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and-then-there-were-n0ne · 7 months ago

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During my conversation with Richard Hanania about the 2019 Academy Award-winning film Parasite, I talked about how viewers and critics were quick to assume that Parasite was about a rich family and a poor family.

It shows how little people know about class.

This is how the director of the movie, Bong Joon Ho, characterized the Kim family:

“The father has accumulated numerous business failures, the mother who trained as an athlete has never found particular success, and the son and daughter have failed the university entrance exam on multiple occasions.”

This is not the profile of a poor or working class family. The Kims are not poor, they are failed middle class.

This is why, in an early scene in the movie, they were so bad at folding those pizza boxes.

In high school, I worked at an Italian restaurant as a busboy and dishwasher.

In his terrific memoir on slum tourism, Down and Out in Paris and London, George Orwell uses the French term plongeur—a person employed to wash dishes and carry out other menial tasks in a restaurant or hotel—to describe his occupation as he was struggling in Paris.

Plongeur sounds much better than “bus boy.”

Anyway, my coworkers in the pizza station were, like the rest of us in the back of the restaurant, guys from fucked up families. They drove beat-up motorcycles and had long hair and tattoos, or were stoners or community college dropouts whose highlight of the week was getting paid on Friday and drinking away the weekend.

The girls mostly worked as servers, and were generally more put together. Though there was plenty of binge drinking and drug use among them as well. Many restaurants function like this, with sweaty guys in the back cooking food and scrubbing pans and the cheerful women up front, serving food and interacting with patrons.

Guys I worked with could fold a pizza box with their eyes closed while stoned out of their minds.

So the Parasite scene didn’t make sense to me at first, until I realized what I was seeing.

Working class people would figure out how to fold pizza boxes and do it fine. Bitter middle class people think they’re too good for it.

The Kims middle class origins also explains why they were able to seamlessly interact with the well-to-do Park family (more on them soon).

Skeptical viewers have questioned why the Kim son had a friend who studied in a university. And why the Kim son was able to teach English to the Park daughter so well despite his poor background.

And astute critics have wondered how it’s possible that the Kim daughter who is obviously adept at graphic design (forging her art credentials) and interacts easily with the Parks came from a poor family.

The Kim son and daughter were raised by middle class parents, that’s why.

The Kim family represents a great fear of affluent people, including film critics: Downward mobility.

The Kims are middle class people who slipped down the economic ladder. The Parks are middle class people who ascended the economic ladder.

The Park mother is easily duped by the Kim daughter’s discussions of art and its therapeutic powers. This is because the Park mother is a philistine who doesn’t actually know that much about art. She’s not from some well-bred old money family. She and her husband have only recently arrived at their current economic station.

Parasite is not about entrenched class divisions. It’s not about a poor family and a rich family. It’s about a downwardly mobile middle class family and an upwardly mobile one.

Which is why resentment builds and explodes into violence. Envy is reserved for those who are similar to ourselves.

Working class people are generally not envious of the very rich. Nobody I knew growing up hated Bill Gates or Hollywood celebrities. They mostly envied well off people in town. People who had big houses or had a boat docked at the Shasta Marina.

Who envies the actual rich? Upper middle class people.

People tend to envy and resent those close to their social strata.

In his fascinating book Envy: a theory of social behaviour, the sociologist Helmut Schoeck wrote:

“The best means of protection against the envy of a neighbor is to drive a Rolls-Royce instead of a car only slightly better than his...overwhelming and astounding inequality arouses far less envy than minimal inequality.”

There are a couple of reasons for why resentment and envy are strongest for those nearest to us.

First, there's proximity.

Working class people work for, and take orders from, upper middle class professionals. This (sort of) describes the relationship between the Kims and the Parks in Parasite.

But upper middle class professionals work for, and report to, the very rich. We never see the father of the Park family at his job, interacting with much wealthier colleagues.

The second reason people reserve scorn for those close to our social strata is that they remind them of their failings.

When people have expectations for their lives that are not met, but they see others similar to themselves achieve the same things they desire, they experience resentment and anger.

This is why people feel the most schadenfreude, joy from seeing others’ misfortune, when the person experiencing the misfortune is similar to themselves.

Other research has revealed that similarity and domain relevance are key predictors of malicious envy.

This means that a person who is similar to ourselves and who is successful in a field we also aspire to do well in is especially likely to trigger feelings of resentment and a desire to take destructive action to sabotage them.

This is why critics and the chattering classes loved Parasite. The film allowed them to identify with resentful middle class people who are down on their luck, under the guise of sympathizing with the poor.

Parasite allowed identification with resentment and envy to masquerade as compassion.

#rob henderson #parasite

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omgthatdress · 2 years ago

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Okay, hear me out, but I’m not gonna knock Caroline’s Christmas dress for being purple. First of all, the shade of purple here actually matches the right tangy hue of the tyrian purple dye it would have been made with. I can’t confirm it, but I’m pretty sure this 1820 dress influenced the design here:

(The Met Museum)

Secondly, Caroline’s family isn’t super elite rich, but her father owns a shipyard. Looking at her furniture, it’s clear her family has *some* money. It’s within the bounds of reason for an upper-middle-class family to spend a lot of money on pricy purple fabric for a super-fancy extra-special Christmas party dress. It could even be a chance to teach kids about the history of purple dye.

Moving on...

CAROLINE DOESN’T HAVE A DOLL. For real I was outraged when I looked at her collection and saw that a doll wasn’t among the accessories. The dolls were SUCH an important part of the earlier stories and I mean..... it’s a very subtle way to sell more dolls if each girl has a treasured doll that she receives as a gift and goes on to have lots of fun and adventures with. I guess in the stories Caroline already has a doll, but come on. That doesn’t count.

I guess one of the reasons that Caroline might have not gotten a doll is that in 1810 dolls were still mostly wooden peg fashion dolls like Felicity’s, but this is the start of the industrial revolution. Dolls made out of papier maché, wax, and porcelain were all being produced. In a busy naval shipping port like Sackett’s Harbor, Caroline’s market for dolls would have been wide open.

(The Met Museum)

(The Victoria & Albert Museum)

(Theriault’s Dolls)

#1810s #Caroline #American Girl

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writingpencil · 8 months ago

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Kamryn

I was always a child that was sickly pale. My parents always told me so. I was always malnourished, and I rarely ate, despite every attempt my parents had to feed me. They were always scared I would die, I guess the fear was what caused them to die instead of me. Months, I counted myself, marking the days off on the calendar with my pencils, they wasted away in bed. They, themselves, were sickly pale. They would throw up everything I made for them to eat, which, admittedly, wasn’t much. Eight year old me only knew how to make sandwiches, and open boxes. At least I was competent enough to grab mom’s credit card and go shopping, though I was always put off by the looks people gave me. The first time was fine, they were even amused, but the more I came, the more worried they got.

I went shopping every two weeks, like mom. I got the stuff for sandwiches, snacks, my favorite juice, and dad’s favorite ice cream. Eight year old me never forgot the ice cream. Even when my parents stopped breathing, I never forgot. My thirtieth shopping trip put an end to it. The cashier kept asking me questions, I remember most of them being about school and stuff like my favorite color, and her co-worker called the police. I thought riding in the police car home was cool. The officer even helped me put away groceries. I remember offering him a sandwich, and he denied and asked me where my parents were. I told him my parents don’t like strangers in their rooms, so the officer lied to me and said he was a family friend.

The look on his face when he saw my deceased parents is something I can’t forget. All color drained from his face, his pupils dilated so much I thought they would disappear forever, his mouth hung open as realization struck him where he stood. I brought him water when he wretched his guts out, apologizing for the mess. Summer was mostly a blur after that. I remember being put between foster home after foster home until my next relatives were found. It didn’t last a summer. My parents were always private people, always hiding things somewhere. I understood. At least their funeral was nice, though it was only me and my foster family. They didn’t have to stay, I told them such, but they wanted to be supportive. It was nice.

Two years were spent in foster homes, and I moved around the state often. Once, I went out of state with a family to live in their lake house for a few weeks during summer. I learned how to fish, and to swim. The ladies were very nice, they tried to adopt me, but the system refused them. I had family somewhere anyways. They should give their love to someone without such luxury.

It was the last day of school when I heard the news. I came home to my foster family, the Dividsons, sitting with the officer, Mr. Apricot. He found my godparents. Apparently, my parents assigned an aunt and uncle the title of godparents. I never met any of my family before, so when the officer told me they were coming to pick me up, I was nervous. I was almost ten years old, my birthday was in August, and that was a long time of not knowing somebody. I was worried they wouldn’t like me.

Sometimes I wish that was all I was worried about these days.

Least to say, I wasn’t anything like my godparents. Gwendolyn and Percival Aslett were rich, far richer than my parents ever were. My parents were upper-middle class at best, the Asletts probably had celebrities and politicians on speed dial. They were older than my parents though, early thirties was my general guess. The Asletts never really told me, and I never really asked, but Mrs. Aslett said my mom was her baby sister, and that’s all the information I needed. When Ms. Aslett told me that, I said mom never really mentioned she had a sister before.

Ms. Aslett told me Mom had five, counting Ms. Aslett herself, on top of a pair of brothers. Dad was the only child among my parents, I found out. I guess it shouldn’t have surprised me, Dad never was good in high pressure situations, or around other people. Mom was better at that than him.

I didn’t look like Mrs. and Mr. Aslett either. Mrs. Aslett was plump, with sun-kissed skin, blue eyes, and dark blonde, voluminous, curly hair that could probably work as a floaty. Mr. Aslett had dark brown skin, dark brown eyes, short black hair, and a perfect smile with a small gap between his two front teeth. They both were really beautiful, and dressed like they knew it too. Mrs. Aslett wore a short yellow dress`with a pair of wedges, which made her taller than Mr. Aslett, though I don’t think he minded. Mr. Aslett wore a suit with a pair of butterfly flaps. I originally thought the suit was black, but it was actually a very dark blue. Compared to them, I looked like a homeless person. I was my usually sickly pale, with Dad’s light brown hair, and Mom’s blue eyes. I still was skin and bones thin, but I had gotten better when the Dividsons continuously brought me snacks. I’d never been able to deny the snacks, I was a guest in their home after all.

Despite the differences, Mrs. and Mr. Aslett welcomed me with open arms. Mrs. Aslett hugged me tightly, telling me it was going to be okay now. Mr. Aslett said, in his proud voice, that we were going to be a family. The Dividsons and Mr. Apricot were happy for me, and Mr. Apricot even escorted us to Mrs. and Mr. Aslett’s estate. I remember being too nervous to ride in their car with them, so I rode with Mr. Apricot. They didn’t take it personally.

Their home was massive to me, a pearly white and gold mansion like something out of a movie. A prestigious garden, that they prided themselves on, a massive fence to protect them alongside bodyguards, a long list of staff members, ranging from maids and butlers, to lawyers and accountants. I remember being terrified to go inside at first. I was actually terrified of the two bodyguards that stood outside the door. I was a mouse compared to them, I’m only glad I realized they would protect me, not hurt me.

I felt dizzy in their home. Everything was big, loud, and proud. Luxurious, prestigious, expensive. I actually hid behind Mr. Apricot, clutching onto his uniform trying to keep myself upright. It was something I had to do the entire tour. The foyer, the hallways, the living room, the ballroom, the music room - where I fell in love with their piano - and the kitchen. Mr. Aslett asked for a glass of water for me, I think he knew I was overwhelmed, and one of the chefs gave the water to me. Called me the most polite little child she ever knew. Yanaye King was her name. I told her: “I’d agree with you, but then we’d both be wrong.”

There was always someone more polite. Everyone laughed, and Miss. King said I was a charmer. I thanked her for the compliment, and we moved on to the dining room. There were many chairs along the table, forty-two, twenty on each side and one on each end. I remember asking why there were so many chairs, and Mrs. Aslett said that our family always gathered for dinner here on weekdays. When I asked why, she said it was because everybody was close. Weekends, however, were for individual families.

We went to the second floor, where bedrooms and offices were. Mrs. Aslett said that her and Mr. Aslett’s bedroom was called the master bedroom, and was the third, and last, door on the left of the right hallway. Mrs. Aslett’s office was connected to the bedroom, along with their bathroom, but Mr. Aslett’s office was the second door on the right side of the right hallway. The other two doors are for a small library and a pool table, for when Mr. Aslett has friends over. The left hallway was for employees and their families. Some had terrible living situations, so the Asletts housed them instead. I guess it was nice, but I was only nine, almost ten, I didn’t really care then.

The third floor had a few more bedrooms, alongside a second living room, a home movie theatre, and a staircase to the attic no one had touched in years. There were just old boxes and dusty furniture. At that point in the tour, the Asletts decided they could show me outside tomorrow. When they asked me to pick a room, I asked for the attic. I guess it caught them off guard, cause they tried to make absolutely sure I wanted the attic. I did. It’s been my bedroom since.

I only vaguely remember the tour of the pool, the pool house, the garden hedge statues, or even the small orchard of apple trees. I do remember the tour of the garden maze. Only because that was the first time I saw my parents since the funeral. Every corner Mr. Aslett guided me through, because he knew the maze like the back of his hand, I would see them just in the corner of my eyes. When I went to get a better look, I saw them only for a millisecond, then they were gone. At the center of the maze, they were there, as if to congratulate me, though their smiles were nowhere to be found. It frightened me. I never knew my parents without their smiles. Their blank expressions, with their eyes entirely fixated on me, were entirely foreign to me.

I like to think I was a rational child. My parents were dead, died because they were sick, their bodies were in a shared casket in the ground. I knew that. Mr. Aslett couldn’t see them, he was busy describing the fountain. So, while he was distracted, I went over to my parents. They were sitting on a bench together, holding hands, and Mom reached her free hand out to me.

My hand went right through hers, and the touch was so cold, I swear I could’ve gotten frostbite. I wasn’t careful then. Mom blinked, finally, and pressed her hand to my cheek. I heard her whisper my name, but her mouth didn’t move. I wanted to cry, but I was barely a crier. The tears slid down my cheeks like burning hot wax, my eyes stung something malicious.

Mr. Aslett put his hands on my shoulders, and I remember jumping. It didn’t help that my parents disappeared once again. Mr. Aslett said something about the bench, how it was hand carved by his father-in-law and my mom, how they both carved their names into it. I stared at Mom’s name, carved right into the seat like he said.

I always scold my younger self for not realizing what was happening sooner, realize that it was just the beginning, but I’ve always been harsh on myself. Even every therapist I ever had agreed with me. I was nine. An impressionable child. However, with the knowledge I have now, if my therapists knew the extent of what I did, I doubt they would be kind with their words.

All throughout the summer, I was slowly introduced to normality and the rest of the Asletts. Truly. I am thankful Gwendolyn and Percieval Aslett were assigned my godparents, I would lose myself in the madness of the rest of the family otherwise. How nine-year-old me handled the first dinner is a mystery, even to me. Something I would read in the novels in the library. The insanity was accompanied by my parents, who always stood behind me, but disappeared when I went to look at them. I considered that, perhaps, they were protecting me, in some manner of speaking, from the other Asletts.

Forty chairs for five sisters, two brothers, and their own families.

Gwendolyn Aslett was the oldest of the sisters and brothers, with Ashlyn Aslett a close second. Ashlyn Aslett wasn’t married to any person, just her career and image. She was much less sun-kissed, her blonde hair was borderline brown, her blue eyes were so dark, I remember feeling intimidated. It didn’t help that she never smiled. Ashlyn Aslett wore black suits and red ties, kept her hair in a messy bun that was out of the way, and always kept her reading glasses on, even when there wasn’t anything to be read. She was also a bitter older woman, a politician who always had something to complain about. It was either too hot or too cold. It was either too loud or too quiet. The food was too salty, or the wine wasn’t red enough to her liking. She was just like that. A bitter old woman who was rejected too many times, and decided to be the one to reject everything.

Next was Thiago Aslett. To put it simply, he was a conman. Someone small who looked at the big world, and decided to pretend to be bigger. He dressed the part too: a dark blue suit with a black tie, blonde hair gelled back, blue eyes as charming as could be, clean shaven. Pyramid schemes, bogus merchandise, even sent someone to the hospital for acid burns because of some lipstick. If there was a profit to be made, Thiago Aslett was there. I guess it pays to be good-looking. He was always on his phone too. Unlike Ashlyn Aslett, Thiago was married. To his sixth wife. Skye Schroeder was her name, an absolute snake. She was a woman too thin, too high cheekbones, too boney. She was fair-skinned, caked in makeup, with dark brown hair, and these creepy green eyes. She always wore too revealing dresses in colors that just didn’t suit her, mostly eye bleeding pinks, and she always moved like she was slithering. A snake. I guess a conman like Thiago Aslett just like marrying reptiles like Skye Schroeder.

April and June Aslett were identical twins with separate personalities and an insane rivalry. April and June both married to handsome men, Fred Hale and Adam Grant respectively, and each had three kids. They both worked in the house restoring business, both dressed classy and feminine, their husbands stayed home, their kids were homeschooled. Despite the rivalry, they both acted casually to the other, with just a hint of bitterness in their voice. Fred Hale and Adam Grant were sweethearts. Good men with golden hearts. Both were either oblivious to their wives’s fighting, or were too tired from being fathers, teachers, and homemakers. If I did have to choose a side, I’d say Fred Hale had it worse. Heaven, Serenity, and Christian were monsters, leaving destruction in their wake no matter where they went. Aryan, Sylas, and Dawn at least knew when to settle down, that or they pitied their father.

The last sister was Logan “Kit” Aslett, a woman on the extreme side of Thiago Aslett’s crimes. Organized crime, to be exact. Kit was a type of wine mom, in the sense that she drank a lot of wine and was a mom. She kept her hair short, her smile mischievous, and her secrets close. Kit also had a lot of boyfriends, getting them and dumping them when she pleased, but always keeping it at six - whether she does it purposely or subconsciously, I couldn’t tell you. She had a wife too, named Anikina, who took Aslett as her last name. Real friendly woman, an accountant, though she runs a couple laundromats which are definitely money laundering schemes. I learned a bit of Russian and Slavic from Anikina, enough to ask questions and understand the answers anyways. With Kit’s boyfriends, there was only one who stayed since I was nine. His name was River, and he also took the Aslett name, as did his kids. I think the kids are why Kit stays with him, or maybe she genuinely stills loves him, she was not a person easily predictable. River is a doctor, smart too. I mean, he’s kept his mouth shut about what Kit does. At least he knows that doing otherwise would get him and the kids killed. Speaking of those kids, there were six of them, with a seventh on the way. In order, from oldest to youngest, there’s Guinevere, Peregrine, Wolf, Valentine, Casimir, Scout, and the new baby is going to be named Tegan. I think it’s pretty, but maybe I’m biased.

Lastly, but certainly not least, was Cain Aslett. Arguably the most normal of the Asletts on the surface. It was my parents who guided me to the unfortunate truth that Cain Aslett was a black widow. I didn’t know much about rich people’s tastes. Eight years later I still didn’t know. However, I guess I could see how someone would fall for Cain Aslett. A man with curly, blonde hair that he tied back into a ponytail, striking blue eyes, paired with sun-kissed skin and a signature smile? He might’ve made it big in the film or modelling industry if he wasn’t a manipulative spider. I’m only thankful my parents decided to tell me when I was older. A sixteen year old, or at least me at sixteen, understood better than my nine-year-old self ever could.

Cain Aslett also had a child, two years older than me, who went by Glass. They were non-binary, smoked candy cigarettes because they liked the colorful smoke, carried a pocket knife everywhere, and definietly took their mother’s genes. Glass’s hair was a platinum, almost white, color, their eyes were pink, their dark brown skin were dotted in freckles and body art - which, when we were older, they got permanently tattooed. I like thinking Glass was always that cool, even when we were kids, but I knew that they and I were introverts who didn’t catch onto social cues well.

The rest of the chairs were for other family members or special guests. Grandpa and Grandma Aslett did join dinner, it was my very first one after all. They spoiled me rotten, still do. Grandpa Aslett said he was already planning on getting me my very own horse to stay at his and Grandma’s ranch, with riding lessons if I was interested. Grandma Aslett was a little more reasonable, giving me an iron ring with the Aslett crest - which was a dagger covered in primroses. I remember, clearly, my dad putting his freezing hand on my shoulder and squeezing it when I put on the ring. Though his mouth didn’t move, I heard dad telling me to be careful.

The dinner itself was less memorable then the people I was related to. It was one of many dinners, and after eight years worth of them, they start bleeding together. What stuck with me, however, was how many of my parents’ requests took place at dinner. Since the first day, they asked me to do things. Who was I to deny the wishes of the deceased? I was a child, their son, it never occured to me not to listen to my parents until I was older.

Their wishes were simplistic enough in the beginning. Say this to her, ask this of him. They just wanted me to ask questions, and I only started copying down answers when I was thirteen. By then, most questions and answers were willingly let go. I didn’t think they were important when I was younger. Then, after a couple weeks, the requests became a little strange. Catch a brown mouse from the garden, bring it inside, let it run loose in the kitchen. Dinner was cancelled that night. When Grandpa Aslett brought me to the ranch, he showed me my horse, a mare with a black mane and white coat. He explained that every family member had a horse. Even Mom and Dad.

They asked me to name the horse Margot. Which I did. Grandpa Aslett looked disturbed, but quickly covered it up. Grandma Aslett looked like she was going to faint. I couldn’t forget that, thankfully. Truthfully, though, I felt awful. Grandma and Grandpa Aslett are genuinely kind people, perhaps not on the same level as Gwendolyn or Percival, but genuine enough. Mom and Dad aren’t as forgiving, I learnt this more times than I should’ve.

From the mouse and Margo, Dad made a special request before my birthday: Get some chocolate chip cookie dough. His favorite ice cream. I told Mrs. Aslett that it was the kind of ice cream I wanted for my birthday. While she was more than happy to get it, I heard Cain Aslett choke on a cough in the next room. On the day of my birthday, when Kit asked me what I wanted, Mom gave me my answer.

“I want to go to Niagara Falls.”

The bitter silence from the adults in the room was deafening. They all shared glances of uneasiness, save for Gwendolyn and Percival. Mom smiled, but I didn’t feel like smiling. I don’t think I could’ve even if I wanted to. Even with how uncomfortable it made them feel, the Asletts took me to Niagara Falls. The waterfall was cool, I suppose. But all I remember is how Valentine almost toppled over the edge, rescued by River. Valentine was five at the time, yet he was horrified by heights and even water from then on. Casimir chose to laugh at the story whenever it's told. He was two, stuck by Kit and Anikina like a leech, unable to remember Valentine’s terror.

Mom’s smile became even wider when it happened.

I followed request after request, from both Mom and Dad, when they required it from me. I cannot count how many times I woke up in the middle of the night, only to see Mom and Dad standing over me, waiting in the shadowy silence. Even during school, they gave me tasks. I was a puppet, I realized this, but most of what they asked was harmless. I considered them on the same playing field as pranks, or a kid asking harmless questions. It wasn’t until I was thirteen, when I truly started looking for answers, when I realized how dangerous it was to listen to vengeful apparitions.

It was three in the morning, and I woke up with Dad standing over me. I remember jumping, but calming down and mumbling a good morning. Dad whispered to me to follow him. Which I did. I shuffled after Dad, asking where we were going so late, but he never answered.

He guided me to the kitchen, empty of any chefs. The only person there was Mom, holding the largest kitchen knife I’d ever seen. She smiled, so wide and unnatural. I could see the entirety of her gums, and her mouth seemed to stretch beyond her cheeks. I looked up at Dad, and he suddenly had the same smile. Just thinking about those smiles sends shivers down my spine.

They asked me to kill Ashlyn Aslett.

I quickly denied. They started to scold me for not listening to them. Mom raising her voice terrified me, and Dad sounded so disappointed, setting a hand on my shoulder, encouraging me to make him and Mom happy. I remember quickly being overwhelmed, screaming so loudly I lost my voice for two weeks.

Gwendolyn and Percival, as well as some of the staff, found me, alone, in the kitchen screaming, crying, with a knife just a foot away from me. Understandably, they were concerned. Gwendolyn and Percival were so apologetic to me, saying they wished they realized how I was feeling sooner. I didn’t correct them. It wasn’t entirely a lie anyways. Plus, the therapy sessions helped me.

Since that night, Mom and Dad didn’t make themselves known. Not a sight, a hearing, not even the feeling that they were there. It was just me for the past five years. I learned to play piano, ride horses, and take care of myself better - though I still had a sickly complexion. I fell in love with art, took up painting in my spare time. High school was a bit of a bore, but I received my driver's license, dated a few classmates before ultimately staying single in my final year. I was looking forward to prom too.

I spill my secrets with you now, because there’s only a small guarantee that I will survive tonight. If tonight is the last time I’m seen, then let it be known why.

The door to my closet opened, a ghastly chill swept over my room. A pair of boney hands, with fingernails that were sharp like daggers, pushed the doors apart. From the darkness were four pairs of glowing red eyes, accompanied by unnatural wide smiles. I can say, right now, the only reason I’m alive is because they’re waiting for me to wake up. They’re hoping to get lucky and have this be one of the nights I wake up before dawn. They were lucky. All I need is to be luckier and pray they don’t notice.

Or get impatient.

“K a m r y n…” I kept my eyes shut.

Shit.

#writers #writing #creative writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #writer #horror #horror writing #original fiction #horror story #horror fiction #story writing

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megidonitram · 8 months ago

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My stupid little Baldur's Gate 3 English Professor AU Headcanons

I mostly want an excuse to puzzle out people's qualifications and educational backgrounds for my silly little English Department AU

Astarion

Astarion has just always given me overwhelming "sensitive little gay child who had his spirit crushed by his wealthy conservative family" vibes. He has a pre-law Bachelor of English because that was the only socially acceptable way he could get a humanities degree. He had a breakdown in law school and switched to a history M.A. behind his father's back. After that, he sort of aimlessly collected upper-level degrees for a while because he didn't know how to do anything other than be a student. He eventually settled on a Ph.D. in comparative literature.

He mainly teaches upper-level courses (because he scares the freshmen away). His specialty is in British and European literature, and he sort of begrudges having to teach American lit (despite teaching at an American university). He's a tough grader, but he's technically the more accessible lit professor for non-English majors because he teaches with a historical/informational approach rather than a stylistic approach.

Gale

Gale went into college at age 18, thinking he was going to get a creative writing degree and become a famous fantasy author until one of his faculty advisors gently suggested he take a few technical writing courses, and he fell in love with rhetoric and the more analytical side of the English field. He worked as a student employee in his university's library, where he caught the eye of his supervisor, who helped him get into a Library Science program straight out of undergrad. That same supervisor became his mentoring professor, and then they got engaged suspiciously quickly after Gale got out of grad school. When that relationship fell apart, Gale couldn't really stay in the library field, so he went back to school and got a Ph.D. in rhetoric and technical communications.

He's the newest hire, so he's mostly stuck teaching the intro comps and the non-English department English classes (since writing, business writing, etc.) The only upper levels he teaches are grammar and style-focused. He's the only member of the faculty with a tech-writing background, so he is the most well-liked English professor among the STEM folks.

Shadowheart

I'm not really positive what Shadowheart would have done pre-grad school. She's the second most senior member of the department (behind Astarion), and I feel like she'd been in and out of a lot of toxic queer group living situations for most of her life. Her wife's a philosophy professor at a different university, and she ended up with a master's in poetry and a Ph.D. in contemporary literature because that university had a really good family scholarship program.

She handles the other half of the literature courses and upper-level creative writing courses. She's very big into the stylistic approach to teaching writing and literature, and she's known for assigning very strange, almost inscrutable readings (think starting with Sam Becket's Endgame and just getting weirder from there).

Karlach

Karlach actually doesn't have a Ph.D., and she's not interested in teaching college full-time. She's a middle school ELA teacher who took a position teaching intro courses so someone would help comp her master's degree. She hangs around teaching one or two classes a semester to have a little bit of extra money on the side.

She teaches intro comps and intro creative writing. She is a very warm and nurturing presence in the writing classroom, and she's incredibly beloved among students who've taken her classes.

Wyll

Wyll is a senior undergrad working on an English degree with a secondary certificate. He is captain of the fencing team and wants to be a high school teacher when he graduates. He's generally very much beloved by all of the English faculty, but especially Karlach.

He's probably going to end up with a teaching position at the same school as Karlach when he graduates, which would make teaching in middle school this AU's version of being in hell.

Lae'zel

Lae'zel's also a senior undergrad and a massive overachiever. She plays several sports, is double majoring in sports medicine and sports communication, minoring in English, and works part-time. She wants to be a sports journalist, but everyone around her is kind of quietly convinced that she's going to end up being one absolute bulldog of a street reporter.

#bg3 #baulders gate 3 #bg3 headcanons #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 astarion #bg3 gale #bg3 shadowheart #bg3 karlach #bg3 wyll #bg3 lae'zel

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mountphoenixrp · 2 months ago

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We have a new citizen in Mount Phoenix:

Lamai Saetang a 29 year old daughter of Hathor. She is a Remote College English Language Instructor.

IN CHARACTER

FC NAME/GROUP: Faye Malisorn | Thai Actress

CHARACTER NAME: Lamai Saetang

AGE/DATE OF BIRTH: 29, March 23rd 1995

PLACE OF BIRTH: Bangkok, Thailand

OCCUPATION: Remote online college English Language instructor

HEIGHT: 5'9"

WEIGHT: 140 lbs

DEFINING FEATURES: She’s got a small tattoo of her paternal grandmothers family name on her wrist, on her rib cage “I promise to not go, if you promise to stay”, a naval piercing

PERSONALITY: Lamai is a very confident woman who is assured of herself in mostly everything. Her cockiness getting her far in business adventures, she has a knack for picking things up easily. But that said Lamai oftentimes can bite off more than she can chew. Leaving her overwhelmed and stressed. Pulled into too many directions she’ll burn herself out and end up isolating herself and quitting everything at the drop of a dime. She tends to think she is the smartest in the room sometimes and can make herself look foolish. A large ego, but fragile on the inside she is almost too touchy to criticism, and if she can’t perfect something she started she will drop it and sulk for days or hours on end. Perfectionism is something she has issues with which resulted in her moving to [location] in the first place. She tends to have a side when she gets into partying where she is either super emotional, or tends to be a bit of a bitch in other words. A superiority and dominance complex tends to come out.

HISTORY:

Lamai was born in an upper middle class family, or more or less adopted into one, doing squarely okay in school with grades good enough to get her into college. During those years Lamai was able to excel in language, art, communications, and partying. Learning English, Korean, and a little bit of Spanish. Semi Average grades almost got her no-where. Falling back onto her charming personality, little did she know it was a slight power, and was able to climb the social ladder and land herself a very good job in management and international communications, even before she fully graduated with her degree. But her 9-5 was growing boring for her, Lamai, the type where she needed to constantly have something going on so she could just sleep and not be kept up thinking about her past regrets. Having paused her partying habits for work, she picked up clubbing among many other rather wild hobbies from her college days that left her socially exhausted and numb for a long time. From intense parties, maybe too many one night stands, hustling men in billiards, her body was always busy living on the edge of either death or alcohol poisoning.

During her wild excursions she ended up falling into a ‘situationship’ with a woman, this woman was the boss of her department. Though at the time she met her boss, it was in a foggy club and Lamai may have had a bit more than just a drink or two. It wasn’t until they were both awake in the morning did they realize just the serious HR violation they committed. Did that mean they stopped? Absolutely not, both living for the high they gave each other. But neither of them claimed exclusivity with each other. Resulting in an insurmountable jealousy and constant revenge stands against them. On top of them both having to focus and concentrate on a rather important company project. Lamai was struggling to get everything just right as there was too much on her mind, and too many messages from others asking for a second night.

On the final day of the project it seemed to be the last straw for both her superior and Lamai. They got into a nasty argument in front of their entire team. Bickering relentlessly over the final detail, and soon tossing in their own personal problems with each other.

Head of HR was called into the middle of this fight. It was then and there that they both got penalized. Now a stain on Lamai’s squeaky clean record, she couldn’t perform to her perfectionist standards, soon quitting her job. One day as she was plastered laying her head on a random Korean woman’s lap sobbing away, the woman was a Demi-god, listening to her story more keenly than Lamai was aware. Not to mention that though this woman looked so miserable, the woman could feel this, teen like giggle in her stomach. Sure they were drunk and easily she was just being nice, to Lamai’s mind. But the woman did not want to let this woman not know what she might be. So they exchanged numbers, The woman extending her stay in Thailand for a couple of days to keep in contact with Lamai. Forming a quick friendship, for when the last day she would be in the country she pulled Lamai into an isolated area and explained to the woman what she thought she was. Lamai was in denial for a while. It couldn’t be, though adopted, a vague story on her mother and father, but her mother, a goddess? Plus the combination of her heartbreak, constantly seeing her former boss in the same circles.

Though Lamai didn’t like what she was told, she hated how everything in her life seemed to so perfectly align to what she is. She also wanted to know who her godly parent was, unable to sustain being in the same country as her boss. So swallowing her ego she reached out to her friend. Asking her for help, and what to do. That’s when she was invited to come to Mount Phoenix. She’d help her get a remote job, something to give her the chance to explore herself and get her the resources to find her parent/heritage as her own adoptive family knew nothing, the had no real records.

So away Lamai went, packing her bags, the remaining pieces heart, and her newly acquired dog she left. she has been at Mount Phoenix for about 2 years. Only recently getting back into her old habits and socializing.

PANTHEON: Egyptian

CHILD OF: Hathor

POWERS: She has a natural magnetizing charm when she is in good and high spirits. The happier or more euphoric she feels the stronger it gets. People sometimes finding the pleasure she brings addictive. But even in her lowest depressive state she can still give some people a small bubble of joy that can feel inappropriate.

STRENGTHS: She is a very skilled poet and literary artist, writing a craft she’s only recently perfected. Art and painting, it offers a good escape and a back up side hustle during the summers drawing caricatures and sometimes weddings. Picking things up easily, so long as she can do it right the second time, she can learn rather quickly.

WEAKNESSES: Perfectionist, to the point it ruins her she can’t let something not meet her own satisfactions. Her power tends to mess with her mind a lot, it makes her wonder if the person truly likes her or what she makes them feel. Sensitive, oh so sensitive. Though she hides it well with an RBF she is a giant baby when it comes to her feelings, not able to take criticism well, nor being able to do something right she will drop whatever it was and sulk for hours or days.

#kpop rp #krp #mp; welcome #faye malisorn #discord krp #krpad #au krp #kpop roleplay

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wyrmghost · 1 year ago

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FANTASY PERIOD DRAMA??? YES PLEASE TELL ME ALL ABOUT IT

okay so that’s for my pair of oldest ocs

Right is Mariette a middle/upper class French woman

left is Pierre a working class individual with the makings of an inventor

The story takes place quite a bit before the French Revolution, but does have some related things going on that lead up to it like the American revolution which is talked about by many of the characters. Pierre is a witch which isn’t uncommon among the working class, a majority of the population are witches to varying degrees. Mariette is a shifter, she can become a rabbit, shifters are believed to be blessed by the gods and carry their traits in familial lines, Mariette specifically is blessed by the goddess of fertility who is often represented by a rabbit in religious iconography .(this fantasy France is still heavily influenced by the church but with a different religion where all the gods are related to a core ideal in their society)

the story revolves around self identity, social classes, heavy classism and social disparities are touched on, religion, optimism despite hard times, and a budding romance that is incredibly confusing for those involved based on a number of factors including the gender identity of both main characters, the social classes they belong to, along with things like responsibilities and family.

Pierre meets Mariette after he sees her fall in a fountain after tripping, no one was helping her since it would be seen as disrespectful and crude for the lower class folk to offer her a hand, Pierre couldn’t care less about that and helps get Mariette out of the fountain with some effort (a soaked 18th century dress is incredibly heavy), she thanked him afterwards and he told her that she should get out of the wet clothing since it was hard to walk in, she wasn’t too keen on this idea but followed him to his work shop where he was an apprentice and allowed him to bring her a dress he claims belonged to his sister, she dresses and leaves, people are a little more than surprised to see her wearing a much less expensive gown but she makes her way home, later on seeing Pierre again and they slowly learn more about each other.

side note:

Mariette feels her responsibility to her family strongly and wants to do her best to make her father happy but struggles with following his ideals and choices while trying to find herself she wants to be a good daughter but also wants to be an independent driving force in her own life. On top of all of this she feels a duty to her religion and one that she can not feel she can fully fulfill in more than one way.

Pierre wants to be an inventor and hopes to bring his family the best life he can afford and legally obtain (blah blah blah laws not allowing peasants to buy nice things and more) hense his apprenticeship, his is hopelessly optimistic and does his best to keep his head held high, he hopes to improve his social standings once he becomes a well known inventor, but he struggles with poverty and due to his kind hearted attitude will throw himself in harms way to try and break up fights or help people that may not have his best interest in mind.

There’s a whole lot of other things like the man who Pierre trains under and Pierre and Mariette’s families especially her father that I can’t really fit in here, but it’s one of my stories that I live a lot and would do a comic for if it wasn’t so important for me to be mostly historically accurate especially when it comes to visuals with a few liberties taken, I may write a book for it one day.

#Hope you enjoyed my mini info dump #my oc stuff

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desiderium-eden · 1 year ago

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Navka: Animulla

The most coveted of Navka's resources and also the one the kingdom keeps closest to its chest. Animulla are the magic crystals and gems mined in the region that, despite the Navkan's reputation of weaker intellectual prowess, have put their name on the map as a magical powerhouse. With the ability to manipulate, nullify or amplify magic, it was only recently, after the death of the former king that Navka has even entertained the idea of trading some of this precious resource, and even then, it's in very, VERY limited quantities.

Most animulla work by passively (or actively) absorbing the magic in the environment that can be used by the owner.

Types:

Syla: a clear crystal that fill with color as it's filled with magic; a reusable magic battery that can absorb raw magic; used to power much of the magic technology in Navka; the more freely traded animulla

Zemne: jewels that come in a variety of colors depending on the type; the second most common type seen in regular Navkan life; amplifiers of standard elemental magics; the type Navka is more willing to trade small quantities of though mostly reserved for close allies

Rozum: translucent, pale green gems (think specifically Siberian emeralds) that shimmers with a light like the sun filtered through leaves; nicknamed the "Trickster's Gem" or "Faerie Tears"; amplifies psychic and mental type magics such as communications and illusions; used only by the nobility and certain allies

Null: black and dark purple crystals with purple swirls (think darker versions of charoite with much more black) and gold flecks that glow when used; reserved for the royal family and their close friends; absorbs and nullifies magic, often releasing the magic in a burst

Scela: dark red gems with black textures that can seem suspicious (like faces in torment) if you look at them long enough; reserved for the royal family and authorized individuals; amplifies dark magic (necromancy, curses, etc)

Dusha: pale iridescent gems (like the middle between opal and moonstone) with white textures that look like feathers (think seraphinite); reserved for the royal family and authorized individuals (like certain members of the Temples); amplifies magics like healing, spirit-types, and "divine" magic

Notes:

Most animulla are temporary, especially amplifier types. How long it lasts depends on factors like the size, quality, and frequency of use.Once used up, the gems lose their glow/shine and are little more than just pretty jewels. They're still very pretty though.

There are a handful that, even after thousands of years, have not lost their shine. But the owners of such gems are not letting those go.

Syla can be reused so long as there is no physical damage. If cracked, even when new, there is a chance of any absorbed magic leaking out or even exploding. Be careful.

Any nation with some sort of trade deals with Navka can assume to be gaining Syla. It's the others that Navka will be more selective with.

So far, I only know that there are trades of personal shares between Navka and Ahnia (most likely Zemne). And they've been holding off on giving any to Vanystea. If anyone else wants any, we can talk.

One theory as to why animulla can only be found in Navka is an abundance of magic or energy in the environment. Others say this is because of a long history of death, with the tragedies releasing magic or energy or whatever into the world around them.

Animulla is used in tech, weapons, and accessories.

Navkan nobles and upper class tend to wear jewelry and accessories with animulla hidden among normal jewels. Especially when traveling on official political missions.

Most nobles will carry some Rozum and Null for the sake of communication and protection

Mikhail uses mainly Zemne (pyro type), and Scela

Dmitri uses mainly Zemne (cryo and ventus types) (Though he also wears an earring or something that has a Dusha crystal in it)

Lazuli uses mainly Rozum, and Dusha

#{Faebella Obscura} royal au

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the-weirdos-mind · 1 year ago

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Wall Noble

Wall Noble is the second outermost wall. The residents of the wall are a mix of upper class and middle class. A majority of the populations merchant guilds can be found in this wall but the oldest and wealthiest merchant and tailor families live in Wall Royal. There is a mayor that helps keep order within in the wall and has authority but not total control. The mayor sends reports of anything serious going on to prepare the court for serious criminals. While there are towns and villages in the wall, there’s plenty of forests within providing those who live in the bush a way to hunt.

Merchants, tailors and a majority of the military make up the population of the wall with some exceptions such as bakers and doctors. There’s also something special that lives within the wall. In a tower somewhere in the middle of the town sits a golden bell. The sounds of the bell can be heard throughout all the walls and ring when/if a Phantom where to break into the walls. It also alerts the military in the towns to prepare. The Mostro Regiment mostly live within the walls with some Scouts.

Notable Families

The Rosehearts: A family of doctors who have a long and respectable reputation in the community as among the best doctors in the country. It’s said that the current matriarch turned down the offer to move to Wall Royal in order to stay in a community that needed them. There are rumors that she forced her son to join the military to boost their social status

The Diamonds: A family that serves in one of the many guilds, providing financial support and assistance. They’re in charge of what can be spent on within the budget for the guild. Currently the family handles finances for the Coral Guild, which is rumored to be a mafia like organization beneath the surface

The Howls: A family of hunters that live in the forests. As wolf beastmen, they’re well adapted into living in the woods and excellent hunters due to their heightened senses. A small portion of the family has joined the military and are prominent for the Scouts upon graduation.

The Flammes: The family that takes care of the bell in the wall. The job is an old and respectable one for them which includes cleaning the bell and repairing it. There have been few instances where the bell has to ring for Phantom invasion. The family lives within the bell tower so they can go ring it whenever it’s needed.

The Hunts: Another family that lives in the woods. Some generations back, the family decided to move away from the towns and into the wilderness for some peace and quiet. Some members have returned to the towns for work related reasons while some still live in the woods. Few have joined the military and they’re known to pay a bit too much attention to their comrades.

The Downys: A family that has been known for generations in the military. Their ancestors were among one of the first recruits to join and it’s tradition for them to join as soon as they’re of age. Death and destruction are foreign concepts as the children are often told stories of the battle field and Phantoms to mentally prepare them for their future.

The Maldicións: A family that serves as secretaries for the mayor. It’s a job that’s always expected for one of the children. When the job is put onto the next person to take over, some join guilds while few joined the military.

The Allaqs: A family that also dwells in the wilderness. Their ties with the Howls are close ones and they often help them on a hunt. Like the Howls, they’re also prominent to join the Scouts when they graduate. Some say that having an Allaq on their squad is a sign of good luck since they’re skilled hunters in their right.

The Doveenstiens: The family that holds the title of mayor for the wall. Like the monarchy, the role is passed down from parent to child but unlike the monarchy, if a child expresses no desire to be mayor they’re welcome other options for their future. Some have chosen to be members of a guild while few joined the military.

The Southwests: Another family of soldiers. The parents trained their children in combat from a young age to prepare them for the job and to boost their egos. They’re regarded as the ‘Sacrificial Soldiers’ in their squads as they’ve been known to turn themselves into Phantom bait. Very few members have returned alive.

The Hawks: Another family of soldiers. The cadet trainer always sighs and groans when they see that last name. The family has been known to pull ridiculous stunts that somehow works in their favor when facing Phantoms. Everyone wonders how they managed to escape without dying.

The Clovers: A family of bakers who make a respectable living. Their treats are known as the best that the country has to offer. Some families tried to marry some of their children into their family to learn their secrets and steal them for their own gain. Thankfully the family is aware of this and are cautious of who they court.

The Pinkers: Not much is known about this family. They are known for a different generation to work in a different field than the previous generation so no one can pinpoint what they’re known for. They are however loyal to those they trust and play pranks on their friends an awful lot. No one knows when a Pinker will pop up

The Ashengrottos: The owners of the Coral Guild. The rumors about the guild being a mafia like organization are true and getting in is next to impossible. They have connections set up in every wall and have intel that others would kill for. Whenever someone gets close to finding out information, they’re never seen and heard of again. Some say that their connections to the Scouts take care of them and no one wants to think of what that has involved.

The Triens: A family that is mostly teachers. Some members have done time in the military and teach and train cadets once they’re ready to retire. The cadets often fear them as they’re very strict with their teachings.

The Zigvolts: Another family of soldiers. Serving in the military is considered a honor for them and they take the job seriously. Some members have gone to join the Magical Enforcement regiment and protect the royal family. For them, that’s the highest honor a person can receive and many hope to serve the royal family.

The Igor’s: A family that’s shrouded in mystery. No one knows their exact origins but they live in the woods and keep to themselves. When a member joins the military, they’re known to be brutal with their kills.

The Khadak’s: Another family of hunters. They prefer to live on the edge of the mountains, finding it easy to store food in the cold climate. They mostly join the military to put their hunting skills to better use.

Wall Royal

Wall Raven

Masterlist

@adrianasunderworld @mangacupcake @writing-heiress @marrondrawsalot @anxious-twisted-vampire @achy-boo @nproduction626

#twisted wonderland au #attack on phantoms #attack on titan au #attack on phantoms lore #au worldbuilding #TWST x AOT #twisted wonderland ocs

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biboocat · 10 months ago

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Good Evening, Mrs. Craven: the Wartime Stories of Mollie Panter-Downe. I won’t divulge any plots in the next section, but I’d like to share my general impressions of this wonderful collection of WW2 era stories. Spoilers follow in the last section so avoid that if you haven’t read it yet.

A big thanks to those who recommended this book. I appreciated the collection for both its historic and artistic qualities. The stories are short but highly perceptive observations of the lives of British civilians during WW2. They were published in the New Yorker from October 1939 to December 1944, yet nearly 80 years later, they still gave me a vivid sensation of their angst and bewilderment. The author includes rare upper class characters but mostly describes the middle class and the various complications and sacrifices incurred by the war. A phenomenon that I found particularly interesting was the drastic loss of domestic servants during the war and its far reaching consequences. As one would expect the tone is generally serious, but a few of the stories essentially comedies, and amusing and witty passages pop up in otherwise serious stories. The stories also gave me a sense of the English character, at least among her middle and upper class, their stoicism, the practical sentiments to “be sensible” and to “get on with it”. I savored the author’s understated style and economy of words that belie so much meaning and emotion. I highly recommend this hidden gem! I plan to read more of her books including One Fine Day (novel) and Minnie’s Room: the Peacetime Stories of Mollie Panter-Downes.

Story themes - Spoilers follow: a date that goes awry, an ineffectual meeting of civilian women to contribute to the war effort, the chaos and inconvenience of a country house stuffed with London evacuees, the culture shock of a wealthy woman in a country manor house who hosts a family from a London slum, the war veteran who is too old to fight, a wealthy elderly woman alters her priorities and flees the war that dogs her, a young woman who finds herself pregnant and is discontented with the war’s interference with her plans, a dinner party that goes all wrong 😂, a sewing party gets heated. 😂, a nostalgic visit to an empty friend’s house, a reminder of a world that no longer exists, another sewing party gets heated 😁, a couple faces a countdown to deployment, a mother worries about her children in America, a couple who had been friends become unwanted house guests, an extramarital affair interrupted by the war, a hungry and lonely school mistress, the transient camaraderie among apartment dwellers during the Blitz, an old loyal housekeeper mourns the changes to her lady’s aristocratic way of life, a family man frustrated with his civilian war job and domestic duties, the joy of having an incompatible family of evacuees leave spoiled by the guilt of having to turn away another family, and a lonely woman takes in a young mother and her baby only to find the happiness of mother and child makes her feel more empty.

#ww2 #british women writers #british literature #mollie panter-downes

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imsobadatnicknames2 · 5 months ago

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The "largely people who felt they had no other choice" part is mostly a fabrication. Look up any recent demographic study of the demographics of the military, and you will find the middle class is notably overrepresented among military recruits, while impoverished people are actually under-represented.

Similarly, military recruits are significantly more likely to have had access to high-school education than the general US population (1.4% of military recruits lack a high school diplomma or equivalent degree, compared to ~20% of the general adult population).

And several studies such as 2020's "A mercenary army of the poor? Technological change and the demographic composition of the post-9/11 U.S. military" have found that financial desperation ranks a lot lower than commonly believed among the reasons why people join the military, with many more people joining out of a sense of duty, or "love for their country", or carrying on family tradition.

Of course, the U.S. military does to some degree prey on financially desperate people, marginalized people, and people who lack academic and laboral opportunities, and this is a problem. But demographically speaking, the idea that these people are representative of the majority of US military recruits has no basis in reality (and I'm not a fan of the way it gets disingenuously brought up all the time to dismiss the reasons anyone in the global south might feel any genuine anger or resentment at american soldiers). In actuality, the average recruit is much closer to white, upper-middle class, educated, and with plenty of financial opportunities.

Before you go telling other people to do more research, you should really ask yourself if you subscribe to this idea because you have done research about it, or because it happens to line up with a few bits of anecdotal evidence you've heard and offers a comforting narrative about the american public's degree of willing complicity with the actions of the US military.

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batbluud · 2 months ago

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I related so strongly to those tags about prayer tbh. I grew up in a nonreligious household and basically my only exposure to religion growing up was like. Westboro Baptist protestors and televangelists and the Pope and whoever in the news all saying that I was gonna go to hell. so I wouldn't say I have religious trauma per se but I never ever got to experience any positive side to the Church or to religion until I began learning more about other cultures as a young adult, listening to Jewish friends explain their beliefs, reading books about Buddhism and Shinto, and exploring more of the metaphysics side of philosophy in college. but even so I've never felt like I could really pray. sometimes I feel like maybe something bigger than myself is speaking to me, but I don't know whether it's God, some fragment of my own brain brought out by mental illness, or whether I just do edibles too often, so that's neither here nor there - I don't really Know the way so many people seem to do. I don't know what I believe in and I'm not sure whether I'll ever know or not. it's lonely sometimes so it's nice to know others have similar feelings. I want to understand so badly but I don't think I ever will.

yeah. sometimes i worry i yap too much in the tags on this website, but i'm really happy that my 6am ramblings resonated with you. my family was mostly secular, we celebrated christmas and easter and such but mostly just the commercial "easter bunny and santa" versions of those holidays. when i was growing up i had a friend who lived across the street from me that had born-again christian parents and i am 100% convinced those people were evil incarnate in human skin. my parents were abusive but they were nothing compared to the shitbags my friend had to live with. constantly spewing bile and hate in the name of their god and gave their "blood" kid (my friend was a stepchild) preferential treatment. i genuinely think that radicalized me from a very young age. eventually they banned her from seeing me when i came out as trans. word somehow got back to them that she was bi and they blamed me i guess.

i never really recovered from that until i met someone in the 6th grade. she was so kind to me despite everyone else shunning me (i had come out at a very young age, like, twelve or thirteen, and nobody really knew how to react at the time). her family were practicing sikhs (if i am remembering that correctly) and i constantly had to hear other people (mostly girls) at the time talk behind her back about her hair, the way she spoke, or the way she dressed. i grew up in a very upper middle class white area so lots of the people i went to school with were demons. she was an angel among them. she taught me how to write my name in arabic, some other basic words and she also showed me a sikh prayer. it was the first genuinely positive interaction with religion i ever had. i think of her often. she was wonderful. i longed for the type of bond she had not just with her family but with her faith. i knew i could never really have that kind of connection after everything i went through (if you pray to god for your mommy to come home after a bender in the middle of the night enough times, even your little child brain realizes at some point no one is answering). like, i could go to church and do the song and dance, but i know it's not going to do anything for me. and man sometimes i really wish it did.

#sorry for rambling Again but im glad you connected with that.#we're all just trying to find a place you know #mine was just never with god #i hold no contempt for kind religious people. in a way i do very much envy them #side note the song ocean breathes salty by modest mouse is about this.#one of my favorites ever.#give it a listen if you've never heard it

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arcticwolfpaws · 6 months ago

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DYSIPLES

Acting as the new world government they only bothered to govern the Zephyrs and the Kheapan that remained above the cloud wall,

They start their military training young and have their people on a strict class system based on the shape of one's wings,

Classes and wing shapes

High speed wings= elite

hover class= low level elite must be a medic for 20 years

elliptical=soldiers upper middle class

Active soreing= scouts/ middle middle class

passive soaring=civic/ farmer low class

Due to this class systime the Elite classes are highly inbred and often hide those who are too obviously “Wrong” those they are seen as the height of perfection.

When a low class family has an elite class child it is seen as a miracle and the child is often handed over quickly so they may take their proper place however some people will gladly hide their children for fear of losing them, these children are often handed off to the ruling powers and their families to ensure perfection among the line.

(Noteable Elite: Clay, Viska, Benjamin, Fluke)

Medics are taken from their family to start their training at age 14 that is unless they are of a lower class in that case they are taken when they are born, and placed in the care of older retired medics.

(Noteable medics: Ein, Emma, Gunner kind of)

Soldiers: these people spring up mostly in the low classes and if they show up in high class families they are taken away and placed in specialized care facilities until age 10 when their training starts.

(Noteable soldier class: Gunnar, Griggs).

Punishments:

The primary punishment for elites is to be locked away out of sight from everyone with limited contact with the outside world.

All other classes are subjected to having their feathers clipped and are told once the feathers are clipped that they will never fly again, For those seen as doing something particularly heinous they will publicly have there crimes told and there wings will be removed depending on the actual crime they may or may not be given pain killers it is also not uncommon for them to then be dumped below the wall and fall to there deaths.

#strange lands #world bible #afewbirds #wrighting #writers on tumblr #writing

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reasoningdaily · 8 months ago

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Last week, during a swing through Miami, Donald Trump stopped by a community center in Little Haiti. Trump has never held much interest in Haiti or Haitian Americans, and it showed. Instead of the usual bluster, the reality TV star tentatively read some vague, prepared remarks off a sheet of paper, then sat back on a stool “to listen and to learn” for a few minutes from the small crowd of mostly middle-aged, upper- and middle-class Haitian Americans in dark suits and print dresses, scattered among a few rows of folding chairs.

Not long ago, Trump’s team glommed onto the possibility that Haitian Americans—generally black, generally Democratic-leaning voters who make up roughly 2 percent of the population of Florida, where Trump and Hillary Clinton are separated by less than a point—might be persuaded to vote against the former secretary of state. The irony of a nativist pandering to thousands of immigrants and refugees aside, there was a logic to this. Many people rightly identify Clinton with failures of humanitarianism and development in Haiti. The Trump team has folded that perception into a half-true narrative in which Haiti—like Whitewater and Benghazi before it—becomes a synecdoche for all the ills, real and imagined, of the Clintons themselves.

There are good reasons the world’s first black republic has been an island-sized headache for Clinton as she seeks the presidency. Haiti is a place where some of the darkest suppositions that lurk on the left and right about her and her husband take form. Here is an island country of 10 million people where America’s ultimate power couple invested considerable time and reputation. Here is a fragile state where each took turns implementing destructive policies whose highlights include overthrowing a presidential election. Bill Clinton in particular mixed personal relationships, business, and unaccountable power in ways that, if never exactly criminal, arouse the kind of suspicion that erodes public trust. No two individuals, including Haiti’s own leaders, enjoyed more power and influence than the Clintons in the morass of the failed reconstruction following the deadly Jan. 12, 2010, earthquake, when a troubled country managed to go from catastrophe to worse.

The Clintons compounded the resulting political problem the way they usually do, by saying as little as possible while letting their enemies fill in the blanks. A year before he became Trump’s campaign “CEO,” Breitbart News chairman Steve Bannon began pushing facile theories of corruption and malfeasance in the book Clinton Cash, written by Peter Schweizer under the aegis of Bannon’s Orwellianly named Government Accountability Institute. It was later turned into a film. Both versions of Clinton Cash tell a kaleidoscopic version of Haiti’s post-quake story, remixed and more than occasionally fudged to push the Clintons into the center. Those flawed but relatively measured accounts in turn inspired whack-job theories that have become articles of faith in the anti-Clinton fever swamps, such as the fantasy that Hillary and Bill just straight up stole billions of dollars in post-quake relief money—an impossible claim so unmoored from reality that even Peter Schweitzer didn’t bother making it.

The reality is a lot more complicated (and interesting) than that. The United States and Haiti were the first two independent republics in the Americas, and our often blood-soaked relationship goes back a lot further than the meeting of a silky Arkansan and an ambitious Illinoisan at Yale Law School.

Trump, probably unwittingly, submerged himself in some relatively recent chapters of that history at the Little Haiti Cultural Center. His host was Georges Saati, a wealthy Lebanese-Haitian industrialist whose family backed the brutal 20th-century dictatorships of François and Jean-Claude Duvalier and whose far-right faction helped foment the violent overthrow of President Jean-Bertrand Aristide in 2004. Trump was also treated to a speech by Bernard Sansaricq, a radical right-wing ex-Haitian legislator whom the Los Angeles Times once called the “self-proclaimed president of Haiti’s Senate” and who collaborated with the military junta that ruled during Aristide’s first exile in the 1990s, following a coup carried out during the George H.W. Bush administration by former Duvalierists on the CIA payroll. Trump was so moved that this week, his staff published another statement by Sansaricq on its website.

Both wealthy Haitians openly loathe Bill Clinton, who ordered the U.S. invasion that put down the junta and restored Aristide to power, for a time. Sansaricq, who long ago left Haiti and ran unsuccessfully for U.S. Congress as a Republican in 2010 and 2012, repeated nonsensical, Breitbart-esque claims about “the whole world” having given “billions of dollars to the Clinton Foundation for the Haitians” (false: The Clinton Foundation has raised about $30 million in connection with Haiti and was at no point a general clearinghouse for post-quake relief money) and promising Trump the Haitian American community’s support if he will “ask Hillary Clinton to disclose the audit of all the money they have stolen from Haiti.”

Trump nodded thoughtfully. “I didn’t understand,” he said, “now I understand it.”

He didn’t. I know, because I’ve spent years looking into what’s really gone on in Haiti. I was the Associated Press correspondent in Port-au-Prince from 2007 to 2011 and survived the earthquake in 2010. I’ve spent years digging into the details of the response and recovery, much of which I put in a book. I’ve also done extensive, critical reporting on the Clintons’ roles in particular, which is why my name appears halfway through the Clinton Cash documentary, misleadingly implying that I was some sort of corroborating source.

In all that time, neither I nor anyone else has found the coveted evidence of either Clinton making off with vast sums of money from Haiti or the relief effort. And while America’s foremost power couple may be as culpable as anyone for the disastrous results of the earthquake response, it is fundamentally misleading to say that they are singularly responsible for it, much less for America’s long and abusive history with its oldest and poorest neighbor. I wish things were that simple.

* * *

There’s a real case to be made against Hillary Clinton in Haiti. From her first days as secretary of state, Clinton saw the island republic as a place to “road-test” a central piece of her foreign policy vision of “elevating development alongside diplomacy and defense as core pillars of American power.” Haiti would be a major example of “economic statecraft,” as she called it, where business and government partner to address natural disasters, poverty, and disease, neutralizing threats while generating money and power for the United States—what her husband would call a “win-win-win.”

Clinton has gotten grief in this election for that kind of thinking, exemplified elsewhere by a 2011 speech in which she pitched reconstruction in Iraq, eight years after the U.S. invasion, as a “business opportunity.” In reality, what she is pushing has been standard U.S. foreign policy for more than a century. (In Iraq, she was very late to the party.) It’s no less true when it comes to “humanitarianism.” The U.S. government devotes less than 1 percent of its budget to “foreign aid,” most of which goes to vendors based in the United States. For instance, nearly half a billion dollars of U.S. government relief aid “for Haiti” following the 2010 earthquake went to the Defense Department. The vast majority of U.S. government contracts went to American firms; almost no cash ever went, or was intended to go, to Haitians or the Haitian government. The same is true for nearly all nongovernmental organizations and charities, including the American Red Cross.

Despite promises to change this way of doing aid, both Clintons rode herd on business as usual—Hillary as head of the State Department (which effectively includes the U.S. Agency for International Development, or USAID), and Bill in his panoply of roles, including co-chairing the Interim Haiti Recovery Commission (IHRC), a nominally Haitian government agency charged with overseeing the allocation of reconstruction money donated by foreign governments to a World Bank–managed fund for 18 months after the earthquake.* USAID, ignoring recommendations to hire Haitian contractors, brought in several U.S. firms (and one Mexican firm) to build a housing development. The added cost of flights, hotels, cars, food allowances, living expenses, and “danger pay” ballooned the cost per house from $8,000 to $33,000, investigative reporter Jake Johnston found. Ultimately two of the American contractors were suspended from receiving future government contracts. “Out of ignorance, there was much arrogance,” a Haitian official told Johnston.

But when the right isn’t beating the Clintons over the head about it, this pattern—keeping the money close to home—is how most conservatives, and a lot of other Americans, want foreign aid to work. Clinton’s insistence that relief and development efforts yield benefits for American businesses and consumers is aimed mostly at critics who don’t understand that this is how U.S. aid and intervention always operate. (That includes Trump himself, who told a Fox News town hall in April: “We have many, many countries that we give a lot of money to, and we get absolutely nothing in return, and that’s going to stop fast.”)

Before and after the earthquake, the State Department openly and enthusiastically pushed a vision of prosperity for Haiti through foreign investment in tourism, construction, and low-wage garment factories. In its view, this would save Haitians from poverty and prevent future refugee crises while making money for American and multinational corporations. That idea is badly flawed—among other things, the low wages and sweeping tax exemptions investors demand mean little money flows into the local economy—but it’s the program every single U.S. presidential administration has backed in Haiti since at least the 1960s. In the 1970s and early 1980s, Haiti produced huge quantities of cheap clothes, toys—and at one point all the baseballs used in the U.S. major leagues—earning it the nickname the “Taiwan of the Caribbean.” It’s a bipartisan effort: Clinton’s vision of “economic statecraft” isn’t all that different from the policies Ronald Reagan was pushing when his administration created the Caribbean Basin Initiative.

But efforts to resurrect the assembly sector, which collapsed in the turmoil following the fall of the Duvalier dictatorship 1986, got ugly. A few months before the quake, U.S. embassy officials pressured the then-Haitian president, René Préval, to nix a legislative proposal to raise the minimum wage for garment factory workers from roughly 22 cents an hour to 62 cents an hour, arguing that higher wages would discourage investment. Préval and legislators compromised at 38 cents an hour. (It has since gone up.) Bill used his newly minted position as U.N. special envoy to promote the economic agenda. “In the end all of our efforts will have to be judged by how many jobs we create, how much we swell the middle class, and whether we perform for the investors and make them a profit for doing the right thing,” he said at the time.

Once the disaster struck, the U.S. government focused its reconstruction efforts on pushing this vision. That resulted in the construction of Caracol Industrial Park, a $300 million, 600-acre industrial development built to house garment factories in northern Haiti. The project was financed through U.S. tax money via USAID, as well as the Washington-based Inter-American Development Bank. The Clinton Foundation helped promote the project to investors. Bill and George W. Bush teamed up to lobby Congress together to expand trade preferences for Haiti-sewn apparel. Bill also used his position with the IHRC to direct further funds to the project. With the help of U.N. Secretary-General Ban Ki-moon, a former South Korean trade minister, the organizers recruited Sae-A Trading Co. Ltd., a South Korea–based global garment giant that supplies many of the clothes you buy at Target, Walmart, Gap, Old Navy, and other stores, to be the anchor tenant.

All that was at stake when, 11 months after the earthquake, Haiti held a presidential election. Millions were still displaced and polling places in rubble, but the United States and its allies were paying for the election and insisted it go on. The process fell into chaos in the first round, with riots in the streets and candidates accusing each other of manipulation and fraud.

The electoral mess increased the Americans’ frustrations with Préval; they blamed his recalcitrance and skepticism about foreign intervention for the slow pace of reconstruction. The U.S. embassy openly fanned the flames by saying the official electoral results conflicted with a European Union–sponsored poll. U.S. officials then pushed Préval to throw his party’s candidate out of the second-round runoff and replace him with Michel “Sweet Micky” Martelly, a raunchy pop singer who enthusiastically backed foreign investment projects including Caracol. (Martelly had also proved receptive to guidance from foreign political hands.)

Clinton’s State Department played hardball behind the scenes, revoking the visas of Préval’s inner circle and banding with France, Brazil, Canada, and the United Nations leadership to pressure the president into stepping down.

Then, on Jan. 30, 2011, the secretary personally flew to Port-au-Prince. The night before, she had traded emails with her chief of staff, Cheryl Mills, as well as the Clinton Foundation’s chief operating officer, Laura Graham, who also served as Bill’s chief of staff on the IHRC. In one email, Graham said resistance was building against the U.S. plan and that the secretary had been “specifically criticized today for imposing this solution.” Mills suggested that Clinton emphasize a message in response: “The voices of the people of Haiti must be heard. The votes of the people of Haiti must be counted fairly. And the outcome of this process must reflect the true will of the Haitian people. That is the only interest of the United States.”

Hillary delivered that message almost word for word to the Haitian and foreign press the next day. Behind closed doors, she sweet-talked Préval, convincing him that accepting the U.S.-backed candidate would secure his legacy.

Martelly became president in May. In his inaugural speech he declared, in English: “This is a new Haiti open for business, now!” Bill was in the audience.

Initially, Martelly accepted Garry Conille—Bill Clinton’s chief of staff at the U.N. Office of the Special Envoy—as his first prime minister. But sensing a babysitter, Martelly quickly booted him out and replaced him with his own business partner. “The situation cannot afford Washington to sit on sidelines. They elected him and they need [sic] pressure him,” Graham grumbled to Mills in an unusually candid email.

The earthquake recovery foundered, inflation spiraled, and violence spiked. Martelly left office earlier this year amid an unfinished, fraud-wracked election; for a week, the country had no president. Haiti is now struggling with a weak, transitional government. Demonstrations loom, as do strikes and threats of takeover by armed militants.

Caracol opened in 2012 with both Clintons joining Martelly (and an acquiescent Préval) at the opening ceremony. The project has been a disappointment by any measure. Sae-A brought in a fraction of the jobs it promised. Its employees grumble about the long hours, tough conditions, and low pay. The project has had little positive impact on Haiti’s economy so far.

* * *

Trump has criticized Caracol on the stump, referring in a recent speech to the time that “Hillary Clinton set aside environmental and labor rules to help a South Korean company with a record of violating workers’ rights set up what amounts to a sweatshop in Haiti.” It’s a hypocritical complaint for a mogul who employs his own sweatshop labor in China and Central America. Small wonder that he dropped that line of criticism at the Little Haiti event, where his hosts were wealthy industrialists whose opposition to Aristide (and Bill Clinton) was rooted in large part in the former Haitian leader’s resistance to garment-factory owners and foreign investment schemes. Still, it’s only a bit overstated—while Hillary built nothing alone, her State Department pushed hard to get the park up quickly, over the objections of other administration departments.

But what the shallower critics of the Clintons miss is whom this fundamentally unjust system is designed to benefit. Despite cherry-picked, half-understood stories about permits for nonexistent gold mines and isolated instances of naked (and duly punished) fraud that account for rounding errors in the actual billions raised and spent after the earthquake, there is simply no evidence that the intent was to line the Clintons’ pockets.

The system isn’t designed for them; it’s for us. The low wages that the U.S. embassy helped suppress are the reason we can enjoy a steady stream of $9 Mossimo camisoles and $12.99 six-packs of Hanes T-shirts. Even U.S. military uniform parts get made in Haitian sweatshops. As America moves further away from its producer past and deeper into its consumer present, we will want cheaper and cheaper smartphones and cheaper and cheaper clothes that we can afford on our stagnant service wages, and we will demand our leaders find us alternatives to sourcing from rivals like China. Places like Caracol are the result. Some Americans say they want production jobs to come back home, but few are ready to pay twice as much for their clothes or $100 extra for their iPhones, most of which would still have to be sourced from overseas.

To get the things we want, the United States has been in the business of overturning elections and toppling governments for more than a century. Clinton’s trip to Haiti in 2011 represents the softer end of a long tradition of U.S. invasions, coups, and usurpations: Panama in 1903 to Iran, 1953; Guatemala, 1954, to Congo, 1961; Vietnam, 1963, to Chile, 1973, to Iraq 2003, and on and on.

The U.S. Marines occupied Haiti from 1915 to 1934, helping foster the overcentralization—whereby American-run businesses and breaks on custom duties were concentrated in the capital—that made the 2010 earthquake so deadly. And we have been meddling ever since—ferrying leaders out and in and out again. As Trump was reminded in Little Haiti, Bill Clinton ordered the 1994 U.S. invasion. George W. Bush ordered his in 2004. The U.N. peacekeeping mission that dumped cholera into Haiti’s waterways a few months after the quake had nothing to do with Clinton’s U.N. Office of the Special Envoy; it was created years earlier, during the Bush administration, to take over from his U.S.-led force and has been kept there and aggressively defended by administrations through Barack Obama’s in large part because it is cheaper than sending U.S. troops back again.

That military might is used, explicitly, to keep things from deteriorating to the point that thousands of Haitians flee toward Florida, as they did in the 1980s and 1990s. Why? Because as it turns out, a lot of Americans aren’t fond of refugees.

None of this gets the Clintons off the hook for the actions they are personally responsible for in Haiti. I’ve asked Hillary’s spokesman many times to comment on how things have turned out there and what if anything she would do differently as president. He said once that she’d comment “when the time comes to do so.” That was back in April 2015. I’m still waiting.

Bill continues to mix his post-presidential fame and Haiti business matchmaking in ways that set off alarm bells—often in conjunction with his trademark quarter-million-dollar speaking fees. In the reconstruction effort, he often partnered with Irish cell phone company Digicel and its head, Denis O’Brien. The company helped arrange at least one lucrative speaking engagement for the former president, while the Clinton Foundation “facilitated introductions” to help O’Brien build a luxurious new Marriott hotel next to Digicel’s Port-au-Prince headquarters. USAID has directed about $1.3 million to Digicel since 2008, along with private grant money. Digicel has donated tens of millions of dollars to the Clinton Foundation. It’s hard to say how, or even if, any of those parts fit together: Digicel was dominating Haiti’s cell phone market and doing development work there long before the Clintons re-engaged with the country in 2009. USAID money started going to Digicel while George W. Bush and Condoleezza Rice were running U.S. foreign policy, and most has been paid out since Clinton left the State Department. An indirect speaking fee is hardly proof of a kickback scheme. Still, the relationship is clearly an example of the many ways money and celebrity combine and strengthen each other at the highest levels of power.

But it ignores all history and logic to pin the whole sordid tale of Haiti’s relief and reconstruction disasters on one couple, no matter how powerful they have been. Turning legitimate criticisms about U.S. intervention into a question about one candidate’s personality is a way of avoiding harder questions. The Clintons didn’t create the world we live in; they just know how to navigate it better than most of us do. If we want it to change, we have to change it. And it seems clear that electing a strongman leader who turns to putschists for advice on the developing world and who has never shied away from making money by working with corrupt regimes isn’t the answer. Changing a system that operates with millions of people and trillions of dollars will take more than shunting all the evils of empire onto one or two personalities—not when we benefit from them so eagerly and almost never change ourselves when it counts. Pretending otherwise is just a way to let ourselves off the hook, too

#The Clintons Didn’t Screw Up Haiti Alone. You Helped.#Haiti #clinton foundation #hillary clinton #bill clinton #caracol

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