#and then i met my new english teacher and desperately wanted to impress her

[widenyourworlds]

Review I wrote for school back in 2021.

Maurice.

Written between 1913-1914 (first published in 1975, five years after the author’s death), the book MAURICE is about the titular character of Maurice Hall in the Edwardian era of England (1901-1910). The novel is written in the third person and follows him from a young boy to a young man. The main centre of the story is Maurice and his internal struggles with personality and sexuality. Maurice is homosexual but it is never outright stated- words such as ‘queer’ are used to describe it and at one point Maurice describes himself as one of the ‘unspeakables of the Oscar Wilde sort.’ Oscar Wilde was a gay writer who was sentenced to hard labour for ‘gross indecency’ in 1895 after his love affair and letters to another man (Lord Alfred Douglas who himself was a poet; “the love that dare not speak its name.”) was exposed to the public. For more about this, I recommend the 1997 movie Wilde starring Stephen Fry.

The main focus of the book is Maurice’s sexuality. It opens with a school teacher explaining missionary sex to Maurice and the anatomy of the vagina; drawing it on the sands of the beach on which they had been walking, as Maurice’s father had died and it would be ‘inappropriate for his mother to have such a talk with him. But it all is something that comes to have little meaning for Maurice as he grows up and finds himself lacking any interest in women; even coming to hate them. Not in a typical way you’d expect of an Edwardian man- the hate seems to stem more from his sexuality and attraction to men. As a well-to-do man in the 1910s, he is expected to marry a woman and have children; something which Maurice absolutely does not want or have any interest in. So the heavy societal expectations put on his shoulders makes him hate and detest the women he is forced to love. The women in his life never become more than familial and distant, even the women he lives with (his mother and two sisters) are someone he grows to hate, and they him. He had a fleeting relationship with a woman with prospects of engagement and marriage but it never comes to that; possibly because the woman senses Maurice’s veiled disinterest. 

(“Both were misogynists, Clive especially. In the grip of their temperaments, they had not developed the imagination to do duty instead, and during their love women had become as remote as horses or cats; all that the creatures did seemed silly.”)

Maurice plays the role of a well-liked, well-off, English man well. He detests the society he lives in and hates the role he has to play, but it doesn’t show.  He wishes to lose himself to the desires of male love but can’t risk the fall it would take; male homosexuality is illegal. He could face financial and social ruin and at the start of the book, when he first discovers his sexuality, the thought frightens him. But then he meets Clive Durham- who introduces him to ancient Greek writings through which Clives eludes to his love of men and the two fall in love and spend the next few years of their lives together in love as they get their degrees from Cambridge. But they have a falling out after Clive declares that he has become ‘normal’, that he is no longer attracted to or in love with Maurice and that he is to be married. (“Against my will I have become normal. I cannot help it.”). And though they get into a physical altercation, and Maurice threatens to kill himself, they remain friends- though that is something that is hard for Maurice, who still is in love with Clive.

(“While he had love he had kept reason.”

“He hadn’t a God, he hadn’t a lover—the two usual incentives to virtue.”)

The book moves on to follow Maurice’s struggles with his love for Clive, lust for men, and the growing desperate to be ‘normal’ too- and the fateful meeting Maurice comes to have with Clive’s under-gamekeeper Alec Scudder.

(“O for the night that was ending, for the sleep and the wakefulness, the toughness and tenderness mixed, the sweet temper, the safety in darkness. Would such a night ever return?”)

The author of this book, E.M. Forster, lived in a time where male homosexuality was illegal. Where it was viewed as a mental illness and a crime- a great sin once done could never be righted. It would be absolutely life-ruining (as seen with Oscar Wilde) if it came out that you even had the inclination of affection for your own sex. Forster himself was gay, but not publicly so, and he never married (how could he?) but instead had a series of lovers during his life. He was friends with other authors and writers, including other gay men such as Christopher Isherwood known for his novel ‘A Single Man’, and it was through his friendship with poet and philosopher Edward Carpenter and his partner George Merrill that he got the inspiration to write Maurice. In 1987 a film adaptation of the novel was released, directed by James Ivory and starring James Wilby as Maurice. It was made by the same production company (Merchant Ivory Productions) that in 1985 had adapted A Room With a View, another of E.M. Forster’s works.

I can easily say that I absolutely fell in love with this book. Though I have never been much into romantic novels or works centred around a relationship; I am a sucker for historical pieces, especially if it revolves around LGBT+ characters. It makes it so much more interesting (and relatable) than your ordinary, run-of-the-mill, heterosexual nonsense. The book (and movie) moved me and pierced my heart several times in the span of however long it took me to read it. The subject matter was delivered both bluntly and eloquently; Forster wrote beautifully and bravely about male homosexuality and sensuality- treating it as normally as you could in the time and setting of the Edwardian era. Maurice was the first book of Forster’s that I have read but now, after this, I am buzzing with excitement to read his other works.

[E.M. Forster- “Dedicated to a happier year”]

[awake-not-today]

SUBMITTED BY SPARKLE HEART ANON FOR KOOKIE ANON 💖

Kinks/warnings; size difference, cum eating, cock worship, breeding, noona, blow jobs, bondage, thigh riding, switch!kook, switch!reader, unrealistic sex in the form of cervix penetration, unprotected sex, probably inhuman amounts of cum???, swearing, male and female oral, muscle worship, creampie, forced orgasms, multiple orgasms, fingering, edging, pussy slapping, pining, corruption kink in you squint, praising, mind break, lots of dirty talk, fluffy ending, stomach bulge, cock ring, degradation, overstimulation

tortoise and the hare

If you told the you from a year ago that to mark your first year in Korea you’d currently be under the boy you had, until your first orgasm of the night anyway, previously only seen as a little brother she’d probably call you crazy. And yet here you were desperately clinging to the ridiculously toned biceps of one mister Jeon Jungkook, aka the best friend and roommate of your former friends with benefits Namjoon, and begging him to fuck you harder as he grinned down at you.

Fucked silly.

That’s how you were going to describe tonight to your friends over lunch the next day. This impossibly cocky boy was fucking you silly and to be completely honest with your Catholic guilt you’d have it no other way. Soft kisses were placed along your jaw and neck before being turned into hickies you knew you’d be carrying for a week. All you could do was moan and wrap your legs as tight as possible around his stupidly tiny waist while he pounded into your tight heat and your brain turned to mush at the onslaught of pleasure.

A little over a year ago you’d been pen paling your new friend Nari when she’d invited you to her wedding. You had come two weeks before the ceremony to help with any last minute things and to explore a new country. It was during your two weeks that Nari managed to convince you to instead stay for a few more years. Agreeing you went about filing more paperwork than you ever have in your life before getting your five year visa. You were lucky that your job had a branch in Seoul and allowed the transfer. You adore your job in historical conservation and were proud of how far you’ve gotten in your career at only twenty-four.

It was how you met your second friend Namjoon. A student teacher from the art department at a nearby school he was wandering the galleries when you both turned the corner at the same time quite literally falling for each other. The first thing you noticed were his dimples and how smooth his voice was as he apologized over and over. You assured him that it was fine and no harm done. The second things you noticed were how tall he was compared to your 5’2” frame and just how good his english was.

After buying you a coffee to again apologize it didn’t take long before the two of you became friends and eventually leading to friends with benefits. You’d be lying if you said that man didn’t know how to behave in bed. This is also when you first met Joon’s roommate and friend Jungkook. Slightly younger than you by three years he was a student athlete on the basketball team at the same school Joon taught at and was studying physical therapy. Joon had signed up to mentor freshmen and been partnered with Kook. They’d be inseparable ever since. Student teacher and student relations be damned.

Your first meeting was less than ideal. You’d just left Joon’s room after waking up from sleeping over after sex when you came face to face with his roommate. His very shirtless and sweaty and drop dead delectable roommate. You had stared at his chest for far longer than appropriate before his embarrassed cough brought you back to your senses. Hastily apologizing you introduce yourself before making a quick exit cheeks burning. You avoid their place for the next week claiming busy schedule.

The second time you meet you’re out on Friday for girls night and drunk off your ass when you bump into Joon, Kook, and their friends. It wasn’t long before your entire groups were mingling while you ended up in Kooks lap. Giving him a kiss on the cheek when leaving. The next morning he sympathetically handed you Advil after Advil while you threw up. After that the embarrassment of the first meeting was gone and replaced by your drunken kiss the pair of you settled into an easy friendship.

Kook remembers your first meetings very differently. The first time he saw you he was convinced you were an angel. Messy hair and wrinkled dress be damned you looked amazing. As soon as your eyes met bells went off in his head and he knew for sure that you were the one. He was pretty smug about how you couldn’t take your eyes off his body, but unfortunately you had left embarrassed and he didn’t get to introduce himself properly until a few weeks later. He dropped coffee off at your work one day and properly said hello easing the embarrassment of the first two meetings.

You came around their apartment a lot after that since it was closer to your work than your place and he got used to having nearly zero boundaries between you two. You had no qualms about sitting on his lap, using his height to reach things, playing with his hair while cuddle up, and even dropping kisses on his head sometimes. He figured out pretty quickly you thought he was too young for you and he accepted that. Hated it but accepted it. You two fell into an easy friendship and he wouldn’t have traded it for the world. He’d just have to wait patiently for you to see him in a different light.

That moment wouldn’t come until your first year in Korea had passed. You all went out to celebrate at Nari’s insistence and while Joon left early on to follow some brunette Kook stuck by your side the entire night. He’d had a few hookups and brief girlfriends over the year to scratch the itch but he wanted you and he was determined to finally have you. He held you up around the waist as he helped you into your own apartment where you tiredly kicked off your high heels. You weren’t drunk, but you were dead tired. Turning your back to him you asked sweetly if he’d get your zipper for you.

Shivering at the strong hands covering your back you felt him slowly unto your little black dress and turned to give him a huge grin in thanks before walking down the hall to your room. You reappeared a moment later with clothes for him to change into. Eventually you came out and flopped onto the couch next to him curling into his side in your sleep shorts and tank top.

“Have fun tonight?” he asked thanking the gods that you weren’t wearing a bra and trying not to be obvious about it.

Sleepily you nodded. “Yeah. Thanks for coming out tonight.”

He gave a low chuckle and flipped through netflix. “Anytime.”

It was quiet for a few moments before he spoke with forced casualness. Tonight he was going to use your perceived innocence of him against you. “Hey noona?”

“Hmm?”

“Can I practice eating you out?”

You sat up abruptly to look at him not thinking you heard him correctly. “Excuse you?!”

He shrugged, not even having the decency to look ashamed. “There’s this girl I like and I want to make sure I make a good first impression.”

Not technically a lie. He did like a girl, you, and he did want to make a good impression, just on you. He looked at you and stuck out his lower lip slightly. You spoiled him and let him get away with so many things he was fairly certain you’d say yes.

Ah there it was. That moment you hesitated.

“Please noona?” he whined. He dramatically flopped into your lap looking up at you with practiced innocence ad puppy eyes. “Don’t you want me to be happy?”

You snorted at that and rolled your eyes. “I’m sure you’ll survive.”

He sighed and looked at you. “Noona.” he looked disappointed. “If this doesn’t end well, I'll never be able to show my face on campus, be forced to drop out due to bad grades, then spend the rest of my life bouncing between you and joon-hyung.”

Playing with his hair you again rolled your eyes. “Maybe you should have been a drama major.” you teased.

He huffed at you while you thought. It had been a while since your last hook up and if you were being truthful you had in fact thought about kook more than once late at night. But he just seemed so young and uninterest in you those feelings never went anywhere. Besides one lesson wouldn’t hurt, would it? Gently pushing him off you agreed. Letting out a small scream at suddenly being hoisted in the air over his shoulder you missed Kook smirking the entire way down the hall to your bedroom like he’d won the universe.

He gently tossed you onto the middle of the bed before stripping himself of his shirt and while you were distracted he managed to get your shirt off. Moving down to your shorts he quickly rid you of them delighted that you hadn’t worn panties. “Noona.” he teased. “Expecting something?”

Blushing you slapped his shoulder and was about to snark at him after finally tearing your eyes from his very well defined ab muscles when his mouth was on yours and all thought went out the window. Briefly you wondered just how inexpieranced was he actually was because fuck did he know how to kiss. Lost in the feeling of his soft lips moving against yours you could only look at him with a dazed expression as he pulled back to stare at your body. Fuck he had dreamed of this moment for months and now here you were all ready and willing for him. He could feel his cock start to harden in his sweats while he pushed you gently down and placed small kisses down your chest until latching onto your right nipple.

Groaning you threaded your hands in his hair eyes slipping closed as he bit and played with the moon shaped piercing. Once it was all pebbled and sensitive he switched to your left and played with the star piercing. Glancing up he moaned at the sight of your blissed out face.

“I t-thought you only gon-na eat m-me out.” you gasped.

He shrugged and shot you a sweet smile. “Just want to make sure i do this properly.”

You narrowed your eyes at him and were about to say something until he bit down on the nipple in his mouth and you let out a loud moan arching your back. Fuck that was hot, he thought eyes transfixed on your face. Releasing your nipple he continued on his way down your stomach leaving small bites before reaching his prize. Gently he used his fingers to spread you apart smirking when he saw how excited you were. Practically dripping like a flood.

“Look at me.” he commanded you voice slipping an octave.

Startled at the change you did and with no warning he licked a stripe from the bottom to your clit. Hands immediately went to his hair encouraging him to keep doing that as your moaned above him.

“Please.” you whispered already sounding fucked out.

He loved that.

Continuing his task he dived back in and began eating you out like a man starved. Never in your wildest dreams had he thought his plan would work out so well and now that he had you naked and writhing under him wanting more he wasn’t about to let you down.

After all he did have only one chance to make a good first impression on you.

Whimpering above him your mind was going a mile a minute. You thought that you’d have to coach him through this, but now he was making you evaluate everything you thought you once knew. Did he even need the practice? A well timed harsh suck to your clit assured you that no he didn’t. So what was his angle? Lost in pleasure you idly wondered if maybe he did have feelings for you, but you shut that thinking down before it could bloom. If any point Kook was interested in you then surely you would have noticed. The boy wore his heart on his sleeve after all. Groaning you could feel your orgasm fast approaching.

“Kook.” you begged. “Please i’m so close.”

He glanced at you face shiny with your juices looking unfairly innocent through all of this you thought. He lightly traced a finger at your entrance glancing at you. You nodded quickly your permission but he only smirked at you and pulled away making you whine.

“No noona you’ll have to use your words.” he lightly pressed against your entrance then went back to thumbing your clit.

That cocky bastard.

Shifting your hips in search of more friction you gave in. “Please Kook i need your fingers in me.”

Looking at your fucked out state and how hard your chest was heaving as you breathed he couldn’t help but feel a little proud. “Okay noona. Since you asked so nicely.”

His mouth latched back onto your clit and ever so slowly he stretched you open. First one finger, then two, then three leaving you moaning even louder your hands in his hair begging him to not stop. “Kookie please i’m so close.” you babbled. “Dear god faster.” hips bucking up as you moaned.

He drove into you harder until he felt you tense as your first orgasm of the night rashed over you. You arched your back pressing your mound further into his face desperately trying to ride it. He continued to finger you through the aftershocks as you breathed heavily looking down at him tiredly. “I-I think you’re g-gonna be fine kookie.” you praised, panting.

Crawling up your body again he smiled and claimed your mouth once again for a few minutes letting you come down from your high as you tasted yourself on his lips. He loved the feeling of your chests together feeling right at home hovering above you and settled nicely between your legs. Eventually he moved back down again and started back up his ministrations. You whined and tried to move away but with no warning he brought his hand down on your pussy right on your clit.

You yelped and looked at him wide eyed instinctively trying to close your legs, but he landed another hit and another until you left your legs open and your head was swimming in the pleasure-pain mix. Distinctly you could hear him chuckle and hover over you again his mouth leaving hickies all over your neck and collar bones.

“Did you really think the night was over so quickly noona?” he questioned sweetly. “I’ve wanted to have you like this for so long.” He confessed against your neck. His eyes met your shocked ones. You opened your mouth several times to speak but he beat you to it.

“I’m not a kid.” he said lowly making you shiver right down to your core. “I am a grown man noona and I’d like to show you just how grown.”

He kissed his way back down to your pussy without another word and kept your hands placed firmly at your sides while he returned to eating you out. All you could do was pant his name while your head swam with pleasure and confusion shifting your hips up into his mouth.

“So needy noona.” he teased. “I’ve imagined what this would be like for so long but it’d far exceeded my expectations.”

Your head was going a mile a minute but you managed to sit up and bring his mouth back to yours. You could be deceptively strong too. “I’ve been thinking about you like this too.” You confessed. “I just always thought that I’d be too old for you.”

“Noona.” he laughed breaking away. “You’re barely three years older than me. You’re not a grandma you know.”

You shrugged feeling a little silly and just a little aroused at being called noona during sex before moving down his jaw and sucking hickies along his neck. “God you’re gonna look so good for noona all marked up.” You said lowly and were rewarded with a low whine from him before he was pushing you back onto your back and diving back down. He kept your hands and hips pressed firmly down so you were unable to move away from his teasing tongue.

It wasn’t long before you were fast approaching your second orgasm. Just as you were about to reach your peak he pulled back grinning at you deviously. “You’ve been teasing me for far too long noona. Naughty girls deserved to be punished don’t you think?”

He waited until you calmed down before starting back up again and yet again pulling away right before you came. He did this for nearly thirty more minutes leisurely edging your poor clit until you were a soaking mess begging him to finally fuck you. He looked up loving the way you were on the verge of tears his name the only word on your swollen lips.

“Kookers please.” you begged. “I need you to fuck me and I need you to fuck me now.”

How could he possibly resist?

Rising to his knees he slid off the bed and stripped himself of his grey sweat letting his erection free. It slapped against his stomach and for a solid minute you couldn’t breathe. Standing a proud seven and a half inches with nearly three inch girth and a nice curve you were fairly certain he’d break you. Smug at your reaction he crawled back onto the bed, letting his cock rest against your stomach as he brought his crotch flush against yours groaning at the feeling.

“You won’t fit.” you blurted out eyes wide.

He leaned down to kiss you gently. “Trust me beloved it will. Condom?”

You barely heard the question way to focused on the monster that was about to be in you. “You’re clean right?” you asked. He nodded. “So am I and I’m on the pill.” He looked at you blankly head cocked to the side.

“I want you to fuck me raw kookie. I want to feel you bare.” you were blushing furiously at the words having never said them before.

Above you kook groaned. “Beloved you’re going to kill me.”

Grabbing the lube from where you directed him to it he dumped a libral amount onto his fingers before sliding all three of them into you at once. You groaned at the burn but it felt so good. He added another finger and continued to finger you until you were shaking and looking for more. He withdrew and grabbed his cock hissing at the pressure. God he wasn’t sure how long he’d last once he was finally in you. And raw at that. This was more than he could have ever hoped for.

Grabbing your hips he slid in half way sighing at how you immediately clenched around him moaning. He waited a minute to let you get used to the feeling before he resumed sliding into you inch by inch until his cock bumped against a barrier that prevented him from pushing the last inch and a half into your core. Below him you panted and shifted your hips causing the head of his cock to rub against the barrier again.

“Cervix.” you gasped out barely able to form a full sentence finally understanding. “I-I think you’re hitting my cervix.”

Secretly he thought it was kinda hot that he filled you so completely that he could reach your womb. Briefly he had a fantasy of you not on the pill and how easy it would be to flood your fertile womb with his seed but he bit back those thoughts before he came too early. Unknownst to him you also thought it was kinda hot at how deep he was, but you weren’t thinking of getting pregnant right now. Gently he eased out until the head remained and made eye contact before he thrusting into you quickly setting a rapid pace.

The air left your lungs as you let out your loudest moan yet. You knew your neighbor would be complaining in the moaning but the only sensation you could think of was how fucking good it felt to have him pounding into you reaching sensative spots you didn’t even know you had. It was all you could do to wrap your legs around his waist and hang on for dear life begging him to go even harder.

“Geeze noona who knew you’d be so insatiable?”

Glaring at him you bit back, “if you don’t pick up the pace and fuck me so hard that i forget my name I’m kicking your ass out.”

It was an empty threat and you both knew it. There was no way in hell you were going to give this up after you finally got it. Annoyingly he only laughed and slid his hands under your ass to help lift your hips up until your legs were spread obscenely wide as your lower half was supported by his thighs and he was hovering over you sucking more hickies along your neck.

“As you wish princess.”

Not holding back kook let himself really pound into you and it wasn’t long until all you could do was moan eyes unfocused looking up at the ceiling drowning in the sensation of kook having his way with your pliant body. To be honest he could ask you to rob a bank and you’d probably say yes.

After all that teasing and edging your orgasm was fast approaching. “Gon-gonna come.” you moaned out.

That only encouraged him to try even harder rubbing up against your cervix as his cock had no other place to go. “Go ahead baby.” he panted into your neck. “Come on my cock like a good little whore.”

You whined making him grin.

“Yeah? Like being called a whore?” he asked rhetorically. “Does baby girl like it when I remind her of how desperate she was to have my cock inside her? Begging me repeatedly to cum in her pretty pussy. Such a sloppy girl.”

You were going to explode at his words you were sure. Damn near screaming out your orgasm you tightened around him lost in the white hot pleasure. That was without a doubt the best release you’d ever had before. You felt kook slowing down to give you time to rest but you shook your head.

“No. Want you to keep pounding me until you come in me. I want you to force me to come on your cock over and over until you’re satisfied.” you panted out avoiding his eyes suddenly shy. God what had gotten into you. You were never like this for the first time.

Kook stared down at you in amazement before kissing you deeply and sending up a quick prayer to any deity that was listening thanking you for coming to korea. He wasted no time resuming fucking you and this time it took only a few more times before he was burrying himself as deep as he could go and releasing into you. You both groaned at the sensation and laid there tangled up until he started to move once more still hard.

“Fuck I can feel your pussy quivering around me.” he groaned out. “It’s like it can’t get enough of my cum. Trying to swallow up as much of me into you as possible, yeah? Just wanna be filled with my cum all day?”

He filled that thought away for the future while you tried to say yes but all you could do was tighten up around his cock in response.

Shivering you could feel the cum slide out of you and down your ass. It felt almost nice in a weird slimy way. As he started up again your mind went blank unable to focus on anything but the pleasure he was giving you. Mouth open panting you were distantly aware of kook talking in your ear. You clenched again at being called a good girl and he smirked.

“Yeah baby girl? Like when i call you good? You’ve been so good for me that you deserve a reward.” his hand slipped between your bodies until he was rubbing your clit and abusing it until you came once more, but this time he didn’t let up until you came again after the last one in quick succession. Your mind was so drunk on pleasure and your body so pliant and willing to be fucked you almost missed it. It wasn’t until kook stopped suddenly and you whined at the loss of movement that he helped you sit up slightly and that’s when you saw it.

He had completely bottomed out in you.

That last one and a half inches that wouldn’t enter you had finally done it. You both lay there panting staring at this new development not really comprehending what had happened until kook tried to slide out but he got caught on something inside you and you knew what it was.

“You fucked open my cervix.” you gasped out stunned.

He looked a little worried. “Should we call the emergency room or?”

“I dunno this had never happened before.”

Kook would be lying if he said that statement didn’t fill him with a tiny amount of pride at being so big. You both laid there silently for a few minutes.

“Nothing hurts so I think you’re fine.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” you wiggled your hips and moaned eyes fluttering shut. “Yeah no we’re definitely good. Please kookie bury your cock in me.” you whined.

Giving you a cocky grin he did just that. Pulling out and moaning as he was finally able to bottom out in you. He looked down marveling at the bulge his cock made against the outline of your skin. In all honesty it was really fucking hot.

“You know what this means?”

You shake your head as he picks up speed again and you’re drifting off into a world of nothing but pleasure.

“It means your body is becoming the perfect sleeve for my cock.”

You groaned feeling yourself get wetter at his words. Dirty talk, especially degradation, was a huge yes for you, but not many guys would go as far as you wanted them too. They always backed out not wanting to get really harsh with you, but kook wasn’t like that at all. He had no problem letting you know what a good slut you were and you loved it. Loved the feeling of being nothing but a toy for the man above you.

“Yeah, beloved? You like this don’t you slut?” his voice teased you. “You like it when I point out how well your slutty little body is molding itself to match the shape of my cock, huh?”

“Yes!” you nearly shouted out frantically nodding. God you wished you’d been brave enough to pursue him earlier. “Want to be your good little cock sleeve. Use me please.” you babbled. Above you kook swore, lowly growling.

He was in absolute heaven. Here you were the girl of his dreams, his crush, begging him to use you as basically a human fleshlight while he watched his cock sink into you with no resistance. For a year now he had pined after you thinking you’d never see him as anything but a little brother and now he was balls deep, calling you names that drove you crazy, going as rough as he could, and you still asked for more.

And damn was he going to give it to you.

Moaning into your ear he came in you for the second time triggering your orgasm as well. With a jolt he remembered that there was no barrier to your womb. He had directly come in your womb and fuck if that didn’t make him rut a little harder into you drunk on the feeling.

Unable to focus on anything you felt on the verge of passing out. You were so overwhelmed by everything you were feeling it was hard to recognize what was happening before your eyes rolled back in your head and you fainted. Looking down at you with a smile kook gently pulled out letting his spent cock flop down on your stomach and softly kissed the tip of your nose.

“Sleep well princess.”

He gave himself a few more pumps to land a couple lines of cum on your stomach satisfied at his marking of you before he got off the bed and on unsteady legs he headed to the bathroom. Taking a quick shower and brought back a wet washcloth and cleaned up all the cum on your body. Frowning at the large wet patch on your bed he gently picked you up and took you to your roommates room. She was gone for the week on a business trip so it wasn’t like she’d mind. He went back to the bathroom and came back to wipe down your body of all sweat and grime.

When he was happy with the results he took the dirty sheets from your bed and put them in the wash along with the mattress cover. Idly he wondered if he made you squirt and that’s why it was so wet. He made a note to explore that route at a later date before heading back and slipping into bed with you aftering taking a quick showers to clean himself up. You were so tired you didn’t even stir. Spooning you from behind he played with your soft tresses and placed a kiss on your cheek before snuggling into you and falling asleep.

The first thing you noticed when you awoke was a glass of water and two advil next to it. Time seeming to crawl like molasses around you. Trying to sit up you noticed two more things. One your lower body hurt like a fucking bitch and two there was a heavy arm around your waist. Swallowing down the meds and water you look down to see kook sleeping peacefully besides you.

Slow on the uptake you belatedly realized that you were both naked and then all the memories came flooding back. Blushing furiously at how kinky you’d gotten you groaned unable to face kook after this. What would he think of you? Going slowly you slipped out of bed and went to the bathroom. You looked even worse than you felt.

There were hickies all over your neck and collar bones. They were going to be nearly impossible to hide for work you sighed to yourself. Going through your morning routine you returned back to kook still sleeping. Smiling to yourself you were fairly certain he could sleep through world war three. Staring at his sleeping figure you got an idea on how to pay him back for last night. Going to your room you got out a length of soft silk rope from its hiding place and a small black ring.

Taking both back to the sleeping kook you carefully and slowly climbed the bed and took his wrists in your hands. You always had liked how big his hands were and made a note to explore other possibilities with them later. Gently tying his wrists to the bed posts you made your way back down the bed and slid under the sheets until you had settled between his legs cock right in front of your face.

You hadn’t gotten a proper chance to look at it last night and damn if you weren’t going to take that time right now. Careful of your still sore lower body you settled down and took his soft cock in your mouth. Even soft he was still a hell of a mouthful. Bobbing your head and letting your spit slide down to help lubricate your way down you could hear him moaning above you coming awake.

“y/n?”

God you loved how deep his voice got first thing in the morning. Taking the ring you’d brought earlier you slipped it onto his cock near the base and smirked. Oh yeah you were gonna have fun this morning. Giving his cock one last suck as the blood came south you sat up onto your knees revealing yourself between his legs. In an instant his gaze darkened with lust at seeing you and you smiled innocently throwing the covers off and resettling yourself down on your stomach continuing to lick and suck at his cock like it was a sucker and glancing up at him.

“Good morning.” you greeted sweetly.

“y/n what are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” you asked playing dumb. “I didn’t get a chance to show you my appreciation of what happened last night.”

You blew on the tip gently causing him to groan at the cool air and tug at the rope holding him still and at your mercy. Ignoring his noises you went about licking all up his fully hard shaft completely focused on acquainting yourself with every inch of it. Rubbing it all over your face loving the feeling, licking, sucking, and maintaining eye contact for finale you dove down until your nose was pressed against his stomach and hummed. The vibrations and hot warmth of your mouth proved to be too much and sent him into his first dry orgasm of the day. Panting he looked at you questionly.

“Cock ring.” you informed him. “It keeps you hard while preventing you from cumming.” You grin at him. “Which means I can play with your pretty cock for hours until you’re the one begging me to come.”

He groaned at that as you resumed your worshiping. “Besides,” you say casually running your tongue piercing right along the vein on his shaft causing another helpless moan. “I might have a slight oral fixation and honestly kook you have the best cock i’ve ever had the pleasure of servicing.”

You delighted at how red his cheeks turned at your words the blush even going so far down to cover his chest. It was cute how he was all commanding last night but now he was putty in your hands. You watched him amused as he struggled to compose himself as you happily deepthroated him. This went on for nearly fourty minutes of you mouthing and sucking at him until he was the one going crazy just like you’d said.

“Please baby girl have mercy.” he moaned out. “Just want to come down that mouth of yours.” his hips tried to buck up, but you kept them firmly pinned down to the mattress. He tugged uselessly at his restraints. You watched fascinated at how his muscles moved under his skin. God he really was built like some Greek hero.

Finally taking pity on him you released his cock from the ring and without warning deepthroated once more also sucking hard earning both a moan to rival your own from last night and his cum. You waited until he was done before pulling off slowly and leaning over him to show him the cum in your mouth before swallowing. His pupils were blown wide as his eyes never left your lips. You moved back down to his cock and took him in the mouth once more enjoy the moans above you. You cleaned any remaining come before letting him fall from your mouth and sitting up stretching out your tired muscles.

“Alright beloved you’ve had your fun, but now it’s time to untie me.” he tried once again to get loose, but your knots were too good.

“No.”

His head snapped up and he glared at you. “Oh?”

“You had fun with my body last night and now I get to have fun with yours.” you explained shrugging and you seated yourself on his thigh. You sighed at the pressure on your puffy lips. Kook couldn’t draw his eyes away from your wet pussy currently sliding along his thigh. His breath hitched as you moaned and began playing with your nipples.

He really loved those piercings of yours by the way.

You relished in the undivided attention his lust filled eyes were giving you. With no warning kook bent the leg you were currently on slightly drawing his leg up so his foot was planted firmly on the bed so you could grind easier on the angle and in thanks you leaned forward to kiss him. He sighed into his mouth and let you take the lead exploring his mouth as your pace all while the feeling of your wet pussy drove him crazy.

“Hey.” he started off as you broke apart for a breather. “There’s a game tonight. Wanna come and after we can, i don’t know, see a movie or something? Like a date?” he asked tentatively.

“Wouldn’t you rather celebrate the win with the team?”

He scoffed though secretly flattered that you already thought they’d win. “Believe me I’d much rather spend the time with you. y/n I’ve liked you since the very first moment we met.” he confessed.

You sat there stunned for a moment before kissing him again.

“Yeah.” you said grinning at him. “I’d love to go on a date with you after the game. And i’ve also been ummm thinking of well you too.”

It was his turn to grin at you revealing those adorable bunny esque teeth. God you loved this man so much. Leaning forward you met him in another kiss as you sped up your pace on his thigh and bringing your hand to your clit. You came with a loud cry before nearly collapsing onto him in your post orgasm haze. How you still managed to come after last night you don’t know. Speaking of last night.

“Sorry about all the dirty talk and stuff. I'm not usually like that.” you say a little embarrassed as you move to untie him having had your fun.

He snickered and flipped you over effortlessly once he was free. You stared up at him confused. “Trust me. Hearing you beg for my cock and agree that your body-” he trailed his hand down the valley of your breasts and down to your clit “-was made to fit said cock was the hottest thing I have ever heard.”

Your cheeks could rival the sun you were fairly certain. “Good. Because I loved every minute of last night.”

The grin on his face slipped as you once again used your deceptive strength to flip the pair of you yet again so that you were settled right above his cock tracing the abs below your fingers. Rubbing his hands along your ass and thighs he sat back and let you trace his chest and abs and arms to your hearts content. He loved the way you looked and admired his body.

He had been taking working out seriously in the last year to impress you after all.

Lulled into a false sense of security of your hands just trailing all over that he jolted at the feeling of the cock ring slide down his shaft again effectively keeping him hard. Startled he looked at you only to see you grin deviously as you slipped your wet and open pussy down on his cock. He had no idea as to when you’d opened yourself up, but he sure as hell wasn’t complaining.

“Now.” you said with an edge he hadn’t heard before, but it sent more blood going south. “Since you were so good for noona-” he shivered at the word the sensations going right to his cock, “-this morning I figured that you deserve a reward.”

You looked amazing as you rode his cock, he thought dazed. Pausing you glanced at him head cocked to the side all innocence. “Are you going to be good for noona kookie?”

He nearly broke his neck trying to nod fast enough and sighed with relief bucking up his hips as you started moving again.

“Good boy.”

[theyorthemrecords]

imaginary toads in real gardens (I)

a/n: the soft college!cashton fic i’ve been promising the group chat, focusing mainly around their shared poetry class! also a little barista!ashton, if you squint. also linked below are the two poems mentioned by name, if you’re interested in reading them! (both are personal favorites of mine hehe)

tableau by countee cullen

the helmsman by hilda doolittle (h.d.)

word count: 1.7 k

warnings: a light sprinkling of cursing, but nothing else in this part! enjoy ~

Calum wasn’t quite sure how this morning could get any worse. It started with him oversleeping, causing a chain reaction of trying to brew his own coffee, spilling said coffee all over himself, changing his shirt because of the spilled coffee, and ending up in, quite literally, the ugliest outfit he had ever seen. To make it all worse, it was a Tuesday, meaning the class he was rushing to was poetry, which just so happened to be the one class he shared with the absolutely dreamy barista from the on-campus coffee shop, the Bee-Hive. 

Calum had been crushing on the guy, from afar, since his freshman year, and couldn’t believe his luck when he materialized in his spring semester poetry class two years later. Throughout the first few weeks of the semester, he had collected a few key pieces of information about the other boy, using it all to fuel his romantic daydreams, when his mind wandered. First, his name was Ashton, which technically Calum already knew, but it just felt so different to hear Ashton say it himself as opposed to simply reading it on his nametag. Second, Ashton was a junior, like himself, but unlike Calum, Ashton wasn’t an English major. He was a Philosophy major, making his enrollment in the class perplexing to Calum at first, but he pretty quickly understood why Ashton had picked the class. It was obvious that Ashton loved poetry, the art of crafting words into something larger, something new, from the first class discussion they had about Claude McKay. Calum liked to believe, especially since he was now an upperclassman in the English department, that he understood poetry, but it had rendered him speechless to hear Ashton discuss poetry. He just seemed to feel everything so deeply, to be able to grasp the author’s intent and purpose immediately, breaking the poem due to purest essence before Calum had even figured out the rhyme scheme.

Which all looped back to why Calum was hellbent on not only showing up to poetry class on time, but putting all his effort into the discussion they had, in order to desperately try and impress Ashton with his dazzling and insightful textual interpretations. Has it worked so far? Technically no, but he was too stubborn to stop trying and too chicken to actually just ask the other boy out. What if he said no? Then Calum could never go to the Bee-Hive again and his caffeine addiction would be limited to his shitty dorm room, french press brew. That was a horrific reality. Worse than that, what if Ashton wasn’t even gay? The question had perplexed Calum since the first day of class and he bounced back and forth on the answer every time they had class. The closest he had gotten to an answer was the day they discussed Countee Cullen and his poem “Tableau”. Ashton had talked so passionately about the poem and Cullen but managed to do so without actually saying whether or not the poem applied to him. Calum concluded that day that Ashton had to be gay, that there was no way a straight man would talk that emotionally and beautifully about one of the most stunning gay poems in existence. Still, he didn’t have a definite answer, and that was enough to scare Calum out of asking Ashton out.

Too lost in his train of thought, and the blasting volume of Jimmy Eat World currently pumping through his earbuds, Calum failed to notice the body in his way until it was too late and he slammed into whatever unfortunate bystander in the Quad, scattering the books in their hands all over the ground. 

“Holy shit” Snatching his earbuds out and bending down to gather the books that fell to the ground, Calum was amazed when the voice that answered him was none other than Ashton himself, seemingly materialized in front of him by how hard Calum had been daydreaming about the man.

“Hey man, no worries. You’re Calum right, from poetry?” He winced as soon as Ashton spoke, glancing up at him from where he was positioned on the ground, picking up Ashton’s books, which, upon inspection, were obviously from their assigned book list. Of course Ashton barely knew his name, when it seemed that all Calum could do was daydream about him. It had gotten so bad that his roommate, Michael, had taken to throwing pencils at Calum to get his attention, as most of the time he was zoned out in his own private Ashton fantasy. Standing up to hand Ashton his books, Calum gave him a small smile as they finally stood face to face.

“That’s me. Sorry for barreling into you like that, I was just -” Calum paused mid-sentence, too self-conscious to admit that he was rushing to class. Especially because he was rushing to class to see the person that now stood directly in front of him. Luckily, Ashton filled his silence with an easy laugh, a sound Calum found particular delight in.

“No worries, I definitely don’t want to be late for poetry either. Dr. M always bites people’s heads off if they’re not on time. Since we’re going the same way, wanna walk together?” Calum could feel himself gaping at him, scrambling to find something to say to Ashton’s offer. This was too good to be true.  

“Erm-” God, pull it together. Now or never Hood. “I’d love to.” For an English major, he felt like he should be able to say something a little more eloquent. Ashton just let him so speechless, it felt like every word he had ever learned simply departed the minute Ashton’s hazel eyes landed on him.

“Perfect! Lead the way” Falling in step, the two walked in silence for a beat as Calum gathered the courage to say something, anything, to keep a conversation flowing.

“You’re a Philosophy major, right? Why take an English class?” The walk was just long enough that Calum could get some answers to the questions he’d had all semester, and he decided this was the most neutral one to start with. Wouldn’t be very becoming to just launch out the gate with the good old “Are you a queer?” He at least had a little tact left. Again, he was met with one of Ashton’s laughs, a sound Calum quickly found himself becoming addicted to. I’m in too deep.

“You got me there. In all honesty? I’m not too sure why. I just had extra space in my semester and… I don’t know. The class just kinda grabbed me. If that makes any fucking sense.” Calum was nodding along, trying hard not to look like he was hanging off of Ashton’s every word. Fuck their poetry class, this man was a poem himself. Just grabbed by a poetry class. Could he get any dreamier?

“No, I totally get you. You picked a good one. Dr. M may be a hardass, but she’s one of the best professors in the department.” This was Calum’s fifth class with the woman and he was still shocked by how hard she made all of her exams. Still, she pushed him in a way that was unlike any other teacher he had ever had. He was happy to know her and even more grateful to have her knowledge in his life, both as a professor and his advisor. 

“Shocking to hear you say that. She eats up everything you say. On the other hand, I feel like a dumbass every time I make a comment.” Accompanied by a bashful smile and shake of his head, Ashton glanced away for a second. Calum was, once again, stunned into silence, this time for a totally different reason.

“You? Are you kidding me? Everything you say in class is amazing, you’re so insightful. I wish I could read poetry like you do… everything you say is so stunning and you just… get it. You’re great in class Ashton.” Finishing his ramble, it was Calum’s turn to be embarrassed. I can not believe I just said all of that to him. He’s going to think I’m insane, that was a crazy thing to ramble at my crush. Is it too early to consider transferring? 

“Really?” Every single bad thought Calum was having about himself halted when he looked over at Ashton when he spoke. Ashton was staring at him, with so much hope welling up in his eyes it was disarming. Calum’s mum had always said that the eyes were the windows to the soul, and it seemed like Ashton’s windows were flung open, displaying every emotion plainly to him. A warm summer day, gorgeous and breezy and open. “You think so?”

“I know so. And Dr. M loves you, she just has a funny way of showing it.” Calum bumped Ashton’s shoulder, half to break the trance they were in and half to remind him to start walking again. “She will, however, love us less if we show up late to this class. C’mon.”

It was silent again as the two walked side by side, but unlike before, the silence felt comfortable. Breathable. Like a shared understanding. It remained that way as they walked into the English wing of the Main Hall, finally reaching their classroom right on time. The class was small enough that there were always open seats, but everyone had settled into their unofficial assigned seats back during syllabus week. Ashton always sat closest to the door, while Calum sat across the room, right in front of the big window that faced the park on the front of campus. Ideal for gazing out of the window when he wanted to zone out and for sneaking glances at Ashton whenever he spoke. The best of both worlds. However, as they entered class today, Ashton followed him to the window and snuck into the seat on Calum’s left. When Calum stared at him in shock for half a second, still standing, Ashton laughed his adorable laugh again with another shake of his head.

“Figured it was time for a change of scenery, yea? Now sit down so we can talk about Hilda Doolittle. I’ve been dying all weekend to hear what Dr. M has to say about The Helmsman.” It’s official, Calum thought as he sat in his seat and pulled out his own book, I’m in love with this man.

[lovelykhaleesiii]

Choices (Chapter 2: New Girl)

Pairing: Michael Langdon x fem!Reader x Jim Mason

Words: 2,957

Summary: Palos Verdes was the place to be for a fresh new start. It would be hard to adjust with such a change, though it was all too perfect. The families here seemed vibrant and happy, although it’s only when Y/N comes across Jim and Michael Langdon, that she has to make a choice…

Warnings: fluff, mentions of swearing, High School AU 

A/N - Posting the chapter then I’m outieessssss!!!

The weekend had flown past like a breeze. It was as though you were on clockwork, bustling in and out of the house, unpacking boxes in each room, trying to help your parents in refurnishing the house and assembling the furniture, only to be delegated, from time to time, the job of baby-sitting your younger sisters. By the end of the weekend, you were completely exhausted. And as a consequence for that, you were already late to your first day of school…

You’d arrived late to your meeting with the Principal, although she was quite understanding, yet her time with you was in a rush, considering she had other appointments and meetings to attend to: She’d greeted you, informed you about the rules and policies of the school, as well as warning you of the various students to potentially avoid.… Michael Langdon was one name amongst the many. She’d encouraged you to take pride in your studies, just as you always had, hence, there was no need to remind: you always strived to be a diligent student. Although besides, what you’d already known, she’d wished you luck before you had the chance to ask any further questions. She’d directed you to one of the office ladies, who then led you to your first class, excusing your lateness to your English teacher, personally. 

You’d walked into the classroom, and felt an intense feeling of fear gush over you, as you felt the burning sensation of  multiple pairs of eyes staring at you intently. It was as though they were soaking in every fine detail they could of you, hearing a couple faint murmurs here and there, before you’d walked over to your seat beside the window. It seemed after that, everyone returned to whatever it was that they had been doing before you’d arrived so abruptly. 

“Well welcome, Y/N! I will be your English teacher, for the remainder of this new year, Mr Smith. I do hope you’ve already managed to settle in to our lovely town, and that if you need anything, our staff will be more than happy to help. Now I do hope, you have read the study outline, so we can just get right into the nitty gritty of our topic, Shakespeare! So as I was saying” 

Nodding to his kind words, you felt a little relieved, to say the least, that at least he wasn’t mad for interrupting his class. And much to his pleasure, you had managed to skim through your study outline…You always preferred to be prepared. Just as you were unpacking your notebook, and stationary, you heard a faint ‘psst’ sound, from behind, and gradually turned to see the same, homily blue eyes you’d first met a couple nights before…Jim. 

“Looks like we’ll be tackling Shakespeare together huh?” He whispered, with that familiar, friendly smile spread across his face, as his body leaned eagerly over his desk. 

“I can’t believe you’re actually here. What are the chances,” You utter, trying desperately to keep your voice low, your excitement and relief discrete, as you at least, had one familiar face to count on already. 

Before Jim had the chance to exchange his excitement, the loud ‘ahem’ sound that escaped from Mr Smith, left you both aware of how you’d once again interrupted his monologue, before he could resume again. You gave Jim a slight nod of approval, before turning back around, the biggest smile on your face, as you knew from then, you were in safe hands. 

For the duration of the period, you’d focused on Mr Smith and Mr Smith only. He was quite impressed to say the least, as he’d approached you, whilst you were busy packing for your next class, confessing how glad he was to see how attentive you were despite being the ‘new girl.’ As you’d thanked him, you’d made your way towards the door, your eyes glued to your time table as you tried to figure which lesson in which room  exactly you were needed in next. 

“Let me help you with that-” 

Looking up, once again to be greeted by Jim’s glowing, tanned face, your modesty had taken the best of you. 

“Jim, really it’s fine! I’ll figure it out, I have to some time soon. Wouldn’t want you to be late for your next class now because of-” 

“Y/N, please I insist…” 

Before you knew it, his hand had snatched the paper from you, as he studied your week. 

“Biology, wow, okay! So your next class will be in the labs! Here, I’ll show you.” 

The feeling of his large hand instantly gripping your wrist, had caught you off guard. He gently began to tug your body, leaving you no choice but to follow, as you he pushed through the crowded hallways, making sure, at least, that your pathway behind him was clear. 

You’d felt so embarrassed, so ashamed to have already become a burden on him, that along the way, you’d repeatedly apologised, only to be met with that fucking smile, and a kind ‘no need to apologise’ sort of look. You’d managed to make it to your class, in time for the second and final bell to ring, before insisting that Jim leave right away, before he’d be caught late. 

“Wait-Here’s my number, just message me if you need anything, okay Y/N? Let me see who’s in that class, just don’t hang around with those girls there, or those guys by the back and-”

“Jim, please! I’ll be fine, now you need to go, Mr!” You insisted, as you gently pushed his body away from the class’ entry. Your palms pressing against his firm chest, you could feel yourself blush and dared not to look up at him. You could feel him looking down at you, a slight chuckle escaping his mouth before he’d agreed and walked off down the hallway once more. 

You’d entered the lab, with a less intrusive feeling, as students were still unpacking, talking amongst themselves unaware of the stranger that was you. You’d found a spare, vacant seat and immediately dropped your books to the desk, not wanting to risk losing it. 

You obeyed Jim’s advice, in practically staying clear of the right half of the classroom: you were certain to avoid any sort of trouble, at all costs. You really didn’t want to fuck up this new chance of life. As you’d made yourself organised and comfortable, the teacher made their way, and this time, was less lenient on the late comers rushing behind her. 

“This year has no room for disobedience!-” 

Not even a welcome, perhaps? You really wouldn’t want to get on her bad side, you’d thought.

“I’ll start with roll-call, and need I remind you…Lateness will no longer be tolerated in this class anymore. Principal Harley has granted me the discretion of forwarding detentions, do I make myself clear?” 

Silence…

“I said, do I make myself clear?” 

The jointed muffled sounds of ‘yes’ was all that she’d gotten, before rolling her eyes in annoyance of the poor attempt. It had come to your conclusion that she really must’ve had issues with her past, fellow students from years before… As she’d began yelling out the names of her students, all obediently responding back with ‘present’ you’d seen her face contort with confusion, as you knew she must have finally come across yours…

“Do I have a Y/N Y/L/N here?” 

Hesitantly, your arm raised up awkwardly into the air, causing her head with the heads of nearly everyone else in class to direct their attention towards you. 

“So you’re the new girl, huh? I had a read over your file, and saw that your past involvement in Bio was quite….Exemplary. let’s hope you can continue that sort of performance here, perhaps you’ll finally be the saving grace this class really needs,” She scoffed, chuckling at her somewhat poor attempt of a joke, before marking you down as ‘present.’ 

You hadn’t even responded to her compliment: though as your head gradually turned towards the remainder of the class, had you noticed that the rest were still eyeing you out. It was an uncomfortable feeling, but you’d resumed your gaze back to your books, hoping desperately that the unwanted attention would drift away. 

“Oh for Christ sake-”

The poor excuse of a whisper, as you keenly heard your teacher swear beneath her breath, distracted your thoughts away from the issue at hand. 

“Is Mr Langdon here? Michael Langdon?” 

Silence at first, before one of the girls Jim had pointed out from the group, a dark-haired brunette with pretty features had readily answered, as though on his behalf. 

“Oh no, Miss Shaul, you must forgive Michael. He told me to give you this-” Ardently she stood from her seat, and made her way to the front, handing the teacher a crumpled piece of paper. How childish, you thought…Surely this wasn’t Jim’s twin. 

“Of course he’s ill… Perhaps Heather, he should be the one giving this to me, instead of seeking you out, convincing you to do his dirty work, hmm?”

As the girl, or ‘Heather’ you’d realised, had given her teacher a what seemed to be a neighbourly smile, was in fact a false reaction. As she turned on her heels spontaneously, strutting her way over to her seat, where her friends sat huddled, ignorantly laughing in defence, had she rolled her eyes to the words of her teacher. 

Now you knew exactly why Jim insisted you’d avoid them… 

This lesson now, was not so much eventful. You did however manage to met a new friend, who wasn’t related to Jim nor Medina, nor Michael of that matter. 

His name was David, and to be quite frank, he was extremely sweet: quite the geek too. He was just as interested in Biology as you were, and much to your teacher’s approval, she was pleased to see her star pupil befriending the next hopeful candidate, that was you. And both on your behalf, she’d allocated you two as lab partners for further practical lessons, as she had with the remaining class. Many were displeased to be separated from their friends, though you had to admit, you were glad to know you were once again, in safe hands. 

Just as the class had been dismissed for recess: you felt your nerves creeping back up. You found yourself completely alone, before realising you still had the small, ripped parchment that held Jim’s number. You immediately dialled for him, messaging him for his whereabouts. You felt like a hopeless fool, asking for help, when you knew, at a time like this, you needed to be independent… You couldn’t keep relying on Jim, that was just unfair for him, but before it was too late to delete the message, he’d replied instantly, giving you the directions to the cafeteria seats outside, where he stood waiting for you by his table. 

The sudden brightness of the sun and its rays made your face contort away, holding your hand up to shield your eyes, you began to scan the vicinity of the field, trying desperately to find Jim. 

His arms waving, as he gestured for you to join, it was only then that you’d noticed Medina sat in the opposite bench completely and utterly by herself. 

Before you’d even walked over to Jim, he’d noticed you looking over at Medina, before looking back at him. Pointing at yourself as you pointed towards her, he knew exactly what you’d met and nodded in approval, although you could sense some disappointment in his eyes, as he slowly sat himself back down, inattentive to the surrounding conversation. 

“Hey Medina!” You gleefully exclaimed, as you seated yourself opposite of her. It seemed you’d caught her by surprise as she slightly jumped in her seat, before realising it was only you. 

“Sorry about that-“ You sincerely uttered, your eyes growing worried, unsure if she’d even recognised you. 

“Y/N, no that’s fine…Not use to company that’s all-” She laughed, before hastily moving her books from your end towards her, sparing you some space. 

“So how’s your first couple classes been so far? You enjoying Palos Verdes High?” 

“They’ve been okay, I suppose! English was a breeze, considering Jim’s in my class, the teacher was pretty nice, unlike my Bio teacher, Miss Shaul, is it?” 

“Yeah, she’s known to be one of the strictest teachers alive…You kind of get used to her ways though.” 

As Medina, resumed to eat, you were sort of hesitant to tell her about Michael. Unsure of if you were in the rightful position to tell her that her own brother had missed his first class of Bio for the year. Although, it seemed your mouth had a mind of its own, as you felt yourself blurting out the words. 

“Your brother Michael is also meant to be in my Bio class, actually…” Your tone at first was loud, though as you carried on the sentence you felt it becoming quieter.

“What do you mean by ‘meant to’?” She smirked, as she looked up at you with a hint of confusion. 

Surely, she must have been aware of her older brother’s ways. 

“He -uhh, didn’t show up to class. I was hoping to meet him, but I guess I’ll have to wait” 

You tried to laugh it off, hoping that would elevate the mood, but it seemed Medina was unstirred.

“Oh yeah, Michael isn’t one to show up. It’s ever only on the rare occasion where the teacher’s sort of threaten him with expulsion will he attend… He hates getting my parents involved, but he isn’t 100% committed either. Never was, so don’t mind him. Not to mention, Miss Shaul and him, kind of hate one another, he annoys her and she annoys him, it’s just a cycle.” 

“Oh… I mean, I guess that’s understandable! It happens…” 

For the remainder of the break, Medina sidetracked from Michael or anything related to school and delved into the topic of surfing…It seemed she had quite a passion for it. And you didn’t dare interrupt her, although your mind still remained on Michael. You were really anticipating to meet him now, more than ever, but it seemed ‘fate’ just wouldn’t allow you. 

Not that you were expecting to, although you were simply curious… 

The ringing pitch of the bell had dragged you back to reality, as you noticed Medina was already mid-way into packing her things. You immediately realised that you had History, though had no clue as to where the class was. You pulled out the timetable, hastily asking Medina for the directions, in which she insisted you go through the shortcut. 

“Just go around the building here, turn left and you’ll see a white door. Walk in down the hall, and you’ll find the classroom, they usually have the name of the room up on the door anyways! Sorry, but I gotta run, I’ll see you soon!” She rushed, before bolting away, disappearing into the crowd of students that were bustling their way back through the main entrance. You would have followed them all, but she’d given you the directions through the back way, where you noticed, no one seemed to take. Looking back to where Jim once sat, he was already gone, so you really had no choice but to trust Medina’s words. 

You began to power-walk, by the dodgy looks of the shortcut, you were certain this would be a one time thing only. You were even looking forward, too busy looking behind and back down to your timetable, trying to memorise the name of your room, until you felt yourself walking into a solid wall. You would have fallen back painfully, if it wasn’t for the quick instincts of the person you’d walked into. 

You were embarrassed beyond measure, as you felt yourself growing red, unable to look up at what seemed to be a tall, brooding figure. Knowing your luck, you must have walked into the wrong type of person, considering they hadn’t said a word. 

“I’m so very sorry, I really didn’t mean that. I wasn’t looking where I was going and-”

“Ah, you were in my Bio class…The new girl.” 

Interrupted mid-way into your rambles by a voice from behind the, you’d recognised the face of one the boys Jim had pointed out to you. You looked at him with fright before you felt your gaze travel up instinctively towards the boy you’d just so ignorantly walked into. 

You felt his grip on your arm release, as he looked down at you. All those stares you’d felt before in those classes, would never have amounted to how intimidated you’d felt as of this moment. But those eyes…They looked incredibly familiar, yet so unnerving. 

This was no boy, surely. He had a towering, broad frame and his features were far too mature than most of the students you’d come by. And his hair, strawberry blonde and long: flawless you’d thought. He even dressed quite peculiar yet unlike the average teenage boy in Palos Verdes, with the denim on denim action. 

His chest heaved deepily, making him look much larger than he already was, much more menacing before exhaling. 

“New girl…” Was all that escaped those plump lips, the deep vocals of his voice for that brief moment was all that you had heard, before you felt your body move around the group hastily, not wanting to spare another second in their unwanted company. 

You practically began jogging to that white door Medina had mentioned, finally disappearing from their view into the building. 

You knew only now, that you’d finally met Michael.  

Taglist (for “Choices” series) - @jimmlangdon @langdons-rep @bademliimagnum

[wwhaatttttttt]

Tú. [A ‘You’ Fanfiction]

Chapter 3: Dissapointing. More social media façades.

There's only one thing I can say: What the fuck?

Alexandra, I'm disappointed but not surprised.

Ass pic, selfie, a lip-syncing video to god awful 'music,' selfie, ass pic, bikini pic, landscape, another landscape (ft your ass), do I need to go on or do you get the point?

I can't blame you for needing the approval of those around you, social media is a real addiction. You're not the first person I've loved that succumbed to social media's relentless grasp.

Beck. God, I miss you Beck.

You present yourself completely unlike Beck did. Beck would paint herself out to be this happy-go-lucky, optimistic, starry-eyed yet level headed, young aspiring writer. She was. Just not as cookie-cutter as her Instagram made her out to be.

You paint yourself out to be this sultry, sexy, mysterious vixen. I can tell there's more to you than this and your bio confirms it:

my main is false ccj, if you want to really know me dale follow my finsta: @alexxladura

Google Translate can only do so much, but I get the gist of it. Your true self is locked away in a private account. I make a fake account and while part of me hopes you accept my follow, a bigger part of me wants you to decline since it's obvious you've never met Juan Ricardo (plus accepting random people's follows completely ruins the point of having a private second account.)

Your 'finsta' bio reads out:

If I accept you here you are real og // REMOVE YOUR I HAVE REACHED THE CABALLOTA// my main so you can see my beautiful face @alexmala

I've never regretted anything in my life as much as I regret not taking Spanish in high school because I want to know what you mean by this and Google just isn't cutting it and I bet you're incredibly intelligent and insightful but there's just this language barrier that's so frustrating because despite hugs and kisses not being exclusive to one language the bond we have to form to get to hugs and kisses and morning sex and more of those playful punches you love to give me require communication and we speak the same language emotionally just not verbally and google translate is shit, my Spanish is nonexistent and I might as well go back to your main account because it's obvious you're not going to accept Juan Ricardo on your finsta.

Good girl.

The rest of your bio on your @alexmala account reveals a lot of information, thankfully it's in English but nonetheless a scary amount of information; any pervert or stalker can access this:

20🎉// UPR-RP 📚 // Dancer 💃// single but not ready 2 mingle 🔐// bad bitch 24/7 ✨

All in all, with your Instagram, small bits of information you let out while on our date and a bit of deeper research I've come to a pretty good conclusion:

You're a twenty-year-old born and raised in Rio Grande, Puerto Rico. You're an only child but treat your cousins as siblings because according to you, "every Hispanic family has like a trillion cousins and family is family so yes, I consider my cousins my siblings." You major in accounting but that's just a back-up plan in case you don't make it as a dancer but I believe in you Alexandra, the short dancing videos on your page are really impressive. In case the dancing doesn't work out you can always join the music scene, I looked through the post you're tagged in and there's a video of you singing, plus I saw some of the papers in your folders are songs, I would've thought they were poems I noticed chords scribbled on the papers. You have a beautiful voice and you're beautiful and talented and I love you for it.

I don't know if I should be proud or frustrated because you haven't posted anything related to New York on your Instagram or Facebook, which means I can't check up on you.

The only consolation I have is the fact that you have my number, I didn't ask for yours because I know girls don't like desperate guys; I had to play it off cool.

Now it's just the waiting period relationships are obligated to take because society and media deemed it necessary. I find it to be a waste, I mean, if both parties obviously like each other, what's the need? Societal pressures are-

You texted me.

My phone rang and you just texted me.

You don't give a shit about society or their egotistical, wasteful opinions because you, Alexandra Malavé, just texted me two hours after our date.

I've never seen the area code 787. Exotic.

787-955-0010: hello this is alexandra, save my number!!!

Me: Will do. :)

While I add your contact I get another notification, you're a fast texter. I like that.

Alexandra: Do you think using google translate to text would hinder my progress Mr. Goldberg? :^)

Fuck. Mr. Goldberg? Kinky.

Me: Yes it would young pupil, only use it as a last resort.

Shit. Shit. That was corny and it sounded too perverted. You probably think I'm a freak.

Alexandra: okey do not make fun of me thou

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

Me: A teacher would never make fun of a learning student. PS: Remember your contractions.

Alexandra: jajaja sorri. dont***

Me: Sorry*** don't***

Alexandra: jajaja sorry. don't.***

Me: Hahaha***

Alexandra: AYE!!!! I laf in spanish it's diferent then lafing in inglich!!

If I'm honest this has to be some of the worse grammar I've ever witnessed, but I see you Alexandra, the one text you sent with google translate was eloquent. I'll make your life so much easier, not only with English but with everything else you could possibly need.

Alexandra: do you know any gud pizza plases in crownheights?

Crown Heights? Crown Heights! That's right next to Bed Stuy, I finally have something to go off of.

Me: Yeah, you live in Crown Heights?

Alexandra: yessir

You live right by me. It's the cruel, sadistic tease God is punishing me with under the premise of 'karma.' It's downright malicious to have you so close but not have you in my presence.

Looks like I'm taking a stroll through Crown Heights.

[this fanfic gets hella updated on wattpad, so if you want to read faster read there. already in chapter 5.]

[faerieyoongles]

Inamorata

by: @lwannag0h0me-c0m

Plot: Werewolves are assigned a human soulmate from birth, as werewolves cannot reproduce with other werewolves. Although humans cant tell when they’ve met their werewolf soulmate (mostly because they think werewolves don’t exist), werewolves become fully aware once they are united with their true love. Most werewolves meet their soulmate around mid to late teenage years (because that’s when their bodies become sexually mature). Yoongi is 18, almost 19, and on his last year of high school and still hasn’t found his soulmate yet. He’s starting to believe maybe he doesn’t have one, until one day a new girl named Y/N enters the school.

Chapter(s): 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

Genera: Werewolf au, fluff, smut, (a lil bit of angst), supernatural romance

Chapter 1

{I’m so sorry for any spelling mistakes, I haven’t edited yet}

Yoongi has never been a fan of waking up early (or waking up at all really), especially if it was for school. He wasn’t a bad student or anything, he had decent grades and never fought with any of the other students or teachers, it was just exhausting for him to walk around and pretend to be interested in the events going on around him. He wasn’t the social type, or the athletic type (not anymore at least, he did play basketball his freshmen and sophomore year, but eventually quit due to a shoulder injury), or the artistic type, or the nerdy type, or any type really. Granted, he was very musical and he did enjoy listening to music and maybe writing a few songs for himself here and then, but those skills aren’t very useful in high school. To Yoongi, high school almost seemed pointless. Yoongi’s mother is a werewolf, which makes him a werewolf. Once Yoongi graduates high school, he’s supposed to help his parents by becoming a head leader of the pack. Yoongi’s mother, Bitna, was the current leader of the pack, with her husband, Ankor, by her side. Yoongi wasn't opposed to the idea of helping lead the pack, in fact, he was quite excited to help his parents lead, as he had been watching them do so since he was young. He was, however, disappointed in himself. Every werewolf has a human soulmate that they usually find once their bodies are fully mature and ready for mating, which would usually be somewhere around the ages 14-17. Werewolves can’t reproduce with other werewolves because there needs to be a balance of human and wolf DNA. If two werewolf parents gave birth to a child, the child would come out with too much wolf DNA for its body to handle, and end up dying either before it’s born, or only a few moments after. Yoongi was now 18, almost 19, and still hadn’t found his true love. It was expected of him to have a mate by the time he became a leader to provide the pack with more members. It was now the first day of his senior year, which gave Yoongi only one more year for him to find his mate. He felt like he was disappointing his parents, even though they made it very clear that they where in no way disappointed in him, and that it wasn’t his fault his mate hasn’t shown up yet. He knew there wasn’t anything he could do about him being mate-less, but still, he wanted to make his pack proud of him, and living a werewolf life without a mate while you watch other wolves be happy with theirs was very lonesome. Some of his friends from his pack that he hung out with had already found their mate, like Jin, Hoseok, and Namjoon. That left him, Jimin, Taehyung, and Jungkook to be the four mate-less ones in their friend group. Jimin, Taehyung, and Jungkook where all younger than Yoongi (Jimin and Taehyung being 16 and Jungkook being 15) so it wasn't abnormal for them to have not found their mates yet. Yoongi was almost starting to believe that maybe there wasn’t someone out there for him. Thoughts like these caused him to fall into this ongoing state of depression and lack of motivation, so now a days he tended to get annoyed and short tempered easily when one of his friends starting talking about their mates or when someone mentioned him having not found his yet.

It was now Yoongi’s first day of his senior year. He put on his clothes, which was just a pair of dark blue jeans, a black hoodie with a white graphic tee underneath, and his usual red basketball sneakers. Although he didn’t play basketball anymore, he still was found of the sport and owned some basketball jerseys and sneakers in his closet. He never worried much about his appearance, it’s not like he had anyone to impress. He brushed his hair and teeth quickly and headed outside to meet his friends who lived in the same area. Since him and his friends are all from the same pack, they all lived in the same neighborhood. The next few streets next to Yoongi’s street where all people from his pack. Closing the door to his house, he was suddenly greeted by his six friends all staring directly at him. Yoongi stopped in his tracks, he didn't expect them to all be waiting for him at once.

“What took you so long? We’ve been waiting for you for like 15 minutes?” asked Hoseok. He was clearly more annoyed than the other members. Hoseok was the only member in the friend group to have a soulmate that went to their high school. Jin and Namjoon’s mates where girls who lived on the other side of town and went to the other high school. Hoseok was no doubt in a rush to get to school to see Dawn, his mate, who he hadn’t seen all summer because she was living in Seoul, spending the summer with her father.

“Sorry” said Yoongi “I woke up late. I forgot to set my alarm.” He turned around to face his front door to lock it. His parents had already gone out, so it was his responsibility to lock the house.

“Are you not excited?’ asked Jimin. Jimin could tell Yoongi wasn’t in the best mood at the moment, so he felt it was his responsibility to help him feel better.

 “No” replied Yoongi “Why would I be? High School isn’t necessarily my ideal place to spend my time.” Yoongi started to walk down his front steps and down the side walk, his friends quickly followed him. He put his keys back in his pocket and took out his phone and headphones to listen to music. He knew Jimin was only engaging in conversation with him to cheer him up. Deep down, Yoongi appreciated it, but at the moment he was too tired to hear his friend’s sad attempts at making him feel better.

“Because it the first day of school!’ Jimin said trying to sound enthusiastic, but he wasn’t a very good actor.

“Again. Why is that exciting?” Yoongi asked, not really giving his full attention, the music in his ears seemed more interesting to listen to. Jimin really didn't know how to answer that, he as well didn’t find school anymore exciting than Yoongi did.

“Because” Started Hoseok “Exciting things could happen this year.”

Yoongi scuffed “Really?” he said sarcastically “like what?”

“Like maybe if you walked a little faster, we’d get to school faster, and maybe today you’ll find your mate! Now can we please get to the bus stop?” Yoongi clenched his jaw at the mention of his un-found mate. Hoseok got a forceful punch on his shoulder from Namjoon. Hoseok knew better then mention Yoongi still hadn’t found his mate, but he was desperate to get to school to see his.

After about a five minute walk, they all reached the bus stop. All six guys where now having a new conversation that Yoongi couldn’t be bothered to listen to. He loved his friends, but he enjoying being in their company silently when he was in a bad mood, than making an exhausting effort to take part in a conversation that he just wasn’t in the mood to be in. Thanks to Hoseok’s careless comment about his mate, Yoongi’s mood was now even worse than when he first woke up. 

It didn’t take long for the bus to arrive. Yoongi was the last of his friends to get on. When he got on, he saw all his friends had taken a seat except for Jungkook who was still standing up waiting for Yoongi to sit on the inside of the bench so he could sit on the outside. Jungkook knew Yoongi preferred the window seat so he could rest his head on the glass. This was Jungkook’s way of helping Yoongi feel better, and so far, it was the only effective one. 

“Hyung” said Jungkook in a very quiet unsure voice. He didn’t want to upset Yoongi more than he already was. Lucky for Jungkook, Yoongi had a soft side for him, with him being the youngest member of the group and all. Yoongi decided he didn’t want to take his anger out on the Maknae, so he took out one of his ear phones to give Jungkook his full attention. “It’s gonna be this year, I know it! Look, I know this might not be what you’re in the mood to hear right now, but trust me, when our mates come I’m sure all the waiting would have been worth it. That’s what Namjoon hyung told me, and he’s never lied to me before.” Although Yoongi wasn’t fond of hearing yet another person this morning mention the absence of his mate, he knew Jungkook meant well. Yoongi gave Jungkook a simple nod and a short smile before he returned the earphone back to his ear. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t hopeful that this was finally the year he’d find love. ‘It has to be! I can’t wait forever!’ he thought to himself.

The bus finally came to a stop in front of the school, and Hoseok was the first to run off with Jin running after him close behind trying to contain Hoseok’s excited and rushed energy. Yoongi took his time walking off the bus and into the school. The school had already sent the students their class schedules and locker numbers during the summer, so Yoongi’s friend group had all dispatched at this point to get to their classes. Yoongi never bothered with his locker, they allowed backpacks inside the classrooms so he never saw a need for them anyways. He went straight to his first class which was English. Unfortunately for him, Namjoon wasn’t in this class with him like he was last year, so Yoongi would actually have to do his own work instead of copying off of Namjoon. He entered the classroom and sat in a seat in the back next to a window. He preferred to sit by himself than to try and make awkward conversation with someone. His conversation skills weren’t very good, and besides, he had all the friends he needed from his pack. He rested his head on his hand while he looked out the window and watched the trees wrestle with the wind. He saw a stray cat climb up on one and lay down to take a nap. ‘It must be nice to be a cat. You just get to sleep all day.’ He thought. He then chuckled at the fact that technically, he was a dog, who was wishing to be a cat. Ironic. The classroom was loud and fulled with life as students where telling their friends what the did over summer break, gossiping over new students and what not. Finally the teacher walked in with a coffee mug full of freshly brewed coffee in his hand.

“Okay everyone” he said “Please take your seat and settle down.” The students obeyed, and took their seats. Since it was only the first day of school, students haven’t yet become as rebellious as they will later on in the year, so quieting down the class wasn’t too hard of a task for the teacher. He set his coffee mug down on his desk and walked toward the center of the front of the room.

“Hello everyone! My name is Mr. Ling.” the teacher said in perfect English. He then repeated the phrase in Korean for his students to understand. Yoongi was decently good at English, and learned a few things not only from school, but also from Namjoon, so Yoongi understood what the teacher had said before he translated it. Yoongi silently praised himself for his well understanding of the English language.

“Before you guys introduce yourselves to me, we have a new student this year. Please take care of her and make her feel welcomed to our school. Okay?” The students nodded in response. Mr. Ling walked over to the door and opened it. A girl then walked through. Her posture gave away that she felt very shy and awkward. Immediately she caught Yoongi’s eye, but he wasn’t the only person in the room to take an interest in her. Other guys suddenly started smiling and taking their attention to focus more on what this new girl had to say.

“Um hello. My name’s Y/N. Please take care of me.” The girl said it so quietly you almost didn’t hear her. Luckily at this point, Yoongi had paused his music to hear you speak. The new girl then bowed to the class and looked at the teacher for her next direction.

“It’s lovely to have you here Y/N. There’s an empty seat in the back beside Yoongi, you can sit there if you’d like.” said Mr. Ling. Yoongi was taken back by the spot light suddenly put on him, but he collected his scattered thoughts and waved at you so you’d know who he was. He gave you a short but genuine smile, and you returned the favor as you walked to sit next to him. At this moment, Yoongi thanked whatever god there was that none of his classmates ever wanted to sit next to him. You put your bag down by your new desk and sat down. At first, coming to a new school was diffidently something you where in no way excited about. Making new friends was never something you where good at, and whats the point of making new friends senior year when you’re only going to graduate in a few months anyways. The boy sitting next to you though was now making you rethink that thought. He looked inviting and you got this calm, safe, and warm vibe from him.

“Okay so, now what I’d like to do is go around the room and introduce yourselves to me, Y/N, and any other classmates that might not know who you are. Lets start with you!” said the teacher as he pointed to a student sitting at  the far right of the front row. One by one students sat up and said their name, grade, and one interesting thing about them. Trying to come up with something interesting seemed like a hard task for the students, so this process seemed very slow and excruciatingly painful to watch. After 20 minutes, Yoongi was starting to get a headache from all the “ummms” and “yeahs” coming from student’s mouths every three seconds, so he unpaused his music. When he turned his phone on to click the play button, you caught a glimpse of the song he was listening to. He was listening to “Kind Heart” by Glowing Eyes, and immediately you decided you had to be friends with this boy. Glowing Eyes was your favorite band and you just couldn’t stop your excitement from taking over. If the boy sitting next to you didn’t make you feel so comfortable just by giving you a smile, then you would have never said anything, but you just couldn’t stop yourself (nor did you really want to). You tapped him on the shoulder and Yoongi flinched dramaticly. It took you back a bit because you where sure you like barley touched him. What you didn’t know is that when you touched him, even in the slightest, it sent electric waves of shock through Yoongi’s body, but it felt good and warm. He almost wanted to you tap him again. You gave him a kind of perplexed look. Did you really tap him that hard, or was he just really sensitive?

“Um, yeah?” Asked Yoongi, still in a state of shock.

“Uh” you said quietly, so the teacher wouldn’t hear you having a conversation while another student was introducing themselves. Yoongi realized your soft voice and took out one of his ear phones.

“Your song. Your listening to Glowing Eyes.” You said, feeling slightly less confident then when your first tapped him.

“Yeah” said Yoongi “You like them?”

“They’re my favorite band.” You said with a smile, now slightly regaining confidence now that Yoongi was now understanding where this conversation was going.

“Really?” He said, your smile now rubbing off on him.

“Let me ask you this then.” He now felt more interested in talking to you (as if he wasn’t already before) now that he found out you two have something in common.

“Which album is better? ‘Worth the Wait’ or ‘Destiny’s Course’ ?” You’re almost taken back by the fact that he’s now speaking to you like he’s known you forever, but you really liked the fact that you could just skip over the ‘awkward conversation’ phase of friendship, so you played along with his vibe.

“Oh ‘Destiny’s Course’ by far!” You said with up most certainty.

Yoongi crinkled his nose “Hmm, i dunno. ‘Worth the Wait’ had more of a raw and real sound.”

“Yeah but in that album they replaced James with Leon as the main vocalist, and James is a far better singer.” Although you where disagreeing with Yoongi, you still thought that this conversation was the best one you’ve had all day. Yoongi was unknowingly agreeing with you.

“Well yeah but, the songs are just so much more..” he pause for a minute trying to come up with the right word to use.

“Raw and real?” You say, mocking his words from earlier. You slightly roll your eyes, wanting to make fun of your new friend, but not wanting to push it because you two had only just met.

“Well yeah” Yoongi laughs. You start laughing too but it’s quickly cut short when you hear the teacher call your name.

“Y/N!” he says “I know you just introduced yourself, but why don’t you do it again and tell us something interesting about you, that way we can get to know you even more!” He was clearly aware you and Yoongi weren’t paying attention, but since it was the first day of school and you where a new student, he decided he wouldn’t scold you and instead be grateful you had already made a new friend.

“Oh, um okay.” You said. You then stood up to face the class for a second time and said “My name is Y/N, Im a senior, and..” You where trying to think of something interesting to say when an idea popped into your head. “and I think- no, I know that’Destiny’s Course’ is Glowing Eyes’s best album.” You hoped your new friend found your teasing funny. The teacher looked confused by your statement but decided to brushed it off and move onto Yoongi. He looked at Yoongi’s direction, waiting for him to speak. As you sat down, Yoongi sat up.

“Uh, my name is Yoongi, in a senior, and I know for a absolute 100% fact that ‘Worth the Wait’ is without a doubt Glowing Eye’s best album.” He said with a playful smirk. You sighed in relief that Yoongi was playing back with you. He looked down at you and gave you a smile. The teacher smiled as well, feeling proud he created a friendship by having you sit next to Yoongi. The bell then rang signaling for the next period to begin. Luckily Yoongi was the last student to introduce himself, so every student had gotten the chance to take their turn. You turned and grabbed your backpack on the floor beside you and started to walk towards the door. You stopped when you felt someones hand pull you back by your upper arm. When you turned around, you saw it was Yoongi. Yoongi wanted to talk with you more, which is why he decided to pull you back. When he held on to you, his hand got warm shocks of energy that was now circling in his hand and up his arm. He stared at his hand holding your arm for a few seconds wondering what the heck was going on. He snapped back into reality when he noticed you where looking at him for an explanation to why you where being held back.

“Um, I- I think you’re pretty cool, I guess.” He then let go of your arm, realizing he was still holding on to you “I wanted to know if uh- if maybe you wanted to go to this music store that’s like a 10 minute walk from school? I mean I know we just met but I’ve always wanted to go there but ah, my friends never do and it’d be nice to go there with someone instead of by myself. Ya know?” He nervously chuckled. With every word he said, he lost more and more confidence, fear and awkwardness now finally sinking into him. You on the other hand where beyond glad that you had easily made a friend you had something in common with.

“Yeah sure!” you said with an obvious grin on your face. Your energy rubbed off on Yoongi and he felt relaxed again.

“Great! Um, if you gave me your number I could tell you where to meet me after school.” He said, finally relaxed that you seemed to like him as much as he liked you (or at least he hoped). It felt weird to him though, asking a girl for her number. That was something he had never done before.

“Sure.” you said. He unlocked his phone and handed it to you, and your put your number into his contact list. You then handed the phone back to him. While doing so, your finger came into contact with his, and yet again, Yoongi felt those same waves of shock. He couldn’t understand what it was at first, but after you had first tapped him on the shoulder, he’s had sometime to think about it, and he’s 90% sure that maybe he knows. He wants to feel them again though one more time before you walk away. So he does the only thing he can think of in the moment. He extends his hand out for you to take.

“Friends?” He asks. You take is hand with out question.

“Friends.” You state. Yoongi looks at your hand touching his and inhales sharply, really loving the feeling of your skin coming to contact with his. You then let go of his hand, whispered a ‘bye’ and flashed him a small but genuine smirk as you walk out the door. You didn’t really want to leave him, but you also didn’t want to be late to your next class either.

As Yoongi watched you walk away, he knew his mood had been completely changed from what it was this morning.

He knew for sure, that he finally found his mate.

[siriusblackownsmyheart]

There's Always a Party with You

Warnings: nada

Word count: 1,200 ~

Summary: Y/N is new to Hogwarts, and she doesn't know anyone. Until, that is, she meets a dashing Gryffindor at a party...

Notes: I think I'm going to do a part two! Feedback is more than welcome!! :)

She really didn’t know how she had gotten herself into this one. There were like, what? A hundred, probably more, people at this party and Y/N chose the worst possible person to speak to.

Y/N wasn’t much of a party person, even in America. But since she was new, and desperate to make a good impression (and maybe some friends) she let one of her dorm mates, Mary, take her to a party. She had heard Gryffindor threw some of the best parties, so Y/N was kind of looking forward to it.

Until she got there. She had put on makeup, and a nicer outfit than what she had been wearing earlier, and here she was, by the (spiked) punch table, half listening to some European band, and talking to no one. She had tried to find few people to chat with after she and Mary had split up, but they had all started talking about things she had never heard of — British this, Scottish that, this teacher and that one. So she settled for being alone. After about fifteen minutes of awkward people watching, however, Y/N decided to go back to her dorm.

“Excuse me,” she said to a rather tall Gryffindor boy who had just walked up to the table, “ I think I’m going to retire for the night. Do you know where I can throw this away?” Y/N gestured to her half empty cup.

He almost looked hurt. “Oh, leaving so soon? You’re the new girl, aren’t you? Us English folk aren’t as snobby as we seem, I swear.”

Someone from the crowd leaned on his shoulder and chimed in, “Oh yes, we are,” Then she fell back into the crowd.

The boy and Y/N shared a smile, and she leaned in to hear him over the music, “Why don’t you stay and get to know a few people?”

“ I have. You’re all very European — “

“That happens when you’re in Europe.”

“And you only seem to talk about European things.”

“Again, a given.” He smiled.

She huffed, “The point is that I don’t have anything to talk about with anyone. Also, I’m not fond of the food” She paused as everyone sang along to a song she didn’t know, and sighed, “ … or the music.”

As she said that, another boy came up beside the one she had been talking too and laughed, “Might want to watch what you say to the host! Wow!” he laughed, and she could smell a bit of firewhiskey on him, “Americans…”

The other boy disappeared into the party, and Y/N flew from being stark white to as red as her shirt. Thankfully, the boy started talking again before she could change any more colors.

“You haven’t met everyone at the party — I’m Sirius Black — and as the host, I’m going to make sure my guest has a good time.” He said, and stuck out his hand to her, “Call me Sirius.”

Y/N smiled as she forgot her embarrassment, and yelled her name over the noise as she took his hand.

“Why don’t we go to the kitchens? It’ll be quieter,” He said, and she might be more “fond” of the food, Sirius had told her.

“Am I really having fun at your party if I’m not at the party?” Y/N joked.

“Darling,��� He said, “I am the party.” Y/N had to hide her snicker.

They left a few minutes later, and on the way to the kitchens he showed her a few secret passages. The two talked about different teachers and who was who (Slughorn is a drag, McGonagall is strict, and “Please, Merlin’s Beard, stay the hell away from Severus Snape”). All in all, it was a very informative walk for Y/N.

He held the door open to the kitchens and they entered together. Sirius went off to some far off area and did something, but Y/N was too distracted to really see what he was doing. She stood and marveled at how intricate such a small room could be. Food was floating around and cooking at the same time; house elves were scurrying from one place to the next with arms filled with taffy that was twisting itself and ginger snaps that were really snapping; and the whole place smelled like a gingerbread house. Given a few more seconds, she might have forgotten there was anything outside of this room.

And then she felt a tap on the shoulder. Y/N turned around to see a cookie floating right in front of her face, and Sirius, who sat on the countertop a few feet away with a chocolate frog in hand. “I hope you like that better than the food at my party. Although really, not liking the party food was an insult to the house elves because they’re the ones that made it.” He said as he took his last bite.

“Not at all.” Y/N hummed, hopping on the counter next to him, “They did a wonderful job. I believe you just have bad taste is all.”

Sirius chuckled. “You’re just an American. That’s all. You are used to fast food and cheap ingredients. Everyone loves my food.”

“Have you ever actually cooked anything before?”

“Well of course I —”

“Without magic?” Y/N smiled.

“I — Well,” he scoffed, “Well why should I if I have magic?” Sirius said with confidence as he pulled up his dark hair.

“Because if you don’t make it by hand you’re just poof-ing things together.” Y/N drolled as she leaned on Sirius. “Anyone can do that, so it’s not really yours unless you make it without magic at least once.”

“Well then,” He started, “I suppose since it’s not my cooking, it can only be the house elves’, so you are still insulting their food.”

Y/N threw her hands up. “Ugh, fine! I guess I’ll just be “the rude American” until the day I die.”

That got a small laugh out of him, “Well, as long as you’re at it,” Sirius gently pushed her off the countertop, “Go steal us some more cookies please.”

Y/N didn’t bother to look back to him. She strode across the room and knocked on a small wooden door sectioned in two that was labeled “House Elf Requests”. The top panel slid open to reveal a soft looking old House Elf.

“May I have two chocolate Chip cookies, please, and a glass of milk?” Y/N asked pleasantly. The House Elf gave a warm smile and Y/N saw her turn around. A few seconds later two fresh cookies (the chocolate was still melting off of them) and a large glass of milk came floating out of the door, and Y/N thanked the her.

Y/N nudged Sirius as she took her place back next to him on the counter. “I may be rude, but at least I don’t need to steal.”

“My way is more fun, though,” Sirius grinned.

“I don’t think so,” she said with her head held high. “That nice little house elf made all the difference.”

After finishing the glass of milk they shared, Sirius checked the time. At half past two he said,  “The party should be winding down by now.” He’d be surprised if it was still going, really. Y/N had nearly forgotten about the party, but she agreed, and they decided to go.

“This was fun, thank you,” Y/N commented, and as Sirius held the door open to the kitchen, she glanced up at him. He caught her eye before she could look away.

“Any time, love.” Sirius winked.

x x x x x x

Thank you so much for reading!!

[doomedhowell]

Fell In Love With You From The First Note

Summary: Phil has always been entranced by the piano covers uploaded by howell music on YouTube, it was a daily routine of his to play covers of his favorite ghibli songs while getting ready in the morning. Imagine his shock when he finds the pianist sat in next to him in his English Class…

Genre: AU, Fluff

Word Count: 5,652

This is my fic for the second @phandomreversebang! I’m so excited to post this, and had so much fun writing this fic. I hope you guys enjoy it :)

[link to art]

Thanks so much to the lovely @shibehxwell for being my beta!

Phil groans as the sound of his alarm clock goes off, meaning that he has to get up for school. He hates Mondays more than anything. He hates having to go to school after a relaxing weekend doing nothing. Most teenagers spend the weekend hanging out with friends, and partying, but not Phil. Partying doesn’t interest Phil. He prefers to stay inside and doodle in his notebook, or watch his favorite animes. Or, both.

Now, he has to go back to doing boring school work and tests.

Although, if there is one thing that Phil loves about going to school, it’s the fact that he gets to spend time reading and painting. He’s been taking art classes throughout high school, and absolutely loves painting. He’s a bit of an art nerd and often gets called ‘Nerd’ at school by kids who are more popular than him. Luckily, little things like that didn’t really bother Phil. There’s much worse insults they could use anyway.

Phil laid in bed for a few moments, allowing himself to wake up, before finally getting himself out of bed.

Phil walked over to his dresser, then pulls out a new outfit. He decides to go with an anime shirt as he’s obsessed with all things anime and constantly watching anime has pretty much ruined his social life. Phil then places his phone on his dresser and he goes straight to his favorite youtube channel, ‘howell music’. Phil absolutely loves listening to classical music while he gets ready for school in the morning, especially Daniel Howell, his favorite musician.

Phil likes a lot of musicians, but Daniel Howell is different. Phil fell in love with him the second he heard him playing the piano and singing. He even feels like he and Daniel would get along great if they met. They have the same music taste, and they seem to like a lot of same TV shows as well. Phil knows that Daniel loves anime, which is always a bonus in his books. Or maybe that was his inner fanboy speaking.

Phil chooses one of Daniel’s Ghibli piano covers and starts smiling as soon as the song plays. He loves Studio Ghibli, and it just so happens that the music playing is matching his shirt.

Phil relaxes instantly and continues getting ready for school

Ten minutes later, Phil is dressed and ready to go. Before he leaves his room, he turns off the music on his phone and places his phone in his pocket. He then grabs a Granola bar from the kitchen and quickly says a goodbye to his mom before heading out of the house. Luckily, the school is only about five minutes away from his house, allowing him to walk to school instead of riding the bus. Phil finds that riding the bus is awful because it’s smelly and overcrowded, and the other kids are overall horrible to sit with.

After getting to school on time, Phil heads to his locker and grabs books he needs for his first couple of morning classes. before shutting his locker and heading towards his first class, English.

“Good morning,Mrs. White,” Phil greets when he makes it to the classroom.

“Oh, good morning Phil,” the teacher replies with a tired smile on her face.

Phil kindly returns the smile and then he quietly makes his way over to his desk, placing his books down on the desk. Of course, Phil is usually always the first student to be in the classroom. He likes to be the first student in the classroom simple because he doesn’t have to deal with the chaos in the hallway.

Phil sits down and pulls out his notebook to doodle in until class starts.

“Um, excuse me?”

Phil looks up when he hears the quiet yet strangely familiar voice, and he instantly drops his pencil down on his desk as soon as he sees who it is. Daniel Howell, but more famously known as howell music on YouTube. It almost doesn’t seem real to Phil, that the boy that he’s idolized for years is now standing right in front of him. It’s taking everything in Phil not to jump up from his seat and fanboy.

“Ah, hello. You must be the new student. Lovely to meet you. I’m Mrs. White,” the teacher greets, reaching over to shake his hand in a friendly manner, sensing Daniel’s nervousness

“H-Hi,” Daniel replies shyly, looking down as his cheeks turn bright pink.

Oh my God, he’s so cute, Phil thinks to himself as his heart flutters. He can’t believe his idol is going to his school now. He knew Daniel has been tweeting about moving on his twitter the past few days, but Phil didn’t think that he was actually moving to his town in California. Daniel moved from London. It’s quite far away, so Phil wonders why on Earth Daniel’s family decided to move here so suddenly.

There were so many questions swirling around in Phil’s head right now.

Mrs. White reaches down and pulls a book out of her desk drawer. “Here is the book you’ll be needing. I’m sure you’ll be caught up in no time,” Mrs. White says.

“O-Okay,” Dan mumbles, taking the book from her. “Um, wh-where do I sit?”

“Hm,” Mrs. White pulls out the seating chart quickly and glances up for a second before smiling. “Ah, yes. You can have a seat next to Phil there. If you have anymore questions, don’t hesitate to ask, okay?”

Dan slowly nods, then he turns around and starts walking towards Phil.

Phil’s breathing starts picking up again as he stares at Daniel. He doesn’t want to come off as a creep, but, it’s not his fault. He’s been listening to Daniel’s music for years now, and watching all of his videos. He never thought that he would meet him as they lived in different countries, but now they go to the same school together. There’s a chance that they could even be friends with each other. That’s what Phil hopes, at least. Well, as long as the other students in school don’t get to Dan first.

Dan walks over to the chair beside him and he sits down, setting his book down on the desk.

Phil nervously pushes himself up in his chair, and looks over at Daniel, quickly fixing his fringe first, wanting to impress Daniel in whatever way he can. “Hi. Um, you’re… you’re Daniel Howell?” Phil’s really not normally one to talk to someone that he doesn’t know, but this is Daniel Howell. This could be the only chance he gets to talk to Daniel, so of course, Phil’s going to at least try to talk to him.

Even if Daniel rejects him and never speaks to him, at least Phil can say he tried.

Daniel blinks a few times as he looks over at Phil, surprised that someone knows him. “How did you…?”

“I know you from your YouTube channel,” Phil replies quickly. “Like, I was literally listening to your music this morning when I was getting ready for school. Actually, I listen to your music every morning, and... every day. You’re really good. I’m sorry. I can’t believe you’re actually here.” He chuckles nervously.

Daniel stares at Phil with wide eyes as he silently listens to him. “Oh, u-um, thank you,” he mumbles, nervously fiddling with the end of his sleeve. He didn’t think one of his subscribers would go to this school. Daniel has been hoping that he could get a fresh start at this new school, and be a normal kid for once.

“Sorry for talking so much. I ramble when I get nervous,” Phil apologizes quickly. Making a fool of himself in front of Daniel Howell is the last thing that he wants to do, honestly. However, he knows that it’s probably going to happen anyways, with how awkward he is around other people.

“Th-That’s okay. Sorry if I seem rude. I’m just… shy. I appreciate that you like my music, really… it means a lot to me that you enjoy my music,” Dan says quietly, his cheeks turning an even darker shade of pink..

“You? Daniel Howell? Shy? That’s-That’s actually pretty surprising to hear,” Phil watches Daniel’s YouTube videos all the time. Daniel seems like such a talkative person, always interacting with his viewers. He never would have thought of Daniel being shy outside of YouTube.

“Actually, I’m going by Dan now. At least, while I’m at school. I want to be a normal kid,” ‘Dan says.

“Oh,” Phil blinks a few times. “Oh, okay. I’ll try to remember that next time.” He shoots Dan a smile, though their conversation is cut short when more students start piling into the classroom..

Phil sees Dan throughout the rest of the school day after their first encounter in English class. He so desperately wants to talk to him again and try to befriend him, but he doesn’t want to bother or annoy Daniel - or Dan, as he’s now going by. Besides, Dan seems shyer than what Phil has seen him as.

Phil supposes being the new student in the middle of a school year is a bit nerve wracking.

During lunch, Phil notices Dan sitting by himself at a table. No one else seems to be recognizing him from his fairly popular YouTube channel. It confuses him, but, it might be because Dan is a British Youtuber, so Dan maybe isn’t as popular in America. Not that he’s complaining about it or anything. He always hates being recognized in school. It makes things so much more awkward and weird for him.

Phil takes a deep breath before nervously heading over towards Dan.

“Hi,” Phil greets, trying to sound less nervous but failing to do so. “I’m Phil. We have English together…”

Dan blinks a few times as he looks up, and then he sits up when he recognizes Phil. “Oh, hey…”

“Do you mind if I sit with you?” Phil asks, a hint of hope in his voice,.

“Not at all,” Dan replies, moving his chair over so Phil can sit next to him.

“Thanks,” Phil smiles and places his books on the table, and then sits down in the chair beside Dan. “So, how are you liking the school so far?” He looks over at Dan.

Dan shrugs his shoulders. “It’s been alright. Way different from what I’m used to back in England though,”

“I can imagine,” Phil smiles. “California is nice, you’ll like it once you get used to it. I’ve never been to England before but I’d bet it’s much more different than California.”

Dan smiles as he looks up at Phil, nodding. “Yeah. It is different, from what I’ve seen so far at least,”

The rest of lunch, Dan sits and listens to Phil as he talks and tells him all about California and the school. Phil doesn’t seem to mind Dan isn’t talking much, which is good because he’s quite shy around new people. But, Phil seems easy to talk to. Mostly because he’s a fan of his cover music.

Dan is pretty happy with how his first day of school goes. It was exciting as any first day of school could go, as he mostly just spent his day getting supplies from his teachers and catching up on everything that he’s missed. It’s weird for him, moving from a British school to an American school. They’re teaching different things, but he’s willing to try and learn new things. He talked to someone, so his mom will be happy about that. She wants him to really focus on meeting new people and trying to socialize more.

“I’m home!” Dan shouts as he walks through the door, sighing as he drops his book bag on the floor.

“Hi sweetie.”

Dan looks up and smiles when he sees his mom walking out of the kitchen. “Dad not home?”

“He’s still at work. It’ll be a late night for him,” his mom replies. “How was your first day of school?”

Dan shrugs. “It was alright,” he mumbles. “Went as well as it could. Nothing too exciting happened.”

“Nobody gave you a hard time? Did anyone recognize you?” His mom asks, concerned.

“Only one person did, he was actually a viewer. He’s really nice. I think he could even possibly be a potential friend. But, I’m not getting my hopes up yet. It’s still only the first day.” Dan tells her.

“Well, alright. As long as everything went okay. Dinner will be ready soon,”

“Okay. Thanks, mum,” Dan says quietly before heading up the stairs to his bedroom. Once finally there, he flops down on his bed. He sighs softly as he stares at the ceiling.

It seems rather odd to Dan, that he just met that boy Phil, and he already can’t stop thinking about him. Phil seems a bit awkward, but also confident in who he is. He seems different from the other students, which Dan likes. Phil’s not trying to fit in with the popular crowd.

Dan isn’t surprised that he’s greeted by Phil the next morning when he makes it to English class. Apparently Phil is always the first one in the classroom before anyone else.

“Hi,” Dan greets shyly before walking over to his seat. He looks over towards Phil and notices Phil has a notebook out and is doodling in it. It looks like he’s doodling a character from an anime, he can’t tell. Dan hasn’t met anyone who’s obsessed with anime like him so it would be a bonus if Phil loves anime too.

“Do you like it?” Phil asks, holding up his drawing when he sees Dan looking at it.

Dan blinks a few times as he looks up at Phil. “Y-Yeah. It’s really good. Is that…?”

“Yuri On Ice,” Phil confirms with a nod. “It’s one of my favorite animes. Do you like anime too?”

Dan slowly nods in response. “Yeah. I-I do like anime.” He can’t help the smile forming on his face, because he’s finally found someone who likes anime as much as him.

“Cool! Glad to see there’s another anime nerd at this school other than me,” Phil says. “But, of course, you like anime too. How could I forget? Your Ghibli covers are amazing.”

Dan blushes at Phil’s compliment. “Thanks,” he mumbles, looking down at his hands.

Dan could definitely see himself hanging out with Phil more in the future. Phil is pretty easy to talk to, and they already have a lot in common with each other, as far as Dan could tell.

The next few weeks pretty much went the same. Dan and Phil would say hi to each other in English class, then they eat lunch together. They constantly talk about their favorite bands and anime. They both seem to share a love for the band Muse and other bands like Fall Out boy and My Chemical Romance. They also love fanboying about animes like Studio Ghibli and Yuri On Ice.

Dan doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s slowly falling for Phil Lester, and it’s only been a few weeks.

Dan always knew that he was gay ever since he was a little boy. His parents knew this as well, and were supportive of him, although his dad is still a bit iffy on the subject whenever it’s brought up. Dan had his first crush when he was just a little boy but nothing ever came of it, unfortunately for Dan. Dan’s never actually gone on a date with a boy before, he’s never been kissed by a boy either.

What if Phil doesn’t like him back? Dan doesn’t want to lose the friendship they’ve started.

Little does Dan know, Phil does like him back. Of course he does. Phil’s had the biggest crush on him ever since he found him on YouTube. He always thought Dan was so cute and adorable. Phil never thought that he would actually meet Dan, and now they’re best friends with each other.

“So, I go up… and just… ask him?” Phil asks with a slight frown, looking up at Louise. Phil isn’t the most popular boy in school, but he does have a few friends that he hangs out with every once in awhile. Louise is probably the closest friend he has, besides Dan of course. She always knows what to say to him and gives him advice whenever he’s having trouble, whether it be boys or school in general.

“Well, how else would you do it?” Louise asks quietly, raising her eyebrows at Phil. They’re currently sitting in the library, working on their English project. Dan is sitting at one of the computers so Phil’s sitting with Louise at a table. “Ask him if he wants to hang out with you.”

“That seems so forward though. I don’t want to scare him away, you know?” Phil sighs softly.

“You won’t,” Louise assures him. “I can tell Dan really likes you. He’s just super shy.”

“You think Dan likes me?” Phil asks, a blush creeping upon his cheeks. “I don’t… no way he does.”

“Phil, trust me. Dan definitely likes you. He blushes every time you smile at him. It’s super cute actually. And, he gets these heart eyes whenever he’s staring at you. I watch him, believe me.”

“I can’t believe I never noticed that,”

“Lester! Pentland! Shh,”

Phil looks over at the librarian and gives her an apologetic look, then he glances over and blushes when he sees Dan looking at him. Phil looks over at Louise, who’s only smirking at him.

“See? Total fondness,” she tells him quietly. “He’s got heart eyes for days.”

Phil rolls his eyes. “Okay, okay, okay. I’ll talk to him at lunch.”

When lunch rolls around, Phil finds himself getting more nervous about asking Dan to hang out with him. It’s technically a date, but Phil worries if he uses the word ‘date’ then he’ll scare Dan away from him, and that’s something he definitely doesn’t want to do, because he values his friendship with Dan too much.

“Hey, Dan,” Phil greets as he walks up to him at lunch, sitting at their usual table.

Dan looks up at Phil and smiles. “Hey,” he replies. “So, what were you and Louise talking about earlier?”

“What do you mean?” Phil asks as he sits down in a chair, placing his books aside.

“When the librarian yelled at you.” Dan raises his eyebrows. “Were you guys gossiping about something?”

Phil chuckles and shakes his head. “No, silly. We weren’t gossiping,” he says. “I mean, kind of… in a way. We were actually talking about you.” He looks over at Dan, and feels his nerves coming back to him.

“Me? Oh no, your disowning me as a friend, aren’t you? I knew this day was coming...”

Phil laughs and shakes his head. “No! I’m not disowning you as a friend. Quite the opposite,” he says. “I...I was wondering if you wanted to hang out with me later today. Like, you know, after school…?”

“Uhm, you mean… like, a-a date?” Dan asks nervously.

Phil blushes. “I mean, it doesn’t have to be. It can be if you want it to be a date.”

Dan’s silent for a moment before a smile forms on his face. “Yeah. Yeah, I would like to hang out with you. Where would we go to? Did you already have any ideas” He looks up at Phil curiously.

“Well, um, I was thinkin’... maybe we could go to the arcade for a little bit before going to see a movie?” Phil suggests. “Unless you have something else in mind, then that’s totally fine with me.”

Dan shakes his head. “That sounds great, actually. I’ve been wanting to see that Love, Simon movie… so, this would be a perfect time to see it. Mum’s been too busy with the move to take me to see it.”

“Wait, me too! I heard that it’s been getting really great reviews.”

“Well, duh. It’s a movie about a gay teen. Of course people are going to be raving about it,” Dan says. “So, will you pick me up at my house after school? I’ll have to make sure it’s okay with my mum.”

“Okay. Text me and let me know what she says.”

“I will,” Dan replies with a nod and smile, then begins eating his lunch.

All Dan can think about for the rest of the day is how he’s going to be hanging out with Phil tonight, possibly as a date. They haven’t really hung out outside of school yet. This is still pretty new, and Dan’s still pretty shy even around Phil. But, he wants to try to start being more social with others.

Dan used to get bullied at his old school back in England. People teased him for being gay and “too posh” and other silly things like that. Dan is an easy target for the school bullies, causing him to be shy and scared of talking with other people. Getting bullied was the main reason why his parents decided to move. Dan’s dad had also been offered a job in America, so it was an easy decision to move.

Of course, Dan’s mom was ecstatic when she heard that Phil asked Dan to hang out with him.

“Don’t forget about your curfew, Daniel. You’ll be grounded if you come home past 11,” his mom warns.

Dan rolls his eyes. “I know, mum. I’ll be home on time. I have to go. Phil’s waiting for me,” he says, before opening the door and walking out of the house. He looks up and smiles when he sees Phil waiting for him in the driveway. “Hear that? I have to be home before 11 or else I’m grounded.”

Phil chuckles and nods. “I’ll try to remember that. You ready to go, then?”

“Mhm. Mum gave me money for the movies,” Dan says as he and Phil both get into the car.

“And my dad gave me money for the arcade, so we should be set.” Phil smiles as he looks over at Dan.

Phil drives them to the arcade, as he’s the only one of the two who can drive. They get their coins, and after looking around at all the games, they decide to play air hockey.

“You’re going down, Howell.” He places the puck on the table, looking up at Dan with a smirk on his face. “I’m a pro at Air Hockey. Never lost a game to anyone.”

“Pfft. Whatever, mate. You’re the one who’s going to go down, Lester,” Dan replies.

“Have you even played Air Hockey before?”

“No, it’s not really something us Brits are into across seas. At least, my family never played it much. But, it’s not that hard. All you gotta do is hit that puck into the opponents hole, right?”

Phil can’t help but laugh. “Right. That’s pretty much the game,” he says. “Still, you’re going down.”

Dan grins at Phil, and then shakes his head. He reaches over and grabs his mallet. “Ready?”

“More than,” Phil replies with a small smirk playing on his lips. “Bring it on, Howell.”

Dan doesn’t hesitate, he reaches over and smacks the puck straight into Phil’s hole. He grins proudly, and giggles when he sees the look on Phil’s face. “How was that?”

“What the hell, Dan?” Phil asks with shock, before reaching in and then grabbing the puck out of the hole. “I thought you said you never played this game before. Sure doesn’t seem like you haven’t.”

“I haven’t. I’m just really competitive is all,” Dan replies honestly. “Should I go easier on you?”

Phil glares at Dan playfully. “Shut up. I’m not giving up that easily,”

Dan giggles. “Let’s make this more interesting, then. Loser pays for the movie tickets?” He suggests.

“Sounds fair to me,” Phil agrees with a nod. “The only loser around here is going to be you though.”

Dan rolls his eyes, though he can’t help the smile on his face.

In the end, Phil beats Dan at Air Hockey meaning that Dan has to pay their movie tickets, but he honestly doesn’t mind. The tickets were quite cheap anyways.

“Do you think the movie will be any good?” Phil asks, as they wait for the movie to start.

“Absolutely. I’ve been waiting for a movie like this to come out for… ages. Literally. Things are changing. Things are going to be better for people like us, you know?” Dan looks over at Phil.

Phil smiles and he nods. “I feel the exact same way,” he says, before leaning back in his chair and relaxing. He glances down and he sees that his and Dan’s fingers are almost touching each other, and it’s taking everything in Phil not to reach over and grab Dan’s hand, but it’s still too early and he doesn’t want to scare Dan away. He’s willing to take things slow as long as it means he doesn’t lose Dan.

“I had a lot of fun,” Phil says as he and Dan walk to Phil’s car, the movie has just finished. The arcade was probably Phil’s most favorite part of the day. They managed to play a lot of games, and even made a friendly competition out of Air Hockey. The movie was great as well.

“Me too. I haven’t had that much fun in a long time.” He looks up at Phil with a smile.

“Me too. Maybe we should do that again sometime soon?” Phil suggests, leaning against his car. “I mean, if you want to. You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I totally understand. I-” Phil’s cut off by Dan’s lips being pressed against Phil’s own. Phil’s eyes widen with shock at the action, and before he can even think about kissing Dan back, Dan pulls away from the kiss.

“You talk too much,” Dan whispers, a smile forming on his face. “Of course I want to do this again.”

“Daniel Howell just kissed me,” Phil whispers, his eyes still wide from the shock.

Dan giggles. “I told you, I’m going by Dan now. We’ve been hanging out for weeks. How are you still…?”

“Wait.” Phil shakes his head. “You don’t understand, Dan. You used to be my idol before we started hanging out. I mean, you still are. That hasn’t changed. But, your music has helped me through so much. It’s… still hard to believe that someone as cool as you is hanging out with someone lame like me.”

“Shut up. You’re too hard on yourself. You’re not lame,” Dan says. “You’re just… different than the others. Different is good. I’m different too. We can be different together.”

Phil can’t help but smile. “Yeah, you’re right, Dan. Let’s be different together,” he says, reaching over and grabbing Dan’s hand. “Wait… you still kissed me. Does that mean…?”

“Phil, I think you know exactly what that means.” Dan grins.

“So, technically, this was our first date, and now we’re… together?” Phil asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Mhm,” Dan nods. “If that’s what you want, I mean. I don’t want to like…”

“Shut up,” Phil laughs, gently pulling Dan in for another kiss. “And you tell me I talk too much.”

Dan pouts. “You can’t use my own words against me!”

“I just did,” Phil sticks his tongue out at Dan. “I should be getting you home, though. It’s getting late, and we don’t want you to be getting home past your curfew, do we? Plus, I don’t think that it would be a great first impression on your parents if I brought you home late on our first time hanging out outside of school.”

“Ugh, God no. Being grounded is the worst. Like, you can’t do anything or talk to anyone,”

Phil chuckles and watches as Dan gets in the car, before shutting the door. He walks around the car and gets in. He leans back and can’t help but smile. “Louise is gonna freak out when I tell her all about this.”

Dan blushes and looks down at his hands. “She’s the reason we went out tonight, isn’t she?”

“Yeah, she is. I should probably thank her next time I see her,” Phil sighs softly.

The next day at school, Phil meets up with Dan at his locker so the can go to first period class together.

“Don’t you like to be the first one in class?” Dan asks, raising his eyebrows as he looks up at Phil.

“Normally, but I have a reason not to be the first one now,” Phil grins. “And, I was thinking… while I was listening to your music while getting ready for school. It’s been three months since your last cover…”

Dan groans. “Not you too. I can’t post anything online without someone reminding me!”

“Tell you what, you post a new cover within a week and I’ll be the one who pays for the next date. Literally,. I’ll pay for everything. Doesn’t matter where we go. I just need a new cover from you...”

“Oh, I see. You think you can bribe me now that we’re dating, huh?” Dan teases.

“Can’t blame a guy for trying, right? So, what do you say?” Phil asks hopefully, bouncing on his feet lightly.

Dan chuckles. “I can’t make any promises, but I will try my best. Any requests?”

“Another Ghibli cover,” Phil replies. “You know how much I love anime. I can’t get enough of it!”

Dan laughs and he rolls his eyes playfully at Phil, before reaching over and shutting the locker door. “Okay, fine then,” he says. “You’ll get your Ghibli cover by the end of the week.”

Phil squeals excitedly. “You’re the best!” He leans over and kisses Dan’s cheek.

Dan quickly glances around, making sure no one is watching them. Luckily, no one seems to care.

“Ah, so I take it the date went well, last night?”

Dan looks over and blushes as soon as he sees Louise walking up to them. He’s still extremely shy around other people, even though Phil has told him how nice and kind Louise is

“Louise, I told you I was going to talk about it later,” Phil whispers, his cheeks turning just as pink as Dan’s. “But, if you must know. Yes, it did go well. Dan and I are together now.”

Louise smiles. “I knew it! You two have been crushing on each other since Dan got her,” she says. “I knew it wouldn’t be long before you two got together. This is exciting, Phil. Your first boyfriend!”

“Lou!” Phil rolls his eyes playfully, and he already knows that Louise will be teasing him all day about having a boyfriend now. Phil reaches over and gently grabs Dan’s hand. “Come on, we gotta get to class.”

Dan smiles as he starts walking with Phil to class. “Am I really your first boyfriend?” He asks softly.

“Well, yeah,” Phil replies. “There aren’t exactly a lot of other gay guys in this school, and I don’t have many friends either.” He looks over at Dan. “What about you? Have you had a boyfriend before?”

“Not really. I mean, I have kissed a boy before. A long time ago, but… it didn’t work out, thank God, though. He was a total jerk,” Dan scoffs at the memory of his first kiss with a boy back in London.

“Well, I hope I can be better than that guy who was horrible,” Phil says as they walk into the classroom.

“So far, I’d say you’re much better than that other guy,” Dan chuckles.

“Good morning, Mrs. White!” Phil greets when he sees the teacher sitting at her desk.

“Oh, good morning, Phil. You’re not as early as you usually are,” Mrs. White says as she looks up at Phil.

“Yeah, I might be getting to class later than usual now. I told Dan I’d meet him at his locker this morning,” Phil says, he and Dan sitting down at their assigned desks.

“As long as you’re not late to class, I don’t care what you do,” Mrs. White tells him.

Phil looks over at Dan and grins at him.

Phil’s never been one to particularly enjoy school all that much. He doesn’t hate it, but he mostly just likes being able to do art at school. But now, he has more than one reason to be able to enjoy school.

The next week is pretty boring, apart from being able to hang out with Dan.

Phil sighs as he stands in front of the mirror, trying to get his hair to stay in place. Today’s Friday, and he’s looking forward to the weekend, because he and Dan have plans to hang out with Louise.

Phil looks down when he hears his phone go off suddenly, letting him know that he has a new notification. He leans forward to read the notification and he sees the notification that makes him smile so wide. He didn’t think Dan would actually upload a new cover this week, but he’s happy to see that he did.

‘howell music just posted a new video - Studio Ghibli Medley’

Phil scrolls down, and can’t help but laugh after reading the description of the video.

‘here u go phil, here’s your bloody studio ghibli cover, enjoy

ps, couldn’t decide on what song to cover so I did them all in one’

Phil reaches over and grabs his phone, sending a text to Dan.

To Dan: guess this means I owe you a date? :P

To Phil: how’s today after school sound, before Louise’s? Meet me at my locker x

Phil sets his phone down back onto the dresser, and can’t help but smile at the thought of going out with Dan for a second time tonight. He’s never wished for a school day to pass by so quickly than today.

[tanechkas]

&&. ( tatiana kotyonok valentina ), the ( twenty-one ) year old ( daughter ) of the president of ( ukraine ). she is often confused with ( carmella rose ). some say that she is ( shy and nervous ), but she is actually ( earnest and eager to please ). 

                                                 “you blossom under kindness, don’t you? like a rose.”

hiii loves! here is my second bean! she is a lot different from adelina, and i am really excited to explore her character here! she doesn’t have too many defined connections yet, especially given that she isn’t a royal, so i would love to set some up asap! her bio is underneath the cut, pls mind the tags for trigger warnings <3 ALSO IT IS REALLY LONG AND I AM SORRY BUT IT’S A LOT.

✿ When Tatiana’s mother, Anya Metanova, was only eighteen years old, she found herself caught up in a whirlwind love affair with none other than the president of Ukraine. As a young woman from Russia without any family to speak of, she couldn’t believe that someone in such an incredible position of power had wanted anything to do with her, and it wasn’t long before she had given her heart to him entirely. However...he was married at the time, and therefore unable to ruin his public image by entering a relationship with a girl whose lineage was less than impressive to say the least, and so when Anya unexpectedly fell pregnant with his child...she didn’t tell him about it. Instead, she fled back home to Russia, and it was there that she gave birth to a beautiful baby girl, and bestowed her with her maiden name - Tatiana Kotyonok Metanova. 

✿ Anya wanted nothing to do with the Ukraine president - Oleksander Valentina - and even more so, she didn’t want her daughter to know anything about her father and where he came from. She raised Tatiana in a small town in Russia, and it was there in Lazarevo that the two of them lived a quaint, humble life together. They never had very much money, but Tatiana didn’t want for much, and needed very little as well. She was happy with her mama, and grew up with sunshine scattered all over her skin and clearwater running through her veins. 

✿ Tatiana was always very shy, and naturally timid, especially due to the fact that she was diagnosed with dyslexia at a young age. She loves to read, and eagerly devours books when she has the chance to, but it’s difficult for her - the words bounce around on the pages and she isn’t able to make out full sentences without saying them slowly underneath her breath. Because of this, she was bullied during her first few years at school, and so she learned to be a quiet little mouse, if only because she didn’t want to get picked on. She still struggles with her dyslexia today, but works with it as best as she can, and she doesn’t like to disclose it to other people at all unless they’re close. 

✿ Both she and her mother were thrilled when she was offered a scholarship the moment she graduated from high school, and Tatiana immediately chose to study what had always been her dream occupation: early childhood education. She wanted to be a pre-school teacher more than anything else in the entire world, and so her mother sacrificed everything in order to make it happen.

✿ It wasn’t until she was in college that she finally made a close friend - he became her everything, and they were practically inseparable. He was the first person that Tatiana had ever truly bonded with aside from her mother, and she trusted and loved him with all of her heart. 

✿ However...it was during her summer break at the end of her second year of college, when she was just returning home to Lazarevo to spend time with her mother, that Tatiana’s world was torn to shreds. She can only remember it in blurry fragments, but one moment, she had been excitedly taking a freshly-baked loaf of borodinsky bread out of the oven, and the next, a man dressed fully in tactical gear was barging through the front door with a gun. Tatiana still hates herself for this to this day, but she froze in the kitchen as the masked assailant began to scream at her poor, defenseless mother in Ukranian, asking about a daughter and where she was, and in response her mother could only insist over and over again that there was no daughter, that there was only her and her alone, and then - just like that, the sound of her hysterics was cut off by a deafening blast, and then there was silence. The man was gone, but her mother was left bleeding out on the living room floor. 

✿ Anya Metanova died in her daughter’s arms that day, but not before bestowing her with the locket she had always worn around her neck - the one that Tatiana had never been allowed to open - and inside of it was a picture of the Ukranian president.  Your father, Anya told her, stroking her face weakly with a bloodstained hand, and despite Tatiana’s desperate, frantic pleas for her to hold on just a moment longer until the paramedics arrived, Anya still passed. 

✿ Everything that happened after the death of her mother was an absolute mess. Her birth records, as well as a paternity test, revealed that she was indeed the daughter of the Ukranian president, and that the man that had murdered her mother hadn’t been sent to kill her at all - he had been looking for Tatiana after hearing the rumors that there was indeed another heiress to the Ukranian throne. It broke Tatiana’s heart even more to know that it had been her fault her mother had died; if she had only just done more, surely she could have prevented it.

✿ It wasn’t long before she was introduced to her father - startlingly enough, he wanted to see her. He wanted her to come and live with him. He had loved her mother a great deal, and he had searched for her far and wide after she had left him, completely unaware of the fact that she had given birth to his daughter. His wife passed away as well several years ago, and so it has just been him and his other child - Sofia - ever since. Tatiana doesn’t know how to feel about her new family at all - after all, it was her mother’s connection to Oleksander that had eventually lead to her untimely death - but she felt hopeless and alone, and even more so, utterly terrified that the man that had been trying to kill her would come back now that her existence had been made known to the world. 

✿ Now, it has been six months since she has become a part of the Ukranian dynasty, and her head hasn’t stopped spinning ever since. She grieves for her mother every single day, and struggles to adapt to the high-powered political world that she’s been thrust into. Her face has been splashed on the front page of every single national newspaper ever since the day that she was found covered in her mother’s blood, and the publicity makes her so anxious that she can hardly think straight. She was pulled so suddenly out of her college, and she hasn’t seen her best friend either. Everything is a mess, and now she’s in Oslo, with full security detail to ensure that no further harm comes to her. 

✿ Her bodyguard, Ronan Ludolph, is the only person that she really feels comfortable around ever since her world was shifted and changed so dramatically. He makes her feel safe, and that’s saying a lot given everything that’s happened to her within the span of six months. When she has anxiety attacks, or when she can’t calm herself down no matter how hard she tries, he’s there to comfort and soothe her and remind her that she’s going to be okay. He’s the only one who knows the depth of her PTSD in the wake of her mother’s death.

✿ Now, Tatiana is adapting to life in Oslo, as the newly-revealed youngest daughter of the president of the Ukraine. She isn’t used to glitz and glamor or any of the things that come so easily to her father and Sofia, and because of that, she often feels like an outcast. 

✿ Tatiana is very shy, and so much of a pushover that it’s kind of pitiful. She’s quick to flinch and jump at the slightest sounds or commotions, and she approaches everything very timidly. She’s sweet, though, with a kind heart that’s made for loving, and she craves affection and intimacy something fierce.

✿ Tatiana primarily speaks Russian, but she knows Ukranian as well. Her English, however, is not that great at all, and she stumbles over her words more often than not.

✿ She has several nicknames! Tatia, Tanechka, Tatiasha, Tania, Tasha...it is a never-ending list, really! She loves flowers, animals, and children - she secretely longs to have a big family someday. 

✿ A possible wanted connection: the boy she met during college (could either be a staff member at Oslo now, or maybe he was even a member of a royal family or the son of a president?), because ideally they were very close friends, and my headcanon is that he also took her virginity!! They haven’t spoken in months, though, ever since the death of her mother...it would be super fun to explore that relationship further. Taken by Alphonse of Luxembourg!

✿ That is all for now though! Pls let me know if you wanna plot with this shy bean, she could use connections for sure!

[insightexploration]

Being Myself

Introduction

I am a story teller.  As a teacher, a therapist and friend I have always used stories to make a point, illustrate a principle or just to entertain. For the last 49 years people have been encouraging me to write them down. Here are some of them.  Make of them what you wish. After writing them I am filled with an overwhelming gratitude for the people who have crossed my path in this life. The most important is Susan Riley, my partner of 59 years to whom I dedicate this effort. None of this would have happened without her.  

How I found my calling

“To be nobody but yourself in a world that’s doing its best to make you somebody else, is to fight the hardest battle you are ever going to fight. Never stop fighting.”  e.e. cummings

Doors

One of the most obvious truths I have encountered in my work with students and clients over the last fifty years is that many people are unhappy with who they are and how they are living life. Some have no idea of who they would like to be or they know who they want to be but the road to a meaningful and satisfying life is blocked by anxiety, fear, confusion or crippling depression.  Many times their ideas about who they should have become have come from their family and the disparity between this ideal and the reality of their lives is creating great sadness. I would like to posit that many times in life doors appear offering us a way out of this dilemma.  We then have a choice to ignore the door and continue on a less than satisfying path or we can walk through it onto the unknown path to a more fulfilling life. 

I would like to illustrate this by sharing a bit of my own story with you. Let’s start at the beginning. My parents gave me the name Lawrence because they thought it would look good with “Doctor” before it.  It does.  After my grandfather died during the depression, my father left premedical studies to support his mother and three siblings by doing physical labor.  In the 1930’s he began his own company and for fifty years was a successful, if not affluent, businessman.  It was my parents’ intention that I would be the first member of my family to finish college and that I would fulfill my father’s dream by becoming a physician.  Even though my “Doctor” looks good, I am not the right kind of doctor.  Unfortunately for them, I was a child of the sixties and “do your own thing” was our mantra.

Joseph Campbell said, “Follow your bliss.”  My journey to my bliss was not direct but was determined by several doors that at first were ignored and then recognized as messages from something larger than me.

After the Russians became the first country to send a satellite into space, I was seduced by the national passion and set my sights on becoming a scientist. This was a mistake but it was a mistake sanctioned by my family and the culture. Although it was not as good as becoming a physician, it was good enough for my parents.  

In my senior year of high school, with the idea of becoming a key player in the race to the moon, I visited a counselor at Pasadena City College and expressed my desire to become a nuclear physicist. She looked at my transcripts and shook her head.  I was not the most motivated student in high school but my dad said if I wanted the car (necessary for dating) and if I wanted to play sports (necessary for impressing potential dates), I had to maintain a B average.  Since grades were reported on my transcripts every semester, I knew I had to maintain a B average between two quarters.  So if I got an A in one quarter I would allow myself to get a C the next.  If I got a C, I would work to get an A the next quarter. Therefore, my high school transcripts show 6 semesters of 5 courses each, all of which are Bs. So, my counselor was looking at 30 Bs.  

Her response to me voicing my aspiration was, “You are not bright enough to be a nuclear physicist.”  “However,” she added, “you are not bad at anything.  Why don’t you become a teacher?”  Looking back, this was a door.  One I completely ignored and, in fact, felt angry about. 

So I gave up on PCC and began college as a physics student at Cal State, L.A. in 1960.  In retrospect, I would have saved myself a lot of grief if I had paid attention to her.  While science and math did not come easily to me, I did well enough to be able to transfer to the University of California at Berkeley, home of one of the world’s premier physics departments.  After two years there I received my degree with a major in physics and a minor in math.  When I showed my mother my diploma, her response was, “Take good care of that, it is worth just as much as the ones they gave the students who got good grades.”  Alas, I was well on the road to parental disappointment. 

Several things happened at Berkeley which were pivotal in guiding me to the path I still follow.  In my first semester at Cal, I was required to take a course in which we read several of Shakespeare’s plays.  Reading Shakespeare revealed a new world to me in which there was more to human behavior than met the eye.  I loved this course but could not afford to spend much time on it while taking advanced courses in physics and calculus as well as two other electives. If I had paid attention to the joy and excitement I felt reading and writing about the human psyche as Shakespeare saw it, I would have known where my life needed to go at that time. However, I was, as James Hollis says, in the midst of my first adulthood, an attempt to live out the life one is expected to live by one’s family and culture.  At the end of the Shakespeare course my instructor, a wonderful teacher, said, “You are the smartest C+ student I’ve ever had.”  I think it was a compliment.  But again, I had ignored an important sign.  After I finished my Ph.D. in child psychology I returned to thank him for opening the doors of the human psyche to me. Surprisingly, he remembered me.  I have contacted him again recently and he remembered my name and told me he has focused much of his work since then on children’s literature and fairy tales. 

In my second semester at Cal, I began volunteering at an elementary school in the West Berkeley ghetto where I tutored some of the worst students in the school.  For a middle-class white boy from the suburbs of Southern California this was a real awakening.  To my surprise, I found that individual attention could turn some of the worst students into academic successes.  Witnessing the wasted potential of children in the sixth grade already consigned to the garbage heap of American life changed me.  It was the sixties.  I was young and idealistic and it became my personal mission to save as many kids as I could.  I wanted to help children that others considered unreachable. A door had appeared.

Although I realized that my life was turning away from hard science, I found employment during the summer between my junior and senior years in the Apollo program at the Research & Development center at Aerojet General in Azusa, California.  My assignment was to design a monochromatic light source to simulate the effect of unfiltered sunlight on metal which would simulate the environment on the moon.  While this brief experience as an engineer was enjoyable, I realized that I was much more interested in pure theory than I was in the practical application of scientific principles.  Also I wasn’t a very good engineer.  I blew so many circuits they nicknamed me “Sparky.” I also realized that I was quite a few brain cells short of theoretical physicist material.  It occurred to me that I could combine my interests by becoming a teacher of physics, math and English literature in high school.

Being confused, I once again visited a guidance counselor when I returned to Berkeley in the fall.  After a battery of tests were scored and interpreted, I returned to find out just what I was supposed to do. I had spent an inordinate amount of energy purging my life of Christian Fundamentalism so imagine my surprise when I discovered that my number one, absolutely no fail, born to be occupation was “Minister.”  I was even further incensed when I found out “Psychologist” was a close second.  I happened to be taking Psych 1A as an elective in my senior year in order to graduate and had the book with me.  I raised it up and said defiantly, “You mean this bullshit?” and walked out of his office.  I finished my last year of university somewhat unenthusiastically, married my high school sweetheart (we are still married) and moved to San Francisco where she took a secretarial job and I enrolled in education classes at San Francisco State College.

It is with some humor that I reflect on my professional career and see that I have spent most of it teaching psychology and practicing as a therapist trying to bring spirituality and psychology together.  I should have listened to both of those counselors but knowing the expectations my parents and I both had of me, I did not.  Doors had appeared and I ignored them.

After four years of rigorous physics and math courses, the education courses at State left me nonplussed.  I lasted two weeks.  I started looking for work and fell into the most defining moment of my professional life.  You can call it grace, coincidence or synchronicity but it has happened so many times in my life, I know it is real.  This time I walked through the door.

I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do so I looked for part time work.  I found three jobs: gardening for a psychologist, driving an autistic child to and from his psychiatrist and tutoring a supposedly “minimally brain damaged” eight-year-old boy whose mother was a psychologist.  In a matter of days, a whole new world opened up to me.  It was less exact and predictable than the world of formulae and numbers, but fascinating in its complexity and ambiguity.

Alan

The most important of these experiences was tutoring a boy I shall call Alan. His mother was desperate.  One after another, a series of tutors had failed miserably in their attempts to teach him to read. He was repeating third grade and his psychologist (who was very well known in his field) had told Alan’s mother that her son would be lucky to finish elementary school.  From the first moment I met him, I knew Alan was smart; he had a great vocabulary, a wonderful sense of humor and a keen interest in the world of science.  He just couldn’t read.

Rather than tackling his reading problems head on as his other tutors had done, I decided to approach them indirectly through a subject which interested him. We began to do chemistry and optical experiments under the suspicious eyes of his mother.  Alan really liked the experiments, especially the ones involving explosions or really bad smells.  Every so often I would be reading an experiment and I would ask him to read a short word.  After a while, he was reading more and more of the experiments and starting to read books with me.

Since Alan was Jewish, I thought it would be important for him to know some of the heroic stories of the holocaust.  I learned one of my first lessons on the workings of a child’s mind when we started to read a child’s version of The Diaries of Anne Frank.  When we had finished about three pages he said, “I don’t like girl stories.”  So we returned to science, where a 21-year-old WASP in an identity crisis and an eight-year old Jewish boy with a learning disability could find true happiness. 

My work with Alan encouraged me to start reading about psychology, learning disabilities and children in general.  Since I had very little experience in this area, I decided to visit his psychologist for direction.  His office was in a very posh area of San Francisco and filled with fine art and beautiful furnishings.  It effused monetary success.  He said that it was wonderful that Alan had a friend like me, but that I should give up hoping for a normal life for him.  I looked around his office at the plush furnishings and thought, “If someone this stupid can be this rich, this is the career for me.”  I re-entered San Francisco State where, with the financial and emotional support of my wonderful wife and the enthusiasm engendered by the discovery of my life’s work, I achieved a straight “A” average.

My wife, who had been interested in psychology long before me, also began taking psychology classes and realized it was her life’s passion too (second to her passion for me of course).  I was mentored by several members of the psychology department and, in 1966, I enrolled at the University of Minnesota in what may have been the best program in clinical child psychology in the United States.

Alan finished elementary school, junior high, high school and college, and is a happy husband and father who, along with his wife, runs his own very successful communications business.  He told me several years ago that he continued to be interested in science after I moved away but gave up chemistry when he realized he would never be able to use it for his true purpose, to blow up his school. 

Some important influences in my life

“If they can make penicillin out of moldy bread, they can sure make something out of you.”  Muhammad Ali

My Last Name

Dettweiler is a fairly unusual name.  Things happen to me that wouldn’t happen if my name was Smith or Jones.  For example, upon meeting me for the first time, a person often will say, “I knew a Dettweiler (not necessarily spelled like this) in Pocatello.  Is that a relative?”.   “Probably,” I always answer.  My branch of the family settled in Ontario, Canada so when we moved to Victoria, British Columbia I was often asked about my family. The doctor who set up the British Columbia health plan was a Detweiler (different spelling) and people used to say things to me like, “If you are half the man your father was you will be a fine person.”  His son was a lawyer in Victoria who did a lot of pro bono work for legal aid.  I used to get calls in the middle of the night from guys proclaiming, “I was framed” or “You gotta help me.”  Very seldom does anyone spell it correctly and often people mispronounce it.  For reservations at restaurants I always use my wife’s name which is Irish and much easier to spell for the person taking the reservation.  There is some irony in this as I will explain later.  

The Dettweilers, who were Swiss German, came to Pennsylvania from Germany in the early 1700s.  About 20 years ago when my son visited Switzerland, he found the Dettweiler homestead which, until recently, had remained in the family.  Over the fireplace were tiles inscribed with the words, “Detwiler, 1513.” My dad had recently died and he buried my dad’s favorite pipe behind this building.

It is thought that since they were Mennonites, they were escaping religious persecution in Europe and fled with other Mennonites to the community in Lancaster County.  My branch left Pennsylvania for Canada in 1810.  After arriving, the patriarch of the family lost his wife and remarried within the church but did not register the marriage with the government.  Eventually a huge tract of farm land near Kitchener/Waterloo, Ontario was seized by the government since the children who inherited it were not legal heirs.  

When I first moved to Canada it was a fairly fractured country.  The French wanted out and the West felt like the neglected child in a large family.  So when people would refer to the government as “Those bastards in Ontario,” I thought maybe they were talking about my relatives.  

My name has caused me to have some interesting interactions.  One client came to me because he was Swiss and he knew my village. He said, “I used to drive through it every day on my way to the airport in Zurich.”  Once he said to me, “Larry, your ancestors may have come here 250 years ago but you are still very Swiss German.” Curiously, I asked what he meant by that.  “Well, the French and Italian Swiss work to live.  The Swiss Germans live to work.”  

I had another client come to me because he recognized the Mennonite name. He had left the Ontario community and was feeling lost.  They shunned him and he felt completely out of touch with mainstream Canadian culture.  He was neither here nor there and it was very difficult for him.  

I once went to a panel discussion about death and as I listened to Elizabeth Kubler Ross I grasped a whole new understanding of the meaning of life.  I was delighted by her statement, “But what do I know?  I am just a Swiss hillbilly who has sat with thousands of dying people.”  After the talk, I walked up to her and told her what an inspiration she had been to me.  She looked at my name tag and said, “Oh look!  You are a Swiss hillbilly too.  I know your village.”

One of my students, originally from Switzerland, asked me if I knew the difference between European heaven and European hell.  I said I did not. She said, “In European heaven, the cooks are all French, the lovers are all Italian, the cops are all British, the mechanics are all German and everything is organized by the Swiss.  In European hell, the cooks are all English, the lovers are all Swiss, the cops are all German, the mechanics are all French and everything is organized by the Italians.”

Back to the family history.  After losing the land my disenfranchised great grandfather moved the family to Michigan in the late 1800s where, during the First World War, the locals blew up their house because they spoke German. But they persevered and my Grandfather left the Mennonites and became a preacher in the Evangelical United Brethren church, eventually settling in L.A. where I was born and spent my early years.  Hollywood to be exact.  

I have always taken great pride in being the descendent of Swiss German Mennonites and my wife has felt the same about being Irish. All our lives we have chided each other on the stereotypical traits of these cultures.  Recently we did genetic testing and were shocked to find out that my proud European heritage accounts for only 9% of my genetics and her Irish heritage is about the same.  Surprisingly my number one heritage is Irish and hers is English/Scottish. No more Irish jokes for me and no more superior race jokes for her.  I now refer to her as the Limey oppressor and constantly ask her when she is going to let my people go.  I believe most of that Irish heritage comes from my Grandfather Mooney.  His family considered themselves Scottish but I think they originally came from Ireland.

My Grandfather

It is a sad truth that many of the men I have seen in my work have had very little contact with positive male role models while growing up. I was fortunate to have two. They were not perfect but they taught me about being a responsible husband and father and gave me the belief that I would be able to traverse this life successfully.

Soon after I was born my dad left to fight in the war in Europe.  My mother and I moved in with her parents, Nana and Grandad, who lived next door to our house in Hollywood. My father was gone for three years and during that time my grandfather was really the only father figure in my life.  The closeness of this relationship was reflected in an event that occurred three years after my father came home. At age 6 I was selected to be a participant on the Art Linkletter radio show, Kids Say the Darndest Things. When Art asked me if I looked like my father I replied, “NO, I look like my granddad.”  

He was a first-generation American son of Scottish grocers who settled in Danville Illinois.  He had three obsessions, money, religion and baseball.   When my cousin researched the family history she discovered that when his parents arrived at Ellis Island their name was Muney. The immigration officer said, “This is America. You can’t have the name Money.” So at that point their name was changed to Mooney. Apparently, the name went deeper than the spelling.  When my grandparents were in their 70s my grandfather would send my elderly grandmother back to the store if he thought she had been shortchanged by even a penny. I remember watching her leave the house in tears having to go back and haggle with the store manager.

The major accomplishment in his life had been to bring Fritos to Los Angeles. He worked for this company his entire life but was always quite happy to remain a salesman driving his truck around Southern California.  Although he was obsessed with money and loved to buy and sell property he never made a lot of money.  At one point in the 20s he owned a square block of Wilshire Boulevard but sold it shortly after he bought it because he said it would never amount to anything. 

Although my grandparents were very kind to me, shaming was definitely the response of choice to what they considered to be bad decisions about money. Once, when I was about ten, we were visiting them on a Saturday afternoon.  I had a crisp five dollar bill in my pocket and there was a corner store at the bottom of the hill on which they lived calling to me the whole afternoon.  I walked down to the store and bought a dollar toy for me and a little tin bank for my brother that cost four dollars.  Looking back, I think, what ten year old spends one dollar on himself and four dollars on his five year old brother?  It would seem to me that this act should have been seen as an act of generosity and commented on as such.  However, when I returned, my grandfather said, “You bought the bank for the wrong person.”  

He never wanted to waste anything.  When he and my grandmother were in their mid-nineties they lived in an assisted living/end-of-life care facility for members of the church. My grandmother had been taking hormones and stopped taking them because of problems with bleeding.  My grandfather decided that it would be a waste of money to just throw them out and since they were so helpful to her he would take them.  Several months later he asked my mother to take him to the doctor because he was suffering pain in his chest.  It turned out he was growing breasts. Later, my grandmother decided that she just didn’t want to live any longer and she stopped taking nitroglycerin for angina. Again my grandfather didn’t want to waste the money so he started taking the pills, passed out and suffered a concussion and went into a coma. While he was in the coma my grandmother died.

When he came to my mother played a recording of the funeral for him but he just couldn’t get it into his head that his wife had died. One day when my mother was visiting him he told her that Stella had left him and had run off with another man. My mother, after trying uselessly to convince him that she had died, asked him how he knew she had run off of another man.  He told her he had an invisible radio under his pillow and every night it played the Stella and Alan show and on this show Stella had run off with another man. He then told my mother, “I know why she left.”  My mother asked, “Why?”  He said, “I wasn’t giving her enough sex!”  This was too much for my mother, the daughter of these devoutly religious people, and she ran crying from the room.

I’m not sure how his obsession with religion began. I know he was raised in a severe Scottish Presbyterian household.  He told me once that his father had beaten him for whistling on Sunday. I do know that as a young man he smoked and drank and was not terribly religious. At some point he found Jesus, stopped smoking and drinking and joined the Evangelical United Brethren church. The minister in this church was my other grandfather, Elden Dettweiler.  

He was what we called in those days, a character.  Some of the funniest stories about my grandfather concern his poor vision. In his later life he developed cataracts and at that time cataract surgery was very serious.  When they removed the cataracts the patient had to stay in bed motionless for an extended period of time so often the surgery was postponed until it was absolutely necessary.  I remember that he would take me on his rounds in his Frito truck.  We would place a wooden chair in the stairwell on the right-hand side of the truck and I would ride around telling him when the lights turned green when the lights turned red, what lane to be in and generally help him complete his route. When I think back on this it is absolutely terrifying and I would never have allowed my children to do this.  But back then nobody thought twice about it.  On another occasion we were driving in the mountains and he pulled up behind a parked police car to ask directions.  He went up to the car window started asking the officer where we were only to get no response.  He soon was yelling at the officer demanding to know why he wouldn’t talk to him.  My grandmother got out of the car walked up to calm him down and realized that that the car was parked with a dummy in the front seat in order to slow people down as they traveled down this mountain.

Although he fancied himself somewhat of a handyman, his inability to negotiate the physical world was often a humorous topic of conversation when the family was together and he was out of earshot.  Even though we lived in Southern California, he would wear long underwear all winter long.  In the summer, when temperatures rose to the 80’s and 90’s, he would cut the sleeves off but still wear the underwear.  I remember one year I was staying at their house in Glendale when the annual cutting ritual was being performed.  He would fold the underwear in half and cut both sleeves at once.  On this occasion, I watched as he carefully folded the garment and proceeded to cut one arm and one leg off.  I could tell he was angry but he put it aside, carefully folded the next garment and again, cut off one leg and one sleeve.  Under his breath I heard him mutter, “Shit.”  It was the only time I ever heard him swear.

He was obsessed with baseball all his life.  I remember that we would go to games played by the L. A. Angels minor league team on a regular basis.  It was especially fun to go to the games when they played the hated Hollywood Stars, another minor league team. When the Dodgers moved to L. A. he would spend hours next to his radio or in front of the TV transfixed by the slow, deliberate pace of major league baseball.  Afterwards, if I was around, he would relate all the funny things Vin Scully had said and give me a summary of the game and the glorious or miserable play of the Dodgers.  

All in all, I feel very fortunate to have had a grandfather who was so present in my life and at one time told me, “You are going to be very special and make us all proud.”  Certainly in my early life my grandparents were as much my parents as my mother and father and as I grew older we remained close.  As different as they were from who I consider myself to be, the feeling of being cared for and nested in matrix of relatives who would be there if needed gave me a sense of security and well-being that has never left me.  For that I am grateful.  However, he was a character.

My Dad

When she was about 12, my mother was standing on the steps of her church in Los Angeles as a car driven by the new preacher’s son pulled up to the curb. Her brothers always teased and frightened her so when she saw the boy get out and run around to open the car door for his sister (my aunt Irene), she said to herself, “That’s the boy I am going to marry.”  She had never seen a boy act so politely with his sister so she figured he must be something special.  Later, on their first date, she waited anxiously when they pulled up to their destination.  “Don’t open that door,” he said, “It is broken and I have to come around and open it for you.”  Well, he wasn’t such a gentleman after all but she married him anyway.  She said my dad never opened another door for her, but I know he did because I learned to do that from him.

My dad had a hard life as a young man.  He was the son of a preacher during the depression and told tales of working the orchards of the California central valley, driving unsafe trucks and polishing cars at a parking lot. (When he answered the ad he did so even though he wasn’t from Poland.  The ad was for a polish boy). They lived off the hand me downs and food supplied by parishioners. There was no money.  He got his first pair of new shoes when he was in high school after his father had landed a fairly lucrative position at the church in downtown LA.  Just as it seemed they had turned a corner, his dad died suddenly and he and his sister had to quit college and get jobs to support his mother and two younger siblings.  

He managed, along with some partners, to start a wholesale florist business which did well, if not spectacularly, for 50 years until he retired.  He worked long hours six days a week but I think he loved it. My mother was not so crazy about it.  Shortly after I was born he was called up for WW2 and after my brother was born, he was called up to Korea for a year.  So between the wars and the long work hours I didn’t have a lot of contact with him. 

When my dad knew he was going to be drafted for WW2 he tried to enlist in the Navy.  He was told, “Mr. Dettweiler, you are almost legally blind, we can’t take you.”  So he tried the Air Force and they said the same.  Then the Army drafted him and made him an artillery spotter.  A clear example of military intelligence.

After the invasion of Germany he was driving a truck into a town one day and saw a big sign saying, “DITTWEILER” which was the name of the town.  He said to his friend beside him, “Hey, this is my town. Too bad they misspelled my name!”  They were laughing when around the corner came a German Panzer tank that began to shoot a machine gun at them.  They pulled a quick U turn and raced back to base camp, happy to be alive.  When they got out of the truck they noticed bullet holes in the back of the cab right above their heads. After a moment of shock and relief my dad said, “I guess they didn’t know who I was.” That’s the way he was.  No matter how bad things got in our house or with his business, my dad could always come up with a story or a joke that would get us all laughing.

After he returned from Korea he recognized my mother’s overprotective nature and thought I was becoming a “mommy’s boy.” So he started taking me to work with him on Saturdays when I was 11 and on the rest of the days during the summer when I was 12.   On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays we would get up at 2am and get home about 4pm.  On Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday we would get up at 5am and get home about 2pm.  Since holidays were the busiest times for him, my friends would be spending their Easter and Christmas vacations at the beach while I was putting in 70 hour weeks with my dad.   I loved it.  Unlike my friends, I had money to spend and was learning about the world of men, a world I had been shielded from by my mother.  I learned the value of hard work and all the guys encouraged me to stay in school so I wouldn’t have to work like this for the rest of my life.  It was a valuable lesson.

When I was in Boy Scouts I asked my Dad why we never went camping.  He said son, “I camped all the way through France and Germany and up and down the Korean peninsula and I will never spend another night in a tent.”  Returning home after one campout I explained enthusiastically how we had eaten this great stuff called Spam and that we should get some for the house.  He looked at me disapprovingly and stated, “There will be no Spam in this house.”  I think his experience in the army really shaped his attitude toward life in other ways too and has helped me understand some of the reasons he and I differed so much as adults.  But he was a good man and a good father.

My dad was pretty tolerant but my grandfather was a confirmed anti-Semite.  We lived in Hollywood which was heavily populated by Jewish folks and he would often make denigrating remarks about them.  One day, at my dad’s workplace, I went to lunch but did not have enough money for the bill.  After a short conversation with the elderly Japanese owner, we settled on a price that equaled the money I had on hand. When I returned to the shop, my dad asked me if I had enough money for lunch. I said, “No, but I Jewed him down.”

This was a phrase I had heard my grandfather use on many occasions and had also heard my friends use.  He looked at me the way he always did when he was displeased, tilting his head down and looking over his glasses, and said, “I want to talk to you when we get home.”

When we got home he sat me down and brought out about twenty 8 by 10 glossies of pictures he took on the day his unit liberated Dachau.  He had me look through the sickening photos of nude, emaciated bodies stacked in huge piles, bodies hanging on barb wire, bodies in mass graves and then, the ovens.  

“This is where talk like that ends up.  I never want to hear you talk like that again.”  

My dad said that occasionally when he was directing the shelling of German positions he would realize that he was killing men who, had his ancestors not left Germany, might be friends or relatives.  After Dachau, he said he didn’t feel so bad about it.

I never did talk like that again and it is fitting that when I have been in really bad places in my life, it has almost always been Jewish men and women who have taken me under their wings.  At one point in my life I was so impressed by all the Jews I knew I considered converting which led to my brief flirtation with Judaism. Dettweiler, however, is not a great last name if you want to be Jewish.

My brief flirtation with Judaism

During my second year of grad school I got very interested in working with autistic kids.  A visiting expert put a Jewish family in touch with me regarding their 8 year old son who was autistic.  The father had been a lawyer in Romania before the war but when the Nazis came his gentile friends smuggled him and his wife into the Ukraine where they hid from the Nazis and their collaborators for the remainder of the war.  I never had the courage to ask them about that experience but from films I have seen and books I have read, it must have been horrific.

They were so grateful for the work I was doing with their son Sammy they sort of adopted us. They insisted on paying me and we occasionally were invited to the house for dinner.  I was doing behavior modification with Sammy and one of the things behaviorists are known for is keeping excellent records of time and behavior.  I would be in the middle of tracking Sammy’s behavior carefully when the door would fly open and Miriam would appear with a tray full of baked goods, coffee and sweets.  “Eat, Eat,” she would say.  “You are so skinny.  Your wife needs to feed you more.”  So much for that data collection.

Sammy made such great progress that his parents decided to enroll him in Hebrew school with the ultimate goal of a Bar Mitzvah.  I had him on a token economy in which he bought things with the chips he earned for speaking and reading.  One of the things he bought with his chips was a TV guide.  He would then memorize the whole thing and be able to tell you when and on what station every program was broadcast during the week.  I thought, “How hard can it be to memorize a little Hebrew?”

Well the Rabbi at the school thought different.  He said Sammy was retarded and couldn’t learn anything.  So I asked for the best student in the school to help me and by using M and Ms as rewards I taught Sammy the Hebrew alphabet in about 30 minutes.  The Rabbi was ecstatic.  He said I had performed a Mitzvah and asked me what my last name was.  Oh Lord, all my credibility was about to go out the window as I prepared to tell him my Teutonic title.  

Immediately Miriam said, “This is almost Doctor Dettweiler.”  “Ahhh,” said the Rabbi with a smile. Next week when I returned all the kids were getting M and Ms. Apparently the Rabbi thought that was why Sammy was learning so quickly. 

At one point, a young rabbi came to Victoria to take over the Synagogue and we ended up in the same tai chi class as Danny and his wife Hannah.  He took on the job of refurbishing the Synagogue which had fallen into disrepair.  As a fundraiser he invited Shlomo Karlbach, a singing Hassidic rabbi and a friend to Hanna’s family, to come and give a concert.  I had listened to Schlomo on the radio when I was a student in San Francisco so I was excited to attend.   “Bring your guitar,” Danny said, “we are going to get together and sing after the concert.”

I took my guitar and left it behind the coats in the cloak room before we entered the Synagogue proper.  Danny and Shlomo were working their way through the audience and when they came to me. Danny said to Shlomo, “This is the guy.”

Shlomo said, “Get your guitar you are going to accompany me.”  

A lump formed in my throat and I said, “But I don’t know your songs.”

“No matter,” he said, “God will help you.”

So I got my guitar and accompanied him all night long.  When it was over, people approached me and said things like, “I didn’t know you were Jewish” and “So now you are out of the closet.”

“I’m not Jewish,” I would say.

“How did you know the chords to the songs?”

“God helped me and he only plays three chords so it wasn’t that hard.”

One fellow actually asked me if I wanted to join his Jazz band.  I demurred saying I only played simple folksongs.

“Nonsense,” he said.  “I heard those arpeggios you were playing.”

I thought to myself, “What’s an arpeggio?”

After, a bunch of us went to a house where we sang Yiddish and Hebrew songs for a long time. Then the moment that I was dreading came.  He asked us our names.  As we went around the circle everyone gave their first and last names. When my turn came, I only gave my first name.  He asked me what my last name was.  When I told him he asked, “Dettweiler, what kind of name is that?”

“Swiss,” I answered.  “But my father fought the Germans and liberated Dachau,” I blurted out. This seemed to please him and we sang a few more songs on that most memorable night.

The next morning my wife and I went out to breakfast at a local restaurant and who should walk out the door as we are walking in? Shlomo.  Racing out he said, “Pray for me brother, I am late for the ferry!”

Later, telling Hannah how much I enjoyed the evening, I said I had been entertained and moved by his stories.  She replied, “Yes, and some of them may even be true.”

I told this story to a client recently and she told me a quote from Rabbi Akiva Tatz.  “All my stories are true.  Some happened and some did not, but they are all true.”  I love this quote. 

Perhaps the thing I love most about Jewish culture, aside from the philosophy of saving the world, is the humor.  

I had a colleague who had twin boys that were coming to the point in their lives when they should start studying for their Bar Mitzvahs.  He told me that he had no connection to the religion in which he was raised and his wife was not Jewish.  I said, “You know Jerry, it is a part of their heritage and they don’t have to do it if they don’t want to. Why not give it a shot?”

“Well,” he said, “I might but I really don’t like the rabbi here in Victoria.”

I took this problem to my friend Louis who was president of the Synagogue.  In typical fashion he told me a story.

Once there was a shipwrecked rabbi.  His parishioners looked for him long and hard and finally found him.  When they went on the island they saw a beautiful little structure made of driftwood and palm leaves.  He explained he had built a synagogue in which to worship. They looked up the beach and saw there was an identical building. “Is that a synagogue you built also?”  “Yes, and I wouldn’t set foot in it.”   I don’t think Jerry’s boys ever did their Bar Mitzvahs.  

I don’t know why Judaism has always fascinated and impressed me so but it probably had something to do with all that bible reading I did as a kid and the fact that Jewish people have played such a large and positive role in my life.  At one point I felt such an affinity for the culture and religion I considered converting but somehow it just didn’t seem right for me.  There was a culture and a history that I did not feel a part of.  When I was discussing this with my good friend Bernice who had been a great help in establishing my parenting courses, she said, “Larry you are welcome to become a member of our Synagogue and our religion, but really, you are such a Baptist. Why don’t you just stick with your roots?”  I am not sure what she meant but somehow it made complete sense to me.  So next I need to talk about my roots.

Jesus is Watching

At the time of my birth my parents were members of the Evangelical United Brethren Church.  This was an amalgamation of two churches that had spun off from the Mennonite Church. It was fundamentalist and during my early years our lives pretty much revolved around the church.  My dad’s father had been the minister before his untimely death.  My other grandfather was a deacon.  My grandmother played the organ.  My dad was the choir director.  My mom taught Sunday school and both she and my uncle were the soloists in the church choir. My cousin and I were the youth duet and we can still do a pretty mean “Old Rugged Cross.”

My first recollection of a reference to Jesus was when I was very young. I was in the back yard and apparently I had my hand down my pants because my mother said, “Don’t touch yourself there, Jesus is watching!”  Sage advice, no?  A couple of years ago my friend and fellow psychotherapist Ralph got very interested in men’s sexual health.  He wanted us to do a workshop on the topic. Ralph is a former Mennonite minister so I said we could do a short workshop entitled, “Don’t touch yourself there, Jesus is watching.”  Later he sent me a photo from Farmington, NM of a big porn warehouse and a billboard across the street with a picture of Jesus and the warning, “Jesus is watching.”  I didn’t know my mother had ever been to Farmington.  

I used to lie in my grandmother’s lap in church staring up and the glass skylight of Jesus carrying a lamb.  She would tickle me to keep me quiet and I thought this must me what heaven is like.  Those moments are stuck in my memory and the peace I felt is still salient in my mind.  Even after all these years and the rejection of fundamentalist Christianity if not Christianity in general, I love to sing along with the old gospel songs while speeding down the highway. Somehow it still touches me at a deep level.  

They tore that church down to make a freeway and moved it some distance away.  Eventually we moved so my parents started going to a Methodist church, primarily for the choir, I believe.  That ended my experience with the EUB church and ironically, they merged with the Methodists at some later date.

Although my mother remained religious all her life, I think my dad had lost his religious beliefs after fighting in Germany and Korea. The battle of the bulge and the liberation of Dachau caused him to seriously doubt the existence of a beneficent and loving God.

One experience that I remember clearly is an interchange between my father and my grandfather after my dad returned from fighting in the Korean War.  He was quite bitter about being called back to war after serving in Europe and I think what he saw in both conflicts led him to question all the beliefs that had been instilled in him as a child. We were sitting in my grandparents’ den and granddad asked my dad, “Art, when you were in the foxholes and the Koreans were shooting at you did you pray to God?”  My dad answered, “Mr. Mooney, I figured any God that would send me to the hell I experienced in Europe and then send me to Korea to experience it all over again at the ripe old age of 35 wasn’t worth praying to.”  All I remember after that was a deadly silence that settled over the room.

As they grew older, my grandparents could not travel to the new church so they started going to a store front mission EUB church nearer their house in Glendale.  As a young teenager I loved going to that church.  It was fire and brimstone and stand on the third verse. Every week the minister would ask for people to come forward and testify.  I remember one ancient old man who stood up on his canes and said, “I used to be a Lutheran but now I am a Christian!”  

I started having my doubts in college and attending UC Berkeley in the early 60s put an end to any religious aspirations I might have had. Also, the rigorous scientific training I received while completing my degree in physics caused me to doubt anything one could not see or validate scientifically.  

As I said earlier, between my third and fourth year I worked on the Apollo program for NASA at Aerojet General.  There was another intern from Cal Tech and we were talking about religion and discussing the fact that in those days they made you fill out a form designating a religious preference when you registered for classes. He was from Idaho and lived in a town with a lot of Mormons.  He stated that Mormon girls would go to great lengths to convince you to convert to Mormonism.  I doubt this was true but when asked for a religious preference he answered jokingly, “Mormons.”  But the joke was on him. For four years he was bombarded by letters, calls and visits from Mormon missionaries trying to convince him to rejoin the flock. 

My wife and I married in 1964 in a high episcopal church that her mother attended.  Before the wedding with had to meet with the priest and he asked us, “What do you think makes a good marriage?”

Being fresh out of Berkeley and full of myself I answered, “Intellectual compatibility.” 

He frowned and said, “I was thinking more of the love of Christ.”

“Oh yeah, that too.”  I said.

During the rehearsal, we were told we could not have the wedding march because it was from A Midsummer Night’s dream and celebrated the marriage of Titania to an ass.

Susan said, “If the shoe fits….”

Also, two of my best friends, Iranian Jewish brothers, wanted to throw rice and the priest said no because it was a Pagan ritual.  Really?  Sometimes religion just seems so silly. 

When I was working at Camosun College in Victoria, B.C., the departmental secretary was a born again Christian.  I made the mistake of sharing my childhood history with her and she assumed we were cut from the same cloth.  One day I could not get the duplicating machine to work and I asked her for help.  She came over and laid her hands on the machine, closed her eyes and intoned, “Lord Jesus, help Larry to do his work and repair this machine.”

Somewhat stunned, I pushed the start button and, you guessed it, it worked. She winked at me and said, “You and I know the power of prayer, don’t we?”

My last experience with Jesus came in 1986 when my wife asked me if I remembered the last time we had spent more than a weekend alone without our kids.  “Well,” she said, “it was in 1967, before our oldest was born.”

“Ok,” I said, knowing something was coming.

“We are going to take a two week trip to Santa Fe, New Mexico.” Our oldest was to stay at home and the younger was to go to a basketball camp.

“Why Santa Fe?” I asked.

“I don’t know, we just are.”

When we were first married I used to scoff at these decisions based on her intuitions but over the years I have learned that she is almost always right about what we need to do.  She has said on the ship of life she is the rudder and I am the motor although I sometimes feel like the bilge pump.  So we flew to Albuquerque and landed at night. The next morning I got up and looked out on the west mesa and thought, “My God, this is where I belong.”

As we drove north toward Santa Fe the feeling got stronger.  The next day we were downtown when my back started to hurt. I had injured my back seriously playing Rugby in College and every so often it would flare up and I would be incapacitated.  As the pain intensified I told my wife, “I am going back to the motel to lie down. Call me when you want to come back.”

On the way to the car I passed the Cathedral of St. Francis.  I don’t know what came over me but I said to myself, “You are 43 and you have never sat in a Catholic church.” 

Growing up in the Evangelical United Brethren church we were taught that these were havens of evil and not places to enter so deciding to challenge this absurdity, I went in and sat in a pew.  As I sat there I was overwhelmed by the beauty of the saints, the architecture and the knowledge that this lineage had been around for almost 2000 years.  I sat there and soaked it up for about 30 minutes and when I stood up the pain was gone.  And I never even saw the Devil – disappointing.

The next day we went to the Sanctuario in Chimayo and the same thing happened.  Afterword we went to a small shop where my wife bought me a small milagro shaped in the form of a human back.  I have never had a serious problem with my back since that trip.  

We had been trying to buy the house we were renting for years but the landlady kept changing her mind and we had given up.  My wife suggested we also buy a house milagro to help us find another house to buy.  

When we returned to Canada I immediately went to the local bank and was getting cash out of the machine when I heard a familiar voice call my name.  It was the landlady.  Nervously I touched the house milagro in my pocket.

“Larry, I want to sell you the house.”

I said, “I don’t think I have enough money for a decent down payment.”

“I don’t care,” she said.

So we bought it.

At that point we decided, “Someday we are going to move to Santa Fe.  We are both going to be in private practice in a little adobe office with a portal out front.”

We started going to Seattle for Jungian training and analysis in the early 90s.  At some point we decided we wanted to live there and my wife moved to Seattle in 1995.  I spent 3 more years at the College where I was teaching until I was ready for early retirement.  We tried to get things moving in Seattle but it never really came together.  So we said, “Let’s just go to Santa Fe. That is where we belong.”  

It was very interesting to watch the responses of our friends and colleagues.  Most could not understand why I would leave a secure teaching position with a good salary and great benefits as well as a nice little private practice for a place with no prospects in sight.  I would reply, “I don’t know.  I just have to.”

I added one caveat.  “We have to begin in Albuquerque because that is where the jobs are.”  She agreed, sort of.  She went down and found us a great place up in the hills outside of Albuquerque. Then, because fate likes to play tricks, I got a job in Santa Fe and had to commute every day.  A little over a year later we moved to Santa Fe.

I eventually quit that job and we are both in private practice in a little adobe with a portal out front.  I guess Jesus was watching on that first trip.

The last remnant of my Christian heritage sits in my garage covered by a blue tarp.  On one of my aunt’s trips to visit relatives in Michigan, a cousin took her to a vacated church where her father had preached.  As she looked around, her cousin said, “That is the pulpit from which your father preached his first sermon.” Overcome with emotion she asked if he would ship it to her.  When she moved from her home she gave it to me.  My wife does not want it inside the house but I told her we’d better not get rid of it because, you guessed it, Jesus is watching.

As I left Christianity behind I longed for some philosophy that would fill the need I had for something bigger than myself.  The first was Yoga.

A Hopeless Case

In the early 70’s I was working as the treatment director of a small residential center for preadolescent children on Vancouver Island. I had recently graduated with a Ph.D. in Child Psychology and was a firm believer in the behaviorist school of psychology.  As you may know, behaviorism holds that we are shaped by our environment and anything invisible to the human eye is not worth talking about.  My wife, Susan Riley, who had a great respect for the mysteries of life, would sometimes recount tales of extraordinary events to me and my favorite response was, “That’s not physically possible.”

In addition to working at the center, I was teaching at the University of Victoria and running around North America giving talks and doing my best to become well known in the behaviorist community.  Fueled by copious amounts of caffeine and putting work before my family, my health and the activities that brought me joy, I seemed to be achieving my goal. I felt quite full of myself.  

The first warning I received regarding the folly of this adventure came from the nurse at the center who said to me, “If you don’t slow down, you will be dead by the time you are forty.”  I was thirty at the time.  I remember one of the teachers at the center giving her class the assignment of writing a short book in the form of “Dick and Jane.” One of the kids entitled his, “See Larry Run.”  In the book were several pages of stick figures. One was pictured with a coffee cup in his hand and the words at the bottom of the page said, “See Larry Drink Coffee. See Larry Run.  Run Larry, Run.”

One morning while I was sitting at home grading papers, drinking coffee and preparing to dash off to work, I was instantly incapacitated by a blinding pain in my chest.  I crawled to the phone, contacted my doctor’s office and was told to immediately drive to the hospital which was about a half-mile away.  When I got there I was put in a bed and connected to a heart monitor.  I, as well as everyone else, thought I was having a heart attack.  As I lay there suffering from excruciating pain, I had a thought that I previously would not have believed I was capable of considering.  I thought, “If I am going to be in this kind of pain for very long, I want to die.”  At the moment I finished this thought, a voice inside my head said, “Stop drinking coffee, spend more time with your family and study Jung, Yoga and mysticism.”  

“Of course,” I answered.

After numerous tests, it was discovered that I did not have a heart condition but that I was suffering from gallstones and a jaundiced gall bladder.  Rather than a traditionally masculine condition caused by overwork, dedication to achievement and general disregard for my own body in service of some greater calling, I was suffering from a condition, according to my nurse, that usually was associated with the words fat, forty, fertile and female.  

Being the rational, masculine achiever that I was, I soon dismissed the voice inside my head as part of a delusional thought process caused by the pain.  The next evening I was again visited by the excruciating pain associated with a stone passing through the bile duct. Uncharacteristically, and with great prodding from Susan, I decided this was a sign and that I needed to pay attention.  In this experience, as in many other significant changes in my life, she has had the wisdom to know what was best for me when I did not.

So I gave up coffee, stopped traveling and began to study Jung and Yoga.  After surgery to remove the gall bladder I also began to experience extraordinary events.  I began to practice astral traveling, experienced precognitive dreaming and generally saw myself as a rather extraordinary fellow.  

One my favorite things to do was to attend yoga workshops on Saltspring Island led by John Robbins.  John was a great hatha yoga teacher and had spent some time at Yashodhara Ashram studying with Swami Radha.  I always left these workshops feeling very healthy, happy and centered.  This feeling would usually last until I had to face the realities of marriage, children, work or a ride back to Victoria on the B.C. Ferries.  

It was at one of these weekends that I had an experience that would change my life.  John asked us to sit in a meditative pose and then played a record of a woman chanting.  I later learned the woman was Swami Radha.  As she chanted, I began to see myself sitting on a large round circle on top of a hill overlooking a lake.  Across the lake was a snow covered mountain.  Later, I was transported to the other side of the lake and looking back, saw a beach with an A frame and other smaller buildings.  When I recounted this vision to Susan she gasped and said, “I had a dream about that same place!”  

Wanting to make sense of this, we discussed our respective experiences with Elaine Griff, our hatha yoga teacher in Victoria.  We drew a picture for her and as she examined it she began to smile and said, “That’s Yasodhara Ashram. The circle is the foundation for the temple.”  Knowing that this was an important sign in our lives we decided to attend an upcoming workshop with Swami Radha, Life Seals.  Little did I know what was in store for me.  

We arrived at the workshop and at some level I knew that something big was going to happen for me.  In a nutshell, Swami Radha cut right to the quick.  What was exposed would be called, in psychoanalytic terms, a raging phallic narcissist.  I won’t go into the details, but the key words here would be, “It’s all about me.”  At the end of the workshop, I approached Swami Radha and asked her, “Would you work with me?”  Her response was one of the most painful but truthful pieces of information I have ever received. 

In her lovely German accent she said to me, “I think you have been lying for so long, you no longer know the truth.  I think perhaps you are a hopeless case.” These words were not music to a narcissistic ear.  I was shattered.  I lost about ten pounds over the next two weeks and began the process of manufacturing all the rationale necessary to convince myself, and anyone else who would listen, that she was a charlatan.  In retrospect, everything I have accomplished in my life since then probably began at that moment. Most importantly, I believe my 60 year relationship with Susan would have never survived me had Swami Radha not uttered those words.  

One of my favorite concepts from Jungian psychology is the “wisdom of the psyche.”  Over the next year my psyche worked overtime and forced me to see more and more how correct her assessment of me had been.  At the end of that year Susan and I went to the ashram for a visit and all I could say to Swami Radha when I met her was, “We’re doing really well.”  It was as though I had to make a report to my probation officer before I could even say hello or offer up the customary box of Black Magic Chocolates.   

In the following years I had many experiences with Swami Radha but I feel it is only now as I am in my eighth decade on the planet that I grasp their significance.  Looking back, I think I wasn’t ready for her teachings the way Susan was.  I believe that following a spiritual path requires complete surrender. I was not ready to surrender.  I still needed to hold onto the illusion that I was in charge of my life.  Even though my experiences with her were limited, I would like to share some of them with you.  They were profound for me, have influenced me greatly and, I hope, exemplify her ability to be amazingly insightful, brutally honest, incredibly caring and delightfully funny, sometimes all in the same moment.  

I remember being at a Straight Walk workshop listening to Swami Radha when she looked into my eyes.  At that moment I felt an incredible stirring in my heart and a wonderful feeling of well-being.  I asked her if she had done that to me. She replied, “Ja, I give you a little light.  Most times people don’t notice it.  You know, the only things that are really important here are the light and the mantra.”

Stunned, I asked, “But what about all the stǖrm und drang, the tears, the confessions and so on?”

“Oh Ja,” she said.  “That is the entertainment. If I don’t do that, you don’t come and pay the money for the workshop.”  

I never really knew if she meant it or was just having some fun with us. 

On another occasion I decided to ask her about the experiences I was having. As I told her about astral traveling, visiting other people’s dreams, precognitions and other paranormal events, she listened attentively and then asked, “Do you ever forget to take out the garbage?”

Taken aback, I responded, “Uh….yes.”

“Are you ever unpleasant with your children?”

“Yes,” I replied sheepishly.

“Do you ever fight with your wife?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Well,” she said, “Why don’t you work on those things and let these other things go?  Anyone can do those things you talk about but very few can be really good husbands and fathers.”

So I did.  I have never missed a garbage day since.  As for my relationships with my wife and children, it has taken a lot longer to reach the point where I believe I have successfully integrated Swami Radha’s advice.  

From the beginning, I noticed that she treated people differently.  In workshops I sometimes felt like she had it in for me.  Other people who would whine, complain and generally demonstrate what I, in my wisdom, considered a low level of consciousness were not confronted at all.  After one particularly painful encounter I was feeling aggrieved so I decided to ask her about this.   “Swami Radha,” I asked, “why are you so tough on me while at the same time you let some people in the group off easy?”  

“Ja, I only give you what you can take.”

The incredible gift behind this statement only became clear to me later in my studies of Aikido. My instructor, after being asked why he never praised us but only approached us to correct, replied that in the East, to be corrected by one’s teacher is a great honor.  If the teacher does not think you are worthy, you will be ignored.  When Swami Radha said she gave me only what I could take, she was paying me a great compliment, offering me a great gift and, I hope, was telling me that I was not such a hopeless case after all.  

After fifty years of working in the helping profession, the value of this gift has become clear.  As a helper, I must have a high standard of self-awareness or else I will project my own unconscious complexes and insecurities onto those who I am supposed to be helping.  I must be willing to take all that is given me by my teachers. In essence, those of us who consider ourselves “helpers” must first clear our own psyches before meddling in the psyches of others.  Leo Buscaglia captured this concept perfectly in one of his videos by quoting a Zen monk who said to him, “Don’t walk through my mind with your dirty feet.”  Those of us who want to help others walk through this world with joy and purpose must first cleanse our own feet.  

Swami Radha loved to point out the symbolic meaning of one’s actions and appearance.  Once, when giving a talk with David Bohm at the Victoria YMCA, she was talking about the ways in which we communicate who we are without even knowing.  She was talking about clothes and asked, “What is the symbolic meaning, for example, of someone whose clothes are all brown?” Pondering this, I casually looked down and saw brown shoes, brown socks, brown pants, brown belt and a brown shirt.  I don’t know if she meant this for me but it certainly had an effect and perhaps explains my annual purchase of at least one Tommy Bahama Hawaiian shirt.  

On another occasion Susan and I were sitting in the ashram dining room eating with her and a friend of ours.  At the end of the meal, our friend casually cupped his hand and collected the crumbs on the table in front of him and brushed them onto the floor. 

“Look!” she exclaimed.  “Look how you have just created work for someone else with your thoughtlessness.”  She never pulled punches if she thought you could take it.

I think it was very hard for her to carry all the projections and expectations that were laid upon her by all of us.  She once told me this was the hardest part of her work and actually revealed that she wasn’t sure how long she could continue to do her work since it took such a toll on her.  I remember one particularly frustrating moment at a workshop when she sighed and said, “When are you boys going to stop projecting your mother complexes all over me?”

I think this burden weighed heavily upon her and at one point she told Susan, who was planning to go to graduate school in order to become a counselor, “Do you really want to spend your life sitting in a room with someone who is projecting all over you?” 

Fortunately, Susan’s answer was yes and she has had a very successful career and has many grateful clients to show for it. This question reveals the difficulty Swami Radha experienced while helping us travel further down the road of awareness and enlightenment. 

On another occasion she talked about the ridiculous expectations of many of her followers and students.  It was particularly curious to her that many could not reconcile the fact that an enlightened being could have a jones for Black Magic chocolates.  It also baffled her that people in workshops would be upset by the fact that this guru would have to take breaks in order to attend to bodily functions. Apparently she should have been above such mundane needs.   Fortunately for us, she never stopped her work and, I believe, is working still, even after her passing.

I can give one example of this.  Over the 80s and 90s our contact with the Ashram diminished but our appreciation for Swami Radha and the Ashram did not.  After Swami Radha passed and in the year of the Ashram’s 40th Anniversary, we returned.  I decided to do a weekend program at the Ashram which I translated as “What am I going to do with the rest of my life.”  At the time I was working at a job I did not particularly like and wanted a change but was unclear what that change should be.  

Although we were in a location where cell phones should not have worked, on the day before I was to begin the workshop I received a hostile, angry message from one of the administrators at my work. So I began my workshop at this peaceful, loving Ashram with hatred and anger in my heart. 

We began on Friday night and I hardly slept.  In the morning I went to the temple and sat in seiza as we began to chant.  About ten minutes into the chanting, with my thoughts churning about the phone call, I started to heat up.  Soon I was sweating profusely and feeling light headed.  At some point I lost consciousness and my head fell to floor. I awoke suddenly to Swami Radha’s voice saying loudly, “You can’t evolve spiritually and change your life while you are angry at the same time!”  Stunned, I moved to a chair and recovered my senses and began chanting again.  

When the chanting was finished I approached the leader and recounted my experiences.  He advised me to do the workshop but let the focus be finding the meaning of that experience.  So I did and the workshop changed from “What am I going to do” to “Who am I going to be” for the rest of my life.  Many changes came about as a result of that workshop and, once again, they began on the foundation of the Temple.

When the temple that Swami Radha worked so hard to build burned to the ground a few years ago, I was struck with horror but also realized that nothing is permanent and the experiences I had involving the temple are still with me.  All of us who have been blessed by Swami Radha and the Ashram now have to help in our own way to rebuild the temple.  Swami Radha always trusted the divine to provide for her in times of need and it never failed her.  I trust that the same will be true for the temple rebuild and for all of us who have been touched by her. 

Swami Radha is gone now and I regret that I was not more mature when I knew her.  I am sorry that in many ways I was a little boy and not the man I am today. Looking back, I believe she was the most enlightened person I have ever met and she may have saved my life both figuratively and actually.  In the years I knew her, I heard many of her students referring to her respectfully and endearingly as Mataji.  I never used this term because I never really felt I deserved to use it.  I had never really surrendered to her. 

I don’t know what happens after death.  Are we are reborn?  Do we move to another plane?  Does Saint Peter meet us at the Pearly Gates?  All I know is that I want to meet her again.  I will be ready this time.  Thank you Mataji.  

During the time we were involved with Swami Radha, we were so enthralled by the practice of Yoga we began to train as yoga instructors at the local YMCA.  I felt somewhat out of place in this endeavor as I was the only man in the training program and I am very inflexible (in so many ways).  On one occasion we were doing a posture and the instructor said, “Where do you feel the effect of this posture?”  No one answered and she said, “In your ovaries.” I said, “I don’t feel a thing.” She said, “I have a special asana for you.  It is called the Steer.”  If you know how a bull becomes a steer, you know the meaning of this communication. No more funny comments from me.

But I persevered and one day I was approached by the program director.  She said that there was a class, Yoga for Teenage Girls that needed an instructor. Apparently several teachers had tried to lead this class but had become so frustrated by the girls they had left in tears.  The director said she had heard I was a child psychologist and would really appreciate it if I would try to teach it. So I did.

The course was taught in the small chapel and the first day I walked in I was greeted by six very attractive young women who probably saw me as their next victim.  As I began teaching the class they would talk to each other and generally act out.  After the second class I was so frustrated I sat down and said, “I am volunteering to teach this class.  I am not getting paid.  Do you want to do Yoga or not?”

In Aikido we talk about and practice getting into harmony with your attacker.  I had not experienced Aikido yet but I decided to follow this path with the girls. They said they wanted to do Yoga so I told them to bring their favorite music the next week and we would do Yoga to the music.  So the next week we did Yoga to heavy metal, Jesus music and crappy pop. They loved it.  They started to warm up to me and fortunately whenever I started to feel sexually attracted to one of them I could look up to the picture on the wall and be reminded that Jesus was watching, even in the Yoga class.

Eventually we started having a little discussion group at the end of the class and they would share hopes and fears and problems they were having.  All in all it was a wonderful experience and for years after, some of the girls would come to my office at the College just to talk.

Japanese Culture and Aikido

At some point I realized that Yoga was not the path for me.  I was drawn to Japanese culture and began to investigate Zen.  My first encounter with Japanese culture came when I was 11 years old and I started working for my father.  My father was a wholesale florist whose business was located in the middle of two square blocks known as the L.A. Flower market.  As I said earlier, on Monday, Wednesday and Friday he would get up at about 2 in the morning, eat breakfast and go to work.  On Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday he would not get up until 5.  I would go with him and work at the shop doing menial tasks on Saturdays. Later, during holidays and summer vacation I would work full time at the shop. The main thoroughfare was Wall St so I can say I grew up working on Wall St.!

There were many other wholesale florists on the street as well as two large open markets where wholesalers and growers would bring their flowers to sell to retailers and route runners who would call on retailers who did not come in to the markets.  About half of the wholesalers and a lot of growers were Japanese Americans.  My dad was very highly respected by them.  During the war, when the Japanese were moved off the coast into internment camps, his company took over the running of the Japanese American flower market.  Many Japanese Americans were robbed of their businesses and possessions during the war by unscrupulous individuals and companies but when the Japanese Americans returned, my father’s company returned all property and material to them.  

After the war there were two Markets, one almost completely peopled by Japanese Americans and one almost completely peopled by European Americans.  When they amalgamated, the Japanese would only accept one person as the director, my father.  So I had a lot of contact with people of Japanese ancestry and came to love the culture and the food.  However, when I went away to University, I lost touch with that culture.  

In the early 70s while still involved in Yoga, I realized that I really wanted to learn a martial art.  I had been a pretty wimpy kid and relied mostly on my wits to avoid fights with other kids.  I also made sure that every year I had a really big, tough kid as a friend.  Heaven help the kid that picked on me. So I figured it was time to get a handle on male violence and to be able to fight my own battles.  At one point in this search I had a dream that seemed really strange to me.  I was in a basement fighting the guys who had picked on me in high school.  For some reason I was wearing a black skirt, which seemed very strange.

I visited many martial arts schools and dojos but it seemed to me there was a lot of ego involved and that a lot of the people teaching were pretty nasty guys obsessed with competition and bravado.  In 1975 I attended the Transpersonal Psychology conference in Asilomar and saw that there was a morning workshop in Aikido, a martial art I had never heard of.  The instructor was Bob Frager, a psychologist and head of the Institute for Transpersonal Psychology. I later learned he had studied Aikido in Japan with the founder himself.  He has written humorously and informatively about this experience.  And, he was wearing a black skirt.

After two mornings of practice, I was hooked.  I returned to Victoria and at my first day back at the University of Victoria, I opened the campus newspaper and was surprised to see an article about a young man from Hawaii who was going to begin teaching Aikido on the following Monday.  This could be seen as an occurrence of what Carl Jung refers to as “Synchronicity,” two or more seemingly unrelated events that occur simultaneously and are perceived by the observer as carrying a message that would only have meaning in the psyche of that person.

I began studying with Gary Mols Sensei and he did a great job of teaching us physical Aikido as well as presenting Aikido philosophy in an understandable and useful manner.  I had been practicing Aikido for about a year when Gary Sensei announced that we were going to Vancouver to participate in a demonstration that the new Japanese sensei there was giving.  We arrived at the gym and all went into the change room together.  After changing into our dogis we proceeded upstairs and the demonstration began.  We all demonstrated but Kawahara sensei’s demonstration was the most amazing and terrifying.  I had never seen such power and precision. After the demonstration we went back to the change room, changed into our street clothes and were preparing to leave for lunch together. As Kawahara sensei was getting dressed I noticed he was looking around and saying something in Japanese to one of his students.  I realized that he was looking for his socks and I looked down to my feet I realized I had put on his black socks and not my own. Terrified, I left the gym and even after many years together as student and teacher, never told him about this.

Kawahara sensei made many visits to Victoria and I consider him one of my best teachers ever.  I wanted so much to learn from him that I even studied Japanese so I would better understand him.  On one occasion, he, my friend Gary Anderson and I sat in the wheelhouse of Gary’s fishing boat drinking scotch and carrying on a conversation about life itself.  At one point I asked, “Sensei, you drink, you smoke and you like to consort with women. Is this good for you?”

He replied, “Not good for body, but good for spirit!” Gary and I both erupted in raucous laughter.

After our first summer camp with Kawahara sensei he gave a little speech. As we were sitting in seiza completely exhausted but filled with the joy seven days of intense practice had brought us, Kawahara sensei began to speak in Japanese. Ishiyama Sensei translated.

“You Canadians are the worst Aikido students I’ve ever seen in the world. I thought Americans were bad but you are worse.”  Imagine the shock we all felt as we were being ruthlessly criticized after a long week of intense practice. What we didn’t realize was that this is a traditional Asian practice used when training students.  It keeps one from becoming inflated and in fact is a compliment.  If he did not have hope for us as students he would not criticize us.  So every year after practice Kawahara sensei would rip us up one side and down the other and we got used to it. In fact, we sort of looked forward to it.  So imagine our surprise when after four or five years we sat down at the end of the practice and waited for Kawahara sensei to tell us how terrible we were.  On this occasion all he said was, “Your Aikido is getting better.”  It was like the heavens had opened up and God himself had blessed our Aikido.

Aikido has given me many gifts. One of these is body awareness. One form is awareness of my own body and a sense of where it is in space and perhaps more importantly, where it is in relation to others and the effect my presence has on others.  The lack of this ability in others is painfully obvious every time I am negotiating the aisles at Whole Foods.  Another important lesson is that my Ki, or life energy, must flow out ahead of me, even if I am moving backwards.  This is true in both a physical and psychological sense.

The most dangerous person in an Aikido dojo is a beginner. There are two reasons this is true. First, a beginner is often so determined to do a technique correctly and with force that they may ignore the limitations of a partner who will be injured if a technique is applied too forcefully or rapidly.  One of the major lessons in Aikido is to be aware of partner’s ability.   Secondly, beginners are so focused on technique that they lose awareness of their own body and bang into others and also sometimes throw partner into other practitioners. According to Ishiyama sensei, this is not a problem in Japan.  Even beginners have the well-being of those around them in mind when practicing.  Growing up in close proximity to others and in a culture that stresses awareness of how one’s behavior affects others leads to a sensitivity many of us here in North America lack. 

Ishiyama sensei, a practitioner and teacher of Morita therapy, says this also has its disadvantages. While we are focused on self-development and individuation but often fall short in our assessment of our effect on others, according to him, the Japanese are likely to avoid individual achievement and individuation in favor of conformity and group identification.  In his mind, the middle path involves development of self and a development of our recognition of our effect on others.  This is very similar to the basic tenets of Naikan, a school of Japanese psychology.

One of the most difficult aspects of aging is the limitations that my body is experiencing.  I gave up physical Aikido several years ago when my arthritic joints just refused to cooperate.  I notice that I sometimes lose balance or bump into doors, something I never would have done in the past.  I hope I am still doing mental and spiritual Aikido in spite of my body limitations.  What good is a martial practice if it does not transfer to daily life?  Really, how many times in a day is someone with a wooden sword going to attack me?  And yet I can be sure that every day will bring interpersonal and psychological challenges.

When I was first studying Aikido, I began to look into the martial philosophy of Budo.  I realized that for the Samurai, an honorable life meant serving one’s lord faithfully and without question. Dying in the service of the lord in battle was the most honorable act one could perform.  As a young professional with a wife and two children in modern Canadian culture, this didn’t seem very practical so I set about trying to translate this philosophy of ancient Japan into a way of life that was applicable to me, now.  I realized that if I considered integrity and truth as my “lord” then my ego, not me, would have serve those concepts and, in fact, may have to die in their service. This approach to life turned out to be a lot harder than I imagined but I hope it still guides my behavior today.

One of the greatest gifts I was given in Aikido was the opportunity to confront my own fear and to finish something to which I had committed myself regardless of my fear.  On one occasion a Japanese Zen monk stopped by our dojo in Victoria and gave a talk after practice.  He asked the question, “What are the three things you must do to become proficient in Aikido?”  Some of us answered, “Practice.”   He said, “Yes, that is one.”  Students then offered numerous other suggestions to which he answered “No” repeatedly. When no more answers were forthcoming he said, “The answers are practice, practice, practice.”

I did not always want to go to practice and sometimes I would have to drag myself to the dojo. Sometimes fear and anxiety would stalk me as I stepped onto the mats and I would want to make an excuse and leave.  But I almost always went and I always stayed.  Five minutes into practice my spirit would be soaring and often at the end of class, soaking wet with sweat and joints aching I would think, “My God, it is good to be alive!”

I used to be a very anxious person.  I think I come by it naturally since my mother, Virginia, was extremely anxious.  I think her philosophy was that if you worry about it enough it won’t happen or if does you will be ready.  Since most of what she worried about didn’t happen she was reinforced for her worry.  See, it works.  I worry and it doesn’t happen.  

I once asked my supervisor why I was seeing so many clients with anxiety.  He answered, "The world is a scary place.”  I said, “For this I am paying $170.00/hr?”  I remember hearing Chuck Yeager being interviewed about a scene in the movie “The Right Stuff.”  He was asked if he was afraid when the plane he was testing went into a death spiral.  He answered, “No, fear just gets in the way of the job to be done.”  

Once, when I was feeling anxious about a high-school math test I asked my dad the same question about the battles he fought in Germany and Korea.  He had a similar response.  He said that no anxiety means you are not paying attention, too much anxiety is crippling but some anxiety is good because it forces you to focus on the job to be done.  Although, he did say that the one thing that really scared him was seeing the Germans advancing across snow covered fields in their white camouflage outfits.  He said on one occasion he thought he was watching ghosts advance against his position.  

I knew I finally had a pretty good handle on anxiety and fear after an experience I had a few years ago at the local hospital.  I started feeling a pain in my chest one evening and after it became quite intense I drove to the hospital and was admitted to the ER immediately.  I was given an EKG, administered nitroglycerine and put through the tests given to heart attack victims.  I was informed I had suffered a heart attack and my life was going to change.

Everyone left the room eventually except one male nurse.  We began to talk and he said he and his wife, also a nurse, wanted to move to Vancouver, Canada.  I proceeded to tell him the best way to do that and we had a long discussion about the Canadian medical system. At some point he asked, “Do you have a spiritual practice?” Surprised, I said, “Sort of.  I have studied Aikido for many years and it is the basis of how I live my life.  Why do you ask?”

He replied, “this is not how people who have suffered a heart attack usually behave.  You are not depressed, not upset, not angry and you don’t even seem worried.”  I answered, “What good would that do?”  

Eventually, after three days of tests it was discovered that my heart was perfectly healthy but had somewhat of an unusual but not dangerous rhythm.  My favorite experience was the treadmill.  As we reached the final stages and I was gasping for breath wondering if I would be able to finish it, the tech said, “Keep going Larry.  Keep going.”  The she exclaimed, “Don’t follow the light, don’t follow the light Larry.”  After, she said, “You have the most boring normal heart I have ever seen.”

Pondering what the nurse had said, I tried to understand why anxiety no longer seemed to be a real issue for me.  I decided it was Aikido that had helped me lose that burden.  A side effect of this experience was that it brought my mortality to the forefront and I had to decide what I needed to complete before I leave the planet.  This book is one of those things.  

I believe the discipline required for conscientious practice taught me to face my fears, overcome my own laziness and anxiety and complete tasks because I had committed to completing them.  Striving to live with integrity was the greatest gift Aikido gave to me.  It has become the foundation of how I try to respond to every challenge I face in life.  I do not always succeed and fear, laziness and negativity are always lurking.

A funny example of the difficulty of translating ideas across cultures was told to my wife by Dr. Hugh Keenleyside who was a member of the Canadian delegation to Japan before WW2 began. Apparently the Japanese had just begun to celebrate Christmas and as Dr. K. entered a Japanese department store he beheld a large, beautifully decorated Christmas tree.  At the top was a large replica of Santa - nailed to a cross.

I studied Japanese for two years at the University of Victoria.  The two people I practiced with most often were my sensei and friend, Ishu Ishiyama and my colleague, Michiko. Japanese is very different from English and I remember some humorous experiences.

Michiko told me she was once discussing American politics with a class when she first began teaching in Canada.  At some point the class broke into raucous laughter and she asked them why.  They told her she had just said she wanted to discuss the difference between Canadian parliamentary elections and the American plesidential erection.  I will forever be grateful to her for teaching me a response to, “O genki deska?” a greeting roughly translated as, “How are you?” She told me a good response would be, “O kage sama de.”  “Fine, because of you.”  How much richer than, “OK”.

On another occasion I climbed the stairs to Ishu’s house and asked politely, “May I come up into your house?”  He laughed and said, “You just asked if you could throw up in my house.”  He once told me that I could study for years and I would never completely understand Japanese.  One reason is that they leave a lot out that you have to fill in with cultural content, much of which is unknown to westerners. Sometimes the subject or object is left out of a sentence.  Verbs are sometimes omitted and can be negated at the end of a sentence if the speaker senses discomfort in the listener regarding the content of the sentence.  So a sentence might be, “As for Johnny, a good boy he is….not.”  The other reason Ishu said it would be difficult to ever understand Japanese completely is that the language, by its very structure, serves the purpose of hiding meaning from foreigners. There is also the problem that there are really two Japanese languages, one for men and one for women.

The importance of syllabic stress and context in the language was demonstrated by one of my teachers who gave this example.  Mr. Yamada visits Mr. Tanaka.  Ms. Tanaka answers the door and says, “Mr. Tanaka is not home. Would you like to come in and wait for him?”   He said this in three ways, all of which sounded exactly the same to me.  Apparently the first phrasing meant indeed he would be home soon.  The second meant he was away and you shouldn’t really come in but politeness requires me to ask you to come in.  The third meant either he was dead or was never coming back. Japanese people interpret these differences with ease. We, of the literal English language, do not.

This teacher also told a story about arriving in San Diego from Japan.  He said that in Japan when you are first asked if you want something to eat or drink you refuse it and say something to the effect of, “No I couldn’t possibly eat a bite.” You refuse a second time then grudgingly accept and eat every morsel or you insult your host. So, arriving at his host residence looking haggard and thirsty in the California heat, he was asked, “Would you like a drink?”  “No thank you,” he said.  His host said “Ok” and began to orient him to his new home.  He thought, “What is wrong with this person?  Why does he not ask me again?  Who are these impolite barbarians?”

This penchant for politeness and indirectness often confuses us westerners and our missing the hidden meaning in the communication makes us seem stupid or rude.  Soon after Ishiyama Sensei began teaching Aikido he realized we did not have the same standard of cleanliness that he did.  One night after class he asked us, “Would you like to wash the mats now?”  We had already opened the fridge in the dojo and started to drink beer so we decided we wanted to do it at another time.  He later told me he was astounded at this response as it was not a request but a command.  A Japanese person would know that.  We did not.  When I arrived for the next practice, the fridge was gone and buckets and rags were set out so we could clean the mats before practice.  He never had to ask again.

All in all, the influence of Aikido, Japanese culture and Japanese people in my life cannot be overestimated and I will be forever grateful for the opportunity to experience the insights and kindness those experiences afforded me.  Domo Arigato. 

Ishiyama Sensei, Kawawara Sensei and Me

Buddhism

Our annual Aikido summer camp would start on Saturday and by Wednesday we were so exhausted we would only practice for half a day. Full-time practice would resume on Thursday.  One year we were told that a Zen monk from Japan was present in the camp and would lead a meditation at noon on Wednesday.  Those of us who were interested arrived and lined up in two rows kneeling in seiza while Kongo Sensei began the meditation with a loud cry of “Mokso!” which can be roughly translated as “clear your mind.”  He would then walk up and down the lines carrying a large stick (Jo) and if you felt you needed to focus your attention you could bend forward crossing your arms and he would give you a good whack on the shoulders. Kongo sensei, his head shaved and dressed in the flowing robes of the Zen priest was most impressive.

After the meditation we all made our traditional journey to the local pub for lunch, beer and perhaps some pool. When I walked in the door Kongo sensei was bent over the pool table, cigarette hanging from his mouth, pool cue in hand, whiskey glass on the edge of the pool table and a tall blonde hanging from his arm.  I thought, “Now this is a religion I can get into.”

When we returned to Victoria Kongo sensei moved into the home of the Tibetan Lama who lived two houses away from our house. Unfortunately, the Tibetans ate almost all meat and he was getting sick because he was a strict vegetarian. Seeing this, we gave him a portion of our garden and in that small portion he raised the most amazing vegetables in precise lines and perfect symmetry that made our gardening attempts look haphazard and amateurish.  Our neighbors were a bit upset, however, as he liked to fertilize the garden by urinating on it.

Kongo sensei further demolished my preconceived notions about Buddhist priests by showing up one day at our front door in a white leisure suit and a white hat that made him look like the Japanese version of Roddy McDowell’s character in A Clockwork Orange. Susan said, “Kongo sensei, you like Canada don’t you?”  He replied, “I like Canadian women. I have date at disco.”

Kongo sensei gave many lectures in Victoria, usually translated by my friend and Aikido teacher Ishu Ishiyama.  On one occasion he gave a lecture on the Buddhist approach to anger at the University of Victoria.  At the time, my wife and I were separated and I was very angry so I decided to go to the talk to see if the Buddhist approach to anger management could help me. After the two hour talk I was quite sure my anger was under control and I walked peacefully across the campus to my car.  On the way home I started thinking about my situation, conveniently overlooking the fact that I was the person most responsible for being in this place, and started to become angry.  Eventually, I became furious, drove home in a rage and spent an hour yelling and pounding my boken (wooden sword) into my mattress.  It appeared that I hadn’t quite integrated the Buddhist approach to anger management at that time.

My most interesting conversation with Kongo sensei was regarding reincarnation and the effect it had on one’s life. It was a very interesting conversation conducted in his halting English and my halting Japanese.  He maintained that believing in reincarnation very much changed how you lived your life.  His main point was that if one believes that the results of one’s behavior in this life will be carried forward into the next life, one will be more careful and more considerate of others.  Although I’m not convinced reincarnation exists, this still seems like a pretty good way to live.

My wife and I were quite involved in Jungian studies and analysis in Seattle in the 90s.  On one occasion we went to a panel discussion by several practitioners who described how they worked from a Jungian perspective.  The panel included a minister, a catholic priest, a counselor, a Jungian analyst and a Buddhist teacher who was also a psychotherapist. Each of the panelists spoke for about ten minutes describing their work.  The last teacher was the Buddhist and all he said was, “Yes, all of that is true. But in Buddhism we just call it paying attention.” I was smitten and soon began to explore Buddhist philosophy and practices.

I have always been drawn to Zen Buddhism because of its simplicity and its similarity to the philosophy of Aikido. I think I dabble in Buddhism but do not really practice it.  By the end of my life I would like to become a more serious student.  It just seems to be so practical and clean.  My one concern with Buddhism is that I am not sure it deals with what Jung would call the human shadow, our dark side. Jung said, “One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious.”  Perhaps my thought that this is somewhat contradictory to many of the forms of mindfulness is due to my own lack of understanding but I have had experiences with practitioners of Buddhism who seem to not have a very clear view of their own dark side.  However, it is a wonderful philosophy and a very useful tool.  I wonder why I still cringe when someone tells me their approach to therapy focuses on mindfulness.  I need to look at this. 

One of my most entertaining experiences with Buddhists took place many years ago. When my wife finished her MA we decided to celebrate by spending a week at Rio Caliente outside of Guadalajara.  It was a great place with pools of varying warmth for soaking. The water sprang from underground and at the source was so hot you could burn yourself seriously if you were to step into it. One day a few of the guys decided to hike through the desert and over a hill to a town known as Tala.

We set off early in the morning following the river until, we were told, would see a path that would lead up into the hills and eventually to Tala.  As we trekked on, occasionally we would run into a vaquero on a horse and I, being the only person who spoke Spanish, would ask directions.  After about three hours we were hopelessly lost and one of the guys, a serious student of Buddhism and somewhat of a proselytizer asked me, “Do you really speak Spanish?”  I said that I did but that I had forgotten so much that I could only speak in the present tense.  He said, “In Buddhism we call that enlightenment.”  Unfortunately, when we moved to New Mexico I took courses in Spanish and now I can use the past tenses.  I guess I am no longer enlightened in English or Spanish. 

We finally came upon a huge house in the middle of the desert surrounded by barbed wire and guarded by unsavory looking men with automatic weapons. From a great distance I yelled, “Donde esta Tala?” to one of them.  He raised his hand and pointed in the very direction from which we had come.  "Aya!“ he yelled (There). So we followed the river until we came to a park and I asked a nice young man in Spanish if he would give us a ride in the back of his pickup to Tala.  He said, “Sure man.  I am from San Francisco. No need to speak Spanish.” 

We ate in Tala and then took a taxi back to Rio Caliente.  It was a great day but they never let me forget my inability go get us to Tala.  At the restaurant the Buddhist kept trying to find out what was in the food because he was worried that there might be lard or some other meat product.  Lard in Mexican food?  Are you kidding me?  I was embarrassed that this rich guy from New York was grilling the waitress from a poor Mexican village about her food.  It seemed to me that true mindfulness and loving kindness would require one to eat the food no matter what was in it.  Is it going to kill you to eat some lard and treat the Mexicans with respect rather than grilling them on the purity of their food?  It seemed very insulting to me.

The food at the spa was good but all vegetarian and a lot of the people there were pretty sanctimonious about what they ate.  About 5 days into our stay the Feral Cats were looking pretty tasty so my wife and I jumped into a taxi and rode to Tlaquepaque, an artists’ center not far from Guadalajara.  There we feasted on chicken and beer for lunch and steak and wine for dinner before returning late at night and stumbling to our room.  The next morning the breakfast room was surprisingly empty and the soaking pools were unusually vacant.  We later found out that something had gone wrong with the food and everybody had food poisoning and all were sick in their cabins with the full range of glorious symptoms associated with this disorder.

When people recovered, they asked how we had managed to avoid the plague. I responded, “When you have reached the level of spiritual enlightenment we have, bacteria have no effect on your body.”

Actually it was a wonderful place and the staff were magnificent. One of the visitors who was an English Prof at UBC said he was going to write a novel, “One Hundred Years of Massage.”  I suggested he follow it up with a sequel, “One Hundred Years of Diarrhea.”

A lot of the visitors were Texans and their unabashed extroversion and outspoken manner prompted my wife, a true introvert, to say, “In my next life I am going to be a Texan.” 

It is a sad fact that Guadalajara has become a major battleground for drug cartels and I believe the Spa has now closed.  I hope the wonderful people who worked there are surviving and that perhaps it will open again.  We loved it.

Buddhism still interests me and perhaps I will get off my Butt (or onto it) and find the deeper meaning in this wonderful tradition.

My first great therapy experience

When my wife and I reunited after a 4 month separation in the early eighties I was quite confused. I wanted to see a therapist but being really well known in town I didn’t know who I trusted enough to see. She suggested Alice, a woman she had met in a women’s consciousness raising group.  Alice was sort of the Grand Dame of the lesbian community in town and practiced psychotherapy even though she had very little formal education.  My wife said she was brilliant and that I would like her for that and her keen sense of irreverence.  So I went to see Alice.  Here is our first conversation:

A: Hello Larry.  I must ask you why you came to see me.  I don’t see many men in my practice. Actually, none.

L.  Well, I know every therapist in town and quite frankly I think I could bullshit them all.  My wife doesn’t think I can bullshit you.  

A. Ah.  Tell me, what is your worst fear?

L.  My worst fear is that I might be ordinary.

A.  I have bad news for you.  

We worked together and she was wonderful.  Even though she became a close friend of my wife, she was always objective and helped me realize many insights.  After I stopped seeing her we became friends and colleagues and eventually shared an office. We are still good friends and my wife always stays with her when we are in Victoria.  I am so grateful to have had her in my life.  

Forever Jung

When I was teaching at Camosun College in Victoria, B.C. I was head of the union negotiating committee for one year.  I typed up a proposal for the administration concerning Professional Development.  Not being a good speller I ran a spell check on it. However, in the early days of computers, spell check would run from your cursor forward to the end of the document and my cursor was sitting in front of the first word in the paper.  When we met, the president said he liked the proposal but that for my professional development I would have to go to spelling class.  I had not spell checked the title of the paper and had misspelled “Proffessional.”

But all ended well as I myself was eventually awarded a large PD grant in the early 90s which allowed me to travel to Seattle where I studied Jungian psychology and underwent 5 years of Jungian analysis.  It changed my life forever and I will always be grateful for that grant that had resulted from a paper with a misspelled title. 

My wife, who is a psychotherapist, has always been interested in the ideas of C.G. Jung.  In 1990 when I was looking for a new direction in my life she invited me to accompany her to a program at the University of British Columbia built around a series of 20 half-hour filmed interviews with mythologist Joseph Campbell done by Fraser Boa, a Toronto analyst.  Campbell discussed the meaning of the great myths within Jung’s theoretical formulation.  I was smitten.  At the conclusion of the films I told my wife, “I want to spend the rest of my life doing this work.”  I wasn’t sure what I meant by this comment but I felt something powerful was stirring within me.

The introduction and end of each film was accompanied by a Bach Concerto. So I must have heard the beginning of this piece about 40 times.  After leaving the auditorium, we got into our car, turned on the classical station and lo and behold, the Bach concerto began.  I knew this was a sign that my life was to change forever.

I began a search for mentors which ultimately led me to Seattle where I found a wonderful Jungian analyst, Ladson Hinton.  My wife and I joined an association of Jungian oriented therapists and traveled to Seattle for therapy, supervision and study groups.  All of my work with clients today has its roots in those years in Seattle.  

My therapist and my supervisor in Seattle probably taught me more about doing therapy than any other person, book or course I have ever taken.  One of the best sessions I ever had with Ladson (I still talk to him once each month) involved my guilt about not committing myself to my full time job at the college in Victoria.  I was heading toward early retirement and I was trying to establish myself as a therapist in Seattle.  I was in transition.  

I told my therapist I was feeling guilty about not putting in my hours at the college and the following conversation occurred.

LD:  I am feeling guilty about not spending the whole week at the college during this attempted transition.

T: Do your students mind?

LD:  No, they are fine with it and can get me on the phone or by email.

T:  Do your colleagues mind?

LD:  No, my department operates on a system of seniority and since I am the most senior member, they will all move up when I leave.

T:  What about your dean?

LD:  She is completely supportive.  She is happy that I am following my true calling.

T:  So what you are telling me is that no one really cares about the issue about which you feel guilty.

LD:  Yes.

T:  That is Completely F***ing Nuts!

LD:  I have just finished studying the DSM and I had never seen that diagnosis.

T:  Well there is a new version coming out and they have included this diagnosis.  There is a page just for you.

When I was trying to formulate my future I kept vacillating between moving into adventure and what I considered to be my true calling on the one hand and security and stability on the other.  I had a dream that I was in the Safeway store near our house and the hands on the clock on the wall were spinning madly.  We worked on the dream and the next week he brought in a quote from Jung in German. I read it and it translated to, “Whoever takes the safe way is as good as dead.”  After that I set about changing the direction of my life.  I would not be here doing what I do if it were not for him.

My other mentor in Seattle taught me so many things about therapy it would be hard to put them all down here. The most important was the idea of induction. He said that intuitive, empathic people often experience strong feelings when encountering another person.  He maintained that a field exists between two people and that the unconscious emotions in one person can induce the same feelings in the other person’s unconscious. Therapists can use this tool to notice what they are feeling and use it as an insight into the unconscious feelings of the client.  I find this concept really helpful to clients that are empathic and often have strong feelings they don’t understand when they are around certain people. They are feeling what the other does not or cannot bring up from the unconscious.

On another occasion he drove home the importance of relying on one’s intuition when practicing as a psychotherapist.  He described an experience he had had years earlier.  As he was sitting listening to a young women talk about her difficulties with her father, he became aware of a presence in the corner of the room.  Eventually he realized it was a native American beating on a drum.  Out of nowhere he asked her, “Tell me about the drum.”

Shocked at first, she related a story about her favorite toy as a child, a drum.  At one point her father became enraged and destroyed her drum.  This conversation evolved into a search for the meaning of the drum and eventually led to her becoming an ethnologist who roamed around North America recording the drum songs of different tribes.   

All in all, these two men radically altered my life and the wonderful life I live now is in many ways, a testimony to their skill and caring.  

My Work

“Life is change, how it differs from the rocks.”  The Chrysalids, John Wyndham

My First Real Job

In 1966 I entered graduate school at the Institute of Child Development at the University of Minnesota as a student in the Clinical Child Psychology program. This program was primarily test oriented and this did not seem right to me.  I was less interested in how a child was performing or acting and more interested in why. One event in particular sealed my fate in this program.

I was asked to go to a school in Minneapolis to administer a Wechsler Intelligence test.  I arrived at the school and found most of the students were black and poor.  The teacher involved told me the child I was to test had scored below normal on the intelligence tests administered by the school but that she thought the girl was more intelligent than the scores indicated.  

I sat down with Felicia and began to ask her the questions on the exam.  One of the cardinal rules of this sort of testing is that you don’t ask a child why she answered as she did, you just record the answer.  Some questions have general answers that give you full marks.  If you offer a specific answer, you lose points. So when I asked “Where do you get groceries?” and she answered, “Albertsons,” she lost a point.  I couldn’t help myself.  I broke the rule.

“Why Albertson’s?”

“That’s where they take the food stamps.”

Poverty had just lost this girl IQ points.

Then when I showed her a picture of a coat, she identified it as a sweater.  More lost IQ points.  Again, I broke the rule.  We were in the beginning of a Minnesota winter and this little girl was wearing a tattered sweater.  So I asked, “Do you have a coat?”

“No,” she replied looking down.  

When I tallied up the points she indeed had an IQ below normal. When I told the teacher, she said, “I guess I was wrong.”  She put more faith in the test than her own judgement.  Discrimination and poverty had consigned this girl to a limited future and I really wanted no part of this.  

As much as I wanted to work with children, I did not want to do it this way.  I drove back to the Institute and found Harold Stevenson, the chair of the department, and told him I wanted to change programs from Child Clinical to Child Development, a research based program, a program focused on “Why?” Fortunately, there was another student who wanted to move in the other direction so we swapped fellowships and I became a student of developmental psychology and he became a student in the clinical program.  We also became good friends.  

I am particularly thankful to Harold because without his prodding, I would never have heard many of these stories.  At the end of four years of graduate school and after 10 years of university studies I was sick of it all.  I told him I would do my research and finish my Ph.D. after I left Minnesota.  He reached into his drawer and pulled out a sheet with the names of every one of the students who had left without finishing. Next to those who did finish later was a check.  It was a paltry number.  

“But I don’t have time,” I said.

He said, “There are two kinds of theses.  There is the Magnum Opus, a masterpiece of research and a real contribution to the field.  Then there is the kind you are going to do.”  I will ever be grateful for that. That degree opened many doors for me and allowed me the privilege of being a part of so many lives and to have had such rich and instructive experiences.

As I recount the stories I am writing here I feel such gratitude to the students, clients, teachers and children who have shared their lives with me in such a rich manner and to all the people who said to me, “You have got to write these stories down.”  The first time this happened was in 1970.  I had returned to Minneapolis to take my final Ph.D. orals.  We never even talked about the thesis. They just asked to hear more stories about the wild kids at the treatment center where I was serving as treatment director.  Harold, a prolific writer himself said, “You have got to get these stories recorded."  That same year my sister-in-law, Melba Riley told me the same thing on several occasions.  If two people from such different backgrounds found my stories interesting and funny, I thought they must be worth writing down. So here I am all these years later finally getting it together.    

As my graduate school days came to an end, I began to receive inquiries from a number of prestigious universities in the United States, Canada and Europe.  In those heady days of unfettered expansion, graduation from a first class program in child development ensured numerous offers from departments desperate for qualified people.  I had over a dozen offers of employment, but I wanted to work with children as well as teach at a university. Unfortunately, by switching from clinical to developmental psychology, I had eliminated my chances of achieving certification in most states.

Through a series of coincidences, word about my search reached a psychiatrist in Victoria, B.C., Canada who invited me to visit him at the Pacific Centre for Human Development, a residential school for "emotionally disturbed” children. He offered me a job as treatment director and put me in contact with the chair of the University of Victoria Psychology Department who was delighted to have someone from the Minnesota Institute of Child Development in his department as a part-time instructor.  I took the jobs, flew home to finish my degree, and in the fall of 1970 my wife, my two-year-old son and I emigrated to Canada with plans to stay for two years, gather some experience and then return to California.

What I found when I arrived at the Centre was shocking.  The kids were running the place and the staff was barely surviving in an environment of fear and chaos. Bribery and physical force were the two main methods of control.  I wanted to establish a very tight program of behavior modification with strong incentives for academic success and reasonable conduct.  The staff were very resistant and undermining of this program and something drastic had to happen. So one morning I came in and I told the staff, “I am going to demonstrate that this program will work.  I want you to all take the day off and come back at three.”  

They were shocked and I could tell they were expecting to find the building burned down and me dead when they did return.  But I had a devious plan that had nothing to do with Behavior Modification.  After they left I found the two most violent and powerful kids in the school and offered them a deal.  I pulled out two twenty dollar bills and said, “If there are no incidents at the school today, each of you will get one of these at three o’clock.  The kids can do anything they want but there can be no destruction or violence and you can’t tell anyone about this.” 

They agreed and we had a peaceful day.  No other child at that facility would dare to challenge these two.  When the teachers arrived they were stunned to find a school functioning quite well with no violence or destruction.  They bought in and we began a behavior modification program immediately.

It took about six months, but the place began to run smoothly.  It also became evident to me that, while we could affect major change in some children, we were sending them back into the same environment which had produced their behavior in the first place.  I initiated a parent training program and found that education and some introspection helped many of them to become adequate, if not perfect, parents.  I will never forget the gratitude of some of the parents when they were finally able to take their children home.  It was working with the staff and parents that led me to the conclusion that I liked teaching adults as much as working with children.  

After two years at the Centre I was asked to be the Canadian representative at the First International Conference on Behavior Modification in Minneapolis.  In preparation, I distilled all the data we had collected over the previous two years and wrote it up in a report which was eventually published as a chapter in a book summarizing the proceedings.  Among the many fascinating aspects of the data was the fact that children who had been considered unteachable had covered two or three years of math and English in the space of one year.  

How were we able to do this?  As Jean Piaget has said, learning is a fundamental human drive.  If you create an environment in which inquisitiveness is nurtured and rewarded, learning is inevitable. We made education a positive experience for these children by allowing them to work at the level at which they were competent and we rewarded progress, no matter how small.  We also focused considerable attention on their interests.  Every person alive, unless he or she has been completely beaten down in life, has a passion for something.  If you can discover that passion, you can unlock the motivation for learning.  For Alan it was science.  For many of my adult students it has been the desire to raise healthy, happy children, or perhaps to understand their own childhood.  

At the end of my three-year tenure at the Pacific Centre, I had the background I needed to become licensed as a Clinical Psychologist and did so.  I left the Centre, opened a private practice and eventually was offered a job at Camosun College where I taught for 23 years while continuing to carry a light load of clients in private practice.  The two-year commitment became a 28 year commitment until my wife and I moved to Santa Fe, NM in 1998.

I learned so much at the Centre and I realized that a true understanding of developmental psychology can be a powerful clinical tool.  I also had a lot of humorous experiences, some of which I would like to share.

Shortly after I arrived one of the teachers told me the five boys she had in her class were paying no attention to her, physically assaulting her and that she was going to quit if things didn’t change. I had not implemented the program yet so I tried something desperate.  I hauled the kids out about 15 minutes before lunch one day and took them to the activity room.  I said, “We have about 10 minutes before lunch and I am going to challenge you. I am going to take on all five of you and if I am still standing at the end of 10 minutes I want you to promise not to bother your teacher anymore and to be good students.”  

Their eyes widened as they relished the thought of pummeling a senior staff member to death and were a little disappointed when I told them there would be no punches, no nasty stuff below the belt and no biting.  But they agreed.  So I said, “Go!” and they did.  

We went at it for ten minutes and at the end I was still standing, barely.  They were elated and promised to behave as agreed and they did.  I made five good friends that day and we never told anyone.    

The nurse at the school was a wonderful Scottish woman who had seen it all. She had learned her nursing skills in the worst neighborhoods of Glasgow and described herself as a spinster.  She told me that if she was going to have to take care of someone she wanted to get paid for it and marriage salaries were not that great. She was a prankster of the highest order.  I remember showing up to camp and her approaching me with a “special sandwich I made just for you.”  Peanut Butter and cotton balls.  Yuk.  

She used to put pills out on the kitchen counter in the morning and one morning she was going to do a dental inspection so she laid out about 30 pink pills that were intended to highlight dental issues when chewed.  There was one incredibly difficult boy at the center at that time, Donny, and as he entered the kitchen he gathered up all the pills and downed them.  She went ballistic.  She often lectured the kids on the dangers of taking drugs so this was a major affront to her warnings. She grabbed him, hauled him up the stairs, castigating him all the way and then locked him in his room and screamed, “You could die from doing that.”

He took full advantage of this opportunity, yelling, “Helen put me in here to die, Helen put me in here to die!”  

She paid no attention and her parting shot was, “Don’t be surprised if your urine is red!”

The next morning she was doing bed checks and when she came to his bed he smiled and proclaimed, “It was pink!  And, I am not dead!”

She replied, “How do you know you are not in heaven?”

Stunned, he blurted out, “You’re here!”  

She relished talking about one experience she had with Donny who had an undescended testicle. She maintained that was why he was so ornery.  She was examining him one morning and asked him to move his penis to a position that would not hinder her from examining the offending testicle.  

He said, “It doesn’t move that way.”

“Yes it does,” she replied.

“Helen,” he proclaimed, “You know a lot about pills but you don’t know anything about penises.”

On another occasion we took the children from the treatment center to a beach campground for a summer camp experience.  One of the boys in my tent was wetting his sleeping bag every night and we were pretty sure he was doing it on purpose.  So I told him, “If you pee in your sleeping bag again, we will take you home to the Centre.”

That night I was awakened by the sensation of warm liquid spreading in my sleeping bag.  Startled I awoke to find him urinating into my bag.  “What are you doing?”

“You told me you would take me home if I peed in my bag so I decided to pee in yours.”

He had me.  

Another child taught me that using power over a child can often lead to resentment and retaliation on the part of the child.  This boy had a terrible learning disability which caused him to see written material backwards.  He wanted to go home to Yellowknife for Christmas so I told him he had to learn five letters before December if he wanted to go home.  When the time came to show me his work he said, “I actually learned six.”  He then wrote the following message for me.

U O Y K C U F.  

This was a powerful lesson for me about the misuse of power and authority.  I sent him home for Christmas, a trip he deserved just for being a child, regardless of his disability.

I got into another bad situation with ultimatums when I was showing a new boy around the school.  He was yelling and cursing me, the school and his parents and said he would never stay at this “F…ing S…hole of a school.”  Exhausted and fed up, I turned to him and said, “You can stay here or go to jail!”

“I’ll take jail,” he replied.  

Once again I had backed myself into a corner.  Just then I remembered a story a professor of mine had told me.  At the end of the war he was drafted and asked, “Europe or Asia?”  Since the war was over in Europe he answered enthusiastically, “Europe.”

“Europe’s full,” the officer replied.  And he was off to Asia.

So I said, “Jail’s full.”

Although he was one of the most difficult kids to deal with, he eventually came around and became a model for other boys to emulate.  When it was time for him to leave we gave him the choice of returning to his dysfunctional family or a foster home.  He chose the foster home.

Bobby was a developmentally disabled boy who had suffered some kind of abuse as a young child and had formed an attachment to Dinky Toy cars and would walk around for hours making car noises as he pushed the cars through the air.  At one point a new boy, Alex, arrived.  Alex claimed to be a vampire and after a few weeks I was convinced he was right.  More than one staff member had bite marks on their necks.  He took a fancy to Bobby and manipulated him into a very exploitative homosexual relationship.  We decided to use behavior modification to try and convince Bobby to avoid Alex.

My friend Barney and I brought Bobby into Barney’s office and explained a program in which Bobby could earn points by staying away from Alex.  When Barney asked him “What do you like that you could earn with these points?”

Bobby replied, “Well, I really like it when Alex sticks his tongue in my mouth and goes lubalubado.”

Barney calmly replied, “That is not on the list.”

Having worked with several autistic children I considered myself somewhat of an expert in behavior modification with this challenging group.  So when a young autistic girl showed up at the center I decided to record a teaching video for staff to watch in order to learn how to use such skills as shaping and prompting to teach behavior.  One of the things that made Jeanne special was that she had an ileostomy collection bag on her side.  It would fill with urine and have to be emptied often.  What I didn’t know was that when angry, she would pull the bag off and empty it on the floor.  

I sat down with a simple reader and her lunch.  I would point to letters and prompt her to repeat them as I was being filmed through a one-way mirror.  She began to get agitated as she did not like her lunch to be contingent on completing the tasks I set out for her and when I turned to look at the clock, she whipped off the bag and emptied it on my head.  This video became extremely popular and was hauled out every time there was a staff party.  

Several years later, after Jeanne was released, I went to visit her in Vancouver. When she came to the door, she gave me a big hug and said, “Remember Larry. You teach me to read.  I dump PeePee bag on your head.”  Then she laughed uncontrollably for a few minutes.

I had many other memorable experiences but these are some of my favorites. 

Some stories about change

I am in the business of change.  People generally want their lives to change and are looking to me for help.  Ironically, I find change difficult.

My wife likes to ask, how many Dettweilers does it take to change a lightbulb? Answer 1:  Change?  Change? Answer 2:  1 but I liked the old one better. Answer 3:  2.  One to change the bulb and one to administer CPR after he accidentally electrocutes himself.  

Often change occurs slowly in incremental steps.  Sometimes it is rapid.  Here are some stories about change.

In the spring of 1968 I was sitting on the lawn in front of the athletic center at the University of Minnesota with my friend Tom after an enthusiastic afternoon of handball.  Tom’s dad was head of the Presbyterian Church in the US.  He had told Tom that he and other religious leaders in the US were trying to convince Dr. King to cancel his tour of the South as they felt his life was in danger.  Between the war in Vietnam, the killing of the Kennedys, the civil rights killings, the assassination of Malcolm X and the specter of Richard Nixon on the horizon, I said, “If he is killed I am going to Canada.” Dr. King went on the tour and was assassinated in April in Memphis.  My wife and I, not wanting to raise our children in a country so racked with hate and violence moved to Victoria, B. C. Canada after I finished my Ph.D. in 1970.

Like many Americans I think I assumed Canadians were a lot more like Americans than they really were.  Also we were not prepared for the hostility toward Americans that many Canadians felt.  I began to get an inkling of this when I was told a joke by a co-worker during my first week as treatment director at the Pacific Centre for Human Development.  It went like this.

There were three Canadian surgeons who each went to study in different countries.  When they returned they sat down over coffee to compare notes. The first said that in Japan all internal organs are color coded so to do a replacement you just replaced yellow with yellow and so on. The second said that in Germany all organs were numbered so you just replaced a one with a one and so on.  The third said surgery in the US was really simple. American bodies only have two moving parts, a mouth and an asshole and they were interchangeable.  

I don’t think a day ever went by when I didn’t hear what was wrong with America from a person, the radio or a newspaper. This didn’t bother me too much since I probably agreed with their assessment of American foreign policy. What did bother me was the way in which the anger and hostility was directed not so much at the politics and government but rather at the American people.  

And with my loud, extraverted personality and American accent I was often targeted as a typical American.  And, like most stereotypes, there is some truth there.  Canadians often describe Americans as brash, rude and arrogant.  When I first went to Canada in 1970, I think I was living proof of this stereotype. Here is an example.

In the early seventies I was teaching at the University of Victoria and they were putting on Saturday courses at a College up-island.  I was asked to teach one and the University thought it would be easier to send the three of us who were doing this up in a limo rather than pay for us to drive up individually.

So the first day the three of us met.  Here is the conversation I had with Cary, one of the other teachers.

L: Hi, I am Larry.

C: Hi I am Cary.  What department do you teach in?

L: Education this year.  But I hate that department.  It is terrible. What about you?

C: Education.  (Dead Silence)

L: Boy I am tired.  My son plays hockey on Saturday at 5 in the morning.  What a stupid sport.

C: I coach youth Hockey.

I had dug a deep hole but if there is one way to connect with a Canadian it is to criticize America or Americans.  It is the second most enjoyed sport by Canadians after Hockey and it runs all year.  Not to mention that there is an endless supply of material for them to work with. 

L: I came here from Minnesota but I really was glad to leave.  The weather was horrible and I didn’t like the people very much.

C: My mother is from Minnesota. 

Sometimes I shudder when I look back at the person I was then, a truly ugly American, but Cary was extremely forgiving and we became close friends on those rides up and down the Island.  He and Judy and I, a Canadian, a Brit and an American, were a bit embarrassed by the fact that we were riding in a limo on that first day.  The next week it was a little easier and on the third Saturday we asked him to wash it during the time we were teaching because we thought it was dirty.  Eventually we began bringing wine and food and we would eat, drink, tell stories and laugh all the way home.  And, more importantly, I began to realize that the Canadian character, emphasizing self-effacement, politeness and interpersonal restraint (a lot like Minnesotans actually) might be something I would want to emulate, eh.  

I soon took it upon myself to be a little less outgoing and developed a Canadian accent, dropped “huh”, added “eh” and began to try to assimilate.  This must have happened somewhat unconsciously because I took my kids to Disneyland in the early 80s and after talking to a woman in line for a few minutes she asked me, “Where in Canada are you from?”  

This led to a lot of funny situations, especially in my private practice. I had become Canadian enough that people couldn’t tell I was a Yank. So clients would come in and rant and rave about Americans and at some point I would have to say, “You know, I am an American.” Often they were shocked as I had become so good at passing as a Canadian.

The truth is that Canada did change me.  It was there that I learned so much about myself from many wonderful friends, teachers and students.  However, as early retirement loomed, we decided to cast our fate to the south.  America, with all its faults was our home and we just felt more at ease there among people from our own culture. This is really hard for Canadians to understand.  On paper Canada seems such a better place to live.  But we are Americans and we feel more at home here.

I spent the first 27 ½ years of my life as an American.  I spent the next 27 ½ years as a Canadian.  I have spent the last 20 as a New Mexican, in a state that is an entity unto itself.  I love it here but when I die I want my ashes spread on the west coast of Canada because that is where I learned how to live life. 

My experience with the Victoria Family Violence Project required me to learn quickly on the job. When the director, Alayne Hamilton, first asked me to consider the position of consulting psychologist, I dismissed it out of hand as I had no experience with abusive men or group therapy.  She persevered and eventually I went to Ahimsa House, home of the Project to talk to her and Mike, one of the men working there.  I demurred but Mike said, well we need a licensed Psychologist working here or they won’t fund our program.  You are the only psychologist in town we are willing to let in this building so we are not letting you out of the building until you agree.  

In order to learn more about the program, I apprenticed myself to a lay leader in what they called Phase I, the entry level to the program. The idea of a Ph.D. Psychologist apprenticing with a lay group leader who installed cable during the day and had never finished high school raised some eyebrows but we worked well together and I learned the basics of the program during my twelve weeks with this group.  At the end of the group I told him I thought he was gifted in this area and I hope I had some influence over his eventual enrollment in and graduation from the Social Work program at the University.  Concurrently, I was accepted into the therapeutic group which was being run for the lay leaders, all of whom had been through the program.

The leader of that group was a professional therapist who had never received a degree but was gifted in his work.  I learned more about leading groups from him than anyone else I have ever known.  After ten weeks I was ready to start my own group.  My partner Wendy and I became so good at sharing this role it often seemed as though we were two heads on the same body.  

We led groups of 6 to 8 men who were attempting to change their lives for the better and to stop the violence that had so dominated their lives in the past.  One of the things we tried to teach them was to change their communication patterns by expressing their feelings to their partners rather than expressing judgments or controlling statements. One night the following conversation took place between two of the guys. I will refer to them as Tom and Jerry.

Tom said, “My wife won’t let me express my feelings.”

Jerry said, “What do you mean?”

“Well I told her I feel she’s a slut and she got mad and told me to shut up.”

“That’s not a feeling.”

“Yes it is,” he said somewhat agitated.”

“No, that’s a judgement and an insulting one as well.”

“No it’s a feeling.”

By this time both guys were getting pretty mad.  As the banter continued and tempers begin to flare I found myself splitting into three people.  First there was fearful Larry who was looking for the fastest way to the door.  Second there was Aikido Larry who was thinking about which technique he would use when one of these guys came after the other. Lastly there was adult psychologist Larry who said, “Let’s examine this interaction.”  I managed to put my fear and distracting thoughts aside in order to focus on the job to be done.  This is a core concept in the Japanese approach to problems known as Morita Therapy.

I asked Jerry to demonstrate a feeling statement to Tom.  With a malicious grin and a gleam in his eye he said to Tom, "I feel you’re an asshole.”  I thought, uh oh, here we go.  

After a brief pause Tom said, “Okay I get it."  That was the closest I ever saw anybody get to coming to blows during my five years working there.  But he did get it and became one of the best communicators in the group.  An unusual way to facilitate change but it worked.

There was one guy in the group who was particularly difficult to deal with but we all really liked him.  In his case, change was slow.  He had a pretty good handle on his anger at this time after having been through the program twice but he really got upset when he thought something was happening to his daughters, both of whom often found themselves in dire straits.

On the last night of these groups that ran for six months, we would meet and discuss how we all had changed and improved over the period of the group. When his turn came he told a story about how he had dealt with a man who was harassing his daughters.  It had angered him so much that he went up to the man’s third-floor apartment, grabbed him by the feet and hung him over the side of the railing and told him to stop bothering his girls.  This was the last night and I didn’t want to open this up, process it and show that, in fact, that it was not completely congruent with the non-violent philosophy of the family violence project.  So I just asked a simple question.

"How is this an example of the improvement and change you’ve experienced as a result of this program?”

“Oh hell, before this program I would’ve dropped him.”

I once had a student we will call Julie whose parents had come from Greece. After she had left for college, her grandmother moved from Greece to Canada when her husband died.  She stayed with my student’s parents and didn’t do much of anything except wander around the house in her black garb, watch television and cook.  After about six months she called Julie and asked her if she would take her out to buy some different clothes. This was quite a surprise to Julie.  Also grandma wanted to know if she would help her enroll in English classes at a local college.  A bit stunned she did both.  Over the next few months she noticed a radical change in her grandmother.  In addition to changing her clothes and going to school she began taking driving lessons.  When Julie asked her grandmother one day why she had made such a big changes, she replied, “Oprah.”

Years ago I owned a house in Victoria B.C. that had been built in 1910.  It constantly needed repairs and I had a fantastic handyman named Burt who would do the work.  He always asked me to help, mostly because he liked the company and not for my skills at home repair.  One time he and his wife were with me and my wife at a friend’s house.  I asked him how much it would cost to repair my front porch. He replied, “400 dollars.”  I said, “What if I help?”  His wife answered quickly, “600 dollars.”

Anyway, Burt liked to drink.  He never drank on the job but his binges were legendary.  I called him one day to tell him I was getting new gutters on the house and I just couldn’t get the old ones off.  He said they were going out to dinner and he would stop by afterward to look at it.  Around nine that night Burt and his wife showed up and he was three sheets to the wind.  It was windy, dark and pouring rain but he said, “Bring a flashlight, hammer and ladder.”  He climbed up, looked at the gutter and asked for the hammer. 

I said, “I have been thinking about all the ways to get this down and I just can’t figure it out.”

He reared back, swung the hammer and the whole gutter flew off into the yard. He said, “That’s the trouble with you f…ing intellectuals, you think too much.” No one has ever confused me with an intellectual before or after that incident but it was definitely an example of the superiority of action over thinking, at least in this case.  In Japanese psychology, thoughts and feelings are seen as fleeting and not under your control and the fastest way out of a bad state is to do something.  This is very different than western psychology.

Burt taught me a lot about home repair but that night he was definitely my action guru.

On another occasion I was talking to my mentor in Seattle when he told me he had been to the 100th birthday party of a famous Jungian analyst.  He asked the birthday boy what he had been up to.  After hearing a long list of projects, plans and activities he said, “Joe, how do you do all of that at your age?  I get tired just thinking about it.”

Joe answered, “I don’t think about it.”

So now when I really need to do something I try not think a lot about it.  If I can just get started, it usually takes care of itself. 

A dramatic and fascinating example of change being inspired by a complete stranger was described to me by a former student.  This woman, who we shall call Eleanor, was at a major decision point in her life when this event occurred. She told me about it in a career and life development course I was teaching in which she was a student.  The students had completed several inventories designed to indicate appropriate career paths they might follow.  She had the most interesting test results I’ve ever seen.  I said to her somewhat jokingly, “It looks like you could either be a CPA or a counselor.”  She told me that, in fact, before coming to graduate school in counseling she had been debating whether to become an accountant or counselor.  She clearly had a wide range of abilities. 

One day while she was in the process of trying to figure out which path to follow she was leaving the grocery store with her hands full when a stranger opened the door for her.  She smiled and said thank you, and he said, "You should become a counselor.”  She stood there stunned and when she turned around he was gone.

She went back to school, completed the prerequisites for graduate school and counseling, and enrolled in a graduate program with a specialty in grief counseling.  Today she works as a grief counselor and is known in hospice circles as the "angel of death.”  She seems to have the ability to walk into a room, sit down next to person who is dying but can’t let go, place her hand on the person and within a half an hour the person has let go and is gone.  She has found her calling thanks to a stranger’s comment.

This is a most remarkable woman.  She suffers from a serious disease but never talks about it or uses it as an excuse to avoid difficult situations.  She has now finished her Ph.D. and will continue with her life’s work, helping the dying and the grieving.  She works a lot with immigrant families and told me she always takes her shoes off when she enters a trailer or small home.  I assumed this was a sign of respect.  She said, "No, I am often the tallest person in the house and I don’t want them to feel small.”

After reading about the importance of action in Japanese Psychology and the importance of starting small I was reminded of a story I heard Bill O’Hanlon tell about Milton Erickson, the famous psychiatrist who was best known for his work in Hypnosis and his somewhat unconventional (at least for his time) approach to clinical problems.

When one of his students heard he would be visiting a large U.S. city where his depressed aunt lived, he asked Erickson if he would stop in on her.  He agreed and when the aunt opened the door he found himself in a musty, dark house with all the curtains pulled confronting a woman who appeared to have nothing to live for and who only left the house to attend church on Sundays.

After speaking to her he found there were two things that gave her life meaning, going to church and growing African Violets.  In his own inimical way he said, “You know I don’t think you are a very good Christian and I don’t think your flowers serve much of a purpose either.”

Stunned, the woman asked, “What do you mean?”

“Well, a fundamental tenet of Christianity is caring for others.  You don’t do anything for anyone else and you are the only person who gets joy from these flowers.  I am going to give you a task but I seriously doubt you can do it.  I want you to look into the church bulletin and see if there is anyone who is suffering or grieving and send them one of your plants.  Again, I doubt you will do this.”

I guess the challenge was too much to resist so she did it.  The response from the recipients and the pastor were so positive she did it again.  Soon she was sending violets to anyone she heard of who was in need.  When she died, hundreds of mourners showed up to honor “The African Violet Lady”, a person they saw as a caring and generous woman.  

And it all began with a challenge and one small act of kindness.

Except for one semester, I was a student in University from the fall of 1960 to the fall of 1970.  I saw many changes during that period, one of which was the introduction of drugs to student life. By the end of the decade I was a pretty heavy user of Marijuana and dabbled in other drugs. After I moved to Victoria and took my first job I continued to use drugs recreationally.  

Shortly after Ishiyama Sensei arrived in the mid-seventies and became our Aikido Sensei, he announced we were going to do a demonstration at the university.  We arrived, changed and went onto the mats to warm up.  He approached me and told me I was going to do the knife attacks.  This was fine with me because we had always used wooden knives in practice.  He then went to a small box on the edge of the mats and extracted a long, very pointed metal knife.  As he handed it to me I asked, “How do you want me to attack you?”

“Any way you like,” he responded.

I realized at that point that if either of us made a mistake, I could die. So I did my best to attack at full speed and with lethal intent and he countered every attack.  It seemed like it went on for hours. That night it was broadcast on the local TV station and I realized it was only about three minutes.  But I knew at that time that I wanted to experience every moment of my life with that same awareness and intensity.  I never used drugs again.  

In 1981 I was approached by my Dean regarding a pilot project in Infant Day Care.  In Victoria, B.C. there were no infant day care centers (centres!) and the government was about to initiate a program designed to encourage the establishment of infant day care. The College Day Care Centre was going to be one of the first and he planned to expand our Day Care Worker training program to include infant care.  He wanted me to head up the creation of the program.

I said I would do it but I hadn’t read any research on the subject in 10 years since my graduation from the Institute of Child Development at the University of Minnesota.  I asked him if he would send me to Stanford for a month where the author of the textbook I used in my Child Development class was a professor. He agreed.

I contacted the professor and she agreed to mentor me in this endeavor if I would keep a record of my findings and give a copy to her so she could use the information for her next book.  This sounded like a good trade to me.  Summer came and I was off to Palo Alto while my wife stayed in Victoria with our two sons.  Our trade was that she would fly them down at the end of a month and the boys and I would visit relatives and generally enjoy California, Oregon and Washington while she had time alone.  So the time came and I drove down to Palo Alto where I would stay with my good friend Carol for a month. 

When I got there I was suddenly overwhelmed by the immensity of the commitment I had made.  I had not done anything like this in 10 years and I didn’t like doing it back then.  Also, it was the hottest summer in Northern California history and the first time I walked into the Stanford library I felt smothered by the oppressive heat as there was no air conditioning.  Additionally, I was not in the best emotional state as my wife and I had recently reunited after a separation that had really knocked the wind out of my sails.  And, most importantly, being a Cal graduate, I was feeling guilty for consorting with the enemy, Stanford. 

My first visit to the library lasted about an hour and I left frustrated and angry that I had put myself into this situation without really assessing how difficult it would be for me.  I missed my wife and boys, was not really that excited about the research and remembered that after finishing four years of graduate school, I never wanted to see another journal article as long as I lived.

But I had a job to do so the next day I promised to stay until noon. Reading about infant perception in the morning, I found myself beginning to get interested in the amazing things researchers had discovered about infants over the last 10 years.  The next day I stayed all day and soon I was going in at night and on the weekends. I was amassing reams of note cards and when I met with the prof at the halfway point she was delighted to see my work and said I had saved her many hours of work that she could now spend with her three young children. 

This is a good example of some of the principles of Kaizen, another form of Japanese psychology.  I started small, gradually increased my time on the project, kept with it and the project overcame my emotional state.  It really became my life. More importantly, it proved to me that I could do a very good job on a project that had to be its own reward.  There was no prize, no money or pat on the head when I was done.  Finishing the task with thoroughness and integrity was the only reward.

My clinical supervisor in Seattle once said to me, don’t think of the Psyche as part of you, think of yourself as part of the Psyche.  In the same way, this project was not part of my life, I was part of it.  I was an employee of the project.  It had a life of its own.

There were other benefits as well.  I got to know Carol really well and we remained good friends, exchanging letters at Christmas and at our Birthdays.  One of the first things she told me, having been born on December 25th, was, “I will not accept one card.  You have to send two.” We were on a pretty tight budget but occasionally we would go out to dinner.  Her boyfriend had recently left her and she would offer to pay if I promised to walk by his house with my arm around her feigning mad love and affection.  Also, I joined the Stanford Aikido Club and practiced every day there was a practice.  When I finished the project, the boys came down and we had a great vacation together.  

When I returned we set up the program and the Day Care became a fantastic resource for the community.  The people who actually made this happen were the wonderful teachers in the training program and the exceptional day care supervisors at the centre.  Also, I had a lot of new material for my course in Child Development.  I will always be grateful for the experience this project afforded me.  

Sometimes life wakes you up and change is immediate.  My friend Ron is a great example of this.  Ron’s family owned a very profitable furniture store. From an early age Ron showed great ability in art and design and was a genius working with his hands.  He once showed me a report card from a prestigious private boy’s school which he attended.  All the grades were rather mediocre except art. He excelled at art. He also showed me a picture of a beautiful boat he had built while still in elementary school.  It was a work of art. However, Ron’s parents had other plans for him.  They wanted him to become an architect and a professional of whom they could be proud.  So even though his academic record was not astounding, off he went to study architecture at University.  Not surprisingly, he flunked out.

Ron may have been the most introverted and shy person I have ever met in my life.  Upon returning home after failing in University, his parents took him into the business and made him the director of personnel.  There could not be a job on earth for which Ron was more poorly suited.  Fortunately, he married a woman who was very supportive and realized he could not survive in this job. One day, after waking from a terrible nightmare, he resigned his job, sold his stock and begin a business building wooden toys for children.  He would isolate himself in his garage while doing his woodwork and his wife would handle all sales from the kitchen of her house.  She served as the business manager, doorkeeper and was a welcoming presence who always seemed to have something delicious to offer you while you were picking up toys.    At some point they began to build a boat.  After years of work it was a beautiful sight to see. Eventually they divorced and Ron moved to a local island where he now builds boats that have been commissioned by people who value his unique ability.  What would his life have been like if his parents had seen this gift and nurtured it?

If you were to walk into the office that my wife and I use for our psychotherapy practice, you would see lots of turtles.  Turtles on the desks, turtles on the tables, a turtle candle holder, turtles in the windows and turtles on the floor.  Not live turtles but every kind of turtle you could imagine. You would even see a turtle painted on a drum on the wall and a turtle night light.  There used to be more turtles but my wife said, “Enough is enough.  We are taking some of these home.”   She has replaced them with shells and stones in the same places.  She has her magic and I have mine.

When I taught and worked with the First Nations Salish people of Vancouver Island they told me the turtle clan was the healing clan and that I belonged to that clan.  This was an incredible honor so I started collecting turtles.  People saw my turtles and starting giving me turtles so I have a lot. People have brought them from all over the world.

I have turtles everywhere to remind me to slow down.  My nature is to go fast, to want to finish everything before I need to and come to closure too early.  There is also a practical issue here.  I do not have the physical abilities I had when I was younger and when I get ahead of myself I tend to break things, harm my person and otherwise cause havoc.  

My mother was the same way.  She fell many times in her 80s because this previously active and athletic woman just could not slow down.  She would stand up from her easy chair, set off at breakneck speed only to trip and fall.  On one Super bowl Sunday I got a call from her residence just as the game was going to start.  She had fallen and they could not stop her nosebleed due to her use of blood thinners.  The woman said that my mother had asked her not to call me because she knew I was watching the game but that they were really worried.  

I drove rapidly to the residence where I found my mother covered in blood and rapidly swelling and darkening around the eyes.  I did not feel adequate to deal with this so I called 911 for an ambulance to take her to the hospital.  When the first responder walked in he looked at the game on the TV, then my mother, then me.  "I gather you are rooting for different teams,” he said.  

We all went to the hospital and she sent me home and said, “Don’t come get me until the game is over.”

At the beginning of the final quarter, the hospital called and the nurse told me I had to come get her NOW.  They needed the bed.  I guess Super bowl Sunday is a high volume day in the ER.   The next week I bought a TiVo box.

I used to take her to the Coumadin (blood thinner) clinic to get her blood tested. One time she registered very high blood pressure.  “I am a nervous Nelly and I always will be,” she said.  “And I gave it to him.”  Then looking at me pensively she said, “He doesn’t seem to be like that anymore.”  

I looked at the nurse and said, “Thousands of dollars in therapy.” She said, “Me too.”

One last story about change.  My brother and I were extremely close. I was five years his senior and from the day he was born I felt responsibility for his safety and well-being.  In 1965 my wife and I were living in San Francisco taking courses at S.F. State and preparing to move to Minnesota where I was to begin my Ph.D. studies.  He was still at home in L.A. with my parents.  Shortly before Christmas my father called to tell me that my brother had acute Leukemia and that although he was undergoing new treatment (a variation of which saves children today), he was not expected to live.  Over the next six months he was in and out of hospital, suffering intensely through repeated relapses and remissions.  My life vacillated between the hubris of entering graduate school and the depression resulting from the impending loss of my best friend.  I think I engaged in a lot of denial.  Susan says we visited him once in hospital while he was sick but I have no recollection of that.  The day finally came when my father called to tell us to come to L.A. to say goodbye. 

It was the sixties in San Francisco and compared to my friends at home and my father’s contemporaries, I had long hair.  Today it probably would not even qualify as long hair but it did at that time and it identified me as belonging to a certain cohort that was not popular with my parents’ generation.  Whenever I would go home my dad would offer me money to get it cut and I always refused. I think that although this was a version of what Erikson calls a negative identity (identity through opposition) it also was symbolic of the emergence of my own identity, separate from my family and the dominant culture.  

As my wife and I were getting ready to go to the hospital to say goodbye to Steve my dad said, “I want you to get a haircut before you see him. I want him to remember you as you were.” 

I was completely paralyzed.  I had to choose between being who I was at the time and pleasing my father, who I knew was in a state of total despair.  So I agreed.  After the haircut, as I drove up the driveway to pick up my wife on the way to the hospital she came out of the house with tears running down her face. “Steve is dead,” she said.  I never got to say goodbye to the second most important person in my life.  Tears form in my eyes as I write this fifty years later.

I was psychologically sophisticated enough at the time to know that the real reason I was sent to the barber was so that I would not embarrass my parents. Although not being able to say goodbye to my brother and my best friend was a result of parental narcissism, in some ways it was a powerful experience in the activation of what is called in Psychosynthesis, my own internal unifying center. 

I vowed that day that no matter how my future children presented themselves to the world and no matter what choices they made in life, I would support them for themselves and not how they reflected on me.  Being my parents’ child, I couldn’t always do that but the two fine men I see today are proof that my wife and I, nutty as we were in those early years, got that part right.  I remember when my youngest son was about eight, my wife said to him, “You really like yourself don’t you?”  He looked at her like she was the dumbest person on earth. 

“Of course,” he replied.  She looked at me, smiled and said, “If he only knew what we have had to go through to get to that place that he takes for granted.”

Although I held this against my father for years, when he was dying my mother asked us to come to L.A. to say goodbye to him.  She said she didn’t want the experience with Steve to be repeated and that she was the one who wanted me to get a haircut and had regretted it ever since.  She knew I blamed my Dad and that she didn’t want him going to his grave with that between us.

I think that my wife and I, coming out of very different but equally dysfunctional families, have been our own best parents.  Even during our worst times together we often have been able to sidestep our own narcissism and support what is best for the other.  My wife sometimes says that I saved her from her family but I often wonder about it when I see the humane society bumper sticker, “Who rescued who?”

Psychosynthesis

In the early 70s my friend John gave me some information on Psychosynthesis. After reading a few articles, I became fascinated by the approach to psychotherapy and life in general.  Let me lay out some of the theory.

Think about how you act in different situations.  For example, at work are you one person and at home someone completely different? When you are with your parents or other authority figures do you behave differently again, perhaps like a compliant child or an obstinate rebel?  Are you the outgoing leader with some friends and the passive follower with others?  Like the famous Dr. Jekyll, on some days are you the perfect mate or parent and on other days the diabolical Mr. Hyde?  Do you sometimes wonder, “Why did I do that?” Do you find yourself joyful one moment and in the depths of sadness in the next with no idea of why you experience such intense fluctuations?  In Psychosynthesis we call the people you become in these different situations subpersonalities.  In other words, you assume a different identity in each situation, often without even being aware of it.  

Unfortunately, the beliefs, thoughts, feelings and expectations that motivate our behavior when we are “in” one of these subpersonalities are often unconscious and unexamined and can be completely different for each subpersonality.  This leads to splitting and internal conflict between the different parts of ourselves and we seem to be in a state of war with ourselves and others.  These subpersonalities have formed as a result of early experience and probably served us well in our attempt to survive and even prosper in our families and culture. However, in adulthood these patterns that reflect our adaptation to what and how others wanted us to be do not reflect our true nature nor are they effective in the world we now inhabit. In fact, they may be quite destructive and counterproductive.  For example, someone who complied and was always nice in order to avoid physical abuse from an alcoholic father may find herself constantly bending to the whims of others and not looking after her own welfare. This kind of person often asks, “Why do I keep doing this.”

Although this is not a healthy or happy existence, in our culture it is “normal.” Many of us live in a trance as we follow the dictates of these parts of ourselves that do not reflect our basic nature or our deeper desire to live in harmony within ourselves and with others. While in this trance we can experience addictions, compulsions, poor interpersonal relationships and a general unhappiness that can appear as depression, anxiety or as other psychological symptoms.

Psychosynthesis is a process that carefully opens the doors to the unconscious realms and shines a light on the dark secrets that keep us prisoners of our past. As we examine the genesis of these subpersonalities and discern which aspects of each subpersonality are congruent with our true nature and which are not, it becomes possible to reconstruct ourselves in harmony with our true selves so that we can become whole people who interact in a healthy manner with both the world around us and the world within.  

We all come into this world potentially whole.  By this I mean that we have the possibility of living out a destiny that is congruent with the gifts that reflect our own unique being. If you are comfortable with a spiritual perspective, you might conceptualize this as following your soul’s journey.  If you are not comfortable with this approach, you might look at this way of being as living in harmony with your own intrinsic nature or even your own genetic code.  

If you have observed very young children you probably have noticed how unique each child is, even shortly after birth.  Some are very wary and observant of the world around them and others are virtually oblivious to their environment.  You may have noticed that some are “people oriented” and some are “object oriented.”  As a parent, it was a shock to me that this uniqueness surfaced very early in my children and seemed totally independent of and resistant to environmental factors. One would wake if a pin dropped and the other would not be awakened by a train barreling through the front room. One has always been fascinated by ideas and the other by concrete problems to be solved.  Effective parents see these unique traits and abilities in their children and engage in mirroring their children.  In other words, they see that their children have certain abilities and dispositions and they actively recognize and foster, or at least accept, these aspects. When this happens we say that there is an empathic response from the parent to the child’s authentic self.  This does not mean we cannot set limits or teach our children good social skills. It just means that good parents have a basic respect for who the child is as they engage in the difficult process of preparing children for adult life.

Unfortunately, most of us do not experience perfect parenting nor are we perfect parents ourselves.  When, as children, our abilities and feelings are not recognized or actually are demeaned or punished and we are dismissed, shamed or otherwise experience an empathic failure, we learn very quickly what is acceptable and what is not.  For a child, rejection by a parent is terrifying and, in the child’s mind, can be experienced as life threatening.  In Psychosynthesis we call this the fear of nonbeing.  As a response to this and other fears we develop subpersonalities that help us cope with the world around us and insure our survival.  This is why we call these adaptations survival subpersonalities.

A common example is the subpersonality of “The Pleaser.”  If parents only mirror and shine on their child when he or she is compliant and helpful and meets the parents’ expectations, the child may develop a subpersonality that as an adult requires the person to be helpful and giving in order to feel any self-worth.  The person may also experience an inability to form boundaries, say “no” or know what he or she actually wants in life.  Another child might respond to this expectation by developing “The Rebel,” whose identity and self-esteem is dependent upon constantly being in opposition to authority and others’ expectations.   In fact, both of these subpersonalities could exist in one person. The important factor here is that we, as adults, often are not aware of the unconscious motivations and feelings behind the behavior we exhibit when we are “in” these subpersonalities.

Each subpersonality has its own way of interacting consciously with the world but there are two unconscious aspects of each that are very important.  The painful, shaming experiences of childhood are pushed out of our conscious awareness and into what we call the lower unconscious.  Outside of our awareness, these unconscious memories and experiences often drive the behavior we exhibit when we are acting out of that subpersonality.  In fact, at its most extreme, the main goal of the subpersonality is to avoid all feelings and memories that resurface in situations that resemble the original wounding experience and, in the mind of the inner child, activate the threat of nonbeing. On the other hand, those gifts and unique aspects of our being that were not accepted and for which we were shamed are also repressed into what we call the higher unconscious. In this realm such denigrated characteristics as intuition, sensitivity, creativity and artistic ability may reside completely hidden.

The initial work of Psychosynthesis involves examining each of the subpersonalities while delving into the repressed unconscious experiences that led to their creation.  The process of uncovering the painful experiences as well as our true gifts can be lengthy and intense but very rewarding as we discover the motivation behind outmoded, destructive and maladaptive behavior, thoughts and feelings contained in the farther reaches of the subpersonalities.  

As we examine how the subpersonalities were formed, how they have evolved into adult subpersonalities, how they form alliances between each other and how they experience conflict with each other we see that some aspects of each subpersonality may be helpful to us in our journey to wholeness and happiness. It also becomes clear that other aspects, useful in surviving our youthful fears, are no longer helpful, limit our ability to function and are downright destructive.

Most importantly, we want to integrate the positive aspects of each subpersonality into our everyday life.  This process is called synthesis.  We want to synthesize the many subpersonalities into one whole personality which, although it may behave differently in different situations, always reflects the true wholeness of the person we really are and helps us to reach our individual destiny.  Our behavior becomes a product of conscious thought and feeling rather than being driven by unconscious shame and guilt and the avoidance of nonbeing.  We refer to this ultimate state as functioning from the authentic self.  

As memories surface and the unconscious material becomes conscious, a sense of “I” begins to evolve.  In other words, an observer that is independent of childhood or cultural conditioning begins to surface and we begin to see who we really are, how we actually experienced early life and how we want to live life now, in harmony with but not bound by the expectations of others.  As Psychosynthesis progresses, it becomes clear that the “I” is a reflection of a deeper aspect of you, your self. The self is the ultimate expression of who you are and, if you have a spiritual approach to life, a representation of your soul.  If you are not comfortable with this concept, think of the self as the totality of all of your potential and experiences which possesses the innate knowledge of exactly how you should lead your life.  

In Psychosynthesis we speak of the will, which provides the impetus for our behavior. The will of the survival personality drives you to respond to life in a way that avoids re-experiencing the wounding of your childhood and the fear of nonbeing.  As we age, these responses become less and less satisfying and eventually become counterproductive.  Their ineffectiveness and the unhappiness that accompanies them is often the reason we end up in psychotherapy. The “I” has its own will and as it becomes stronger during the process of Psychosynthesis, it is able to direct your behavior in a way that is more congruent with your nature than the dictates of survival personalities. Ultimately, you may experience the will of the self which can appear as a calling or a motivation to action that you cannot possibly ignore regardless of how foolish it may seem to others.

As the “I” strengthens and the self becomes clearer, it becomes possible to disidentify from each subpersonality.  In other words, we can still inhabit the subpersonality but the behavior we associate with the subpersonality is now serving the healthy needs of the self rather than keeping unconscious fears at bay.  For example, one may begin to parent in a way that serves the needs and healthy authentic development of your children rather than serving your own primitive need to feel safe by being in control or serving the need for your children’s culturally sanctioned accomplishments to augment your own self-image. You may begin to do your job in a way that makes the most sense to you and allows you accomplish more than when you were working primarily for the approval and adulation of your coworkers and superiors.  On the other hand, you may find that as the need for the approval of others wanes you feel a desperate need to explore a career that reflects your basic nature and not the expectation of parents, spouses or the culture in general.  Be warned that such major transformations, although personally healthy, can be very disturbing to the others in your life.  This is not a process to be taken lightly.

Although dredging up the past and recovering memories and feelings that are painful can be very unpleasant, the freedom from unconscious control allows one to fully function in the present without the need for validation from others or the need to meet unrealistic expectations of yourself and others contained within the unconscious areas of unexamined subpersonalities.  It becomes possible for you to be a happy, satisfied and whole person just being who you really are.

I have been asked, “Isn’t this all about me? Is this not a selfish, self-absorbed and narcissistic process in which I am involved?”  My experience has been quite the opposite.  When we are operating from the needs of survival subpersonalities, our motivation is unconscious, driven by unrealistic demands and fundamentally designed to keep us safe from our fear of nonbeing.  We behave with hidden agendas (often hidden from ourselves), we blame others, project our feelings and motivations onto others and are generally unhappy whenever the world doesn’t live up to our expectations.  Living from the self allows us to moderate the need for external validation, relate to others in an authentic, altruistic and empathic manner and to be fundamentally satisfied and happy with life.  This is the beauty of Psychosynthesis, a path to self-acceptance and harmony in both the internal and external world.  

Some Useful Psychological Concepts

The Guilt-Resentment-Persecution Triangle describes the dynamic of many relationships.  The idea here is that if you use guilt to convince someone to do what you want them to do they will do it but feel resentment.  Sometimes the resentment is conscious and sometimes unconscious. Resentment then morphs into persecution. This can take many forms.  One of the most common is passive aggressive behavior. Forgetting, postponing, or just plain not doing are examples of this behavior.  I knew someone once who was a master at this. His wife kept on asking him to put in skylights that they had bought and he kept agreeing but never did it.  Finally, she erupted, showed him where to put them in and demanded that he do it, shaming him in the process.  He finally did it but he “accidentally” put them in the wrong places.  The example of the boy I forced to learn letters earlier was also exhibiting passive aggressive behavior when he learned his letters and them presented them to me in an insulting way.  

The Victim-Rescuer-Persecutor drama is also a useful way of seeing some relationships.  When one sees oneself as a victim it is often assumed others fall into one of two categories, rescuer or persecutor.  And if you are not a rescuer you are definitely a persecutor.  Although there are real victims out there, someone who continually takes the victim stance often is not willing to take responsibility for his or her behavior and blames others for the consequences of that behavior. Heaven help the person that points out that this person is often responsible for his or her own predicament.  A common pattern seen in narcissistic individuals begins with the narcissist feeling like a victim because others are not giving him the constant validation he needs and feels he deserves.  This validation actually serves the purpose of fending off unconscious feelings of inferiority and inadequacy.  Usually, when validation is not forthcoming the narcissist then feels justified in becoming the persecutor and will attack those who hold him responsible for his attitudes and behaviors.  Unfortunately, there is usually someone out there who, for his or her own conscious or unconscious reasons, will step up and rescue the narcissist.  This can be called collusion.  One need only read the entertainment or political news sections to see this drama replayed over and over.  

Unconscious empathy is a skill that some people possess without even knowing it. It involves unconsciously picking up what another person is feeling even though the other person may not be expressing it. The feeling is then perceived as coming from the receiver. Have you noticed that sometimes after speaking with or spending time with a particular person you feel angry or depressed or inadequate?  While this feeling may belong to you, sometimes you are unconsciously picking up what the other is not willing to recognize in him- or herself.  While this is a great tool, especially if you are a therapist, it is also a curse.  People with this skill, often called “sensitives”, need to learn how to discriminate between their own feelings and the feelings of others not being expressed. Psychological boundaries that protect us from unconscious assault are also important to develop.  

Much has been written about the concepts “Masculine” and “Feminine” and the differences between them.  I do not think these are particularly helpful concepts in the 21st century. They often suffer from overgeneralization or stereotyping and tend to be used in a pejorative manner.  I think the concepts of Eros and Logos are more useful.  Eros is the domain of feelings, connection, empathy and intuition.  Logos is the domain of thought, logic and rational analysis. Both are necessary but in the past the former has been ascribed to women and the latter to men.  Traditionally, men who live in the world of Eros are seen as sissies and women who live in the world of Logos are seen as unfeeling and cold.  Although everyone usually favors one of these approaches to life over the other, it is a balance that is necessary, both in men and women. Different situations require different solutions.

A third principle that is neither Eros or Logos is the Power principle. The Power principle is neither relational or logical.  The fundamental axiom is “might makes right.”  I am bigger and more powerful so you will do as I say.  History is replete with examples of this principle and it usually doesn’t end well for the powerful, even if it takes generations to overcome the oppressor.  It is particularly destructive in relationships between people and especially damaging to children.  Also, like guilt, it engenders resentment and eventually retaliation, if possible.  

The Inflation Deflation cycle is a useful concept to understand mood swings and such concepts as narcissism, depression and anxiety.  A simple analogy my supervisor once used is helpful understanding this cycle.  Think of your personality as a balloon.  A balloon that is underinflated will not support itself.  It just lays there.  A balloon that is overinflated is very large but very thin and can be popped easily. The key to a healthy personality is to have a balloon that is just the right size to support itself but not so big that it pops easily when life does not support your self-concept or inflated ideas you have about yourself. Many people oscillate between these two states depending on the feedback the world around them provides. 

Good parenting is about helping a child develop a personality that can support itself and be content in the world and at the same time not be so big that it ignores the needs of others and is self-absorbed or narcissistic.  Narcissism is the psyche’s way of blowing up a big balloon to cover the unconscious little, flaccid balloon that is the true nature of the narcissist.  

How do we encourage and support our children in their quest to be themselves and be effective in the world without creating a narcissistic monster?  Here are some ideas.

Parenting

Parenting is a very difficult task.  This statement will, of course, surprise no-one who has actually tried it.  In the fifty years my wife and I have shared the title of parent, we have, like everyone else, learned gradually through trial and error what it means to be good parents.  We are still learning.  I sometimes wonder how parents cope with the number of books, courses and "experts” who are willing to tell them how to raise children.  It must be very frustrating, especially since many of the experts seem to disagree with each other.  My daughter-in-law said than when she expressed her fears about parenting to her grandmother she replied, “There are probably 100 ways to raise children and 99 of them are ok.”  I spent a lot of time working with parents both as a teacher and a therapist. Here are some of the ideas I thought were important.

There are two things you can do to begin becoming a better parent. First, find some way to rediscover the memories of your own childhood. When did you feel good about yourself? When did you feel bad?  What would you change about your parents and what would you leave untouched if you had your childhood to do over again?  Parents who remain naive about this part of their lives are likely to re-enact the negative aspects of their own childhood in some way with their own children.  Through reading, reflection, discussion or therapy you can re-parent yourself and break the cycle of abusive or ineffectual parenting that is often passed from generation to generation.  Secondly, familiarize yourself with developmental psychology. Find out what needs and behaviors are normal for children in your child’s age group.  Often, what may seem strange or unruly to parents is normal for children in a particular age group.  In addition to these two fundamental tasks, there are a variety of parenting techniques and ideas that I have found to be very helpful which I will present in the following pages.

It seems to me that the most important thing you can do as a parent is to recognize who your child is.  What is his temperament? What are her interests? What are his strengths and what are his challenges?  Above all else it is important to recognize that this is her life and not yours.  Children should not have to live out their parents unrealized dreams and aspirations. My previous story about Ron is a good example of this.  Given this assumption, there are some useful tools for helping children to develop within a family and culture while still maintaining their own identity.  Let’s look at the four strokes first.

A stroke is something you experience from the environment around you.  A positive stroke such as a smile or praise feels good, while a negative stroke, such as criticism or a spanking, feels bad.  A stroke is said to be conditional if something has to be done by the child to receive it.  On the other hand, unconditional strokes are not related to the child’s behavior.  For example, if the child takes out the garbage and mother says, “Thanks a lot,” this is a conditional positive stroke.  Sending a child to her room after she teased her sister is a conditional negative stroke.  In both cases, the stroke was a result of some specific act.  In one case the consequence, or stroke, was positive and in the other it was negative.  "I love you” is an unconditional positive stroke since your love, which feels good, is not connected to anything the child has done.  If you are in a lousy mood and you say to a child, “Get lost,” this is an unconditional negative stroke.  This remark feels bad and is in no way related to anything she has done.  What are the effects of these different strokes?

The receipt of unconditional positive strokes is absolutely essential to the formation of positive self-esteem in a child.  The message conveyed is, “you are o.k. for who you are; no matter what you do I will still love you.”  Many parents who were abused or neglected as children have never experienced this kind of stroke and, as a result, don’t understand the importance of letting their own child know how much they care for her.  For many parents, their own unhappiness may be so great that they cannot express love or appreciation to anyone.  For these kinds of parents, repairing their own self-esteem through therapy is the first step towards being able to give positive strokes to their child.

One of the most meaningful ways you can deliver unconditional positive strokes to your child is to spend time doing what she likes to do.  This may be swimming, reading a book, going for bike rides, preparing a meal together or just hanging out.  Children invest their parents with a lot of power.  You are very important to your child. Spending time with a child doing what she likes to do gives the child the message that you consider her needs important and that you like her. This is a message that enhances her self-esteem.  Of the four strokes, this is the most important for children to receive from their parents and is, unfortunately, the least common.  Unconditional positive strokes by themselves are not enough however. This does not prepare a child for a world in which there are limits and can lead to an inflated sense of self, sometimes termed omnipotence or narcissism.

Conditional positive strokes, while they also enhance self-esteem in the child, act as reinforcement of behavior that is considered acceptable, appropriate or pleasing by the parents.  For example, when you say to your child, “You did a good job,” or “I really appreciate you taking your dishes to the sink,” or “Thank you for picking up your clothes,” it not only gives her a feeling of accomplishment and self-worth, but also serves to increase the behavior that earned the stroke. We will talk more about this later.

The conditional negative stroke, or punishment, as it is more commonly known, is, unfortunately, the most common tool parents use to try to influence their children’s behavior. Parents tend to use punishment because it is fast and easy and often puts an immediate end to an unacceptable behavior.  However, in the long run, punishment often does not work.  While punishment teaches a child what kind of behavior is considered inappropriate, it does not necessarily teach her what is appropriate.  For instance, if you punish a child for whining, she doesn’t really learn another more constructive way to ask for things she wants. In the end she probably will whine because it occasionally pays off, making the punishment worth suffering.  Punishment also has the effect of arousing a child emotionally and she may get upset, angry, or fearful.  Stirring up these intense negative emotions does nothing to help a child learn appropriate behavior and, when the child begins to associate these feelings with the punisher, she may form a negative image of the parent in her mind.  The child learns to fear, avoid and lie to her parent. Furthermore, punishment, especially physical punishment (e.g., hitting or spanking), models negative behavior. If a child is hit every time she does something a parent doesn’t like, the message is: “If you don’t like what someone is doing, hit her.”  Punishment is also likely to result in revenge.  The punished child may see herself at the losing end of a power struggle and try to find a way of getting even, often by repeating the behavior she was punished for in the first place.  Prolonged or severe punishment will result in the formation of a negative self-image as the child incorporates the belief that she is bad. Punishment may sometimes be deemed necessary by a parent, but is often overused in our culture.  We will discuss some alternatives later.

Because of our own inability to deal with a child or because of problems in our own lives, we may feel compelled to deal out unconditional negative strokes to our children. Sarcasm, critical remarks about a child’s character (“You are a bad child.”) or the use of undeserved negative strokes of any kind is abuse.  This is devastating to the self-esteem of the child who receives it.  Since the negative stroke is in no way related to the child’s behavior, the message to the child is “you are not worthwhile no matter what you do.”  Many parents will recognize this kind of stroke from their own childhood, and should eliminate it from their own parenting. Unlike punishment, which may be unavoidable, abuse is never appropriate.

Knowing that negative strokes are to be avoided, how can we as parents deal with misbehavior? There are essentially three options we have open to us in these situations.  

The first option is for a parent to change herself or her attitudes toward her child’s behavior. It is important for parents to realize that their thoughts about how children should behave are based mostly on their own specific experience in a family and in a culture. Sometimes, these expectations are not realistic and behavior that you consider inappropriate may be entirely normal for a child of a given age.  This is why it is important to have some knowledge of developmental psychology. Find out what is normal for children the same age as your own.  For example, if your two year old daughter is constantly saying “no!” is getting into everything and is generally driving you crazy, you may have to give up trying to control her every move through constant punishment and accept this as normal for a child of her age.  This doesn’t mean there shouldn’t be consequences for her behavior, but it is extremely important to remember that, in most cases, what you are seeing is not deviant nor aimed at you personally.  This is particularly important to keep in mind when dealing with adolescents who have a natural bent toward independence and question all forms of authority.  I have found pediatricians, day-care supervisors, parenting courses and other parents to be helpful sources of information about normal, age-appropriate behavior.

Changing yourself or your attitudes will not always be the right choice and may lead the child to an unrealistic belief that the world will change to meet her demands.  If this is the case, one of the other two options will be more appropriate.  However, examining your own behavior and attitudes is always a good place to start.

The second option involves changing the environment.  To return to the example of the two year old, this approach would involve accepting her curiosity as normal and moving everything breakable or dangerous in the house above the child’s reach.  Eventually she will lose interest in these objects and also learn what she can and can’t touch.  Sometimes children are in classrooms or schools that are not suited to them. This is another situation in which you might like to change the environment.  Again, this may not be the best approach.  In some cases it may be best for her to learn to cope with less than perfect situations and realize that the world will not always accommodate to her.

The final option, the one which parents most frequently turn to, is to try to change the child, usually in the form of punishment.  While this particular response is relatively easy and quick, it is not very effective and has, as we have already seen, many negative side effects.  As an alternative to punishment, there are several ways we can modify behavior.  Let’s look at them.

As a preventative measure, I would suggest that the most important thing a parent can do is to provide a good role model for the child. Behave as you would like the child to behave.  Children learn best by modeling.  If they see violent, negative behavior, that is what they will model. All the parenting skills combined cannot undo bad models.  

It is also important to state limits clearly.  Often children will misbehave just to find out what the limits are, their thinking being, “How far can I go before she will react?”  Limits must also be consistent.  If, for example, it is o.k. to throw toys on one day, but a punishable offence on the next, the child learns that the world is an unsafe and unpredictable place and will probably act out her anxiety in some way that you will find unpleasant.  This is not to say that limits can’t change. When you realize that a limit is unrealistic or unfair, it is time to change it. When dealing with older children, for example, good parents will listen and try to come to some mutual agreement about fair limits.  

The most effective way of changing behavior is through conditional positive strokes or positive reinforcement.  Many children misbehave in order to get attention. The theory behind positive reinforcement is to grant children the attention they desire when they are behaving appropriately and to deny it when they are misbehaving.  In other words, reinforce appropriate behavior, ignore negative behavior.  A former student of mine who taught dance to school-age children told me about a child who was a constant source of disruption in her class,  He would stand in the back row of the class gyrating and making strange sounds.  At first, she would stop the class and admonish him, but this had no effect.  This behavior became more frequent and disruptive as the class progressed.  Finally, at the end of her wits and having turned into a screaming banshee, she decided he had to go.  As a last resort, however, she decided to try positive reinforcement.  She completely ignored him when he acted up in class and paid attention to him only when he was acting appropriately. Amazingly, within about two weeks he was one of the best members of her class.  The secret to her success was a process called shaping.  When we shape a behavior, we begin by reinforcing any small approach to the expected behavior.  In this case, she began by reinforcing him when he was standing still and paying attention.  When the initial task is learned, the child is reinforced for gradual improvements and failure or negative behavior is ignored until the final goal is reached. Thus the child experiences positive strokes for attempting to change rather than experiencing punishment and failure.

Changing a child’s behavior is seldom as easy as was described in the above example.  One of the problems with children who misbehave for attention is that they have learned that the only way they will get attention is to misbehave. Often, a child will decide that a negative stroke is better than no stroke at all. In these cases, the continued negative responses she receives lead to the development of low self-esteem. Furthermore, children with very poor self-esteem sometimes reach the point where negative responses from others take on the role of positive reinforcements.  In other words, the child’s attitude is, “I only feel good when someone is treating me badly.”  Life for these children becomes one attempt after another to get someone to yell at them, hit them or otherwise respond negatively.  Parents, not knowing any other response, deliver negative strokes thinking they are punishing the child when they are, in fact, reinforcing negative behavior and solidifying low self-esteem.

People with poor self-esteem are destructive to themselves and to others. When I worked in a residential treatment center in the early 70’s, we admitted a boy who was the angriest, meanest six-year-old I had ever met.  His favorite pastimes were setting cats on fire and smearing dog feces inside little girl’s mouths.  He was the product of a violent and alcoholic home and his whole life seemed to be dedicated to enraging adults to the point where they would become abusive with him. I decided to implement a plan which consisted of completely ignoring him until he did something positive.  This plan was to be carried out by all staff members at the center.  About five minutes into the plan, he broke a window.  He was ignored and, to his amazement, no one responded. Realizing something was amiss, he found the smallest, most defenseless girl in the center and began pounding her mercilessly in the face. Obviously we had to immediately stop him and find some consequence for his behavior. I’ll never forget the grin on his face as I marched him away to his room. He had won.

There are two factors which contributed to this boy’s behavior.  The first is the need for attention which we have already discussed. Children must feel they can affect the people around them.  If they cannot affect you in a way that results in you giving them positive strokes, they will find out how to produce negative strokes.  The second is the need for power.  Children who feel powerless in their lives will attempt to gain power by acting in ways that are destructive to themselves and to others. How can we as parents ensure that our children have a feeling of power over their lives?  With young children, this can be as simple as letting them pick out their own clothes, or which bedtime story to read.  As they get older, you might let them set their own bedtime and decide which TV shows they want to watch.  Responsible parenting allows you to gradually give a child more and more control over her own life.  Children who know you respect and trust them will respond in kind.  A child who receives your trust will be trustworthy herself.  

Parents sometimes allow children too much power.  Children should not be allowed the freedom to decide to stop brushing their teeth, eat unhealthily, verbally or physically abuse others, miss sleep or participate in dangerous activities.  This is neglect and can result in omnipotent children who have little regard for others and believe life should meet all of their expectations.  The proper balance of autonomy allowed and limits imposed is something we all have struggled with as parents.  Children need power over some aspects of their lives, but they also need to feel safe in the hands of a parent who is in control of herself and the welfare of the child.

I would like to make one last comment about power.  Beware of power struggles. Try to avoid them by planning ahead and seeing what difficulties will arise in situations you face.  Don’t get into battles you can’t win.  Decide what rules and limits are really important.  Be really clear about them and don’t back down. Everything else should be negotiable or flexible, depending on the situation. Although children understand and respect strength in parents, they also place great value on fairness.  It is wise to avoid power struggles but we all eventually find ourselves in these battles which constitute the worst (and sometimes the funniest) memories of our parenting lives.  Try to have a sense of humor.  

Another alternative to punishment is the use of consequences. Consequences can be natural or logical.  A natural consequence is a consequence that occurs directly as a result of a child’s behavior and without the parent’s intervention.  If you go out in the rain without rain gear you will get wet and cold. If you do not eat dinner you get hungry. I do not recommend the following technique but it was an interesting example of learning as a result of natural consequences. When my son was about nine or ten months old, I was trying to teach him to stay away from hot things.  I would point to the stove and say, “Hot!”  He would put his hand on a cold burner and say “Hot!” very pleased with himself.  I used lots of different objects to try and teach this, all to no avail, since nothing was ever really hot. One day I was sitting drinking a cup of coffee and he walked up to me.  I pointed to the coffee and said “Hot!” Before I could stop him he stuck his finger into the coffee, immediately withdrew it and yelled, “HOT!” From that point on he always avoided anything I told him was hot. Again, I do not recommend this procedure, but it does exemplify the principle of natural consequences.

Often behaviors do not have natural consequences, or the consequences are so awful you cannot let a child experience them. For example, you do not teach children about not going in the street by allowing them to be hit by cars.  You can, however, apply logical consequences in these situations.  Logical consequences are consequences which make sense to the child and are linked in some logical way to the behavior.  Spanking, for example, is not logically related to any behavior, nor is being sent to your room without dinner because you swore.  Not getting desert because you did not eat your meal, however, is a logical consequence because the consequence is related to the behavior, eating your meal.  When I was trying to teach my one-year-old son not to go in the street I used logical consequences.  I would hold his hand, walk with him to the curb and say, “No street.”  He would look at me like I was crazy and say “No street.”  I would then let go and if he walked into the street I would pick him up, say “No!” firmly and take him into the house.  He would protest but we would stay inside for a while just to make the point. Going inside is a logical consequence to not behaving safely outside. I repeated this each day, each time moving farther away as he reached the curb, turned around, smiled and said “No street.”  When I felt that he had learned not to go in the street, I let him wander while I sat on the porch and watched.  One day he began to walk toward the corner about a half a block away.  My wife started after him but I said, “Let’s see what happens.”  When he got to the corner he turned his head, smiled, said “No,no,no!” and came back.  Needless to say, he got a lot of positive strokes for that decision.  

In the end, you may have to resort to punishment, but it should be your last option.  If you do resort to punishment, make sure it is being carried out for the child’s good and not yours.  In other words, the punishment should teach the child about limits or consequences and not be just the result of your frustration or anger. Avoid physical punishment.  This is bad modeling and is not necessary. Lastly, it is important to separate the behavior from the child; make sure the child understands that, though you may not like what she is doing, you still love her. Improving a child’s behavior at the expense of her self-esteem is a hollow victory.

It is important to not confuse reinforcement or positive strokes with bribery or natural and logical consequences with threatening. Reinforcement is spontaneous or part of a contract.  For example, we may reinforce a child who has just brought home a great report card or a child may earn a certain amount of money by completing tasks for which she is responsible.  We may spontaneously reinforce a child because she has done something that we have decided is appropriate or more mature than we previously accepted.  For example, a child may begin to baby-sit her younger sister when you go out. These are all things that are good for the child.  On the other hand, bribery is a calculated way to get a child to do something for you, usually after the child has started misbehaving.  For example, a child starts to scream in the store and we say, “Be quiet and I’ll get you a chocolate bar.”  The child learns, “If I misbehave long enough I will eventually get what I want.”  If we are going to reward a child for good behavior, it should be spontaneous or agreed upon before you go in the store. If the child misbehaves, no reward will be forthcoming.  

Threats are not very effective because, like bribes, they are usually made after the negative behavior begins.  In addition, threats are often seen as a challenge by the child, who may think to herself, “Let’s just see if she means this.”  Also, parents often threaten consequences that cannot be carried out, or that hurt the parent more than the child.  If I want to go shopping and tell my toddler that she will be taken home if she misbehaves, I am actually giving her a wonderful way to avoid shopping and setting myself up for a disappointing day or an opportunity to go back on my word.  Before getting into potentially troublesome situations, be really clear with your children what you expect of them and what will happen if they do or do not meet your expectations.  Do not make the child wait too long for positive consequences and if you resort to a negative consequence, it should be clear why this is happening.  

This reminds me of an experience I had with my youngest son. Threats are almost always a bad idea with children.  Threats you can’t carry out are even worse.  It was Halloween and we were going to take the boys to a party at our oldest son’s school after dinner.  We were having shrimp salad and my youngest son refused to eat any. So at first I told him we wouldn’t go until he ate two bites.  He refused.  Now I had really set myself up here in a power struggle I could not win.  We were going no matter what.  So I backed down to one bite. Still no agreement.  So I picked up a shrimp, stuffed it in his mouth, picked him up and loaded him into the car.  At the party he ate candy, bobbed for apples, played games and generally had a great time.  When we came home we put them to bed and he was so exhausted he was sound asleep before I could even kiss him goodnight.  As I leaned over to kiss him, his mouth opened and there on his lower gum was the shrimp.  

Parents ask a lot of questions about discipline.  Instead of thinking of discipline as punishment, it is helpful to think of it as teaching children how to govern their own behavior.  The child who has experienced unconditional love, conditional positive strokes, limits, good models and a minimum of negativity is not going to need to misbehave for attention or to prove her own power.  However, all children (and adults) misbehave.  What is important is our reaction to that behavior.

We said earlier that there were three ways to respond to misbehavior: Change yourself, change the environment or change the child.  All three approaches are appropriate in different situations. It is important to decide which one is best in the particular situation in which you find yourself.  Elizabeth Creary, in her book Beyond Spanking and Spoiling, says that the best way to answer the question, “What should I do?” is to ask yourself another question: “How can the needs of the child and my(our) needs get satisfied in this situation?”  Considering only your own needs produces a child who feels unloved and unseen, while considering only the child’s produces a spoiled child who does not understand how to get along with others.  The goal is to work toward a compromise which will lead to a situation in which both your needs and the child’s needs can be met.  To do this you may have to change yourself or your expectations, change the child’s environment, or you may have to change the child.

Children are not machines–you cannot learn how to “fix” them in courses or books. Although these sources of information are helpful, you cannot apply pat, simple solutions to complex problems. Bruno Bettleheim, in his book, The Good Enough Parent, says the key to being a good enough parent is to first understand why the child is doing what she is doing.  He maintains that, based on the child’s experience and level of understanding, everything a child does makes sense to her at the time.  According to Bettleheim, the first step in dealing with a problem is to understand the child’s perspective.  Why is the child doing what she is doing?  Is she scared?  Is she desperate for attention or power in her life?  Is she just acting like a normal four-year-old?  This approach requires us to listen to children. Although I have not addressed this topic here, it is extremely important and entire books have been written on the subject.  I enthusiastically recommend learning how to listen to your children if you have trouble in this area.  Secondly, he advises us to try and remember what it was like to be a child, to try to imagine what our own responses might have to the situations that cause problems for our children.  

Closely related to this idea is the concept of mirroring.  Mirroring entails recognizing what your child is feeling or thinking and reflecting it back.  This process begins with comforting an unhappy baby, returning her smiles and gazes and engaging in loving conversations with the cooing and babbling infant. Later we can show children that we understand why they are unhappy or angry even though we may not alter our limits or environment to satisfy the child’s desires.  A friend of mine once told me of an experience with her two-year-old granddaughter who was staying with her while her mother was delivering her second child. At one point during the week the toddler picked up a doll and started banging its head against the table while repeating over and over, “No want baby!”  My friend said, “I know you are angry and it is ok to be angry about having to share mommy, but it is not ok to hit the baby. Mommy and Grandma will love you just as much now as we did before the baby came.”  This process of mirroring tells the child her feelings and perceptions are valid even if her behavior is not acceptable.  It tells the child she matters and is worthy of existence in this world.  Mirroring helps to form a sense of self which will help a child to make healthy decisions later in life.

If we are able to do these two things, understand the child’s motives and feel what the child feels, we will most likely make the right decisions. Trust in your own intuition and your ability to become better at this very difficult task of childrearing. Integrate the information you feel is helpful with what you know in your heart is right for you and your child. Remember that, no matter what else happens, if your child leaves childhood knowing you love her and will always love her and has been given the tools necessary to negotiate the perils of life, you have been successful.  She will accept herself, will be able to love others and pass this gift to her own children.

White Seal Speaks

On March 12, 1862 the steamship Brother Jonathan arrived in Victoria, British Columbia, Canada from San Francisco.  It brought with it a most unwelcome guest, Smallpox.  When the disease began to appear in the locals, the government moved to inoculate as many people as possible. As many white people as possible, that is.  When native people camping near Victoria became ill, they were forced to leave and return to their villages.  There was no attempt to vaccinate them.  Between April and December of 1862, half of the indigenous population between Victoria and Alaska perished.  Later, more died.

Around the same time, the government started sending boats into the inlets where native villages lay.  They would tell the inhabitants that they had one hour to get their children ready to leave for residential schools run by the Catholic and Anglican churches. There the children lost their families, their names, their language, their culture, their religion and in many cases, their innocence and virginity.  All of this in the name of “civilizing the Indians” and bringing them to Jesus.  After my wife read this she said, “They didn’t lose it. It was stolen.”  A moving story was told to me by a man whose grandmother experienced this travesty.  When I said, “You should write down her stories,” he replied, “She says you have stolen everything else from us, you can’t steal our stories too.”

This history, and many more injustices, were on my mind when I first arrived at the Red Lion Inn in Victoria on a crisp fall morning to begin teaching a basic counseling skills course to some of the Salish people of Vancouver Island. Never in my life have I met a kinder, more welcoming group of students.  After all we had done to them, they still made me feel welcome.

The tribes, or bands, had horrible social issues.  Drug and alcohol abuse, family violence, sexual abuse and suicide were rampant. Each band had a social worker who had to deal with these problems.  Often the workers had no training and few resources and were overwhelmed and desperate for help.  From this need sprang the Camosun College Native Band Social Worker program.  I was chosen to teach several of the courses, beginning with Basic Counseling Skills, a week long all day program of instruction.

I remember unloading my station wagon that was packed with boxes of reprints and then carefully reviewing my presentation schedule complete with exercises and role plays before arriving at the classroom promptly at 9:00am.  No one was there.  Around 9:30 people began to straggle in and at 10 I began.  At lunchtime I carried all my boxes back to the car unopened and returned them to the college.  It was clear to me this was nothing like any group I had ever taught before.  What did I have to offer these people?  The problems were horrendous and I was lost as to how to approach the topic in a way that made sense.  I should have known then that I would learn much more from them than they would learn from me.  In retrospect, teaching in that program was one of the highlights of my life.

The indigenous people of Canada like to be referred to as First Nations people and they do have their own nations.  Nothing was more moving than watching some of my former students graduating from University with degrees in social work wearing the beautiful beaded and buttoned capes of their people.  While other students were introduced by their name only, the names of First Nation students were followed by phases like, “From the Salish Nation” or “From the Haida Nation.”  It seems to me this communicates that, “Yes we are part of Canada but we are our own people.”  This, in spite of all we have done to try to destroy that identity.

My first lesson was about the First Nations concept of time.  At the end of the day I asked if we could start on time the next day.  

“What time?” one student asked.  

I said, “How about 9:30?”  

He said, “9:30 white man time or Indian time?”  

“What is the difference?” I asked curiously.  

“White man time, 9:30.  Indian time, see you for lunch.”

Everybody laughed and we decided that 10:00 white man time would suffice. One wonderful elderly lady said, “Yeah we got to go to the Bingo tonight so we can’t get up too early.” Everybody laughed again and then let me in on that well known First Nations disorder, Bingo Addiction.

The older lady then said, “Larry, you hear about the two Indian boys lost in the woods?” “Nope,” I replied. One says, “We are lost, do you think we should pray?” The other says, “Sure but I never been to church.” The first one says, “I have lots of times and I know what they say.” “OK then, pray.” The first one screws up his face and in the loudest voice says, “Under the B!”

For my first exercise I chose reflective listening, a style of listening that shows the other person that you hear them, understand them and have empathy.  My first attempt went something like this:

Ernie (a chief):  “You know about 5 years ago I quit drinkin’.  Me and my friend Paul was out on my fishin’ boat one night and we drunk up a storm.  Then next day I woke up and Paul was gone. Overboard in the night.  I still cry about it.”

Frankie (a wonderful young man who I will talk about later): “Ernie it sounds like you come here with a heavy heart.”

Never in all my years of teaching counseling skills had I seen people so naturally listen and speak from the heart.  I had nothing to teach them about this.

After a long discussion about what was troubling them most, I realized they were frustrated by their inability to stand up to the white bureaucrats who controlled their lives.  Assertiveness and outspokenness are not valued traits in their culture but are essential when dealing with government agencies and what they would call “European culture.”  They found the course useful and I will never forget the stories they shared with me as I learned who they were and what they needed from me.  Their kindness to and tolerance of me, a representative of a race of people who had treated them so badly and knew so little of their culture moved me deeply.  They invited me back to teach Child Development, the next course.  

One of the funniest stories was told by a woman from a village so remote you had to fly in or travel by boat to get there.  She said as the plane flew in it would pass over hot springs frequented by “white hippies” bathing nude in the pools. The people of her band called them the white seals and it was a local custom to report on any white seal sightings after landing.  Hence the title of this piece.

One of the reasons direct communication and assertive behavior was difficult was that much of the communication between them was indirect or spoken in metaphor.  Assertiveness, confrontation and in some cases even eye contact were considered rude.  This left them vulnerable to being steamrolled by the white authorities and was often confusing to a culture as direct as ours.  One of the best examples of this was the avoidance of eye contact as a sign of respect. Many of my students remembered being beaten because they would not look a nun or a teacher in the eyes for fear of appearing disrespectful.

Once we had to make an important decision.  We sat in a circle and I laid out the problem.  One of the students started by telling a story about his sister.  The next described a fishing trip. This went on as each told a story.  I became more and more confused and frustrated and was about to demand that we deal with the issue at hand when Chief Josephine said, “Well, I guess we have arrived at a decision.”

Stunned, I asked, “When did that happen and what was the decision?”  They all laughed and one of them said playfully, “Oh, you white people are so stupid.”

Somewhere in all that metaphor was a discussion and decision about the topic but I’ll be damned if I had any idea what it was.  

On another occasion I was teaching a course at the College and there was one First Nations student in the course.  I assigned a paper that required the students to describe how their parents had disciplined them as children and the effect it had on them.  The lone Salish student came to me and told me she couldn’t do the paper because she was not raised like that.  She explained that if a child misbehaved some adult or elder would take them aside and tell them a story, most likely with that pesky trickster Raven at the center.  It was up to the child to realize the meaning of the story and apply the moral to his or her own behavior.  So she wrote a beautiful paper relating stories she was told and how her behavior changed in response to the stories.

At the end of one course I taught, the students asked me when I would have their papers finished and grades submitted.  I said, “Well, you know, I have to go fishin’ with my brother up in Uclulet and then I have to go huntin’ with my dad. Also, my cousin wants me to help him clear some pasture….”

Amid howls of laughter, one of them said, “You really understand us don’t you?” I hoped I did.

Those courses and the education I received from those people prepared me for one of the most meaningful experiences of my life. After I had taught the courses, I received a phone call from one of the First Nations employees at the College.  She had relatives in the course and said to me, “Larry, my sister’s son is in terrible trouble and I know you understand our people. Could you help him?”

I agreed and soon met with the boy.  He was about 17 and what transpired between us is confidential but let me tell you he was in about as much trouble as you could imagine.  I can also say that my attempts to help him failed miserably. The rest of the story I can tell because it appeared in the local newspaper.  

At some point he got loaded up on drugs and alcohol and robbed a convenience store at a gas station.  He beat the attendant so badly he was in hospital for weeks.  After his arrest it looked as though he was on his way to adult prison. Soon after this happened I received a call from the chief of his mother’s tribe who asked me if I would write a letter to the judge pleading with him not to send the boy to prison but rather to turn him over the elders of the tribe.  The judge agreed.

One of the issues he faced was the fact that his father was white and his mother was First Nations.  As a child he was beaten by the white kids for being First Nations and beaten by the First Nations kids for being white.  So this action by the elders solidified his identity as a First Nations person.  They told him, “You are one of us.”  

The boy was taken into the tribe and they began teaching him the old religion and the respect for nature and life in general that were so central to the culture. Then they placed him on a rural trap line for the winter where he had to practice the skills they had taught him and to survive on his own, completely sober.  At the end of this experience they held a Potlatch, a ceremony in the long house or big house in which gifts are given by the host to others in the tribe.  These were outlawed by the early white government as part of a heathen culture and only recently have been allowed as part of First Nations heritage.  Really, what good capitalist gives away what he owns to his neighbors?

In this case, however, the recipient of the gifts was the young man beaten by my client.  Each member of the tribe donated money to cover expenses and lost wages.  Then each member stood up and expressed the shame they felt after hearing of the treatment he had received from one of their own.  Then the young man who had beaten him stood up and expressed his shame and they embraced. The last I heard of this fine young man thirty years ago was that he was helping First Nations youth around the province in a program aimed at preventing drug and alcohol abuse.  

We often talk about shame as a bad thing.  In this case it served to solidify this boy’s identity as a member of the tribe and emphasized the fact that he belonged and was truly a member of a race and culture with values and expectations.  It gave him an identity not as a “half breed,” but as a proud First Nations young man whose behavior reflected on his brothers and sisters in the tribe. That may have been the most important letter I have ever written.  

Another moving experience happened during the first course I taught.  On Wednesday one of the younger members of the group, Frankie, approached me and said, “I like you Larry.  I want to explain to you what it is like to be an Indian.” 

He suggested we go over to the shopping center and buy a couple of hot dogs then he would tell me what he wanted to tell me.  There, in the midst of middle class white people going about their daily business I had one of the most moving experiences of my life.  

He began by saying, “I used to hate myself for being Indian.  Then I hated white people.  Now I don’t hate anybody.”

He talked about his life as a child and the difficulties of growing up First Nations in white culture.  At some point in his adolescence he entered a program that had the purpose of teaching young First Nations boys the old culture and the values that were so central to his people before we showed up.  It transformed him and he became the proud young man he was at that time with a purpose in life based on love and respect and not on hate.  I will be forever grateful for that experience. Sadly, Frankie died young but his memory lives on as an inspiration to those who want to live a purposeful life.  

At the end of that first week, I was overwhelmed with gratitude and aware that somehow these people had changed me.  But I was wondering if I had achieved anything of substance when Chief Ernie walked up to me, grabbed my hand and said, “Thank you Larry.  I think what you have taught me will really help me help my people.”  I only hoped the same was true for me.  

 One last thought

Anthony Sutich, along with Abraham Maslow, founded the Transpersonal Psychology movement.  While in graduate school training to become a psychotherapist, he was diagnosed with an arthritic condition so severe he was given the choice to spend the rest of his life either sitting or lying down as his joints were well into the process of becoming completely immobile.  He chose to lie down.  I met him at a conference in the early 70s and you would sit behind him and he would talk to you through his frozen jaw while looking at you in a mirror mounted to the side of his gurney.  He worked as a therapist and helped many people, probably as much by inspiration as by psychotherapy.   

Later in life he decided to return to school and finish his Ph.D.  He finished the work but became very sick and was not present when his committee met for the last time and granted him his degree.  That night the chair of the committee had a dream in which Anthony came to his bedside walking.  “Anthony, you’re walking” he said in the Dream.  “Yes,” Anthony replied.  “I have died but I want to know if I passed the final review of my thesis.“  "Yes Dr. Sutich,” replied the chair.  "Good and goodbye” answered Anthony.  The chair was then awakened by the phone.  It was Anthony’s wife saying, “Anthony has just died.”

Whenever I am having a bad day or the world is not behaving in the way I want it to (this seems to happen a lot) or I feel frustrated, angry or hard done by I think about Anthony Sutich who gave so much to so many people and will be remembered for his kindness, indomitable spirit and for accomplishing so much in spite of probably having a lot of bad days.

[gutterdreams]

Independent Study [R.M. Smut]

Warnings: Smut

News didn’t travel fast in Riverdale High, it bolted. Usually nose deep in the gossip, if not it’s designated troubadour, Reggie was eager when the sound of rambunctious laughter met him as he stalked toward the lockers in the boy’s change room. He reveled in hearing what embarrassing blunder Archie had tripped his way into or which girl was currently not speaking to Chuck because he is a “misogynistic pig” or “disgusting troll”. When his team mates faces were wiped clean of their humored smirks and their sneering stopped abruptly at the first sight of him, Reggie’s interest peaked. He felt instantly aggressive when he noted Archie smacking Moose on the shoulder to stop snickering, bringing his attention to the captain that had just entered. “What’s so funny?” Assuming they were having a go at him, Reggie puffed out his chest and asked the room. He dropped his gym bag off his shoulder and let it find the ground with a quick thud. He leaned into the metal lockers behind him and raised his brows impatiently at the group.

No one wanted to piss off Reggie. Being on the receiving end of one of his tantrums was a burden best bore by someone else, every Bulldog knew that. They stayed quiet for a moment and all tried to busy themselves with something else: shoelaces, phone screens, or chit chat between one another. “Tell me.” He pressed the room, earning some eyes back at him. “What’s going on?” He felt confident now that it was about him. Someone made a crack and they all had a good time howling at his expense. “What? I’m not going to freak out.” In that second, it felt true to say. “Andrews, come on.” When the guys went back to what they had been doing before they had been caught up in jokes, Reggie pushed off the locker and sat near the shirtless redhead. Refusing to engage, know full well the extent of Reggie’s wrath, Archie shook his head and tried shrugging his hot tempered buddy off. He was going to try to get out of this without a swollen lip or even just without getting an earful.  “Moose, tell me what’s so funny…” Desperate, Reggie tried his other friend. He leaned back and nodded at their star defense. Moose sighed, collapsing his chest as he got ready to come out and tell his friend. He completely missed Archie’s face behind Reggie’s head trying to plead with him to be quiet. Moose was big and it made him less timid around their reckless captain. While he didn’t always want to, he felt he could handle Reggie and his pending meltdown. “Midge told me that when the girls had a sleepover at Veronica’s on the weekend, [Y/N] said she had never had an orgasm.” As soon as Moose muttered the truth out to Reggie, he went back to putting on his gear for practice. He ignored the soft sneers around the room and didn’t even check to see what shade of red Reggie’s face had turned. “Shut up.” Reggie barked at two teammates who found what Moose shared to be hilarious. “Your girlfriend’s fucking lying, Moose.” He was trying to come across calm, but Reggie’s hand was shaking with anger as he pointed across the change room at his friend. He was inhaling sharply through his nose and his face was tightening as it burned. He turned away to open up his locker, but closed it just as quickly and turned to address his team again. “I make my girl cum all the time.” He hissed. Your moans in his ear were a pleasant lullaby he played when lulling himself to sleep with his hand on random weekday nights. He loved the way you gasped his name when his hands were holding you into the mattress, pressed into your hips and his mouth was massaging your clavicle with his hot breath and the width of his tongue. Reggie was pissed off that his entire team was under the impression he wasn’t getting you off. He knew he made you feel good, he felt like the proof was in the way he made you squirm and moan. “That’s not what she says.” Chuck whistled in the corner, standing up from the bench and stretching out his legs. “Probably just pile drive her for five seconds and fall asleep right on top of her.” Egging Reggie’s temper on, daring it to burst into flames, Chuck taunted. Squinting narrowly, Reggie looked prepared to kill Chuck. He could have pounced off the lockers and over the bench to tackle the smug asshole. His mind was too upset to think before he spoke, so Reggie let his mouth take off without a single thought. “That’s bullshit. While you were at church with your grandma on Sunday, [Y/N] was bouncing on top of me, perfect tits in my face, whimpering about my fat cock, so fuck you, Clayton.” It wasn’t uncommon for Reggie to flaunt in the locker room or anywhere for that matter, but it was uncomfortable for the room to hear him recall your sexual antics. It didn’t matter how true they were, Archie didn’t want to know. You two had known each other since you were kids, chasing your dog’s at the park together and chasing ice cream trucks through the neighborhood. He didn’t want to think about what you and Reggie got up to when you were alone. Looking Reggie up and down, Chuck sized him up and chuckled to himself, “If she’s telling you your dicks big, Mantle, she’s lying to you.” He jab brought up the room’s energy, others joining in with his laughter. “You want your teeth knocked in?” Reggie rushed to Chuck, his chest inflated and forcing Chuck against the window. “I’ll lay you out right here.” He threatened, Moose and Archie already on their feet to pull the two hotheads apart. “Reg, we got practice in two minutes. Come on…” Always trying to be the voice of reason, Archie tried to pry his friend and his bruise ego out of a heated situation. Reggie folded reluctantly, stalking away from Chuck and his proud smile and going over to his gym bag. This wasn’t the last of the hurtful topic though. Archie knew Reggie would have them all paying for their ribbing and shit talk on the field, shoving into them at every opportunity and making up reasons to tackle them as hard as he could. He was out for blood now. ±++++++++++++

“Hey!” Coming up behind him before morning class, your voice sounded like the first verse of his favorite song, but Reggie didn’t turn to greet you with a showboating kiss like usual. He just kept shuffling things around his organized locker. “Are you feeling better?” When he saw your text after practice the day before, Reggie had initially ignored it and then said he couldn’t come over because he was sick. It struck you as odd that he didn’t want your company because when he had been flu-like  before, he was begging you for cuddles and blow jobs like he should have been asking for hot water bottles and cold medication. You figured it must have been bad when he didn’t find you in the school yard first. “Yeah.” Like he was talking to a teacher, he half shrugged with his response. He shut his locker and started walking away, but you caught up quickly with your cobalt blue Keds hot on his trail. He had long legs, but you were quick. “Do you want to come over tonight? I’m working, but I’ll have a fifteen minute break and the keys to the supply closet.” There were few perks to working at the front desk of your mother’s beauty salon, but the supply closet being in the soundproof basement had become one of them since Reggie came into your world. Reggie was biting on his tongue, wrestling with himself not to react. He failed though and spun around, putting his hand on your back and guiding you with light force to a corner by the closest staircase. “Why did you tell your girlfriends that I don’t make you cum?” Directly at you, he whispered. He was trying to be private, but you could tell he was livid. “I didn’t say it like that.” Once you caught up with his emotions, you told him. “Well, however you said it that’s how it sounds and now the guys think I’m a minute man who can’t satisfy his girlfriend.” He was growing red again and you watched him stuff both hands in his pocket, hiding his enlarged veins as he was trying to keep his composure. 

“We were just talking. They said stuff about their boyfriends too.” You felt as if you had a little dirt on a few different people now, their significant others offering telling remarks through loose lips in the comfort of their fuzziest pajamas. Some part of Reggie wanted the gossip. He was interested to hear what Midge’s complaints about Moose were or if Veronica shared anything humiliating about Archie, but right now, he had to focus on what was important and that was his tarnished reputation and aching ego.   “Why did you say that? It’s not even true.” If he hadn’t been exhausted from practice and working out in his bedroom after, Reggie was sure the whole thing would have kept him up. He felt one hundred percent confident that he had made you orgasm. He knew it like he knew his own name. When you didn’t respond right away, Reggie took your silence to heart. He groaned loudly and threw his head back. His hands made their way from the pocket of his jacket and shook at the air between you two. “How?” Reggie didn’t understand. He heard the first bell signal everyone to make their way to their first class. He had calculus while you were in western civilization. You two only had biology and English together every other day. “You’re always moaning, and wet, and you say it feels good all the time.” Ready to go to class, you held the straps of your backpack against your chest and watched as Reginald felt bad for himself. He leaned against the wall, hovering above a broken furnace, and squished his face together as he attempted to solve this mystery. Sometimes, he could be so daft. “It does feel good.” Genuinely, you pushed your point across. “I don’t know how come it hasn’t happened, it just hasn’t.” Obviously, you wanted to meet your peek. “It just…” You didn’t want to say anything that would hurt him. His ego was delicate enough and it seemed even more so in this moment.

“That time on your birthday though…you definitely came.” He remembered it well because you were screaming his name and wiggling beneath him like a puppy does under pouring sunlight. Reggie saw you wrinkle your nose upward as you tossed your head from one shoulder to the other, rejecting what he just said. “Seriously?!” He was confident then that he had given you your biggest climax yet. “Not really.” “We went for, like, a really long time.” It had been a personal best for him. “I just wanted it to be over. I was a little drunk and we had been celebrating since noon.” It had been your favorite birthday so far, but alas, no one gave you the gift of an orgasm. You were simply tired out. “Well, what am I not doing then? Clearly, it’s not good for you.” “It does feel good! I don’t know.” The bell rang again and you felt grateful since the whole conversation was stressing both of you out. “Maybe, there needs to be more foreplay or something.” You suggested as a last ditch effort. Before leaving to go to class, you stepped over to his defeated position against the wall and put your hands over each of his shoulders. “We can talk about it later…” He barely gave you anything back when you kissed him, trying to express how much you adored him. Currently, all his energy was going into feeling sorry for himself. You left him alone and darted to your class, your mind occupied with things that had nothing to do with your upcoming unit quiz.

\++++++++++++++++++++

Fiddling with earbuds that had become tangled in your backpack pocket throughout school, you were preoccupied as you walked from Riverdale High to your mom’s salon, the salon that had been her mother’s before her and everyone assumed you would take over when you grduated high school. You had no idea Reggie had been trying to catch your attention since pulling out of the school parking lot in his dad’s car. It was one of the better parts of having parents who were absent, someone always left a car behind. “Hey!” He shouted out the window, slowing down once he was where you were. Reggie was one attempt away from honking for your acknowledgement. “I was waiting at your locker. You want a ride?” He seemed in slightly better spirits than earlier. You didn’t waste any time clutching your messy headphones and running around his car to slide into the front seat, dropping your bag between your feet before he took off. “With the way the day started, I wasn’t expecting a ride.” You admitted as he reached to turn his music down by the black dial. “Nah, it’s fine. Old news.” Reggie lied. It had been on his mind constantly. Some of his friends were still giving him shit about it resulting in a shoving match between him and Moose in the student lounge on their shared spare. “I’m dropping you off at the salon?” He checked, remembering you mentioned having to work earlier. “Yeah. I am going to study at the desk or try to.” You both had a biology test on Monday and you knew you would be better prepared if you and Reggie had a study date since he was better at the subject, but you really weren’t sure how much time he wanted to spend with you now. He had expressed how hurt and upset he was so clearly earlier. You were no stranger to his outbursts, but they had never been caused by or directed at you before. You had always been the exception. His soft spot. 

“I can help on Saturday.” He had a game Friday, but after your shift on Saturday, Reggie figured he could pick you up and you two could crack your books together. He wasn’t worried about the test in the slightest, but he liked helping you study. It made him feel purposeful and it was nice when you needed him. It wasn’t as if you had never helped explain different parts of assigned reading in English to him before. “You could sleep over even. My dad is still in Boston.” He shrugged while turning down an alley, a shortcut he had concocted to reach the salon a minute sooner. “Okay…yeah, sounds good.” You hadn’t been expecting the invitation, but you were very happy to accept. If Reggie wanted to hang out, you weren’t going to turn down that offer. The car ride was only six minutes. The salon was only a hop, skip, and small jump from school by car, but there was a heavy air between yourself and your boyfriend. Something was unsaid as you both sat still in the parked, but running car in front of your work. “Thanks for driving me. I missed you today.” Reaching over, you knocked your knuckles softly against his and admitted. It was strange to not be attached to one another by the hips, hands, or lips. Usually, you two were engaged in tangled limbs at any opportunity. Today felt cold despite the powerful March sunshine.   “Yeah, me too.” Reggie took advantage of the time you had before you needed to be inside the salon, hair back and smiling at clients you had known since you were a toddler. He leaned in and kissed you deeply, his hand snaking behind your neck and pulling you into his lips that he kept moisturized for the sole purpose of making out with you. His other hand was between your knees, knocking them apart with little movement. You wanted his touch as much as he wanted to feel your body, your tight black leggings only a thin barrier of the skin he adored. In need of air, you leaned back for a second, just enough time to inhale and see Reggie smiling back at you mischievously. “We don’t have time…” Your mom had no problem lecturing you on punctuality in front of her clientele. Besides, giving him a blow job right in front the window of the beauty shop was too ballsy for you to feel comfortable with it. 

“I’m just smiling at you.” Reggie chuckled, kissing you with just a nip this time and squeezing above your knee. “I did a little independent research on my spare today…” He admitted proudly while shaking his hair back and taking his hands slowly from your body. He had your attention even if you weren’t exactly sure what he was talking about. You unbuckled the seatbelt and leaned against the door, waiting for him to expand. “I’m going to make you cum this weekend.” Very confidently, his usual self, Reggie boasted. “You’re going to be running to all your friends, telling them all about how I made you feel…” At least he hoped you would so his team mates would stop bugging him about it. “Reg, some people don’t cum. Porn is acting, you know?” You reached for your bag from the ground and pushed the car door open once a strap was up to your elbow.

“Nope. You’re going to cum. See you, gorgeous.” He wagged a finger at you as he leaned close to your side, accepting your kiss with his toothy grin before you left for your shift. 

+++++++++++

Reggie was waiting behind the wheel of his father’s car when you were locking up the salon on Saturday. His palms were drumming on his lap along to the song playing from his phone as you jogged over, his eyes obviously watching your chest as you did. “Textbook is in my bag.” You reported once sliding into the passanger seat, tossing your bag to the ground just as almost every time before. Reggie waited for a kiss before he started up the car, one hand on your thigh comfortably the whole way to his quiet house. He carried your back pack inside, leaving you free to drop to your knees and rub Vader’s waiting belly in the doorway. 

“Are you hungry or anything? I can make you dinner.” Standing up, you offered as you led his dog into the kitchen where he was hanging up his jacket on a table’s wooden chair and your bag on it’s seat. While you reaped many of the benefits of Reggie’s parents being away so often, one thing that bothered you was that your boyfriend had to fend for himself. He came over and are with your family once in a while, but he was proud and mostly just ate microwave pizza, Pop’s take out, or his own mix of scrambled eggs and hot sauce. It brought you great joy to cook something for him. “Nah, later.” Reggie’s lips were licked for something else, something unlikely to be found in the fridge. He left the table and fumbled his hands around your hips, kissing your lips to your chin to your jaw and then nibbling on the bottom of your ear once you were pressed hard against his pantry door. Thankfully, Vader had left the room for his favorite cushion on the living room couch. “I want you bad.” He groaned into your ear while knocking his groin against you, hands moving up the back of your white blouse. “It’s been too long.” His ego and your schedules had kept your bodies apart and he was not happy about it. “Whose fault is that?” Cheeky, you smiled back as your chin raised both as a reflex and to present him better access to kiss your neck, his one hand gripping at your breast over your shirt, tempted to rip the soft fabric right off of you while the other hand slid up your leg toward the hem of your work skirt. Your question egged him on, his thumb pressing deeper into your thigh as he pinned you against the door again. 

“No pretending this time.” He warned against your lips, gloss kissed off and on your face and his. “I’ll spank you so hard my hand print will be permanent on you if you lie…” Reggie kissed you again and pulled on your bottom lip, before leading you out of the kitchen and touching your body as he walked backwards through the main floor of the house. He attempted dirty talk, wondering if, maybe, his usual grunts and groans weren’t enough to turn you on. The way you shivered in his grasp definitely turned him on and he made a mental note to try it more often.

Once at the stairs, he took one hand off you to fumble behind him and reach the decorative knob of the railings edge. Neither of you could wait to make it to his bedroom. Your hands rushed to pull his shirt overhead, tossing it to the ground as he tugged your skirt down without any regard for the fabric. “Catch me.” Feeling feisty, you shoved him away from you and into the railing and took off to run upstairs in just your black underwear and white blouse. Fast as he was on the field, aiming for a touchdown, Reggie caught you quickly and pressed your chest against the wall, a family portrait of him and his parents right by your head. You giggled as you felt his naked chest warm against your back, his lips kissing down your spine until he was on his knees behind you. Eagerly, he yanked your underwear down to your knees and dove in to lick at your pussy from behind, his face pressed into your ass. 

The cool feeling of his tongue was surprising and caused your jaw to fall unhinged as you quivered. What was more surprising was the fact that he was going down on you at all. As you pulled away to turn around, granting him much easier access to your warm and now slobbering wet twat, you tried to recall if he had ever ventures down there before. Reggie loved getting blow jobs. Slow and drawn out, fast and aggressive, or even sloppy porn star head. Reggie wasn’t picky as long as your lips were wrapped tight around his erection.  However, he had never even offered to dine on you before. He hadn’t been lying earlier though. Reggie was dedicated to making you an orgasmic mess tonight. His tongue laid flat between your lips as he lapped upward. He kicked over and over until your knees were clutching at either side of his head without your control. You were shaking and he loved it. He felt powerful and nipped at the inside of your thigh to prove it. “It feels good, Reg.” You gasped into the air as he wiggled the first knuckle of his pointer finger in, sucking on your clit as he did. His rhythm wasn’t tight, but over all, his effort was being greeted with you begging for more. Your fingers reached down and gripped at his dark hair, gripping at them as you swallowed hard. The pleasure he was generouslt giving you had your body covered in goosebumps. “There, that!” You almost screamed as he flicked at your clit again. Reggie grinned deviously into your sobbing pink. He knew it. He hadn’t been paying any attention to your clit. Upon clicking through online articles, he read about how most women don’t achieve orgasm vaginally. There were girls who could squirt from the slightest touch, but others who needed a whole production of different angles with different toys. He figured he would start with the clit and see if that illicited any reaction from you. Reggie intended to simply keep eating you out, hoping for a blow job as a thank you gift, but you slid a hand down the side of his face and motioned his head to look up at you and your panting stomach. 

“Reg, I want you inside me.” You nodded to make clear that this wasn’t just a wish. This was what you needed right now. “If you keep touching me like that, I don’t…I don’t…” Your train of thought went missing as Reggie used the lads of two fingers to rub at your aching clit. 

Foolishly, he had believed that he made you cum every time you two had sex. Reggie had felt nervous that he still wouldn’t know for sure this time, but he could tell now that he was paying closer attention. You had never been so lost with him before and certainly never shook like this before. He kissed the inside of each of your thighs and then each hip bone before climbing up to his feet. “I’m going to make you cum tonight, baby.” He promised again, gnawing on your ear with a and before puing you into his embrace to lead you toward his bedroom where he intended to make a sweaty mess of both of you. He wasn’t going to quit until his neighborhood heard you call his name.

[misssophiachase]

Rival teachers trapped in the break room on an inservice day with the twist that they used to date and never really got over each other.

Thanks Jen, apologies for the delay! I’m assumingthat is like what we call a pupil free day, so I’ll go with that! Also, forsome reason I couldn’t stop thinking about @austennerdita2533 while I waswriting this, so tagging you too lovely. 

ABC

The corridors were eerily quiet asCaroline made her way towards the staff lounge for a much needed hit ofcaffeine. She thought the silence would be welcome given just how noisy itusually was but it felt sadly empty.

Caroline had been off kilter since hecame back into her life. Yeah, she’d heard they were hiring a newEnglish/History teacher but she hadn’t expected it to be the crimson-lipped,dimple-flashing Brit that she used to date.

They’d met at Emory University inGeorgia. Caroline knew from campus gossip that Klaus Mikaelson was popular andgorgeous but, annoyingly, he knew it. He was also a womaniser which is whyCaroline had every intention of steering clear. She’d been successful for themost part until that fateful night at the Beta Theta Pi Frat costumeparty.

7 years earlier…

“What are you doing here?” 

“Last time I checked, this is mybasement, love, and I was thirsty,” he gestured to the beer keg at hisfeet. “Question is, what are you doing here?”

“I was looking for the bathroom, if youmust know,” Caroline growled, suddenly self conscious in her brief, angelcostume as his dark, blue eyes flickered over her attire. 

“It must be fate.” 

“Excuse me?”

“You’re an angel and I’m Lucifer,” hechuckled. 

“That’s not fate, it’s actually theopposite,” she barked. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find theladies room.”

“Well, you’re going to have to wait awhile longer I’m afraid,” he murmured. She gave him a bewilderedlook. “That door locks from the outside.”

“You’re lying,” she hissed, not evenbothering to reply but pulling at the handle desperately before banging on thedoor. “This cannot be happening. Hello, is anyone there? I’m trapped withSatan.”

“Hey!”

“If it looks like the devil and walkslike one, it’s the devil. Did you plan this or something? Are you that desperatefor another notch on your bedpost Mikaelson that you need to trap yourconquests?”

“Woah!” He interrupted. “I can’tbelieve you would even suggest that, sweetheart, and don’t think I’m believingthat whole lost bathroom excuse.”

“How dare you?”

“Now you know how it feels, Forbes.”

“Oh, that’s so rich,” she groaned beforeprocessing what he’d said. “How do you know my name?”

“I know more than that, Caroline,”he admitted. “Drama major, although no surprises there.” She gave hima dirty look before he continued. “Emory Young Democrat President andtennis captain.”

“Are you stalking me?” Caroline wasactually impressed if he put that much energy into each conquest given just howmany he’d had. 

“Are you always so defensive?” 

“Only to potential stalkers, who lock mein their basements,” she drawled. “Hopefully someone will be down soon torescue me from this punishment.”

“Well, let me know when someone arrives,princess,” he joked. “I’ll be over here not trying to make a move on you.”She watched curiously as he planted himself in the corner and pulled a bookfrom what seemed like nowhere. 

Besides his womanising reputation,Caroline knew Klaus was a double major in history and English literature aswell as soccer and debate captain. Not that she’d looked into it of course.Watching him serenely reading his book in the corner of the basement wasequally adorable as it was weird. 

“I thought you were thirsty?”

“And I thought you were planning escapestrategies,” he grinned, his gaze still focused on the page he was reading.

“Let me guess, Hemingway?” 

“Let the stereotypes begin,”he murmured, not making eye contact. 

“Well, he was a misogynist,” sheshot back. “And given your…”

“I must say I’m disappointed,” hegrowled, finally making eye contact. “I thought a smart woman like youwouldn’t believe gossip, let alone question my literary tastes. In fact, I’mwilling to share if it will stop you talking and offering your unwelcome andincorrect opinion.”

She didn’t speak immediately, the bookhe slid across the room making contact with her white, peep toe heel. WaltWhitman poetry. She closed her eyes momentarily, annoyed at herself for makingjudgments but also trying to block out that smug smile she knew he was wearing. 

“Not your thing, love?” He asked. Shefinally opened one eye slowly, followed by the other. “I have more ifWhitman isn’t feminist enough?”

“You stash your books in the basement?”She asked choosing to ignore his loaded question. 

“Some people stash their porn, I stashmy classic literature,” he joked. “It’s the quietest place in thisfrat house and not surprisingly the best for reading. I have this if you’dprefer?” She saw the title of the Virginia Woolf book before it hit her foot.

“Mrs Dalloway? Seems like someone istrying to make a point.”

“You should be here on Sundays, it’sJane Austen themed all night long. Beats going out and hooking up with randoms.” 

“So, maybe I misjudged you,” shemumbled. “I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Shut up and keep reading, Mikaelson,”she smiled, taking a seat next to him and opening the book. This was by far thebest party she’d been to in years and being rescued suddenly wasn’t herimmediate priority. 

She threw open the door in frustrationdetermined to clear her head and thinking coffee was her best bet. Uponreaching the kitchen, Caroline was mortified to find that the pot was emptyeven though the room was still filled with the enticing aroma she craved. 

“Why me?” She cried, the pent upemotions spilling free. It was bad enough her dreams were filled with him andthat sleep was practically impossible since his unexpected arrival.  

“Was this your coffee?” She knew hisvoice without having to move. “If I’d known it was the last cup..”

“You’d what?” She replied, finally turningaround. 

“I’d share it,” he offered, his secondmeaning not lost on Caroline given their basement meeting years earlier. 

“Don’t bother,” she muttered. “Ihave class.” It was out of her mouth before Caroline could retract, given itwas the excuse she’d been using to avoid him for a month now it was emblazonedon her brain.

“On a pupil free day, that should beinteresting,” he said. Caroline didn’t bother to respond, knowing she had toescape while she still had some air left in her lungs. Klaus Mikaelson had theability to take away what breath she had left in such close proximity.

She pushed on the door handle, confusedas to why it wouldn’t open. It was like deja vu. “I think that extra pushyou gave the door might have activated the faulty lock.”

“How convenient,” she huffed, bangingher head on the door in frustration. “This was supposed to be fixed weeksago.”

“Liam’s wife had their first child lastweek, I think his thoughts were elsewhere, love,” Klaus offered, taking a seaton the couch, steaming coffee in hand. 

“Since when do you know the personallives of the school staff? You’ve only been here a month and don’t call methat, Mikaelson.”

“Well, I suppose that answers myquestion about your feelings.”

“Yes, I’m upset,” she scowled, turningaround to face him. “Did you expect anything less?”

“You were the one to end things,” hegrowled. “Not sure how I suddenly became the bad guy.”

“Because you stopped making time for me,for us. Your soccer career took off, and I was so proud, but everyday we justsplit further apart and you lost interest in what we had.” 

Klaus had been signed to one of thebiggest soccer teams in the US and between practice and zig zagging thecountry, Caroline had barely seen her college boyfriend. She’d decided then itwas time to end things, even if it killed her.   

“Whatever you think I did try.”

“It just wasn’t our time,” sheadmitted. “Believe it or not, I wanted you to go the whole way which iswhy I ended things, Klaus.”

“Pity about that knee injury,” hemumbled, rubbing the offending injury. “You didn’t even call, Caroline. Iwas in that hospital and all I wanted was to see your beautiful face.”

Caroline felt her knees go weak at hiswords. It was something she’d regretted but was so scared to experience all ofthose unresolved feelings at the same time. Caroline knew she’d never loveanyone like she’d loved her Frat Boy/ English literature nerd. 

“Is that why you turned up here?” Shewas seated next to him now, afraid her legs would fully give way if shecontinued standing.

“I’m not going to lie,” heconceded. “When I heard you were here I applied, it was my last chance tofinally get some closure.”

“Closure?”

“If you rejected me then it was allover,” he said, his blue eyes boring into hers. “I have to admit I washoping you’d cave after a few initial rejections but the stubborn, drama queenin you has prevailed and I’m holding on by my last shred.” 

“Anyone would think you were the dramaqueen with that statement,” she teased. “But you always had this uncannyway of breaking down my walls.”

“It was no easy feat, trust me Forbes.”

“I have something for you,” she exhalednervously, reaching into her purse and pulling out a letterhesitantly. “When I heard about your injury, I wrote this but never sentit.”

“Why?”

“I was scared,” she whispered. “Soscared of what you’d say and if you’d just throw it in the garbage.” Klaus didn’trespond, just opened it and lost himself in the text. Caroline held her breathwithout even knowing it.

He finished, his blue eyes watering ashe did before putting it down and facing her. “It seems like we have a lotof catching up to do.”

“Well, it isn’t like we’re getting outof here until Liam’s kid turns one at least, so you’ve got yourself a date, Mikaelson,” she grinned,the relief washing over her. “As long as you surrender that coffee.”

“I think that can be arranged,” hegrinned, pulling her closer. “I’ve missed you, love, probably more thanyou’ll ever now.”

“The feeling is mutual, trust me.” 

[officialhexrpg]

Arts & Graphics: June’s Writing Challenge Winner!

June's theme for the Arts & Graphics forum on HEXRPG was all about Ancient Egypt! In this challenge, artists had to write a report of their findings as a Curse-Breaker working in Egypt. 

3rd Place: K8ekt 

I had left Hogwarts as a Professor of Arithmancy six months previous. It wasn’t that I didn’t love my job there. The students were always fresh faced and willing to learn. It had been a pleasure to watch them develop and grow from children to confident young men and women. But I had always felt there was more to life. More I was capable of. Yes, being a professor had been rewarding but I felt destined for more. That’s why I had decided to change my career from teacher to evil spell breaker, and I was thriving. Information on the whereabouts of an ancient pharaoh’s treasure had been discovered back at Gringotts in Diagon Ally and the head Goblin had chosen me to investigate. I was a little nervous of course, as this was my first solo mission but I was also very excited. The head Goblin himself had chosen me, I must have impressed someone along the line somewhere. Now, here in Egypt, glancing around the tourist shop, I wondered just how I was going to get to the tomb of Mustava. Magical wards had been put around the pyramid to stop wizards and witches from apparating anywhere near it. I had absolutely no idea how I was going to get inside to even begin my search. Maybe the head Goblin had been wrong about my abilities. But then I noticed a poster above the counter which read: ‘West Valley Tomb tours leaving daily! Get your tickets here! Egyptian or British pounds accepted!’ I couldn’t believe my luck! This was the opportunity I’d been waiting for. I approached the shopkeeper and pointed to the poster. “Mustava’s Pyramid please?” I asked holding out a handful of coins. I was hoping that some of them were either English or Egyptian pounds as I had no idea. I was relieved when he nodded and took some of the currency then handed me a notepad with a list of names. I scribbled ‘Septima Vector’ under the ‘Mustava’ heading and left to find the bus station and my coach. The coach ride was long, hot and stuffy. The air conditioning didn’t work and opening a window barely helped. I wished I’d taken an anti-sickness potion before I had got on but I hadn’t had time, and the bus was so overcrowded I couldn’t risk opening my bag. All the muggles were suffocating, and it didn’t help with the sun’s heat burning through the windows. Finally we screeched to a stop as we reached our destination and I hurried to get off desperate for fresh air. It wasn’t much better outside. There was no cover and the hot rays were pounding down, bouncing off the fine sand which was everywhere. I really wanted to cast a cooling spell but I couldn’t get my wand out here. I needed to sneak away from the crowd of photo snapping tourists, but how? There was nothing to do but follow the crowd inside the pyramid. It was dark and had a fusty smell down were they were being shown. Muggles had added some basic lighting but the light was still dim. We were shown into a small room I realised was a tomb. The Pharaoh's mummy was laid in a large sarcophagus in the centre of the room, the walls were covered with Egyptian hieroglyphs and paintings of gods, crops and animals. There was an opening on the opposite side of the room leading into another passageway with security tape across it. It looked promising so I backed away from the crowd quietly, ducked under the tape and left the group behind. I didn’t get very far though until I reached a dead end. Dang, it was sealed off. Then something caught my eye. There was a section of drawings on the wall to my right that didn’t look like normal ancient Egyptian figures, they had pointy hats and held wands just like wizards. There was writing under the images I recognised to be ancient Greek. I frowned. Well, this was certainly unusual. It had to mean something. But what? A simple translation spell should help. “Aparecium.” I commanded and the writing moved and merged into a language I could understand. I could understand it alright but I was none the wiser. It was a brain teaser and I didn’t have a clue what it meant. ‘I’ve been around for millions of years, but I’m no more than a month old. What am I?’ “Come on, it’s your job to figure these things out!” I whispered to myself under my breath, looking around at all the images of wheat fields, gods, suns and moons… I paused. “Moon! That’s the answer!” There was a moon on the opposite wall to the rhyme. I raised my wand and touched the painted moon gently with the tip uttering ‘Alohomora’. The whole wall moved back, opening up in front of me. I smiled and slipped through. As the wall shut behind me I was encased in darkness, the room was pitch black, I couldn’t even see my hand in front of my face, so I quickly spoke the word ‘Lumos’ and the room was illuminated by the light of my wand. I gasped at the sight that met me. The room was full of treasures. Boxes made from solid gold and silver, filled with precious gemstones surrounded me. I had found it! I couldn’t believe how easy it had been. Wait… Why had it been so easy? I wondered to myself before the realisation hit me. I might have found the treasure but I needed to get out, and there wasn’t a way out. That’s when I saw the skeletons. Hunched up by the wall I had entered by were the bones of the crypt finders before me. The wands in their hands told me that they were wizards and witches, like me. Probably all evil spell breakers. Something was shining next to one of the bodies on the stone floor. It was a single shimmering gold feather. It looked familiar but I couldn’t quite place which bird it belonged to. I bent down to examine it more closely. As soon as I picked up the golden feather a high pitched shriek filled the room. Ah. Even though I had never heard the noise before I instantly knew what it was. My fear was realised when the bird swooped down over my head, so low the air moved strands of my hair. I knew I needed to silence the yellow Fwooper and soon, it’s twittering song had the power to make witches go insane. Pointing my wand in the direction of the deafening tune I shouted ‘Silencio’. I couldn’t hear my own words but the charm must have worked because the room suddenly became silent. Deathly silent. I could hear wings softly flapping but the maddening melody was gone. The Fwooper dived once more, this time dropping an object at my feet before settling on top of a silver broom by my side, her round eyes fixed on her gift. My attention moved from the bird to the box on the floor. I knew better than to touch it and instead retrieved my secrecy sensor from my pocket and aimed it at the item. Sure enough, the rod began to vibrate uncontrollably. As I suspected, the relic was blighted with evil. It appeared to be a board game, I had seen it in a book I had read in preparation for my trip here. It was called ‘Senet’, the full name meaning ‘game of passing’. “I wonder...” I said out loud then shrugged, I had nothing to lose. Sitting down opposite the Fwooper I aimed my wand at the game, using ‘Locomotor’ I moved the first piece on the board. The bird glided to the floor silently and moved another piece with her beak. We carried on like this, taking it in turns until it was my final move. Well, that was lucky, I thought with a sigh of relief, I had won the game! The counters began to dance in a circle, getting faster and faster until they turned to a blur, a beam of light shot out from the middle, shining across the room and onto the ceiling. An opening was appearing and dust fell from the newly revealed gap. moonlight flooded the room and I realised it must lead outside. I needed to get up there, but how? As if my new feathered friend knew what I was thinking, she flew back onto the silver broom and nudged my arm with her head. “Thank you.” I said, stroking her under the chin, mounted the broom then flew up, up through the hole and out of the pyramid into the cool night air, relieved the baking sun had set but surprised at how much time had passed since I had started my tour. A smile crept onto my lips as I realised my first solo mission had been a success.

[mangsluts]

Not what you wanted; What you needed

Not what you wanted; What you needed

Kim Himchan Smut

Rated: M

Description: For a year you’ve tried to seduce your beautiful English professor, Mr Bang, and you finally think you’ve broken his walls to be with him, but everything is not what it seems.....

Contains: cursing, graphic sex, oral sex

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bang. Fucking. Yongguk.

The English professor that had all the girls swooning, including you of course. It was no secret that you had a crush on him, always showing up to class in your sluttiest outfits, sitting at the very front of the classroom, purposely crossing and uncrossing your legs while wearing a skirt in front of him. Staying after class to “get help” for material you “didn’t understand” and many more stunts to get his attention. Today was just another day in the conquest of trying to get in his pants. You walked to class idly with your best friend Kaycee, wearing a short leather skirt paired with a sunflower top that was barely a top, it was more like a bra. “Daaaamnnnn girl, you trying to get fucked today? Cause if he doesn’t, I will.” Kaycee said playfully, smacking your butt as you walked into the empty classroom. You two were always first of course, your reasons being obvious, and Kaycee just liked to watch the teacher become frustrated, giving you pointers on how to make him really go crazy. “I’ve been trying like, all semester, so we’ll see.” You said laughing as you slid into a seat in the front row, while Kaycee started drinking her frappe next to you.

“Good morning girls” That luscious dark voice called out from the front of the classroom as Yongguk walked out from his office and took his place at the desk in front of the projector, dropping his graded papers on it, then rubbed his face, obviously tired. The stack of papers was almost as tall as him, and there was still more ungraded papers on the opposite side of his desk. “Mr Kim, could you start working on these... “ he checked his watch “there’s about thirty minutes until class starts, I’m sure you could finish some of it.”

Both of you looked at each other at the mention of a “Mr. Kim” you’d never heard before. As if on cue, a young man dressed in a black button up shirt and matching pants emerged from Yongguks office, his sleeves rolled up to expose his upper arms. “Yes sir.” He said softly. He had such a beautifully feminine yet hard face at the same time, his almond eyes glancing up to meet yours. You blushed and looked away. “Who’s this, Mr Bang?” Kaycee said flirtatiously, eyeing the man up and down, then nudging you with her elbow.

“Ah this... this is Kim Himchan. He’s my new student teacher. Planning to be an English major like myself.” He said with pride and a gummy smile with Himchan returned, a strand of his black hair falling to his eyes. “Pleasure to meet both of you.” He said, his eyes lingering on you for a moment before he grabbed the papers and began grading at his own desk by the front as well.

Class went by as usual, you stared at Yongguk, giving him the “fuck me eyes”, licked your lips, acted very interested in the material he was teaching. You were doing everything you could, and you could see him smiling at you every once in a while. After he was finished with his lecture, he gave everyone some time to work on their essay they’d be turning in next week. Because you liked to impress him, you started working on it eagerly, wanting to do your best. Suddenly, your phone lit up.

“Iphone would like to share a note with you” on airdrop. You looked around the room, thinking maybe it was Kaycee sharing a meme with you, but she was busy reading a Jhope smut. Okay, so it wasn’t her. Your heart fluttering a little, you noticed Yongguk was sitting at his desk, gingerly typing on his.... holy shit. iPhone. Giddily you accepted the note and it popped up in your own notes.

“After class. Office. Meet me.” That’s all it said.

Finally! All your hard work paid off. You spent the rest of class counting minutes until class got out. Finally the bell rang, and everyone hurried out of the classroom. “You coming?” Kaycee said, noticing you were straying behind. You gave one last look to the classroom and followed your friend out. “Look at this.” You said and eagerly showed her the note.

“No shit!” She said, eyes wide. “It’s finally happening! You go get that!” She said, holding your shoulder, fighting back tears. “My baby’s growing up.” She fake wiped a tear away and basically shooed you away so you’d go back to the classroom. “I’ll be waiting” she winked

You walked back into the empty classroom, looking around to see if anyone was still here. “Hello?”

You called out in a hushed tone. Nothing. He must have to left the room to avoid suspicion. Smart. You smirked and invited yourself into his office, turning the light on. His office was very neat. All his papers were in specific spots, and other than that it was pretty boring. You stood there for a few moments until you heard the click of the door, your nerves completely on edge. You’ve been wanting this for so long. “There you are. I’ve been waiting for you mr B-“ you turned around and stopped in your tracks, stunned to see who was at the door. Himchan was there, his feline eyes hooded with lust as he gently locked the door with one hand. Your heart started beating uncontrollably. “I-I’m so sorry mr Kim.. I was just..” You felt so embarrassed, now the student teacher knew you wanted to fuck his boss. “I’m not sure why you’re apologizing to me.” He said in that deep... oh so raspy.. fucking voice. He dug In his jean pocket and held up an.. oh shit.

iPhone.

“You.. you’re iPhone.” You almost laughed, but it caught in your throat as he approached you, noticing all the muscles under his shirt the closer he got. Jesus Christ he was hot.

“I know you were expecting Yongguk. I saw the way you looked at him when you accepted my note. And I have to say.” He gently placed his hand on your chest, causing you to walk backwards until your back met the desk and you fell back onto it, ending up sitting on it. “It made me a little jealous.” You could feel your cheeks heat up, and something else was tingling too. You didn’t want to admit it, you were loyal to yongguk, but... this just felt so right. “I shouldn’t..” You said, turning your head away from his as his face neared yours. Respectfully, he moved his hand away from you, straightening his collar.

“My mistake. Sorry if i misinterpreted you.” He Gave you the most genuine smile. Your eyes trailed down. His neck was strong and there was one vein sticking out slightly. Then down his arms, and damn. Those veins. Those big hands, and long delicate fingers. Then down to his waist. He was obviously frustrated because you could see the bulge in his pants and-

“Fuck it” You said just as he started to turn around. You grabbed him by the neck of his shirt, causing him to look at you in shock, then pulled his face to yours, your lips crashing against his. God they were so soft, and had the faintest taste of cherry lingering on them. He tasted amazing. Gently his tongue swiped over your lips, asking for entrance. You complied and began making out with him. Hard. You could basically feel yourself dripping down from your skirt. Slowly at first, then quickly his hand started at the bottom on your thigh, then slid upwards under your skirt, a single finger sliding over your panties to feel you.

“Damn youre so wet.. I knew you wanted me..” he mumbled into your mouth, but you were so hungry for him you couldn’t even reply, only moaned and desperately grabbed a fistful of his hair, willing him to continue kissing you. “Ah Ah Ah..” he pulled away from you, pushing you more into the desk so that your legs were hanging off the edge. I’m one quick motion, he grabbed both sides of your hips and pulled your skirt down, tossing it behind his back. Without a word, his face disappeared into your core, his tongue entering you first to earn a loud moan. Skillfully, his tongue exited you then made a full circle around your hole. “Jesus Christ you tease, why won’t you fuck me?” You whined, feeling empty without him filling you up.

“Shhhhh, let me have you, princess~” he cooed into your womanhood. Fuck, when he called you princess it was like the waterfall had been unleashed. His tongue maneuvered in and out of your folds, leaving no area untouched by his wonderful tongue. Suddenly his tongue entered you again while his other hand snakes around your body, down your stomach, and went straight to your clit which was already enforced with excitement. As soon as his thumb made contact with the bundle of nerves, you threw your head back and nearly screamed as he began making gentle circles on the sensitive bud. In and out his tongue went, and his movements with his thumb became tougher. “Fuck fuck fuck FUCK” You said all in one breathe, unable to hold back your high as your body convulsed. He held onto your hips to keep you stable and smiled up at you, as you rode out your orgasm. Very gently, since you were still sensitive, he entered two fingers into you to get all your juices, and sucked his fingers while looking up at you.

“Jesus fucking Christ” You said out of breathe at the orgasmic sight

“Don’t think I’m done with you” he said, his loving voice gone, and replaced with that low growl again. He stood up, pulled his shirt off over his head, then unbuckled his belt, and off came his pants all within 30 seconds. You could see it in his eyes. He was ready. You were still shaking, but god you looked down at his dick, and he was gifted, BIG time. “I don’t know if I can...” You started to say, but he shook his head, grabbing both of your thighs with his strong hands, his short nails digging into them. It felt good. You felt yourself getting wet again for him. “I’ll start gentle for you, but I want you screaming my name by the end of this, princess.” He whispered into your ear, making you shiver as he lined the tip of his member up with you, then slid the tip in. You moaned into his neck, while he slowly pushed into you. Your walls tightened at the foreign feeling, causing himchan to moan in a low voice. “Fuck...” he growled, finally pushing his full length into you. He then began to fuck you on the desk—hard. After the first soft and slow stroke, he held nothing back. He pumped in and out of you at a fast pace. Despite just sitting on the desk and holding his back, you couldn’t keep up with him, your body completely at his mercy as he moved your hips for you. “Himchan... himchan!!” You started saying, but it wasn’t even you. You had no control over your voice. You went to look for some leverage, and ended up knocked over a lamp. “Can’t stay up?” He mumbled and without missing a stroke, laid you on the desk and climbed up with you, pulling both your legs up and laying them on his shoulders as he relentlessly fucked you. One hand held your legs over his shoulder, while the other hand played with your right breast, gently twisting your sensitive nipple. “Himchan! KIM HIMCHAN! FUCK!!” You screamed louder and louder as he lifted your hips up off the table to get a better angle and hit your sweet spot. Once he hit it a couple times you were gone. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head and your back arched higher than you knew it could. “FUCK!” You said one more time, your walls tightening again around Himchan’s dick, allowing him to feel completely consumed by you. His movements became more erratic, and he finally hit his high, moaning loudly in his voice that made you want to fuck him again. Completely out of energy, he pulled away from you, panting like a dog. He finally looked at you, a sweaty mess and smirked. “Not thinking about Yongguk now, huh?”

[khalilhumam]

‘The house search was the last straw': colleagues react to Russian journalist’s death

New Post has been published on http://khalilhumam.com/the-house-search-was-the-last-straw-colleagues-react-to-russian-journalists-death/

‘The house search was the last straw': colleagues react to Russian journalist’s death

Slavina's self-immolation has shocked Russia's journalistic community

Russian journalist Irina Slavina. Photo from Irina Slavina's Facebook account.

On October 2, Irina Slavina, editor of KozaPress, died in Nizhny Novgorod, after setting herself on fire outside an interior minister building in the city. In her last Facebook post, Slavina wrote: “I ask you to blame the Russian Federation for my death.” Slavina’s death has shocked many, with several groups calling for a criminal investigation into the actions of Russian law enforcement that may have contributed to her death. On 1 October, Slavina’s home was searched as part of an investigation into the Open Russia movement – local law enforcement broke down the door to her apartment and confiscated all her computer equipment. She is survived by her husband and daughter. Slavina’s website KozaPress covered a range of local issues — from public utilities and pensions to property development and the security services — and by 2019 was the second most-cited media in the Nizhny Novgorod region. In 2017 and 2018, Slavina wrote three articles for openDemocracy — about how people who migrate to Russia are targeted by the security services. This work included exposing a horrendous fabrication of an “Islamic State” plot in her home region. The Russian online publication Holod.Media asked people who knew her for their reactions, which was translated to English by oDR, openDemocracy's section on Russia and the post-Soviet space. RuNet Echo republishes this text with the permission of both publications. Alexey Sadomovsky, deputy head of regional Yabloko party in Nizhny Novgorod Irina was the founder, publisher and chief editor of the most popular independent media in Nizhny Novgorod — KozaPress. In recent years, she dedicated her entire life to working on this media. It’s clear that she was completely independent, because the security services pressured her constantly. They created several administrative cases against her — about insulting [a representative] of the authorities, the “undesirable organisation” law, for organising a march in memory of [Boris] Nemtsov, some other cases. She lived under constant pressure these past few years, in constant fear, anxiety. It seems she couldn’t take it anymore, the search of her apartment was the last straw. Before she entered journalism, Irina worked as a school teacher. She worked for different regional media in Nizhny Novgorod, then she decided to set up her own – she lacked space for self-realisation, she didn’t want to be limited by some kind of administrative barriers, she didn’t want to serve, she wanted to tell the truth. She built the outlet from the ground up. She collected money including via donations. I donated too, like other people here. When we first met, KozaPress had not been set up yet, but Irina was already a journalist. She loved Russia very much, her city, she wasn’t planning on emigrating, she wanted our society to become more civilised and for it to become a nicer place to live. She was always joking, and seemed happy. Now it’s clear that there was a lot of anxiety behind this, but she never talked about this publicly. As a journalist, she was marked out by the fact that she always tried to get to the truth, whatever it cost her. There’s no other journalist like her in Nizhny Novgorod. Public officials knew her well and were afraid of her. The last time I saw her was last week when deputies to the city council were receiving their mandates. There was nothing depressive, no strange remarks from her — we had a normal chat, then she asked me for some photographs to publish with an article. She never published any article that investigators could have had a go at. You have to understand that the case wasn’t started against her, but someone else who had a lot of administrative cases outstanding, enough to start a criminal case. We don’t have Open Russia in Nizhny Novgorod. She couldn’t have worked with them. I think that the pressure of the court, the house search led to her taking her own life, nothing else. As someone whose home was also searched yesterday, I can say that it’s a lot of pressure. Especially when it happens over a couple of years. This can totally lead someone to take their own life. It’s hard to live like that, it’s true. Stanislav Dmitrievsky, rights defender It’s very hard to speak. Ira Slavina is one of the best journalists I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with. A person of extreme professionalism and at the same time very strong civic position. To many people, she gave the impression that she was like a stone wall, but actually she was a very sensitive person. People will say a lot of things now, that it was an act of weakness… What she did is awful, but it wasn’t weak. It seems it was a cry of desperation, to protest against the horror that is happening. I punish myself: today I was going to drop some money to help with the computer equipment… As soon as I saw her post, I wrote her, but she didn’t answer. And then news came. I spoke to her last yesterday, I asked what help she needed. She said that it was very hard for her to speak, that she hadn’t yet recovered from the house search. As far as I understand, it was her first experience of that. We’ve got used to it, you see – a house search, so what? They’ve taken your computer equipment… But Ira had not developed cynicism. Just like with Anna Politkovskaya — the more she encountered the horror of war, the more sensitive she became. There are people who cover themselves with an armour of cynicism, there are people who just take the stronger side, they sell themselves. Take a look at our propagandists on television — many of them used to be perfectly decent journalists and decent people. But then there’s regression. Ira was someone who was hurt, traumatised by what happened around here, she couldn’t make her peace with it. There are moments when you are filled with anger to the point where it’s hard to live. Some people develop their own armour against this, but she didn’t. For her, the ideal of a real journalist – independent, dispassionate, unbiased — was very important. Read her last reportage — it’s about the house searches. She doesn’t even mention herself hardly in the text. Just facts, just facts. For her, the idea of journalism as a part of civilised society was a very important value. After all, she hardly ever spoke righteously. Of course, sometimes she did get mad and was annoyed, but she never let herself express it. Sometimes it’s better to express it and say, you’re all rotten, but she kept it inside, and then it exploded. I knew she was an emotional person, and I was, of course, afraid – but not that she would take her own life, that didn’t occur to me. I was afraid that she would lose it, give it all up… She reacted very emotionally to injustice. Not towards her! She had an instinctive sense of following the truth as a fundamental part of the world. She wasn’t religious, we spoke about this a lot, but she had an incredible sense for truth — which comes from above, rather than a person. She was killed by that gap between the truth that should be, and what she had to constantly face. Everyone loves to say the right thing and look good, but not everyone’s ready to sacrifice something for the sake of the values that they live by. What happened is awful, but she remained true to herself to the end. I just punish myself that I didn’t see it coming. Perhaps, that’s a lesson for everyone. Perhaps if we were more sensitive in Nizhny Novgorod, then perhaps we would have been worried earlier. Unfortunately, I only became worried when I saw her Facebook post, and then a few minutes later found out she had died. Too late. We’re all guilty. Of course, the cops and the FSB will just wipe their hands. But we’re guilty. Arkady Galker, chairman of Nizhny Novgorod branch of the Memorial human rights organisation This news has knocked me off my feet. Irina and I were in touch yesterday about the case connected to the house searches. I sent her the case materials that we’d managed to get, she thanked me, wrote something on social media on the basis of those materials. We offered her legal aid via Memorial and OVD-Info. It should be noted that seven activists’ homes were searched yesterday and, as far as I know, only two faced nasty treatment – Irina Slavina and [Mikhail] Iosilevich both had large groups of security services, who used chainsaws to cut down their front doors. Iosilievich has a specific situation, he’s the main suspect in a criminal case. In Slavina’s case, I think this was most likely an attempt to scare her by the state. The goal was to demonstrate state terror, to show that she was vulnerable to the state. It’s clear that all these searches aren’t really connected to Iosilevich’s activities. It’s just the state has taken the opportunity to scare people and get as much blackmail material that they can take off people’s devices. They hit Irina Slavina as hard as they could. Obviously it was very difficult for her. Irina and I met at an event to commemorate Boris Nemtsov. She was a resilient and courageous woman. There was an episode with the fourth march in memory of Nemtsov, when she was brought up on administrative charges. She came to the gathering point and then went ahead of the column with a small portrait of Nemtsov. She was basically leading people. She had this capacity for leadership, courage. And of course, I didn’t completely understand how much she was traumatised by the state’s act of terror. We used to seeing her a certain way and didn’t understand how hard it was for her. I feel an enormous sense of guilt, we didn’t support her as we should have. Nikolay Rybakov, chairman of Yabloko Irina was a journalist who didn’t just cover events drily. She wanted to influence them. She was a very soulful, good-natured person. We even had to put out a fire once together: we came to a polling station where someone had set something on fire, and we put it out, called the fire brigade. She was someone who could not brush past some problem. Of course, the current government isn’t ready for these kind of people — they want people to keep themselves to themselves, to stay quiet. It’s completely awful and unexpected that she made the decision she did, because it’s not worth it. She just couldn’t withstand the pressure from the security services, the persecution that was going on in recent monhs. Of course, yesterday’s house searches were the last straw. Law enforcement thinks that everyone is made of steel around them. But not everyone is made of steel. And now it’s the responsibility of those who organised this, the people who created this atmosphere in the country. Svetlana Kuzevanova, legal counsel for Center for Defending Media Rights Ira was a fighter. She was never afraid to write and speak, she always refused to be more neutral and accurate in her texts. And she loved and believed in her KozaPress. On 17 September, we went together to a court hearing in Nizhny Novgorod — I represented the interests of her media. I didn’t know her well, but I didn’t see anything concerning. Yesterday I offered the help of our centre, to appeal against the house search. We had a normal chat, I’m in shock at what has happened. Askhat Kayumov, director of Dront ecological centre This is a gigantic loss for the city and a huge sadness for people. Irina, it goes without saying, was one of the few honest journalists in Nizhny Novgorod. We were in touch on ecological issues connected to protecting the environment in the city, citizens’ environmental rights. And she always wrote about them honestly. Dmitry Mitrokhin, blogger Irina was a journalist with a capital J — a clear example for all the city’s journalists of how to work. Over the course of several years, she made her own news agency, which successfully competed with larger media companies. A news agency based on one fragile woman. I was always in awe of her capacity, her speed, the amount of information she could process to then produce quality texts. Honestly, I never saw this in Russian journalism – that one person could set up a serious news agency. And she was principled — most likely, this is what caused the tragedy. She could never give up those principles that she believed in. Pavel Miloslavsky, cultural manager Irina was an incredibly honest person. Perhaps inside she was afraid of something, but she was always fearless in what she did. And if she was completely sure of something, she either got it, or made other people understand what her point of view was. Of course, she represented the kind of person that’s hard to find today — someone who has a concept of honour. The fact that she took her life, I think she thought this through. Judging by the Facebook post that she published yesterday, she was in her right mind. There’s our swamp — we make some movements, we express dissatisfaction with our country. But real acts, like those by Nemtsov or Navalny now… She probably decided that she had to do something to draw attention to what is happening in our country, in our city. But what kind of act? Examples of self-immolation are well known. I think she decided that this would be a serious event that could bring people together, people who are not happy with what’s happening in the country. And the country is a piece of shit, we can see that already. Dmitry Gudkov, politician I knew Irina very well. In 2013, in Nizhny Novgorod, we set up a nationwide office for returning direct mayoral elections. Irina was one of the few journalists who actually covered it. I gave her interviews often — there’d be situations where everyone was banned from covering a press conference, and she would come along with a few local journalists. She knew Nemtsov. She was an independent journalist with opposition views, she always helped all the protest groups, always covered their protests. I heard the following: they constantly humiliated her, the security services constantly pressured her, the counter-extremism officers tried to frighten her. She was very concerned about this. She brought these problems to me when I was an MP [2011-2016]. I’m shocked at what’s happened. They did this to her. They pushed her to take her own life. And that’s a crime. Interviews conducted by Mikhail Zelensky, Liza Miller, Sofya Volyanova, Maria Karpenko, Olesya Ostapchuk, Yulia Dudkina. Editor: Alexander Gorbachev

Written by Holod Media

[rilayafever]

Could you do one where if Maya never crawled through rileys window as a child and what she would be like/what her life was like and is like ? ❤️

Sorry this took me so long to write, but I’ve been working on it for a little over a month and it’s the longest one shot I’ve ever written. Thanks for the prompt, here it is!

title: girl next door 

word count: 5153

ship: rilaya (riley matthews x maya hart)

The bay window was never perfect. For years, I tried everything to get rid of that incomplete feeling it produced. I replaced the curtains, put in softer cushions, and decorated it with different coloured pillows. No matter what I did, it was always clear that something was missing.

During my childhood, I used to keep the window unlocked and open at all times. My innocence had me convinced that one day, someone would come through my window and into my life. It was foolish to me to believe in such a thing.

As I grew into my adolescence, I started to accept the reality of my life, and locked up the window. It surprised me how I never once thought that the open window was basically an invitation to be robbed in the city of New York.

Lately, my favourite pastime was to sit alone in the bay window, deep in my own thoughts and itching for something to happen in my bland life.

My little brother Auggie came running into my room, as energetic as he always was, maybe even more. When he was 6, he fell in love with the girl in the apartment across from ours. Her name was Ava and they’ve been together ever since.

I always longed for what he had. Auggie and my parents were lucky enough to have met their soulmates at a young age. Maybe I would have met my soulmate too if I never lost hope that someone would come though my window.

Now I’m 16, and my biggest fear is that no one will ever love me back.

“Hey buddy.” I greeted him warmly and ruffled his curly hair.

Auggie laughed and pushed me away from him. “Riley! I’m in the third grade now, I’m not a baby anymore.” He whined.

“Alright, August.” I replied, being sure to avoid his nickname.

The little boy took a step back and frowned, crossing his arms across his chest. “Okay, I’m not that old! It’s still Auggie.”

I stood up and ushered him towards the door of my room. “What’s so important that you came barging in here so excitedly?”

My little brother looked up at me with his big brown eyes and smiled with whatever teeth he had that didn’t fall out yet. “You know that apartment beside ours that’s been empty for years?”

I nodded in response.

“A family moved into it! I mean- it’s just a mother and a daughter but still! I saw it with my own two eyes, the daughter is blonde just like Ava and she’s your age.”

“Really?” It was shocking, to say the least. That apartment hadn’t been occupied in years.

Auggie nodded and grabbed my hand, tugging me into our kitchen.

Without turning around, my mom kept her attention on the dinner she was cooking for us.

“Riley! I’m glad to see you’re not sitting in that window anymore.” She laughed. “I’m guessing Auggie told you the good news already?”

“Yeah.” I shrugged, pretending like it was no big deal. Although deep down, I was shaking with excitement at the thought of making a new friend.

“You should bake them one of your famous peach pies! It’ll be a great way to welcome our new neighbours.” My mom suggested, her gaze still focused on stirring a pot of soup.

I nodded. “Sure.”

~

I dusted my hands off and wiped them on my apron. Backing up, I placed my hands on my hips as I proudly admired my work. A peach pie sat smugly on top of the cooling rack, steam rising off the top.

“Perfect.” I grinned.

Picking it up carefully, I headed next door to the newly occupied apartment. My hand shook slightly as I knocked twice on the door.

A couple seconds later, a blonde haired lady who looked to be in her late thirties opened the door. She smiled warmly, looking up at me before glancing down to the pie in my arms.

I cleared my throat when I realized I was staring. “Hi- um- my name is Riley-”

An angelic voice interrupted me in the middle of my sentence. It rang out from behind the lady who opened the door. “Mom! Is that the pizza I ordered?”

The owner of the voice stepped out into my vision. It was difficult to get a complete view of her from where I was standing in the door but she was gorgeous. She had long dirty blonde hair and piercing blue eyes just like her mother. She was short, but pranced around the apartment like she owned it, nonetheless.

The girl stopped dead in her tracks when we made eye contact. “Oh… that’s not the pizza guy.” She trailed off.

I laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of my neck and looking down in an effort to hide my blush.

The pretty girl gently shoved her mom aside to stand in front of me. “Shawn’s waiting for you on the phone, I can talk to her.” She told her mother.

The older lady nodded and walked off, heading down a corridor and disappearing out of my sight.

“Who are you?” The blonde asked.

“R-Riley.” I stuttered, hating that she made me so nervous. “My family and I are going to be your neighbours. I made you pie?” The last part of my sentence came out as more of a question than a statement.

“Oh, okay thanks.” She replied with a monotone voice and took the pie from my hands, beginning to close the door with her foot.

I saw my window of opportunity closing. “Wait, it’s-”

I guess she didn’t hear me because she shut the door in my face, leaving me in disbelief.

“Peaches.” I finished my sentence with a sigh, turning on my heel to head back to my apartment.

To my surprise, the door swung open just as quickly as it shut. “What did you just call me?”

“Nothing?” I replied, confused.

“No, no.” She shook her head. “You said something after I shut the door.”

“I said peaches. The pie- I mean. It has peaches in it.” I answered her.

“Oh.” She almost looked disappointed, like she had wanted the word to mean something else.

“Well.” She grabbed the door and began to shut it again, only to be interrupted when I shoved my foot in to stop it.

“Wait! What’s your name?” I asked.

During my desperate action, I moved in a couple inches closer to her. It allowed me to see her breathtaking beauty. She had light freckles sprinkled across her nose, and soft plump lips that were perfectly shaped.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” She teased.

“Um, yeah? That’s why I asked.” I deadpanned, growing tired of her cockiness. The girl didn’t respond, she just raised and eyebrow and smirked, signalling for me to continue.

I lost my train of though when I stared into those ocean eyes. “Never mind, I shouldn’t have asked in the first place.” I said shyly and walked off, not hearing her door shut until I reached the front steps of my own apartment.

The girl next door was a mystery waiting to be unravelled, and I couldn’t get enough.

~

It was the first day of freshman year. The school was filled with far too many aromas of different perfumes and colognes from teens trying to make good first impressions. I stayed low on the radar, only ever hanging out with Farkle, Smackle and Zay. Every once in a while, Lucas would take a break from sitting with his newer, more popular friends to sit with us. He loved to pretend like things were the same as they were in middle school.

They never were, and I’m not sure if I even wanted them to be anymore.

I wish that I could say everything in my life stayed the same since the day she walked into my classroom. I wish I could say that my world didn’t get any brighter, that my heartbeat stayed true to its original pace, or that I didn’t smile anymore than I usually did.

Except that would be a lie.

The constant beating of my heart from my chest stopped the second the blonde stepped into the class. (3 minutes late, of course, because who shows up to high school early?)

Our teacher was in the middle of reading aloud attendance when she walked in. He pushed his glasses up to his nose and glanced at her. “I suppose you’re Maya Hart?” Mr.William asked dryly.

She nodded in response and sat down in the only open seat left that was reserved for her in the seating plan he created. It was the desk behind me.

I played with my pencil nervously, feeling as if there was a pair of eyes watching my every move. I knew that I was just being paranoid, that Maya could probably care less about me or anything that I did.

She leaned forward and tapped me on the shoulder. “Hey neighbour.” The blonde greeted with a smirk. Before I could respond, she leaned back in her chair and put her arms behind her head comfortably. Maya stayed like that for the rest of class, not saying a word to anybody else, including me.

~

The bell rang, causing each student to scramble out of Mr. William’s English class in record time.

Maya was the first one out. Quickly, I shoved all of my books into my bag and jogged to catch up with her.

“Hey! Maya!” I called out, grabbing her attention.

“What do you want?”

“I know you’re new here and you don’t know anybody yet, do you want to come over sometime? It’ll be a quick walk.” I joked, in an attempt to break the ice.

Maya rolled her eyes in disbelief. “What makes you think I would want to be your friend, out of all people?” She snapped.

I took a step back in shock. “Nothing- I just-” My brain searched for the right words to say. “I thought you wanted us to be friends, when you said hi to me thing morning.”

“We’re neighbours, not friends, sunshine.” She answered and walked away, leaving me alone in the centre of an empty hallway.

~

I would never admit it, but I was obsessed with the idea of Maya Hart. The girl that never had any friends yet seemed to magically attract any person who encountered her. All of the boys wanted to date her and all of the girls wanted to be friends with her.

She never accepted anybody’s offer. Lucas’ ego took a huge hit when she shut him down. It shocked everyone, that the new girl didn’t even bat an eye at the school’s most popular boy.

I didn’t understand why she preferred silence and isolation. Every explanation I tried to come up with just didn’t make any sense.

After the fifth time of me trying to break down her walls, I decided that the task was just impossible. Every offer to hang out and get lunch was shut down within seconds with a simple “no”.

Maya never showed any bit of remorse for rejecting others. She lacked emotion. I only ever saw genuinely smiling once when she was painting in the art room. I gave up on trying to crack the code behind the mystery girl because she was a puzzle that was impossible to solve.

Tonight was different. My parents had invited Maya and her mom over for dinner. I told myself that tonight was going to be the night I discovered who she really was.

After dinner, I invited her up to my room while her mom continued to mingle with my parents. It was obvious that she didn’t want to accept the invitation, but anything was better than listening to adults talk about carpet samples.

I shut my bedroom door when we were both inside. Turning to her immediately, I asked the question that has been on my mind since day 1. “Why don’t you like me Maya?”

The blonde rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “I don’t like anybody, you’ll get over it.”

“But I didn’t do anything wrong! Just let me know what I’m doing and I’ll fix it.” I pleaded.

Maya shook her head. “That’s your problem, honey.”

I tried to hide the blush that rose when she referred to me by the sweet nickname.

“W-What do you mean?” I stammered, suddenly feeling very nervous.

She looked me up and down, obviously enjoying the fact that my initial confidence had diminished.

“You worry too much about what other people think. The fact that you would be willing to change yourself to make a stranger happy just shows that we can’t be friends. We’re too different.”

“Don’t they usually say that opposites attract?” I asked, putting up a fight. I knew that Maya and I would be great friends if she just gave me a chance.

The blonde raised an eyebrow. “They only say that about romantic couples.” She corrected. “They may attract, but they never last.”

I stood up, reaching to grab her hand. Only to be rejected when she tugged it away, frowning. I ignored the hurt I felt from the action and continued arguing. “Who says we can’t beat the odds and be the best friends that the world has ever seen?”

“Is that all you want from me? Friendship?” She sounded disappointed, like she thought we were talking about something completely different this whole time, and she just caught up to me.

“Yes?” I replied, slightly confused.

She didn’t answer.

“Pretty please?” I pouted.

“You know what you remind me of?“  Maya asked. She looked down at her fingernails, analyzing them while biting her lip.

“What?!”

“A puppy.”

“Awww, really?” I gushed.

“-with rabies.” She finished.

The smile on my face fell. Maya was impossible to get through to, no matter how hard I tried.

Reaching for the doorknob, she avoided eye contact with me. “You’re weird Matthews, I don’t like it. Don’t take it personally. See you around.”

Then she left.

~

Farkle, Smackle, Zay and I went to Topanga’s after school to catch up with each other for the first time in weeks. Lucas even came for 15 minutes or so before he had to leave for plans he made with his other friends.

His presence was gloomy the entire time, making us all feel like we were at some kind of funeral and not a coffee shop. It wasn’t until Zay snapped at him that he was willing to admit what was wrong.

“Okay I wasn’t going to say anything but come on man, this is embarrassing! You look like a lost puppy, tell Zay what’s wrong.” He demanded, referring to himself in the third person.

I smiled to myself when Zay compared Lucas to a puppy. It reminded me of when Maya did the same a few days ago. Granted, it was a puppy with rabies, but still a puppy.

Then it dawned on me that maybe that’s why Lucas and I never worked out. We were too similar. We were both puppies. Lucas and I needed cats. Someone who would butt heads with us yet still be there to laugh about it at the end of the day. I couldn’t be that person for him, and he couldn’t be that person for me.

Lucas’ frown grew even more as he leaned back into the chair. “Why won’t Maya date me?”

“Are you kidding?” I asked, accidentally raising my voice a lot louder than I had originally intended.

His eyes widened and he sat up straight, putting his hands up in defence. “Woah, Riley. I didn’t take you for the jealous type. You were the one that broke up with me, remember?”

I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms in a sarcastic manner. “I remember. What I meant was that you’ve been acting like this for days just because of a girl?”

The dirty blonde boy nodded like a child. “I don’t understand what’s wrong with her. She doesn’t seem to want any friends, and she doesn’t even want to date me!” He exclaimed.

“I don’t understand why either.” I admitted, being completely honest with my friend.

“But you know,” I started. “Maya doesn’t owe you anything. She especially doesn’t owe you an explanation as to why she wouldn’t date you.” I explained simply, not sure why I was getting so worked up about the topic.

Before I could go off on a rant about feminism, Smackle cut me off.

“You two seem to be forgetting one thing about her.” She stated, glancing to Farkle to finish the explanation.

The science loving boy nodded in agreement. “Not everyone is heterosexual, you ignorant pigs. In fact, considering from the extensive amount of flannel in her wardrobe and other determining factors, it is very likely that Maya is homosexual.”

Zay sat there with his mouth wide open, his brain trying to process what the dynamic duo had just told us. “Maya is homo-what-ual?” He asked.

“Homosexual, Zay. Like a lesbian.” I gulped.

I wasn’t sure why the topic made me so nervous. In a matter of seconds, my palms were sweaty and my chest was beating unnaturally fast. “Listen, I uh- have to go feed my dog.” I gestured to the door, getting up to leave.

Smackle raised an eyebrow at me. “You don’t have a dog?”

“Right, ha.” I laughed awkwardly, backing up. “I meant I had to go feed Auggie. But have you seen his hair? Dog isn’t a stretch.”

All four of them remained seated, staring up at me in silence like I was insane.

“Well- I got to go!” I exclaimed, running out of the coffee shop as quick as I could.

~

My shoulders slumped in defeat after a long day of school and the awkward conversation at Topanga’s.

Farkle’s words replayed in my head my entire walk home. “Not everyone is heterosexual, you ignorant pigs.”

I tried to ignore the part where he called me and Lucas ignorant pigs, but I didn’t do a very good job.

While reaching through my backpack to search for my apartment keys, I spotted Maya in front of her own door. She was clearly struggling with opening the doorknob for some reason.

At first glance, it seemed like nothing was wrong. I kept my gaze on her for a few more seconds, and gasped at what I saw.

Maya quit struggling with the doorknob to look back at me. Her left eye was undeniably black, and she had a few minor scars around her nose and on the corner of her lips.

My eyes travelled down to her hands that were previously battling the doorknob and I understood why she could open them. The knuckles on both of her hands were swollen beyond belief and a couple of them were even split open.

“Oh my god.” I whispered, pulling out my phone to the dial an ambulance.

Right before I hit the call button, my phone was knocked out of my hands.

“No!” Maya yelled, as if I was doing her a disservice by asking for help. “My mom can’t know about this. She’d be furious that I’ve gotten back into trouble.”

“Back?” I repeated.

Even in her horrible state, Maya still managed to crack a joke. “Well, I haven’t always been this amazing, well behaved student that you see everyday!”

I chuckled, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Right…”

Maya just stood still and smiled at me. It was definitely a change in personality from the girl who was in my room a few days ago.

“Well I can’t leave you like this. Come on.” I said, breaking the silence and grabbing her hand to lead her into my apartment.

She winced in pain when I touched her bruises. “Sorry.” I muttered, readjusting my grip so that it was around her wrist instead.

I tugged gently, Maya was hesitant at first but quickly eased up when I told her my parents weren’t home.

Since she was so short, I sat her on top of the washroom counter so that we were at an even height.

My hand rested on the side of Maya’s cheek as I disinfected her cuts. We were so close that I could hear each breath she took. “This might sting a bit.” I whispered before dabbing her lips with rubbing alcohol.

Maya shut her eyes tight in pain and reached out to squeeze the hand that was previously holding her face. I blushed at the action, trying to keep my cool as I moved down to her hands.

“Uh, Maya?” I asked.

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to need both of my hands to fix up your knuckles.” I chuckled.

Immediately, Maya’s face turned bright red and she pulled away from the hand that she was holding. “Right. Sorry.” She apologized, so softly that I almost missed it.

I gulped, keeping my eyes focused on her hands as I decided to acknowledge what has been scaring me this entire time. “Nothing, uh-” pause. “-bad happened to you. Did it?”

The sun set extremely early in the fall and I was well aware of what could happen to a teenage girl walking home alone in New York during this time.

Maya shook her head rapidly when she understood what I was asking. No, no, nothing like that.“ She assured. I was relieved that she didn’t take the opportunity to make fun of me like she normally would have.

“Good.” I answered, finishing up wrapping the gauze on her other hand.

When I was done, Maya hopped off the counter like everything was fine and headed for the door. I followed her into my living room, expecting her to leave. Instead, she threw herself onto the couch and looked up at me expectingly.

“Are you going to do it?”

My head titled in confusion. “Do what?”

Maya scoffed as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I know you want to ask me how I got so roughed up.” She chuckled. “So ask me.”

“You won’t be upset?” I made sure. The Maya I knew a week ago would have slammed the door in my face if I asked her about her she got beat up.

“No?” She pursed her lips, acting like she hadn’t been horribly rude to me since she’s moved in.

I opened my mouth to ask her, choosing my words carefully. However, I was cut off when she stood up and put a finger to my lips.

“You were taking too long. I’ll just tell you myself. I got in a fight with James from English class.” She said nonchalantly.

James had at least a 2 foot advantage on her and was definitely the more built of the two. He was known for beating up random students just for fun. I guess Maya the new kid was his latest victim.

My teeth gritted together in anger. “That asshole.” I clenched my fists together and started to head for the door, not sure where I would find him or what I would do if I did.

A hand pushed back against my shoulder when I tried to walk past her. “I started it Riley. Not him.”

I couldn’t believe her.

“What the hell were you thinking, Maya? Why would you pick a fight with the toughest kid in school? You are so stupid.” I scolded her.

“Riley, I know-” she started.

I cut her off again, not knowing what I would have done if she got seriously hurt. “I can not believe you Maya. He has sent kids to the hospital before, Jesus Christ, you’re insane. What could have possibly been so important that you needed to fight him for?”

Maya looked down at her feet guiltily. “Just drop it, okay?”

“How are you going to hide this from your mom?” I asked, obeying her when she told me to drop the topic.

“You can get away with a lot of things when your mom is never around.” She replied.

I stepped forward, reaching for her hand. “I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant.” My voice cracked, feeling bad for what I said to her.

The blonde pulled her hand away before I could reach it. “It’s fine. Thanks for- this.” She laughed, gesturing to her face and hands.

“I’ll see you around. I mean it this time.” Maya smiled warmly and left my apartment, shutting the door with a click.

I grinned proudly when I realized that I had finally tore down Maya Hart’s walls and got her to soften.

~

James wasn’t at school the next day. Which was a surprise because he usually never missed school since that meant missing opportunities to beat people up.

Maya ignored me at school, which was normal because so did everyone else. But today, I received continuous glances from everyone who walked past me in the hallways.

Lucas even greeted me today, which was completely out of the blue since he only ever acknowledged me when I was with the rest of the crew. It was a simple “Hey.” But somehow it came across as jealous and loathing.

At lunch, I sat with my usual group of friends. I was glad to finally have a beak from all of the unwanted attention I received this morning.

However, my three friends gave me the same awe-struck state as everyone else. “Okay. What is it?” I asked, frustrated.

Farkle’s eyes widened in surprise. “You don’t know?”

“For goodness sakes, just tell me already!”

Smackle shoved her boyfriend out of the way to talk. “Maya got in a fight with James yesterday.”

“Okay, I know that. But that has nothing to do with everyone staring at me!”

“Sugar, it has everything to do with the stares you’ve been receiving.” Zay answered, obviously enjoying the fact that I was absolutely clueless.

“You see, after school, James was talking about his newest target. An annoyingly optimistic brunette named Riley Matthews.” He said.

“What?!” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I’ve never done anything to James and now he has set himself on bullying me?

Zay put his pointer finger to his lips to signal me to be silent. “Oh it’s gets better.” He cackles evilly.

“Maya just so happened to be walking past when he said that and let me tell you, that girl was furious! I don’t think I’ve ever seen that much anger bundled into 5ft. Before I knew it, she was throwing punches at him, it was so cool. James definitely has it much worse.” Zay noted. “He probably didn’t want to embarrass himself by showing up to school and displaying what a tiny girl did to him.”

“I don’t get why she would do that.” I admitted.

“Me neither.” Smackle replied. “Perhaps she has gained some sort of emotional attachment to you as a neighbour.”

Farkle nodded. “Yeah, it’s human instinct to want to protect the people you love.” He said.

I shook my head, laughing. “No, you guys have it all wrong. Maya doesn’t love me.”

“She doesn’t?” Zay questioned. “What was yesterday all about then…” He trailed off, stroking his chin to think.

“Okay, that’s enough.” I said, getting up. “I’ll talk to you three again once you regain your sanity.”

~

I sat alone in the bay window, reevaluating today’s events. A series of taps on my window interrupted my concentration.

Maya was standing on the ladder outside my fire escape, asking for permission to come in. Swiftly, I opened the window and pulled her through, trying not to let any of the cold Autumn air in.

The first thing she tried to do was apologize. “Listen I’m sorry that everybody was staring at you today, I didn’t know that would happen I wasn’t thinking. Also I would’ve came through your front door but I didn’t want your parents thinking we were-”

“It’s okay.” I cut her off, smiling at the girl. Slowly, I inched my hand towards hers to intertwine our fingers. To my surprise, she didn’t pull away this time. Instead, she happily connected our fingers and looked down into her lap, blushing.

“Thank you for protecting me, Maya.”

“Protect?” She scoffed. “I was just, uh- trying to put James back in his place.” I loved seeing how nervous Maya was for a change.

“You know, there’s nobody else here. You don’t need to act tough to protect your reputation all the time.” I said softly, raising our intertwined hands so that she could see.

Maya gulped, staring at me with wide, vulnerable eyes.

“You like me, don’t you?” I teased, a smile growing on my face.

The blonde’s eyes glanced briefly down at my lips before she turned her head away. “No…” she mumbled.

My eyes widened in victory. “You tease me,” I started slowly. “and stand up for me, and turn down everyone else that asked you out because you like me!” I exclaimed, enjoying every second of this.

Maya’s face was as red as a tomato by now. “Oh my gosh, I’m totally right! You have a big, fat crush on me but won’t admit it because-”

“-mm!”

Before I could finish my sentence, Maya’s soft lips were pressing against my own. She kissed me tentatively, like she was deciding whether or not she liked it. Slowly, she raised her free hand up to my face to cup it, her lips never separating from my own in the process.

I squeezed our intertwined hands, and kissed her back. It only took 1 and a half seconds for me to decide that Maya was a much better kisser than any of the boys I had ever kissed in my life.

Farkle was right, not everybody is heterosexual, you ignorant pig. I told myself.

Maya pulled away, swiftly wiping her mouth. Her face still hadn’t returned to its natural pale colours.

“Why’d you do that?” I questioned, even though I definitely enjoyed it.

She raised her hands in defeat, gesturing wildly. “You wouldn’t stop talking!”

I raised an eyebrow at her. “You’re saying if I keep talking you’ll do it again?”

“Yes- I mean no- ugh, I don’t know! Do you want me too?” Maya was clearly too frustrated with her own emotions, to think straight.

“Of course I do, I want you to kiss me again more than anything in the world for you too. This is so great. We’ll be perfect influences in each other lives.I’m glad you got beat up, wait that’s not what I meant-”

Maya giggled adorably and placed a hand over my mouth. “Ready Matthews?” I nodded eagerly, watching her remove her hand from my mouth before she kissed me tenderly.

It occurred to me, that in that moment, I had finally found the missing piece of the puzzle. The bay window was complete.