#almost certainly has autism so I don’t take it personally or hold it against her

[spacemancharisma]

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[regrettablewritings]

Hey can I please get a, j and K from the fluff alphabet with the phantom aka Erik aka og aka my recent character crush? Thank you so much!

Okay, but this is the last fluff alphabet. Stuff is under the cut

A = Attractive (What do they find attractive about the other?):

Honestly, Erik is drawn to anyone who won’t treat him horribly. It’s sad, but absolutely true. Given his presumed lot in life, Erik hasn’t really been allowed too many opportunities to be especially picky. But going by his motivations, there are generally two stand-out things he seeks in a person: That they be adequate in looks, and that they don’t treat him like shit.

Before you criticize him on the temerity of the former, let it be known that it ties in to why he does so many of the things he does; why he demands a salary, for example: At the root of it all, what Erik wants is to have a normal life. Sure, he also wants said life to include his works being embraced the world over, but it’s more so on the grounds that he wants to do so as an absurdly talented but otherwise normal man. Particularly in the face.

He only accrues his wealth so that one day, by some grace of miracles, he will be able to join that world above him. And when that day comes, he will be prepared; he can afford a house and fill it with lovely things, including a lovely wife. One whom he can spoil and treasure and whose arm will link with his own as they walk through the park on Sunday evenings and who will love him as dearly as he shows his love for her . . . Really, for all that Erik does, it’s as much for his hypothetical wife as it is for him.

But given how hard he’s fumbled in the past, he really can’t afford to be especially picky. In addition to this, how beautiful he finds someone is also heavily influenced by how they treat him: To Erik, to be shown kindness is to see the kindness of God. However, please note that at this point, he’s almost certainly accepting of even forms of pity; just please do not reject him or treat him as a monster.

Of course, your kindness is what set him off but to Erik’s credit, he had learned to be better since the last time: He learns about the importance of having an ever-patient partner, especially for the likes of him; he learns that for as frustrating as it can be, there’s something good in having a significant other who’s not afraid to put their foot down or call him out on his unintentional moments of arrogance; he learns how to value himself more, to not accept pity as an accepted form of tolerance if it could be helped. But most of all, he realized just how much nicer it was to have someone whom he could actually discuss with, someone who was capable of forcing him to better himself by valuing what they had to say or what they thought.

Given how long he’d only had to think for himself, it’s a bit of a force of habit on the Opera Ghost’s part. But, given the proper guidance and adjustment period, it’s not one he altogether minds letting go of. Over all, what he’s attracted to in you is that you have a hold over him. And given the sort of life he’s led up to this point, it feels nice to be held.

Thankfully, you were much simpler: You liked the enigma that was the Phantom of the Opera. It took you ages to so much as pry out his name despite the fact that he’d been so willing to share with you his music much sooner. Frustrating, yes, but you couldn’t help but find yourself intrigued by it all, intrigued by his world away from worlds you knew. You loved how complex he was, being so dominant yet vulnerable, so competent yet in need of guidance. You loved how in spite of everything, he was incredibly learned for a man of the era, how his library consisted of no shortage of foreign literature and music books filled to the brim with his notes.

You loved how everywhere you looked, even after learning his habits, his interests, his joys and sorrows, there was always something more to learn about your lover. In short, you loved everything that made Erik, (literal) warts and all.

J = Jealousy (Do they get jealous?):

. . . You know damn well that Erik gets jealous. This man’s possessiveness, in fact, is ripe enough to drive the plot of a story – and has! However, it might be proposed that we generally are not completely aware as to why Erik displays territorialism as intensely as he does. And in my honest opinion, it comes down to two main reasons which continuously entwine with one another: That Erik is on the autism spectrum, and that even without that, Erik’s life has made him consequently overprotective.

On the subject of the former, without making a lesson out of this, it’s not uncommon at all to select a person you’ve essentially “invited” into your life and attach yourself to them. A sudden change of that, depending on the person, could prove distressing – like, say, a potential threat suitor taking your attention off of him, getting a bit too close to you for the Phantom’s comfort, and so on. As Erik sees it, you’re his person, and frankly he isn’t fond of sharing. You’re a part of his life now, one he especially doesn’t want to have changed.

Going off this, it also helps to remember that Erik’s life has been incredibly unstable for the most part. Him living on an underground lake located in a labyrinth beneath a Parisian opera house has actually been the most structured his life has ever been! The only thing that has accompanied him all this time has been that monkey-shaped music box, so it’s fair to assume that he’s since developed a bit of . . . avidity. What few things life has given him, he intends to keep by as many means as necessary. Sometimes (at least in his mind), those means can just mean pulling pranks about the opera house so that a single, untalented performer doesn’t ruin the establishment’s reputation. Other times, it means flinging balls of fire at those whom he deems are threats.

He knows that, in the end, you’re far from pleased but he just can’t help himself: You’re one of the only good things that have graced his life, let alone one of the only ones that appears willing to stay -- he’s grown accustomed to having you around and if you were to suddenly, well, not be because some handsome, rich, talentless, impudent child had gained your attention, then he would be devastated! So much so that he might act on his aggressions . . .

(Though, let it be clarified that it is not your job to better Erik. Voice your disagreement about his desires, as these are not meant to justify his antics; only explain them. He’s thankfully since learned to be somewhat more agreeable than before, so it isn’t impossible to make him yield.)

K = Kiss (How do they kiss? Who initiated the first kiss?):

If you were expecting the world’s most secluded man to be a naturally-gifted kisser, than you are sadly and extraordinarily mistaken. Erik’s kisses are wobbly and uncertain, as though he were unsure of where to put his lips (which he is). It was like that the first time you’d kissed, and it’s safe to assume they’ll continue to be of similar nature for a while with some dosage of insecurity in them or another.

However, you couldn’t have wanted for anything more. You see, the first time the two of you shared a kiss, it had been a bit of an effort of both parts. It’s honestly hard to determine whom the proper initiator had been: One might say it was Erik, as he had been the one to hover so closely to you; all you had been doing at the moment was leafing through one of his books on poetry whilst taking up residency on his lounge. However, another might argue that you were silently yet intentionally ensorcelling him when you glanced behind to find him staring at you: You did, after all, grace him with a shy yet warm smile. But then again, Erik’s eyes bore into you with the same hunger and pleading as a pup demanding attention (and perhaps a snack) from its master -- there was simply no way to misinterpret his longing!

But then you invited him over, voicing how “standing over there looks far lonelier than sitting right here” might’ve been. But then, perhaps, Erik was too eager in his footsteps, too brisk in spite of his thundering heart? Or were you well aware when you insisted he scoot closer to you so that he could read along with you? Whatever the case, his figure remained stiff as it sat next to you, leaving a painfully thin but painfully there wall of silence between the two of you. You could just barely feel the faintest brush of the very fiber of his clothes against you. But what you swore you felt much more vibrantly was . . . this sense of need.

“Erik,” you spoke, shattering the quiet, “I’m afraid I’m having trouble deciphering this . . . Would you mind . . .?” Your voice trailed as you lifted the book only enough for him to see. However, it would only be enough for him to see if he made an effort to move even closer to you. He parted his lips; you could hear the beginnings of an effort to deny you, only for him to rescind. It was not in his nature, as Erik was coming to find, to deny you the sound of his voice or his attention.

The threat of a shudder racked your body as the fine threads of his jacket scratched against your arm, the slightest hint of Erik’s nerves trickling through them. He was just close enough for you to register his warmth, what little he tended to give off anyway. It was perfect.

Craning his neck as far as he would allow himself to, Erik obliged you:

“Till, ho,” his voice recited, low but clear. Warm yet distant.

“Astarte bright Rose o’er the shadowy vale And filled the whole deep night With crystalline low light, White, tremulous, and pale.”

Tremulous, you noted. Much like himself. Much like the endless night he so dominated . . .

“Then on the star-lit bank,” he continued, “Dreaming of what love’s bliss is, we --” He paused. He furrowed his brow before releasing it once more. You dared to believe that the Opera Ghost was blushing!

Tremulous indeed, he tried to start once more, “W. . . we . . .”

“’Trembled,’” you assisted, a hint of a smile playing on your lips.

“Mm,” he hummed, far too flustered to consider making it tuned. “W-we . . . trembled . . . and we sank . . .” He sighed heavily, the end in sight.

“And thro’ her lips I drank Her soul in rapturous kisses . . .”

Once more, the Phantom exhaled heavily, albeit more so from embarrassment than before. He didn’t recall adding that piece to his library, not that it wasn’t something he wouldn’t normally own. Still, the thought that he had exposed himself in such a manner, much less to you . . . It was inappropriate to say the least! Against his already buzzing nerves, he spared you a glance to determine the amount of damage he might have caused your relationship.

To his surprise, you didn’t appear to be very flustered, if at all! In fact, you appeared to be intrigued. Very intrigued, if one were to gain evidence in how you appeared to be leaning in ever so slightly. If Erik had ever questioned what the flames of Hell might have felt like, he would have dared theorize they felt as his burning face did in that moment.

“‘In a rapturous kiss’,” you repeated. He wasn’t certain how to reply; he only offered a curt nod. You blinked, almost sheepishly.

“Erik . . .” you breathed, “would you . . .?”

“. . . Y. . .” The word never came out. Not because it had been sudden, but because the man was simply unable to even process even a one-worded sentence. It was all, in fact, very slow in movement: From how he inched in closer; to how you leaned in further; to the way your eyes fluttered shut; to how Erik, almost childishly, struggled to determine the proper angle at which to make the connection.

It felt like an eternity and yet fleeting all at once. And yet, the kiss did happen. Messily, awkwardly, and not nearly anything like the poets in Erik’s book might have written.

But, oh, was it nonetheless tremulous and tender, yet burning.

Rapturous.

Thank you for being patient!

[eirian-houpe]

All Our Past Mistakes - Chapter 8

Fandom: Once Upon a Time (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Milah/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Belle/Gaston (Once Upon a Time)

Characters: Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Belle (Once Upon a Time), Milah (Once Upon a Time), Red Riding Hood | Ruby, Gaston (Once Upon a Time), Mad Hatter | Jefferson

Additional Tags: Angst, AU, Smut, Accidental Voyeurism, Assault, Extramarital Affairs, Child Neglect, non cursed storybrooke, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape/Non-con Elements, Dubious Consent, Teacher-Student Relationship

Summary: Doctor Gold, professor of history at the local campus of Maine University, is stuck in a loveless, and one might say abusive relationship with a wife who is less than attentive to their family, and whom he suspects cares little for her marital vows. His resolve to maintain his own faithfullness is sorely tested by the presence of one of his new students - a junior by the name of Belle French - whom it seems fate is determined to put in his way. The two become embroiled in a passionate, and redemptive relationship, but not before suffering numerous setbacks and separations.  This is no instantaneous happy ever after, but a tale of two hurt souls finding their way together through darkness and despair.

Read Previous chapters on AO3

[Chapter1]  [Chapter 2]  [Chapter 3]  [Chapter 4]  [Chapter 5]  [Chapter 6]  [Chapter 7]

Chapter 8 - Truth and Dare

Gold felt what he was to ask, what he was saying, was wrong even as the words came tumbling out of his mouth, but he couldn’t help himself in the face of Belle’s genuine concern. He couldn’t remember the last time - or ever - that anyone, no… amend that, he told himself, any woman had shown him even a modicum of care. It was both a relief and painful at the same time. Even so, to involve Belle, his student in his personal life was…

“For several weeks now, Mrs Gold and I have been… somewhat estranged and—”

Belle held up her hand to stop him, and he did at once, his entire body almost sagging in relief with the thought that she was about to tell him that this was all none of her business, and he shouldn’t be speaking of it to her, no matter that she’d just collected his son from school and was to be the boy’s tutor.

“Before you go on, Sabrael,” she said softly, and he felt the tension prickle at the base of his spine again, “I feel I should tell you something Bastion said to me earlier.”

He looked into her face then, into her eyes and thought he saw the same kind of war going on inside of her as was inside of himself. “Go on,” he said slowly.

“Bastion said that his mother often took him with her to visit a man he named ‘Kellon,’ on a boat, and that they take ‘naps’ together… and that he has to wear what he called a ‘puffy orange thing’ in case he falls in.” She shook her head, “I could make assumptions as to what all of that means, but…”

Gold shook his head as she trailed off. He didn’t need for her to spell it out, and it was the confirmation he needed, but didn’t want. He sighed, shook his head again and spat with heavy sarcasm, “At least they put him in a fucking life vest.”

He felt Belle’s fingers tighten over his arm, and he took a deep breath, and then covered her hand with his as she said, “You don’t seem all that surprised.”

“I’m… not. Not really,” he said. “I had my attorney draw up papers weeks ago, just didn’t feel that it was… proper to file them; like I didn’t have reason, but… today my son’s doctors suggested that his learning difficulties are not because of autism or ADHD or any other ill, but because of his emotional interactions with his mother. She refused to hear it of course - even went so far as to dare to call him retarded, and then, just before I called you—”

He broke off, realizing he’d said too much from the sharp look that had entered Belle’s blue eyes. He swallowed and shook his head with an apology. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t involve you in my personal problems, I—”

“I don’t mind,” she told him, “and I promise it will go no further than the two of us.”

He saw sincerity in her gaze and once again his belly tightened. He already knew - and had been fighting with himself for some time - that he thought her beautiful, but to know that she cared made that fight all the more difficult - near impossible.

“But you’re my student,” he argued, trying to hold on to the last shred of his rapidly crumbling shield.

“Sabrael, when we’re at the university, yes, I’m your student, but… here, I’m an adult, with my own mind, and the responsibility for my own thoughts and actions and feelings. Please don’t feel like you’re taking some kind of advantage of me. You’re not. I’m happy to listen, and I am happy to help with Bastion, if that’s what you were leading up to asking before all of this came out?”

“Yes,” he nodded, before going on, “Yes, actually that’s exactly what I was going to say. I… spoke to my attorney earlier today and told him to proceed, and first thing tomorrow, I have a locksmith coming to change all the locks.  Forgive me, I took the liberty of examining your schedule, and I wanted to ask if—”

“Yes,” she said before he could finish, and then he watched her blush, and something in him snapped, He reached out hesitant fingertips toward the redness in her face, as she went on, “I’d be delighted to pick up Bastion from school - as often as you like - I can study here just as easily as the library, and I’d be on hand to help with his homework too…” she trailed off again as his fingertips made contact with her still reddened cheek.

“Belle…?” Gold asked softly, and watched as she swallowed and leaned almost imperceptibly into his touch.

“I… um,” she began then faltered, before beginning again in a rush as though trying to get all the words out before she could stop herself. “I know I shouldn’t… probably… because things seem complicated enough in your life as it is but I have to be honest with you, Doctor Gold, and—”

“Sabrael,” he corrected. His insides felt as though they were on fire, and he knew he was holding his breath against her words; against the fight he was losing as his fingertips left her cheek to slide into her hair as his palm cupped her cheek.

“Right, yeah…” she swallowed again, “But you… I…” she blew out a breath and in the next instant berated herself. “God, this is ridiculous, I’m behaving like a middle-schooler with her first crush, I—”

“I feel the same way,” he interrupted her discomfort, sounding more self assured than he felt. “I have for some time, and I’ve been fighting with myself because… well, the reasons are obvious, really.”

**

At his words, the breath left Belle in a rush and all of the feelings that were bubbling inside of her, and the sensations scalding her at his touch settled deep in her core leaving her aching for greater contact, and when she looked up at him, her eyes fell almost immediately to his lips, wanting to kiss him so badly it almost hurt.

“They… might be obvious,” she said, her voice a little unsteady, “but I think we should still speak them, I… I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings… not between us.”

He looked at her for a long time, as though he were contemplating her words, frozen in the moment, almost balanced on a knife edge.

“You are right, of course,” he said quietly.

“Then…?”

“I have fought my feelings because I didn’t trust them - or myself; because, as you said, at the university you are my student, and whilst anything that could have happened between us wouldn’t have been illegal, it would certainly have been… unprofessional.”

“Could have?” she echoed, soft and wistful in her tone, almost mournful. “You mean still to fight?”

He sighed then, and swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down before he said, “I don’t want to, but—”

“Then don’t,” she said, and shuffled a step closer to him.

“—but anything we might start now would be… so very complicated,” he finished.

“I don’t care,” she said before she could stop herself.

“But I do,” he said. “I don’t want you getting dragged in to what is bound to be an acrimonious divorce. I don’t want your reputation dragged through the mud along with mine.” He sighed again. “On top of that, here you’re my employee and that’s—”

“No,” she snapped rather more forcefully than she intended, and though she tried to soften her voice as she went on, she didn’t think she had been at all successful. “I won’t take payment for looking after Bastion. He deserves to be cared for and I’m happy to be someone that does that for him. So, here I’m just someone who cares enough to do the right thing… and here I’m someone that wants… to explore what we could have… together.”

She felt the shiver that went through Gold’s body and deeper than that, through the contact of his fingers, still laced into her hair.

“You… don’t know what you’re saying,” he argued, but she could hear the cracks in his resolve.

“I told you, I’m an adult, and I know my own feelings,” she said, “and whatever happens - whatever we have to go through, you’re worth it; Bastion is worth it.”

“Belle,” he breathed her name as though it were a prayer, and leaned down to rest his forehead against hers. “I don’t deserve it; don’t deserve you.”

“Well,” she said, and gathering her courage in both her hands, pressed her palms against his chest, the silk of his shirt hot against her fingertips as she slipped the touch upward toward his shoulders. “That’s unfortunate, because you’re stuck with me.”

She felt his fingers tighten in her hair, the imperceptible shift in the tilt of his head as she rose up on her toes just a little, and the heat of his breath against her already tingling lips; the softness of his barely touching hers before…

A tiny little cry was the only warning either of them received before a small bundle barreled into Belle’s legs, wrapping his arms around them and holding tightly.

“You’re still here!”

She heard such relief in Bastion’s voice that her heart dissolved, and she almost didn’t notice the way that Gold released her with a guilty start and moved away to a respectable distance.

“Bae…” he began, but Belle shook her head, and somehow managing to dislodge Bastions grip on her legs, turned and crouched down to him, taking him in at a glance, then wrapping him up in her arms.

“Of course I’m still here,” she said softly, and reached up with a hand to wipe at the tears she saw on his face. “It’s all right. Did you have a bad dream?”

Bastion nodded wordlessly, and leaned against her, pressing his head into her shoulder and sagged as though he were exhausted. Belle looked up at Gold as she ran her hand over Bastion, and found him wet. She mouthed the word to Gold. He nodded, and crouched beside her, encircling both of them with his arms.

“How about we get you clean and dry, Son?” he said softly.

Bastion shifted so that he pulled his father into the hug he was sharing with Belle, and whispered softly, “I’m sorry, Papa. I didn’t mean to.”

Belle watched, her heart breaking all over again as Gold lifted Bastion from her arms to hold him close. “You’re not in trouble, Bae,” he said. “You’re never in trouble. It was an accident.”

“But… Mama…” Bastion’s voice hitched with a sob.

“Won’t hurt you any more,” Gold murmured softly, further twisting the broken pieces of Belle’s heart. “So, how about it? Nice warm bath… clean pj’s…”

“Miss Belle,” Bastion almost pleaded with his father, and Gold caught her eye over his son’s shoulder.

Belle reached out to stroke Bastion’s hair, and said softly, “Are you kidding?  The chance to share another bed time story?  I’m in!”

Bastion smiled, and threw an arm around Belle’s neck, pulling her back into the joint embrace only a second after she caught Gold wiping away a tear from his cheek.

[scato006-blog]

Searching for a title and feedback.

New to this, would appreciate any feedback. 

All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2019 Stephanie Catozzi

My mother’s hand squeezes around my infantile one, small, petite, and plump even for a 12-year-old. I feel the cold, hard shaft of the metal handle, the gun weighty in my hand. My mother’s breath, laced with Bacardi rum and stale Marlboro lights, coaches me to squeeze harder, my tiny fingertips biting under the pressure and turning light purple at the tips from being held so forcefully.

“You have to hold it like you mean it, steady.” She coaches.

“I don’t want to,” I whine, almost silently.

               The wind kept biting my plump cheeks, and I felt my legs, bare in the November air, tingling and pocking with cold bumps.

               This has become a routine, my mother getting intoxicated or high, and taking a sudden interest in her children and choosing the worst time to suddenly teach us some life skills. My brother, with his autism, is too heady a project to undertake. So, it is me, who at 11 pm is hauled from my kitten covered sheets and dragged outside for an impromptu lesson on protecting myself, undoubtably due to some loosely based on a true story Lifetime network film where a girl, most likely Tori Spelling, is victimized.  

               Thankfully, she loses interest surprisingly fast this time, and when she loosens her grip on my hand, I am able to wrestle past her, knocking her to one knee as she curses and I bolt back into my bed and lock the door. She staggers in and pounds for several moments, calling me names, before I hear her door shut and know she has passed out.

My mother hasn’t been quite right since my father died. I see her leaving often to doctors’ offices, complaining of ailments ranging from pains to depression and anxiety disorders. Her pills litter the tops of our 80’s style maroon kitchen counters; every consistency you can imagine from syringes to tiny multicolored capsules. In the mornings, we see her guzzling down the liquid medications, never using the tiny, clear ridged top that is supposed to serve as a barbie sized measuring cup. Instead, she uses that as a pseudo lid when she gets too inebriated to remember where she put the child proof cap the pharmacist carefully clicks into place. Her arms are littered with pock marks from needles. Some self-inflicted and some from all the blood draws ordered by her physicians. She has become obsessed with this idea of teaching us how to protect ourselves since my father passed. Which later I will realize is terribly contradictory, since the basis of most our inflictions come from her blatant negligence.

               It isn’t until I start having sleepovers with girls outside my neighborhood that I will realize this isn’t a normal occurrence. I spend time with girls whose parents bake them cinnamon buns in the morning slathered with extra crystalline icing, whose mothers collect little figurines cased in glass cabinets without fingertips smeared on them and father figures who go off to work, kissing cheeks instead of backhanding them like the other dads in my neighborhood would do. It’s a foreign world to me, and oddly, it makes me surprisingly uncomfortable to be in such a serene environment. Almost mundane as wild as that may seem to some. Beige. I always notice this common color scheme in these safety net homes, everything was always varying shades of beige from the carpets to the placemats to the sheets. Beige everywhere.

               In the morning, it’s as if nothing has happened, as she bustles around the kitchen getting my brother’s routine down to match the Velcro pictured descriptions that are supposed to help with his over stimulation. I can tell there is something tangible and tense in the air, the blatant ostracizing of me from our tiny family unit. I will learn later that it is due to embarrassment over her own actions, but in the moment from my young perspective, I have somehow failed her.

I gather my things, my teal Jansport backpack smeared with pen marks and patches, and dig in the back cabinet, shoving expired bags of chips and soup out of the way to find a long lost granola bar and walk out the door, pausing before turning the silver knob to look back slightly out of my peripheral at my mother to see if she pauses at the sound of me leaving. She doesn’t.

The bus stop holds a sense of comfort for me, knowing that I will be headed to the one safe institution I have in my young life, school. There are rules, teachers, consistency, and scheduled mealtimes. I know what is coming and when. I know what is expected of me and it isn’t laced with alcohol and substances, or parties in my home with strange men who grab in places they shouldn’t and burn your arms with their cigarettes when you try to yell in protest for someone who is too inebriated to come to your rescue.

Teacher’s take special interest in me, I must exude some sense of chaos at home, my behavior is mildly disruptive with chattering to my fellow neighboring classmates, often causing my desk to be moved adjacent to the teachers to curve my “social butterfly” antics.

Years later, I will run into my favorite English teacher, Ms. Mueller, and she will subtly hint at the signs of abuse she saw from my rumpled clothes to my bruised arms and vacant expression from exhaustion. She will tell me of a time she went to my mother’s store, at the height of our home tsunami during my high school years, and the words heatedly exchanged between them. From that point on, in school, before I have this knowledge, I will choose to spend an hour every day after school with her and be exposed to various forms of literature. She will bring books with her and give me deadlines throughout the year, hoping to keep me driven and expand this world I escape to through books.

Oddly enough, my thirst for books came from the very person I was trying to escape.

In fifth grade I had a teacher I absolutely loathed. It was truly, the first person I had a deep hatred and resentment for. I remember the feelings of rage and a craving for the demolition of our high-ceilinged classroom. Ms. Symzick was a small, petite woman who would prance around her classroom in various shades of loud pinks and magenta, shouting in her irritatingly shrill, chalkboard scraping screeching voice. She had a serious inclination to class favorites, and those favorites tended to be the children of affluent parents she co-vacationed with in the Bahamas and Jamaica, frequently referencing scuba diving explorations and inside jokes she had created with the kids poolside while they showed off their attempts at underwater hand stands. She accused my indifferent attitude towards her and my inability to pay attention to her reading “out loud” to the class on comprehension issues. My mother responded, in typical Tammy fashion, and greeted me that afternoon with a stack of VC Andrews books. Her philosophy was that I needed something to read that could hold my attention in a mildly traumatizing way. Make the book risqué enough for me to care, and it would cure my non attentive approach to active listening. It certainly worked.

While my classmates were reading books about bridges crossing into Terabithia to conquer exciting pretend lands, I was obsessed with mentally trying to connect the incest family trees of wealthy families stuck in attics, toiling away pasting together paper flowers to create gardens. I craved reading about these fucked up families, and was elated to find that not only where the books thick with small font which meant they lasted longer than my classmates small flirtations with literature, but they also were in series so I could follow these families for generations. I would blow through a book a day if it was the weekend, absorbing finally, every comma and black small printed letter flowing into my mind through an osmosis of obsessive reading.

I sit next to Holly and hold her hand under our jackets in solidarity. Holly has the same house as I do, which is baffling and comforting for my young mind. Her brothers shout and throw things in their drunken rages, blaming their parents for their adult failures and losses of custody over children. Her father sits on the couch, sleeps on the couch, drinks on the couch, argues from the couch, he exists on the couch, never intervening. When he would winded from yelling, he would clutch a small, metal vile necklace he always wore. I would learn later it contained a single pill that would melt under his tongue because he was prone to panic attacks from his time in the military.

Holly will sneak into my room, late in the night, when things get bad and she climbs into my bed, cold hands and feet pressed against my calves for warmth. She rustles under my sheets and presses her perfect little bud lips against my cheek and snuggles into my neck and falls asleep fast, just as our thermostat registers the drop in temperature from the window being pried open for her to come in and the furnace clicks on, as always, I fling my leg out from under the blankets, so as to not wake Holly and soak in some cool air as her body heat radiates against my own. I love her and want to protect her, as she is the only one who has ever expressed a kindred likeliness to what I experience behind closed doors. She protects me as well, when my mother opens the door slightly to see if I am awake or when she is under the influence ready for another “life lesson,” she will always close the door and slither away when she sees Holly’s body next to mine.

Holly knew about these moments, in the dead of night when my mother would make her way into the room. She was the one who saw the handprint makes in shades of black and blue, purple then fading to yellows and lime greens. She would take my arm, and lay her hot, brown palm slowly and softly on top of the blue and purple marks so gently, brushing the tops of the soft baby arm hair then would turn over, as if nothing had happened. It was the act of acknowledging, that would transition into acts of protection. She knew if she was there, those marks wouldn’t appear. Holly became an ever-present staple in my life, it was truly as if she was holding me together, fastening my frayed edges to keep them from being burned by my mother and faceless men’s lighters.

This is my day to day, and night to night. The seeking of comfort in concrete things and people outside my home and struggling to find a purpose outside of myself.

Years pass, the same abuses remain constant, even after the school nurse contacts my mother over concerns she has when she sees my bandaged fingers from a screaming hot iron. The difference is the older I get, the more I learn to fight back, slick mouthed and learning to block hands quickly with forearms. I develop the internal switch, for numbing and hardening emotions to dispel any sense of misery or hopelessness, I don’t allow myself to be vulnerable around her and show any form of pain or exaggerated anger. I treat her with complete indifference, which in her drunken, high moments causes absolute meltdowns. Her emotional levels skyrocketing due to inebriation, and my disconnect growing more profound with each outburst. I start to want more, more than these walls and house. I want to sleep peacefully, quietly, and safely. A concept I had never visualized for myself that I thought was coveted for children with two parents and yards without brown spots and littered with dog feces.

I sit, at 15, in my English class, the scared space I have carved out for myself. Ms. Mueller, walks past, having just kicked Gary out of class for shouting at her.

“Dyke gave me a F,” he rages after we are returned our midterm grades.

“Out!” Ms. Mueller declares, stunning me at how she so gracefully and passively dismisses him and his hate slurred words.

As she passes back to her desk, I feel a blue piece of paper get slid under the flesh of my forearm. I slide it under my notebook, I can tell through its delivery, she doesn’t want me to attract any attention through receiving it. She looks pointedly at me, and when the bell rings I rush out to see what it is she has slipped me.

She knows I am not happy with her today. Ms. Mueller detests Holly. There is this just under the surface acknowledgement that they don’t address one another, ever. Holly feels Ms. Mueller is trying to come between us and take time I should be spending time with her and instead am choosing to spend it reading, which is the most boring thing in Holly’s mind. Oddly enough, Holly has detention or make up tests almost every day after school, so her time wouldn’t be spent with me regardless. Holly is known to have her behavioral issues, shouting at teachers and authority figures much in the same fashion as her older brothers do to her and her parents. It is a cycle that has already began its inheritable rotation.

               “She’s not good for you, you have too much inside you for that one.” Ms. Mueller had told me suddenly, interrupting me reading silently beside her while she worked on the summer reading list for the class, and my own which had easily an extra fifteen books added to it. At the time, I didn’t really understand what it was she meant.

“Too much inside me? What the hell?” I thought. I glared defiantly at the top of her head, wishing I had the nerve to reach out and rustle her short, cropped hair out of its artfully tousled with hair paste landscape just out of spite. She didn’t look up, nor acknowledge my anger filled face, and after some time I set my mouth in a taught line and kept reading. Leaving that day without saying a word when our hour was up.

I open it up and see it’s a flyer, for some summer program called Upward Bound and kids interested in colleges. I had never imagined myself being on some pristine collegiate campus. That was also reserved for the cinnamon bun kids whose parents showed up to every sporting event, cheering them on from the sidelines and pumping their fists in the air, visualizing college scouts coming with hefty scholarships and grants. Not for me, who begged for rides to and from practices, relying on my grandparents for transportation sparsely, so they wouldn’t see the state of our house. My mother would always get angry when her parents came to drop us off, always insisting on coming in to survey the

damage in the house from holes in walls to dirty dishes crawling with critters and cats licking dirty pans for burned egg pieces.

I folded the flyer in half and hastily shoved in under my stack of books on the bottom self in the locker I share with Holly. I am always the bottom shelf, to take my lacking height into consideration. She can’t see it; she will lose her mind. I know this, our codependency has blossomed into a full relationship of unhealthy proportions, two emotionally crippled humans attempting at something far too adult.

I wait, as always, for her to come meet me briefly, and she does. Angry brown eyes, jet black hair, browned skin from her native American heritage, and slanted eyebrows. I forgot she was angry with me from this morning when I pulled my hand away from hers when Kim snatched the jacket up that hid our weaved fingertips.

“Mr. Mason is such an asshole,” she huffs slamming her books in the locker, standing on her tip toes to launch them to the back where we hear them ding as they hit the metal back.

“What happened?” I ask, gauging her temperance to see where we are at. Holly drives the emotional state of our relationship; she being the more volatile of the two of us.

“He gave me detention for missing all that homework,” she huffed as she slammed the locker shut. “I just want school to be done already, I hate it.”

I watched her stalk off, wordless, now definitely wasn’t the time to broach the subject of an academic summer camp that focuses on colleges. Holly was not interested in anything remotely studious, let alone something that would separate us for an entire summer.

I watch her turn the corner of the light seafoam green colored hallways, waiting until I can be sure she is completely out of sight before slamming my elbow into the door right above the turn lock, causing it to pop open, a little trick Tommy showed me last year when he had this locker. I hop up on the toes of my sneakers and grab the flyer out from my Roman History classes textbook.

It is in that moment; I realize I don’t want to stay closeted with Holly and hide holding hands. I don’t want to stay in a home I feel constantly threatened in, showing all the scars on my skin and inside of my flesh. I don’t want to be stuck slinging burgers at the diner down the street, or as a cashier at the grocers. I don’t want to struggle against the New England seasonal depression of grey skies to salt crusted and frost heaved roads. I don’t want to be tied to this place where I feel like a hamster on a spinning wheel, never moving forward and back, just in one constant place.

The flyer announces the meeting is today, in Ms. Mueller’s classroom of course, but an hour after we usually meet. I know Holly has detention, so if there was ever a time I could go and take a glance at what this whole thing is about, it is today when she will be occupied for a definite set amount of time.

I watch the clock anxiously for the last two periods, bouncing my leg in anticipation, choosing to focus more on the seconds hand than the other two since it moves at such a faster pace. Holly isn’t in my last two classes; they are AP and she is sequestered into the more remedial ones where they mostly watch movies instead of getting lectures from young teachers who still feel they can make a difference and impact our lives.

Ms. Mueller is at the door, leaning against it with her arms crossed, her cuffs folded up at the elbow, creased slacks and pointed shiny ebony dress shoes, almost as if she was waiting for me. Now that I look back, I think she was.

“Well here she is, take a seat.” She gestures to the open door.

I look in and see every seat is filled mostly with kids from other schools and a couple familiar faces of girls I have barely exchanged two words with. I slide into a seat near the door, resolving that if I need to make a quick getaway, I will at least have an easy shot to the door. Ms. Mueller positions her chair in the doorway; it’s like she can sense what I am thinking and gives me another one of her pointed stares.

A young man with a lot of vigor and energy and radiant brilliantly white smile bounds up to the front of the room. I will learn almost immediately that his name is Craig when he finally stops bounding around and announces who he is, that he went to Bates College, and dives into a lengthy description of what Upward Bound really is. There are other individuals up there as well, all standing in a line with various colleges strewn on their tee shirts and sweatshirts: Colby-Sawyer, Keene State, UNH, Plymouth State, are some of the names I spot.

The program is a six-week summer session that focuses on preparing students for college and even offers opportunities to take college level classes that can be accredited. Six weeks on a college campus, right in my hometown, sleeping in the dorms, going to classes, they even offer sporting events and excursions to local spots for day trips. It sounded too good to be true.

I looked around the room and saw most of the kids had that same look as I did, clinging to every word. “Give me an escape, please. Tell me I won’t fall through the cracks and be left right here where I started.” Their faces all seemed to say.

Craig took the basic Q&A after his dialogue of wonderous academia enchantment and promise, everyone asking the same things I was wondering. I wouldn’t raise my hand and attract attention to myself, no way.

I saw her then, Jodie, sitting with her hand up to ask more about the sporting opportunities offered, field hockey specifically. She sat with her blonde hairspray scrunched hair, long eyelashes and friendly, wide open blue eyes. I was amazed at how drawn I was to her instantly, like she was the bright glinting Christmas tree of hope in contrast to Holly’s darkness and shadowing pessimistic outlook on life and humanity. There was also this underlying feeling emanating from her. She was wearing adidas snap pants and her field hockey jacket, I knew without knowing, I knew she had the same attraction to females as I did. When Craig answered her question to her satisfaction, Jodie thanked him, and I saw her sign the sheet to enroll and receive more information. I watched that sheet for the rest of the presentation and when we were wrapping up, Ms. Mueller caught me at the door, the sign sheet in her fingertips.

“You forgot something,” she stated, a black pen in her other hand, held out to me.

I stepped aside, opening my mouth to let out a string of excuses, all based in fear and simultaneously worried that if I failed at this camp, I would disappoint her.

“Don’t.” She held up her palm that held the pen. “Sign the paper.”

I realized in that moment; this was my chance. I was on the edge of something, a choice. I knew what I would lose, and I quickly sobered to the reality that what I stood to lose, didn’t outweigh what I had to gain.      

So I made the choice, to take a chance, put the pen to that blue paper, and signed my name, choosing to take that chance, choosing something so much bigger for myself than I could have ever imagined and taking the first step to end the cycle that would have ensnared me just as it did many others. It even would claim Holly in the end, leaving her to browning pine trees, closeted and affairs in secrecy, the shame and impending alcoholism, cursing from her couch just as her father did.

[damienhasmoved]

Kiyotaka Ishimaru is Autistic - A Writeup

Hey there! 

As you’ve probably guessed from the title, this is gonna be a pretty long post about Kiyotaka Ishimaru from the Dangan Ronpa series, and how I believe that he is autistic. Note that I am #actuallyautistic myself, so a lot of this is drawn from my own experiences of autism, as well as some common symptoms Kiyotaka displays. This is one of my personal favourite headcanons, because I relate to Kiyotaka a lot, and it’s nice to be able to relate to him on a neurological level as well. That being said, despite the evidence I’m going to cover in this writeup, it is still a headcanon- so of course you can feel free to disregard this if you don’t agree with me (just don’t come and fight about it on the post... because a lot of that tends to go into “autism is a bad thing” territory and as an autistic person it kinda makes me feel shitty). 

With that out of the way, the rest of the post will be under a readmore, because this is about to get kinda long.

Kiyotaka Ishimaru is a fairly minor character when it comes to the Dangan Ronpa franchise. He’s a member of the cast of the first game, and dies halfway through, with almost no re-appearances or further mentions in the rest of the series. However, his personality is very distinct, and he’s been consistently seen as one of the most popular characters from the first game because of this. 

Kiyotaka’s personality boils down to a few essential parts- his keen sense of justice and morals, his lack of social skills and social intelligence, his drive to be the best in his schoolwork, and his encouraging, yet strict nature towards his classmates. Just from this base analysis of his personality you can start seeing some autistic traits- namely in his idealization of morals and ethics, and his lack of general social skills. The former is so important to his character, it’s what gives him his talent- as the Ultimate Moral Compass (Disciplinary Committee Member in the Japanese version of the game, and Hall Monitor/Prefect in a few fan translations). 

It’s quite common for autistic people to be unusually obsessed with justice or morality. I know from my own experiences that I absolutely hate situations I perceive as “unfair” or “unjust”- where I’ve been punished for doing things I didn’t do, when other people have been punished for things they didn’t do- I even find it hard to lie in certain situations. Kiyotaka certainly seems to display this pattern of thinking- his entire talent ties into making sure that those who do wrong are suitably punished, and those that do right are rewarded accordingly. The only time he goes against his morals and potentially condemns innocents are when he votes for himself instead of Mondo in the Chapter Two Trial, which seems to be him not fully realising that someone he associates with “being good, just and moral” (his new, and only, friend) doing something as amoral as murder. 

He simply doesn’t believe that someone he trusted could turn out to do something so wrong- to the point where, at the end of the second trial, he is begging everyone else to give him another explanation, or for Mondo to at least explain why he did the things he did. I understand that this is a reasonable reaction when one’s friend is faced with death, but consider this in the context of the Dangan Ronpa games. To keep up the flow of the games, characters usually seem to brush aside the murders and executions once the trials are over. Otherwise, things would drag out too long while the cast mourned. Even Naegi, who was good friends with Sayaka and knew her all the way back in middle school, only spared a few hours or so mourning her after the end of her trial.

Kiyotaka’s reaction is the most drastic in the first game, even surpassing Asahina’s bid to make Sakura’s suicide a mistrial. She’s only shown to be seriously affected by Sakura’s death for the duration of the trial, and afterwards is composed enough to fight back against the mastermind. Consider also that Asahina and Sakura were friends for the entire duration of the first game, and that Kiyotaka and Mondo were only friends for one day, and you can see how exaggerated and strange Kiyotaka’s reaction really is. 

Kiyotaka’s reaction is so strong compared to the other characters because Mondo’s killing is not only a betrayal to their friendship, but the betrayal to Kiyotaka’s perceived view of the world and what’s right and wrong. He fixates on his hatred of geniuses to an almost unhealthy level, and will not listen to anyone who tries to tell him that these “geniuses” can be good people as well. Simularily, he’s put Mondo into a box- a box that raises him above the amoral sensibilities of the killing game, making him someone who can do no wrong in Kiyotaka’s eyes- until he does. 

This is the only time Kiyotaka’s moral compass seems to be seriously tested in the killing game, and it destroys him. He relies so much on his fixation with morals, that the second they are shattered, he breaks apart. Of course, this is only a minor reason for his breakdown, but we’ll get into the rest of that later.

Another big clue to Kiyotaka being autistic comes in the form of his social skills- or, rather, his lack of them. Kiyotaka, in his entire life, has made one genuine friend. Mondo Oowada seems to be the only person he’s truly connected with, and he even states that he’s “never had a proper conversation before” in one of Naegi’s FTEs. It’s not hard to see why- Kiyotaka has very little social intelligence, which displays itself multiple times throughout the story.

He doesn’t understand that people watch TV shows and play video games to form connections over them- he just thinks they do so to get a temporary buzz out of them. He’s surprised when Naegi describes what people normally do when they hang out, and his idea of a social setting is a very old-fashioned Japanese tradition of communicating naked in a bathhouse with other men. It’s obvious that he’s personally never had an experience like this before, as he’s reportedly “never held a conversation longer than three minutes”, so he’s most likely picked this up from old Japanese literature or other media and assumed that’s still how teenagers hang out.

Mimicking behaviours from media is another common autistic trait, and even though Kiyotaka doesn’t seem the type to read a lot of books outside of school-assigned ones, he still displays this trait. Mimicking other people in general seems to be his go-to when it comes to social interaction- he calls Naegi a “Professor” when Naegi tells him how to hold a regular conversation, and says he will study the same games and TV shows Naegi knows about to be able to hold conversations just like he does. Kiyotaka, once befriending Mondo, is shown to be mimicking him in some ways- he starts calling Mondo “kyoudai”, something common amongst gangsters in Japan. In the English localisation, this is changed to “bro”, slang that would also most likely be picked up from Mondo.

After Mondo dies, Kiyotaka copes by completely mimicking him, even combining their names together and acting like Mondo to feel closer to him.

Kiyotaka doesn’t seem to understand sarcasm or humour, in most cases. Kiyotaka seems a little oblivious in general, and tends to brush aside other’s criticism- a lot of the times because he doesn’t understand it. He takes things very literally, which is a key autistic trait. 

He also wholeheartedly does seemingly idiotic things in an attempt to help others in the class trials- such as calling for the murderer to raise their hand, and stating obvious facts that were taken as a given (examples: “I propose that the victim was Sayaka Maizono”, and “We can be sure the knife was the weapon because of where it was found- sticking out of the victim’s midsection!”). Kiyotaka also displays this kind of well-intentioned, yet obvious advice when everyone is searching the school for an escape route- while others take note of potential danger and means of escape, Kiyotaka’s only contribution is to say that everyone has a dorm room. 

This makes sense for him, and most likely for others with autism- nobody’s mentioned it, and he has the information, so he thinks it will be helpful to share it. He doesn’t get the subtext that people will already know these things, and that clarifying them further wastes time and isn’t helpful in the grand scheme of things. 

While his dedication to morals and his lack of social skills are the most major identifiers of his autism, he also displays a few more subtler autistic traits.

Kiyotaka insists on holding the class meetings at a certain time in the morning, and arriving to the cafeteria at another set time. He’s always a punctual early comer, and he gets annoyed when others are late (holding back the time of his meeting). It can also be inferred that Kiyotaka is one to plan things- he has to be, if he’s taking on studying (and presumably kendo practise, due to the sword found in his room) as his only hobbies. This, and his love of the school system, can be hints towards him needing to function on a schedule. School is good for Kiyotaka because it’s structured, and planned, and not very subject to change. His hobbies of practise and studying are also not subject to sudden reschedules (unless he takes kendo lessons, but with his family’s financial situation, I don’t think that’s the case). A steady schedule is imperative for autistic people to function on a day-to-day basis. 

Kiyotaka only wears one set of clothes- his school uniform. He owns several copies of it, and refuses to wear anything else. It’s implied that he doesn’t own anything else. This could be his dedication to being a good student, but it could also easily be a manifestation of sensory issues. Kiyotaka may only feel comfortable in the material of his uniform, and doesn’t like wearing other clothes because they make him feel uncomfortable. As a fellow autistic who prefers their school uniform to their other clothes, I can definitely understand this path of logic. 

Similarly, Kiyotaka is a one-note cook. It’s revealed in School Mode that he can only cook rice balls and green tea. This seems like another case of sensory issues, where the textures of rice balls and green tea are soothing to him compared to other food tastes and textures. It seems a little odd that he’s put enough practise into creating his “famous green tea”, but wouldn’t branch out to cooking different kinds of foods than simply rice balls, especially if he wants to have a more balanced diet. 

Kiyotaka’s fixation with the things he does know how to talk about seem to be extremely intense. Kiyotaka seems completely ready to engage in a long debate with Naegi over politics, international affairs, and the economy. He also seems to have memorised his school’s old policy, and seems delighted to talk about schoolwork. These could be examples of special interests, topics that Kiyotaka fixates on and ignores all others. Kiyotaka’s biggest special interest seems to be revolving around politics, a career path he hopes to succeed in in the future. Other than that, he seems to have a special interest in school policy and the school’s curriculum, shown with his dedication to school code and his continued study of everything he has to learn about. He doesn’t understand that other people can do recreational activities that don’t revolve around these two interests of his.

Physically, Kiyotaka has an almost unnaturally straight posture. He stands with his legs pressed tightly together, and seems extremely rigid. An unnaturally rigid posture is a trait of autism (as is an unnaturally slouched or floppy posture, but that’s not relevant here). Kiyotaka is extremely prone to crying fits, even in the middle of regular conversation. He is shown holding his head and sobbing full-force in some of his FTEs, which then turns into him cheerfully laughing a few seconds later. Extreme mood swings and unprompted crying or laughing are traits of autism. When Kiyotaka is reprimanded, or when he believes that he’s done something wrong, he immediately switches into an over-reaction where he cries and begs someone to hit or “punish” him. Breakdowns like these are also common in autistics.

Kiyotaka’s speech is abnormally loud. He seems to have trouble speaking quietly or whispering, and most of his lines are yelled. Volume control like this is a classic autistic trait. Kiyotaka’s dialogue also seems stiff and stilted at times, or verbalised in a strange manner. 

I could go on more about Kiyotaka’s autistic traits, but I think I’ve said enough for one post! This is long enough as-is! I definitely think that Kiyotaka Ishimaru is autistic, but it’s up for you to decide if you agree with me.

[becbec-reviewsfilms]

‘Forrest Gump’

★★★★

1994 – Dir. Robert Zemeckis

The drifting white feather and enchanting soundtrack immediately draw you into this heartfelt tale. Despite the film having been released over 20 years ago, it can still easily hold its own against most modern films. It’s a story that reminiscences on the most important events of the late 20th century all which are impacted by one man who only wants to try his best.

Forrest Gump (Tom Hanks) is a kind and well-doing man. Despite having a low IQ, his mother is determined he will have the same opportunities as everyone else. This leads him to a remarkable life – playing American football, fighting in Vietnam, meeting the President several times, starting a world-famous organisation, playing ping pong for his country, but perhaps most importantly, it intertwines him with Jenny (Robin Wright), his childhood friend and later love.

It was my impression that Forrest Gump was autistic. He struggles to sometimes understand social behaviour and situations, as well as having a low IQ. This leads to discrimination against him in the public-school system – effectively showing the persecution of those deemed ‘abnormal’ in that they do not conform to society’s norms. However, it is through this that he makes friends with Jenny, originally described as an ‘angel’, yet in a way it is Forrest who actual becomes her angel throughout the play, perhaps foreshadowed by that one white feather floating at the start and end of the film.

Forrest is born with a crooked back, meaning that he must wear braces on his legs in order to walk. However, when he is being chased by bullies, Jenny calls on him to ‘Run Forrest, run!’, and in slow motion he begins to run properly and the braces break away from his legs, symbolising his new-found freedom. As it turns out, Forrest is good at running. So good, in fact, that he earns a college scholarship to play football – in which there is an amusing scene where Forrest continues to run off the pitch. His ability to run also helps him when he is in Vietnam, as he not only escapes the ambush but rescues part of his squad as well. Finally, running is obviously something that helps him to think and to cope, as when Jenny leaves him he runs across America for 3 and a half years – an impressive feat for anyone.

When Forrest graduates, he is immediately taken in by the army and meets Bubba (Mykelti Williamson). Bubba also appears to have autism like Forrest and the two get along very well. Bubba dreams of being a shrimp farmer, and when he sadly doesn’t make it back from Vietnam Forrest takes up that dream along with Lieutenant Dan (Gary Sinise) – their superior officer who lost both legs in the ambush, and whom Forrest saves from his depressive and suicidal life. Forrest and Bubba’s last conversation is heart-breaking, as Forrest recollects that he regrets not being able to say more but in the moment, he just couldn’t find the words. It’s tremendously well-acted, like the whole film really, but it is certainly a crushing moment.

Throughout the film we see flashes of Jenny’s life in the moments before and during her interactions with Forrest. Beginning with her abusive father, Jenny’s life takes many downhill turns. She loses her place at college after explicit photos of her are published and ends up working in a strip club. Then, rescued by Forrest, she hitchhikes her way across the country, eventually falling in with the hippie culture, but yet again ending up with an abusive boyfriend. He reunion with Forrest in Washington D.C. is quite frankly adorable, as they wade through the water to each other whilst cheered on by the crowds around them. It’s supremely sweet and works so well after the darkness of the Vietnam war. We also see that Jenny falls in with the drug culture of the 70s and her life becomes so miserable that she contemplates committing suicide. However, she manages to make her way back to Forrest. It is a recurring theme that Forrest is actually Jenny’s guardian angel, the person whom she always finds when she is in trouble. They share a sweet and tender love, but when Forrest asks Jenny to marry him to it too much for her. She has been through much in her life and the proposal seems to come too soon for her to accept it. She does what she believes she needs to do to show Forrest that she loves him, and then leaves the next morning.

In the ‘almost’ modern day setting, the beginning of the film, we see various people sitting by Forrest on the bench waiting for their buses. He recounts his life to them, strangers who show either disinterest or disbelief, but he carries on. There is one, the last one, an old woman who clearly believes his story, and who even misses her bus, saying that ‘there’ll be another one’. This ties in with the film’s theme of life being a mix of destiny and luck – it’s like ‘a box of chocolates’, Forrest’s mum repeats. Life is what you make of it – not just what others make for you. For a film with a disabled protagonist – in fact several disabled characters – it is such an important message. Don’t let society hold you back – go forth, be great, live life.

Forrest and Jenny finally reunite when he finishes his story, and he discovers that he has a son. However, this is a moment that should be wonderful for him, but instead he panics, and repeatedly asks Jenny if Forrest Jr. is ‘smart’. It’s such a heart-breaking moment, Jenny reassures him that Forrest Jr. is the smartest in his class, and a huge look of relief washes over Forrest’s face. He may not fully understand social behaviour, but he understands that he is different to everyone else, and that he was bullied mercilessly and discriminated against for that. Forrest may not have a high IQ, but he is smart in practical ways, able to build a shrimp company and handle machines quickly and effectively. It’s almost crazy that after everything he has been through, his biggest fear is that his son will have the same disability as him, because he does not want that life for his son.

Of course, after everything, there is that one final heart-breaking scene. Forrest stood by Jenny’s, his wife’s, grave. I cried a lot at this scene. Forrest isn’t an overly emotional character, but is the subtleties of Hanks’ acting that give the emotion and feeling to the scene. It’s a bittersweet ending for Jenny, and their love, but it is made happier by the blossoming relationship between Forrest and his son. And of course, parallel to the start of Forrest’s story, the film ends with Forrest Jr. boarding the school bus for the first time, and that white feather drifting free once more, flying high into the sky.

My one problem with this film is both scenes where Jenny expresses sexual interest towards Forrest. To me, it seems that these are the only times when Forrest appears ‘normal’. I think that this sort of representation could be damaging to those who have autism, who struggle with social behaviour. Whilst part of Forrest’s ‘normalised’ reaction could be due to his world-learning, it feels out of place with the rest of his character and behaviour. It annoys me, because other than that it is a brilliant film, but I cannot shake off this one annoyance.

‘Forrest Gump’ is a beautiful film, although it sometimes feels like a glorification of American historical events at that time, but it also deals with them in a realistic and hard-hitting way. The survivors guilt and PTSD of Lieutenant Dan felt very real and very shocking; the discrimination against Forrest for his mental disability; the objectification of Jenny. It is historically accurate and tells a charming story at the same time (maybe Forrest wasn’t real, but all those large events were).

It makes you laugh, it makes you cry. Zemeckis has created a wonderful film that is still a classic, even now. The light-heartedness to the story feels alien from this modern era of dark and gritty films, and whilst it may appear to be light on substance, it is packed with hard-hitting and relevant stories. It’s easy to see why this film is so beloved, and why it will continue to be a favourite for a long, long time.

[ekakinomi-forgrownups]

Questioning Neverland--My Thoughts On the Michael Jackson Controversy And Idol Worship In General

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Warning!

The following post deals with a disturbing, but important social issue that I feel people should know about. If you’re not in the mood to read that, however, use that symbol as a reminder to back away from this post and read another one.

10 days ago, HBO released a documentary called “Leaving Neverland”, which out-lines the lives of two men, Wade Robson and James Safechuck, who explain they were sexually abused by pop mega-star Michael Jackson as young boys for years, in disturbing detail.

The documentary explains how Mr. Jackson used a friendly facade to “befriend” the then-super-fans Robson and Safechuck at different times, and used his super-star glamour to charm and enchant their mothers into letting their little boys stay with this man (who, in both cases, only knew him for a few hours) at his Neverland Ranch, a sort of indoor amusement park for kids…which served a much more devious purpose than just a fun getaway with their favorite pop idol.

Because Mr. Jackson’s favorite attraction at that “park” was, in fact, his bed–where he took the boys almost immediately after meeting them…so that he could start touching them inappropriately, on a regular basis, for years and years–as if these innocent children were just his play-things. And many witnesses report that there were a lot more where that came from–no girls, no men, no women–just little boys. He even went as far as to buy an engagement ring for James Safechuck! (*shudders!*) And to ensure that nobody knew about this “dirty little secret”, he lied to the boys’ parents, brain-washed the boys into thinking that this was how people “show love” to one another, and anybody who would dare tell on him would either get paid huge sums of money to be quiet or be threatened with anything from jail-time to death.

This documentary practically shook the world when it came out–America in particular. It seems everybody’s taking sides now– one side who absolutely won’t defend him after what he did to innocent children, and another side, mostly loyal followers and family members (the Jackson Estate tried to stop HBO from releasing this documentary at first) who say that these men are compulsive liars and/or just out for his money, and that Jackson was just an innocent, child-like weirdo.

And then you’ll find people like me, who don’t know the real truth, and are confused and completely conflicted as to whether it’s better to burn or hug their posters and record collections. Now, I’m not saying I’m a fan of his work myself–but I have experienced this dilemma many times over the course of my life. In a different way than most, however.

You see, it’s odd, but when an autistic person loves something (and that can be anything from a pop star to, say, a pretty color scheme on a fictional character), they feel this sense of true love for that particular thing, and like it could never do us wrong in any way. So when anything even remotely bad does happen (and that can be anything from the character changing designs and getting an ugly new color scheme to the pop star turning out to be an abusive scum-bag), it’s complete emotional turmoil, and we feel like the thing we love had just been ruined for us forever. And this happens for two reasons–1. Autistics tend to think of things only one way or the other, and it’s weird for us to think of something in a neutral way. And 2., we’re way too emotional. Neurotypical (“normal”) people tend to think that we’re not able to feel any complex emotions or empathy. The truth of it is, we actually feel too many–far more than we can express sometimes.

There was a point where I felt like everything I love has been “ruined” for me at some point. To name just a few examples: “The Amazing World Of Gumball” had its aesthetic changed to something I don’t like after its first season. “Pastel Yumi”, a magical girl anime I really liked when I watched the first episode, turned out to have loads of fan-service (meaning characters acting sexy to please the audience) of the 10-year old protagonist. The “My Little Pony: Friendship Is Magic” toys only became better-built and actually accurate to the show after I stopped liking the show (I stopped watching it after Season 3). And speaking of My Little Pony, even though I think Nightmare Moon had the prettiest color scheme of any character on the show, I’d feel bad for liking her more than Princess Luna, because call me a goody-two-shoes, but I usually don’t root for evil characters. And, the same goes for the Once-Ler from “The Lorax”.

Since then I’ve changed a lot, and I’ve started finding ways to cope with most of these things and “un-ruin” them…but that’s because they’re all small things, mostly media of different types. I feel very differently on the matter of real people–which brings me back to empathy. While I’m all for #MeToo, it also devastated me. Not because a lot of my favorite creators and directors were being put out of jobs–but because they turned out to be horrible human beings that only think of women as helpless toys that they can stalk, grab and kiss whenever they want. I’ve never been in any of these situations (*knocks on wood*), but just hearing the fact that beautiful, innocent people are getting treated this badly just boils my blood and, at the same time, makes me want to cry for years.

Yet that still doesn’t stop me from watching the kids’ sit-coms created by Dan Schneider or the Disney/Pixar movies directed by John Lasseter, and it doesn’t stop me from wanting to check out The Loud House, which was created by Chris Savino.  All the men mentioned here were very talented, but all sexual predators themselves. Which brings me back to Michael Jackson.

He was a house-hold name when I was a kid, and my first knowledge of him came from both “The Simpsons” episode “Stark Raving Dad”, which featured his uncredited voice, and the Jackson 5 song “ABC”. But I got my first real exposure to his artistry and music during my Dad’s 50th birth-day party last October, where we all sat around, ate cake and watched music videos, and we played several of his hits in a row. I fell in love with the song “Remember The Time”. I also binge-watched that corny “Jackson 5ive” cartoon from the 70’s (which featured a huge portion of their early catalogue) the following November. So to be exposed to such amazing talent and good looks only to be compelled to forget about it all a few months later because he was a horrible person certainly boggled my mind a little. (Bad or confused reactions to sudden changes in plans are another casualty of autism which can be difficult to handle at times).

Suddenly, I begun to seriously ponder my own morals. If I’m a so-called “social justice warrior”, then how can I possibly still enjoy work made by awful people? If I care about minorities so much, then why do I still get joy out of art made by people who obviously don’t care about them? If I can’t bring myself to sympathize with people with such horrible attitudes, then why is it so hard to just ignore them completely? It’s going against my character, and it’s going against my own common sense. Yet if I push these things out of my life, my life will turn up-side-down. What’s a poor puzzled panuki like me to do?

Well, if there’s one up-side to this whole Michael Jackson thing, it’s that it gave the entire world a huge lesson in the dangers of idol worship. So naturally, everybody else is writing about the same types of issues I’m having with this, and how they choose to resolve them. I looked at some of the things they wrote for answers. After looking at the opinions of several different people, I finally found the one article that rang with me the most, and it was written by Constance Grady of Vox. It’s called “What do we do when the art we love was created by a monster?”. You can read it here, but to put it more shortly, this woman basically looked to 3 different literary professors for advice and reference, and they all explained different ways of separating art from artist through different types of methods, created by classical literature theorists. Ms. Grady presented each one in her article, and how it works, to show that there are many different ways of handling a situation like this. To quote Ms. Grady: “All these tools are there, just waiting for me, just as they are waiting for you. And the moment we start to question how we should think about any work of art, we can pick them up and wield them accordingly.”

Another helpful piece of advice came, believe it or not, from Pete Davidson of “Saturday Night Live”, who gave a surprisingly insightful lecture on the “Weekend Update” segment of the show that basically said, that it’s OK if it feels right to let some artists go. But if there’s another artist whose work resonates with you on a personal level so much that they’ve become a part of your heart, you shouldn’t put them out of your life completely. But you should acknowledge that these people did bad things each time you enjoy their work. Basically, that just because someone is talented doesn’t mean that they’re just as good on the inside, and you should acknowledge that. One of the things he said was very smart: “Any time any of us listen to a song or watch a movie made by an accused serial predator, you have to donate a dollar to a charity that helps sexual assault survivors.” After reading all these articles, I found my final, set-in-stone stance on the matter, that bridges the gap between my morals and my enjoyment of a piece of art. Here’s what I think:

If you really don’t like what an artist did in real life, then directly rooting that to their art will only give the real person power over your brain, your fun, your happiness. My mommy told me that no matter what the original artist intended, a piece of art stands alone, and is open to interpretation by anybody who looks at it. Anybody. It’s what she told me to help me understand the appeal of abstract art. And on top of helping me separate art from artist, it also helps me read (some) fan-fiction without cringing, watch modern adaptations of classic books without being to critical, and on top of it all, it also mirrors the Barthes and Livingstone theory mentioned in Constance Grady’s Vox article.

Besides, acknowledging or enjoying their work doesn’t necessarily mean I support the people behind it (as far as their companies are concerned, at least). To these famous people, money is one of the most important things in the world–a lot of times, more important than other people. So unless you have some money to throw out, you’re completely anonymous as far as they’re concerned, because you’re not rewarding them for their work, even if you enjoy it.

The only time I’ll completely make an exception with any artist is if the work they make is too similar to their real life. For example, the Cartoon Network show “Clarence” is about a boy…named Clarence…who has a positive attitude, but things and does things in very weird ways. An eerie mirroring of Skyler Page, the creator, who was fired from Cartoon Network for grabbing the breasts of a crew member for “Adventure Time”, and was later revealed to be a complete mental case…by one of his best friends, who turned out to be the inspiration for one of Clarence’s own friends! (*shudders again!*)

The same thing is very real for R. Kelly, an R&B singer who I never took interest in or even listened to, but who is said to have a catalogue full of highly sexual songs, a lot of which regard age differences and mutual consent. (*shudders one last time.*)

As for Michael Jackson…I don’t really associate his songs or performances with his real self because, if you really think about it, it’s pretty obvious that his pop persona was way different from that. a lot of his popular hits never mention hanging out with little boys. He mentions girls, a lot of which actually prey on him…he also never mentions any of his child-like interests that he had in real life…in fact, I think the only connection the artist Michael has with the real Michael are a few songs that are based on the good side of him (his humanitarian values) and those that are based on his awful childhood, where he himself was abused (not sexually, but still abused) as a boy…which could actually be one of his reasons behind his own abuse crimes. Almost as if he had this secret mentality, like “if I couldn’t have a childhood, then no boy will.” Or maybe he became overly obsessed with male children because he felt like he was getting back a piece of his life that was stolen from him, but expressed his love and sentimentality for it in the most disgusting way possible. I’m not excusing it at all, I think it was still horrible and completely uncalled for. These are just a few theories I had.

Yes, these are all just my personal opinions. And of course, you shouldn’t take that, or any of my personal opinions, as the gospel truth just because you’re reading my blog–everybody has their own individual opinions. And if you haven’t really formed your own, I suggest getting opinions from everyone and everything around you–your friends, your parents, other news sources, other blogs–and see what other people have to say on the matter, and let what you find help you form your own. It’s just like building a puzzle–it takes more than one piece of information to get the full picture.

As for my big picture, the real Michael Jackson doesn’t exist, as far as I’m concerned, and doesn’t deserve to. Just his character that he plays on the stage. And just like the rest of the male characters I’m attracted to, he’s someone I’d never want to be around in real life–just pretty, talented, and charismatic. And in a world where always thinking about the little things can drive you completely insane, sometimes that’s all that really matters.