” You asked.

“Oh yeah.” He heaved a sigh. You couldn’t tell if he was frustrated at the thought of his parents or relieved to be shifting subjects. “They always have. Mama’s terrible about it, and daddy—he does whatever she tells him to. They don’t think I can make it on my own.”

“I’m sure they do it out of love.”

“I know.” He brushed his hair out of his eyes. “Everything I do is to try and prove to them that I can take care of myself. I’m starting to think they’ll always see me as a kid.”

“You should talk to them,” You suggested. “If they love you enough they’ll hear you out and try to change.”

“You think so?”

“It’s worth the shot.”

Joel smiled. “This is why I like being around you. You always have something good to say.”

You laughed in denial. “I know how it feels to be stuck in a box and not know how to get out.”

“Your folks overbearing?” Joel asked.

“Dawn’s really my only family.”

“I remember you saying that,” He said with an apologetic expression. “It must be tough being on your own.”

“It’s okay.” You were getting used to it, you almost preferred being alone. “Y-You should really talk to your parents. I think they’ll understand how you feel.”

“I will,” He said. “I’ll tell you how it goes.”

“Already planning your next stakeout,” You pointed out humorously. “Why don’t you just wait outside of my apartment instead of at my job?”

“You’re giving great advice tonight.” He laughed along with you for a moment. “Maybe I’ll catch you on a day you’re off, and it’s not ten o’clock at night.”

“You’ll have to if you plan on telling me about your talk with your parents.” Joel laughed again as you contemplated the idea. “I’m free tomorrow.”

“I’m usually done with everything at the shop around three on Thursdays—I could just….”

“That’s fine. You know the address now, I assume.”

“Locked and loaded.” He tapped his temple. “Not because I regularly stake out your apartment or anything.”

“No, of course not.” You smiled. “It’s 3B. Don’t forget.”

“I won’t,” He said. “You should give me your number. In case I have to call and cancel.”

You narrowed your eyes jokingly, coming to a stop as you approached your apartment building. You took your pen and pad out of the front of the apron you still wore under your coat and jotted down your number and address. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Joel said, taking the ticket. “Good night.”

You smiled and turned to walk into the restaurant that led up to your apartment.

Joel waited until you were inside before walking back the way you guys came.

“Leftovers,” Your landlady called as she wiped down the tables for the night, nodding her head at the carefully packaged food. “You’re late. I almost threw them away.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Angie,” You said as you grabbed the bag. “You’re always so kind.”

She hummed, uninterested in your compliment. “Rent’s due by the end of the week, no exceptions.”

“I’m gonna have all of it,” You promised, heading for the stairs. “Tell Mr. Ben I said goodnight.”

You climbed the stairs and got into your apartment. After putting the leftovers in the fridge you didn’t have any energy left to do anything but shower and go to bed.

You dropped your tips in your savings jar and called it a night.

*

“I looked at him and I said ‘Daddy, some things are gonna hafta change around here if I’mma keep working for you. I ain’t gonna let you and mama run me around and tell me what to do like you have been. Not anymore.’ You know what he said?”

“What?”

“He said ‘get your ass over there and start rotatin them tires.’”

You laughed from where you sat on the ground piecing together a puzzle on your coffee table. Joel sat on the sofa looking down at it as you made more progress.

“So?” You asked, glancing up at him. “What’d you do?”

“I got my ass over there and started rotating them tires.” He laughed along with you. “What was I s’posed to do?”

“He probably just didn’t know how to react,” You said, picking up another piece of the puzzle and examining the incomplete picture of a swan on a lake.

“There.” Joel pointed to the missing part of the swans beak.

“At least you tried.” You put the piece in its place. “I wouldn’t know where to start if I tried to unpack things with my dad.”

“Tell me about your dad.” He moved from the sofa and sat down next to you on the floor

“There’s nothing to tell,” You said. “He left when I was little and took my brother with him.”

“Do you remember anything about him?”

“I try not to.”

You laughed but Joel’s expression remained serious. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t be,” You said. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“It should.” You focused on the puzzle as he spoke. “Not having both your parents ain’t easy.”

“You can’t miss what you never had.”

“Yeah, but you can long for something you should’ve.”

You met his eyes and your expression grew to match his.

“I think, even if you say there isn’t, there’s a part of you that wishes he had been there for you.”

“There isn’t.”

“It’s okay if there is~”

“There’s not, Joel.” You examined the piece in your hand, scanning the puzzle again. “I don’t have any strong feelings about the situation. It’s just something that happened.”

Joel took the puzzle piece from you and tucked it into its proper place. “He missed out on a good thing from what I can tell. It’s his loss.”

You shrugged. “I wish my brother and I would have gotten a chance to grow up together. Other than that I just…”

“Try not to think about it,” Joel finished. You nodded. “I won’t bring it up again.”

You smiled a little as he pieced together another piece of the puzzle. “Why are you actually good at this?”

“You just havta go by the colors.” He handed you another piece. “Sit back and look at the bigger picture.”

You followed his advice and leaned away from the coffee table. “Ah, I see.” You laughed, finding where the piece went immediately.

“There you go.” Joel laughed.

“I still might take you hostage and make you finish it for me.” You smiled. “I’ll never get it done on my own.”

“I’d be a willing hostage,” He said. “I like being here with you.”

You laughed again, unsure of how you should respond. “I’d make for a terrible captor.”

Joel smiled without meeting your eyes. “I don’t think so.”

“You’re a strange man, Joel,” You said. “Sometimes I wonder.”

“What do you wonder?”

“I wonder what you’re doing here.”

He looked up at you. “I like being around you.”

You nodded. “You’ve said that.”

“You want more of a reason?”

“Yes.”

He smiled again, looking off in thought as he fidgeted with the puzzle piece in his hand. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Try.”

“When I think of being anywhere else…I always rather be with you.”

“Why?”

“Because I like you.”

He avoided your eyes, focusing instead on where your hand rested near his on the coffee table.

“I like you too.”

“N-No, I…I like you more.”

“More?”

“I’m attracted to you.”

You fell silent. He wasn’t saying anything that you hadn’t already suspected, but you were slow to process his words.

He seemed to panic when you didn’t respond. “I don’t want that to change anything~”

“It won’t,” You reassured him. “A-And I want to spend time together when we can.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I didn’t realize how lonely I was before you came along.”

Joel’s hand brushed against yours when he shifted and you felt a rush of something between fear and panic but you didn’t pull away.

“I can always keep you company.”

“Would you?”

“If you wanted me to.” His eyes darted to your lips for less than a second before landing on your eyes.

Your voice was barely above a whisper when you spoke again. “…I want you to.”

Silence settled over the room and the air seemed to thicken as it went on. The space between the two of you gradually decreased and you both hesitated, you imagined for entirely different reasons. Joel started to pull away after sensing your hesitation but you closed the space between your lips before he could.

You broke the kiss immediately, anxiously awaiting his reaction. He shifted towards you, taking your face between both his hands and searching your eyes for any sign of skepticism before kissing you again.

Your eyes fluttered shut and your hands came to rest on his forearms. You only opened your eyes when he broke the kiss, finding his already on you.

“Will you stay?”

“If you want me to.”

“I want you to.”

*

Your relationship with Joel brought something into your life that you didn’t realize you were missing.

He was there for you when you needed him and even when you didn’t. He listened to you and he was interested in your thoughts. He didn’t expect anything from you. He was patient and he let you come to terms with your feelings on your own accord. He was your friend before he was your lover.

You felt different when you were with Joel. You didn’t feel nervous or anxious when you were around him. You weren’t afraid to tell him the truth and you never worried that he’d hurt you or find some way to punish you if you went against him. He was gentle with you, almost too gentle.

“I want you to meet my parents,” He said during one of his afternoon visits. “I told them about you.”

“You did?”

“They want to meet you,” He said. “They wanna know who’s been taking up all my time.”

You didn’t know what was so different at the time—why Joel made you feel so different. You soon came to realize that Joel’s way of loving you simply wasn’t the same as Elvis’ way of loving you.

You were there for each other when you had no one. There was a space you filled in each other’s lives that was different. Even though it took time, you grew to understand and accept that.

“You mean they want to know if I’m worth your time.” You stood at the counter sectioning Ms. Angie’s leftovers into airtight containers. You always had more than enough, so you usually took some to Sinclair whenever you had shifts together.

“No, I can tell them that,” Joel said. He stood behind you and slipped his arms around your waist. “Some things they gotta see for themselves.”

You laughed, shying away from the kiss he left on your cheek. “I don’t know how you’ll manage to make time. You work almost every day and I work every night.”

“I’ll make time,” He said. “You just hafta tell me when you’re off.”

“Fine,” You agreed. “But make it lunch, not dinner.”

“Lunch not dinner, got it.” He nodded once. “You taking that to Sinclair?”

“Yes,” You sighed. “If I eat another dumpling I might die. I don’t have the heart to turn it down.”

Joel laughed, letting you walk out of his arms. “I’ll pick you up tonight. 10:30?”

“10:30.” You put the containers into an old grocery bag and tied the handles before grabbing your keys. "I'll see you tonight.”

“I’ll see you.” He smiled, his eyes following you as you left. “I love you.”

You cut your eye over your shoulder, slowing to a stop. You walked back over and left a kiss on the corner of his mouth. “Lock up when you leave.”

Things with Joel progressed quickly after you’d acknowledged your feelings. You were apprehensive at times about letting him into your life all at once, but you were more afraid to let him go after you’d grown attached. You feared that things would change the more he got to know you and that he’d leave on his own. But with time your trust grew and your feelings became stronger; you longed for him when he was away.

He became a part of your everyday. Long after the initial attraction that brought the two of you together had started to fade you still wanted him in your life.

Eventually, after talking and thinking it over, he moved in together. You were practically inseparable so it made the most sense.

“Marry me.”

“No.”

You were genuinely happy and you couldn’t see things any other way.

“Marry me.”

“Joel.”

You had a tolerable job, a decent place to live, and a person to share your life with.

“I’m not gonna stop asking.”

“That’s called harassment.”

It felt like you were finally getting a taste of that stability that had made you envy Andrea.

“Marry me.”

“For the love of god.”

You were somewhere in your life that you never thought you’d be.

“Please?”

You couldn’t have been more content.

“Fine. I’ll marry you.”

*

“Where are you, sugar?”

“I’m here.”

You sighed and closed the book in your hands as Joel entered your shared bedroom. He smiled when he saw you, dropping his work boots by the door.

“Look at you, lookin like a regular ol housewife.” He laughed, unbuttoning the dirty flannel he was wearing.

“You know I hate when you say that,” You said with a slight roll of your eyes.

“It’s not a bad thing,” He said, walking towards you. “Not to mention you will be soon.”

“Uh, uh.” You put a hand out to stop him. “You better wash all that off before you come over here.”

“Don’t I at least get a kiss?” He asked, still inching towards you. “I ain’t seen you all day.”

“Who’s fault is that?” You tilted you head expectantly.

“It’s my fault,” He said, kneeling on the bed. “It’s all my fault.”

You laughed despite your protests, pushing him away only after he’d stolen a kiss. He went into the bathroom to turn on the shower before leaning on the doorframe. “I meant to tell you that daddy wants me to go to Charleston after work tomorrow to pick up some parts.”

“Charleston?” You asked. “It’s gonna take all day to get there and back.”

“I know, but you can come with me and we can make it a thing.”

“‘Make it a thing?’”

“Make a trip out of it.”

“I don’t like the roads around Charleston.”

“I’ll drive.”

“Sinclair and Marcus were going to come over tomorrow night.”

“I know,” He repeated with an apologetic expression. “I don’t want to, but Charleston’s got the only place we can find that has any of those new alternators. I told you about them, they’re imported. We’re gonna be able to reach a whole nother demographic if we~”

“Baby, please, don’t go on one of your car rants.” You closed your book again, abandoning it on the bed as you stood. “This is the third time I’m going to have to cancel on them. Can’t your father go on his own for once?”

“I told him I would. It’s not like I’m doin it for free, I’m gettin paid for making the trip.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It’s my job to take care of you. You know that’s why I’m doing it, so why give me shit for it everytime?”

“Because I hardly ever see you anymore. I mean it, I don’t want to live here if it means you working all hours of the day and night.”

“We’re staying here. No one bothers us here, we keep to ourselves~”

“I’ll start working again to take away some of the pressure.”

“That’s not what I want.”

“What about what I want? I want you here, with me, more often.”

“I want to be here, sweetheart, I do. I’m not tryin to prioritize anything over you…” He worried his bottom lip as spoke, rubbing his face thoughtfully.

“But?” You prompted.

“But I hafta help at the shop as much as I can. It’s getting to be just as much my responsibility as it is daddy’s,”

“What am I supposed to do? Get in line and wait my turn for your attention?”

“You have my attention, always.” He crossed the room and took your hands in his. “If it’ll make you happy I’ll tell him I can’t go tomorrow, but I have to at some point.”

“Don’t bother.” You pulled away from him and walked away. “You don’t bother telling him anything else.”

“Why are you tearing into me right now?” He asked, shocked by your comment.

“Why won’t you tell him we’re getting married?” You faced him, arms crossed.

“I’m gonna tell him and mama~”

“When?”

“I don’t know just yet. When I can..”

“I’m starting to think you’ve changed your mind.”

“I haven’t.”

“Are you ashamed of me?” You asked.

“No, god, no.” He grew more frustrated. “I know they’ll never let me hear the end of it when they find out. It’s not about you at all.”

You fell silent, looking down to hide the tears forming in your eyes.

“I could never be ashamed of you, you’re too important to me.” He continued when you didn’t respond. “I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you like I should. I’ll try harder, okay? I’m gonna tell daddy I can’t go tomorrow and we’re gonna have some fun with our friends.”

You sensed him coming closer before you felt him gently lift your chin to meet your eyes.

“Don’t cry,” He whispered. “You know I hate to see you cry.”

You swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

“Stay and read your book,” He said. “You can tell me about it when I’m done.”

You nodded, forcing a small smile. “Okay.”

He kissed your forehead and let you go. “I’ll be quick.”

“Joel.” You stopped him. “I don’t want to be kept a secret.”

“I’ll tell them.”

“Tomorrow.”

He looked undeniably conflicted but he nodded his head before silently retreating to the bathroom.

The next day, upon hearing the news, his father fired him and kicked him out of the shop. You had a feeling that Joel knew that his father would react that way and had been putting off telling him for that reason.

He tried to put on a brave face about the situation, but you could see it in his eyes that he was hurt. He had every right to be after years of putting so much into building and maintaining the business with his father.

“McNally’s been bugging me about coming to work for him at his dealership,” He said. “I’m sure the offer still stands.”

“I’m so sorry, Joel.” You felt like it was your fault. If you hadn’t pushed him to tell his parents he’d still have a relationship with them and a job he loved.

“I don’t want you thinking this is your fault,” He said. “We’re gonna be married and if mama and daddy can’t accept that, then…I don’t want them in our life.”

You leaned back against the kitchen counter and crossed your arms. You didn’t know what to do other than apologize.

“I’m gonna change and head over to talk to McNally.” He stepped in front of you and took your face in his hands. “Don’t look so troubled, we’re gonna be alright. We might be more than alright if McNally gets me in at the dealership. There’s better pay and benefits~”

“It’s not what you love to do.”

“If it means I can take care of you, I love it.”

You slipped your arms around his torso, hugging him. He hugged you back.

“It’s all gonna work out,” He promised. He pulled away first, ducking his head to kiss your lips before he walked away. “Maybe you and Sinclair can go out tonight instead. You should take your car for a drive anyway. You’ll kill that battery leaving it sitting in the driveway all the time.”

“I’ll call her.”

“Brighten up, sugar,” He laughed. “It’s gonna be okay.”

You tried to smile. “I believe you.”

Joel secured a job working at Bibby McNally’s car dealership and, while it wasn’t something he was passionate about, he made the most of it. It was a high scale dealership and they had a lot of traffic all year round so it was never a dull moment. At times you could see him becoming drained and uninterested, but he insisted that working there was good for the two of you.

He was home more often and you got to spend more time together. It was exactly what you wanted, however, you felt guilty about him losing his job and contact with his parents.

One evening after he got off of work he came barreling into the house calling out for you. You rushed to meet him in the living room.

“What happened?” You asked in alarm.

“You aren’t going to believe this,” He said with excitement behind his words. “Guess who came into the dealership today. Guess.”

“Wha~ Who?” You asked, your eyebrows drawn together in confusion.

“Elvis,” Joel said, enthusiastically. “Elvis-fucking-Presley.”

“W-What?” You tried not to let your expression grow horrified. “He did?”

“Can you believe that?” Joel walked past you in the direction of your bedroom, loosening the tie around his neck. “He came in lookin some kinda Roadrunner. I was trying to get a Pontiac off my hands and all of the sudden the lady I’m selling to screams at the top of her lungs. I turn around and there he is.”

“Did you talk to him?” You asked, following him to the room. You stopped him before he walked to the bathroom. “I’m not done.”

“I talked to him.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “He has some time off from filming, I guess.”

“Oh?” You crossed your arms to stop your hands from fidgeting.

He nodded as he slipped off his shiny dress shoes and tucked them under the foot of the bed. “He said he wanted us to come back with him to Graceland over the weekend.”

“You told him about us?” You asked.

“Yeah, he was as shocked as you could imagine.” Joel laughed. “He said he’d arrange for us to fly out tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” You asked.

“You’ve asked me a hundred questions since I walked through the door,” He said. “Tell me what you think. We should go right?”

“I-I don’t know, it’s so all of a sudden, y-y’know,” You stammered. “You have work and we’re starting a new book in my club~”

“Sweetheart.” He stood from the bed as he unbuttoned his shirt. “You’re seriously telling me that you’d pass this up to go read a book?”

“You have work.”

“I can get away for a weekend,” He said. “It could be fun. We could see Dawn while we’re there. And Cynthia—Andrea, maybe.”

“You aren’t going to let this go are you?”

“A hundred and one questions.”

You rolled your eyes.

“I’ll never ask you for anything again if you’ll just go with me tomorrow. It’ll feel like old times.”

“For you maybe.” You walked back into the bathroom.

“Finish up in there so I can shower,” He called as you shut the door. “I wanna help you cook.”

“Just a minute.” You leaned forward against the sink, looking at yourself in the mirror. For a moment you saw your old self reflected back at you. Just hearing his name made you feel small and panicky. Knowing that he was in the same state didn’t make it any easier to breathe. You hadn’t seen him since~

Let me t-try to be better. Just give me a chance, baby, please.

You closed your eyes and tried to physically shake away the sudden memory. Was it possible for a heart to stay broken for this long?

You couldn’t see him. You didn’t want to see him. You’d put him out of your mind, escaped the hold he had on you. You’d worked so hard to rebuild yourself after he’d broken you down. You were at a place in your life where you were so sure of everything, you didn’t want to see him and lose all that progress.

You were in love with Joel and the two of you were prepared to build a life together. You didn’t want Elvis’ presence to taint that in any way.

“I wonder if Sonny and Lamar’ll be there tomorrow night,” Joel continued from outside of the bathroom. “Maybe Red and Billy too.”

“I don’t know,” You responded in the steadiest tone you could muster.

“I’m sure they’ll be there,” He continued. “You remember my cousin Jerry?”

You took slow breaths and stood upright with your hands on your hips. “I’m sure they’ll all be there, Joel.”

He laughed. “Tell me you’ll go. I don’t wanna havta drag you kicking and screaming.”

You swallowed harshly as you started putting away the makeup you had strewn across the counter. “Can we come back Sunday?”

“Yeah,” He responded, delighted with your capitulation. “We can come back whenever you want.”

You took one last deep breath and put on a decent expression before leaving the bathroom. “I don’t want to be gone too long, that’s all.”

“I’ll get you back home before you can even start to miss it.” He smiled as he watched you leave the room.

“Perfect.”

You went to figure out where he’d hidden your cigarettes. You pulled open a few kitchen drawers and shuffled through them before you found the slim, silver case. Your mind raced as you used the stove to light the cigarette before turning off the burner. You hadn’t smoked since Joel insisted that you quit weeks ago, but you couldn’t think of any other way to calm your nerves. You’d start your streak over tomorrow.

When Joel finally got out of the shower, he found you standing by the window in the living room. You were on your second cigarette and so lost in thought that you hadn’t noticed him at first.

“You better put that out,” He chided, walking over. “I told you what they’ve been saying about them things.”

“Luther Terry’s fighting a losing battle,” You muttered, crushing the cigarette in the ashtray that sat on the windowsill.

“I ain’t seen you smoke a cigarette in weeks.” He stood behind you and put his arms around your waist.

“I know.”

“Something bothering you?”

“Are you still going to Virginia with Bibby?” You asked in an attempt to avoid the question.

“Yeah…” He fell silent for a moment. “It should be the last trip for a while. Once convention season’s over I’m all yours.”

You walked out of his arms. “You should wear the navy suit you wore last week. I know you lost your red tie~”

“You’re upset.” He followed you to the kitchen.

“I’m fine.” You tried to smile, forcing back all of the thoughts that were threatening to consume you. “I’ll find your tie.”

You continued taking the pots and pans down to start cooking.

“How is Bibby anyway?” You wanted to fill the silence. “The baby?”

“He’s good, the baby’s good,” Joel said. “He says Yvette’s a natural…”

You tried to listen as Joel went on about Bibby and Yvette, but you were too preoccupied–too full of dread.

After all you’d gone through, you were walking back into the belly of the beast.

*

“Don’t get me in too much trouble,” Joel said handing you your second flute of champagne. “I don’t want no misdemeanor for aiding and abetting.”

“You’re a year older than me, Joel. Don’t you think I can handle a little champagne by now?” You laughed and took the glass.

“We’ll see.” He shrugged.

“Not too much for you tonight either. You’re driving.”

“Don’t worry, baby, I’m barely buzzin.” He slipped his arm around your waist and kissed you with gin-stained lips. The two of you parted at the sound of Joel’s name being called over the music, turning your heads in the direction of the voice. He lit up when he saw who it was. You smiled as they embraced each other.

“How have you been?” Joel asked.

“Alright,” Jerry responded with an indolent shrug. “This her?”

“Yeah.” Joel smiled, slipping his arm around your waist and introducing you.

“Right.” Jerry repeated your name as if it rang a bell and you exchanged brief pleasentries. “Look, E.P. wants y’all to come up. He sent me to find you.”

You took another sip of your drink after Joel quickly accepted the invitation. You probably shouldn’t have been drinking, you were beyond queasy and the champagne wasn’t helping–not to mention that it tasted like battery acid. You finished the glass anyway, hoping that, if anything, it would calm your nerves.

“Come on, baby,” Joel said, taking the glass from you and abandoning it at the bar with his own. He took your hand in his and leaned in to speak in your ear. “You can still let me know if you change your mind while we’re up there.” You nodded, forcing a small smile before letting him lead you as he followed Jerry to the elevators. The music from the party faded behind the doors and all that remained was the gentle melody of the elevator music. “How long y’all been in Georgia?”

“Since yesterday. E heard about the dealership so he wanted to pass through.”

“How’d he hear about it?”

“I’m not too sure.”

Their voices faded to the background. All you heard was the sound of your heartbeat accelerating. After so long, you wondered if he’d be different. Your fear and panic was beginning to be replaced by other things that you didn’t want to acknowledge let alone describe. Because having to describe those feelings would’ve meant admitting they were there.

The elevator stopped on the top floor and you forced your feet to move. Jerry led you to the suite and opened the door without knocking. “I found them, E,” He said, walking in first.

His eyes met yours almost instantly. Those baby blue eyes that were so familiar yet so distanced from the ones you knew. He still had that youthful glow about him as he smiled and stood to greet the two of you. His gaze lingered on you briefly but no longer than a second. “Joel, ol boy.” His voice caused your breath to hitch. It was different somehow, deeper and richer, but so familiar. Like an old song who’s melody you’d forgotten but still knew all the words to. You could’ve been making it all up. It could’ve been that he was exactly as you'd left him but his beauty had already started to fade in your memory. “I’m glad y’all could make it.”

“Yeah, so are we.” Joel smiled and asked if he remembered you.

“Of course,” Elvis said, shifting his attention to you. He had an amused glint in his eyes as he smiled at you. “How have you been, honey?”

“Okay.” You tried to smile, breaking eye contact for a moment. “How have you been?”

“Okay,” He said, before turning to retake his seat, the people sitting at the table with him cleared the space. “Sit down here a minute and a tell me what you’ve been up to, Joel. I saw you weren’t with your dad anymore.”

“No, I haven’t been for a while,” Joel said, pulling out a chair for you. “We had some differences of opinion.”

“Help yourself to a drink if you want,” Elvis offered. “We can get whatever you prefer.”

“I’m okay,” Joel said. They each looked to you expectantly.

“I’m sorry?” You asked.

“D’you want a drink?” Elvis repeated.

“No, thank you.” You avoided his eyes.

He moved on with his conversation with Joel and you noticed a smirk gracing his features when you glanced his way. “What happened with your old man? I thought you two were close.”

“I thought we were. But my folks didn’t exactly approve when I told them we was getting married.”

“Married?” He seemed genuinely surprised. Joel must’ve not mentioned it before.

“I held off telling them. I knew they’d have something to say about it, but…”

“What’d they say?”

“Daddy fired me from the shop and I haven’t spoken to them since.”

Elvis grimaced. “Man, I’m sorry to hear that.”

Joel shrugged. “It’s a shame but I can’t change their minds about anything.”

“Well, congratulations anyway. You make an interesting pair.”

“Interesting how?”

Both their gazes turned to you when you spoke.

“Unexpected, I should say,” Elvis rephrased. “How’d you get caught up with Joel?“

“We ran into each other one day.” You tore your eyes away and looked at Joel.

“Why were you in Georgia?” Elvis asked.

“For a change of scenery. ” You opened your purse and retrieved your case of cigarettes—your nerves were getting the best of you. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” Elvis said. “You know Dawny retired?”

“She mentioned it.” You nodded.

“She’s up in her own place now,” He said. “I check on her when I can.”

“That’s nice. I wish I could visit more,” You responded.

“I wish you could too,” He uttered, picking up a lighter from the table. “Light?”

You put the slim, white cigarette between your lips and leaned toward him as he struck the lighter. You sat back in your seat after the cigarette was lit, avoiding eye contact with both him and Joel.

“So you’re sellin cars now?” Elvis asked Joel, sliding a porcelain ashtray over to you.

“Mhm.”

“How d’you like it?”

“It’s a job.”

The conversation flowed awkwardly. It was almost as if they had to actively think of every question they were going to ask—preoccupied by other things. Eventually the three of you returned to the party happening downstairs. Elvis naturally drew the attention of everyone in the room. There was something different about him that you couldn’t pinpoint exactly. Whatever it was, you couldn’t help but steal a glance whenever he wasn’t looking. He radiated a certain energy that drew you in and made you want to watch.

“What’s wrong?” Joel asked. He hadn’t left your side since you got there and upon hearing that he was going to get your things from the car you must’ve looked panicked. He took your face in his hands and searched your eyes for the answer but you smiled and tried to distract him with a kiss. He stopped you. “Tell me.”

“Nothing.” You were a terrible liar. “I’ll help you.”

“No,” He said quickly. “It’s fine. And you don’t have to stay down here, you can go up to the room if you want. They say we’re heading out sometime tonight.”

“‘Sometime tonight’ meaning…god knows when?”

“Pretty much.”He laughed before letting you go. “Head upstairs, I’ll be there in a minute.”

You watched him leave before going to find the elevator. You couldn’t breathe.

You found the room Elvis had reserved specifically for you and Joel. You were relieved to be alone in the silence, but you felt uneasy knowing that he was downstairs and he knew where you were. The hours passed and soon it was nearly three in the morning. You were exhausted but you couldn’t sleep if you tried. Joel hadn’t come up the entire night and you wanted to be angry but tried anyway to give him time to be around old friends. He was familiar with their grueling routine—you weren’t. When he did finally return you were on the brink of sleep.

“Come on, sugar, we’re heading out.”

“God, what time is it?”

“I don’t know…it’s early.”

You pushed yourself into a sitting position and eyed him suspiciously. “You’re drunk.”

He laughed but ultimately shook his head in denial. “I’m fine.”

“You left me up here all night,” You complained as you slipped your shoes on. “I couldn’t change my clothes or anything. You could’ve checked on me once.”

“Time got away,” He said, grabbing your purse and holding his hand out for you. “They’re waiting on us.”

“Can I get myself together for a minute?”

“You’re perfect, come on.”

You took his hand and let him lead you out of the room—smoothing the skirt of your dress as he dragged you along.

You leaned your head against the window the entire drive to Memphis. Elvis had offered to fly you out but Joel insisted on driving. The two of you had planned to go straight to Virginia to meet Bibby afterwards.

You passed the time by trying to keep your doom at bay.

[zvaigzdelasas]

[Eurasianet receives funding from the NED, OSF, the FCDO, & others]

Delimitation discussions appear stuck at present over Azerbaijan’s demand that it gain control of eight villages in border areas currently under Armenian jurisdiction. Pashinyan in comments to journalists signaled a willingness to unilaterally hand over four of the disputed villages. In doing so, he also suggested a practical way of settling the boundary between the two states. His initiative appears intended to deprive Azerbaijan of a pretext to launch new military action to seize territory, including any assault that could cut Armenia’s direct access to Iran.

“The de jure border that existed at the time of the collapse of the Soviet Union was reaffirmed by the [1991] Alma-Ata declaration and not only by that declaration, but also by the agreements held in Prague on October 6, 2022,” Pashinyan said at a March 12 news conference.

Four of the disputed villages – Baghanis Ayrim, Lower Askipara, Kheyrimli, and Gizilhajili – were on the Azerbaijani side of the border between the two former Soviet republics and were occupied by Armenian forces in the 1990s, during the first Karabakh war, which concluded in 1994 after the signing of the Alma-Ata declaration.

Citing the Alma-Ata and Prague agreements, Pashinyan acknowledged that “the former administrative border, which existed during the Soviet Union, is somewhat beyond that present administrative border.” He went on to call for both states to reaffirm the frontier defined by the Alma-Ata agreement. [...]

Earlier in 2024, Armeniamaintained that Azerbaijan currently controls 31 villages situated in roughly 200 square kilometers of land that are rightfully Armenian. There had been some talk in Yerevan of proposing a trade involving all the disputed settlements. But Pashinyan in his most recent comments made no mention of such a swap.[...]

Prior to Pashinyan’s March gambit, Azerbaijan had staked out an intransigent position about the return of the eight villages. “As for the four non-exclave Azerbaijani villages occupied by Armenia, their affiliation to Azerbaijan is beyond any doubt and they are subject to immediate liberation,” Deputy Prime Minister Shahin Mustafayev said in the statement issued March 9, two days after the latest round of border delimitation talks. Mustafayev leads the Azerbaijani negotiating team.

“The issue of liberation of four of Azerbaijan’s exclave villages occupied by Armenia will also be resolved within the delimitation process,” he noted.[...]

The villages that Pashinyan seems willing to unilaterally hand back are important to Armenia from an infrastructure point of view. A highway to Georgia, as well as a pipeline carrying Russian gas to Armenia, pass through these villages. Pashinyan also addressed the issue in press comments, saying that he has instructed relevant state bodies to “reroute those lines so that they pass through Armenia’s de jure territory and so that we don’t have problems in that area.”

The prime minister’s remarks triggered an immediate outcry from long-standing government critics, who accuse Pashinyan of treachery and a failure to defend state interests.

“By unilaterally giving in, not only do you not create a guarantee that Azerbaijan will not attack, but on the contrary, you give them better conditions to attack you from those positions,” Anna Grigorian of the Hayastan alliance said in comments broadcast by RFE/RL’s Armenian Service.

18 Mar 24

[politijohn]

Anti-Trans Legislation: Feb 25-Mar 3 in Review

The following bills were introduced:

Two schooling bills, Florida S1320 and H1223, were pre-filed.

Georgia HB653, an under-18 healthcare ban, was introduced. 

Iowa HSB208, a school-based bathroom bill, was introduced and passed in its subcommittee. 

Iowa HB482, a school-based bathroom bill, was introduced and referred to the House Judiciary Committee.

Iowa HSB214, an under-18 healthcare ban, was introduced and had a House subcommittee hearing.

Iowa SSB1197, an under-18 healthcare ban, was introduced and had a subcommittee meeting.

Iowa HJR8 was introduced and referred to the House Judiciary Committee. This is a joint resolution attacking marriage.

Iowa HSB222, a schooling/parental rights bill, was introduced and referred to the House Education Committee yesterday.

Maine LD930, a sports ban bill that specifically targets trans girls, was introduced and referred to the Joint Judiciary Committee.

Missouri HB1332, a tax bill that would punish institutions for providing gender-affirming healthcare, was introduced and read.

Missouri HB1364, a drag ban bill, was introduced and read for a second time.

Ohio HB68, a "SAFE" act, was introduced and referred to the House Public Health Policy Committee.

Texas HB2862 and HB3147 were filed. These prison bills would prohibit incarcerated trans and gender diverse folks from being housed in facilities consistent with their gender identity.

The following bills progressed:

Bathroom bills: (A bathroom bill denies access to public restrooms by gender or trans identity. They increase danger without making anyone any safer and have even prompted attacks on cis and trans people alike. Many national health and anti-sexual assault organizations oppose these bills.)

Arizona SB1040, a school-based bathroom bill, passed in the Senate and crossed over to the House.

Arkansas SB270, which would make it “criminal indecency with a child” for trans folks to use bathrooms consistent with their gender identity, was re-referred to the Senate Judiciary Committee.

Idaho SB1100, a school-based bathroom bill, had a second reading and was filed for a third reading.

Idaho S1016, which already passed in the Senate, had its first reading in the House and was scheduled for a second reading.

Iowa SF335, a school-based bathroom bill, passed committee and renumbered as SF482.

Heathcare bills: (Healthcare bills go against professional and scientific consensus that gender-affirming care saves lives. Denying access will cause harm. Providers are faced with criminal charges, parents are threatened with child abuse charges, and intersex children are typically exempted.)

Florida S0952, the “Reverse Woke Act,” was referred to the Senate Health Policy Committee.

Georgia SB140, an under-18 healthcare ban, had a second reading.

Indiana SB0480, an under-18 healthcare ban, passed in the Senate and crossed over to the House.

Kansas SB233, which already passed in the Senate, was referred to the House Health and Human Services Committee. This is also an under-18 healthcare ban.

Nebraska LB574, again an under-18 healthcare ban, was placed on general file, meaning it is now on the floor. 

Oklahoma SB129 passed in committee and will head to the Senate floor. A reminder that this bill had an emergency added, so it would immediately go into effect if it passes.

Texas HB776, an abortion and under-18 healthcare ban, was referred to the House Public Health Committee. 

Utah HB0132 returned to committee yesterday after it failed in committee in January. This is also an under-18 bill.

Public performance bills: (also known as "drag bans" restrict access for folks who are gender non-conforming in any way. They loosely define "drag" as any public performance with an “opposite gender expression,” as sexual in nature, and inappropriate for children. This also pushes trans individuals out of public spaces.)

Arizona SB1698 passed in committee and is headed to the Senate.

Arkansas SB43 was signed by the Governor. This is the drag ban bill that was largely amended to only cover public nudity.

Montana HB359, which already passed in the House, had its first reading in the Senate.

Oklahoma SB503, an obscenity bill, passed in committee.

South Dakota HB1116 an "obscenity bill" that prohibits "lewd or lascivious content," which already passed in the House, passed in committee.

Tennessee SB0841 had its action deferred until 3/14.

Texas HB708 was referred to the House State Affairs Committee.

Schooling bills: (Schooling, or so called “parental rights” bills force schools to misgender or deadname students, ban instruction on sexual orientation and gender identity, and make schools alert parents if they suspect a child is trans. They remove life-saving affirmation and support for trans youth.)

Arizona SB1001 passed in the Senate and was transmitted to the House.

Arkansas SB294 is headed to its final vote in the House.

Florida H1069 was sent to another education subcommittee in the House.

Indiana HB1608 passed in the House and crossed over to the Senate where its first reading is scheduled for Monday.

Iowa HSB222 passed in its subcommittee.

Missouri HB1258 had a second reading.

Oklahoma SB503 passed in committee this morning and is headed to the Senate floor.

Tennessee HB1269 was referred to the House Finance, Ways, & Means Committee.

Utah SB0283, an anti-DEI bill for higher education, passed in its Senate Revenue and Taxation Hearing and is now headed to its second committee.

Sex designation bills: (Sex designation bills make it harder for trans folks to have IDs, such as birth certificates, that match their gender identity. They can force a male or female designation based upon sex assigned at birth. Some ban a non-binary “X” marker or require surgery to qualify for ID updates.)

Montana SB458,passed in committee and will head to the Senate floor.

Tennessee SB1440 passed in committee and will head to the Senate floor.

Sports ban bills: (Most sports bills force schools to designate teams by sex assigned at birth. They are often one-sided and ban trans girls from playing on teams consistent with their gender identity. Some egregious bills even force invasive genital examinations on student athletes.)

Arkansas HB1156 was re-referred to the Senate Education Committee. 

Florida H0999 was sent to another education subcommittee. 

Wyoming SF0133, which already passed in the House, passed in the Senate and will now head to the Governor for signature.

Other anti-trans bills:

Kentucky HB470 passed in committee. This bill defies our categorization system; it's a healthcare bill, but also functions as a bathroom, sports, name change, and a sex designation bill; it packages anything attacking trans youth. A live-tweet of the hearing is here, as can the many Kentucky residents who testified against it.

West Virginia HB3042, a “religious freedom” bill, passed in the Senate and is headed to the Governor for signature. 

Texas SB559, a “religious freedom” bill, passed in committee and will head to the Senate floor.

[ausetkmt]

Ahmaud Arbery's murder: Four years later Ahmaud Arbery's murder: Four years later 05:29

Attorneys are asking a U.S. appeals court to throw out the hate crime convictions of three White men who used pickup trucks to chase Ahmaud Arbery through the streets of a Georgia subdivision before one of them killed the running Black man with a shotgun.

A panel of judges from the 11th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals in Atlanta was scheduled to hear oral arguments Wednesday in a case that followed a national outcry over Arbery's death. The men's lawyers argue that evidence of past racist comments they made didn't prove a racist intent to harm.

On Feb. 23, 2020, father and son Greg and Travis McMichael armed themselves with guns and drove in pursuit of Arbery after spotting the 25-year-old man running in their neighborhood outside the port city of Brunswick. A neighbor, William "Roddie" Bryan, joined the chase in his own truck and recorded cellphone video of Travis McMichael shooting Arbery in the street.

More than two months passed without arrests, until Bryan's graphic video of the killing leaked online and the Georgia Bureau of Investigation took over the case from local police. Charges soon followed.

In legal briefs filed ahead of their appeals court arguments, lawyers for Greg McMichael and Bryan cited prosecutors' use of more than two dozen social media posts and text messages, as well as witness testimony, that showed all three men using racist slurs or otherwise disparaging Black people. The slurs often included the use of the N-word and other derogatory terms for Black people, according to an FBI witness who examined the men's social media pages. The men had also advocated for violence against Black people, the witness said. 

Bryan's attorney, Pete Theodocion, said Bryan's past racist statements inflamed the trial jury while failing to prove that Arbery was pursued because of his race. Instead, Arbery was chased because the three men mistakenly suspected he was a fleeing criminal, according to A.J. Balbo, Greg McMichael's lawyer. 

Greg McMichael initiated the chase when Arbery ran past his home, saying he recognized the young Black man from security camera videos that in prior months showed him entering a neighboring home under construction. None of the videos showed him stealing, and Arbery was unarmed and had no stolen property when he was killed. 

Prosecutors said in written briefs that the trial evidence showed "longstanding hate and prejudice toward Black people" influenced the defendants' assumptions that Arbery was committing crimes.

"All three of these defendants did everything they did based on assumptions —  not on fact, not on evidence, on assumptions. They make decisions in their driveways based on those assumptions that took a young man's life," prosecutor Linda Dunikoski said in court in November 2021.  Three men found guilty of hate crimes in the death of Ahmaud Arbery 02:18

In Travis McMichael's appeal, attorney Amy Lee Copeland didn't dispute the jury's finding that he was motivated by racism. The social media evidence included a 2018 Facebook comment Travis McMichael made on a video of Black man playing a prank on a white person. He used an expletive and a racial slur after he wrote wrote: "I'd kill that .... ."

Instead, Copeland based her appeal on legal technicalities. She said that prosecutors failed to prove the streets of the Satilla Shores subdivision where Arbery was killed were public roads, as stated in the indictment used to charge the men.

Copeland cited records of a 1958 meeting of Glynn County commissioners in which they rejected taking ownership of the streets from the subdivision's developer. At the trial, prosecutors relied on service request records and testimony from a county official to show the streets have been maintained by the county government.

Attorneys for the trio also made technical arguments for overturning their attempted kidnapping convictions. Prosecutors said the charge fit because the men used pickup trucks to cut off Arbery's escape from the neighborhood.

Prosecutors said other federal appellate circuits have ruled that any automobile used in a kidnapping qualifies as an instrument of interstate commerce. And they said the benefit the men sought was "to fulfill their personal desires to carry out vigilante justice."

The trial judge sentenced both McMichaels to life in prison for their hate crime convictions, plus additional time — 10 years for Travis McMichael and seven years for his father — for brandishing guns while committing violent crimes. Bryan received a lighter hate crime sentence of 35 years in prison, in part because he wasn't armed and preserved the cellphone video that became crucial evidence.

All three also got 20 years in prison for attempted kidnapping, but the judge ordered that time to overlap with their hate crime sentences.

If the U.S. appeals court overturns any of their federal convictions, both McMichaels and Bryan would remain in prison. All three are serving life sentences in Georgia state prisons for murder, and have motions for new state trials pending before a judge.

[usafphantom2]

A Flight of Four Mustangs Celebrates WWII Fighter Pilot’s 100th Birthday

March 20, 2024 Vintage Aviation News Warbirds News 0

The formation of four Mustangs flying over Lake Lanier, north of Atlanta.

United Fuel Cells

Mission accomplished! On Tuesday, March 19, World War II pilot Paul Crawford fulfilled his dream of flying in a P-51 Mustang like the one he commanded 79 years ago in China, where he flew 29 missions until he was shot down in 1945. Now 100, Buckhead resident Crawford was delighted when the Liberty Foundation and Inspire Aviation Foundation took him up in a TF-51D on a perfect blue-sky day for flying.

TF-51 “E Pluribus Unum” piloted by owner Bob Bull with Paul Crawford in the back leads the formation over Lake Lanier. The camera ship was a Bonanza piloted by long time Liberty Foundation’s pilot Cullen Underwood.

For the occasion, four P-51 Mustangs landed at the Dekalb-Peachtree Airport and parked at Atlantic Aviation, the FBO that supported this unique event. Mr. Crawford lovingly touched the nose and wing of one of the Mustangs when he first walked up to it, reuniting after a 79-year separation. LtCol Ray Fowler, Liberty Foundation Chief Pilot, and pilot Bob Bull helped Crawford into the back seat of the TF-51 and gave him an exhilarating 30-minute ride.

The organizers envisioned the participation of only one P-51, but a quick round of calls sparked the interest of other owners who enthusiastically decided to participate in the event. Bob Bull, Steve Maher, and Rodney Allison flew their Mustangs to Atlanta bringing the total number to four:

P-51D “Old Crow” (N451MG) – Pilot Ray Fowler – Liberty Foundation P-51D “Rebel” (N3BB) – Pilot Rodney Allison P-51 “E Pluribus Unum” (N351B) – Pilot Bob Bull – P-51 “Ain’t Missbehavin” (N51K) – Pilot Steve Maher

The Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor and Paul graduated six months later, during which time Congress passed the law to draft 18-year-olds. “I knew that I was going to be drafted so I went to Atlanta to talk with the Army Air Corps [sic] and the Navy about flying,” shared Mr. Crawford. ”The Navy said they would accept me for flight training but wanted me to go right then to their Great Lakes training center. The Air Corps told me they would accept me, but to go on back to college and they would notify me when to report.” said Crawford. Paul went back to Americus, entered Georgia Southwestern College, and shortly thereafter he received his draft notice to report to Fort McPherson in Atlanta on January 2, 1942.

Paul Crawford in his P-51 ‘Little Rebel’ ( photo by Paul Crawford Collection)

Paul had an older brother, Tim, who had gone into the Air Corps before Pearl Harbor and was flying B-26s, a medium bomber. He ended up flying combat in the B-17 Flying Fortress out of North Africa. The older brother influenced Paul’s choice, convincing him that the Air Corps had better aircraft, “I thought the water was, as they say, too deep and too wide to swim!” said Mr. Crawford.

With about 100 hours on the P-51 and 250-275 hours total, Mr. Crawford was sent off to Chengtu, China assigned to the 311th Fighter Group, 529th Fighter Squadron protecting the B-29 bases. As these B-29s transferred to the Pacific Theater, his squadron was transferred to Hsian headed for combat. At the time, Mr. Crawford was estimated to have only accumulated another 60 hours of flying time.

On his 29th mission, Mr. Crawford was shot down by ground fire while strafing a small railroad facility. After getting hit, he bailed out and was picked up by Chinese Communist guerillas. A few days earlier one of his housemates had been shot down and captured by the Japanese who cut his head off and put it up on a gate post. After a 200-mile-long walk, chased by the Japanese a couple of times, yet still evading capture, Mr. Crawford ended up at a compound owned by a wealthy family. A few miles from the compound was an airstrip where the OSS (U.S. Office of Strategic Services) brought downed airmen out. After the flight, Mr. Crawford talked about his experience: “When I recall my time in World War II, I always start by saying, I was not a hero! I was just there! That is not false modesty because it is the way I have always felt. I flew the P-51 Mustang.”

Mr. Crawford who has time in P-40, P-47, A-24, and P-51C, believes that the P-51 was the best fighter plane of its day. “There’s nothing in the world like that airplane,” Crawford said. “I loved doing the maneuvers again.” Paul Crawford was surrounded by several friends, his son-in-law, Tommy, and dozens of Liberty Foundation and Inspire Aviation Foundation members eager to have their pictures taken with him, shake his hand, and thank him for his service.

Ezoic

After serving in WWII, Paul Crawford finished college at Georgia Tech with a degree in Industrial Management. That’s also where he met his wife, Jean. They had a daughter and were married for sixty-one years when Jean passed away. Paul worked in the paper industry and for the U.S. Envelope Company until he retired in 1988. Paul currently lives in Atlanta and participates in aviation and historical WWII events.

This special event was made possible thanks to the support of Bob Bull, Ray Fowler Chief Pilot of The Liberty Foundation, Steve Maher, Atlantic Aviation FBO, Cullen Underwood with Vintage Flights, and Inspire Aviation Foundation.

Paul Crawford after the successful flight with (L to R), Cullen Underwood (Camera ship pilot), Bob Bull, Ray Fowler, and Rodney Allison.

[garbinge]

Country Shit

Gilly Lopez x F!Reader (Soldier Reader) Summary: Pre-canon fic where you think the worst as a black town car approaches your home but are pleasantly surprised by whose home.

A/N: Posting this fic I've had in my docs finished for a while now. I hope to start getting back in the swing of things soon. I know a lot of people have been commenting/messaging/reaching out about my Bear series and I promise I'll update that soon, but for now enjoy my first Gilly fic from Mayans :)

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: All my fics are 18+ regardless of content. Cursing, mentions of war, bootcamp, training, army, army rangers, PTSD, trauma, death, grief, dishonorable discharge. Lightly angsty? Or maybe I'm numb to angst and its like medium-angst level lol. Light fluff.

Mayans Taglist: @drabbles-mc @justreblogginfics @narcolini @danzer8705 @keyweegirlie

The clouds were rolling in, you heard the thunder in the distance as you sat on the back of your wrap around porch staring out at the ranch in your backyard. You pulled your cardigan tight around you out of instinct as the breeze from the storm on its way in, blew past you. The dark clouds casted a shadow on the large land of property that made up your backyard, the free-range chickens you owned had retreated into their coup, the two horses you took care of were nestled safely in the barn you had just 500 feet away from the house, and your dog was alert on your left hand side as he stared up at the rumbling sky. 

“Come on, boy, let’s get inside before it starts coming down.” You stood up and opened the back door and nodded for your dog to go inside. 

Your timing was impeccable, just as you closed the screen door, the rain started. The living room walls were filled with windows, you could see the droplets throughout every window on every window that surrounded the room. The sound of the water pelting against the roof and the deck filled the house, it was loud and mixed with the rumbling of the thunder. It needed to be drowned out, so you moved over to the record player you had set up by the front of the living room. 

The memory of the last time you used the record player was coming up short, but seeing the Sam Hunt record in the player made you smile. Placing the needle on the record, it scratched for a minute before the music started playing. It brought you back to a time in your life, there wasn’t much other way to describe it besides a time. It wasn’t something you’d describe as the best time in your life, not in the slightest, but there were some moments that weren’t completely horrible. 

“Come on! Grab your drink!” 

Those were the famous last words your bunkmate said before she dragged you onto the dance floor. You remember the beat of the banjo playing so loudly as you moved to the beat. It was the last night of Ranger School, you had graduated earlier in the day, your friends and family had come and gone already to wish you well before they shipped you off to your assignments.

You weren’t alone on the dance floor, you were in Georgia, so when Sam Hunt was playing, the crowd tended to thicken up a bit. The noise got louder from people singing along, and although it wasn’t your go-to selection, it was fun in comparison to everything training had put you through. You remember feeling beer dripping down your jeans as you jumped up and down with the mix of Ranger graduates and town locals, but you didn’t mind one second of it. You just loved having the excuse to wear something other than your green service uniform. 

As the song reached its last minute, you had started to sing along to the lyrics, your laugh was contagious by those around you as you enjoyed the celebration. You were drunk, there was no two ways about it, and you weren’t alone in that, everyone around you was too. Some people attempted to line dance, because choreographed moves were the perfect thing for a bunch of drunks, but everyone seemed to make it work. Except him. And you heard his voice in your ear as you were trying to keep up with those around you in the last moments of the song. 

“Can you show me how to do this shit so I don’t make a total fucking ass of myself?” 

You smiled at the comment, and turned to him. Lopez. You had worked with him over your summer of training, but to say you knew him well would have been an exaggeration. 

“And you think I know what I’m doing?” You chuckled as you looked back at him. “I’m just following everyone else. It’s like a kick kick step step turn thing.” 

“Right.” Gilly was trying to catch up as he moved next to you. It was hilarious to watch but it was also nice, having someone else with you that didn’t exactly know what was happening. “Man, I wish they’d turn this country shit off.” He whispered to himself as he tried to follow along with his feet.

As the song came to a close, you spoke up to him. “Didn’t peg you as the line dancing type.” 

“I’m running a bet with the guys.” He pointed back to his group of friends. “Longest one to stay out on the dance floor, actually trying, gets their tab taken care of.” 

“You do realize we’re in a bar full of locals who love buying drinks for anyone in the service?” You frowned at him. 

“Yea but there’s just something really fulfilling about Timmer paying my tab off for me, you know?” He was laughing back with you. 

Now that, you understood. Timmer was a real asshole, said things that got under everyone’s skin so if that was what was on the line, you’d help Lopez out. The song changed, it slowed down. A crowd of people left the dance floor, while a new crowd also filled it. Gilly looked around and saw just one person he was in on the bet with left on the floor with someone in their arms. 

“Need a partner?” You spoke up, hand extended out to him. Out of nerves, he laughed and took your hand in his, your other arm moved to hang around his shoulder loosely as you both began swaying to the music. 

“Thanks for helping me out.” Gilly said to break the silent tension. 

“Look, anything to make Timmer get the shit end of a stick, but I’m thinking I should negotiate something out of this deal for myself.” You made a face as if you were thinking. 

“I mean, fair is fair.” Gilly said as he took the lead and moved you around the dance floor. “What’d you have in mind.” 

It was a tactic, but it worked, it had you shocked for a minute that he had taken the lead. 

“I want my tab covered, too.” There were likely a million other things you could have negotiated from this, his dessert during meal time, laundry, literally anything but you were so caught off-guard you just said something quickly. 

“Deal.” He agreed quickly. 

Both of you stopped talking and continued to move slowly, swaying back and forth, the silence between you both allowed you to hear the lyrics of the song. 

“You and me, wild and free. Way out in the woods, nobody for miles.” 

Those lyrics brought you back to the present moment, in your shared home with Gilly that way out in the woods, nobody for miles. Now, some probably would have said that was the night that started it all between you, but after those dances, and a few drinks, both of you went back to your respective bunks and didn’t speak to each other until a week later when you were both deployed to the 2nd battalion in the 75th Ranger Regiment, and well, that bonded you two differently. Those two months on the home base in Washington is where the both of you fell in love, whatever that meant for two active duty Rangers. After those 2 months, they shipped you out to your tour assignment, where things got dark. 

You stood there, getting lost in your thoughts as your brain wrapped itself around a new set of memories, ones that were heavy and hard to even think of. The memories of being on combat duty, seeing things that were burned in your mind as a souvenir of your two tours, and the one that constantly replayed in your head. The memory of being dishonorably discharged because you refused to follow orders. Before you could think further on it, you jumped at the sound of your dog barking. Your eyes moved to the driveway, the sound of the gravel crunching was mumbled under the music and the rain but it was still prevalent. The rain distorted the view out of the window, but you could see the black town car rolling down your driveway, which was otherwise empty. You lived easily 30 minutes from town or any person, neighbor, or establishment, and that was purposeful. When you got discharged, Gilly got sent backshortly after on leave with you for a week. The two of you were already married but had no place to call home and with you being done with the military, it was time to set down roots. Roots that wouldn’t push you into a PTSD fit constantly, you liked being off the beaten path, you liked being unbothered, on your own. On your own. Those three words instantly meant something completely different now as you stared at the black car in the driveway. Everyone knew the black town car pulling up, unexpected, to the home was the news. The news no one wanted to get, but being deployed yourself prepared you for it in a way that explained the solitude in your heart and lack of panic. You moved away from the window before anyone exited the car, you took the few minutes you knew you had before someone rang the bell to kneel down and be eye to eye with your pup. 

“I wish you were going to understand what was about to happen, buddy.” Your hand scratched behind his ears. You saw his nose wiggle as he sniffed the air, and he let out a little whine while looking at you. 

You let out a sigh, and closed your eyes. That’s when the doorbell rang. As your dog ran to the door, you knelt there for 30 more seconds, preparing yourself mentally to hear the news. 

The words rattled in your brain before anyone even said them to you, it was your brain's way of preparing you before you got up to answer the door. The commandant of the Army Rangers 75th Regiment and Second Battalion has entrusted me to express his deepest regrets that your husband, Gilberto Lopez, was killed in action. It was then that you realized you’d find out when and how, and that’s when you held your breath. It’d affect you differently, because you knew the logistics of things, how to read between the lines of what was told to you. Before another thought filled your head, you were standing up and making your way to the door and opening it wide. 

Immediately your dog was out the door whining and jumping on the person in front of you. You thought you felt your breath hitch, I mean you were seeing a dead man, or what you convinced yourself in the last 5 minutes was a dead man, standing in front of you but you were frozen, until he spoke.

“Hey buddy boy, I missed you, yea, hello.” He spoke to the dog, his backpack still on but the other bag was discarded to his right as he let your dog greet him joyfully. “You been takin’ care of our girl, right?” He said as he stood back up and you felt the breath you were holding release and suddenly you were launching into his arms. 

He let out a woah mixed in between a chuckle as he steadied himself and wrapped his arms around you to embrace you back. You both hugged for what felt like eternity, eventually he moved both of you into the house to avoid getting anymore wet from the rain. You still had your hands wrapped around his neck, your heads were next to each other when he whispered something to you.  

“What happened? I’m gone for a few months and you got that country shit playing?” 

When the laugh left your mouth it’s when you realized you were crying. 

“Hey, you’re not allowed to say that when it’s our song.” You pulled away so you could look at him now.

“See, country music’s got you crying.” His thumb moved to wipe your tears away, the smile on his face was big, he was happy to be home, happy to not be thinking about everything– anything. 

“I thought you were dead.” You said as his hands cupped your face. 

“I’m surprised I’m not.” His face hardened almost immediately as he shifted to talk to you seriously. 

“You back for good?” Staring into his eyes, you looked for an answer, but were only coming up with pain and exhaustion. 

“I’m back for good.” He nodded and moved to place his backpack down.

“It’s hard being home.” You said, hating to break the moment but you knew it was inevitable to talk about. 

“It’s hard being deployed.” Gilly answered.  

You looked into his eyes again, it was obvious to you that they were eyes that had seen a lot. You knew that since your eyes looked the same when you were sent home. The difference between him and you was he was there longer, whatever happened when you weren’t there was going to haunt him.

“Back for good.” You repeated his statement, trying to wrap your brain around what that meant, what you both were in store for but you were quickly interrupted by a kiss. 

As your eyes closed, you melted into the touch. His lips on yours brought you back in time, to your first kiss, your wedding day, then the day you were sent home, saying goodbye to him. But now he was home, and he was kissing you hello. 

“You and me, wild and free.” He said the lyrics from the song that brought you two here as he rested his forehead on yours. 

“I thought you hated country music.” 

“I fuckin’ do. But I also fuckin’ love you.”

[rjmartin11]

I'm Aaron

Chapter Two

Pairing: Elvis & female!reader

Summary: You're a workaholic who decides to take a private mini vacation in Las Vegas. While there, you stumble into and befriend a handsome stranger at a bar. This handsome stranger is more than meets the eye. He wants to show you a great time... privately. It's an experience that you've never had before. You soon realize that you're in over your head, and your heart is falling fast.

Word Count: 2.7K

Warning: A bit sad. Mentioning of death. But the smut is here! I repeat, the smut has arrived! Sex, oral (f. receiving) slight fingering (f. receiving). Only for mature audiences. Viewer discretion is advised!

Author's Notes: Welcome to Chapter Two! I'm so pleased with all the re-posts, likes, and follows I've received! Y'all are the sweetest! It's all done for the love of E.P. That gorgeous talented man! Have mercy! If you'd like to be tagged in the next chapter, leave me a message. What happens in Vegas stays in the bedroom! 😉

❁❁✧✿✿✧❁❁✧✧❁❁✧✿✿✧❁❁

"Aaron. Were you also raised in a strict Christian home, Aaron?"

"Well, not as strict as you but yes. I was raised Penecostal, but my folks let me listen to old rock n roll all the time. But I love Gospel the most. Why do you ask?"

"Well, your name is Biblical. I find that most of the children with Biblical names grew up with strict parents. How do you spell it?"

"With two A's. My folks originally spelt it with one, but when I turn 25 I changed it legally after I came home from the service."

"You were in the military? For how long?"

"I spent two years in Germany."

"That's very noble, and how did you meet your boss?"

"My boss?" He said with a questionable look.

"Yes. Elvis."

"Oh yeah. He and I go back a ways. Childhood. I've seen him through it all and then some."

"Is he nice? Does he treat you well?" You pondered trying to understand why all these women loved him so much.

"He has his moments. He tries to remain good. Be the good boy his mama raised him to be. It seems like the world's closin' in on him and he's nervous about the show tomorrow. He wants everything to go right. What if they don't love...him...anymore."

"He's not too short on supply there. I was listening to his music on my drive here this afternoon, and the taxi driver told me that I needed to get tickets to see him. The receptionist at the front desk, too. They are head over heels for him. They describe him as a god."

"He knows better. There's only one God. One King."

"Amen." You say taking another sip of your drink.

"Enough about Elvis. What about you, Y/N? Where are from? And if you aren't here for the show tomorrow night, why are you here?"

You move your daiquiri away from you and think of the right words to say. "I'm on vacation. I've never really taken a vacation, and I thought it was about time. I'm originally from Florida. Deep in the Bible belt. My mother worked her hardest to try to get me free from my father's house. His boundaries. I turned 18, and I left. I moved to Atlanta, Georgia. I wanted my mama to be proud of me. She passed on two years later, and I plunged myself into work. I made friends, and we spent time together. But they have husbands, and I'm lonely. I'm the only one without a love. The only one without a significant other."

"You lost your mother? I'm so sorry. I lost mine too." Aaron spoke with unshed tears in his eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Aaron."

"Are you here alone, baby? No friends? They left you all alone?" He pondered.

You nodded your head at your new found friend with a tear trickling down your cheek.

"You know, you aren't alive if you aren't in love." He said grabbing your hand softly.

"Then I'm as good as dead." You said wiping the tear from your eye.

"No, you're not. I believe this is amazing grace. I believe you've been found." Aaron said placing his hand to his lips to kiss it. You feel goosebumps surge through your body and your face blush. You can't look him in the eyes now.

"You came to Vegas for a good time, right? Let me show you a good time." He asked lightly grabbing your chin to look you in the eye.

"I don't know."

"I won't hurt you. I just wanna hold you. Maybe steal a kiss or two. Or three. You're so beautiful."

"You're sweet, but I'm... inexperienced."

Aaron raises an eyebrow. "Meaning that you've never been touched? Ever?"

You look down defeated. In your mind, a man runs away from a virgin. Men want women with experience which you lacked. Surely, Aaron will run for the hills now.

"Your room or mine, baby?" He said with a sexy smirk on his lips. Your eyes shoot up to look at his hundred watt smile. "On second thought," he pauses considering his actions. "Let's go to your room. I'm not too sure about my boss and the guys would feel if I bought you up there."

"I don't want to get you into trouble."

"This is Vegas. If you're looking for trouble, you came to the right place." He laughed. Leading you away from the bar and to the elevator.

❁❁✧✿✿✧❁❁✧✧❁❁✧✿✿✧❁❁

He held your hand all the way up to your floor. You didn't look at the entire ride up, trying to slow down your heart rate.

"You know what my fear is?" Aaron says as you both enter the room. You look at him, waiting for his answer. "I'm afraid that I'll never be loved for me. I feel people love me because... b-b-because of who I know. I swear I get so lonely sometimes."

You grab his hand and lead him to sit on the bed. You look him in the eyes. "I see a beautiful soul with soulful eyes. I don't understand why any woman would not give you a chance. You have a great sense of humor, you're open about your life, handsome, and honest. I'm still confused as to why you want to spend time with me."

Aaron grabs both your hands and looks deep into your eyes and says, "Because I see you. You are a beautiful soul. You're a beautiful woman. I know what it's like to be alone and lost. Hoping someone can see you. When a lonely soul finds another, they make peace and find joy in each other's company."

You smile removing your eyes from his and bit your bottom lip. You feel you face heat up and your heart soars. He takes his hand and places it under your chin so he can look you in the eyes once more.

"Baby, have you ever been kissed?" He asks with wonder in his deep voice.

You scoff and roll your eyes at him. Then reply, "So, because I'm a virgin, that means I've never been kissed?"

"Yes and no. I want to know if you've been kissed properly. On the lips."

"Yes, I have."

He tilts his head at you and quints his eyes as if he doesn't believe you. Then he asks, "What was his name and where did he kiss you?"

You look down. Remember that one special time of your childhood. It was a special moment but it's also tainted with hurt. You take a breath and say, "His name was Gabriel. I was fifteen and..."

"You were at church."

You look at him with shock and disbelief. He finished your sentence like he saw it first hand.

"How did you know that?"

"Well, you told me that you were raised in a strict Christian home. I'm guessing your daddy didn't let you go out much, but to church where there were boys."

"Well, yes. I bet you don't know where though." You look at him with a smirk on his face changing him.

He placed his hand on his chin to play your little game. "Hmm. Let me guess. You two made a plan to sneak off. But to where? My guess is the bathroom."

"Nope. We snook off behind the church!" You laughed.

Aaron snaps his fingers and jolts his wrist. "Damn! That was my next guess! I swear that or the nearest cemetery!"

The two of you laugh at the thought. You shake your and and finish your story about your first kiss. "Yes, well, I was nice and innocent. He was sweet. It didn't work out cause my father didn't believe in me dating. He moved on to the next available girl."

"Was it a French kiss?"

You shook your head and answered no.

"Show me how he kissed you."

You move closer to him on the bed. You look into his blue eyes and notice they're darkening somehow. Then you glance at his pouty lips. He doesn't move. He wants you to come to him. You position yourself closer to him, solely focusing on his eyes as you place lips on his. Your eyes flutter close as you embrace the feeling of his soft, pouty lips. You almost lose your breath. You feel his magnetism it's almost overwhelming.

You pull away, you wait for his judgment on your kiss. He opens his eyes and says, "That was kind and sweet. The way a first kiss should be between kids. Truly innocent." He pauses.

"But?" You ask impatiently waiting for his response.

"I think we can do better than that. You deserve to be properly kissed and fucked."

You blink and advert your eyes for a moment. This is about to be your first time. You hear your father's voice in your head, "Fornicators go to hell and it's worse for women." But you believe differently. You like Aaron. Since you bummed into him at the bar, he has tried to make you comfortable. If he's only looking for a one night stand it may crush you but you'll risk it for a good time. Get it out your system now.

Aaron tilts your head up to him at him. "Ready to try a French kiss, baby?"

"Sure."

He grins slightly and tells you, "Open your mouth just a little bit and place the tip of your tongue at the bottom of your lower. Over your teeth."

You do as instructed feeling extra shy under the gaze of his ocean hues.

"Relax and close your eyes."

As soon as you do, you feel his soft lips against yours, and his tongue glides across your tongue. You aren't sure if you're doing it right, but you like the feeling. He has his hands gently holding you face, and you softly moan in his mouth. Your stomach drops, and you feel a sensation between your legs. It's all new to you.

He pulls away, and you chase him for another kiss, but he places his index finger lightly on your lips.

"You enjoyed that, didn't you, baby?" He speaks to you low hushed tone as his finger slides down your lips.

You are speechless. All you can do is nod your head. Aaron smirks and kisses the end of your nose. "Baby, have you ever been touched? I've asked you this once, but I want to be sure."

You take his hand and place it over your breast. He laughs at your gesture. "No, Y/N. I mean your special spot between yourself legs. Where your pussy lies."

You blink yourself into reality realizing what he's asking you. The way he says pussy makes that sensation come back between your legs. That word on his lips is the ultimate sin. You shake your head no.

He nods at you and slides his hand down from breast to your tummy and pauses. "May I touch you there?"

You nod your head and he quints at you. "Y/N, I need you to use you words, baby."

"Yes, please. Touch me." The excitement is too much. You feel that sensation between your legs begin throb and you start to breath heavy.

"Okay. Lay back."

As lay back on the bed, Aaron slips his hand under your dress and under your lace panties. The touch alone sends you sky high. You audibly inhale and moan at his touch. You feel his fingers explore your pussy.

"You are so wet. So needy. You've never touched yourself have you, baby?"

"N-no." You answer in a breathy tone.

Aaron grins at you and says, "Let me introduce you to your clit. Right here is your special friend. Your bud. Can you feel that?"

"I've been feeling that since you kissed me."

"Let me show you a real kiss." He said, removing his fingers from vagina. Licking the slick away from his fingers, he grabs your hands to sit you up in the bed. Aaron proceeds to remove your dress and toss it to the side, leaving you in your bra and panties. "I do love this dress."

He examines your body. Admiring your curves and ways as he lightly traces your thighs and hips with his hands. You feel quite shy under his gaze and cover your breasts with your hands and arms. He takes one of your hands and kisses it, cupping your hand to his face.

Aaron places your hand back to your chest and begins to work your curves once more. He eases his finger tips into the upper sides of your panties and carefully pulls them down your legs.

Your heart races because you believe this is the moment of truth. The moment he fills you up with his hard dick and fucks you into oblivion. But no. He humbles himself before you and kneels. Spreading your legs apart, he lightly plunges his head into your pussy and licks your clit. A delayed breath escapes your mouth and you gasp. This man is showing you things you never known existed. Blowing you mind lick by lick.

He needs you to be closer to him, so he roughly pulls you closer to him, placing your legs over his shoulders. "Look at me." He says before circling his tongue back to your clit. Your head jolts back at the sensation and you moan loudly. You feel him stop.

"I need you to look at me when do this, baby. Can you be a good girl and focus, Y/N?"

You prop yourself up on your elbows once more. "Yes, Aaron. I can." You speak nearly out of breath, rocking your hips slightly at him.

He grins at you and lightly kisses the top of your clit. His eyes never leaving yours. He sticks his tongue out and gets back to working on your clit.

You are absolutely hypnotized at this moment. Just focusing on him has you reeling and moaning. Then he surprises you by slipping two of his fingers inside of you. The surprise is too much, causing you to jolt your head back yelling loudly. "Oh my...fuck!"

You slowly feel yourself coming undone layer by layer. All those excuses of why you haven't done this before are out the window as you grind into his face. All your resolve, gone. Your virginity? It won't be long now.

As his fingers work furiously on your pussy and his tongue glides across your clit rapidly, you begin to combust from the inside out. The flame that ignited inside you is now quenched. Unable to hold yourself up any longer, you collapse on the bed. All your strength is gone. Your mind is blown. You place one hand on your face and rake your fingers through your hair with your other hand as you catch your breath.

"That's a real kiss, honey." Aaron says, pulling you back into reality with his deep Southern drawl. You feel giddy, and you begin to breathy giggle. He crawls on top of you, and you can see his lips drenched with your rain. You calm yourself as he glazes into your eyes. You see his eyes have completely darkened to a stormy black. As if it's the calm before the storm. He places his lips on yours, and you taste yourself. It's enough to drive you nuts! You wrap your legs around his waist to hold him in place. You then wrap your arms around his neck and head, grazing your hands into his hair. You never really touched his hair. You realize in this moment how soft and fine it actually is.

You lose yourself in his embrace. He moves away from your lips and kisses your cheek, and then down to your neck before looking at you once again. "Uh-oh, I think she likes it. How do you feel?" He says, tracing your lips with his fingers.

You blink trying to find your words, but nothing comes out. When they finally do all you can muster up is, "I'm ss-speechless. That was the best kiss I've ever had. Thank you."

He kisses your forehead and leans into you, resting his head between your neck and head. He's so warm. You take your hand rake it through his hair. You don't know it, but this comforts him. You're afraid to speak and ruin this next to perfect moment. "Aaron, this is a great way to end the night."

He moves his head to look at you and says, "End the night? Baby, the fun has just started. I'm not done playing with you yet." Your eyes widen at his words in surprise. "There's more?"

"Yes, baby much more." Aaron entices you, kissing your lips once more.

Taglist: @missmaywemeetagain @beeandheroddobsessions @headfullofpresley @everythingpresley @epforeverohyes @plasticfantasticl0ver @pianginferno @powerofelvis @ab4eva @foreverdolly @searchingforgravity @thatbanditqueen @daffieapple @18lkpeters @dkayfixates

#Elvis x Y/N #Elvis x reader #Elvis #ElvisPresley #ElvisinVegas #Vegas

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Ryan Burge

Published: Oct 19, 2023

This post is more of a “me thinking out loud” than anything else, because I get this question a whole lot. It’s about states, specifically what parts of the country are the least religious and which ones are the most religious. That question is posed by potential church planters looking for the most fertile ground to start up a new church. It’s also asked by atheists and agnostics when they are thinking about where would be a good place to move to if they wanted to be around like minded people.

Here’s the thing about that question - it’s not really that easy to answer from a statistical perspective. It seems so tantalizing easy but that’s just not the case. The reason is actually really easy to understand, too. Sample size. That’s it. That’s the tweet.

I don’t think people fully realize how small national surveys used to be. When I was in graduate school, the ceiling was about 3,000 people. Divide that by 50, and you see the problem that I am running in to here. You may get a hundred or more in big states like California or Texas. But you aren’t going to get any real numbers in Vermont or Montana.

I wrote about this in a ton of depth for Religion News Service a couple years ago in post entitled, “How religious is your average 22-year-old? A new golden age of survey data opens a door.” That ‘Golden Age’ has opened the door for folks like me to get a lot closer to the answer about the most religious states and the least religious ones.

The Cooperative Election Study has over 60,000 people in the most recent wave - collected about a year ago. It’s got 129 folks from North Dakota in there! And, 224 from Montana. There are more Californians in the 2022 CES than the entire sample of the General Social Survey in 2021. So, now we can do some state level analysis.

Let’s get right to the maps, then. This is the share of folks who identify as atheist, agnostic, or nothing in particular in the 2008 and the 2022 version of the Cooperative Election Study. I intentionally kept the bins the same in both years to give folks a clear impression of just how fast the nones have risen.

In the 2008 map at the top, the dark blue tells a pretty clear story - the nones were way more concentrated in the western part of the United States. They were north of 40% in both Washington and Oregon. The only other state that was less religious was Vermont at 42%. There are also big pockets of nones in California, and Arizona, too.

Where weren’t the nones in 2008? The entire mid-section of the country. States like Minnesota and Wisconsin scored really low at 23% and 25% respectively. But of course the Bible belt didn’t have a bunch of nones. Just 23% in Mississippi and 18% in Louisiana. But there were a bunch of states in the low to mid twenties all over the middle section of the country, though.

In 2022, nearly the entire map is a dark shade of blue - meaning at least 35% non-religious. Now there are four states that are more than half non-religious: Washington, Oregon, New Hampshire, and Maine. But there are also lots of states in the mid-forties, too: Nevada, California, New Mexico, and Colorado to name a few.

Outside the Dakotas, the only part of the country that is not dark blue is the Bible Belt. In most of those states about one third of the population is non-religious. That’s the case in Louisiana, Tennessee, Kentucky, Georgia, and South Carolina. The nones are basically everywhere now and in large numbers. It’s not just isolated pockets in certain states.

[ Continued... ]

Unfortunately, the rest of the article is behind a paywall, and a cached/archived version doesn't seem to be available at the usual locations.

[orthodoxydaily]

Saints&Reading: Tuesday, July 23, 2024

july_10 july 23

THE PLACING OF THE PRECIOUS ROBE OF THE LORD AT MOSCOW (1625)

The Savior’s precious Robe [ Greek “himatia”, literally “over-garments”] is not identically the same thing as His seamless coat [Greek “khiton”, literally “under-garb tunic”]. They are clearly distinct within Holy Scripture. “Then the soldiers, when they had crucified Jesus, took His garments (ta himatia) and divided them into four parts, to every soldier a part, and the coat (kai ton khitona). Now the coat was without seam, woven whole from the top down. Therefore, they said among themselves, let us not tear it, but cast lots for it, whose it will become. Thus the saying in Scripture was fulfilled: they divided My raiment (ta imatia) among them, and upon My vesture (epi ton himatismon) did they cast lots” (John. 19: 23-24; Ps. 21 [22]: 18-19).

According to the tradition of the Georgian Orthodox Church, the Chiton of the Lord was carried by the Hebrew rabbi Elioz from Jerusalem to Mtsket and at present is beneath a crypt in the foundations of the Mtsket Patriarchal cathedral of Svetitskhoveli (the Feast in honor of the Chiton of the Lord is celebrated on October 1). None of the Mohammedan invaders ever ventured to encroach upon this spot, glorified with a sign by the mercy of God, the Life-Creating Pillar.

The Robe of the Lord, actually one of its four parts, the lower portion specifically (other parts of the Robe of the Lord are also known in Western Europe: in the city of Trier in Germany, and in Argenteuil near Paris in France), just like the Chiton of the Lord, came to be in Georgia. In contrast to the Chiton, the Robe portion was not kept underground, but was in the treasury of the Svetitskhoveli cathedral right up to the seventeenth century. Then the Persian Shah Abbas I, in devastating Georgia, along with other treasures also carried off the Robe of the Lord. In order to ingratiate himself with Tsar Michael Feodorovich, the Shah sent the Robe of the Lord as a gift to Patriarch Philaret (1619-1633) and Tsar Michael in 1625. The authenticity of the Robe was attested by Nectarius, Archbishop of Vologda, also by Patriarch Theophanes of Jerusalem, who had come from Byzantium, and by Joannicius the Greek, but especially also by the miraculous signs worked by the Lord through the venerable relic.

Afterwards two parts of the Robe came to be in Peterburg: one in the cathedral at the Winter Palace, and the other in Saints Peter and Paul cathedral. A portion of the Robe was also preserved at the Dormition cathedral in Moscow, and small portions at Kiev’s Sophia cathedral, at the Ipatiev monastery near Kostroma and at certain other old temples. At Moscow annually on July 10 the Robe of the Lord is solemnly brought out of a chapel named for the holy Apostles Peter and Paul at the Dormition cathedral, and it is placed on a stand for veneration during the time of divine services. After Liturgy they carry the Robe to its former place.

On this day a service to the Life-Creating Cross of the Lord is proper, since the Placing of the Robe in the Dormition cathedral in 1625 took place on March 29, which happened to be the Sunday of the Veneration of the Cross during the Great Fast.

VENERABLE SILOUAN, OF THE KIEV CAVES SCHEMAMONK (13th-14th c.)

The Holy Schemamonk Silvanus (Silouan) of the Kiev Caves, zealously preserved the purity of both soul and body, he subdued his flesh with fasting and vigils, and he cleansed his soul with prayer and meditation on God. The Lord granted him an abundance of spiritual gifts: a prayerful boldness towards God, constant joy in the Lord, clairvoyance and wonderworking. The monk lived at the end of the thirteenth and beginning of the fourteenth centuries. His relics rest in the Caves.

d, constant joy in the Lord, clairvoyance and wonderworking. The monk lived at the end of the thirteenth and beginning of the fourteenth centuries. His relics rest in the Caves.

ROMANS 14:9-18

9 For to this end Christ died and rose and lived again, that He might be Lord of both the dead and the living. 10 But why do you judge your brother? Or why do you show contempt for your brother? For we shall all stand before the judgment seat of Christ. 11 For it is written: "As I live, says the LORD, Every knee shall bow to Me, And every tongue shall confess to God." 12 So then each of us shall give account of himself to God. 13 Therefore let us not judge one another anymore, but rather resolve this, not to put a stumbling block or a cause to fall in our brother's way. 14 I know and am convinced by the Lord Jesus that there is nothing unclean of itself; but to him who considers anything to be unclean, to him it is unclean. 15 Yet if your brother is grieved because of your food, you are no longer walking in love. Do not destroy with your food the one for whom Christ died. 16 Therefore do not let your good be spoken of as evil; 17 for the kingdom of God is not eating and drinking, but righteousness and peace and joy in the Holy Spirit. 18 For he who serves Christ in these things is acceptable to God and approved by men.

MATTHEW 12:14-16, 22-30

14 Then the Pharisees went out and plotted against Him, how they might destroy Him. 15 But when Jesus knew it, He withdrew from there. And great multitudes followed Him, and He healed them all. 16 Yet He warned them not to make Him known, 22 Then one was brought to Him who was demon-possessed, blind and mute; and He healed him, so that the blind and mute man both spoke and saw. 23 And all the multitudes were amazed and said, "Could this be the Son of David?" 24 Now when the Pharisees heard it they said, "This fellow does not cast out demons except by Beelzebub, the ruler of the demons." 25 But Jesus knew their thoughts, and said to them: "Every kingdom divided against itself is brought to desolation, and every city or house divided against itself will not stand. 26 If Satan casts out Satan, he is divided against himself. How then will his kingdom stand? 27 And if I cast out demons by Beelzebub, by whom do your sons cast them out? Therefore they shall be your judges. 28 But if I cast out demons by the Spirit of God, surely the kingdom of God has come upon you. 29 Or how can one enter a strong man's house and plunder his goods, unless he first binds the strong man? And then he will plunder his house. 30 He who is not with Me is against Me, and he who does not gather with Me scatters abroad.

[zvaigzdelasas]

[JAMNews receives funding from the US NED, UK CSSF, EU EED, and others]

According to government media, Serbian citizens were summoned to the State Security Service of Georgia as part of the ongoing investigation of the coup d’état case. It is also reported that these persons are members of the organization “Kanvas”. According to TV Imedi, in recent days members of “Kanvas” have held trainings and various meetings related to civil activism in Georgia. Giorgi Meladze, the director of “Kanvas” and associate professor of Ilia State University, explained that they are not planning any coup d’état and the goal of the state security service is just to intimidate active people. “I am currently the director of Kanvas Georgia and I am not planning any coup d’état. I have worked with many groups and activists over the past 20 years, and it is very important for me to think and act together with active people in civil society to create better systems of governance. And no matter what, I will continue my work spreading knowledge about nonviolent campaigns!” – says Meladze.

On 18 September, the Georgian State Security Service published a statement in which it mentioned that there were plans to repeat the scenario of the Ukrainian Euromaidan and forcibly change the government in Georgia. The authors of the plan are named as the deputy head of the Ukrainian military intelligence service, Giorgi Lortkipanidze, who was deputy interior minister during Saakashvili’s government; Saakashvili’s former security guard Mikhail Baturin and Mamuka Mamulashvili, who is a member of Saakashvili’s inner circle and commander of the Georgian Legion operating in Ukraine. According to the SGB, the Kanvas organization, the core of which is the Serbian organization Otpor, is used to train youth groups.

30 Sep 23

[beardedmrbean]

Georgia's MPs have voted to overturn a presidential veto on a contentious “transparency on foreign influence” bill - often dubbed “foreign agents law” - which has sparked several weeks of protests in the capital Tbilisi.

Under the legislation, media and non-governmental organisations that receive over 20% of their funding from abroad will have to register as “organisations acting in the interest of a foreign power”, submit themselves to stringent audits, or face punitive fines.

A plenary session on Tuesday saw the vote pass with 84 votes for - mainly from the governing Georgian Dream party - versus four votes against, with the opposition abstaining.

The law had already been passed on 14 May, but was then vetoed by pro-Western President Salome Zourabishvili.

The law is expected to come into force in 60 days' time.

The Georgian government argues it will ensure transparency of money flowing to support NGOs and protect Georgia from foreign interference.

But its opponents - who have dubbed it "Russian law” because of its similarities with an existing law in Russia - believe the real reason for the legislation is to stifle dissent ahead of October's parliamentary elections.

The EU said it "deeply regretted" the Georgian parliament's decision.

EU officials had previously warned the bill could jeopardise further progress within the bloc. Georgia was granted candidate country status in December 2023.

Many NGOs have already announced they will not abide by legislation that requires them to state they are “acting in the interest of a foreign power” as they say it is "insulting" and "factually incorrect".

On Tuesday, as MPs debated the bill, people again gathered outside parliament amid a heavy police presence.

When the result of the vote was announced, many protesters shouted “slaves!” and “Russians!”

Since the protests began, police have repeatedly used force to disperse the protesters.

Dozens of opponents of the foreign agents law have reported being beaten up or intimidated, with insulting posters stuck outside their homes or threatening phone calls.

Still, more than six weeks since the start of the protests, demonstrators - many of them young - feel there is no option other than to continue taking to the streets.

“Our whole future is stake, it's either Europe or nothing,” 18-year-old Kato said as she stood outside the parliament with her friends.

Observers believe passing the foreign agents law has turned into a battle for survival for Georgian Dream, which has managed to alienate many of its traditional partners in the process.

The US joined the EU in warning the law would entail consequences. The US State Department said last week that travel restrictions would be imposed on those who “undermine democracy” in Georgia, as well as their family members.

But the authorities brushed the warnings off. The Secretary General of Georgian Dream, Tbilisi Mayor Kakha Kaladze, said there would never be a "trade-off" against the interests of the country.

Knowing that she had run out of options to stop the government from passing the bill, on Monday Ms Zourabishvili presented a new charter which she said would be a plan to move Georgia towards Europe.

"To rebuild trust, we need a new political reality: a distinct unity, different elections, a different parliament, and a different government," she wrote on X.

The charter includes the abolition of laws which she said were harming Georgia's chances of EU membership, as well as significant reforms designed to depoliticise the justice system and security services.

Ms Zourabishvili invited all opposition parties to sign the charter before 1 June and go united into parliamentary elections in October.

[tocitynews]

Georgia Lawmakers To Rein In Aggressive Home Owners Associations After Hearing Homeowner Horror Stories – Atlanta Georgia reporting

You can be up to date on your mortgage, never missed a loan payment, and lose your home to foreclosure by your Homeowners Association.

▶︎ Each month Karyn Gibbons mailed a check for HOA dues on her Gwinnett County condo to the address provided in writing at closing. But she said she never knew when or if it would be cashed.

“It was just random. I mean there’d be two, three, four, five months go in between checks being cashed,” said Gibbons. Then out of the blue she was served with a notice of foreclosure by her Home Owners Association, with late fees and thousands of dollars in attorney fees.

She owed more than $30,000.

“Did you even know you could be foreclosed on by an HOA?” Gray asked Gibbons.

“No. Never heard of it,” Gibbons said.

▶︎ “It’s totally insane. It’s totally insane,” said Tricia Quigley, a former Cherokee County homeowner.

She learned it can happen the hard way.

When Quigley’s Cherokee County home of 18 years was sold at foreclosure on the courthouse steps for about the amount of spare change on her coffee table as Gray interviewed her.

“It went for $3.25,” Quigley said.

She admitted she did not pay two of her biannual homeowner association dues payments totaling $800.

She ended up paying more than $10,000 trying to get right with the HOA but the late fees and attorney fees kept growing.

“I kept thinking I paid all this money; how come it’s not stopping?” Quigley said.

A big reason is attorney costs.

Every email, every inquiry, every attempt to contest, fix, or even pay the overdue bill adds to the bill.

Channel 2 Action News checked foreclosure records and found that ▶︎ just two metro Atlanta law firms that specialize in representing HOAs have filed 279 notices seeking damage and foreclosure notices in just the past three years.

By the time Juliet Graham finally sold her downtown Atlanta condo her HOA bill had reached $250,000.

“You broke us. We’re broke,” Graham said.

“I can’t imagine the mafia having been any worse than what my experience was with this,” Graham said.

State Senator Donzella James, a Democrat who represents South Fulton County, introduced multiple bills this legislative session trying to reign in overly aggressive HOAs.

“People need to be protected and safeguarded against foreclosures,” said State Senator James.

“This is where I resodded the whole thing,” said James McAdoo, a homeowner in South Fulton County.

The only way he could stop his HOA from intercepting his paycheck was by filing for bankruptcy.

“They garnished my wages,” McAdoo said.

He owes $36,000 and counting predominantly because of weeds in his front yard.

They were garnishing $600 from his paycheck every two weeks until he started the bankruptcy process.

“What way do you see out of this?” Gray asked McAdoo.

“Selling my home and just getting out of this neighborhood,” McAdoo said.

That is what Karyn Gibbons did earlier this year even though she still does not believe she did anything wrong.

“I just said enough. I can’t do it anymore,” Gibbons said.

She paid $34,000 in fines, interest, and attorney fees to end the nightmare.

“I don’t know how it’s legal,” Gibbons said.

And it’s not just happening to homeowners. Gray also spoke with a couple who said just because they were renting a home, they were not safe from an HOA.

Jasmine Latson and Jaquan Hunter said their HOA in their South Fulton neighborhood came after them over the condition of their yard.

They ended up hiring a lawn service to take care of everything. But that wasn’t enough for the HOA.

“I was like, maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m not doing good enough, I don’t know. So I went ahead and just hired an outside resource that my neighbor used. He’s been pretty consistent and good, but the fines keep happening,” Latson said.

Last year, they received a foreclosure letter saying the home’s owners owed fines and fees of more than $23,000.

“Never, never in a million years would I have thought that I would have would be dealing with this. You know? I pay my rent every month,” Latson said.

First Key Homes, Latson, and Hunter’s landlord negotiated down the fines to about $12,000 to prevent foreclosure. But the company has now passed that bill onto the couple along with an eviction notice.

Latson has fired an attorney and has a court date set for Friday.

Now, these renters are hoping state lawmakers can do something about these aggressive HOAs.

▶︎ A bipartisan bill sponsored by state senator and Rules Committee Chair Matt Brass, a Republican representing Newnan, did pass at the Gold Dome this year to create a study committee examining how to change laws to better protect homeowners.

Brass told Gray the No. 1 topic on the study committee’s agenda will be HOA foreclosures that he said are taking families’ generational wealth.

“To have some outside group come and take that away from me is again, it’s un-American. And we’re not going to stand for it in this state,” Brass said.

Several states have put in place laws limiting HOA foreclosure.

[architeuthis3]

Family of Lashawn Thompson Demands Justice After He Was “Eaten Alive” by Insects in Atlanta Jail STORYAPRIL 18, 2023. Democracy Now! https://www.democracynow.org/2023/4/18/lashawn_thompson_atlanta_jail_eaten_alive

Transcript This is a rush transcript. Copy may not be in its final form. AMY GOODMAN: We begin today’s show in Atlanta, Georgia, where over 600 prisoners are being transferred from the Fulton County Jail after the family of a Black prisoner said he was “eaten alive” by insects and bedbugs in his cell there last year. The family of 35-year-old Lashawn Thompson, who was being held in the jail’s psychiatric wing, is demanding a criminal investigation and that the jail should be shut down. On Monday, several of the jail’s executive staff resigned, including the chief jailer, assistant chief jailer and members of the criminal investigative division. Fulton County Sheriff Pat Labat said in a statement, quote, “It’s clear to me that it’s time, past time, to clean house.” In an earlier statement, the sheriff said, quote, “it’s fair to say that this is one of the many cases that illustrate the desperate need for expanded and better mental health services.”

This Thursday, the family and community members will rally outside the jail as awareness about the conditions there and this case grow. Photos shared with Democracy Now! by the lawyer for Lashawn Thompson show filthy conditions in what’s believed to be Thompson’s cell, where he was found dead on September 19th last year. The Fulton County Medical Examiner’s autopsy report said Thompson’s cell was in, quote, “extremely poor condition with insect infection and other filthiness around him” and had a, quote, “severe bedbug infestation.” The Fulton County’s autopsy noted, quote, “The body is infested with an enormous number of small insects that are 2 mm in length.” Thompson’s cause of death is listed as undetermined.

Perhaps most shocking is a graphic image released by the family’s lawyer that shows Thompson’s face at the time of his death. His family has asked that the world see it, and with a warning to our viewers, we are showing it briefly now.

Lashawn Thompson’s death came after he had been held for three months on a misdemeanor charge and was put in the jail’s psychiatric wing after officials determined he was mentally ill. The corrections officer who wrote the incident report about his death noted, quote, “I have communicated with mental health staff about the living conditions of inmate Thompson on previous dates.”

For more, we’re joined in a global TV/radio/podcast broadcast exclusive by three guests. In Atlanta, Michael Harper is a lawyer representing Lashawn Thompson’s family. In Florida, we’re joined by Lashawn’s sister Shenita Thompson, and Lashawn’s brother Brad McCrae is in Montgomery, Alabama.

We welcome you all to Democracy Now! Brad, I want to start with you. You are Lashawn’s brother. We really weighed whether to show that photograph, that your family wants the world to see, of your brother’s head. And I’m wondering if you can talk about why you felt it was critical that the world see it.

BRAD McCRAE: Yes, ma’am. First off, I want to say good morning and thanks for having me on.

As far as with the photo, my personal feelings and emotion about the photos was Emmett Till. I thought about Emmett Till. It broke my heart to see those photos. And we wanted the world to see it, so the world can feel it, and the world can wake up and see what’s going on out here and get behind it and make a change. Make a change. We want the world to wake up and make a change.

JUAN GONZÁLEZ: I’d like to ask Shenita Thompson, the sister of Lashawn Thompson, when you first heard of what had happened to your brother, and your reaction when you realized the conditions that he was in.

SHENITA THOMPSON: When I first found out what happened to my brother, it just, like, broke my heart. Just to see the conditions that he was in, and especially the photos, just to see all the bugs in his face, his eyes, his nose, like, it really, really broke my heart just to see him like that and what he went through. Yeah.

JUAN GONZÁLEZ: And also, I’d like to ask Brad McCrae: The fact that the sheriff of Fulton County is now saying he vows to clean house, what’s your reaction to the actions of law enforcement subsequent to your brother’s death?

BRAD McCRAE: Well, I want to thank the sheriff for trying to clean house and do everything that he feels like he could do. I wish it was done earlier. I wish it would have been done so my brother might still be here, but I want to thank the sheriff for what he’s trying to do. And he’s trying to make it right on his behalf, but we’ve got a long way to go, and I hope it keeps going forward.

AMY GOODMAN: I want to point out, Brad, that, for our listeners, you are wearing a T-shirt that says “In Loving Memory,” and there’s a beautiful picture of your brother Lashawn on your shirt. Were you — and I also want to ask Shenita — if you both were in communication with him, if you were able to talk to him when he was in the jail? Shenita, let’s start with you. Did he talk to you about the bedbugs, the insects, the infestation, the conditions of the jail?

SHENITA THOMPSON: Like my brother had previously said, we didn’t even know he was in jail, so…

AMY GOODMAN: So the horror of this. A report by the Southern Center for Human Rights found at least 10 people died at the Fulton County Jail last year, and said, quote, “The Fulton County Jail has been understaffed and mismanaged for decades, leading to multiple lawsuits and consent decrees, but the problems have been particularly acute in recent months as Fulton County Sheriff Labat has failed to maintain even existing staff. On September 21st, Labat stated that he had lost more staff than he was able to hire, and as of October 10th there were at least 155 staff vacancies.”

The American Civil Liberties Union has issued a report on how to quickly depopulate the jail, that said, quote, “Fulton County’s failure to account for people’s ability to pay when setting bail is a significant factor in the number of people held in jail,” and found at least 12% of the people were held there due to “inability to pay bail — meaning a wealthier individual with the same charges and bail amount would be released.” Some were held for over two years.

Which brings us to Michael Harper, the attorney for Lashawn’s family. Michael, can you talk about why we are just learning about this case now, and the significance, the impact it has had, I mean, removing 600 prisoners? Talk about what you understand happened, how Lashawn was in that mental health unit of the jail, if you can call it that, what the autopsy means, the photographs that you have that are so horrific.

MICHAEL HARPER: Yeah. Good morning.

Let me start with the photographs, because there is some talk from the sheriff about the authenticity of those photographs and where they came from. Those horrific photographs came directly from the Fulton County Medical Examiner’s jail death investigation that was provided to the family from the County Medical Examiner’s Office. They are the exact photos of the cell that Lashawn Thompson was housed in when he died. They are horrible.

But what happened here, as you noted, the jail knew that Lashawn Thompson had mental health issues in June of 2022. They put him in a psychiatric wing of that jail and neglected him. He was there for three months. There are reports, in the incident report from the death, that the officers, as you alluded to, were aware that he was declining, he was in a filthy cell. They complained to their superiors, and nothing happened. He was there until he died, and his body was found infested with those horrible bedbug bites and lice and insects. It is just beyond tragic, what happened to him. He’s mentally ill. He was not able, we believe, to contact his family. He was not able to speak for himself. They held him there. It was their responsibility to make sure he was safe and to make sure that his cell was clean. And remember, Lashawn Thompson was a pretrial detainee. He had not been convicted of any crime. He was being held there until he got his day in court. So they had an obligation to make sure that he was safe.

The new information about the sheriff cleaning house and moving inmates, that’s a wonderful thing to happen. But Lashawn Thompson died in September of last year. The sheriff was well aware of this case then. We believe the measures that he’s taken now are solely based on the international outrage of Lashawn Thompson’s death. We appreciate any change to keep inmates safe, but it should have happened before Lashawn Thompson died, and certainly after he died, before the media attention.

JUAN GONZÁLEZ: Well, Michael Harper, you’ve represented others who died in the same facility, including William Barnett, a man charged with stealing a lawnmower, and also Antonio May, in 2018, who was beaten to death by six detention officers. Talk about these two related cases and what it indicates about how law enforcement has been dealing with this jail now for years.

MICHAEL HARPER: Yeah, there’s certainly a systemic issue of abuse and neglect at the Fulton County Jail here in Atlanta. Antonio May’s case was horrific. This is a man who also went into the jail with mental health issues. They were well aware. It’s well documented he had mental health issues. He was in a holding cell. When he first came in to be processed, he began removing his clothing, and he allegedly would not put his clothing back on when instructed to by the detention officers. For that small infraction, the DART team, the specialized team at the jail, Direct Action Response Team, went into his holding cell, tased him nine times in a minute and a half, beat him, put him in a restraint chair, took him to a shower area to wash the pepper spray off his face, and his heart went out. And they literally watched him, tied down to a restraint chair. And they had extra restraints. The evidence in that case showed that not just the restraints on the restraint chair, but they used additional restraints, against jail policy. And while he was restrained in that manner, his heart went out in front of them, and he died restrained in that chair. Just a horrific case for such a small, minor infraction.

William Barnett, another tragic case, went to the jail on a misdemeanor. The jail was aware that he had a chemical imbalance. He had low potassium. They sent him out, because he had some health issues, sent him out to the hospital. When he came back to the jail, the instructions from the hospital was for the jail to monitor William Barnett, check his potassium level to make sure that he did not decline. They did nothing. They never gave him more potassium. They never monitored him. And he was found unresponsive, went into cardiac arrest in his cell and died. I mean, these are just inexcusable, horrific deaths.

And let me also say this about the sheriff wanting a new jail. We applaud that, and we agree that we probably need a new jail in Fulton County, but these cases are about neglect. A new jail is not going to stop neglectful detention officers from not caring for mentally ill people. They have to do more training. They have to make sure that the officers are following policy to help those who are least served.

AMY GOODMAN: We wanted to end again with the family of Lashawn. Brad, you’re in Montgomery, in a studio in Alabama, a historic place, where Rosa Parks led the Montgomery bus boycott. You’re not far from Bryan Stevenson’s lynching museum. And, Shenita, I want to begin with your description of your brother. You’re in Winter Haven, Florida. Isn’t that where Lashawn grew up? Can you talk about Lashawn? And also, was he able to get help for his schizophrenia?

SHENITA THOMPSON: Yes, he grew up in Winter Haven, Florida. He went to Winter Haven High School. He loved music. He loved listening to his headphones, and he was always dealing with his headphones. He loved just music and stuff. Getting help for his mental health, yes, he was. But, you know, with mental health, it is hard. It’s just — it’s just heartbreaking, what happened. I’m sorry.

AMY GOODMAN: And, Brad, how do you want us to remember your brother Lashawn?

BRAD McCRAE: Yes, ma’am. I want the world to remember him as I do, as a loving person, a playful person. He loved music. He loved to cook. I want the world to remember him as their cousin, their brother, their uncle, or whatever the case may be, because it could happen to their family, just like it happened to mine.

AMY GOODMAN: And finally, Michael Harper, there’s going to be a major protest outside the Fulton County Jail on Thursday. Can you talk about what you are demanding and if you have filed suit on behalf of Lashawn?

MICHAEL HARPER: We have not filed any civil suit yet. Right now we’re just trying to raise awareness and bring attention to this horrific case. The rally will be to call for a criminal investigation into the death of Lashawn Thompson. It’s fine to clean house. It is fine to make changes. But someone needs to be held responsible for the horrible neglect that Lashawn Thompson underwent. So we want a criminal investigation into this case. We will also demand that the jail is closed down and that Fulton County builds a new jail. We’re calling the Department of Justice in Washington to launch a civil rights investigation into the jail, as well. And there will be other community leaders there. The Georgia NAACP will be there. A lot of community leaders will be there. This is our jail in Fulton County, and we have to make change.

AMY GOODMAN: Well, we want to thank you all so much for being with us, Michael Harper, the lawyer for Lashawn Thompson’s family, and Lashawn Thompson’s family, sister Shenita Thompson, speaking to us from Winter Haven, Florida, and Lashawn’s brother Brad McCrae, speaking to us from Montgomery, Alabama. Thank you so much. Our condolences to you both.

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The cottonfields of Georgia were once worked by the enslaved. REUTERS/Tom Lasseter

WASHINGTON

We sat in the pews of a Methodist church last summer, my family and I, heads bowed as the pastor began with a prayer. Grant us grace, she said, to “make no peace with oppression.”

Our church programs noted the date: June 19, or Juneteenth, the day on the federal calendar that celebrates the emancipation of Black Americans from slavery. The morning prayer was a cue.

The kids were ushered from the sanctuary to Sunday school. My sons – one 11, the other 8 at the time – shuffled off to lessons meant for younger ears.

The sermon, delivered by a white pastor to an almost entirely white congregation, was headed toward this country’s hardest history.

“We are a nation birthed in a moment that allowed some people to stand over others,” she said from the pulpit, light flooding through the stained glass behind her. “We’ve all been a part of taking what we wanted. White people, my community, my legacy, my heritage, has this history of taking land that did not belong to us and then forcing people to work that land that would never belong to them.”

The pastor did not know that I was months into a reporting project for Reuters about the legacy of slavery in America. It was an idea that came to me in June 2020, shortly after returning to the United States after almost two decades abroad as a foreign correspondent.

We had moved to Washington just 18 days after George Floyd was killed by a white police officer in Minneapolis, and in our first weeks back, I found myself drawn to the steady TV coverage of protests from coast to coast. I read about the dismantling of Confederate statues on public land – almost a hundred were taken down in 2020 alone. I thought about my own childhood, about growing up in Georgia. And I wondered: Had this country, which I had yet to introduce to my sons, ever truly reckoned with its history of slavery?

REUTERS/Photo illustration REUTERS/Photo illustration

I wondered, too, about our most powerful political leaders. How many had ancestors who enslaved people? Did they even know? I discussed the idea with my editors, who greenlighted a sweeping examination of the political elite’s ancestral ties to slavery. They also raised another question: What might uncovering that part of their family history mean to today’s leaders as they help shape America’s future?

A group of Reuters journalists began tracing the lineages of members of Congress, governors, Supreme Court justices and presidents – a complicated exercise in genealogical research that, given the combustibility of the topic, left no room for error.

Henry Louis Gates Jr, a professor at Harvard University who hosts the popular television genealogy show Finding Your Roots, told me that our effort would be “doing a great service for these individuals.”

“You have to start with the fact that most haven’t done genealogical research, so they honestly don’t know” their own family’s history, Gates said. “And what the service you’re providing is: Here are the facts. Now, how do you feel about those facts?”

And there was more to the project, something I needed to do, if only out of fairness. As a native of Mississippi who grew up in Georgia, I would examine my own family’s history. A passing remark made by my grandfather long ago gave me reason to believe my experience wouldn’t be as joyous as the advertisements I saw for online genealogy websites. Instead of finding serendipitous connections to faraway lands, I suspected I would find slavery on the red clay of Georgia.

But all of that was for work. It wasn’t for Sunday church, I thought, sitting next to my wife. My mind wandering, I looked down at the Rolex on my wrist.

This is the story that I tell myself: Those are things that I earned, paid for with hard work. I am a high school dropout. My mother is a high school dropout. My father is a high school dropout. My sister is a high school dropout. My first home was in a southern Mississippi trailer park. My mother was pregnant with me at the age of 19. My dad left our lives early.

I got my GED. I moved from a community college to the University of Georgia, working as a short-order cook while earning a bachelor’s degree in journalism.

For me, church is a place that offers a soothing sense of order, of ritual. That morning, I didn’t feel comfortable. I resented the pastor. I was there to listen to the choir and contemplate a Bible verse or two, not to be lectured. Especially about a subject I was grappling with personally and professionally.

“We would swear with our last breath that we do not have a racist bone in our bodies,” she continued. “But some of us were born in a lineage of people who take land that is not ours and enslave other people.”

Her words would come close to the facts that my reporting surfaced in the months ahead. Still, on this Juneteenth, I was done listening.

After the service, I walked to the car with my wife and sons. I didn’t talk with them about the sermon as we headed to our home on the outskirts of Washington. Ours is a street of rolling green lawns and shiny Cadillac Escalades. On the edge of the U.S. capital, a city where some 45% of the population is Black, the suburb where we live is about 7% Black. It was an inviting place for a white man to escape the pastor’s message.

That cocoon soon started to unravel. I had begun a journey that would take me back to places I held dear but had not truly known. What I would come to learn in researching my ancestors didn’t tarnish my love for family. At times, though, I did worry that I was betraying them.

It also left me with two questions I have yet to answer. What do I tell my sons about what I found, and what does it say about their country?

Introducing America

Throughout 2022, our reporting team assembled family trees for Congressional members. We connected one generation to the previous, like puzzle pieces snapping one to another, extending years before the end of the U.S. Civil War in 1865. We learned to decipher census documents written in sometimes bewildering cursive. Enlisting the help of board-certified genealogists, we became comfortable with the types of inconsistencies that surface in the old papers: names slightly misspelled, ages off by a few years, children who disappear from households as they die between censuses or marry young.

For months, my attention was drawn to the complexity of the task, and I scoured websites for documents that went beyond census records: certificates of birth, death and marriage, obituaries, military service forms, family Bibles.

The work was painstaking, and a welcome diversion. Each time I thought about building out my own family history, I winced at the subject coming close. Those were my people, my history.

Eventually, I knew I had to get started.

My wife and I were born in America. Both of us are journalists. We met in Baghdad, there to cover the war in Iraq. We married later while living in Russia, had our first son in China, our next in India. After two years in Singapore, we decided it was time to take the boys home to America, a land they’d visited on summer trips to their grandmothers’ houses in Georgia and Virginia but hardly knew.

Their introduction began less than three weeks after the May 25 death of George Floyd, as soon as we rode in from the airport. As we approached shuttered stores and boarded-up windows in downtown Washington, our younger son looked at the graffiti and banners and asked what the letters BLM stood for. My wife and I spelled it out – Black Lives Matter – and told him about Floyd’s death. Six at the time, he had no idea what we were talking about. His older brother explained the protests were to help Black people. Then he reminded him that their uncle, my sister’s husband, is Black. Our little boy went quiet. In the wake of George Floyd’s killing, protesters took to the streets across America.

REUTERS/Photo illustration In the wake of George Floyd’s killing, protesters took to the streets across America. REUTERS/Photo illustration

Last spring I began to trace my family’s lineage in detail. I had gone through this process for dozens of members of Congress. Now I was looking at my own mom. As I started a family tree, I did not like typing her name – it felt like I was crossing a line. I opened the search page at Ancestry.com and entered the names of her parents, Harriet and Brice.

Brice was 69 or so when he visited us in Atlanta during the summer of 1994. I was a teenager. Joseph Brice James was my grandfather, but we just called him Brice. Like my own father, he hadn’t been part of our life. He lived in Chicago and had worked as a traveling salesman. The trip may have been one last effort by him to connect. He wasn’t well and would die about eight years later.

It would be that visit – really, just one line that Brice muttered – that came back to me in the summer of 2020 and started my own personal reckoning.

My Grandfather’s Words Joseph Brice James. (Courtesy: Tom Lasseter)

Here’s what I remember: Brice wanted to see the farm where his ancestors, our ancestors, lived. My mother drove, and my sister and I sat in the backseat of our family’s aged Toyota Corolla. The address Brice helped direct us to was about an hour out of Atlanta. My mother had been there before, too, but my ancestors had sold it off, parcel by parcel, starting around 1947. We pulled over in front of a clapboard farmhouse.

I wasn’t sure why we were there, or who might have once lived on the farm. Brice, a gaunt figure with closely cropped hair and large glasses, didn’t volunteer much. I walked alongside him in silence, across a field spotted with pine trees, on the edge of a lake. Then Brice paused, flicking his wrist toward an old well and said: “The slaves built that.” A moment passed and he kept walking, offering nothing further.

Those four words stayed with me, though, in the way that happens with some white families from the South: I now knew, if I wanted to, that somewhere in my history there was a connection to slavery. The farmhouse in Georgia, once owned by the ancestors of Reuters journalist Tom Lasseter.

REUTERS/Tom Lasseter

Where to begin? Before prying into Brice’s side, I decided to look somewhere more familiar. The census shows my mother’s maternal grandmother as Cornelia Benson. I grew up calling her Grandma Horseyfeather, a nickname given her by my mother’s generation, the product of a long-ago children’s tale.

Looking at the 1940 census, there was Cornelia Benson of Brooks County, Georgia. I knew Brooks County as a place of Spanish moss, where we caught turtles and lizards in my childhood. I loved Thanksgiving at 618 North Madison Street, where a dirt driveway led to the back stairs and then a kitchen with long rows of casseroles. Grandma Horseyfeather, born in 1898, spoke in a slow, deep drawl. She wore lace to church. I adored her and I adored Brooks County.

At home in Atlanta, I felt lost at times, my single, working-class mom stretching one paycheck to the next. But in Cornelia Benson’s house, I felt at ease. My identity was simple: I was a white kid descended from generations of white people from the deepest of south Georgia.

As a child, I did not ask what it meant to belong to a place like Brooks County. Now I wanted to know. Cornelia Benson with Tom Lasseter as infant (left); Tom Lasseter during a childhood visit to Quitman, Georgia. (Courtesy: Tom Lasseter)

A story came to mind. I was young, and the grownups were visiting at the dining table. Someone started to tell a story about life in Quitman, the town in Brooks County where Grandma Horseyfeather lived. It was about the Ku Klux Klan and its marches.

The Klan would saunter down the street, wearing hoods and sheets, thinking no one knew who they were. The story’s punchline: All the “colored boys” – meaning Black men – knew who was wearing those sheets. They could see the shoes the white men were wearing. And who do you think shined those shoes?

I remember a tittering of laughter ripple around the table.

It was a vignette I sometimes trotted out when discussing the South. I’d shake my head and show a rueful half-frown that communicated disapproval, but not too much. My Brooks County relatives didn’t quite fit the pastor’s words. I knew they had some racist bones in their body. Still, these were my people. They didn’t mean any harm.

Reading back over the story after I wrote it down last year made me wonder what I didn’t know. So I did something that had never before occurred to me: I looked up the history of Brooks County, Georgia. It did not lead anywhere good.

In 1918, at least 13 Black people were killed in a rash of lynchings by mobs in Brooks that cemented its reputation for bloodshed. A flag that hung from the NAACP national headquarters in New York City, 1920-1928 (Source: NAACP via Library of Congress). Lynchings in Brooks County, Georgia, in the early 20th century cemented its reputation for racism and bloodshed.

REUTERS/Photo illustration

“There were more lynchings in Brooks than any county in Georgia” at the time, according to a 2006 paper examining lynchings in southern Georgia. Among the 1918 victims: Near the county line, a pregnant woman was tied to a tree and doused with gasoline before her belly was slit open with a knife and her unborn child tumbled to the dirt. The woman was shot hundreds of times, “until she was barely recognizable as a human being.” And then both her and her fetus’ burial spots were marked by a whiskey bottle with a cigar placed in its neck, according to the paper – “Killing Them by the Wholesale: A Lynching Rampage in South Georgia” – published in The Georgia Historical Quarterly.

I toggled my Internet browser to census records. Cornelia Benson and her husband weren’t yet living in Brooks County as of the 1920 census. They moved there between 1920 and 1930. I felt relieved, clean. I didn’t know any of that history. No one had told me.

But the more I learned, the more I played out the possibilities, the more troubled I felt about the Ku Klux Klan anecdote.

One morning in my home office, I pulled out a cell phone to record my thoughts about those memories. As I did, I heard the wood floorboards creaking. It was one of my sons walking outside the room. I waited for him to go downstairs before starting. When I later listened to my recounting of the Ku Klux Klan story, I noticed I’d used the phrase “Black people” rather than “Colored boys.” Without thinking, I’d cleaned the story up around the edges, making it easier to tell.

‘Mules, Oxen…and The Following Negroes’

Brice died in 2001. I never learned anything else from him about that well on the property our ancestors owned. Having read through the Brooks County material, it was time to see what I might find out about Brice’s side of my family.

I knew my grandfather was born in Canada, but that his side of the family was somehow connected to that land in Georgia. Using Ancestry.com, I found a 1948 border crossing document for him, with the names of his father and mother. I took those names and found his parents’ 1921 marriage license in Fergus County, Montana.

I noticed that his mother’s maiden name was Lila M. Brice, and that her parents were Ethel Julian and Joseph T. Brice. I looked for Ethel Brice. There she was, in the 1910 census. She was living with her daughter Lila in Forsyth County, Georgia, after a divorce – back in the household of her father, a man whose name I had never before heard: Abijah Julian.

The trip to the farm house in 1994 was in Forsyth County. The old clapboard house was built in the 1800s. And the well that Brice mentioned, the one that he said enslaved people built, sat right next to the house.

From one census to the next, I followed Abijah, a name from the Old Testament.

Information about the Julian family wasn’t hard to find once I started looking.

Working my way backwards, I learned Abijah Julian died in 1921. His passing was marked in The Gainesville News by an item headlined “DEATH OF SOLDIER STATESMAN.” Placed high in the article was the fact that Abijah Julian was part of a Confederate cavalry general’s staff during the Civil War, and that in his later years he “had been a prominent figure at all the reunions of the Confederate veterans.” The piece ended with these words: “Mr. Julian was laid to rest shrouded in the Confederate uniform which he loved.” Abijah Julian, seated, was buried in a Confederate uniform. In an account by his wife, Minnie Julian, she described him returning from war “broken in health and spirit. Negroes free, stock stolen and money – Confederate – valueless.” (Sources: Historical Society of Cumming/Forsyth County, Georgia. Newspaper clipping: The Gainesville News, June 1921)

He had served in Georgia’s state legislature for three terms. I looked for more details about him and his ancestors before the Civil War.

Abijah’s father, also a member of the state legislature, died in 1858 at home in Forsyth County, according to press reports. It was just a couple months before Abijah’s 16th birthday.

Some four years later, Abijah went to war against the United States. In 1864, a year before the Civil War ended, he married a woman in Alabama, the daughter of a doctor, who moved to the Julian farm. In an account by his wife, Minnie Julian, she described Abijah returning home after the war, “broken in health and spirit. Negroes free, stock stolen and money – Confederate – valueless.” In the very next sentence, however, she noted they still had 600 acres of land.

Her words signaled that Abijah had enslaved people. But I needed more proof.

In addition to the usual household census forms, in 1850 and 1860 the U.S. government created a second document for the census takers to fill out in counties in states where slavery was legal. It’s referred to as a slave schedule, and it lists by name men and women who enslaved people, under the column “SLAVE OWNERS.” The form gives no names of the human beings they enslaved. Instead, it tabulates what the document refers to as “Slave Inhabitants” only by the person’s age, gender, color (B for Black or M for Mulatto, or mixed race) and whether they were “Deaf & dumb, blind, insane or idiotic.”

After you find a slaveholder on the household census form, matching them to the slave schedule can be complicated. In some counties, multiple men of the same or similar name enslaved people. And of course, not every head of household in a county enslaved people, so fewer names are listed on the slave schedule than on the population census. Fortunately, the households on the two documents are typically listed in the order they were counted by the census-taker – meaning if you see the same residents’ names close by, in the same sequence, you’ve likely found the same person on the two forms.

In 1860, on a slave schedule in Forsyth, I found my ancestor listed on line 34 as A.J. Julian. He was 17-years-old at the time. There were four entries for his “Number of Slaves” column – four males, ages from 10 to 18.

There was more. When Abijah’s father, George Julian, died in 1858, he left a will.

One key to unlocking the identities of those who were enslaved is through the estate records of white families who claimed ownership of them. In many cases, wills give the first names of the Black men, women and children bequeathed from one white family member to another.

In his will, George listed property “with which a kind providence has blessed me.” To wife Adaline, George bequeathed “mules, oxen, cattle, hogs and other stock, and plantation tools, wagons, carriages and the following Negros…”

There were five enslaved people left to George’s wife, the will said, with the provision that “the negros and their increase” – that is, their children – would go to Abijah after his mother’s death. George Julian also left four enslaved children to Abijah, himself a teenager at the time.

And, in a separate item, Julian wrote that an enslaved woman and three children should “be sold” to pay his debts.

The will was difficult reading. Lumped in with oxen and kitchen furniture, plantation tools and wagons, were human beings. And “their increase.”

The will listed names of the enslaved kept by the family: Dick, Lott, Aggy, Henry, Lewis, Ellick, Jim, Josiah and Reuben.

The document was dated 1858 – close enough to emancipation that I might have a chance at tracing some of them forward, especially if they used the last name Julian. Perhaps there would be a chance of finding those same names in Forsyth in the 1870 census, when, finally free, Black people were listed by name and household.

Something kept happening, however, when I looked for those names. I’d see likely matches in one or two censuses, and then they disappeared after the 1910 census in Forsyth.

It took me a few minutes of research to figure out why I was losing track of the descendants of the people George Julian enslaved. It was a history drenched with blood, and it drew much closer to mine than I had realized.

The Search for Descendants of The Enslaved

ATLANTA

In 1912, Virginia native Woodrow Wilson became the first Southerner since the U.S. Civil War to be elected president. And the white residents of a county in Georgia, where my ancestors lived, unleashed a campaign of terror that included lynchings and the dynamiting of houses that drove out all but a few dozen of the more than 1,000 Black people who lived there.

The election was covered in the classrooms of the Georgia schools I attended. If the racial cleansing of Forsyth County was mentioned, I didn’t notice.

That history explains the difficulty I had looking for the descendents of the people enslaved by my ancestor Abijah. By 1920, their families and almost every other Black person had fled the county.

From left: The Forsyth County Courthouse in Cumming, pictured in 1907. Built in 1905, it was destroyed by fire in 1973. (via Digital Library of Georgia). The Atlanta Georgian newspaper reports on the lynching of Rob Edwards, September 10, 1912. (Source: Ancestry.com). U.S. President Woodrow Wilson.

They were forcibly expelled under threat of death after residents blamed a group of young Black men for killing an 18-year-old white woman in September 1912. A frenzied mob of white people pulled one of the accused from jail, a man named Rob Edwards, then brutalized his body and dragged his corpse around the town square in the county seat of Cumming. Two of the accused young Black men, both teenagers, were tried and convicted in a courtroom. They too died in public spectacle, hanged before a crowd that included thousands of white people.

There were also the night riders, white men on horseback who pulled Black people from their homes, leaving families scrambling and their houses aflame. The violence swept across the county, washing across Black enclaves not far from the farm where my ancestor, Abijah, lived at the time.

In 1910, the U.S. Census showed 1,098 Black people living in Forsyth. Ten years later, the 1920 census counted 30.

‘Night Marauders’

Until last year, I had never heard of this history. I had a dim memory of news reports about white residents in Forsyth attacking participants in a peaceful march for racial equality – not during the tumultuous Civil Rights era but in the 1980s. I watched video clips from an early episode of “The Oprah Show” – a telecast from 1987 when talkshow star Oprah Winfrey went to Forsyth to try to make sense of what was happening there. Some locals in the audience were unrepentant. Footage shows that crowds on the street and a man, to Oprah’s face, were not shy about using racial slurs on national television.

I learned about the 1912 violence in Forsyth after a genealogist who worked with Reuters sent me a note pointing out that my ancestor Abijah Julian appeared in Blood at the Root, a 2016 book that chronicled the bloodshed there. I already knew Abijah had enslaved people and adhered to the “Lost Cause” – the view that the South’s role in the Civil War was just and honorable.

About four months after the terror in Forsyth began, Abijah wrote a letter to the governor of Georgia in February 1913. He was asking for help to quell the chaos unleashed by “night marauders” who had “run off about all of the negroes.” Here’s part of his letter: A letter Abijah Julian wrote to the governor of Georgia.

(Courtesy: Kenan Research Center at the Atlanta History Center.)

During that week alone, Julian wrote, “3 negro houses” in Cumming had been damaged by dynamite. The letter did not suggest any anguish for the Black people who’d been terrorized. What concerned Abijah Julian was his fields and who would farm them.

The Julian land stretched hundreds of acres across Forsyth and neighboring Dawson counties. Abijah told the governor that large swathes of land “will not be cultivated” because “labor now can not be found to hire...”

Gov. Joseph Mackey Brown referred to the situation Julian highlighted later in 1913, in a written message to members of the state senate:

After all, the governor continued, “there is no reason why farms should lose their productive power and why the white women of this State should be driven to the cook stoves and wash pots simply because certain people blindly strike down all of one class in retaliation for the nefarious deeds of individuals in that class.”

What happened in Forsyth was not unique. White people across the South had been pushing back against political and economic progress made by Black Americans after the end of slavery and would continue doing so.

In 1906, a white mob stormed downtown Atlanta, killing dozens of Black people and attacking Black businesses and homes. In 1921, a white mob destroyed a Black community in Tulsa, Oklahoma and, according to a government commission report, left nearly “10,000 innocent black citizens” homeless. The death toll was in the hundreds.

Once you begin to look, such violence stretches on and on, decade after decade.

Still hopeful that I might be able to somehow identify and locate living descendants of the people my family enslaved, I flew to Georgia last November.

‘Dick a Man, Lott a Woman’

While I was in Atlanta, I asked my mom and sister if they had time to talk about what I’d found. We sat one evening at the dining room table in my mother’s house, the same table on which we had once shared Thanksgiving dinners with Grandma Horseyfeather.

I had prepared two thick packets of documents that outlined our family tree, each with underlying records, to walk through the lineages of our slave-holding ancestors in three Georgia counties, including Forsyth.

I explained that my search began with a memory of walking with my mother’s father across some land our people used to own in Forsyth; and my grandfather casually remarking of the old well: “The slaves built that.”

“It added up from this one, just sort of little vague memory that I had of Brice gesturing at a well.”

The first question came from my sister, who is married to a Black man. Her voice was stretched thin with emotion. She asked: “Is there any possibility of doing the same for the people that our family enslaved?”

I’d found a man in Grandma Horseyfeather’s lineage who was a slaveholder and likely worked as an overseer in Jefferson County, Georgia. But neither I nor the genealogists we consulted could identify descendants of those he’d enslaved.

“So I’ve – I’ve tried,” I explained. “The issue is that the best details that we have are in Forsyth County, but in Forsyth County they forcibly expelled all of the Black people.”

There were, however, names of enslaved people who were bequeathed in the 1858 will of George Julian, Abijah’s father. At least two seemed to fit with a lineage I could trace.

Listed in the will as “Dick a man” and “Lott a woman,” they looked like a possible match for a couple living three households from Abijah Julian’s uncle in the 1870 census. Their names were listed as Richard Julian and Charlotte Julian. Was Dick short for Richard? And was Lott short for Charlotte?

I noticed that Richard Julian had an “M” in the column for Color. The M stood for Mulatto, someone of mixed race. Charlotte was 32 years old in 1870, an exact match for a 22-year-old enslaved woman listed on the 1860 slave schedule as belonging to George Julian’s widow. Richard was listed as 30 in 1870, which did not line up as neatly with an 18-year-old enslaved man next to Abijah Julian in the 1860 slave schedule.

A comparison of the 1870 census and the 1880 census reinforces that Reuters journalist Tom Lasseter is following the same family from one decade to the next. (Source: Ancestry.com)

Still, based on the mention of the names Dick and Lott in George Julian’s will, I followed the Black family’s lineage from one census to the next.

In 1880, Richard was listed as Dick. Lott was there, too, as Charlotte. And their ages were close to what they should have been – about 10 years older than in 1870. The children listed in each census gave me confidence I was following the same family. In 1870, four children were listed. There were three girls and a boy. In 1880, the oldest child was no longer there; she would have been 19 or 20 and may have married. But the boy and the two other girls were there, names and ages matching. The Julians had added four children to the family since the previous census, too, the eldest 8.

My sister’s first question after I traced our family tree that night lingered: “Is there any possibility of doing the same for the people that our family enslaved?”

One of the children in the 1880 census would provide the path.

The Shacks

The day I arrived in Atlanta, November 1, I chatted with my mom about Forsyth and our family’s history there. She’d mentioned something that took me aback.

“When we were talking about the farm, you said there was a slave shack, a slave shed?” I asked her the next day. “What was that?

It turns out my mother had visited the Julian farm when she was a kid. Someone had pointed her to a pair of shacks on the farm and explained that they were where the families of the enslaved used to live.

“It was a structure – by the time we came along it was still on the property but it was, like, a wooden structure that was falling apart.” Her voice became low for a moment. “And that’s what we were told that it was. And I think – I don’t know.” She paused. “I know my grandmother talked about teaching people how to read, or people in her family having taught some of the slaves how to read.”

My mom, a slight woman with a calm voice who works as a nurse with organ transplant patients, was uncertain about the details. “I’m not sure what the – it was just information that she was sharing, maybe to make it feel better that they had slaves. I don’t know.”

I went to dinner with my mom at a Thai restaurant the following evening. I’d been in Forsyth that morning, looking at some documents about the Julian family. She asked me if I learned anything new. I told her about two murders in the family – a pair of sisters slain by the husband of one – that had been covered in the newspapers in the 1880s.

That’s not what she was asking about. My mom looked up from her tofu dish and said, “I am uncomfortable with how little attention was paid to what that was.”

Under her breath, she continued: “The shed.” She meant the slave sheds on the Julian farm.

She said nothing for a few moments. And then she explained, “I was 11.” It was her way of saying she was young at the time. What could she have known about such things? It was the same age as my eldest son.

Why was I putting this at her feet? I thought.

What did she have to do with a white man, dead now for a century, who got rich and enslaved Black people? Where was that money? Not in her pocket. She was working late shifts and driving a beat up Toyota with a side mirror attached to the car by duct tape.

But the feeling of indignation was mine. My mother, a child of the 1960s who took us to downtown Atlanta for parades on Martin Luther King Jr Day, wasn’t being defensive. She was trying to work through what it all meant.

An Unexpected Meeting

Just before Thanksgiving last year, I reached out to a young research assistant at the Atlanta History Center. I’d heard she was tracing descendants of people who fled Forsyth.

Over the phone, I told Sophia Dodd that I was looking for people with the last name Julian. She said she had someone in mind. But first, Dodd would need to check with the person; we arranged to meet in Atlanta later in the month. There was a possibility the person would join us, she said, “but I also know they’re in the midst of traveling so that’s a little up in the air right now.”

I met Dodd at her office a few days before Thanksgiving, ready to ask her questions about Forsyth County.

And then another woman walked into the Atlanta History Center: Elon Osby. She wore a cranberry-colored top and glasses with red cat-eye frames. The 72-year-old Black woman with gray hair shook my hand and said, yes, she would gladly take me up on a cup of coffee.

I hadn’t expected her. I’d not even known her name – Dodd had protected her privacy while Osby decided whether to meet me. But there Osby was, looking at me expectantly. The three of us headed to Dodd’s office.

Without my census forms in hand, I felt exposed. Those family history packets – the ones I shared with my mother and sister – were a way to guide the conversation. And this conversation was with a stranger whose history with my family may have involved slavery. I told Osby that I regretted not having materials to give her.

Osby looked me over. She got to the point. “Is it that you feel that your ancestors were slaveowners of mine?” she asked.

Because I hadn’t done a family tree for her, I explained, I couldn’t be certain. During months of examining the lineages of American politicians, we had held to a firm standard: a slave-owning ancestor needed to be a direct, lineal ancestor – a grandfather or grandmother preceded by a long series of greats, as in great-great-great-grandfather.

As I built my own family lineage, I knew that the Julians were slaveholders. But when I worked with the genealogists on our team to trace the enslaved people named in George Julian’s will, they urged caution. What wasn’t entirely clear: Exactly who had enslaved Richard and Charlotte? Was it George, or was it George’s brother, Bailey?

I offered Osby the abridged version. If she were a direct descendant of Richard and Charlotte Julian, “they were enslaved either by my direct ancestor, George H. Julian” – Abijah’s father – “or his brother.”

As I finished my sentence, I realized the distinction may have been important to the journalist in me. But in this context, it was meaningless. What mattered wasn’t in question: Someone in my family had enslaved hers.

Osby turned to Dodd, the young white woman who’d been helping her research her family.

“First of all, let me ask this.” Osby said. “Do any of these names that he mentioned ring a bell with what you’ve done?”

Dodd answered quickly. “Yes, so I think that it’s definitely very possible that Charlotte and Richard were enslaved by George,” she said.

I asked Dodd if she had an account with Ancestry.com and whether she could print some documents. Together, we navigated to the 1858 will for George H. Julian and the 1870 census forms that showed Richard and Charlotte Julian.

Osby had explained that her grandmother’s name was Ida Julian. And Ida Julian’s parents were Richard and Charlotte Julian of Forsyth County.

Ida. Daughter of Richard and Charlotte. I would see it later. Not in the 1870 census, because Ida hadn’t yet been born. But there she was, listed in the 1880 census. Ida Julian, age 6. Ida Julian, listed in the 1880 census as a young child. (Source: Ancestry.com)

I later found a marriage certificate showing that Ida Julian married a man named WM Bagley in 1889. She was young, perhaps 15. By 1910, the census showed them living in Forsyth County, the parents of three girls and a boy.

The youngest of their children, not yet a year old, was a girl recorded as Willie M. She would go by Willie Mae Bagley, get married, and become Willie Mae Butts – the mother of Elon Butts Osby. The former Ida Julian, now Ida Bagley, in the 1910 census. Her daughter, listed as Willie M., would become Elon Osby’s mother. (Source: Ancestry.com)

After we had worked through the small pile of papers that Dodd had printed, I asked Osby what it meant to see some of those documents.

“It makes people real now. It just makes all of this more real. And it has started a journey for me,” she said, adding that there’s “no telling where it’s going to go.”

I asked her what her family said about Forsyth County when they discussed it with her as a girl. “They didn’t. They didn’t talk about it,” she said.

It wasn’t until around 1980, when Osby was about 30 years old, that she heard her mother tell a reporter the story of her ancestors fleeing the county by wagon because white people were attacking Black families.

“There wasn’t any conversation about it,” Osby said. “But she did talk about her grandfather had this long hair, straight hair, and they would comb it.” That was Richard Julian, Osby’s great-grandfather, the man listed as a “Mulatto” on the 1870 census.

She paused and stared at my face for a moment.

‘I Don’t Think You Can Get Justice’

When Elon Osby’s grandmother, Ida Bagley, and her family fled Forsyth, they left behind at least 60 acres of land, she said.

They made their way to Atlanta after 1912, the year of the carnage. There, in 1929, her grandfather, William Bagley, bought six lots of land in a settlement of formerly enslaved people known as Macedonia Park, according to the local historical society.

It was located in Buckhead, long among the most expensive neighborhoods in Atlanta. The Black residents of Macedonia Park worked as maids and chauffeurs for white families in the area, as golf caddies and gardeners.

Osby’s grandfather made money as a cobbler and local merchant. Her parents opened a store and a rib shack. Her father was also a butler for a wealthy white family, her mother a cook. The area became known as Bagley Park, and her grandfather, according to a historical marker now at the site, was considered the settlement’s unofficial mayor. William Bagley, Elon Osby’s grandfather, was known as the mayor of Bagley Park, a Black enclave in Atlanta that was later razed by the county.

(Courtesy: Elon Osby)

In the late 1930s and early 1940s, nearby white residents – members of a women’s social group – petitioned the county to condemn and raze Bagley Park, ostensibly for sanitary reasons. It had no running water or sewer system. The county, which had not provided those services, agreed, forcing the families to leave. They were compensated for the land, but it’s not clear how much, and in the process they lost real estate in what is a particularly affluent quarter of the city.

Osby’s family had again been pushed off its land. The settlement was demolished and replaced by a park, later named for a local little league umpire. Last November, the city of Atlanta restored the area’s name: Bagley Park.

In thinking about Osby’s family and my family, I found it was impossible not to compare them – and the role slavery played in our respective paths. In 1860, Osby’s ancestors were enslaved and working the fields of Forsyth County. In 1860, my ancestor Adaline Julian, widow of George and mother of Abijah, reported a combined estate value of $19,020. She was among the wealthiest 10% percent of all American households on the census that year. And that wealth didn’t include her son’s holdings. Then just a teenager, Abijah had a personal estate of $4,828, according to census records. That amount lay largely in the value of the enslaved people bequeathed to him by his father.

In 1870, Osby’s ancestor, Richard Julian – free for only about five years – was listed on the census as a farmhand, with no real estate or personal estate to report.

In 1870, Abijah Julian – despite having “lost” those he had enslaved – still had a combined estate of $4,655. That put him in the top 15% of all households in America, census records show.

Osby said her parents used the money they got from the government after being forced out of Bagley Park to buy land in a different part of Atlanta. They continued to work hard. Her father was hired as an electrician by Lockheed, and her mother ran a daycare business.

Osby spent a career working in administration. She said she started as secretary for the manager of the city’s main Tiffany & Co location in 1969, then worked in various city government offices, and now for the Atlanta Housing Authority.

After she’d finished telling me about her family and herself, I asked Osby whether she would mind me recording some video with my cell phone. I asked once again about her family’s reluctance to discuss Forsyth. She repeated that Black parents had long kept such things quiet. I noticed she added the words “rape” and “lynchings.”

But, she said, she has seen considerable progress during her life. Osby, whose family was forced out of Forsyth in 1912, was the keynote speaker in 2021 at a dedication event in downtown Cumming, where a plaque memorializing the bloodshed in Forsyth had been installed. And Osby, whose family was forced with others to leave their neighborhood in Fulton County, is now a member of the Fulton County Reparations Task Force. The group advises the county board and has sponsored research on what happened at Bagley Park, including a report documenting what Osby already knew: that “property owners in Bagley Park were forced to liquidate their real estate, a vital link in the chain of generating generational wealth.”

“There was a time when I didn’t feel that restitution or reparations was necessary” for the land taken from Black families after 1912 in Forsyth, and then what followed in Bagley Park, Osby said. 

“I just want somebody to acknowledge it and say, you know, we’re sorry. But I have come to realize, or come to feel, that we do need to receive something in the form of restitution. I think that the main thing is, if you touch people in their purses they’ll think before they let something like that happen again. I think it’s mainly about [how] we can never let this happen.”

As for her enslaved ancestors, Osby had a different outlook on reparations. “I don’t want to think of slaves as property. And if I have to give you a value for a slave person so that you can, you know, give me reparations for that – then that’s making them property. That’s reinforcing that idea that they were a piece of property for somebody to own.”

I asked her what it meant to know that history – to know more about what happened during slavery in such personal terms. To know that my own ancestors enslaved people. Osby puckered her bottom lip, paused for a moment and sighed.

She pointed her left index finger at me and said it was a question for me to answer. How did I feel, she asked, when I found out my ancestors enslaved people?

‘What Does It Mean to Know This?’

I told her the story of the old well and my grandfather. I told her about the reporting project, about finding out that my family enslaved people not only in Forsyth, but at least two other counties as well.

Finally, I stopped talking. In my mind, I had run through the right things to say. In a blur, I wondered: Should I apologize to Osby, to her family on behalf of mine?

Instead, I decided to talk about what made me most comfortable: the journalism itself. “A lot of it has been just establishing, sort of, the facts – figuring out, this is who they were, this is what happened,” I said. “I guess sitting here right now I don’t have an answer for – I don’t have an answer for my question” on the value of discovering more about slavery.

She leaned back and laughed.

At some point, I lowered the camera from chin height to the table. My hands were trembling. I was based in Iraq for three years. I sat with militants in Afghanistan. I know what mortar and machine gun fire sound like, at very close range. But at this little table, before this woman, I felt nervous.

I kept talking. I talked about how we – meaning white people – choose to know but not know. I told her about my mom remembering the decrepit former slave sheds on the Julian farm.

Osby no longer was smiling.

She began to talk about something that circled back to her comments about her great-grandfather’s straight hair, her curiosity about possible Cherokee Indian heritage. And, also, to rape.

“Black people, we’ve always known either through the movies or if you’ve learned it, you know, from your family, about the interracial relationships that happened on these plantations or whatever,” she said. “My grandmother – very, very fair skinned. I have one picture of her where she, you know, looks like she’s white. And so, you know that somebody else was there. You know?”

Somebody else was there. It was a phrase with a passive structure common to the South, a way of not assigning blame to the person sitting across the small table from you in the corner of an office. The meaning nonetheless seemed clear to me: Did my ancestor rape her ancestor?

“I’m curious, and that’s one reason why I was excited about coming to speak with you because I want to find out about the Cherokee part,” she said. “And also, if there was a white person, you know, that was, her – whatever,” she said, cutting the sentence short and fluttering her hands in the air.

I told her that I’d done a DNA test online. She said she was considering taking one as well.

After we spoke, Osby asked me to go with her to the graveyard at Bagley Park. I followed her Mazda. Its license plate read MS ELON. Her grandparents were buried there, she said, but she couldn’t say where. The gravestones had been vandalized over the years, Osby explained, looking at the broken markers.

Panic and Questions

After we parted, I drove to Forsyth County and the Julian farm. I could see across the road to the spot where my mother described the slave shacks having once stood.

The door was locked, the farmhouse empty. I stood outside the white clapboard home and stared. The leaves crunched underfoot, down at the end of Julian Farm Road. I rested my forearms on a dark slat fence and scanned the property, a utility shed to the right and a patio to the left.

I did not see the well.

I walked to the front of the house and looked for it. The well wasn’t there. I went to the back edge of the land, which now sits on the shore of a man-made lake that flooded part of what was once Abijah Julian’s farm. Nothing. The waters of Lake Sidney Lanier near what was once a farm owned by Abijah Julian. The lake, created in the 1950s, flooded parts of that farm. REUTERS/Tom Lasseter

I felt panicky. The well, the totem of my memory and the genesis of this project – “The slaves built that” – was nowhere. Was it possible I had mixed up some other memory, that it was never at the Julian farm?

I walked over to a step behind the house and sat down. My thoughts about the well gave way to replaying parts of my meeting with Elon.

Should I have apologized to her? “I am sorry,” I could’ve said. “I am sorry that my ancestors brutalized your ancestors.” What had stopped me?

The next day, I sent a text message to the man who now owns the Julian property. Did he know anything about an old well? “Yeah, there was a well next to the house that was dried up. We covered it,” he replied. He sent me a photograph of the front of the house from a 2019 real estate listing. And there it was – the well I remembered, at the far right of the picture.

I peered at the photo. I read the listing. The lake that flooded part of the farmland had created 209 feet of waterfront that now featured four boat slips, according to the advertisement for the property. It noted the farmhouse was “originally built in the late 1800’s by the family of State Senator Abijah John Julian” and added another dash of history: the Julian family was “of the Webster line circa 1590 England.” There wasn’t a word about the other side of the Julian family history: slavery.

Instead, under the section for what the seller loved about the home, was this line: “Your own private plantation.”

What Should Be Handed Down?

In the months after my visit to Forsyth, I’ve looked at a video of the church service that I attended last summer on Juneteenth, the national holiday marking the end of slavery. At the time, I had bristled at the pastor’s remarks, which centered on the need for white people to face our history, to atone.

Toward the beginning of the service, the children had been sent to Sunday school. So my sons weren’t sitting next to me when the pastor said, “We’re asked to stay home and to reflect with those who we know and whom we love – we’re asked to … have the difficult conversations about race and status and prestige and wealth.”

There was another detail that I hadn’t associated with that day’s sermon. It wasn’t only Juneteenth; it also was Father’s Day. From a 2019 real estate listing. The well is seen at the far right in this photo of the front of Abijah Julian’s house.

I’ve thought more than once about all that I had missed. About what to tell my children about everything I’ve learned in the past year. About our family’s part in slavery and the descendants of those we enslaved. About my conversation with Elon Osby.

What should be handed down, and what should not?

Getting ready for a reporting trip last year, I was sifting through online documents from an archive in south Georgia.

I came across a photograph from 1930 of white men sitting in front of an American Legion post. They each wore a medal on the left lapels of their suit jackets. I zoomed in and saw what had caught my eye. It was the cross of military service, handed out by the United Daughters of the Confederacy to World War I veterans who were direct descendants of Confederate soldiers.

In a little white box on a shelf in my home office, I have that same cross. It had been given to my great-grandfather, from Brooks County. After my great-grandmother Horseyfeather died, my family gave it to me, the ever-faithful son.

I fished the cross from its box and turned the thing around in my fingers. The cross was decorated with an X formed by two stripes of stars immediately recognizable from the Confederate battle flag. Around the edge, in the background, are a Latin phrase and two dates: Fortes Creantur Fortibus 1861-1865. The years are those of the Civil War. I Googled the phrase. It means the strong are born from the strong.

I’d had that cross for about 25 years and always associated it with my great-grandfather’s service in World War I, its dates marked in the foreground. I had never stopped to look more closely.

Peering down at it now, I realize it also meant something more: a loyalty to the South when it was a land of slavery and secession.

I was holding on to a relic of the Lost Cause, a history of savagery cloaked in nostalgia. I was holding on to something that I needed to explain to my sons, and then to let go. As I type these words, I have yet to have that conversation. The medal remains on my shelf.

Apology and Absolution

I met with Elon Osby once more earlier this month. We walked again through the cemetery at Bagley Park, where somewhere her ancestors are buried, their gravestones long gone. We stopped at a picnic table. I asked her about the last time we met, reading some of our quotes out loud and talking through what each of us had meant.

There was rain coming, with dark clouds, then lightning. I told her that I’d been nervous during our initial conversation. She asked whether I thought the guilt had been passed down: “Most white people do not have ancestors that owned slaves,” she said. I pointed out that I have at least five.

I said that I’d wondered if I should have apologized. “No,” she said, “I don’t transfer the guilt. Or not the guilt, but the responsibility of it. I don’t do that.” I said with a nervous laugh that I wasn’t asking her to absolve me.

The lightning drew closer. It was time to leave. “We’ve probably covered everything,” Osby said, gesturing to get up.

But I wanted to say more. Ignoring the rain, I reached for the words I hadn’t found during our first meeting: “I’m very sorry that it happened. You know, that all of that happened. And I feel that every time I look through those wills and the language that they used. And that 1858 will – listing furniture and livestock and then human beings. You know, I can’t help but be sorry.”

Osby stopped and looked at me. Listening to the recording later, I could hear the wind and the rain in the background. And then her voice. “It doesn’t feel good at all when you see the horses and cows and slaves. You know, it doesn’t feel good at all,” she said. “But at the same time, it happened. It happened to my people. I don’t want to forget about it.”

She pointed at the packet of genealogical material I’d brought along, mapping our families and that terrible history long ago in Georgia. “This is good enough. What you’re doing for me and my family, bringing this information to me.”

She let a moment pass, and then said: “You’re absolved.” She threw her head back and let the laughter roll like thunder. As the rain fell, we walked to the parking lot together. We paused, then hugged before parting.

“The Slaves Built That”’

By Tom Lasseter