#Sat Institute in Pennsylvania | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dreaminginthedeepsouth · 5 days ago

Text

Nick Anderson

* * * *

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

January 6, 2025

Heather Cox Richardson

Jan 07, 2025

In less than 40 minutes today in snow-covered Washington, D.C., a joint session of Congress counted the certified electoral votes that will make Republican Donald Trump president of the United States at noon on January 20. Vice President Kamala Harris presided over the session in her role as president of the Senate, announcing to Congress the ballot totals. The ceremony went smoothly, without challenges to any of the certified state ballots. Trump won 312 electoral votes; Harris, who was the Democratic nominee for president, won 226.

But at the session, the tableau on the dais itself illustrated that Republicans have elevated lawmakers who reject that principle. Behind the vice president sat the newly reelected speaker of the House of Representatives, Mike Johnson (R-LA), who was a key player in the attempt to overturn the results of the 2020 election: he lied about fraud; recruited colleagues to join a lawsuit challenging the election results from the key states of Georgia, Michigan, Pennsylvania, and Georgia; and, after the January 6 riot, challenged the counting of certified votes from Arizona and Pennsylvania.

After the session concluded, Harris told reporters: “Well, today was…obviously, a very important day, and it was about what should be the norm and what the American people should be able to take for granted, which is that one of the most important pillars of our democracy is that there will be a peaceful transfer of power.

“And today, I did what I have done my entire career, which is take seriously the oath that I have taken many times to support and defend the Constitution of the United States, which included, today, performing my constitutional duties to ensure that the people of America, the voters of America will have their votes counted, that those votes matter, and that they will determine, then, the outcome of an election.

“I do believe very strongly that America’s democracy is only as strong as our willingness to fight for it—every single person, their willingness to fight for and respect the importance of our democracy. Otherwise, it is very fragile and it will not be able to withstand moments of crisis.

“And today, America’s democracy stood.”

Democracy stood in the sense that its norms were honored today as they were not four years ago, which is no small thing. But it is a blow indeed that the man who shattered those norms by trying to overturn the will of the American voters and seize the government will soon be leading it again.

It did not seem initially as if any such a resurrection was possible. While MAGA lawmakers and influencers tried to insist that “Antifa” or FBI plants had launched the riot that made congress members hide in fear for their lives while Secret Service agents rushed Trump’s vice president, Mike Pence, to a secure location, that left at least seven people dead and at least 140 police officers wounded, and that did about $3 million of damage to the Capitol as rioters broke windows and doors, looted offices, smeared feces on the walls, and tore down an American flag to replace it with a Trump flag, there was little doubt, even among Trump loyalists, as to who was to blame.

All four living presidents condemned Trump and his supporters; Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram all suspended him; members of his cabinet resigned in protest; corporations and institutions dropped their support for Trump.

Indeed, it seemed that the whole Trump ship was foundering. Trump advisor Hope Hicks texted Ivanka Trump’s chief of staff that the Trump family was now “royally f*cked.” “In one day he ended every future opportunity that doesn’t include speaking engagements at the local proud boy’s chapter,” Hicks wrote. “And all of us that didn’t have jobs lined up will be perpetually unemployed. I’m so mad & upset. We all look like domestic terrorists now.” “Not being dramatic, but we are all f*cked.”

Even then–Senate minority leader Mitch McConnell (R-KY) delivered a blistering account of Trump’s behavior and said: “There is no question that President Trump is practically and morally responsible for provoking the events of that day.”

But McConnell appeared reluctant to see Trump impeached. He delayed the Senate trial of the House’s charge of “incitement of insurrection” until Biden was president, then pressed for Trump’s acquittal on the grounds that he was no longer president. Even before that February 2021 acquittal, then–House minority leader Kevin McCarthy (R-CA)—who had had a shouting match with Trump on January 6 in which he allegedly begged Trump to call off his supporters and yelled that the rioters were “trying to f*cking kill me!”—traveled to see Trump at Mar-a-Lago to get him to support Republican candidates in the 2022 election.

Their hunger to keep Trump’s voters began the process of whitewashing Trump’s attempt to overturn our democracy. At the same time, those Republicans who had either participated in the scheme or gone along with it continued to defend their behavior. As time passed, they downplayed the violence of January 6. As early as May 2021, some began to claim it was less a deadly attack than a “normal tourist visit.”

When the House Select Committee to Investigate the January 6th Attack on the U.S. Capitol began to collect testimony and evidence, Trump and fellow Republicans did all they could to discredit it. As it became clear that Trump would win the 2024 Republican presidential nomination, they worked to exonerate him from wrongdoing and accused the Democrats of misleading Americans about the events of that day.

In February 2021, McConnell defended his vote to acquit Trump of inciting insurrection by promising the courts would take care of him. “President Trump is still liable for everything he did while he was in office, as an ordinary citizen,” he said, “still liable for everything he did while in office, [and] didn't get away with anything yet…. We have a criminal justice system in this country. We have civil litigation. And former presidents are not immune from being held accountable by either one.”

But while more than 1,500 people have been charged with federal crimes associated with the January 6 attack on the U.S. Capitol and many of Trump’s lawyers and advisors have been disbarred or faced charges, Trump has managed to avoid legal accountability by using every possible means to delay the federal case brought against him for his attempt to overturn the results of the 2020 presidential election.

And now, with the help of a compliant Supreme Court stacked with three of his own appointees, he has gained the immunity McConnell said he did not have. On July 1, 2024, the Supreme Court handed down the aptly named Donald Trump v. United States decision, establishing that sitting presidents have immunity from criminal prosecution for acts within the scope of their official duties. Before the new, slimmer set of charges brought after this decision could go forward, voters reelected Trump to the presidency, triggering the Justice Department policy against prosecuting a sitting president.

As Republicans whitewashed January 6 and the legal system failed to hold Trump to account, the importance of Trump’s attack on our democracy seemed to fade. Even the Trump v. U.S. Supreme Court decision, which undermined the key principle that all Americans are equal before the law by declaring Trump above it, got less attention than its astonishingly revolutionary position warranted, coming as it did just four days after President Joe Biden looked and sounded old in a televised presidential debate.

As the 2024 election approached, Trump rewrote the events of January 6 so completely that he began calling it “a day of love.” He said those found guilty of crimes related to January 6 were “political prisoners” and vowed to pardon them on his first day in office. Dan Barry and Alan Feuer noted in the New York Times today that Trump spokesperson Karoline Leavitt, referring to “the Left’s fear mongering over January 6th,” claims that “the mainstream media still refuses to report the truth about what happened that day.”

And yet, today, Trump’s lawyers wrote to Attorney General Merrick Garland demanding he prevent the public release of the final report written by special counsel Jack Smith about Trump’s attempt to overturn the results of the 2020 presidential election. They say it would disrupt the presidential transition by “giving rise to a media storm of false and unfair criticism” and interfere with presidential immunity by diverting Trump’s time and energy.

Having reviewed the two-volume report, the lawyers objected to its claim that Trump and others “engaged in an unprecedented criminal effort,” that Trump was “the head of the criminal conspiracies,” that he hatched a “criminal design,” and that he “violated multiple federal criminal laws.” They also took issue with the “baseless attacks on other anticipated members of President Trump’s incoming administration, which are an obvious effort to interfere with upcoming confirmation hearings.”

They conclude that releasing Smith’s report “would not ‘be in the public interest.’”

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARSON

#political cartoons #Nick Anderson #Letters From An American #Heather Cox Richardson #coup attempt #fuck qanon #we did this to ourselves #conspiracy theories #fafo #American History #history #January 6 2021 #criminal design #The Mafia Administration #American Democracy

17 notes · View notes

vaspider · 1 month ago

Text

I feel like it's important to know that the University of Pennsylvania had parts of the bones of one of the MOVE bombing victims without the consent of the (living) family, and they had them for like... nearly 40 years. Then fucking lost them. The ME gave Penn the bones, and they used them for teaching classes.

It's become a huge issue bc a local reporter broke the story - Billy Penn is a Very Local Paper - and the public outcry has led to a cascade change of the way a lot of Philly institutions handle human remains, which to me says two things: they won't even respect your corpse if you don't make them, and local reporters are fucking important. It was Billy Penn that broke who the bones might be & went to interview their childhood friends. The potential people were Tree, 14, and Delisha, 12. (For context, I turned 8 a couple weeks after the bombing.)

All the content warnings, but like, I think knowing that the disrespect continues for a long time after is important to know, too. The work keeps on.

Was talking to a 70 year old security guard at my university yesterday and I liked what he had to say to me and a couple of the younger freshmen chatting him up. I think you should hear it. I’ll paraphrase him (cutting out my half of the conversation);

“For people like us [POC] it’s always been a fight against the latest dude. Reagan and bush and Obama and trump. You know what they did when we started scaring them? They bombed American soil because they were about to piss themselves at black power. You know I can’t say out loud I was a part of that but that’s what you kids gotta do. Stay calm and build that black power, that neighbor power, that low class power against the latest dude, and when they bomb this neighborhood again that’s when you can panic, but you’ve gotta fight til then. The president was never on our side. Neither one.”

13K notes · View notes

yourreddancer · 5 days ago

Text

Heather Cox Richardson

Heather Cox Richardson Jan 7 In less than 40 minutes today in snow-covered Washington, D.C., a joint session of Congress counted the certified electoral votes that will make Republican Donald Trump president of the United States at noon on January 20. Vice President Kamala Harris presided over the session in her role as president of the Senate, announcing to Congress the ballot totals. The ceremony went smoothly, without challenges to any of the certified state ballots. Trump won 312 electoral votes; Harris, who was the Democratic nominee for president, won 226.

The Democrats emphasized routine process and acceptance of election results to reinforce that the key element of democracy is the peaceful transfer of power. Before the session, Harris released a video on social media reminding people that “[t]he peaceful transfer of power is one of the most fundamental principles of American democracy. As much as any other principle, it is what distinguishes our system of government from monarchy or tyranny.” But at the session, the tableau on the dais itself illustrated that Republicans have elevated lawmakers who reject that principle. Behind the vice president sat the newly reelected speaker of the House of Representatives, Mike Johnson (R-LA), who was a key player in the attempt to overturn the results of the 2020 election: he lied about fraud; recruited colleagues to join a lawsuit challenging the election results from the key states of Georgia, Michigan, Pennsylvania, and Georgia; and, after the January 6 riot, challenged the counting of certified votes from Arizona and Pennsylvania.

“And today, America’s democracy stood.”

NOTE: THE DEMS SHOULD HAVE, TO A MAN, REFUSED TO CERTIFY THE ELECTION - JUST TO PROTEST THIS TRAITOR, FELON, AND RAPIST BEING ELECTED!!!!

And now, with the help of a compliant Supreme Court stacked with three of his own appointees, he has gained the immunity McConnell said he did not have.

On July 1, 2024, the Supreme Court handed down the aptly named Donald Trump v. United States decision, establishing that sitting presidents have immunity from criminal prosecution for acts within the scope of their official duties. Before the new, slimmer set of charges brought after this decision could go forward, voters reelected Trump to the presidency, triggering the Justice Department policy against prosecuting a sitting president.

They conclude that releasing Smith’s report “would not ‘be in the public interest.’”

THEY CAN STUFF IT UP THEIR ARSES!!!! THE PUBLIC ABSOLUTELY NEEDS TO SEE THIS!!!!

0 notes

lboogie1906 · 3 months ago

Text

Dr. Halle Tanner Dillon Johnson (October 17, 1864 - April 26, 1901) was the first woman physician to pass the Alabama state medical examination and was the first woman physician at Tuskegee Institute. She was the eldest of nine children born to African Methodist Episcopal bishop Benjamin Tucker Tanner and Sarah Elizabeth Miller in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania in 1864. Her brother, Henry Ossawa Tanner, became a noted artist. The Tanners moved to Philadelphia where the children were educated.

In the middle 1880s, she worked with her father on the AME Church Review. She married Charles E. Dillon (1886) and the two moved to Trenton, New Jersey where they had a daughter. Charles Dillon died of an unknown cause and she moved back to Philadelphia to live with her parents. She decided to become a physician and enrolled at the Woman’s Medical College of Pennsylvania. The only African American woman in her class, she graduated with an MD and high honors after three years of study in 1891. While at the college, she learned of a job opportunity as a resident physician at Tuskegee Institute. She contacted Booker T. Washington, the Principal of Tuskegee. Washington appointed her and helped her prepare for the Alabama state medical examination.

She sat for the ten-day examination and passed. She served at Tuskegee University as a physician, pharmacist, and teacher, and ran a private practice for 3 years. While at Tuskegee she founded a training school for nurses and a dispensary (pharmacy). She married Reverend John Quincy Johnson (1894) an aspiring theologian and mathematics professor at Tuskegee Institute. The couple moved to Nashville where Reverend Johnson pursued a graduate degree in divinity while serving as pastor of Saint Paul’s AME Church. She resumed her medical practice. The couple had three more children but she died of complications resulting from childbirth. #africanhistory365 #africanexcellence

1 note · View note

athomewiththecicadas · 11 months ago

Text

Life as a Senior NCO for a Head of Household that can't Provide.

Okay, maybe football isn't that gay.

How do I cover these young boys eyes and sit them down at a buffet dinner table with home goods, and wreaths, and large cinnamon sticks, and women kisses on their cheeks?

And wooden collectables, and mother hens. Surely that is not that outside of American.

Because there is no way in hell they sat there with it that hot.

Okay, and she lows you, coming out saying she was raised in Pennsylvania, and all her name is Taylor Allison.

"I" am not allowed to step outside, or at least leave the reach of the church. And that is religion. That isn't even within the institution or Christmas.

There is actually a part of American culture that at least recognizes soggy mashed potatoes, and tasteless macaroni and cheese.

How do I sit them down to a common dinner table? At least where common American women would do that.

I worked with the Unions, electrical, welding, so on. And there was plenty of common dignity to understand that there is at least soggy mashed potatoes, and some woman with a southern slang. That is not that outside of American.

0 notes

millingroundireland · 1 year ago

Text

Hotels and settling in Cincinnati [part 2]

Continued from part 1

Fast forward to 1901 when RBM I and Hattie were 39 years old. That year on June 4, they had their only natural child: Stanley Sterling Mills. They were living in Cincinnati’s Hotel Sterling, which sat at Cincinnati’s West End at 6th and Central Streets. It does not exist anymore and has been torn down since. The Hotel Sterling housed the “only integrated nightclub in Cincinnati” called the Cotton Club (which was likely after his time) which was host to “hundreds of famous black orchestras and the rooms at the Sterling was usually booked solid”: [8]

This hotel was the same place that Bert, at 10 years old, wrote a note to Santa, just as soon as Stanley was about to be born, as noted in The Packard/Mills Family History. RBM I would stay in the management of the Hotel Sterling (circa 1900-1914?), followed by management of other hotels like the Gibson Hotel in the 1910s, and the Grand Hotel in the 1920s. [9] He was one of the founders of the Cincinnati Hotels Association on January 18, 1935, but he was a member of the Cincinnati Hotel and Restaurant Association in 1904, and a member of the patriotic group of “Ohio gentlemen” called the Ohio Society of New York attending an anniversary of the group in 1935 at the Hotel Pennsylvania chaired by Herbert Hoover, as a non-resident member. He even gave his 140 employees at the Grand Hotel a ten percent raise in their salaries at a Christmas dinner in 1922, while his adopted son, Bert, became an associate manager at the Ventura after his father became manager of the Gibson Hotel. He was also a manager of the Grand Hotel for the short period.

In 1910, Hattie, RBM I, Bert, and Stanley would all be living at the Hotel Sterling. There would be nine servants, with the average of age 36 and the average age of 37 boarders being 48 years old. [10] 64% of these boarders were from Ohio, with the rest from Kentucky, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, and West Virginia. Very few are foreign boarders, but of those that were born in foreign countries they came from Scotland, Sweden, and Switzerland, among others. One of these borders was RBM I’s 52-year-old brother, Edward E. Mills, then living in Kentucky.

This was part of chapter 13 of a family history I sent to relatives. It is revised in order to remove all mentions of the Packards. In order to tell more of a story, it is reprinted here. It was originally published on the WordPress version of this blog in August 2018.

Hotel management, then, like now, was about accommodating travelers, making their institutions into “frontier between individual communities and the world beyond,” ensuring the safety of such individuals, and tempting guests to “emulate a higher standard of living.” [11] In the time that RBM I ran this hotel and others, the hotel industry began to be controlled by corporations. The automobile influenced the industry by fostering a “corresponding drive for standardization and scale.” Such hotel management embodied the “itch to...do something new, become someone new” with individuals as “builders, founders, risk takers,” which America supposedly represented. [12]

From the 1920s until the 1930s, RBM I was a hotel manager. As the story goes, every Sunday, Bert and Miriam (noted in the next chapter) would host RBM I and Hattie, who they hated, for dinner. The former were poor, with the job of fire chief originally low-paying, gaining money from the latter. To show their respect, they would put up Hattie and RBM I’s portrait on the mantle. After they left, they would shove the portrait in the closet. On June 18, 1950, RBM I died of coronary heart disease in Heath, Massachusetts. [13] The Cincinnati Enquirer would say he managed the “Sterling Hotel, Grand Hotel...Hotels Gibson and Sinton,” calling him a “prominent figure in Cincinnati hotel circles for 40 years,” with Hattie dying one year before. He was a member of Syrian Temple Shrine, Christ Episcopal Church, founding member of the Cincinnati Auto Club, and active in Chamber of Commerce of Cincinnati. He was buried, like Hattie, in Spring Grove Cemetery in Cincinnati.

Three different views of the Hotel Bennett, courtesy of All Posters, Houzz, and Card Cow. RBM I and Hattie likely met her as noted in the earlier family history. Binghamton, where this hotel was located, still exists and is within the “central Southern tier at the confluence of the Susquehanna and Chenago Rivers,” sitting a few miles north of the state line with Pennsylvania and midpoint “between the Empire State’s east-west borders.” By the time they met, the city of Binghamton had a huge cigar industry, employing 6,000 people in 1888, an even-bigger shoe industry, with Endicott-Johnson shoes employing 20,000 in the town, with the “computer”/time recording industry (precursor to IBM was in the town) and the growing photography industry. Other industries such as airplane and patent medicine industries either came later on or were not as prominent. Since the hotel or hospitality industry was not mentioned on the Binghamton City’s Historical Brief, it seems evident that this industry was not big in the town at the time. That still doesn’t invalidate his employment at the Hotel Bennett however, it just means that hotels were only part of a economy in the town, but not a major part.

Notes

[8] Text courtesy of Dale Prout, Cincinnati Views. The original link seems gone (when you click on the link it says "page does not exist", but I did find a mention of it here and here on the current site. The only place that the original link I used is available is a page on the Wayback Machine, a page which also mentions the Grand Hotel, St. Nicholas Hotel, Hotel Broadway, and many others. Doing some digging, I also found a page noting Hotel Sinton, another for the Hotel Gibson, Hotel Alms, Plaza hotels, and various others here (Hotel Metropole, Hotel Havlin, Oxford Hotel, Palace Hotel, and others). As noted by the Urban League (in a link that cannot be found), “the original Cotton Club, in the Sterling Hotel, was the only integrated night club in Cincinnati and played host to the greatest black orchestras and performers of the era.” Many other meetings were held there. Even W.E.B. DuBois and Marcus Garvey met there in 1924.

[9] Williams Cincinnati Business Directory (Cincinnati, OH: Williams Directory Co. Publishers, 1909), 191, 244; Williams Cincinnati Business Directory (Cincinnati, OH: Williams Directory Co. Publishers, 1912), 949; Williams Cincinnati Business Directory (Cincinnati, OH: Williams Directory Co. Publishers, 1914), 938; Bizstanding, “THE CINCINNATI HOTELS ASSOCIATION,” accessed July 16, 2017; The Cincinnati Inquirer, Oct. 19, 1921, p. 7, courtesy of Newspapers.com; City Directories for Cincinnati Ohio, 1912, Hotel Alms, p. 949, courtesy of Fold3.com; The Cincinnati Inquirer, Jan. 11, 1954, p. 3, 5; The Hotel Monthly, 1922, Vol. 30, no. 347 (possibly), p. 66; Hotel World, 1922, Vol. 94, p. 13; Hotel Monthly, Vol. 94, no. 103, p. 50; Williams Cincinnati (Hamilton County, Ohio) City Directory (Cincinnati, OH: Williams Directory Co., 1922), p. 1927; “Mills,” Hotel World, Vol. 84, 1917, p. 43; “A New One,” Hotel World, Vol. 88, 1919, p. 13; Homepage, Ohio Society of New York (OSNY), 2017; OSNY, “Golden Jubliee Anniversary,” NY, Hotel Pennsylvania, Nov. 16, 1935, p. 1-2, 36-37. He would be treasurer and manager in varied hotels, proprietor of the Hotel Sterling from 1909 to 1914. Also see page 59 of the 1924 Book of Facts and Laws put out by the Ohio Hotels Association, page 66 of Hotel Monthly vol. 45 issued in 1937, page 949 of the Travel Book: Transportation International issued in 1931.

[10] Hotel Sterling in Cincinnati, 1910, U.S. Federal Census, ED 212, National Archives, NARA T624, roll 1193.

[11] The Gale Group, “Hotels and Hotel History,” Dictionary of American History, 2003, which seems to be only accessible as a database or book; Holly Cameron, “The History of Hotel & Restaurant Management,” USA Today, accessed on July 16, 2017; University of North Carolina, “Early Research and Treatment of Tuberculosis in the 19th Century,” 2007; Jan Whitaker, “The history of the restaurant of the future,” Restaurant-ing Through History, June 12, 2017; Waukesha County Technical College, “Hospitality Management,” 2022; WiseGeek, “What is Hospitality Management?,” Conjecture Corporation, 2017; Dominque Browning, “Gimme Shelter,” Sunday Book Review, New York Times, Dec. 2, 2007; Jeffrey S. Adler, The Hotel: An American History (review), Journal of Interdisciplinary History Vol. 39, No. 2, Autumn 2008, p. 290-291; A.K. Sandoval-Strausz, “How America Invented the Hotel: A history of hospitality,” Slate, 2007.

[12] Thomas A. Stewart, Alex Taylor lll, Peter Petre, and Brent Schlender, “The Businessman of the Century Henry Ford Alfred P. Sloan Tom Watson Jr. Bill Gates,” Fortune magazine, Nov. 22, 1999; United States Department of Labor, Bureau of Labor Statistics, “Lodging Managers,” Oct. 3, 2022; Institute of Culinary Education, “School of Hospitality and Hotel Management,” 2022; University of Missouri, “Hospitality Management Degree,” 2022; Pennsylvania State University, “Careers in Hospitality Management,” 2017; George Washington University, “Bachelor of Science in Business,” accessed Oct. 8, 2022. Also see Paul Groth’s Living Downtown: The History of Residential Hotels in the United States, Andrew K. Sandoval-Strausz’s Hotel: An American History; Karl B.Raitz and John Paul Jones III’s article “The City Hotel as Landscape Artifact and Community Symbol” and Andrew K. Sandoval-Strausz’s dissertation, “For the accommodation of strangers: urban space, travel, law, the market, and modernity at the American hotel, 1789-1908” (behind a paywall of sorts) in 2002. Sandoval-Strausz has written about hotels many times, as noted by a listing on Google Scholar, including articles like "Travelers, Strangers, and Jim Crow: Law, Public Accommodations, and Civil Rights in America", "The hotel in history: evolving perspectives", "A Public House for a New Republic: The Architecture of Accommodation and the American State, 1789-1809", and "Why the Hotel? Liberal Visions, Merchant Capital, Public Space, and the Creation of an American Institution".

[13] Massachusetts, Town and Vital Records, 1620-1988; The Cincinnati Enquirer, June 20, 1950, p. 25, courtesy of Newspapers.com. This falsely says that RBM II was adopted in 1934; RootsWeb, Obituary Daily Times, Ancestry.com; Gravestone of Robert Byron Mills; The Cincinnati Inquirer, Feb. 3, 1949, p. 30, 32, courtesy of Newspapers.com; The Cincinnati Inquirer, July 13, 1949, p. 29. He would die the same year as John Henry Packard, the son of Dora, his sister.

0 notes

mapmystudypacasia · 2 years ago

Text

How To Get Into Ivy League Colleges From India?

Many of the brightest minds from around the world choose to attend Ivy League universities because they are often considered to be the most prestigious colleges and universities in the world. The country's eight most prominent universities are collectively called the Ivy League, and they are Harvard, Princeton, Yale, Dartmouth, Brown, Columbia, Cornell, and Pennsylvania.

Ace these pointers to get into Ivy League as an International student:

1. Outstanding Academic Acumen: Ivy League institutions only accept the cream of the crop; thus, having a solid academic background is not enough to get into these universities. For this reason, having a strong academic record is essential if you want to stand a chance of enrolling in one of these prestigious universities.

Pay attention to your SAT and academic results. On the website of the particular Ivy League schools, look for the students' average scores. Identify your goals and make plans to achieve them. Take the practice exams seriously. In order to be accepted into an Ivy League college as an Indian student, your academic performance is crucial

2. Apply Early

Applying early can significantly improve your chances of being accepted into these universities. Having said that, you should be aware that students won't be able to submit applications to some universities after an initial admissions discussion. However, studies on the subject have shown that students can boost their chances of admission by applying early. Hence, be careful to apply as early as possible while also being sure to thoroughly investigate and select the academic institutions that best meet your needs and your objectives.

3. Describe your strong points

Your Ivy League application must clearly illustrate your areas of expertise. Tell them about your interests and skills that go beyond the classroom. Talk to them about the subjects you find interesting. Remember to mention your accomplishments. While doing so, remember that over exaggerating can also lead to rejection.

4. Providing a Strong Essay

Several of these universities will require you to submit an essay on a particular topic after reviewing your application materials. Here is your chance to put your finest essay forward and amaze them. Your ability to communicate clearly, master the language, and express your thoughts most effectively are all put to the test in this situation. Essays are a great way to put forward your best in front of the admission committee.

5. Acquire compelling letters of recommendation.

For each international student, a letter of recommendation is crucial. Ivy League colleges want to be absolutely sure about the applicants they are accepting. Your recommendation letter demonstrates your genuineness and work ethic. Ensure that the teachers who write your recommendation letters have noticed your development and praise you well in the LOR’s.

6. Creating a Top-Notch Resume

When it comes to the documents you submit, your resume is a crucial one that will inform the institution about your curricular and extracurricular background. Therefore, you must ensure that you clearly list all of the significant academic accomplishments on your resume. Make sure it is simple for someone to assess your academic prowess by looking at your resume. Along with your academic accomplishments, your resume should also include your job goals and aspirations for the future. This will demonstrate your ambition to the individual reviewing your CV and help them understand the direction you wish to take your career in.

If you still need clarification about how to get into your dreamy Ivy, our experts at MapMyStudy can help you sail through your problems quickly and effectively. We assure you of the best of services and satisfactory results. Contact us today!

0 notes

mechknow-blog · 6 years ago

Text

Best SAT Classes in Philadelphia, Best SAT Institute in Pennsylvania

Education helps to accumulate knowledge, it is the discipline that is concerned with methods of teaching and learning. Education develops us a perspective of looking at life. SAT (Scholastic Assessment Test), to clear this exam one should understand mathematical concepts and his the ability to apply those concepts and skills to real-world problems.

To get a better education for students Athi Shanmugam, the founder of New Gen Education, which helps students clear the SAT, PSAT exams to get admissions in better colleges for their better future.

New Gen Education believes in Interaction to Imagination helps the students how to prepare for SAT/PSAT Math Made easy by providing technological innovation in the classroom. Their Mission is to make the school learning process interesting and easy and the students should understand the concepts which feed them for their innovative imagination.

For the students who want to gain knowledge and clear the SAT exam, we provide you the new learning experience.

They help you with three simple steps to tackle the exam.

You need to go through the videos of simple mathematical concepts, to learn how to explore the models.

Next step is to understand the concept and do it yourself, interact with models masters the concept to solve SAT/PSAT questions.

You can cross check your knowledge by taking a quiz.

You will find the difference by you once you join the Coaching center, So don’t waste time Join us to tackle the SAT/PSAT Exam.

#SAT MATH IN PENNSYLVANIA #SAT MATH IN PHILEDELPHIA #SAT MATH IN PITTSBURG #INTERACTIVE SAT MATH #PSAT MATH NEAR ME #PSAT MATH IN PHILEDELPHIA #PSAT MATH IN PITTSBURG #sat institute in pennsylvania #best sat institute in pennsylvania #top 10 sat institute in pennsylvania #sat training near me in pennsylvania #Best SAT prep tutors in pennsylvania #Institute for SAT in pennsylvania #sat training center in pennsylvania #Top sat training center in pennsylvania #highest sat scores in pennsylvania #sat online tutors in pennsylvania #sat coaching centers in pennsylvania #top ranking sat institute in pennsylvania #top high schools in pennsylvania by SAT #stem education institute in pennsylvania #act education institute in pennsylvania #top ranking schools in pennsylvania #top ranking colleges in pennsylvania #Best SAT prep Tutos in Philadelphia #top 10 best sat prep in Philadelphia #best SAT classes in Philadelphia #SAT prep Courses in Pittsburgh #sat online tutors in Philadelphia #sat coaching feesin Philadelphia

0 notes

leftoverenvy · 2 years ago

Text

Contaminated - Part 2

Summary: Emily and JJ's marriage is in shambles, so Emily turns to an unlikely source of comfort: her student. To add gasoline to the fire, Emily starts an affair. A songfic inspired by Contaminated by BANKS.

Pairing: Emily Prentiss x OC; Prof! Emily x POC OC; previous Emily Prentiss x Jennifer "JJ" Jareau; previous jemily

Warnings: eventual smut; power dynamic; age gap (unspecified – but all over 18); power imbalance; professor - student; cheating; marital arguing; No HEA

Word Count: 2.1k

Tumblr Masterlist | Wattpad

Taglist: @ssa-sapphic 🧸; @reidselle 🦭; @gaelic-symphony 🎻 ; @hotchs-bitch 🦆 ; @multiverse-mxdness 🧌 ; @madelineleong

Part 2

For three weeks I had been haunted by that girl. Her gaze branded into my mind, simultaneously guilting and arousing me like never before. For as tenaciously as I fought for control during that last lecture of the semester, I had completely abandoned it now. I thought of her constantly. I could have screamed as I watched her slip out the door without a last word. I supposed it was a fortunate interruption that a student immediately grabbed my attention to ask a follow up question. Though it was for the best, that did little to stop my brain from thinking about her endlessly.

The unusually wet winter did nothing to brighten my dour mood. While normally snow got me excited for the holidays, I was staring down the most melancholy Christmas I'd had in years. The holidays meant class was over, ending any last chances of seeing her again. The holidays meant students had fled campus, leaving it as desolate and bleak as my heart. This Christmas would be joyless as JJ would not be home.

_ _ _

"Jayje! Can't we at least talk about this?" I begged. But I was pleading with her back, JJ already making her way to the front door, packed bag in hand.

"We talked about this, Emily." She was exasperated with me. Her sigh told me all I needed to know about how unreasonable she thought I was being. "I'm going home for Christmas. To Pennsylvania."

"But I don't understand why I can't go with you." It was pathetic, even to my own ears. My desperation was changing me. Six months ago, I never would have begged for someone's attention. Six months ago, JJ never would have given me a reason to beg.

"Emily, please," she dismissed as if I were a child. "I'm going to miss my flight."

I grabbed her arm to keep her from walking out the door. "JJ, stop." My harsh voice surprised even me. I rarely raised my voice, and I had certainly never raised my voice to JJ.

She turned around, disbelief in her eyes, and warned, "Don't." I released her arm from my grip and watched my wife walk out the front door, her bag doubtlessly full of lingerie as a gift for the man with whom she was spending Christmas. She wasn't fooling me. JJ had made it clear many times before that she'd never go back to Pennsylvania.

I closed the door behind her and slid down to the floor. I heard her start the car and drive off as I sat on the cold, drafty floor of our foyer for god knows how long. The sun had set, the lights from the Christmas tree the only thing illuminating the living room.

I laughed in disbelief, the sound startling in the silent night. The strings of lights, reflected by the tinsel, was supposed to be a joyous sight. I stared in hatred at the nativity scene sitting below the Christmas tree. JJ had insisted on the religious symbol, claiming it wasn't Christmas without the nativity. I scoffed. Yeah, JJ sure respected the sanctity of religious institutions.

_ _ _

I walked around the house like a miserable ghost until I lost track of time. I had never been big of Christmas. Growing up with a mother focused on public appearances, Christmas had never been about family for me. It caught me off guard to be this strongly affected by JJ's absence this holiday season. I slumped on the couch, once again staring at our Christmas tree. I loathed the thing. This giant, luminous reminder that my wife was gone. Gone for Christmas. Gone for everything.

I watched the glitter on the wrapping paper of our presents twinkle under the lights of the tree. I stared at the presents I bought for her sitting abandoned under our tree, awaiting someone to come rip them open. I, too, sat and waited for her attention. Naively, I stuck around, anticipating JJ's return home.

_ _ _

I was losing my mind. Though time was always amorphous this time of year, it felt especially so now. I was lost without JJ. She was unconcerned that her excuses were falling flat; she wasn't even bothering to hide her affair anymore. Our marital home felt stifling. The walls caved in under the weight of our secrets. I felt the foundation quaking under the strain. I saw the shingles crumbling as it burned to ash.

I had to get out of there or I was going to choke on the dust. I had no plan, no direction – I just grabbed my coat and walked out the door. I inhaled deeply, burning my lungs with the frosty air. Anything was better than the black void I had created at home.

I walked without destination. I paid no attention to where I was going. I tried to quiet my mind as my boots pounded into the snow. I focused on the rhythmic crunch crunch crunch of each footfall until I pushed every last thought of JJ and my dismal holiday from my mind.

I wrapped my coat tighter around myself in a desperate attempt to preserve my waning body heat. Fuck, it was cold. It was the kind of cold that made my bones ache. I had succeeded in freezing myself so I was incapable of thinking about anything but warming up.

I finally looked around at my surroundings, wondering how far I had gone from home. It looked like I had walked about two miles; I didn't think I could make it back home. I needed to stop before going home. At the next café I came across, it wasn't a thought – I darted inside to thaw the ice cubes I used to call fingers.

I sighed in relief at the warmth, making a beeline towards the empty chair by the fireplace. I wanted to claim this spot before ordering; I couldn't risk someone coming to steal my chance at warming up. I hated to part with it, but not having anything else with which to save my spot, I laid my coat over the chair and made my way towards the cash register. I silently thanked Apple Pay for allowing me to pay for coffee with my phone. I hadn't had the foresight to bring my purse.

As soon as they called my name, I had my hands around my steaming latté. I sipped slowly, and sighed at the warm liquid sliding down my throat. Within minutes I had warmed back up, and was relaxing into the cozy atmosphere of the café.

It was much slower paced than it normally was during the semester. There was no constant ingress and egress of students. There was minimal chatter. And there certainly were no screaming, giggling sorority girls bouncing up and down gossiping with their sisters with textbooks – long forgotten – open on the table.

My thoughts, as they had numerous times the last two weeks, returned to that girl. I should have thought about her on my walk, because thinking about her never failed to get me hot. Images of her unblinking, innocent eyes branded into my very soul, alighting me from within. The outline of her smooth curves swaying hypnotically back and forth enticing me as she turned on her heel to walk out. I imagined her every day for so many days now, it was as if I could see her in front of me.

I blinked twice to clear the fog in my mind. I didn't have an overactive imagination. She really was here. Sitting across the coffee shop, teasing me by simply existing. Her eyes seemed to wander everywhere but my direction. Could the universe be so cruel as to put her in temptation's way twice?

With my only remaining ounce of self-control, I ignored her. I didn't know what kind of interaction she would want to have outside of class. After all, she was the one who left the review in a hurry. Out of respect for my wife, out of obligation of school policy, I pretended I didn't see her. I chose, instead, to stare into the flames in front of me, my eyes flickering back and forth as the flames seemed to sway to the beat of the song softly playing in the background.

I screamed internally – I thought I might combust. My internal desire roared inside of me as hot as the fire before me. It blazed so furiously I thought I might ignite right then. I tried to tune out the way my heart took off in a sprint, the deep thump reverberating in my chest. I pretended to be unaffected, lying to myself as if she hadn't been on my mind every second of winter break. I tried to ignore the way my stomach clenched when I heard her soft greeting behind me.

"Hello Professor Prentiss."

"Emily's fine." I could give no indication about how greatly she affected me. "After all," I continued, "You're no longer my student." She trapped her lip between her teeth, worrying at it, her brows furrowed. I wondered what her unease meant. I sighed internally – I would never be able to turn the profiler off no matter how badly I wanted to leave that piece of me behind.

She remained silent, staring at me in anticipation. "So," I hedged. I didn't want her to feel like she had to stick around. "You didn't go home for the holiday?"

"I-" she looked down at her shoes, "No," she finished simply. Her tone, ringing with finality, gave me no room to push for more information. Though I was certain there was an interesting story there, I let it go. "What about you?" she asked more cheerfully. "No trips to family? Or is everyone local?"

"Just me," I whispered. I hated the vulnerability I could hear coloring my voice; I hated the rasp of emotion I couldn't swallow down before responding. "But I should get home," I lied. I needed to leave the coffee shop. I had never been this close to her. If I thought she was mesmerizing before, I was wildly wrong. Her eyes were dazzling this close.

I warred with myself over what was right and what I wanted. It was the same cycle I had been in just a few weeks before. I wanted her then, and I had to have her now. Control had completely left; no nagging thoughts of JJ, school policy, or propriety. It was as if the closer she moved, the further she pushed reason from my mind. Desire had completely taken over.

I thought about the long trek I was facing home. I could see the sun setting – the walk home was going to be miserable. It was the kind of cold that made my bones ache just thinking about it. I sighed and wrapped my coat close, bracing myself for the arctic blast that would hit me as soon as I opened the door.

This was the perfect opportunity. Rather than walk or call an Uber, I could make this turn in my favor. "Are you headed out?" At her nod, I continued, "Could I get a ride? I walked and am not looking forward to braving the arctic tundra again."

"You walked?!" she asked in horror. "It's freezing! Of course I'll give you a lift." Internally, I smiled like the cat that ate the canary. How easily she fell into my trap. "Why'd you walk anyway?"

"Just for some fresh air," I responded. I hoped she would leave it at that.

Thankfully, she did. But that meant the conversation fizzled out. We made stilted small talk in between me giving her directions home. With each turn closer, my heart beat faster. I was acutely aware of how quickly she would be driving away, out of my life again. This run-in at the coffee shop was fate. I couldn't let her leave again. I needed to do something. She was driving too fast – our time together would be over too soon.

When she pulled in my driveway, I blurted, "Do you want to come inside? Can I thank you with a cup of cocoa?" I didn't even know if we had cocoa, I just needed to get her inside.

She smiled softly. "That sounds nice. I'd like that."

I directed us up the sidewalk to the front door, trying my best to get us out of the cold. The soft click of the lock turning signaled something in my brain. This was it. This was the point of no return. I should send her back to her car. I should send her away. This was wrong. I pushed out every last bit of sanity I had left as I swung the door in.

_ _ _

Continue to next part

#🌬 fics #contaminated series #emily prentiss #emily prentiss x oc #jemily #Emily x JJ #emily prentiss x jennifer jareau #emily prentiss fanfiction #angst #criminal minds angst #emily prentiss angst #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #wlw writing #Song fics #Contaminated by BANKS #Cheating fics

27 notes · View notes

jonathangroffappreciation · 3 years ago

Text

https://www.psea.org/news--events/newsstand/psea-news2/teacher-plays-leading-role-in-broadway-stars-career/

Teacher plays lead role in Broadway star's career

Two lines out of Jonathan Groff's mouth while auditioning for the eighth-grade play, and Suzanne Fisher knew "he was going to get the lead. I was just blown away.''

Groff has gotten a lot of leads since that day in 1999 at Conestoga Valley Middle School in Lancaster County. He is a Grammy Award-winning Broadway and off-Broadway star with a who's who list of credits and co-actors.

"I knew there was something really unique about this boy,'' said Fisher, an English teacher for 41 years, and the director of middle school plays for 39 of them. "After our final dress rehearsal, I sat him down and told him, 'You have an incredibly unique talent. You could do this for a living.'''

Groff looked at Fisher kind of stunned, she said, but he took her advice to seek parts at local playhouses to hone his acting skills.

He calls Fisher a "special person'' who has played a lead role in his life.

"In eighth grade, I was just focusing on doing a good job; I hadn't really been thinking about my future,'' he said.

"But Mrs. Fisher inspired me to think ahead, and that's what sparked my interest in auditioning for the Fulton Opera House and the Ephrata Playhouse - two local institutions that completely changed the trajectory of my life.''

Groff makes sure Fisher lives up to her promise. She is his guest at all of his performances.

"From New York, to LA, to London, Mrs. Fisher has been to everything,'' said Groff, who comes back to Conestoga Valley to speak to students.

Groff put on one particularly meaningful performance in New York for Fisher and her family.

It was the summer of 2008 and Fisher and her husband, Dennis, who was dying of brain cancer and would pass away that November, went to New York to see Groff perform in "Hair.''

As Groff was singing the title song, he wandered into the audience and toward their seats.

"Dennis was bald, and Jonathan was wearing this hat and long-haired wig. He took it off and let it cascade over Dennis' head while he was singing,'' Fisher said. "Jonathan picked it up and kissed Dennis on the head. We both sat there crying.''

She said that gesture is typical of Groff and, while she greatly admires his talent, "I can't speak highly enough of the man he has become.''

Excerpts from an interview with Jonathan and his eighth grade teacher Sue Fisher from 2016

#jonathan groff #people saying nice things #interview #sue fisher #2016

17 notes · View notes

astraeagreengrass · 4 years ago

Text

this is me trying [the woods 3/4]

You make a decision and Steve takes a chance

Word Count: 4.848

Warnings: angst, mentions of sickness, mentions of death and death-related themes, alcohol, curse words

A/N: This chapter is filled with Taylor Swift references - I would love to know which ones you guys find and what are your expectations for the final part of this story! Many thanks to the beautiful @xbuchananbarnes for your help with this one. The banner picture was found here. Dividers are from @writeyourmindaway. I hope you like it ♡

pulled the car off the road to the lookout could've followed my fears all the way down and maybe i don't quite know what to say but i'm here in your doorway i just wanted you to know that this is me trying

There is a place in Pennsylvania, a few miles past the old Swift Christmas Tree Farm, where a careful rider might notice a path off the side of the highway. If he chooses to follow this gravel road, he’ll find himself flanked by Eastern Hemlocks and Red Cedars, whose branches tangle together and the leaves whisper secrets like sisters do. “She’s here”, they’ll say. “She’s home”. At the end of this lane, the rider will encounter a house, and a gale will blow in the heart of the woods, announcing the good news to all of the forest: their child was home.

Steve turned off his motorcycle. When the rumble quieted, you heard some Blue Jays singing in the distance. Your lower back complained when you stretched, yet your boyfriend appeared completely unperturbed by the long ride.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, gaze circling the clearing, going from the house made of stone and wood to the trees surrounding it.

The door opened and an older woman skipped down the porch steps. You’d seen her a mere three weeks ago, yet your grandmother somehow looked older, more fragile. The disease was taking its toll on her body, causing her to be out of breath when she hugged you.

“You’re not supposed to run, grandma,” you chidded. She was shorter than you, shoulders slumped by age and illness, but you still hid your face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the gentle scent of home and family.

“Can you at least say hello before you start scolding me?” she replied, wrinkled hands grabbing each side of your face, as if to assess any damage. “Being in love suits you, darling. You look beautiful!”

You flustered, lips opening up in a perfect, embarrassed pout, but she was unfazed, shifting her attention to the other guest.

“You must be Steve!”, she beamed. “It’s wonderful to meet you.”

Your grandmother kissed both of Steve’s cheeks, leaving him stunned.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Y/L/N,” he cleared his throat, a soft pink blush crawling up his cheeks.

“Oh, no!” she dismissed him. “Please call me Meredith. Now, come inside. You must be tired from the journey.”

She waved you into the house, up the rickety wooden stairs and past the veranda whose railings you used to perch on to catch raindrops with your tongue.

“I’m so happy you could join us for Thanksgiving, Steve,” Meredith said as the three of you crossed the threshold. “Did you know it’s Y/N’s favorite holiday?”

“Grandma!” you reprimanded.

“What?” she raised her eyebrows, feigning innocence.

You raised your own, a silent warning for her not to at least wait until dinner to start with the embarrassing stories. Thankfully, he was oblivious to the quiet exchange.

The house reminded Steve of a cabin he stayed with his ma in upstate New York for a few months when he was eight, after a doctor suggested that the mountain air might be good for his lungs. He remembered the whistle of a train, it's red wagons gleaming brightly under the spring light, and the way it sped through fields and forests, almost to the beat of his racing heart. He remembered the smell of grass and the buzz of the cicadas singing in the late afternoon. He remembered going back to the city after his birthday and telling Bucky that the woods were magical.

The memories flowed through his bloodstream as he entered your home. The front door revealed a small living room that someone - that undoubtedly looked a lot like Tony Stark - might call cramped, but Steve thought it was cozy. Knit blankets were thrown over a cream-colored couch sitting opposite a built-in-the-wall fireplace. Across from the entrance, a large window overlooked a glittering pond and, behind the couch, there was a bookshelf overflowing with volumes, portraits and trinkets. A staircase, which he supposed was as rickety as the one outside, led to the second floor.

"You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Y/L/N," he complimented, in a voice that sounded somewhat distant to his ears, as though muffled by nostalgia.

"Meredith!" your grandmother corrected him, clearly pleased by the compliment. "And thank you! My husband and I moved here in the 1990's after he retired from the Military. We did some renovations back then, and I suppose it's time I do it again, but oh well..."

She trailed off, fast feet scurrying to the kitchen in a silent order for you to follow her, yet Steve turned to you:

"Your grandfather was in the Army?"

"Yep. My dad, too," you said, avoiding his gaze.

"You never told me that," he pointed out.

You sighed: "I know."

"Why?"

His hands went to his waist, in that defensive stance you knew all too well, and his jawline clenched in frustration.

Your phone buzzed in your back pocket, saving you from answering - at least for now.

"It's Fury," you showed him the screen. "I have to take this."

You turned, bolting outside before Steve could protest.

He exhaled, rubbing his eyes furiously. Hearing the soft tinkling of glasses coming from the kitchen, he trailed your grandmother's footsteps.

"Would you like some sweet tea, Steve?" she smiled.

He nodded, thanking her as he took the glass. Meredith groaned as she sat at the dinner table and Steve's heart squeezed in his chest. Theoretically, the woman was younger than he was, yet their bodies - and their lives - were many decades apart.

"She didn't tell you about them, did she?" Meredith asked, contemplating him with eyes just like yours.

Steve shook his head.

"Please, don't be mad at her. It's a hard subject for Y/N," the woman said. "Would you get that picture frame for me, please?"

With a bony finger, Meredith pointed at a double portrait sitting at the countertop: Both pictures showed young men in military garb, but one was noticeably older than the other, in black and white with sepia coloring the edges.

"John and Michael," she said, cradling the portrait as one would an infant. "John and I met in Japan. My father was a veteran from the Pacific, and in the late 50’s the Navy stationed him in Okinawa. So, long story short, I was this rebellious daughter of a high-ranking officer who wanted nothing to do with wars and the military and John was a good boy from Pensylvannia drafted to fight in Vietnam. Still, we fell in love, eloped and I moved to Philly while pregnant with Michael, but John only joined us in 1972.”

“Wow,” Steve smiled genuinely. “That’s incredible.”

“It is,” Meredith nodded. “And he was an incredible man. Earned all the medals he was honored with. He made it to Sergeant Major, you know? But when Michael made the decision to join S.H.I.E.L.D, John retired.”

"Y/N’s father was a S.H.I.E.L.D agent?" Steve gaped.

Meredith pursed her lips.

"My husband was a righteous man. He believed his institutions and he loved them. And Michael, like everyone that knew John, admired his father and his career. So, like any boy in his position, Michael enlisted. But he was different… I think he liked the thrill, the adrenaline rush that came with the danger.

"I'm not entirely sure how or when he joined S.H.I.E.L.D., but one evening he left Y/N on our doorstep, saying that it would be best for her if she stayed with us from then on," she continued. "He visited very little after that."

Despite the brisk autumn weather, Steve's glass of sweet tea was wet with perspiration, as if the tales he'd just heard were so alive in this house they could manifest themselves in the air, in an introduction to the absent characters.

"What happened then?" he asked, unsure if he wanted an answer.

“Well," Meredith sighed. "The official report said an IED hit his convoy in Iraq, but shortly before he left Michael said he was going to Northern Europe, so…”

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispered.

"I know," your grandmother said, and she meant it. If anyone could share her pain of losing too much to the military, it was Steve Rogers. "I know you do."

She slid her forearm across the table and squeezed his hand gently. There was so much kindness in her gaze that Steve nearly cried.

"It's not my place to meddle in your relationship," she said. "You're both adults. But please be careful with my granddaughter, Steve. She has a lot of love to give, she just doesn't know that."

Behind Meredith's frame, her bright yellow headscarf catching the light coming through the open window, Steve could see you pacing back and forth in the lawn with your phone in your ear. Tiny specks of dust glinted where the luminesce was brighter and in his mind they were the pieces of your puzzle, coming together for him like a gift from the extraordinary place you called home. He always thought you belonged at the Triskelion, sitting behind a computer or looking down at a tablet, cracking digital enigmas as fast as he could draw his next breath, but what a lovely mistake this was.

Maybe he was high on the sugar from the sweet tea, or maybe he just desperately wanted a piece of the love your grandmother told him about, but Steve thought about black holes - those wondrous forces of nature he learned about on TV a few weeks ago while cuddling you on the couch. Like a black hole, your gravity was so strong that nothing - not the grass, not the leaves, not a single fiber of Steve Roger's being - could escape your hold.

The woods were a small universe, and you were it's center.

The last of the boxes was emptied on Christmas Day.

It had snowed in the evening, leaving a light dust of white covering the grounds outside. If the temperature kept on lowering, the pond might freeze by January. When you opened the final cardboard package and found your old ice skates, you thought you should fix the rusted blades in case that happened. Or perhaps not. You were never the most skilled skater and there was no else here to drive you to the ER in case you broke your arm - it wouldn't be the first time.

For years, the house in the woods sat quiet - some during which the three-hour journey proved perfect for your grief to turn the car around and give up visiting and others when you were declared as dead as your ancestors. It was in urgent need of repairs, filled with the belongings you packed after your grandmother’s passing, but never found the courage to give away. But the heat was working. That would be enough for now.

"Are you sure you're going back there?" your cousin asked as you finished loading the car with your things. There wasn't much - your furniture was sold with the apartment and most of your clothes were moth-eaten and frayed from their long stint at a cramped storage unit.

"I've taken up your space for too long," you said. Olivia was your cousin from your mother's side, and like everyone from that part of your family, you shared little to none connection. You'd gone to her out of desperation, because you'd rather stay with your far-flung cousin after returning from the dead than with your not-so-ex-boyfriend who left you two - or was it seven? - years prior and you were extraordinarily glad she took you in. But like it always happened with your mother's family, it became too much, too soon. "Besides, it's time for me to move on."

Olivia hugged you before you drove away and it was stiff and awkward. You wouldn't miss her and you were sure she wouldn't either.

You programmed the GPS on your phone, but somewhere past Newark, you realized with a start that you were always one step ahead of it. It was like the way home was ingrained in your heart, despite the new buildings and the fresh pavement. It went beyond street lights and stop signs, following a map made of veins and arteries, rather than just paper and ink.

Rain started pouring heavily when you reached Reading and you nearly missed the gravel road off the side of the highway, but it was there, as unperturbed as the forest encircling it. As a child, you'd give them names and personalities, and dream up conversations they'd have with each other - Betty and Inez, the Hemlock twins; James, the Red Cedar; sweet Rebekah, the Sugar Maple. It felt stupid, but you wondered if they'd left too, like you did. If when the snap came, their soul was dusted from the bark, leaving nothing but trunk and root.

"No," you muttered to yourself. They'd stayed. They'd stayed and guarded the woods.

The first three days were daunting. You'd sleep until noon and spend the rest of the afternoon trying to book tickets to wherever in the world you thought would be the perfect place to start over, but something invisible always held you back from actually buying. On the fourth day, you emailed the lawyer, asking about the possibility of putting the house for sale. On the fifth day, while rearranging the boxes, you tripped and they fell, spilling hundreds of pictures on the timbered floor.

When you bent down to collect them, the first face you noticed was your father. He had a wide, carefree smile as he gently held you standing on a chair. You were looking down at a cake, where a big candle shaped like a "3" was lit up. You tiny hands were clapping, and your father looked at you with all the love in the world.

You never doubted his love as a child. You just didn't understand why he wouldn't visit often or why he couldn't have a job like the other kids' dads - a job that kept him close so he could tell you that he loved you, instead of whispering it in a forehead kiss every few months. As an adult, you still didn't doubt it - but you knew that he loved his job more. Still, seeing the affection so clear on his face was comforting.

An older, gray-haired, version of your father smiled in another picture - your grandfather. He was wearing a flannel shirt and a blue cap, and he held you on your shoulders. You remembered that it terrified you to swing in the air as he lifted you, but the moment he placed you on his back, you relaxed.

“Don’t ever let me fall, grandpa,” you’d beg, little hand clasped tightly around his.

"Never, sweet pea," he'd promise.

Behind the photograph, your grandmother had written: "John and Y/N. Summer, 1994".

She was notably absent from most of the pictures, you noticed. They must’ve been taken around the time she became interested in photography, and would spend hours experimenting with a Kodak she got at the flea market. You, on the other hand, was the perfect model - posing at the swing, by the pond, with your legs crossed in the big armchair, always smiling, always happy.

You didn’t remember this particular box from when you organized the house after her death. The photographs must’ve been stored away for nearly a decade, judging by the dust that covered them. There were albums, as well - Y/N’s first birthday, Y/N’s first school day, Y/N’s first trip to the beach - but the amount of pictures was so abundant that most were kept loose.

Dusk came and went, and, on the dawn of the sixth day, you made the decision to unpack the house.

You started with the kitchen - crystal glasses, the porcelain dish set your grandparents got as a marriage present and the beautiful Portuguese pottery. The living room came next with the books, portraits and an elaborate scheme to clean the hearth of the fireplace that you immediately regretted. You moved the furniture around the upper floor to the point you thought the ceiling might collapse, but eventually you managed to turn the mattress and push the queen bed to the window side of the master bedroom.

And when you found your old ice skates, tangled with an ancient string of Christmas light, you decided to hang them in the mantelpiece. Some of the tiny light bulbs were burnt or broken, bathing the room in a messy, uneven golden glow.

Like you, you thought. Damaged, but perhaps you could still shine again.

During the time you spent tidying up the house, you tried your best to ignore the nagging sensation that maybe this was a mistake. That wistfulness shouldn’t grow roots and boxes should stay closed, just like the dead stay dead. But you hadn’t. And when your fists crushed the last piece of cardboard, you wept. Not because you were haunted, but because you were wrong. You thought returning home would be haunting, that you would see your grandparents at every nook and corner, but you were mistaken. The creak of the wooden steps, the marks on the door frame for every inch you grew, the soft slope of the book bindings in the shelf - all of it brought back only the most generous memories of your childhood, and you basked in the newfound revelation that they were filled with a love so strong and abundant that it drowned even loud noise of absence.

You missed your grandparents, almost to the point of desperation, but there was a fondness in your grief now, because you were finally safe, in the home they built for you.

With the realization, came the decision. So in the space between Christmas and the New Years, you made three phone calls:

One for a therapist’s office in Reading, scheduling an appointment for the second week of January.

One for the bank in Switzerland where you'd wired all the money you made in your profitable years at S.H.I.E.L.D.

And one for a contractor, who, after much cajoling and the promise of advanced payment, agreed to start your renovations in early 2024.

Despite the state-of-the-art acoustics of Stark Tower, Tony’s buoyant countdown to the New Year was drowned out by the large crowd gathered outside, waiting for the Times Square’s ball drop.

The excited cheers rattled the bullet proof glass of the windows and the comforting press of Steve’s palm on your lower back tightened as the seconds closed in on midnight. Gentle finger - too gentle for a soldier - took your chin, angling your head towards his. Your hands wrapped around his shoulder, mindful of the crystal flute halfway filled with bubbly champagne.

“Happy New Year, sweetheart,” he whispered right before he kissed you. It was slow, just the calm press of his lips and easy flicks of his tongue, the sweet lingering taste of Asgardian mead. A hand cradled the back of your head and you sighed, pushing your body further into his.

And like a firework show, it burned too fast, too brightly - sparkling in the starless night before fading away in thunderous applause.

“For a man who saved the world, you look awfully glum.”

Steve let out a dry laugh.

“How should I look, then?” he asked before taking a swig of his beer. He was well into his fourth bottle, but it wasn’t like the alcohol had any effect on him.

“Less miserable, maybe?” Bucky shrugged, plopping down next to Steve on the couch. He raised his own beer bottle: “I can’t believe how fast the refrigerator worked!”

“You spent two years in Wakanda, Buck. Modern technology shouldn't surprise you as much."

“I spent two years in Wakanda in a hut," Bucky retorted. "Besides, for all the greatness of hovercrafts and magnetic shields, there's just something so fantastic about chilling a beer in half an hour..."

“I can’t wait for when you finally master the art of the microwave,” Steve snickered.

“They’re confusing, ok?” Bucky grumbled.

They settled in comfortable silence, watching a blonde popstar perform at the New Year's Eve concert in Times Square. She was halfway through a beautiful rendition of Robbie Williams’ Angels when Bucky spoke again.

"Did you call her?" he asked. "Your girl?"

Steve hadn't told Bucky about you, but he knew. He'd seen you at Natasha's memorial service and he noticed the way his best friend got home afterwards, as well as his sullen mood in the weeks that followed.

In their youth, Steve always mocked Bucky's easy infatuations. "You can't live out of love affairs, Buck," he'd say and Bucky would roll his eyes. He lived for the hot rush of blood flushing his skin in the dark, hot corners of a speakeasy as lips trickled his ear or fingernails scratched his scalp. He longed for the soft brush of fingers circling a wrist or the bump of noses before hungry mouths met. And in his juvenile ignorance, Bucky thought his life would be too short to just no have them all - so he had them.

When the war came, Bucky believed Steve had found his match with Peggy. They were complimentary in every way - both righteous, stubborn, never backing down from a fight. And what a fight it was - so grand, so terrible, so cold. There was no room for love or heartbreak those days, only combat. Steve and Peggy's courtship was a promise, meant for better times - but they never really came.

The friend Bucky encountered in 2016 was different - still tenacious and daring, but almost to the point of recklessness. Steve wasn't satisfied in snuffing out the fires, he ignited them now. Their experiences awakening in this new world were much different, but Bucky supposed they were the same kind of nearly maddening decipherment. Besides, he may have his doubts about himself, but not about Steve Rogers.

Bucky Barnes knew a broken heart when he saw one.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you about her," Steve muttered.

"You don't have to apologize," Bucky said. "I am curious, though. Sam wouldn't tell me anything."

Steve chuckled.

"Of course not. Her name is Y/N,," he started. "We met when I went to work at S.H.I.E.L.D. She was an intelligence agent, so we were always working together and… She is so smart, funny, kind and beautiful, Buck. Everyone was walking on eggshells around me, meanwhile she was giving me shit for not knowing who Beyoncé was."

"Who's Beyoncé?" Bucky asked.

"The greatest performer in the world," Steve stated. "Anyway, we became friends and after a few months, I asked her if she wanted to go on a date."

"You did?" Bucky gasped.

"I was a mess," Steve groaned. "You would've given me so much shit about it. But she said yes! And then we had a second date, a third date, a fourth date… She was the one that found out about you."

"She did?"

Steve nodded, tearing the wet label of his beer.

"She uncovered Hydra's plot inside S.H.I.E.L.D. - Pierce, Project Insight, you. After the fallout, Fury managed to take most of the blame, if you can even call it that, but she still had to testify before Congress. They treated her like some kind of criminal. By then I was already back in New York, living in the Tower, working with the Avengers again. Tony was really impressed with her work so we offered her a job."

"And did she say yes?" Bucky asked.

"She wanted to go to school, learn something new. Find another trade, any trade that didn't involve secrets and conspiracies, but I begged her to accept the position. And not for the right reasons."

"What do you mean?"

"Y/N was - is - incredibly resourceful. And I wanted to find you, find Loki's scepter, punch bad guys, save the world. I wanted to be a superhero and I knew that with her I could. I felt secure in her abilities and secure in her affections. She was my safe zone, but I don’t think I was hers - or at least I don’t think I let her know that. We weren't perfect but we were fine, I think, until the Accords happened. She wasn’t a signatary, but she agreed with Tony and Natasha and that felt like the worst kind of betrayal. The night before Peggy’s funeral we had a massive fight. I called her a coward, said…” Steve hesitated.

“Said what?” Bucky coaxed.

Steve exhaled heavily. “I said that Peggy would’ve never done that to me.”

“Jesus, Stevie,” Bucky sighed, running a hand through his newly cut hair. “You’re an idiot.”

“I know,” Steve said, but acknowledging it after all was said and done was useless. “I left for London that night without saying goodbye. And then… Everything happened.”

“Did you contact her at all while you were away?” Bucky asked.

Steve didn’t reply, but the answer was clear in his quietude. "Sometimes silence is louder than sound," you used to say. He finished off his beer, dropping the empty bottles on the coffee table with a thud.

“When Vision was attacked in Edinburgh and we brought him to the Compound I actually thought I’d see her there, you know?” he confessed. “Like it was all a bad dream and I’d find her waiting for me like she always did. But the computers were turned off, the jacked she kept on the back of her chair was gone. It was like she was never there.”

He continued: “So I went to her apartment - our apartment - and I couldn’t even look her in the eye. I was the coward, not her, never her. I was the worst kind of bastard, showing up unannounced after vanishing for years, as if I had a right to any of her answers…”

His breath hitched and Steve rubbed his eyes furiously. Bucky put his own beer down and pat his friend on the back.

“You couldn’t have known what would happen next, Steve,” he said. “That is not a guilt you should carry.”

“I can’t erase the image of her sitting in that hospital bed, Buck,” Steve croaked. “She was so lost and scared. I keep thinking that, even if everything was the same - Thanos, the snap, those five fucking pathetic years - if I’d just been braver, we’d be together now. The worst part of everything is that I let her think she meant nothing to me.”

“Where is she now?”

“At her childhood home in Pennsylvania. After Nat's funeral, she told me she needed to figure out what to do with her life, but she'd let me know once she decided,” Steve said. “Somehow I don’t think her plans include me.”

Bucky sighed.

“So you’re just going to quit?”

Steve frowned. “Quit?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “After everything, is this how the two of you will end?"

Steve opened his mouth, then paused. Bucky thought he looked like a big blonde dumb fish flapping in the wooden Red Hook docs he used to work at.

"I don't… Know?," he muttered hesitatingly.

"Clearly," Bucky snorted. "Pal, the guy I used to be is long gone. Hell, I might be the worst person to give out advice, but if you ask me, it sounds pretty stupid to sit here sulking while the only girl who's ever loved you for who you are is out there making plans that may or may not include you."

Steve perked up.

"You think I should go after her?"

"I think you should try," Bucky said. "First you left her, and then she Snapped. Her mind must be a mess! She has every reason to be confused, sad and especially angry, but you need to let her know that she's not alone."

Steve understood then: why it took so long for you to share your secrets and open your heart. Why you hated when he left for missions and the smallest of his wounds made you cry. Why you'd sometimes cling to him in the middle of the night.

"Don't leave me alone, Stevie," you begged once after your screams startled him conscious and he had to shake you awake from your nightmare.

"Never, sweetheart," he promised. But he failed you.

He craned his head, gaze finding his motorcycle keys hanging next to the door. If the snow wasn't too heavy, he could be in Pennsylvania in less than three hours.

"Please be careful with my granddaughter, Steve."

"Maybe wait until morning?" Bucky suggested, noticing where Steve's eyes had landed. "I'm presuming girls still like their beauty sleep, so maybe show up at her door at a reasonable hour?"

Steve laughed then, a real laugh.

"How did I spend eighty years without you, Buck?"

Bucky smiled.

"Trust me, pal. I have no idea."

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers imagine #marvel fanfiction #marvel fanfic #the woods #corneliabarnes #my writing

46 notes · View notes

thegistoffreedom · 4 years ago

Photo

Fanny Jackson Coppin & The Faculty at the Institute for Colored Youth after its move to Cheyney. The Institute for Colored Youth was formed in 1852 in Philadelphia. A Quaker goldsmith named Richard Humphreys had bequeathed $10,000 to Free blacks to help establish a private high school for Black children. His appointed board first opened a school on a farm in 1840, but the school closed a few years later. In 1848, a group of Black mechanics asked the board to open a school in south Philadelphia. The Institute’s most famous principal was Fanny Jackson Coppin, who began at the school as principal of the female department in 1865 and became principal of the entire school in 1869. Coppin hired many of the distinguished faculty and solicited benefactors from around the country. She retired in 1901. After Jackson’s retirement, Booker T. Washington persuaded the managers of the school to shift to a more vocational education. The Institute moved to Cheyney, Pennsylvania in 1902 and became Cheyney State Teachers College (now Cheyney University of Philadelphia). ------------------------- Sat. Feb.1~ Kick off Black History Month with 2 Free Philadelphia Events and The Screening: The Contradictions of Fair Hope The African American Museum in Philadelphia 2. Philadelphia's African American Children's Book Fair. 3. Signing at The Belmont Mansion Underground Railroad Museum The Contradictions of Fair Hope" Narrated by Whoopi Goldberg, Law and Order Actress, Epatha Merkerson co-produced and co-directed the film with Rockell Metcalf. Click here for additional info http://bit.ly/1aNEhBW WWW.TheGISTofFREEDOM.com www.BlackHistoryUniversity.com ---------------------------- The school was remarkable for its devotion to teaching Black children not just vocational training but also a “classical” education (training in arts and sciences). Sources: Darlene Clark Hine, Elisa Barkley Brown, Rosalyn Terborg-Penn (1993). Black Women in America: A Historical Encyclopedia. Carlson Publishing. http://explorepahistory.com/hmarker.php?markerId=1-A-37D http://www.cheyney.edu/about-cheyney-university/ https://www.instagram.com/p/CRAWeCGLl7j/?utm_medium=tumblr

4 notes · View notes

coochiequeens · 4 years ago

Text

While more women are entering the field of academic medicine, they are less likely to be recognised as experts, receive prestigious awards, hold leadership roles or author original research in major journals.

Research has now shown that papers written by women as primary and senior authors have roughly half as many median citations as those authored by men in high-impact medical journals.

Citations of peer-reviewed articles are seen as key indicator of scholarly impact: they are a key metric for academic recognition, influence, and acceptance by scientific communities, as well as in professional evaluations and promotions.

The study encompassed 5,554 articles published between 2015 and 2018 in five leading academic medical journals, of which 35.6% had a female primary author and 25.8% had a female senior author.

During this period, the articles with women as primary author were referenced in other academic articles a median of 36 times, versus 54 times for those with male primary authors. Women who co-authored with other women as senior authors had the fewest median citations, while men who co-authored with other men as senior authors had the most citations.

Given gender-based disparities in other aspects of medicineand academia, the findings are not particularly surprising. “In all likelihood, our findings of gender disparities in citations represent the tip of the iceberg,” the study’s authors wrote in the journal JAMA Open Network.Dr Rachel Werner, the study’s senior author and the executive director of the Leonard Davis Institute for Health Economics at the University of Pennsylvania, said that although there was general agreement on the need for greater diversity in medicine and science: “I have sat through meetings where women are routinely talked over – where their ideas are just dismissed – and then repeated by men in the room as if they’re original. I think this is just those unconscious things that happen on a regular basis.”One potential explanation is that men are more likely to self-cite. Preliminary evidence from other fields of academia has shown that men are up to 60% more likely to cite themselves in their own future work, said Dr Paula Chatterjee, an assistant professor of general internal medicine at Penn Medicine.“Even within the past decade or two we’ve seen some improvement at least in the representation of women in academic medicine, so I think that … allows for hopefulness,” she said. “But what the new literature is showing us is how entrenched these issues are, and how interconnected they are. The fact that citations are related to promotion and advancement makes it a particularly thorny problem.”Addressing the issue will not be easy. “I think that everybody has a role to play to really be conscious of … whose research they promote. I think it’s also [that] women tend to trumpet their own work less than men do,” Werner said. “I get called by reporters and almost always women call me, because I think people who make a conscious effort to find women to talk to can do it – but it does take effort.”

#Papers by women #Cite women #Women in medicine

3 notes · View notes

queenofcarrots · 5 years ago

Text

Manuscripts in Star Wars (And Star Wars Fan Fiction)

This is the text of a talk originally presented at the conference Fan Cultures and the Premodern World at Oxford University in July, 2019, organized by Dr. Juliana Dresvina of the Oxford History Faculty. This presentation represents a collaboration between myself and Dr Brandon Hawke of Rhode Island College, and is essentially a summation of our video project Sacred Texts: Codices Far, Far Away, (Introduction to the series at that link) and examples below will include links to brief conversations where Brandon and I talk about the examples in a bit more detail. This has also been posted on my academic blog but I’m cross-posting here to reach a different audience.

Hi, My name is Dot Porter, and I want to start by thanking Juliana for the wonderful organization of this conference, and also for including me in the program. This is very different from the kind of conference I normally present at – in my day job I’m a special collections curator at the University of Pennsylvania, specializing in medieval manuscripts, their digitization, and their post-digital lives. Basically I get paid to digitize medieval manuscripts and then play with them. (I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the Bibliotheca Philadelphiensis project, funded by the Council on Library and Information Resources, which is just finished, and through which we digitized and made available for reuse more than 465 codices from institutions in Philadelphia)

Aside from my family there are two things in life I adore: medieval manuscripts, and Star Wars. I must admit that while I am a scholar of manuscripts, of a sort, I am also a fan. I love manuscripts – the way they look, feel, smell; I love to hold a manuscript and think about all the other people who have touched it, and consider the signs of use that imply their long histories. This interest has led to current work on conceiving of medieval manuscripts as transformative works themselves, first presented at Leeds 2018 and work I’m continuing looking specifically as Books of Hours. (My original draft of this presentation featured some of this work, but it threatened to take over, so I axed it all; a blog post of my Leeds paper is on my blog, if you’re curious).

While I am arguably a manuscript scholar, I am most definitely not a scholar of fandom studies – you will, I’m sure, find my theory wanting – nor am I a scholar of Star Wars, but I am a fan. I do the things that fans do. I’m on Tumblr, although that platform is pretty dead now, and I have a fandom Twitter account, which is much more active. I write and consume fan fiction, and I regularly commission artwork to illustrate my stories and stories I would like to write. I have written exactly one notable meta, which was even picked up by the AV Club – they actually cited me, unlike many of the other websites, which only cited the person who stole my work and posted it on Reddit!

In Star Wars: The Last Jedi, released in December 2017, we were introduced, for the first time, to manuscripts in the Star Wars universe. I had avoided trailers and spoilers, so the first time I saw this was in the theater, and I was, as the kids say, shooketh. Not only one manuscript, but a whole shelf-full of them! And they’re important. Rey, our heroine, has been sent to the island of Ahch-to to bring Luke Skywalker back to help the Resistance, led by Luke’s sister General Leia Organa, defeat the First Order. Rey has been there for a day or so, following Luke around, making no headway, when she is called to the Uneti tree, a large, hollow, Force-sensitive tree that houses these manuscripts. It’s in the company of these books that Rey and Luke finally communicate with each other, when Rey admits that she has only recently come to the Force and that she needs Luke to train her to be a Jedi, and when Luke grudgingly agrees to give her some lessons, but also tells her that the Jedi must die. Exciting stuff, and the books are there to hear it.

According to Star Wars The Last Jedi: The Visual Dictionary, Luke Skywalker scoured the galaxy for these texts and collected them himself, storing them in the tree that we see in the film. So these texts weren’t originally all in one collection, they are from many different planets, potentially written in ten different places, ten different times, ten different languages and alphabets, although there’s only one we ever see in the film. The starwars.com blog post “Inside the Lucasfilm Archives: The Jedi Texts” gives us an up-close look at the prop book that was shown in the film; as you can see it’s a real book, written and bound, and even damaged. There are manuscripts in our collection at Penn that look not very unlike this book. It is a real manuscript.

This is one manuscript in the universe. What else do we know about manuscripts in star wars in general? To be honest: not much. But we do know that it is rare to write by hand (as opposed to writing with digital technology like data pads). In Claudia Gray’s novel Bloodlines, which takes place six years before The Last Jedi, Leia Organa is preparing for a fancy party when she finds a handwritten note at her seat, and she’s shocked: “Virtually nobody wrote any longer; it had been years since Leia had seen actual words handwritten in ink on anything but historical documents.” So it appears that, by the time the current films take place, there are no longer manuscripts being actively written in the galaxy, or at least it’s very rare.

Interestingly there is one character in the Sequel Trilogy who it is suggested knows how to write by hand: Kylo Ren, formerly Ben Solo. There is a scene – the same scene is actually shown three times, from three different points of view – where a young padawan Ben is sleeping and his Uncle, Luke Skywalker, comes to him and looks into his head, sensing great darkness in his dreams. Ben calls his lightsaber to either attack his uncle or defend himself against him, depending on the version of the scene, and in one of these shots we can see that he has a calligraphy set in his bedroom. We can see the set here, in a screenshot of his desk just before he calls his lightsaber over – which knocks over the pen and inkwell and jar of parchment scrolls in the process – and in The Art of Star Wars: The Last Jedi.

What else do we know about these specific books? There is concept art in The Art of Star Wars: The Last Jedi; including six internal pages and six shots of the bindings.

I remember looking at the concept art and thinking how alike and different they were from the manuscripts I’ve had the pleasure of working with at Penn, and I discovered that my Twitter mutual Brandon Hawke, an Assistant Professor of English at Rhode Island College, was having many of the same thoughts that I was. So in October of 2018, Brandon came down to Penn and we sat for hours in front of a green screen and talked about manuscripts and Star Wars, comparing books in the Penn collections to what we see of the manuscripts in the concept art. We’ve been posting snippets of our discussions on the Schoenberg Institute YouTube channel, and there’s a link at the top there if you want to check them out. So for most of the rest of this paper I’ll be walking through some of the possible comparisons between real manuscripts and the Star Wars manuscripts. I want to stress that we did this for fun, and not for science, and that we’re limited by the collections at Penn and by our own knowledge.

Consider yourself warned: The remainder of this presentation is essentially an educated fan, raving.

As far as Brandon and I have been able to determine, this is a previously unknown script in the Star Wars universe. When I saw it my mind immediately went to Ge’ez, shown here in an early 20th century book of Hymns from Ethiopia. There’s something about the blockiness that is just slightly curved, and a few of the letter forms are slightly similar although I don’t think that’s necessarily meaningful. (video)

We also made a comparison with Coptic, which is thinner, more curved, and perhaps a closer match. (video)

For the third example we looked not at the text, but at its layout on the page. We found a similarity with this 16th century collection of Persian poetry, both its illuminated header (similar in aspect to the illuminated blue line of text in the center of the ancient Jedi text) and the framing of the text. (video)

Aside from text, it is clear that the concept art of pages supplied to us here represent astronomical texts. This is really not surprising, considering that in the Star Wars universe we have a galaxy that seems to have been very closely connected, between planets and cultures, for a very long time, and so it makes sense that even the most ancient texts would be concerned with objects in the system – stars and planets and moons – and how they related to and interact with one another. And this is a major concern in medieval astronomical texts, too: these texts illustrate people trying to make sense of the system they live in, in the best way they know.

One of the pages in the jedi texts is the symbol of the Galactic Republic, but placed on some kind of chart, with characters dispersed through the chart and text – perhaps labels – along the outside. We found a similarity with this chart in LJS 57, a 14th century astronomical anthology from Spain. I don’t know exactly what this chart represents but I can tell you that astronomical texts are full of similar charts; it was one of the ways that medieval people made sense of the data they had available to them. (video)

Something similar is happening here, in LJS 449, a 15th century German medical and astronomical miscellany. These charts are perhaps a bit simpler than the Spanish chart, but they have that attractive blue coloring. Both the coloring and the arrangement of data around the circle reminded Brandon and me of the diagrams on this page of the Jedi texts. (video)

The next three slides show diagrams from LJS 26, a mid-13th century copy of Johannes de Sacro Bosco’s, Algorismus and Tractatum de sphaera, an immensely popular text that was copied and translated and commented upon from the time it was written in the early 13th century (it is possible that our copy was written during Sacrobosco’s lifetime) through the 16th century. It is full of diagrams illustrating the movement of the planets, and the sun, and the moon in relation to the earth. I personally find these diagrams most reminiscent of the two pages on the bottom left, although I feel like their organization suggests a sense of scale that is lacking in the medieval diagrams. (video)

Medieval astronomers only had to think about the earth, and the moon, and the sun, and a few other planets. On the other hand, the Star Wars universe operates on a whole other level – a galaxy with countless star systems and planets that aren’t even charted. When I look at these diagrams I see a clever attempt to illustrate scale using the relatively primitive technology of ink and paper in place of the star charts and 3D maps that we see in the films.

On the other hand, there are some really simple 1:1 comparisons to be made, such as this diagram, which pretty clearly illustrates the phases of a moon. (video)

I want to take a quick look at the bindings of these manuscripts, particularly this piece of concept art, which is quite similar to the prop that we see in the film.

This has a fairly standard binding structure, quite similar to LJS 102, the Ethiopic manuscript we looked at earlier, except for the front cover, which is built of three separate pieces that are obviously connected together. In western bindings, if a wooden cover were a composite of multiple pieces, we would expect that to be obscured, as in this late 13th century Catalonian manuscripts (It’s hard to tell, which is the point, but this cover is made of three pieces of wood).

The only example of a cover like this I’ve seen is from the Walters Art Museum, this 14th century Ethiopian Gospel book. The cover was broken and then sewn back together, but this was the result of an accident, not done on purpose.

My colleague Alberto Campagnolo also suggested that it is similar to the Chinese practice of writing on bamboo strips and binding them together, as in this 18th century example.

This is one instance where the artists who created these concepts have done an excellent job with suggesting a manuscript culture – in fact, several manuscript cultures, cultures that use what is available to them. There are two manuscripts here that appear to be bound in decorated tusks, one that has what appear to be shells embedded in a leather binding, and another that might be bound in hairy skin or – I like to think – had the binding grown on it underground. In any case these all suggest books written in different places, perhaps at different times, and as a manuscript scholar I find that fascinating.

Following up on this I wanted to see how the concept of the manuscripts was received by writers of fan fiction. As a fan author myself I have written a few stories featuring the ancient Jedi texts, but given my interests that made sense; I was curious to see what other authors have done with them. I think there’s more extensive work to be done here, but in reading through the 40 or so stories I was able to find (by searching AO3 for ancient jedi texts, and the “jedi text” tag) I discovered not surprisingly that the stories focused on the text of the books, not on their physical appearance (which is at least partially due to fan fiction being a written medium, vs. film being a visual medium) and that there are three main themes that can appear by themselves or be combined:

Rey can read the texts on her own, or she needs help (Kylo Ren, C3PO, Obi Wan Kenobi’s force ghost)

The translation is used to further the story (whether or not it happens)

The texts do something (e.g., magic spells)

What will happen next? Will there be manuscripts in the Rise of Skywalker, the final film in this last trilogy? Of course I hope so, and it seems likely. The Uneti tree was struck by lightning and burned, but Rey took the manuscripts with her (here is a screenshot of a drawer in the Millennium Falcon, at the very end of the film, showing the books clearly safe and tucked away)

and in the Poe Dameron comic #27 we learn that Rey has been working with C3PO to translate the texts.

And there’s also the spectre of Kylo Ren with a calligraphy set; if he had access to these manuscripts when he was studying with Luke Skywalker, it’s possible that he has read and perhaps even annotated some of the books. Only time will tell, and I for one can’t wait for December.

#star wars #meta #manuscripts #ancient jedi texts #jedi texts #medieval manuscripts

484 notes · View notes

mechknow-blog · 5 years ago

Text

Sat training center in Jefferson Ct, Downingtown, Pennsylvania

Interactive sat math is an institution which helps you to get a high score in SAT/PSAT, which can be useful for your future studies. You can interact with the concept and master it within a few minutes with the help of teaching videos. Interactive Sat Math Provides the new learning experience, which has three components that is watch it, interact with it and take the quiz. Top sat training center in Downingtown and Top sat training center in Pennsylvania.

Most colleges consider a student’s SAT score to be one of the most important factors when making admissions decisions – there’s no denying that a great SAT score can help you get into a top college. Let Interactive Sat Math help maximize your score and chances of earning admission to your dream college.

Higher scores on the SAT can mean the difference between going to college and getting into your dream college. Plus, with the right SAT scores, you may also be eligible for a scholarship. Each of them will help you better prepare, gain confidence in your skills and abilities, and achieve higher test scores, thus expanding your possible college choices.

You may take the SAT as many times as you want. Most students who take the SAT more than once take it first in the spring of their junior year, then again in the fall of their senior year.

0 notes

aswithasunbeam · 5 years ago

Link

A long overdue new chapter!

July 1813

Hamilton exhaled slowly through his nose as he set aside the latest Federalist newspaper in the stack waiting for Madison’s perusal. “The little occupant in the White House with his crippled army,” proclaimed the most prominent headline. Though clearly aimed primarily at Madison, the slight against Hamilton stung. He braced his hand against the wheels of his chair, lost in thought.

“General Hamilton?”

Looking up, saw a gentleman approaching from the direction of the President’s office. His wild hair, bushy brows, and piercing eyes gave him an almost menacing quality. The man thrust out a hand and waited, expressionless. Hamilton met his gaze steadily as he gave the hand a quick shake.

“Daniel Webster, sir. A great honor to meet you.”

Considering the name, Hamilton recalled, “The representative from New Hampshire?” One of the few Federalist victories in the last election. Considering how disastrous their campaigns had gone thus far, he couldn’t believe they hadn’t made more gains.

“That’s right, sir.”

“I appreciated your level-headedness over all the nonsense regarding secession in the North.” Webster inclined his head. “Though I must say your position on wartime taxes leaves something to be desired.”

“I don’t see why the Northerners should be forced to pay for a war that’s already bankrupting them.”

“Bankrupting the country as a whole will surely do little to redress their suffering,” Hamilton said.

“Respectfully, I disagree. I was sent to represent my constituents, and they expect me to stand up against this shameful excuse for a war. I won’t vote to force them to serve in the army; I won’t vote to raise their taxes; and I won’t vote to impose embargoes that will further injure their businesses. That’s the promise I made to them.” Webster glanced back over his shoulder towards the President’s office. “As I told the President, he’ll find no relief from my prescriptions.”1

Hamilton sighed even as he forced a smile to end the meeting. “Well, a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Webster.”

As Webster started down the hall, Hamilton pushed himself towards Madison’s now open office door. Just as he was about to cross the threshold, however, Mrs. Madison stepped in front of his path. She looked harried and exhausted, her hair lank and her fine gown a touch looser than usual.

“I’m sorry, General Hamilton, but he’s in no state to see anyone else,” she said.

“Let him in, Dolley,” Jemmy croaked from within the office.

Mrs. Madison turned her hard stare back to the interior of the office. Hamilton craned his neck slightly to see Jemmy lying listless on a settee, still dressed in his nightclothes, complete with his cap despite the blazing temperature outside. The raging bilious fever had taken a stark toll on Jemmy’s already feeble frame.

“It’s bad enough that awful man demanding to see you, James. I can’t—”

“Let him in.” Jemmy’s hand twitched in invitation.

Mrs. Madison reluctantly stepped aside and tapped the door closed when Hamilton had entered, though he noted that she’d remained in the office with them.

“You’re looking better, Jemmy,” Hamilton said as he stopped before the settee.

“Liar.” Jemmy smiled slightly. “What’s happened now? Not good news from Montreal, I suppose?”

“No. Last I heard, Hampton and Burr are both refusing to follow orders from Wilkinson. I can’t say that I blame them.”

“Wilkinson outranks them both.”

“Burr ought to be in charge. He turned a rout at Queenstown Heights into a near victory. He’s the best suited for command.”

“He’d barely made any progress after Queenstown,” Jemmy said dismissively.

“You know, Congress tried to remove Washington several times because he wasn’t making enough progress, in their view.”

“Are you trying to compare Burr with Washington?”

“I’m saying political timetables and effective military command don’t often mix well. And I don’t trust Wilkinson an inch.”

“He warned us about Burr’s treachery,” Jemmy argued, adjusting slightly to sit up more against the pillows piled behind him, his arm moving to guard his stomach.

“You don’t find that suspicious? That Wilkinson had so much information?”

“You’re the one who said Burr was innocent.”

“A court of law said that,” Hamilton corrected. Jemmy snorted derisively. “And Burr’s innocence doesn’t clear Wilkinson.”

Jemmy looked at him steadily, unmoved.

Shaking his head slightly, Hamilton said, “Wilkinson isn’t what I’m here to talk to you about, anyways. I’ve been getting more intelligence about Admiral Cockburn’s movements in the Chesapeake.”

“Is he still attempting to capture me and send me to London as a war prize?” Jemmy leaned his head back against his pillows as he clutched his belly through what appeared to be a cramp. “I’d make a sorry prize for them as I am now, I’m afraid.”

“You shouldn’t be so dismissive. Almost the entirety of our army is in Canada. If the British invade in the mid-Atlantic, they’d have their run of New York, Baltimore, even Washington.”

“What do you want to do about it?”

“Bring Burr or Hampton down with at least two battalions. Fortify the capital.”

“No.”

Hamilton sat back, stunned at the immediate and vehement refusal. “No?”

“We need to take Montreal. The Canadians will ally with us if we just make a strong enough showing against the British.”

“I very much doubt that, Mr. President.”

Jemmy’s eyes flashed. “We’re fighting for their freedom as much as ours. They’ll see that. They’ll join us.”

“I imagine it doesn’t feel much like fighting for their freedom when they’re being compelled to join us as gunpoint, Jemmy.”

“We’re not moving troops away from Montreal.”

Pausing a moment, Hamilton suggested, “I did have another idea.”

“What?”

“Cockburn is freeing enslaved men and women along the coast and arming them against us. If we were to remove the enticement by offering a similar arrangement with our army, we could build our numbers in the mid-Atlantic and the South without requiring any of our troops be moved from the Northern theater.”

Jemmy sat up fully, jaw gaping. “You can’t be serious.”

The astonishment was expected. Jack’s plan during the Revolution to give Black men the chance to fight for their freedom had been met with much the same reaction. The moment he’d heard about Cockburn’s strategy to free and arm enslaved men against the American army, Hamilton had known what the best solution to counter the British would be. He’d also known that the South would rather surrender to British rule than risk their despicable institution.

“I’m perfectly serious,” Hamilton said calmly.

“You want to arm slaves?”

“They’re going to fight either way. I’d rather they fight with us than against us.”

“The South would revolt! This is no time for your radical Northern…abolitionism.” The final word was uttered as if it were a curse, though Hamilton would consider his proposal neither radical, nor truly abolitionism.

“So, you would let prejudice and private interest outweigh the common good? Outweigh the safety of our capital city, even?”

“It’s not an option, Hamilton.”

He felt his pulse speeding up, even having known Madison would never entertain the suggestion. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Avarice has fitted our Southern brethren for the chain, so long as that chain be a golden one.”2

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” Hamilton huffed an unamused laugh. “It may not seem so dramatic when British troops are marching down Pennsylvania Avenue.”

“Washington surely won’t be a target. There are far more attractive cities. And besides, we’re sending emissaries to initiate peace talks. We may see an end to the war before any such drastic measures would even need to be contemplated.”

“If you say so, Mr. President.”

“Was there anything else?” Jemmy’s voice had gone faint, and he was breathing hard as he sank back deep into his pillows.

Mrs. Madison stepped forward, placing herself between Hamilton and Jemmy. “I think that’s quite enough for today. General.”

Hamilton nodded. “Of course, Mrs. Madison.”

Before he left the office, Mrs. Madison called out after him, “Give my love to Mrs. Hamilton, General, if you will?”

“Of course,” he agreed.

As he made his way down the hall, he found himself wishing desperately for Jack in a way he hadn’t in years. Jack had been young and idealistic, a Southern gentleman capable of making his plan a reality despite all that stood against him. Even when Jack had been alive, Hamilton didn’t have the same stubborn belief in America’s better angels necessary to see such a plan to fruition.

As he was assisted into the coach to head home, he felt utterly defeated.

The report he needed had been pushed accidentally to the far end of the desk. A quick glance told him his chair couldn’t be maneuvered into the tight space at the edges to allow him to reach. He could call for an aid, of course, or Betsey, but the sting of Jemmy’s immediate rejections, of his inability to sway his own party, of the mocking headlines, were all far too fresh.

His arms trembled as he pushed himself up from his chair, all his weight on the table. Sweat beaded on his brow. His legs were limp beneath him. Transferring his weight onto one hand, he reached out towards the report, muscles shaking.

“Alexander!”

He nearly fell, only just catching himself, his hip banging into the side of the table as he re-adjusted his weight onto both hands.

Betsey was at his side in a moment, her hands sliding around his waist to brace him. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

“Getting a report,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I’ll get it. Sit back down,” she urged.

“I’m not helpless!”

She didn’t recoil at his shouting. Her expression was soft as she soothed a hand down his spine. “I know that, sweetheart. I know.”

He closed his eyes, trying to calm his temper.

He felt her lean closer, her nose brushing his cheek tenderly.

“I’d nearly forgotten how tall you are,” she whispered. He opened his eyes and looked down at her face. His trembling arms gave way, and he fell back hard into his chair with a soft curse.

“Which report did you need?” Eliza asked. She looked away as he adjusted himself, allowing him to preserve at least some of his dignity.

“The Quartermaster’s report, please,” he asked, forcing his legs back into place. He rubbed a hand over his temple, a headache banging against his temples.

The sound of a chair dragging across the wooden floor drew his attention. Eliza settled in beside him, the report he’d requested now resting on the tabletop before him. Her hand rested on his forearm, her face open.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Hamilton admitted softly.

“Do you ever?”

He laughed. “Perhaps not.”

She leaned in to kiss his cheek.

“Madison won’t listen to me. Not about who to trust in command. Not about where to put our troops. And then, like a glutton for punishment, I raised the idea of offering freedom to the enslaved population to help defend the capitol and the Southern states.”

“Like Jack tried to do.”

It wasn’t a question, but he nodded. “Like Jack. Madison didn’t even consider it. He’s convinced the British won’t attack Washington.”

“It’s the capital,” she said, skepticism written in her expression. “Why wouldn’t it be a target?”

Hamilton shrugged. “He’s obsessed with the Northern theater. I just, I don’t know why I’m even here. What good am I doing? Giving endless advice that no one follows?”

“What do you want to be doing?”

“Something…meaningful.”

“You want to go north.” Again, she didn’t phrase it as a question.

“Not to the front. But…yes. I want to be on the field. I want to try to help in a way that will matter more than pushing paper around on my desk.” He waved to his overburdened table in disgust. “I need to feel like it matters that I’m here.”

She sighed. “Then we’ll go north.”

#hamilton fanfic #alexander hamilton #eliza hamilton #james madison #john laurens #daniel webster #life hereafter #tw: slavery

16 notes · View notes