#and then talk about being neglected as though its the same as poverty

[faggling]

Financial abuse is real and terrible and it absolutely effects your childhood. But it's a different type of trauma than living in genuine poverty. And it's not an attempt to invalidate anyone by saying that.

(note: this is related to personal irl shit, I'm just venting and this isnt a complete statement)

[ex-silent-reader]

Happy Holidays fic recs

Happy Holidays everybody!  I haven’t been commenting on posts individually like i normally like to so it’s kind of backed up a bit. I still really want to thank all the authors who have been sharing their stories with us and leave a lil itty bitty comment before I can expand on them for their own post so here’s that! Also I’ve seen a lot of undeserved negativity being spread to a lot of authors and I just want to thank you all for sharing your work on this platform FOR FREE and remind you that you literally owe us nothing and I’m super grateful that you continue to share with us. These are just some stories that I’ve read this week, i’d def like to do another of these soon :)

Disclaimer: I DO NOT own any of these stories, each story is owned by the author tagged next to the title and the summary is pulled verbatim from their page, in quotation marks. The only thing I own is gratitude towards these authors for sharing their work with us.

Also all stories are rated M 

Also, a loooot of stories have come out lately and I haven’t had a chance to get to a lot of them yet but i hope to soon so I’ll hopefully make another one of these soon, but yea pls know that I’m not purposefully ignoring or excluding anything or anyone.

Jin;

last christmas | ksj x reader - @xjoonchildx

“ summary: it was bound to happen, eventually. after months of near misses at barbecues and birthdays, there’s no avoiding your ex-husband at hoseok’s annual christmas bash. but it’s fine, totally fine, because you’re both adults – and you’ve both brought dates and booze. what could go wrong? “

This story was amazing! First of all, I love the comedy surrounding the entire situation, Hobi with his 8 trees and instigator Yoongi who also wants them to get their shit together for Hobi’s sake. I love all au’s but sometimes exes to lovers is difficult for me to side with because I don’t see how people can bounce back from so much hurt but in this story it felt very natural how they were able to find their way back together and I really enjoyed the insight to their relationship, especially near the end.

Yoongi;

CREAM & SUGA -  @snackhobi

“summary: yoongi is your favourite regular. he’s patient, polite, and predictable, a-large-black-coffee-to-go-please, no cream, no sugar, thank you. rinse and repeat. the seasons might change, but yoongi’s order stays the same.

and then one fateful day in winter, yoongi asks about the weekly specials, orders a cup of christmas and sugary sweetness, and everything starts changing.”

Ya’ll. Yoongi fics just truly hit different. The plot of this was so adorable and him going out of his way like that to keep her engaged was so cute and just very Yoongi like. I also just really loved the descriptions in this, like how oc described making the drinks, it just made everything seem so real.

universe | myg drabble - @personasintro

                           “❥𝒔𝒚𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒊𝒔; you’re his whole universe, you just don’t know it yet – or him” 

ASDFGHJKL! Like, I really have no words for the way this made me feel. Like, ik it’s not a super healthy dynamic but the thought of a fixated Yoongi is.. I loved reading Yoongi being so fixated with oc and doing everything i his capability to meet her. I also was v interested in the part where he bumped into her and she didn’t react the way he expected because it made me think about how he (or any character’s with his mindset) cope when the fantast and reality don’t match.

Hobi;

 A Holly, Jolly Crisis (M) -  @kpopfanfictrash

* Blog doesn’t allow copy/paste and I wanted to respect that*

This story made me feel so many things. Like there’s so many layers to it and both of their hurt, her visiting him and feeling betrayed while he felt pushed aside. This story was so complex and both characters had so many layers to them, but it’s still sooo well written and I was invested the entire time. Like, I genuinely can’t get my feelings out in a brief way so I’m looking forward to screaming about this in it’s own post.

Joonie;

 my only wish - knj | m - @ppersonna

“✹ summary- There are few things you hate most in this world. Hornets, unnecessary fruit pieces in otherwise perfectly good jello, certain shades of orange… But nothing takes the cake more than two simple things. Christmas. And Kim Namjoon. So why did you agree to pretend to be Kim Namjoon’s girlfriend at his family Christmas party? Bah-Humbug. “

UM! Absolutely adored this story, of course it would be a fellow cream suit enthusiast who can bring so much justice to dreamy Joon. I loved how he was portrayed here and getting insight to both his and oc’s feelings made me root for them soooo hard.

new parent syndrome - @1kook

“ SUMMARY You love Namjoon, honest. But you love your daughter Hyejoo even more— it’s not a controversial sentiment when you know he’s the same way! —and going back to a regular adult life sans kids absolutely sucks. (Or so you thought.)”

The tag “dreamy husband joon” is extremelyyyy accurate. This story was just so cute and their relationship truly felt so intimate and lovely. Her being on the phone with Jimin while Joon was smash SENT me but it was also so hot like ASDFGHJKL that man can do no wrong tbh.

  laundry day - @snackhobi

“summary: You’ve been letting your laundry pile up for a little too long. Fortunately, your neighbour Namjoon is there to lend you a hand. “

Pls this was so hot. Like, I’ve made it very clear thus far that I’m a total simp for Joon, the thought of that man going strawberry picking and thinking to grab some for oc genuinely makes me SWOON. He’s an actual heartthrob.

   The Sweet in Sweet Potato - @sahmfanficbts

“ Summary: You’ve been roommates for years. Now that you’re catching feelings, it’s time to run away. “

This entire series has had me so invested but this chapter!!! I’m always a sucker for Joon but the way he was so clearly in her feels (for OC) but wanting to respect her need for distance, what a man. And I was so happy to see oc working through her feeling towards Joon.

Last Christmas (M) - @jjungkookislife

* Blog doesn’t allow copy/paste and I wanted to respect that*

Damn, I really love when a misunderstanding is such a big catalyst for a bunch of drama/angst. It just really ups the tension for me because as the reader I know it was a misunderstanding but clearly the character’s don’t, so it just makes me really eager to see how they make amends. I really enjoyed seeing them slowly make amends and grow. Also the buildup to them deciding to give the relationship another go made the ending soooo satisfying.

Jimin;

 picking petals｜pjm - @taestybae

“ summary ↣ you asked for a baby, so a baby is what you’re going to get. “

I really have no words for this, like it was so asaifgjhhkc. First of all, I really enjoyed that it was through his pov, i don’t typically read stories like that (I just don’t often come across them) but this still felt so natural that I didn’t even realize until right now, writing this comment. Also, the imagery was so well described and the anticipation built made this story so enjoyable.

Taehyung;

 Deepest Indulgence  - @scribblemetae

“ Description/Summary: The world is a mess, gangs, violence and rates of poverty are at an all time high since corporations took over everything. You built your Sex house to be a safe place and a sanctuary for those in need, promising to protect anybody who needs it. What happens when an extremely attractive and very rich man walks through the door begging for a job at Deepest Indulgence? The one sex house that wasn’t meant for men like himself. “

I AM SO EAGER FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER TO COME OUT. Like, idk how I can even describe this correctly but this just feel so much like Tae...???? Like idk if that makes sense but just Tae being this v sensual man, but there still being more to him than that, just makes so much sense and even the word “indulgence” is just so sensual and reminiscent of him. Also, the storyline so far is something I’ve personally never seen before and I’m super invested in this world and story already. Very eager to see how their relationship progresses.

 let it snow | kth - @suga-kookiemonster

* Blog doesn’t allow copy/paste and I wanted to respect that*

It’s the way I read this last night, it took me exactly an hour (3am to 4 am cause I’m a CLOWN), and I was so invested that I kept putting off sleep to finish it. Man, i’m a simp for this Tae (just like he is for oc lmao). I really enjoyed reading it and the mention of Jisoo earlier in the story had me on the edge of my seat the whole time wondering when things were gonna blow up. Everything was just so sweet and fluffy, and the confession really made me feel so soft for them both cause they both were so in their own heads and feelings they couldn’t see what was in front of them so I really enjoyed the confessions.

Jungkook;

Thank you, baby - @scribblemetae

“ Turns out the boy whos been stalking you for years has decided its about time he shows his face in the form of a picture, and decides its time to talk to you for real, in the form of a phone call. “

I genuinely don’t know how I can simp over this story in a short way but I’ll try my best. The characters are so complex and the storyline is twisted so many ways that make this so interesting to read and easy to become invested in. The way Jk is written, I understand why OC is lost on how to feel for him. Like, his actions are wrong, but actually meeting him and even seeing his though process, it’s hard to make him out to be the villian that his actions have categorized him as. I can’t wait to continue reading and write a full length comment about this!

FEED ME, FIGHT ME.  @yeojaa

“ What do you get when you mix a pissed off girlfriend with a neglectful boyfriend?  (Aside from trouble, that is.) “

I really enjoyed this, I love how aware of Jk and his boundaries the oc is and how she is cautious to walk the line and not push him too far while also letting him know how his actions make her feel. This just genuinely felt like a glimpse into a very real, very intimate relationship/moment and I loved that. I also just really love how this is written and I think you have a beautiful way with words. 

Chapstick - @softyoongiionly

“based on the time Jungkook said he needed someone to scold him so he’d remember to put lip balm on. Or Jungkook’s had a really long day and the only that can make it better, is seeing you. “

Idk if I’ve ever said it before, but I just love how you write relationships. Like, I can feel how comfortable they are with each other and how natural being together is for them. With your stories generally it just never feels forced and I really love that. I also really liked that we got Jk’s pov in the beginning, getting to see how tense he was really made me eager for their interactions and for him to feel comfortable and calm with her. Their interactions just felt so cute and natural and the end, assdjfhi, jk really deserves to be cherished and I loved seeing oc get him to the point of relaxation.

[bellatrixobsessed1]

From Chin To Yon Rah (Part 29)

Her muscle definition has faded and she finds herself once again as frail as she had been in the grassland. Perhaps worse so. There is no sympathy in the Fire Nation. There is hardly anyone around to give it to her. And so her body grows thinner, bonier, frightfully so and she finds herself missing and craving the Earth Kingdom hospitality she has grown used to.

And it is so hot. 

So, so terribly hot. 

She isn’t sure how she used to thrive in it and resents herself for not being able to thrive still.

She feels quite queasy. Her body trembles with hunger and heat. She pushes herself forward until she doubles over and vomits. Her vision goes fuzzy. She uses the last of her unsoiled towels to clean her face. She drinks the last bit of water in her waterskin. 

She stumbles forward, her body sways, she can’t walk straight.

The sun beats down. 

She squints her eyes, she has trouble seeing over that merciless golden haze. 

It beats down with a viciously taunting intensity. It’s rays dance and simmer about as if to ask her what kind of firebender can’t stand a little Fire Nation heat? 

She has no answer for it. 

She comes by a small band of people, the first she has seen in a while. “I need water.” She informs them, voice strained. 

The side step her, look at her as though poverty is a disease that she may spread to them if they get too close.

Time passes strangely in her heat daze. But at some point she comes to a village. By now she is deeply parched, her lips cracked and dry. The sun has fallen and risen once, maybe twice, she can’t remember. Her stomach is past the point of aching, it has given up after so many days of ignored requests. 

She stumbles up to the first building, bracing herself heavily against its wall. People pass her by offering her nothing but looks of pity and disgust. 

She is dying, don’t they care that she is dying?

Does anyone care?

That day...days...week...her head is too foggy to retain any lessons, let alone make sense of them.

.oOo.

She isn’t sure that she is ready to let her euphoria and delight go, but she has to cleanse the wound soon; the longer she sits and lets it fester the worse it will be, the harder to clean. And, spirits are her emotional wounds deep. 

She lifts Caihong into her arms and carries her out towards the palace gardens and then further still. 

“Azula, where are we going?” Sokka pads alongside her. 

“To the coronation hall.” She replies. 

“Why there?”

She offers him only a shrug. Truth be told she simply can’t think of a better location; she doesn’t want to stain and tarnish her garden with poor memories nor mar the palace halls with them. Neither does she want to create new places that are hard to walk past. So she will take herself back to a place that she already has trouble visiting and make it harder still.

Caihong wiggles around in her arms, swiveling her head every which way. “This city’s really big!” She exclaims. 

“Yes, quite.” Azula replies, brushing a hand over her hair as though she isn’t going to bring the girl to tears very soon. Azula takes a deep breath as steps upon the grate. They had neglected to remove the chains that had bound her to it. Her stomach heaves and she clutches Caihong tighter. It had happened so long ago and yet it still has a grip on her mind, a stomach fluttering, throat burning grip. 

She doesn’t think that Sokka realizes exactly what this place means to her, what those chains represent. Even so, he hooks his arm around hers. 

“You alright?” 

Another shrug. 

“You aren’t. Got it.” He mumbles. 

“I didn’t say…” 

“Exactly.” He replies. “You don’t say anything when you’re not doing well. What’s going on?”

“Nothing yet.” She sighs as she makes her way up the steps. She decides to ascend only halfway, lest the conversation drain her too much to be able to make it all the way back down. She takes a seat with Caihong in her lap and stares for a good while at the setting sun as it dips behind one of several tiered roofs. 

Looking down she could practically visualize powerful bursts of blue and orange. Deadly blasts...merciless eruptions…

She holds Caihong’s head against her chest.

Sokka sits silently next to her, hand atop hers. She closes her eyes and savors the feeling of it, the feeling of care, of being cared for. The last time she perched upon these steps, she had no such thing. She doesn’t think that she had even a concept of it.

“Caihong, we have to talk about something.” 

“What Ri...Azula?” The girl stares up at her with such big, pretty eyes. Carefree and hopeful…

“Remember when you asked when I’m going to take you back to Wujing, your father, and grandpa Ojihara?”

She nods, a wide grin breaking upon her face. Azula’s stomach lurches that much further. “Mmmhmm! I remember! Are we gonna go soon!” 

Azula swallows, “Caihong, we aren’t going back to Wujing. There is no Wujing.”

Her smile fades and her voice grows small. “What do you mean?”

“The village was invaded and burned, do you remember that?”

She nods. 

“The village was destroyed, Caihong. The buildings are falling apart and there’s no one left in the village.”

“Where did they go, Rikka!?”

Azula cringes. 

“We gotta find them!” 

Azula bites her cheek, it is the only thing that keeps a sob from escaping. She wishes that the child would just get it so that she wouldn’t have to say it out loud again. “They’re gone, Caihong.”

“Gone where, Rika!?”

She grits her teeth. “To the Spirit World. They’re gone, gone. Do you understand?”

She shakes her head. 

“Dead.” She clarifies quietly. “It’s just me and you. You learned about the airbenders in school, right?” 

“Y-yes.” Caihong wimpers. 

“Do you remember what happened to them?”

“The Fire Nation killed everyone ‘cept the Avatar?” 

Azula nods again. “That’s what happened to Wujing.”  

“No, Rikka!” She stops her foot, “no! Dad is still there, grandpa’s still there. We gotta go find Atsu!” 

She can’t stop the sob this time, she doesn’t know if she even wants to. “Atsu is dead, Caihong. So is Seukhyun and Ojihara and Hajime and Min-Min…” Her body shakes.  

“No!” Caihong screams again. “No! No! No!” 

She wishes that the girl would stop. It is breaking her and she is already broken. She wants to comfort the girl but she can hardly keep herself from screaming just the same way. “Come here, Caihong.” She implores softly but the girl is sprinting down the stairs.

Sokka curses and chases after her. He catches up without a hitch and scoops the girl into his arms despite a decent amount of kicking and arm batting. “I wanna find dad!” She screams, it is so shrill; Agni, it sounds like her throat will tear.

Azula leans heavily against the steps and bunches in on herself. She hates that scream, hates the torment in it. Hates that she had to be the one to bring her the news that brought them on.

Sokka holds her tightly in spite of the trashing until she is all out of energy. Azula’s tears are more or less silent, she could very much use an embrace but Caihong’s need is more desperate. She has already been through the throes of loss, the child hasn’t.

“I don’ have a family no more.” Caihong murmurs after her cries slow. 

Azula forces herself upright wipes her tears away with her sleeve and then dabs Caihong’s away, “you do have a family.”

She shakes her head and wipes her eyes and nose on Azula’s sleeve. 

Azula’s nose crinkles.

“You do have a family.” Sokka smiles, “do you think that Azula would let just anyone wipe their runny nose on her sleeve?”

Caihong rubs at her eyes, “no.” 

“Well then…” He gives her a firm pat on the back. “You do have a family still, it just isn’t the one you thought that you’d have.” He looks away from Caihong for a moment and smiles at her. 

She swallows and rests her chin atop Caihong’s head. She holds the girl so tightly. 

“You both have a family.”

[cartoonfangirl1218]

Winner’s Curse Ch. 22

“Please please come in quickly,” the honorable wizard Yen Sid urged Uma, barely muffling his own coughs from the dusty air of Judge Frollo’s “house.” Quite ironically or perhaps more telling, Judge Frollo’s abode was the basement of a brothel. A cruel twist of temptation or perhaps a house of convenience since it was no secret that Frollo indulged in his hypocritical desires while preaching at his imaginary pulpit during the day.

But Uma wasn’t here to hear how she was destined for hell. It was night, the perfect time to meet the rest of the Anti-Villain Club while Frollo was away.

It felt like the situation was getting more dire the more time past. Amplified by the restlessness Uma felt because they weren’t getting anything done!

Sometimes Uma wanted to give in to her temptation to just dump the Auradonians for themselves. They didn’t really offer her any information or skills that she needed. Plus, they were slow at best. Uncaring and disobedient at worse, far more concerned with their own problems and feelings. They didn’t know how to work with a team or for a cause other than themselves.

Such royal behavior. Must be nice to put your moods first when your need for food, shelter and safety were never in question.

So it was a breath of fresh air to meet with the Anti Villains. Though they did not give her the assuring efficiency of her pirate crew, they were still Vks, her people. And she would need all the allies she could get if they were to stop the Coven.

Yen Sid gestured to the faded rug with, of course, an image of a man bleeding and crucified while a red devilish monster stabbed at his torso with a pitchfork.

Frollo’s erstwhile, rebellious daughter, Claudine took the head of the rug with Diego De’Vil and Yzla on both sides of her. Harold, Jason, Hadie, Big Murph, Hermie Bing, Eddie Balthazar, Celia and a blonde girl that Uma didn’t recognize rounded out the rest of the circle. Uma took place across from Claudine and Yen Sid stood by, pacing around.

“What news can you give us?” Yen Sid asked, starting the meeting abruptly.

Uma hadn’t noticed when Yen Sid signalled to her from the alleyways but the elder wizard looked even older. He was hunched over, not from age but like there was an invisible yoke on his shoulders. His face was riddled with new lines of wrinkles, stress and fatigue. And he was pale. So pale.

Uma had seen that sort of sickly paleness before. The sheen of sweat from a non-existent flu. He looked like death. The Isle after 20 years was starting to take its toll.

Though Uma had no personal attachment to the wizard nor did she care for his method of teaching goodness so Vks would be accepted in Auradon, when they should be accepted because they like any other person should have a home without abuse or poverty, she respected what he was trying to do. He didn’t see them all as one mass of worthless deviants to be scorned and ignored. He could have stayed in Auradon, doing nothing like all the rest of the so-called good guys, but he didn’t.

And this place was slowly killing him.

This place was going to be the death of all them if Uma’s revolution didn’t work.

Uma cracked her neck, inhaled and began to brief them, even though her report didn’t offer much encouragement that their plans were going to be successful.

“Our communications link with King Ben no longer works thanks to the Isle’s crappy service. However, we were able to inform him that the invasion is taking place in less than a week before we were cut off.” “Circe is officially on our side and will assist Yen Sid on more complex, powerful spells against Nerissa and the others.”

“The rest of the Coven-” “Believes.. Well actually tolerates the idea that you and Calix are still loyal. Lala still is on their side but Jade thinks she can convince her to switch again. Zevon and Ginny are lost causes. But you are going to round up your crew, and Harriet’s crew for extra manpower.” Yzla interrupted, and shrugged at Uma’s glare, “Jade told me.” “Ah yes.” Uma pursed her lips, shaking it off to not act too ruffled. She had been aware that Yzla and Jade were close but she didn’t particularly like that they were discussing things without her. That’s how plans got overturned. And people were overthrown.

Uma pushed that thought away as too paranoid. After all, they were all here for the same thing. Escape, not power.

“Yes, so you already know that. I do believe we will be able to persuade the rest of the Isle on our side.” “Wait the rest of the Isle. Like you mean some other kids right? Or the Hun gang. Not not the whole Isle?” Eddie asked. “I meant the rest of the Isle. The adult henchmen. The orphaned kids. The Huns, the mercenaries, the prostitutes. Anyone and everyone who has no power or big villain names.” The rest of the club looked at turns confused, intrigued and disbelieving at her.

“They are like us. They gain nothing from the Coven gaining more power. They get everything if they helped the revolution. No more oppressors. And a promise from King Ben to take all of us off the Isle to better housing, new jobs and actual food. A better life.”

“Whether Mal likes it or not.” Uma added internally. That had been the one thing she managed to speak to King Ben about, and surprisingluy he agreed wholeheartedly. He had seemed horrified when she described the living conditions that children dealt with. The way teens had turned to violence among other things to survive their abusive parents. He didn’t think he’d be able to convince Auradon should be abolished completely. Big villains would probably stay indefinitely. But he was welcome to her suggestions for programs to hep Vks.

“That’s why I need your input. King Ben is putting me in charge of VK Integration Programs and I want to know what we need.” “Uh, that’s nice. A truly Christian thing to do,” Claudine sneered saracastically, she had always been the most doubting of anyone having good intentions what with who she had for a father, “But shouldn’t we get out of here before we plan any VK Integration Programs?”

“This is part of how we are going to persuade the rest of the Isle to help us,” Uma smoothly bridged the two disparting ideas, “We need solid plans with how, what, when. Something solid and real that people can imagine and believe in. When the other Vks and adults hear of these programs, these programs that are as real as when King Ben invited the Core Four, they will be willing to fight for their chance to get in. They will rise up against the Coven so that they could be free.”

Claudine and Diego still looked suspicious, but Jason, Harold, and Big Murph practically had stars in their eyes. Hermie was smiling shyly and Hadie was tapping his chin thoughtfully. He was the first to pitch in.

“I think there should be something for the victims of Hans and Lars.” Everyone turned to look at him which caused the spiky-blue haired teen to flush and clam up. , Uma nodded empathetically, “Continue.” “Well, I mean-uh.Well we all had it bad. But Prince Hans is another level of bad. I went there once with dad for one of Staylan’s parties and I lurked around and man, that dude is nuts. He has photos of his “harem” all “sexy bruised” and stuff. And Lars…”

Uma narrowed her eyes. She didn’t need Hadie to elaborate on Lars. Gil had already told her everything she needed to know about the icy sadist. It was a term that was generally thrown around for an island full of villains with bloodlust, but Gil described the sickeningly calm way Lars acted. How Lars almost described it in seductive terms the way a whip would constrict a person’s throat until the breath left them. The calculating gaze he’d watch the ones he picked as “lovers.” Apparently a sadism that he picked up from his dad.

“Yeah, everyone knows Drizella is his favorite. Poor Dizzy.” Eddie shook his head.

Dizzy had always been left alone with her grandmother, Lady Tremine, but Uma had always assumed that Drizella, like almost all the parents on the Isle, was neglectful and uncaring. She hadn’t thought that Drizella may have been dealing with her own things.

And why wouldn’t she? That was Gil’s mother had to go through everyday with being Gaston’s unfavorite. While Uma was more concerned with the kids on the Isle, she could see now that some adults may need help too.

“Great. Center for sadist victims. What else have we got?”

“Do we have to go to school if we go to Auradon? I just don’t think I need it. My band is doing pretty well and I bet those royal dorks never heard music like mine.” Diego mock-shredded on his guitar

Uma cocked her head. She got his point. She didn’t think there was anything Auradon Prep had that could teach her anything useful. Like smizing as she heard from Celia Faciliar’s letters from Freddie. Plus there were some teens near adulthood like Harriet who probably wouldn’t want to be forced into classes when they could get jobs. Same with adults who never learned to read in their lives and still didnt want to.

“I’ll talk about it with King Ben. What else?” Uma said.

“Food that isn’t covered with flies. Fresh food, not trash.” Hermie said.

“Uh that’s just a given. None of their food is rotten.” Celia told the lithe brunette before Uma could clarify that good food comes with the territory.

Several ideas were thrown around, but the main ones came down to food, homes away from the possible revenge of their parents and others, and none of the Goodness 101 that Celia heard Freddie taking.

“Great. Now the important thing is that you spread the word of these programs to the other. You have to make people want this badly enough that they will fight. Act like its their only chance because it is. From there, I will send my crew to organize them to key points and learn some better and dirtier fight tactics.” Uma announced.

The rest of the Club nodded somberly at the announcement. There was not much emotion from Uma’s command. No relief, excitement or even nervousness. Just a numb sort of nod that they understood. But the words, “This is your only chance,” clearly rang in their heads.

It was now or never.

Everyone slowly got up to leave, thinking their own thoughts except the blonde who slipped to walk next to Uma, expertly slinking through the alleyways.

“Hi, um, I know we haven’t met before but um.. I’m Cosette.” The literally dirty blonde introduced in a fake high voice, clearly highlighting her nervousness, “I’m Gaston’s daughter. Gil’s half sister? You know Gil right? I mean, of course you do. I’ve seen him and everyone knows he hangs with you. I’m sorry I’m babbling. It’s just this is all so new-”

Uma stopped walking so she could give her her full attention. Yes, now that she stopped to actually look at Cosette, she could see a bit of the resemblance. The blonde hair, the high forehead and cheekbones. She looked older, maybe Harriet’s age, though her ample chest peeking from her corset gave the impression of a woman in her 20s. Unlike Gil, she didn’t have the usually confused look in her eyes. Just scared.

That look heightened Uma’s protective instincts. The helpless usually did that, as unvillainous as that was, plus the Gil resemblance.

“Why haven’t I heard of you before?” Uma asked skeptically even though she was pretty sure Cosette was honest.

“Um I’m a girl. Dad wouldn’t acknowledge me. Actually he tried to throw me away and try again which is why Mom left and… it seemed safer to avoid him. But- but I heard from Celia about this Anti-Villain Club when I went in for a reading, and Celia said you’d come so I thought I’d ask you. You know, for permission.” Uma thought. The story was realistic enough. But there was too much to do right now to focus on a family reunion. Unless…

“I will. You have my word. But first, how good would you say your fighting and/or spying skills?”

[tawakkull]

ISLAM 101: Spirituality in Islam: Part 83

Faith: A particular perspective

The word “faith,” “iman” in Arabic, in the framework of descriptions or from the point of view of science and epistemology, comes from the root “emn ü eman,” which means to be safe from fears, to believe, to promise, to trust, to procure the safety of others. It is a word that has the meaning of being safe and sturdy. Believing in God, attesting to His existence, making a confession in the conscience and making a proclamation from the heart, these are some of the meanings that are conferred upon this word from the point of view of linguistic tradition.

A person who puts faith in God is called a “mumin.” A mumin is the attester and representative par excellence of all the characteristics that we have seen above—here we could also talk about the issue of the relationship of deeds and faith, and whether deeds are included within the description of faith, but for the moment we shall not dwell on these topics. Mumins are indeed heroes of attestation, proclamation and representation with their common sense, their ability to see and perceive, their pure intellect that has been enlightened by revelations, their vast and objective comprehension, their strong and encompassing vision, their fastidiousness and sensitivity in matters of responsibility, their determination and resolution against evil, their pursuit of greatness throughout their entire life and the safeguarding of these high ideals, the ability to keep alive their feelings, awareness and will, their curiosity that leads to the penetration of the essential meaning of things and their deep understanding in interpreting phenomena, their believing and trusting in God and being known among people as people of trust, their attestation to the existence of the Just One and their ability to always stay true to Him, their being known as people who can be trusted with anything and being remembered as people of credibility to whom one can turn at all times, their being remembered thus and being accepted by the all as thus, their being the means for the remembrance of God and also being understood as people who direct those who around them toward Him. They are heroes of attestation, proclamation, and representation, in the true sense of the word.

Even if every believing person is not a hero of faith and Islam to the same degree, it is clear how significant the feeling of belief is for each individual. For a start, this feeling is of the highest value in the nature of humanity, with regards to creation. Even though those who do not believe try to be fulfilled, satisfied, or more precisely, try to find distraction, they feel themselves to be in a vacuum. All time and space is a vacuum for them, today and tomorrow are all the same. Such people feel this vacuum deep down in their soul, they voice the smothering feelings that turn to senseless ravings thus:

All is emptiness; the ground is a void, the skies are a void, the heart, the conscience is a void; I want to hold on, but there is no where in sight to hang on. 

And a believing soul, giving expression to the chilling nature of the denial of truth and any attempt to conceal it, yet at the same time, expressing the peace that faith promises, simply calls out thus:

A rusted heart which has no faith is a burden for the breast. 

A votary of the heart who is determined to dissolve the corrosion of these rusted hearts, on the other hand, will say: “Genuine pleasure, enjoyment without pain, happiness with no sorrow is possible only within the sphere of faith and its truths,” so “those who want to enjoy the pleasures of life should enliven it with faith, adorn it with the deeds that God has prescribed for humanity and protect it by avoiding deeds that He has told us not to commit,” for “when one manages to direct oneself toward the path of eternal life, however miserable and troublesome one’s life may be, as one considers this world to be the waiting lounge for Heaven, one accepts everything contentedly and gives thanks” (paraphrased from Bediüzzaman). Such people would enlighten our horizons with their healing words and cause our hearts to feel the magic of faith.

With regards to its content and essence, faith is a fruit which has been picked from the realm of life and presented to our souls; it is the heavenly river of Kawthar, from which our hearts have been made to drink, a meaning soaked in by the lips of our hearts, a monument of divine light in our hearts, shaped by the ruler and compass of meaning, feeling, conscience and understanding. Heroes of faith who repair and restore their hearts and feelings with faith and understanding have already discovered the secret of turning their world of the mind into the heavens; they have entered the route of eternal happiness and have been freed from all other quests. Since “there is always the existence of a spiritual heaven in faith, and a spiritual hell in blasphemy and sins … then indeed, just as faith carries the spiritual seed of the Tree of Heaven, so too does blasphemy store the spiritual seed of Hell” 

In fact, if a soul has taken wings by means of faith, it will not loiter in any other doorway, nor will it stoop so low as to beg from another; a person with such a soul will not bow their head before anyone else; they will act bravely in the face of everything, to the degree of the strength of their faith. Indeed, “faith is both light and power. Those who attain true faith can challenge the universe and, in proportion to their faith’s strength, be relieved of the pressures of events.”[1] This is because “faith leads to testifying to God’s uniqueness, this testimony leads to submission, submission leads to putting oneself in God’s hands, and this last leads to happiness here and in the hereafter.” Such monuments of faith use their hearts like spiral staircases that lead to the realms beyond the heavens and with this, they beat their wings in the direction of the angelic heights where angels and spirits[2] meet. At times, the angels and spirits whisper things in the ears of these people, and at times they present the spirits with garlands of comprehension and become people of distinction in that realm. And if such people have been able to deepen their faith with learning and have adorned that learning with spiritual tastes, then, indeed, it is then that they start to fly to horizons that even angels yearn for; they are always on the look out for destinations that Lord would approve of … spending their time with those deserving in Heaven and dreaming of the “highest Heaven.” To be of a value great enough to be lifted to the highest Heaven with the light of faith and to attain a value befitting Heaven is the destiny of those who have faith; to stoop down to the level of dark denial and to become one of the people of Hell is the unfortunate end of the blasphemer; the latter is a topic unto itself, but it would take too many pages to make this analysis here.

Those who can see people of faith with their particular depths, remember God through them. Those who feel their breath find life as if they have been visited by Messiah and those who listen to the voices coming from their heart become intoxicated on the wine of the words, as if they have reached the company of the Sultan of Eloquence. Indeed, a soul which has completed its garments with faith and what faith promises is no longer in need of anything else. Through being elevated toward God, such a person is still powerful in weakness with the will of God, rich through His wealth in their poverty, and despite being small, is one of greats. This is due to the fact that such people depend on the eternal will of their Master when their powers of choosing and will are not sufficient. They trust in His will upon matters which surpass their abilities; when shaken in matters of this life, they take refuge in the orchards and gardens of life eternal. When the anxiety of death envelops their horizon, they throw themselves onto the open climate of eternal life. Faced with matters which they cannot resolve with their intellect and understanding, they resort to the glowing climate of the Qur’an, which finalizes the solution. They never experience despair, never feel emptiness; they never come face to face with everlasting darkness. Their experiences and lives are like a song of pleasure and they turn their face toward the Creator with thanks, just like bountiful ears of corn.

Perfect people with faith are not dependant solely on their own consistency or personal states; such people open up to everyone with a prophetlike resolve, embracing everyone and binding their life to the earthly and otherworldly happiness of others to such a degree that they will neglect themselves and live like a friend of the Prophet; scattering light onto their surroundings with the internal light that is like a candle, and maintaining a route which at times may be contrary to personal benefit…indeed, such people always look for places that are dark, like the night. They fight with darkness and oppression, always burning, as they burn, they feel the pain inside, and while their heads may be bowed, neither the continuous glow of their flame, nor the gradual expiration of the flame prevents such people from enlightening others.

Devotees of faith who have managed to raise their flags at the entrance to the way of faith tread the whole world in one bound. They reach the heavens, hold conversations with the stars … they are in contact with the sun … they befriend the moon … and they walk through large stretches of space, toward the “Perfect Companion.” As they walk, their faces are always looking at the ground in humbleness and their breath is that of humility. Indeed, it is as if they have donned feathers taken from the wings of angels, they soar at inconceivable heights; but neither the dizziness of such heights, nor the fact that they are on a par with spiritual ones confuses their thoughts—the purest of the pure. Their heads are always inclined toward their breast, with the feelings of Prophet Adam, with a neverending sigh and hope on their lips, they are like a red rose of the deepest hue. And they glow with varying colors when they turn toward the Just One, as if they are looking toward the sun; when they feel His majesty; they sweat like dewladen leaves of the morning. It is as if they have heard the sounding of the Sur,[3] the fanfare of the Judgment Day.

Those who watch such people find a window through which to gaze upon All-Clement in all His actions, to turn toward eternity and to transform their worlds into nests of love. They display a variety of lights in the darkest night, in those nights where one awaits the dawn and in gardens swept by autumn. They present bunches of roses and flowers to those around them gathered from the emotions in their breasts.

Such people sometimes shape their feelings with majesty and benevolence, they sometimes cool their scorched breasts with tears; their tears flow as if to make the path more welcoming to their wishes and expectations, and they experience approaching happiness with the hope and faith that these aspirations will soon come true. They are always ready to go beyond distances, in accordance with the vastness of their faith. They keep time with the rhythm of their heart, making wings for their reason with feathers from the wings of their heart; they overcome in one step the seemingly insurmountable obstacles in which reason and earthly comprehension are embroiled, and they reach the apex of the world of meaning.

The adherents of truth are always at peace, even when they are surrounded by motifs of grief and sorrow. They do not suffer long from grief, nor are they familiar with unending sorrow. With their bond to God and their intimacy with Him they are able to break the grip of grief with ease; they smother sorrow in its own sorrowfulness and if they have troubles, they adorn them with “sacred sobriety” and watch the pink hues of the spiritual beauty without distress, binding anguish to pleasure, and pain to the glory that is promised by trouble. They are able to transform the groans of pain to joyful sighs, and even when they are most distressed they are able to recite poems of happiness to those around them with the language of their hearts. When they capture the essence of this way and thus sanctify their first breath, with their second breath they bind their hearts to their minds, making their intellect speak with the tongue of the heart and making their voices heard even on the remotest stars and beyond, thus making all the spiritual ones listen to these calls to prayer, a song not heard before. Even believers can hear and enjoy them; as long as the believers keep their horizons free from the stain of sin.

[1] Nursi, Bediuzzaman Said, The Words, Twentythird Word. [2] Martyrs and the ones who are believed to live in a different dimension. [3] Israfil, one of the Archangels, will sound Sur, the trumpet at the Day of Resurrection.

[th3okamid3monart]

Ya no estoy aquí, another take on immigrant stories.

(This will have SPOILERS for Ya no estoy aqui, I recommend watching it first. It is very touching and heavy tale of belonging and loneliness) 

Sinopsis:

Ulises takes is the leader of the cumbia loving group Terkos in Monterrey, Mexico. But when he gets involve on a gang related accident he has to leave his home so his family and him can be safe, taking up a new home in the distant city of New York.  

Writing-Directing-Acting

This piece of media was one of the best made in Mexico so far. Mexico has been growing in the production and creation of different movies which resonate with a diverse of groups. This time it was the turn of one of the most negated states and music genre ever.

Ya no estoy aqui has a well done balance in the writing, expressing and pointing out different subjects that plague the world; from immigration to corruption, from cultural sub groups to violent gangs and, in the background, the injustices a society faces when they are being neglected by the government or the violence has grown into an out of control normality.

The point of view we follow is from Ulises how he works around and moves to survive, but we can also see how the people around him reacts like the ones he left behind in Monterrey, how their lives have changed so much due to him being away and how the situation in his city is changing.

We can also see the point of view of other people who are in the same situation as Ulises, although they’re not face with as much difficulty as him due to knowing the language.

It explores how the mindset changes, how the characters experience life in the new places and how those places change them. It brings up the hardships of being an immigrant and how awfully homesick they feel, and yet we can also see how those people can act so harshly between each other, respectively how 3 of the tertiary characters treated Ulises just for the way he looked. It’s very clear they are from Mexico as well, it shows how people in general can treat each other as bad if not worse than people from a different country.

Ulises is a very well made character, it shows he is a whole person with feelings, hardships and desires. The actor, Juan Daniel García Treviño, makes a great job by showing the difference between him living in his home, being happy, bright and engaging, and living in big city, where he begins to act isolated, serious and having little to nothing of humor. The change of tendencies and attitudes can be quite hard, since you’re told you need to practically change the character. You need to change who you are. That’s exactly what happens to the character and Juan Daniel does is amazingly.

The idea of being ripped away from your home, your family, your culture and being thrown into the shark tank that is, not only other country, but the most violent and cynical city in the whole country (fighting for the 1st place is Los Angeles and Texas in my inexpert opinion).

There were some odd acting moments, mostly during the group parts where Ulises is with the Terkos. And curiously, it’s not the dancing parts. It’s their interactions at times, they are a bit stiff and awkward. There are other shots where they are seen laughing and playing, and those look very natural. Maybe those shots were the first one they were doing.

The director Fernando Frias understands the importance of belonging somewhere. The whole film is about that and you can perceive it everywhere the character goes. The concept is a very important and powerful one among the sentiments of loneliness and sadness which are used as well.

Seeing the character struggle in a world that he doesn’t fit in, that he doesn’t feel its home is the main and most important thing everyone can relate to. Even if you aren’t an immigrant, you can understand how awful feeling alone and feeling an absence or emptiness in your being can feel. We can sympathize with that and maybe get a more understanding view of the people surrounding us. We only want to be understood, we only want to be seen as part of something or somewhere where one can be themselves without being a mocking or something.  

Photography

Amazing shots by Damian Garcia. Another work I’ve seen from his is La vida Precoz y Breve de Sabina Rivas. Between this two you can see he tends to work with darkness, not all the time just very commonly. And he does it VERY well. People have a bad habit of underexposing their scenes, to the point of ABSOLUTE DARKNESS (I’m looking at you, fucking USA horror movies that only woRK ON FUCKING BLUES AND GRAY TONES AS WELL MY GO-). Mr. Garcia does it perfectly and balanced, you can see the silouttes in the dark, you can see the movement.

The shots are very active, by this I mean they are sequence shots. Sequence shots follow the character around, there are also zoom outs and zoom ins mostly used in the flashbacks, which makes it have a more nostalgic feeling. There’s a specific shot where Ulises is dancing with los Terkos and the camera zooms out to make the shot a perfect square, showing them in the center while the rest of the screen is in almost pitch black. That scene is perfect, it doesn’t need a slow mo, it doesn’t need music, and it only needs the energy, the laughs, and the music coming from the radio to give us what Ulises want.

The colors are balanced, not oversaturated but still bright enough. When it comes to viewing cities and towns, photographers tend to use a very cliché color scheme. For a city like New York it’s always kind of red, grey and blue tones that can also look very opaque, meanwhile for Mexican towns, they always use the yellowish, orange tones. One can get very tired of those you know? Which is why I’m very happy to observe this photography specially coming from a Mexican. There are very amazing photographers and Mr. Garcia will go even bigger soon with his amazing work.

Sound

Awesome work, capturing the essence of what the parties and dance spots sound and feel like is a complex thing to do. Not many manage to capture something that isn’t describe as only noise. It is an experience, it’s something you feel not only hear. The music is a very important part in this movie so the way it is listened from radios, the transition from being in the plane of the character and then to a type of score, while also giving us the personal taste of Ulises is a well done edited piece.

Yuri Laguna has done a lot of works, I don’t personally know many but I did get a very good experience with this movies sound, music and effects. The sound effects sounded like something for the movie and not taken from somewhere else and sounded exactly where they are intended to do so. From the foot-steps to the mumbles between characters when they are inside a store.

I really like the scene where Ulises is at a store and he is about to buy a speaker that reminds him of his home. You can hear the boss and Ulises talking and making hand signs but you can’t understand what they are saying. It’s a little detail I really enjoy. I will have to keep an open ear for any other work of Mr. Laguna

Make up, Art and Costume design 

I don’t even know where to start. I’m very sure most of the places they went to are the real ones, so scouting was done very, very well and amazing to get those lovely and breathtaking shots from a high place. But the makeup?? The clothes? THE SPACES? They entire art department did so well! There are so many details that can tell you about the characters. This is what is called subtle storytelling. The scenes that stick a lot to me were the ones that took place in the home of one of Ulises friends. The whole room is dark, and her and her family are watching TV. They have anguish in their faces, and when the shot is flipped to see their backs, you can see 2 things: her phone ringing, because Ulises is trying to contact her, and the TV. Now the one thing that could caught your eye would be the phone BUT the TV has more information for you, which is how Monterrey is having not only an increase of gangs but also an increase of poverty and police violence.

The clothes are very distinguish, I don’t know much about many sub-groups. I didn’t heard of Kolombia before this movie so this is a nice look into the culture that has been popular over there. The main actor is actually from the state so maybe the costume design team got a little info from him and obviously do their own investigation. The clothing’s pop a lot, mostly due to the style (very big and long shirts and pant, and the signature white shoes of los Terkos). The hairstyle is what you would get at first sight though, it being so obviously made by the own character.

In our own modism: Se la rifaron.

I have seen very detailed works, and this one didn’t go underappreciated since the people who work in it got a nomination for an Ariel (the most prestigious Mexican film prize).

Custom design: Magdalena de la Riva y Gabriela Fernández

Make up: María Elena López y Itzel Peña García

Art design: Taísa Malouf Rodrigues y Gino Fortebuono

I didn’t found more info about this people but I’m sure they will go far if they keep up their amazing work.

Editing

I’m pretty sure the final product is what the director intended. It has clean transitions and well done jump cuts, although I think they used a lot of black ins I think the rest is fine. You don’t need to do super specific or out of the box editing when it comes to a solid story that is intended to be realistic. The pace is good and going back and forward between the flashbacks and the present gives you a more dynamic story. There are some confusing points when it comes to the dream sequences, but I think that’s mostly the point of those. The character would get into points he can’t differentiate what’s real and what’s fake. His desires are interfering with his present to the point of confusion.

Editor: Yibrán Asaud and Fernando Frias.

Conclusion

Immigration is an overused theme, a very well-known subject and a problem that has been happening for years. Problem that hasn’t been fix, if countries were at least trying to fix the problems there wouldn’t have to be so many people putting their lives in danger to travel to a safer place. Then again, people have the power and sometimes power corrupts the person (which is why I think a lot of gangs exist too). Even though it is an overused them, many writers and directors have tried to make compelling stories and characters so the subject is not only forgotten but also inspiring for the people to help others, to sympathize and to understand this people.

Ulises is not a 100% good person, nor a bad person, he is a kid who just wants to spend time with his friends and have fun while doing listening to something he loves and feels a connection with.

Another story of immigration that I really enjoy is Guten Tag, Ramon but that story is way to idealistic, while Ya no estoy aqui is more realistic. There’s also La jaula de Oro but that has a very, very dark ending, realistic non the less but still with a more pessimistic and hopeless ending. This movie kind of stands in a middle ground, where the character just comes back to a changed home.

I’ve read some people saying this movie doesn’t have a resolution, but I think that’s the point. The resolution is that life doesn’t stop. A movie with an anticlimactic ending is not a bad movie (at least not all the time), it just makes you think.

Ulises returns to his home which has changed. He didn’t had the opportunity to see it change and change with it. He will have to start from 0, it’s like going to New York all over again. Life is about change and sometimes that change can come from us or others. Things will impact you one way or another, and sometimes life goes on without you.

You have to decide what to do when you are faced with harshness. Although this movie is mostly about belonging somewhere, the ending teaches you about decisions and choosing.

Ulises chooses to return home, he chooses home even when his friends have move on from him, even if his family has turned their back on him, he chooses to come back because he missed it there and not all is bad. There’s a lot of bad going, but at least he is home now. At least he is here. (Al menos el está aquí)

Sincerely moved, TOD.

[no0dlru]

No offense, but I don’t see how derailing a post about the scandalous treatment many poor families are experiencing while government-affiliated companies pocket taxpayer money with a story about your mother helps anyone. I’m sure she works hard and deserves recognition, but not in the form of a “well actually” on a post about very real children who are going hungry.

Giving a poor family a fiver’s worth of food that’s not nutritious nor substantial to “feed” a hungry child for 10 days, whilst pocketing like 80% of the money, is obviously evil. It’s an insult to the people that needed, fought for and pay for the policy; the bastards who claimed good publicity (and profit) for approving FSM whilst not caring about its effectiveness in helping hungry children - just so they can exploit public money with their chums - are slimy psychopaths. Most importantly it shows a complete indifference to the suffering of millions of kids, and their parents, too. Even though we’ve reached a point where policies like this are needed, I know how humiliating and painful it can be to accept what seems like charity (even if it’s offered from a heartfelt place and you’re in desperation): I’ve seen and lived with the devastation, shame and frustration parents feel when they systemically can’t provide for their kids without help, so when all you have to show for that hard-fought-for help is a pittance worth of non-nutritious food for your hungry child, I do grasp how fucking disgusting that is. I’ve always been furious that this economy perpetuates an underclass that can’t access that most basic standard of living whilst the people in the houses of commons and lords who represent them live in luxury and ignorance, and I’m not blind to how much of a kick in the teeth this laissez faire “let them eat frubes” attitude is while they line their pockets.

I didn’t talk about this in my post, but that’s not because I don’t care, it’s because I didn’t feel I could add anything meaningful – it speaks for itself. I could write for hours about how cruel and Dickensian the Tories’ exploitation of the poor is, and how corrupt and damaging their shifty business affiliations are – not just this instance; sacrificing public health to funnel billions of pounds of taxpayers money to their buddies in corporations and contractors, that they knew couldn’t fulfil life-or-death PPE demands during a pandemic, or partnering with property developers to rush through shady deals in order to avoid adhering to impending safety standards reform or building quotas for social housing, etc. That would be derailing too, though.

You make a fair point. I didn’t intend to write so much, and the tone was completely off. I got kinda caught up in emotions, and after posting it I did feel uneasy - I edited out a part where I talk about growing up experiencing food poverty myself (because cooks, like so many other essential workers, are underpaid), exactly for your reasoning. While I can empathise with the experience of food insecurity, I know I can’t speak for people affected by this scandal specifically, so I didn’t try to.

I didn’t mean to “derail” the post (I have a small following and didn’t/don’t really expect my addition to be seen much) nor to minimise the problem. Just because I’m adding to the discussion with something it personally brings to mind doesn’t mean I’m demeaning the original statement - it doesn’t delete the original post, people are entirely able to reblog it from me and remove my caption - it also doesn’t mean I think what I’m adding is an any way contradictory or more important, just relevant. I wasn’t just trying to tell “a story about my mother” but trying to use her anecdotally to talk about school cooks in general, and I’d do the same if I had an unshared perspective on any other group of workers having to work extra hard to paper over the tories’ bullshit. I didn’t intend for it to be a “well actually” (though I respect it did end up reading like that), more like a “yes, and”.

As far as I can tell there’s 2 ways for the current FSM policy to work better outside of reform (and obviously getting rid of the problem of food poverty in the first place) - either giving the monetary vouchers directly in lieu of food (which in circumstances like OP’s post is what people are asking for) or, as “School Meals” is part and parcel of the policy, providing good meals from a school that are worth the money.

£30 worth of bulk-ordered cost-price ingredients, pre-cooked well by professionals in a fully kitted kitchen, with planning put into the nutrition of the meals available over the week, takes an enormous burden off parents. I neglected to mention, but the cooks also handwrite straightforward preparation instructions for the parents on how to reheat the meals (and even accompanying desserts). A large part of food insecurity is prevalence of unhealthy convenience food, and everything in our system discourages people to spend time and money on good meals. In the least judgemental way possible, I know many parents would spend a lot of that £30 on fast or frozen food, because the time-is-money ethos we live under incentivises you to do that. Many people have never had the time, money or opportunity to learn to cook good meals, and parents are understandably too exhausted to spend hours preparing food on top of caring for and home-teaching their kids during lockdown. If you can barely afford to put food in your fridge, it makes less sense to buy a wide variety of fresh perishable veg when you could buy cheap & filling processed instant foods or frozen foods etc, but an industrious kitchen mitigates this disincentive.

This shifts the role of school kitchens and their staff from just cooking meals during school to being more like a soup kitchen for hundreds of impoverished kids even out of term time - this requires cooks, which is a topic I can speak on when not many people can, hence my advocating for those cooks in a post where I talk about the strain put on them. If the policy was well managed and robust enough to properly feed kids nationwide, including the kids affected by the scumbag deals like OP’s post, that would place more workload on cooks who don’t have the means to fulfil even their current levels of production, let alone the added numbers currently tied up in contracts. I did get caught up in personal emotion, but my intention wasn’t to argue for hollow recognition for cooks, or my mum as an individual person (like people standing on their doorsteps clapping for the NHS while it underwent a crisis) - I’m trying to critique a different aspect of the policy’s implementation with regards to nationwide inconsistency, overworked staff, issues with stock orders, lack of structural support and problems with distribution.

I’m only talking about my mother because she’s my insight into this field - if literally anyone else worked in the same role and told me stories about hand opening hundreds of cans or writing instructions on hundreds of meals, I’d be writing about them, because if you’re going to talk critically about policies like FSM you need to acknowledge the apparatus required to actually make those policies function. Again, if you care about hungry children and are angry about this bs but want FSM to continue in a more functional way, you’re likely either arguing for the food to be replaced by monetary vouchers (which has the limitations I outlined above, and while monetary support is widely needed it at best eases the symptoms of underlying systemic poverty, and at worst could be misconstrued as a handout that makes the underlying poverty a non-issue), or for the government to meaningfully ensure these kids are provided for as implied by the policy (via school cooks), or for some combination of the two. So I think it’s quite relevant.

And yeah, maybe it doesn’t help anyone to discuss this! But it’s my blog and I want to talk about it, so I’m going to.

[buttercup-of-kaer-morhen]

Of Thorns and Buttercups

~Ch 1/?~ (Beauty and the Beast AU, Kiiiinda. It has definite elements of the original story cause I’m a sap for Fairytale AUs. I hope you enjoy. Also shout out to @sophiakuso1 for being my beta.) Warnings: Brief mention of violence, blood, and there’s a death scene... so there’s that, also, non-sentient animated furniture violence? I don’t know if that will bother anyone but they will kinda act like living things when they show up in the story, so...  Primary Tags: Beast! Geralt, Belle! Jaskier, Memory Alteration Via Curse, It really only affects Jaskier right now Also on AO3!

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The roads down from the mountain had been quiet aside from the sounds of the woods and its inhabitants, although those too seemed muted and subdued now. The witcher had thought that once he was left alone, his life would just go back to the way it was before. That everything up until then wouldn’t make a difference, he’d walk the path alone and he’d be fine...But the absence of the bard hung heavily around him, like an albatross hanging from his neck. He finally had the blissful peace and quiet he had longed for but it wasn’t as blissful as he thought it would be. It only left him uneasy, looking over his shoulder and straining to hear even the softest of humming or the strum of a lute. More than just the noise that no longer followed him, the comforting warm presence of Jaskier was no longer at his side. And for the first time in his long life of making mistakes, he couldn’t push away the deep feeling of regret that tailed him like a hungry hound.

At first, during his descent down the mountain, Geralt had a moment of realization that his-- the bard could have easily gotten hurt--or worse, killed--heading down on his own without the witcher’s protection. He watched and listened for any indication that Jaskier had been injured as he walked on. As time went by, the wolf resigned himself to the fact that Jaskier was long gone, whether that meant alive or dead he did not know. It left a soft taste in his mouth and the feeling of bile in the back of his throat. The night he reached the base and set up camp, he briefly felt the urge to run and track down his lost friend, wherever he may be, but he held fast and let the urge pass. It was better this way. Jaskier deserved better. At least better than a wolf that only knew how to bite the kind hand he extended. If the bard wasn’t at his side then he was safer as well. No longer being put in danger by the monsters and battles that followed Geralt no matter where he went. He was undoubtedly happier too. He would find someone who knew how to actually give a compliment or a proper critique of his songs. It had to be true because that was the only thought that kept the witcher content as he laid awake through the evening. Geralt didn’t know why his parting with Jaskier haunted him more than his one with Yennafer but it did. Maybe because their bond wasn’t forged mostly by magic. Maybe it was because the bard seemed like such a permanent fixture in his life now. He pondered it until dawn but when the sun rose, he still had not found an answer. The following morning, he set off on the path in search of his next contract. He had no place specific in mind so he pulled Roach in the direction of the sea and let the siren call of it pull him towards his next job.

After a few weeks of traveling, he came upon a small town not too far off from the ocean that seemingly fell on hard times, although most villages seemed to have suffered the same fate nowadays. He was met with suspicion and distrust, not that he was unused to it, but this town in particular felt very quiet and reserved for it’s immodest size. People lurked in their homes instead of out on the streets or in their gardens and shuttered their windows and barred their doors as he passed. He could tell that poverty plagued the area and the sour smell of starvation was practically suffocating. He had made to go to the inn to check if there were any contracts posted, doubtful although something was so obviously wrong here, but a movement caught his attention. Looking in the subject that caught his eye, he spotted an elderly hag waving for him to follow before promptly disappearing down an alley. Wary of the situation, Geralt hesitantly followed with his hand ready at his sword. The woman kept ahead, only glancing back occasionally to make sure he followed, as she led him to a hut at the edge of the town. The door was left open behind her in invitation for him to follow but caution had him pausing just outside the hovel.

“Scared Witcher?” The bemused voice of the hag called out when he neglected to follow.

He grunted in response and crossed the threshold. Staying near the door, he crossed his arms as he waited to hear what the woman had to say.

“Not very talkative I see.” She spoke again as she settled atop an old stool in front of a decrepit hearth. He hummed with a frown, which only seemed to amuse her more before she continued on. “No work lies in the town for you Witcher, nor does a warm welcome. Poverty has cast a dark shadow on the folk of this place and they do not take kindly to strangers nor are they willing to pay them since they already have so little to spare. But I have a contract for you, which I am willing to pay greatly for if you are able to complete it fully.”

Geralt mulled over the words, doubtful of her promises due to her current state but curiosity won. He wondered what kind of job demanded such a steep price and so he nodded for her to continue. The hag grinned softly, a deep sadness in her eyes shown as she spoke. “There is a keep hidden deep in the forest. Within lies a curse that stretches out and brings ruin to the village. None can get close though, for a beast lurks in the stone halls of the old ruin. My magic has gone and been taken from me when the calamity hit. I was left with nothing but to grow old in this town, being the only one to remember the curse and the keep’s existence. If you can end the curse, I will be able to reward you with whatever you may desire once I have my magic back.”

Geralt thought over the offer but something was off. There was something still missing from her story. “If the misfortune only reaches the town, why not just leave? It wouldn’t have a hold over you then.”

“Ah yes… Sadly I must remain because all those who were in the town at the time of the curse are now held prisoner by it. We cannot escape even if we wanted to. Usually this place is forgotten and hidden by the spell from travelers but it seems you may have been destined to come here.” She clarified with a cheeky smile, the glint in her eye making him uncomfortable.

“What is the creature? It’s type?” He asked brusquely, wanting more details then the scraps she gave before he headed out. If he could, he would like to prepare for a potential battle or at the very least know what to expect when he arrived.

“None like any that you have heard of to be sure.” She responded lightly before awaiting his decision quietly.

A part of him told him to leave and not look back but a very small traitorous voice in the back of his mind pointed out that this was a way to get his--the bard back, if only to make sure he hadn’t died on the mountain. So he found himself nodding in acceptance and being directed on how to get to the keep.

As he made his way deeper into the forest, the sun slowly disappeared behind the thicket of trees, which seemed magical in nature due to the fact that the leaves on the trees wane more and more as though winter was setting in. He also had to be mindful of the underbrush for Roach’s sake. The nearer they drew, the more bramble bushes and winding tangles of thorny vines appeared. By the time he exited the forest onto the grounds of the keep, the air had chilled and snow fell blanketing the world in silence. No sound of birds or foraging animals penetrated the suffocating silence. “Yeah, definitely cursed…” He huffed quietly to Roach.

The witcher slowly made his way through the gardens which, although covered in thick blankets of snow, had hundreds of roses blooming all around. He found a small stable to shelter Roach in while he dealt with whatever beast laid in the keep and the curse. Making his way through the hold proved easy, too easy. No traps or surprises waited around every corner. That made him worry all the more though. If the source of the magic that imprisoned the town was here unguarded, then that meant whoever cast it was certain their beast could dispose of any threat that may come. Another peculiar fact that Geralt took notice of was that there were no signs of previous battles in the halls. Only beautifully crafted and luxurious objects fit for royalty with all their gilding and detail lay about along with vines of roses which crept through the cracks, taking home amongst the decorative stone carvings. He ignored the warm well lit rooms, obvious traps with their enticing music and delicious smelling foods. Instead, he made his way further in. When it came to a divide in the two wings, he went to the west which lay in disrepair compared to the other. The welcoming cheer disappeared as he passed broken furniture and ripped portraits. Even in all the wreckage, there was still no sign of blood, and dust invaded his senses, keeping him from scenting out what creature may be lurking. Down the vast walkways, staircases, and passages, all the rooms were worn and barely accessible. With every passing second, Geralt’s anticipation grew, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he expected an attack and yet still none came.

The final room he came to seemed to be the master bedroom which he cautiously crept into. The bed was a mass of tatters and heaps of cloth, not that unlike a nest, and the rest of the furniture had been reduced to splintered piles of wood and metal. The object that caught his eye though was a faintly glowing bell dome that looked frosted over in ice as it sat on a small lone table in front of the windows. It felt like he was being pulled towards it. That was it, it had to be, the source of this curse. A creeping anxiety filled him as he crept closer to the object. This was all too easy and still no sign of the monster. When he was right in front of the delicate glass, he paused briefly to take in the wilted rose, if you could call it that, that only had a singular petal still attached to the stem. A sense of loss and mourning filled him as he reached out.

Before his hand could touch the glass however, a growl snapped him back to the room around him. He turned quickly, unsheathing his sword and striking the creature that had leapt at him from its hiding place near the bed. His sword thrust with a meaty thunk into the center of the monster’s chest. Decades of hunting and swiftly taking down monsters meant his aim was true and there was no saving the beast now. It was only as the beast crumpled to the floor did Geralt notice it’s claws had been retracted, showing it had had no real intention to harm. If it had wanted to, it could have easily snuck up on him while he was enthralled by the dome and gotten in at least one good hit. “Fuck…” He swore under his breath, realizing his mistake and stooping low to get a better look at the creature. It’s body was like that of a lion but it had swirling horns that curled back over it’s mane and it’s pelt was as black as the charcoal left from a forest fire. It struggled to turn onto it’s back, wheezing wetly, until Geralt took pity on it and helped. Lichen grew in patches along the horns and across its face and pelt, one eye almost completely covered. It blinked blearily up at him as it coughed up the blood that was starting to pool in it’s lungs. He didn’t know what to do, the beast did not seem crazed or ferocious. When he looked it in the eye, all that showed was mournful regret.

The creature breathed deeply to collect itself before it opened it’s jaws and the voice of a man came out. “I am finally free-- ” It paused to cough before continuing. “You have saved… me from my torment--” Another coughing fit came and went. “But I fear the curse is yet undone… You--” The creature’s breath stuttered and a large claw fisted in Geralt’s shirt, pulling him down so he could hear it’s final whisper. “--You will be the making of your own curse… break it before the last petal falls.” As it’s voice petters out, the beast goes limp as it’s life falls away.

Geralt barely had time to process the words before a burning in his chest bloomed and rapidly made its way out to his limbs. He felt like he was burning alive just before his vision went black. When he came to, he felt heavy. Heavier than normal and his body ached as though he had just burned through one of his potions. He slowly ambled to his feet, feeling his armor shift in odd ways but the heavy weight of his medallion was missing. Before he could truly go into a frenzy searching for the silver piece, the small table caught his eyes. Instead of the frosted bell glass, a bird cage now stood in its place, the frost mingling with the silver that made up the twisting and curving bars that reminded him of the twisted thorn vines from the forest. As he stepped closer he saw the wilted flower was no more, instead replaced by a small bouquet of… Buttercups? Where the door of the cage should have been, the shape and design of his medallion sat. Upon seeing this, the witcher felt something heavy lower in his chest. He scrambled for any kind of reflective surface, noting his hands were now large white furred claws, thankfully still with opposable thumbs. Grabbing a shard of mirror from beside the bed, Geralt stared at the monster who looked back. The large yellow eye shown out from the thick white fur, dark horns curved back over his head, and large sharp teeth shown through when he grimaced. The mirror slipped from his hands as he stumbled and sat down heavily on the bed frame which groaned in response. He thought over the beast’s last words as the cold crept in around him.

The anguished howl echoed throughout the seemingly enchanted woods. All the animals quieted in fear while a young man hastened in the direction of the cry. The curiosity called out to him and drew him closer to a castle he had not noticed before. He needed shelter for the night from the sudden cold storm that had brewed and the blue and yellow flowers nestled in the snowy gardens were enchanting. He wondered what he would find inside as he came upon the darkened doors as night settled in around him. The snow now fell steadily and he wondered what destiny had in store for him.

[kmclaude]

An AU thought, unfinished: Annemarie as a nun. Not a sexy nun, but someone found out about the whole “preggers with her brother’s baby and sent to a convent as punishment” type nun, who may or may not wind up teaching a bunch on unruly kids and has her fellow sisters breathing down her neck to make sure she doesn’t sin again. But hey, guess who’s the priest/confessor for the order? And considering nuns “have” to obey Fr. Tiefer’s authority…! Not smutty but it’s all I’ve got 🤷🏼‍♀️

oh how decadent! oops my hand slipped!!!

Émile is probably the one who gets mad when he finds out she’s pregnant and who’s kid it is because sure he’s white trash and has been bending his daughter over for years but he draws the line somewhere (and part of it is because he knows Emilein is a freak, he knows he wouldn’t want her so it’s obvious she’s the whole reason for being knocked up – and she’s been using the stupid baby in her fat gut as a shield to mouth off to him and run the joint – why not punish her? Besides, no one in that family can afford another mouth to feed…)

So he pulls Emilein aside, says, “hey, you’re good with that priest, yeah?” and Emilein shrugs, says, “maybe I am,” and braces for a nasty shot about how of course he is, he loves being on his knees, but it never comes, just, “so he knows about like…them wayward girl schools, yeah?” and Emilein plays dumb until his daddy plays his hand: send Annemarie off to a convent or wayward school or hell an asylum – she wants to use a baby to get her way, well then she can get out of the way. Forever.

Emilein, for once, is more than happy to help his daddy out.

He talks to the priest, Fr. Michaud, who has offered him chance and again ways out, one in particular though it would mean the priesthood, and reveals his sister is pregnant (not that it was terribly secret: the whole town was waiting for the day she slipped up at this point) and she is…troubled. And is there a place. The Church. Anything.

Of course Fr. Michaud hesitates because yes there is one nearby but it’s practically an asylum, run by an order on their grounds – cloistered – “And, to be frank, we all know your sister is…not exactly saving herself for anyone…but unless she’s a-a maniac it would be almost cruel–”

And Emilein puts his hand lightly on Fr. Michaud’s, smiles in a way that doesn’t meet his eyes, and says, “You know how she hasn’t named the father? You’d think someone like her’d be going up and down the street, demanding a wedding or at least support, wouldn’t you? But she ain’t. ‘Cause she can’t. Now, remember the first time we actually talked, you an’ me, an’ I told you I’d suck your cock in a heartbeat ‘cause that’s usually how things went with me an’ older men an’ not always by force?”

“Difficult to forget,” says Fr. Michaud, neglecting to mention that most fourteen year olds don’t say that.

“So we both agree I’m…funny.”

“What are you getting at, Emilein?”

“I’m sayin’, the reason she ain’t beatin’ down no po’ bastard’s door to help with her own bastard is ‘cause she doesn’t want anyone to know that the daddy’s her own brother.”

Michaud goes pale and Emilein isn’t smiling any more.

“We both know she don’t interest me much. So, Father, please: help me.”

–

Of course, being a good man, Fr. Michaud helps him, and Annemarie is sent away to have her child (and then work off the debt she’ll have accrued – after all, not like her father and brother can afford to pay.)

Her choice is very simple: go as willingly as she can pretend and nobody has to know about who the father is or fight and Emilein tells (with Fr. Michaud as a witness – Émile, of course, is more than willing to rat her out but really, every other word from his mouth is a lie.)

And life is peaceful – until Émile decides he can fully boss around his son like he did his daughter in a house he doesn’t own.

Emilein is having none of it but Emilein is terribly small and Émile has friends too, friends just as nasty as Annemarie’s boyfriends, and Émile ties him to a bed and starves him and lets all sorts of men use him for days and brags about the money he’s made from him – “shit, cher, we should’ve been whorin’ you out years ago! Guess yer cunt sister was just too jealous to share.”

He lets him go, eventually, after a week that feels like forever and Emilein runs to Fr. Michaud, banging on the church door, and when Fr. Michaud answers his request is much the same as it was before: “please, help me.”

Of course, being a good man, Fr. Michaud helps Emilein Tiefer and gets him connected to the seminary.

–

At twenty-five and with the title of ‘Father’ himself, Tiefer is assigned to a convent in Fuckoff Nowhere, Louisiana to be the priest and confessor on the grounds. Segregated from the opposite sex and the real world for so long only to be thrown headfirst into the wide world, some were realizing, was not the greatest idea: so, the younger were sent off to serve their religious siblings first, particularly their sisters.

The Mother Superior is kind when she greets him on his arrival, a stark contrast to all the rumors of the convent here: it was a convent, yes, that made its daily bread with something of a home for wayward girls – part home, part school (for the younger ones whose unfortunate choices and circumstances left them behind their peers as well as their children, for those who had or expected them), part workhouse so the former two could survive – but for years its nickname had been the asylum because, regardless of how long one worked, much like the TB asylums, the only way out was in a casket.

Which is where, Tiefer always figured, his sister was at this point. 

Until, during a tour of the small school on the grounds (as the children would be needing sacraments as well) he sees one of the nuns with the children – though she’s not a nun, not exactly, as she only wears a veil and simple dress and the bangs of her blonde hair peak out and frame her face – and she, in turn, sees him and freezes.

“Mother Superior,” he asks, voice steady as possible, once they’ve passed, once he’s calmed down, “who was that woman?”

“With the children? That’s Sister Anne, one of our success stories – quite a tough one too. She came here, pregnant, no idea who the father was and ready to dare I say fight every one of us sisters who came near. But the Lord works in mysterious ways and eventually He brought her ‘round. She should be taking her vows in a few years.”

“Ah. Do many of your girls usually wind up joinin’ the order?”

The mother superior sighs, sort of pointed in a way that hints that the topic is better put to rest. “Unfortunately, it’s not always part of God’s plan,” she says and then adds, “You sound a lot like she does – how far down South did you come?”

“Very.”

“Hm. She also.”

–

“Sister Anne. A word?”

After all the introductions and required niceties are made, Tiefer doubles back to the classroom of children, led by the novitiate.

“Of course, Father,” she says, the shock from earlier long gone from her face, a little more lined than he’d remembered it, her eyes a little less bright.

“In private?”

He lets her lead the way to a small, unused classroom and locks the door behind them.

“Well. Never thought I’d see you here, Sister.”

She scoffs, the plain novitiate from earlier twisting, like a monster under flesh, into his sister, the way he knew her, cocky attitude and all. “Why not? You put me here.”

“You know what I mean. ‘Sides, he put you here.”

“You helped.”

“Just told the truth is all. You want me to tell the truth again?”

“Can’t send me away again, sugar. Anyway, I’m a changed woman. The success story of these sisters.”

“Ain’t you special, huh?”

“Had to be. Play along or die like the rest.” She looks him over, sixteen years on his twenty-five, sizing him up. “You obviously understand, don’tcha Emi?”

“Father, now, actually.”

“Father, right, Father, now, huh? So Father – what was it? Not enough dicks to suck back home, you had to join the biggest boy’s club around? Or you just get sick of Daddy – bet he was a real sonuvabitch once he didn’t have me ‘round to take his shit out on.”

He cuts her off: “Annemarie. You like it here?”

“You like it where you are?”

He doesn’t answer, simply pulls out a cigarette and his lighter. He watches her reach out, then freeze.

“I’ll share if you tell me what the fuck you’re doin’ playin’ nunnery.”

“I told you. Play along or die. Same as you.”

“You don’t know shit about me or what I been through.”

“An’ you know ‘bout me?”

Tiefer shrugs, lights up. Refuses her one.

“I heard the girls who come here only leave one way.”

“Do I look like I left?”

“Mm.” He offers her a cigarette and a light. Her fingers brush his. He tries not to grab her wrist and crush it. “So this is better? Bein’ a mother to a slew of bastards an’ prayin’ to God who put you here?”

“I dunno, Emi–”

“Do not–”

“Father Emi, you tell me: would you like being worked like a dog to pay off your own existence your fuckin’ family sold off, gettin’ beat ‘cause no one gives a damn about you, and not knowin’ if the priest they brought in to hear confessions this ‘round would rather you suck him off than say you’re sorry. I’m fuckin’ forty-one years old: I wanted something close to freedom, even if it’s from behind a wall an’ veil. ”

Tiefer makes a sound like mock pity. “Sounds like every damn day of my childhood, Annemarie. In fact,” – he grabs her by the jaw, pulls her close, tugs the cigarette from her lips and puts it out against the back of her neck, hidden by her veil – “looks to me like you’re getting off easy, little miss success story.”

“Em–”

“That’s Father to you, now.  An’ come to think of it, I’m sure Mother Superior would love to hear what you really did.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Would they put you back in the work house? Or just turn you loose on the streets like a dog. Where you gonna go, Sister? Y’all take vows of poverty last I heard – gonna finally be a real whore and suck dick in the gutter?”

“Please…”

“Please what, pity you?”

Tiefer lets her go, takes a drag from his own cigarette, blocking the door. He grins, more a snarl than anything else. 

“Oh Annemarie… You’re right: I wouldn’t dare as long as you don’t give me a reason to. I’m your superior now…let’s start treatin’ me as such, hm?”

He unlocks the door. “An’ Sister Anne? If you thought those other priests who put your ol’ ass on your knees were bad, you’re gonna really regret all your earlier sins against me.”

[zach-the-fox]

Frostfur Episode 2: Freshwater Springs

It’s just me and Emmy, now. We continue our trek up north, heading in the direction of where Winterhome is said to be. The both of us have talked for about an hour and few minutes and I have to say, Emmy’s a pretty interesting girl who has a magnificent background in engineering. Her story begins with being the child of a poor woman, whose struggled her whole life to give what’s best for her daughter. Emmy had worker herself a lot on the farms around in Arbury, living nearby the prestigious school of Cambridge. She had hopes of moving up, leaving a life of poverty and getting into luxury to help support her mother. How she got in, I have no clue for she wouldn’t tell me, but she was excellent in her classes that they let her become one of the best engineers of Cambridge. When news of the eternal winter approached everyone, she was selected to be one of many in building the towering generators to heat the cities of the future, being one of the brilliant minds to carry on the hope of humanity through technology. After the construction of her assignment, she returned home to her mother, gathering her and many others to head for the new city of Winterhome.

Quite impressive story for a young girl. Mine is not as majestic as hers, however. I even explain that to her, being envious and wishing I had achieved much in my life. When I was just a wee baby, my mother had given me up to the orphanage in Liverpool. Her life of pleasure had caught up with her, and she had decided to pass me on to forget her troubled past. Sadly, I never grew with a family. The orphanage I stayed in wasn’t so bad, though. Yes, we had chores, and eventually I struggled in the heat-polluted confines of the steel factory between boyhood and manhood. At the time I was old enough to be on my own, I enlisted in his majesty's royal army, learning to hold a rifle and protect my country. I did everything I could to survive, yet I was not respected too much by the folks of Liverpool, even after years of neglect. By the time the frost was coming, I was tasked with collecting the chosen for our migration north. However, unrest arose aboard our iron vessel, spreading panic around the mob, causing it to veer into the rocks and it’s descent into the cold depts of the sea. I must promise now for Emmy, and whoever else I may encounter on the journey to Winterhome, I shall not leave them behind!

My new ally and I make it up the incline, one step at a time to avoid slipping back in the snow. I feel her hooves grasp tightly around my tail, which is acting as a safety rope for her as we climb up. It’s a difficult ascension, and the bombardment of snow followed by the gushing wind doesn’t help at all. Once we’ve reached the peak of the “hill”, we stop within our tracks. Looking down from the top of where we were, we take notice of something catching our eyes by surprise. We can see distant glimmers of sun reflected on the surface of water. Unfrozen water here presence of freshwater springs. Unfrozen water?! In a world of snow and ice?! There must be a source of heat down there to keep the water in its liquid state! But what?

“What an interesting find,” says my partner. “We should stop down there to rest a little. A freshwater spring could also house a few fish in it. Maybe some fishing wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

Normally, I would protest, but I won’t since we haven’t stopped after the moment in the cave. Also, most of the food that was with me went down with the ship on my way here. I only have a few packages of rations that will only last us a day. “Very well,” I tell my companion. “We should proceed careful, however. Much like that beast from the cave, who knows what other animals may roam about.” We take our time to descend the thin slope along the rocky cliff face protecting the springs. We tread carefully, in a single file. Emmy is still clinging onto my tail, trying not to slip along the edge. One wrong step and you’re dead, for submerging in the water could accelerate hypothermia. If the season was summer, I’d see a nice dip in springs be a good idea. This kind of weather forbids that, however.

After carefully descending the slope, we make it to the base at the bottom. It’s much warmer down here than up there; the winds are not rushing past us and we’re no longer being pelted with tiny pellets of snow and ice. This place would make a great site for a home.

Emmy leans over the edge by the pool, searching around for the finned, scaley creatures that swim about. “I don’t see any fish. Doesn’t seem like they’re here. Zach, do you see anything?”

My eyes cannot make out any movement but the water. “Negative. I cannot see a single one.” As we’re searching, I hear something unusual. My ears perk up at the sounds of grunting nearby, causing me to pick my head up. “Huh?”

Emmy still scans the springs for any signs of life. “Where could they be? The water isn’t frozen. There has to be some fish here.”

“Sh,” I order her. She turns up to me and asks why I commanded her to silence. “Listen.” The warthog ceases her mouth and uses her ears, picking up the grunting tones I have heard. “You hear that?”

“Yes,” she whispers. “I do. What’s going on?”

“It’s coming from over there.” I point to the ledge across from us, which is slightly taller and obscuring whatever view we can’t see. I equip my gun and tell Emmy to stay close, routing around the pool and stepping up a small slope around the springs. When we make it to the other side, we take notice of a figure kneeling by the edge. As we get closer, we’re able to tell the figure is a woman, judging by the way she’s dressed; linen cloth covers her head much like Emmy and her coat looks more like a dress. A long brown tail sticks out from her backside. Her body is hunched while on her knees, reaching out for something across from her. I swing my rifle back onto my back and approach with ease. Emmy stays beside me. “Hello?” The woman quickly turns to reveal her face, revealing to be a brown cat with glasses. “Is everything all right, Ma’am?”

“No,” she replies. “I can’t reach my sketchbook!” Emmy and I shift our heads to see a book laying on the top of a big, lone rock in the middle of the water. “I need my sketchbook!”

I grab the lady by the shoulder and hold her back. “Ma’am, you shouldn’t do that. You could fall in and catch a cold from the spring water.”

“I need it, though!” she exclaims. “I can’t leave on without it.”

Emmy looks at the book, then back to me. I can see she’s devising some sort of plan. “I’ve got an idea. Zach, can you hold onto my tail while I reach over and grab it?”

“Are you nuts?” I ask. “You want to risk drowning or freezing in water over a book?”

“It’ll be fine, Zach. Just grab my tail.” Without any other words, I do as I’m told and hold the warthog’s tail as she leans over the edge and reaches out for the cat’s sketchbook. With a couple of swipes of her hoof, Emmy manages to bring the book closer to her, then grabs it. “Got it!” Her actions cause her to nearly slip, using her hooves as a way to keep balance. “Whoa!” Acting quickly, I pull her away, falling back against my seat and catching her in the process. She holds up the book to the cat. “Here you go.”

The cat grabs it from her hoof and hugs it tightly. “Oh, thank you so much, kind strangers! Thank you!”

I stand to my feet and brush off some of the snow that jumped on my coat. Emmy does the same. “Ma’am, might I ask why you’re here alone?”

The brown feline faces me. “I was separated from my convoy and I found this spring, protected well by the storm. I came down to sketch its beauty when I lost my grip of my sketchbook, having it end up on the rock. If you two hadn’t come here, it surely would’ve been more difficult, and I probably would’ve ended up in the pool.”

“Oh, were you with the convoy heading to Winterhome?” queries Emmy. She nods. “My friend and I were actually on our way to Winterhome. You should come with us.”

“Well, I am in your gratitude since you risked yourselves to save my sketchbook. I shall join you to Winterhome. What are your names?” We introduce ourselves to her. “I’m Carly. Pleasure to meet you two.”

“We should get going if we’re to be in Winterhome,” I utter. “I’m sure your family is worried sick about you. Emmy’s as well.” We end our consultation and proceed to follow our newest member, Carly, towards another ramp entrance into the springs. We make our ascension away from the freshwater springs. We didn’t find any food or anything else useful, but we found another survivor who joined us for our journey, and that’s good enough for me. It is now the three of us on the way to Winterhome. @carlycmarathecat​ @emmy-the-absolute-goof​

[grindskull]

Shit that fucks me up #1 - Toxic Masculinity and being a “man”

Gotta have some way to organize my random thoughts here. I’m going with the obvious thing - Shit that fucks me up (STFMU). This is about me and my experiences. It is not my intention to discredit or question other human experiences. Sharing in the hopes of connecting with others who may have feel similar in their own skin. There are things here that others may define as triggers so read at your own risk (rape, abuse, and this fucking world). ---

Here is me being vulnerable.  I am putting myself out there by discussing masculinity and how I often do not identify with the larger concept of “being a man” in any positive way. You can call it toxic masculinity if you prefer. It’s acceptable shorthand for something that is just as nuanced and difficult to wade through as anything gender related.  I read this article on The Atlantic yesterday and there were some things that really resonated with me and my experience as a man/male (he/his/him). You can read it here (sorry there is a pay wall if you read more than 4 articles a month) but I will also be quoting some of the article below.  If you have time to read the article I’ll wait. It’s a bit long (many articles on The Atlantic are) and kind of academic at times. It’s okay if you don’t agree with everything in the article. Just read it.  Done? Okay let me set the stage a bit for how this shit fucks me up. ---

I’m male. I have always identified as a male/boy/man in my life. Unfortunately my experience with other males/boys/men has been mostly negative. It started at an early age when I had a hard time connecting with other boys my age. I was not interested in typical “male” interests like sports, violence, competition, and achievement. I had few (usually 1 or 2) friends at any one time and they typically had some kind of unhealthy power dynamic over me where I was subservient to my “friend” in some way.  I have some thoughts on reasons why this happened. The short version is I lived in poverty (often extreme) and I was searching for help and support in order to survive. At home I had abuse (mental, physical, verbal), drugs, addiction, and neglect. It was not a safe place to be so I did whatever I could to not be there. It was not unusual for me to eat maybe one meal during the day (typically what I could get from others at school or their home). Winter was the worst as we often did not have heat. Some of my “friends” used this as a way to hold power over me and make demands of my personality, time, and attention. Imagine finding yourself in this situation - you have to actively work to not be yourself in order to appease others for your very survival. Of course as a youth I didn’t identify it this way - my “friends” were just bossy or demanding. All of my male role models were basically assholes who did not give a fuck about anyone except themselves. This was a huge part of the 80′s zeitgeist in popular culture at the time as well. In some ways nothing has really changed. “... when asked to describe the attributes of “the ideal guy,” those same boys appeared to be harking back to 1955. Dominance. Aggression. Rugged good looks (with an emphasis on height). Sexual prowess. Stoicism. Athleticism. Wealth (at least some day).“ Under this common definition of “masculinity” I do not see myself. I am loyal, honest, caring, and sweet (to those I love). I love my body though I am non-athletic and have been most of my life. I am an attentive and talented lover but I have had very few sexual partners in my life and never saw them as moments of “conquest”. I was dirt poor most of my life but now live comfortably in my own home with my long term partner. So while not “wealthy” it is far beyond anything I could have imagined I would have in my life as a boy. Stoicism I have down. That one was easy. For me it’s just a nice way of saying “I have completely disconnected from my emotions and not having feelings or emotions is the best way to be a man”. I believed that for a very long time - it’s only in the past 2-3 years I have begun the work of breaking that down and reconnecting with my own emotions. It’s all tied up in trauma, depression, and anxiety so it takes a bit of fucking work but it’s very much worth it. If you are a man/male who thinks it is normal to not have emotions (or that emotions make you feminine/weak) please listen to me - THAT IS BULLSHIT. YOU OWE IT TO YOURSELF TO HAVE EMOTIONS.

“... young men described just one narrow route to successful masculinity. One-third said they felt compelled to suppress their feelings, to “suck it up” or “be a man” when they were sad or scared, and more than 40 percent said that when they were angry, society expected them to be combative.“

Emotions are not weakness. You are not weak for having them, feeling them, or connecting with them. There is great strength in connecting with yourself and understanding your emotions. Don’t let anyone tell you different. They are delusional at best and actively trying to harm you at worst.

“While following the conventional script may still bring social and professional rewards to boys and men, research shows that those who rigidly adhere to certain masculine norms are not only more likely to harass and bully others but to themselves be victims of verbal or physical violence. They’re more prone to binge-drinking, risky sexual behavior, and getting in car accidents. They are also less happy than other guys, with higher depression rates and fewer friends in whom they can confide.”

---

How did we get here!? Have men always been this way? What about the good ole masculinity of ye olden times? It was a simple time where men were men right? A man’s man? “According to Andrew Smiler, a psychologist who has studied the history of Western masculinity, the ideal late-19th-century man was compassionate, a caretaker, but such qualities lost favor as paid labor moved from homes to factories during industrialization. In fact, the Boy Scouts, whose creed urges its members to be loyal, friendly, courteous, and kind, was founded in 1910 in part to counter that dehumanizing trend. Smiler attributes further distortions in masculinity to a century-long backlash against women’s rights. During World War I, women proved that they could keep the economy humming on their own, and soon afterward they secured the vote. Instead of embracing gender equality, he says, the country’s leaders “doubled down” on the inalienable male right to power, emphasizing men’s supposedly more logical and less emotional nature as a prerequisite for leadership.”

Take a minute to read that and really take it in. Like many things in the US (and the world) the effects of industrialization and war shaped our current version of accepted masculinity. More specifically the leaders of this country (and leaders in other countries) used their positions of power to strengthen men and this new masculinity in our institutions. Then we were taught that this was the “right way” to “be a man”. FUCK. THIS. SHIT.

“Today many parents are unsure of how to raise a boy, what sort of masculinity to encourage in their sons. But as I learned from talking with boys themselves, the culture of adolescence, which fuses hyper-rationality with domination, sexual conquest, and a glorification of male violence, fills the void.“

Here we have the core of what I experience as a man when it comes to the current socially accepted version of masculinity and why it fucks me up. I don’t identify with any of this shit! It does not feed me. It does not make me feel fulfilled and happy. It doesn’t make the world better for anyone it simply dehumanizes us all. 

“In a classic study, adults shown a video of an infant startled by a jack-in-the-box were more likely to presume the baby was “angry” if they were first told the child was male. Mothers of young children have repeatedly been found to talk more to their girls and to employ a broader, richer emotional vocabulary with them; with their sons, again, they tend to linger on anger. As for fathers, they speak with less emotional nuance than mothers regardless of their child’s sex. Despite that, according to Judy Y. Chu, a human-biology lecturer at Stanford who conducted a study of boys from pre-K through first grade, little boys have a keen understanding of emotions and a desire for close relationships. But by age 5 or 6, they’ve learned to knock that stuff off, at least in public: to disconnect from feelings of weakness, reject friendships with girls (or take them underground, outside of school), and become more hierarchical in their behavior.“

I’m not going to get into the topic of my own father (that’s another post in this series for sure) too deeply but I will say I completely identify with these ideas. Emotional distance, only expressing anger, telling me having emotions was weak. This was reinforced societal norms throughout my youth through today. Don’t talk about your problems or feelings. Ball them up inside. Wall yourself off from the world. Connections = weakness that others will exploit. You must control every situation and hold power over others. FUCK. THIS. SHIT.

---

So when did I wake up? When did I start to see through this shit in some way? When my younger sister was born. It was really obvious to me that she was treated in a different way and expectations of her as a girl/woman were not the same as the expectations others had for me. Mostly I just saw the negatives in this. It took me time (and lots of communication and experiences with my partner and others) to recognize the root of this was more fucked up socialization. 

“Girlfriends, mothers, and in some cases sisters were the most common confidants of the boys I met. While it’s wonderful to know they have someone to talk to—and I’m sure mothers, in particular, savor the role—teaching boys that women are responsible for emotional labor, for processing men’s emotional lives in ways that would be emasculating for them to do themselves, comes at a price for both sexes. Among other things, that dependence can leave men unable to identify or express their own emotions, and ill-equipped to form caring, lasting adult relationships.”

Read this carefully. Nobody is responsible for your emotional well being but you. If you are a male/man this is especially true - females/women are not responsible for managing your emotions and your reliance on them to take care of this is a form of abuse. They are not responsible for your emotions. YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR OWN EMOTIONS.

It can be really hard to see this. It was a blind spot for me for way too long. Don’t let it be one for you. Connecting with and taking responsibility for your emotions is one of the biggest things you can do to improve yourself as a human being. If you are sad you can cry. If you are happy you can laugh. You have a wide range of emotions and they don’t all lead to frustration or anger.

“As someone who, by virtue of my sex, has always had permission to weep, I didn’t initially understand this. Only after multiple interviews did I realize that when boys confided in me about crying—or, even more so, when they teared up right in front of me—they were taking a risk, trusting me with something private and precious: evidence of vulnerability, or a desire for it.“

---

Okay so putting aside all of the reinforcement we get from our parents and institutions and our lack of emotional vulnerability why do we all buy into this dumb shit? Who convinced us all this is what masculinity is? And why do we listen?

“What the longtime sportswriter Robert Lipsyte calls “jock culture” (or what the boys I talked with more often referred to as “bro culture”) is the dark underbelly of male-dominated enclaves, whether or not they formally involve athletics: all-boys’ schools, fraternity houses, Wall Street, Silicon Valley, Hollywood, the military. Even as such groups promote bonding, even as they preach honor, pride, and integrity, they tend to condition young men to treat anyone who is not “on the team” as the enemy (the only women who ordinarily make the cut are blood relatives— bros before hos!), justifying any hostility toward them. Loyalty is paramount, and masculinity is habitually established through misogynist language and homophobia.”

Sounds familiar right guys? Don’t kid yourself. This is what being a man looks like in almost all situations in which we feel “safe” to express our self right? You are either with us or against us. Anything different or anyone questioning this behavior must be “othered” as they are clearly not “on the team”. FUCK. THIS. SHIT.

This was my entire experience as a youth. As someone who did not fit into this group (nor wanted to) I was immediately “othered” and deemed a “pussy” or “fag” or “homo” or “weirdo”. My friend group reflected this - mostly others who also were “not on the team” like women, gays and lesbians, and men who also did not identify with this version of masculinity. Which just made it easier to group us all together and identify us as the enemy. 

“Just because some young men now draw the line at referring to someone who is openly gay as a fag doesn’t mean, by the way, that gay men (or men with traits that read as gay) are suddenly safe. If anything, the gay guys I met were more conscious of the rules of manhood than their straight peers were. They had to be—and because of that, they were like spies in the house of hypermasculinity.” Without the ability to connect with and express my emotions I often reacted in anger. I started fights. I got violent (with words and writing mostly). I returned this “othering” and treated them all as the enemy. I had other reasons for this (being abused by men as a boy) but at the crux of the issue I had no trust for men. This helped me connect with women and my gay friends as they also experienced this distrust in similar (and different) ways. 

Years later I found myself in a job where I managed a group of men (100 or more at any time) working as a team (video game industry) and totally unable to connect with any of them as a human let alone a man. It was at this time that I realized this was a problem beyond my own experiences and when I started to understand my own participation in this system. 

I tried to question things as they came up. I tried to hear my teammates and help them navigate this murky sea of masculinity to find their own place in it. Most people didn’t want to participate. They learned to keep their mouth shut if I was within earshot of their typical “bro talk”. They learned to act differently around me so as not to incur my wrath (using my anger and position of power to punish them for being sexist, racist, or intolerant). I felt powerful and I tricked myself into thinking I was making a difference. I was wrong. 

---

“Recently, Pascoe turned her attention to no homo, a phrase that gained traction in the 1990s. She sifted through more than 1,000 tweets, primarily by young men, that included the phrase. Most were expressing a positive emotion, sometimes as innocuous as “I love chocolate ice cream, #nohomo” or “I loved the movie The Day After Tomorrow, #nohomo.” “A lot of times they were saying things like ‘I miss you’ to a friend or ‘We should hang out soon,’ ” she said. “Just normal expressions of joy or connection.” No homo is a form of inoculation against insults from other guys, Pascoe concluded, a “shield that allows boys to be fully human.”

It wasn’t long before my “making a difference” spread into our hiring, training, and management of the team. I brought in women who wanted to work in the game industry. I tried to shut down any of the bro culture bullshit that came up and used it as an opportunity to teach other men why it was fucked up. It worked for some (maybe 5-6 people out of hundreds) but the majority either quit or tried to get me fired. Most did not change their behavior in any way. 

The women said they knew what they were getting into. I don’t believe they knew what it was like to actually be in the middle of the situation. I assume women in the military probably have a lot of experience like this. In short - it’s fucking toxic and disgusting. Like other males/men they too have to fall in line and “become one of the boys” or risk being antagonized and ostracized for being “different”. It’s Lord of the Flies. It’s fucking mob mentality. It’s masculinity at it’s absolute worst. And this was in a “progressive” creative city working for a small company with a woman CEO. Men simply don’t give a fuck and it’s almost always easier to go with the flow. FUCK. THIS. SHIT.

My first experience with a trans individual in a work setting occurred was while I was managing this team. One of our long term employees made the transition and I had to watch how they were treated by the “bros’. Jokes were made, memes were shared, snickering and fucked up behavior was rampant. I had to talk to, discipline, and fire many individuals. These were men I thought were “on the team” and working to be good examples of masculinity. I should have known that was just part of the act - their way of surviving and showing subservience to me as a man in a position of power over them. My trust was further eroded in masculinity. 

Putting yourself over others is not power. It is dehumanization and it stems from hate. We can be different without being better or worse than someone else regardless of who they are. Not everything has to be a competition. It took me way too long to undo the damage done to me by these ideal of toxic masculinity. You can do it too - you just have to start today. 

---

Beyond the negative effects this version of masculinity has on us as males/men it also fucks up our interaction with women and sexual partners and it’s certainly done so to me. I’m actively working on unfucking my fucking and aware that many of my heterosexual ideals of sex stem from the same shit I have been actively fighting against most of my life. Connecting emotionally with your sexual partner takes things to a completely different level.

“It’s not like I imagined boys would gush about making sweet, sweet love to the ladies, but why was their language so weaponized ? The answer, I came to believe, was that locker-room talk isn’t about sex at all, which is why guys were ashamed to discuss it openly with me. The (often clearly exaggerated) stories boys tell are really about power: using aggression toward women to connect and to validate one another as heterosexual, or to claim top spots in the adolescent sexual hierarchy. Dismissing that as “banter” denies the ways that language can desensitize—abrade boys’ ability to see girls as people deserving of respect and dignity in sexual encounters.”  

This is the first thing that comes to my mind when I hear the term “rape culture”. As men we are taught that to be masculine is to claim “wins” in sexual conquest. Sex is property and we can collect it. Even if it’s with our long term partners or spouses. Ever tried talking to men about this? Ever questioned others on how it’s fucked up? You probably heard about how it’s all in jest. Just a joke! I’m just joking!  “When called out, boys typically claim that they thought they were just being “funny.” And in a way that makes sense—when left unexamined, such “humor” may seem like an extension of the gross-out comedy of childhood. Little boys are famous for their fart jokes, booger jokes, poop jokes. It’s how they test boundaries, understand the human body, gain a little cred among their peers. But, as can happen with sports, their glee in that can both enable and camouflage sexism. The boy who, at age 10, asks his friends the difference between a dead baby and a bowling ball may or may not find it equally uproarious, at 16, to share what a woman and a bowling ball have in common (you can Google it). He may or may not post ever-escalating “jokes” about women, or African Americans, or homosexuals, or disabled people on a group Snapchat. He may or may not send “funny” texts to friends about “girls who need to be raped,” or think it’s hysterical to surprise a buddy with a meme in which a woman is being gagged by a penis, her mascara mixed with her tears. He may or may not, at 18, scrawl the names of his hookups on a wall in his all-male dorm, as part of a year-long competition to see who can “pull” the most. Perfectly nice, bright, polite boys I interviewed had done one or another of these things.”

Let me be clear in case you are confused. This shit isn’t funny. Laughing at other people’s misfortune is a long standing human tradition yes - and it still dehumanizes everyone involved. That doesn’t make me laugh but maybe you are still amused? Why?

“At the most disturbing end of the continuum, “funny” and “hilarious” become a defense against charges of sexual harassment or assault. To cite just one example, a boy from Steubenville, Ohio, was captured on video joking about the repeated violation of an unconscious girl at a party by a couple of high-school football players. “She is so raped,” he said, laughing. “They raped her quicker than Mike Tyson.” When someone off camera suggested that rape wasn’t funny, he retorted, “It isn’t funny—it’s hilarious!”

The classic toxic masculinity force field present in my life has been the “just joking” phrase with the ultimate no consequence phrase “it’s hilarious!”. Say something you don’t want to manage the consequences for? Just a joke! People still question you or your morals after saying some heinous shit? No.. it’s cool... it’s hilarious! You just gotta laugh! FUCK. THIS. SHIT.

“Hilarious” is another way, under the pretext of horseplay or group bonding, that boys learn to disregard others’ feelings as well as their own. “Hilarious” is a haven, offering distance when something is inappropriate, confusing, depressing, unnerving, or horrifying; when something defies boys’ ethics. It allows them to subvert a more compassionate response that could be read as unmasculine—and makes sexism and misogyny feel transgressive rather than supportive of an age-old status quo. Boys may know when something is wrong; they may even know that true manhood—or maybe just common decency—compels them to speak up. Yet, too often, they fear that if they do, they’ll be marginalized or, worse, themselves become the target of derision from other boys. Masculinity, then, becomes not only about what boys do say, but about what they don’t—or won’t, or can’t—say, even when they wish they could. The psychologists Dan Kindlon and Michael Thompson, the authors of Raising Cain: Protecting the Emotional Life of Boys, have pointed out that silence in the face of cruelty or sexism is how too many boys become men. 

I feel like I may have already gone too far into this dark hole of shit that fucks me up around toxic masculinity. I hope I didn’t lose you. I hope you have questions and thoughts about how this impacts your life. Perhaps ways that you make a change today to fight against this bullshit. You may be asking yourself “what can we do!?” At the end of the day its up to males/men to change this culture. It’s not about self-hate or self-abuse. We gotta name this and own it. We need more men to step up and say ‘It doesn’t have to be like this”. Our collective mental health requires us to be more flexible and connected to ourselves and emotions. We need to find ways to deal with our anger, frustration, and desires in ways that don’t hurt ourselves and others. We need to teach ourselves (especially youth) that it isn’t enough to only talk about things we shouldn’t (and hopefully won’t) do. 

If this shit fucks you too you can do something about it. Start with yourself. Question these things when they come up. And not only when you feel “safe” to do so. Do it consistently in ways that are non-confrontational (they will probably lead to confrontations with most men anyway - sorry). Be okay with not always “winning’ in these situations. You’ll be surprised who you might connect with in the process. Hopefully one of those people will be yourself. 

[popwasabi]

“Do the Right Thing” and “the language of the unheard”

Two things tend to happen following the death of unarmed African American at the hands of law enforcement in this country.

The first are protests that often lead to heightened demonstrations of anger, which lead to police decked out in riot gear to come in and put a stop to it while property and storefronts often burn around them. The second is a condemnation of all that but less so of the brutality that led to the riots but of the riots themselves.

In America, there is a modern philosophy of “civility” at any costs, that even when angry, even when rightfully enraged by the injustices that befall a group of people, you are STILL expected to “behave” and it is YOUR responsibility to stay calm and do the right thing.

“I’m sorry, I agree with you, but I just can’t support you because of the way you demonstrated that belief” are often the words that follow.

(Image unrelated)

I’m not saying you should ignore all toxic behavior or that you can’t take issue with a movement’s methods, I’ll leave that up to you to decide, but I used to stringently believe this myself. In the wake of the Ferguson riots in 2014 where a Missouri police officer shot and killed unarmed African American Michael Brown for the crime of allegedly *check notes* stealing a box of swishers, I found myself participating in the same tone policing as much of the wider country.

“Yeah, the police were wrong to kill Michael Brown like that but also the protesters have no right to destroy their own city. That’s wrong, they should do it peacefully!” I proudly proclaimed at the time.

(Image unrelated)

Six years later my feelings on this have taken a complete 180, partially because the circumstances of our times have become exponentially more volatile but it really began with finally understanding an ending to a movie I got around to seeing in 2009; Spike Lee’s “Do the Right Thing.”

Back in the “halcyon” days of 2009 I used to be a part of a small Myspace (yea, I know…) movie club group where we all shared various movie reviews amongst each other upon individual recommendations. One day one of these members recommended watching 1989’s “Do the Right Thing.” Up until that day I really didn’t know much about Spike Lee beyond him being a rabid Knicks fan and opinionated Clint Eastwood agitator but I gave it a watch and I liked it quite a bit.

(Shade you can hear.)

“Do the Right Thing” details a day in the life of Mookie, played by Spike himself, as he navigates his rough Brooklyn neighborhood. Throughout his day, he and his mostly black neighbors, friends, and acquaintances encounter various micro aggressions in the form of gentrifiers, white and Asian store owners who disrespect them despite being their primary customers, widespread income inequality, and of course the police who monitor their every step. The movie examines the intersection of race and how it all comes colliding together when circumstances are less than perfect specifically to those that exist in African American neighborhoods.

I enjoyed this aspect of the film, it felt real and authentic to me, even humorous at times, critiquing the very real issues black Americans face every day while also examining how other groups of people interact with them. 

Where I took issue with the film, at the time, was its aforementioned climax.

At the film’s end, tensions have boiled over as Radio Raheem, one of Mookie’s friends, is called the n-word by Sal, Mookie’s white pizza store owner boss, leading to a scuffle between the two of them. Police are then called, pulling Radio Raheem away, nevermind that it was Sal’s words that ignited the fight, and put him in a chokehold and well, you know this story already…

Finally, the anger that has been rising throughout the film ignites with a growing mob agitated at Sal and his sons who they see as the main instigators. Mookie stands rubbing his face for a few moments before picking up a trashcan and tossing it at the window of the pizzeria, simply yelling “Hate!” as it crashes through.

A riot of course ensues, as the largely African American neighborhood tear the store apart, looting it of all its material goods before it burns to the ground. The next day Mookie returns to the scene of the unrest to ask Sal directly for his paycheck who angrily tells him his stunt destroyed his business to which Mookie simply retorts “Radio Raheem is dead.” The two argue for a bit but somehow ends with the two quietly understanding each other before they go their separate ways.

For the longest time I couldn’t square exactly with the ending despite my enjoyment of the movie. I never outright condemned the entire film’s message, (some people within that group I spoke of did though…), but I did find myself saying I couldn’t condone how it ended. Afterall, what did Sal do to deserve that kind of backlash, why did his storefront deserve to be destroyed? It had “nothing” to do with Radio Raheem’s death, right?

Fast forward to today and well, my attitude has definitely changed.

At this point I’m not going to spend an entire paragraph describing our current events as you all should be smart enough to know by now what’s going on but an African American friend of mine summed up these past two weeks in the most concise way possible I feel; “the results of oppression, poverty, hopelessness, and frustration is destruction and violence.”

Throughout “Do the Right Thing” Spike Lee shows us a microcosm of the effects of societal neglect and institutionalized racism has on his community. He tells us exactly why Mookie did what he did and yet still largely white viewers, which included myself at one point, were confused by this. At a certain point a person, a group of people, an entire community can only take so much before they take actions into their own hands.

When our white dominated society tells African Americans it’s “inappropriate” to protest during the national anthem, that it’s inappropriate to “make everything about race,”, ask “What about black on black crime,” respond back “#BlueLivesMatter” or “#AlllivesMatter,” when largely white Americans, especially those in power, ignore and refuse to believe all evidence that says otherwise this is what happens. These are the results of the neglected, ignored, and unheard.

(Btw, Roger Goodell can fuck all the way off with his crocodile tears until he gives a formal apology to Colin Kaepernick on behalf of the league, AT MINIMUM.)

There is a rush to judgment when the looting and rioting starts following these tragedies around the country. Nevermind the fact that police are largely the aggressors in all these interactions and attack peaceful protesters who are “doing it the right way” anyways but the blame for the destruction is almost only squared on the rioters themselves.

Cries of “Martin Luther King would have never supported this” and “He would call for peace and #unity right now!” are typical when this happens. King was a far more nuanced and complicated man than the liberal hippie that both Republicans and Democrats liken him to be and when you invoke his name to condemn protesters before the cops who actually started this you, and I cannot emphasize this enough, ARE NOT HELPING.

(If you won’t listen to me, listen to his daughter, you assholes.)

People generally want to empathize with victims but for some reason only want the perfect victim in this country. A victim that is a Saint in real life, lays down, does all the right things, and still gets hurt for it because they are “doing it the right way.” Sometimes victims are imperfect, including people who have been murdered by cops and people who loot and riot, but they STILL deserve to be heard and most importantly they deserve JUSTICE.

Nevertheless, these people are villainized to their most extreme as people are disproportionately being harassed by the cops while it all happens. Again, I cannot emphasize this enough, when you spend more time talking about “good” vs “bad” protesters you are helping those who benefit from maintaining the status quo. They WANT you to make this about those “criminals” and “thugs” who would “destroy our communities.” Nevermind, that upping the militarization of our police force only INCREASES the chances of a protest turning violent anyways.

(Tell me who is this protecting? Who is this serving?)

By making this about the “bad protesters” they drive a wedge between you and the cause so that police brutality can be maintained, so that power structures are not changed, so that you can be “protected” from people who are actually fighting for your rights right now. When the media and politicians use this kind of language, they are giving cops free reign to justify all forms of heinous means of pacifying these demonstrations, including ones that are banned in war. They want you to miss the point, they want you to forget why this started, hell they want you to forget they looted your asses long before the “rioters” looted a multibillion dollar company’s store who has more than enough insurance to recoup their losses anyways.

Spike Lee is often asked about the ending to “Do the Right Thing,” a question I would’ve asked him myself even just a few years ago, and he’s quoted as saying “only white people ever ask me that question.”

MLK’s name is often invoked when shit hits the fan in these demonstrations and while I’ll admit that I don’t like seeing neighborhoods destroyed and certainly don’t like seeing small businesses torn down and looted it’s important that King wanted us to understand why they happen and to keep our eyes on the ball:

“A riot is the language of the unheard” is important in understanding “Do the Right Thing” and this current moment we are having in history. While I have been pleasantly surprised by the near unanimous support Black Lives Matter has had across the board by people I would never thought to become radicalized there are still pockets of people who make this about the “right way” to protest.

To quote Spike Lee even he says he is unsure if Mookie did the “right thing” or not in that situation but he also says, “I know who did the wrong thing.”

Some of you might be saying still that MLK would not have supported these riots and hell, that may be true but need I remind you, there’s a reason he's not here today to tell you himself.

I’ll leave you with the same two quotes Spike left his audience in 1989 from MLK and Malcom X. I want you to read them both thoroughly and see if you have done the right thing yourselves over these past two weeks.

I truly hope you have...

Love and respect, y’all.

[missjanjie]

Branjie Fic | Bad Girls Club (8/8)

Title: Bad Girls Club Summary:  Los Angeles’ new program, the Juvenile Female Rehabilitation Program (JFRP) was created with the purpose of taking at-risk girls in the county and send them to a summer-long program located where a sleepaway camp once stood. There, they will take classes in ethics, behavior, and other courses to help mold these young minds. Brooke Lynn and Vanessa have been sent there for wildly different reasons, but with the same result - a clean permanent record. Being roomed together, the pair might find an unlikely alliance (and maybe more) in each other. Word Count: ~2.5k (this chapter)/~22k (total) Relationship: Branjie (Brooke Lynn Hytes/Vanessa Vanjie Mateo) Rating: E

A/N: I really can’t believe it’s done, you guys! Thank you all for your ongoing support and a special thanks to @artificialmeggie​ for being a fantastic beta ♥

Read on AO3

------

Brooke Lynn furrowed her brows when she woke up. Why was her bed smaller than usual? But then her eyes adjusted, and she realized Vanessa was sound asleep and nestled into her side. Ah yes, the limited space was well worth it. As it turned out, she had become quite accustomed to being confined to narrow spaces with the smaller girl, and it always worked in her favor. “You know what I just realized?”

Vanessa yawned and pushed the mess of hair off her face. “Hmm?”

“One of my fondest memories of our time here takes place in a supply closet. Can you imagine trying to explain that to someone?”

She laughed softly and buried her face into the crook of Brooke’s neck. “Ain’t no one gonna find out though.”

And sure, it would always be their little secret, but Brooke couldn’t help but picture the look on a classmate’s face if she confessed to her summertime endeavors. In an odd way, she was proud that she would be going home a changed girl, a well-rounded version of herself that no amount of voluntary extracurriculars would have ever been able to match. She had expected to awkwardly fly under the radar for the duration of the program - no confrontation, just keeping her head down and getting the job done.

“I don’t think there’s anything I could tell anyone that they would believe anyway.”

Vanessa snorted. “They’re gonna ask if you got shanked or tattooed or some shit, huh? They’ll be looking for a lil teardrop under your eye.” She poked her face where the tattoo would be, then kissed the spot of unmarked skin.

Brooke Lynn rolled her eyes and squeezed her lightly. “Baby, they don’t think I went to prison. Most of them don’t even know what the real story is, they think I’m a counselor at a camp for underprivileged youths.”

“I’m an underprivileged youth, it’s kinda true!”

And a lot of the girls in the program were in situations almost identical to Vanessa’s, or even worse. While Brooke had expected to be an outlier on campus, she could have never prepared herself for the stories she heard - abuse, neglect, poverty - and half the time the storyteller wouldn’t even bat an eye, in fact they sometimes appreciated the fact that she would sit and listen without insulting them. Or even worse, pity them.

Brooke sat up and pulled her hair into a ponytail. “I think that’s what I wanna do now, though. Like, I’ve always known how privileged I am, but actually having something to compare my life to really changes things, you know?”

Vanessa rolled to lay flat on her back, shifting her legs to trap Brooke between them. “Normally when I hear your type talk about trying to help my type out, it’s full of that bullshit white warrior complex.”

“White savior.”

“Whatever, same thing,” she huffed. “We’ve had rich white people come to the hood, click their tongues all ‘oh, poor baby’ like, maybe buy us lunch or a pair of sneakers, and walk away patting theyselves on their backs like they did us such a big favor. I seen the way you talk to the other girls, you actually give a fuck.”

Vanessa hated being patronized - though the actual word wouldn’t come to mind. There were times when wealthy folks would wander into the ‘bad part of town’ where she lived and just gawk at them like they were visiting the zoo. Sure, she would take the free meal if she were bored or hungry, but that didn’t mean she actually appreciated it.

But she appreciated Brooke, not just for seeing her humanity but seeing her as an equal. She knew it was something she should be able to expect from anyone, but that was unrealistic (not that anything about their current situation would sound especially realistic to an outsider). It was what made their relationship feel like more than just sex - they connected on some sort of deeper level that she had the unyielding desire to cling to.

And yet she had to put it in jeopardy one more time. “I need to tell you something. You know how I told you I got sent here over something dumb?”

Brooke’s brows knitted as she tried to recall. “It was like… weed and a fake ID, right?”

“That’s the story.” Vanessa looked down and sighed. “And it did happen a lot, but I got sent here ‘cause I was seeing this girl that actually had a boyfriend but kept jerking me around, so I TP’ed her house and hooked A’keria into it.” She spoke fast, just barely coherent, because the sooner she ripped off the bandage the better. “Just didn’t wanna seem crazy from day one.”

To Vanessa’s surprise, there wasn’t much of a reaction from Brooke. She shrugged, nonplussed. “That’s not so bad.” Her arms looped back around her waist and pulled her close. “I thought you were gonna say you tried to stab her or something.”

Vanessa elbowed her playfully. “You think I’m someone that could cut a bitch?”

“Baby, don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”

------

Waiting for report cards was making the crowd of girls shift and bounce in anxious anticipation. They whispered to each other, speculating about their final grades and what it meant for their respective futures. The dining hall was full and the air was heavy with tension, as if everyone were holding their breath.

“Last names A through H come to the front to get your report cards.”

Brooke Lynn took a deep, unsteady breath as she got up and made her way towards the front of the hall.

“What are you nervous about?” A’keria asked, walking in time with her. “You know you’re gonna get a fuckin’…. quadruple A+.”

“I don’t know anything,” she retorted in a harsh whisper.

Bouncing on her heels as the secretary sorted through the cards and gave A’keria hers first, Brooke Lynn’s nerves didn’t quell for a moment. Grading wasn’t straightforward like it was at school - in fact, she didn’t actually know what the criteria was, even Nina wouldn’t give her a clear answer.

Once back at the table, both Scarlet and A’keria opened their cards first, both earning an impressive A-. “I told you they grade on a curve,” Scarlet laughed. “Open yours, Brookie, you don’t have anything to worry about.”

“She’s just trying to be humble,” Yvie chimed in.

“It’s not like that, I swear,” Brooke insisted, cheeks tinting red. “I just don’t know how this shit works, okay?” But she did give in and opened the envelope and, without turning the page, simply said “Okay, it’s fine, let’s move on.”

“Nah, lemme see, boo.” Vanessa snatched the paper from her before the blonde had a chance to object. “Shit, Yvie was right, you just trying to spare our feelings or whatever.” She laughed, then clarified to the others, “A perfect score, no fucking surprise,” but then her expression changed and her demeanor quieted. “What, uh, happens if we don’t pass?”

Brooke Lynn shook her head and wrapped an arm around her. “You don’t even need to worry about that,” she assured, “you only need a C to pass. You can get a C, right?”

“I got 34 of ‘em, but then I take my bra off,” she couldn’t get any more of her concerns out before last names I through P were called and she had to march to her fate in a walk that seemed to take forever, and receiving the envelope only sent her heart racing into overdrive.

And she wasn’t feeling any relief by the time she returned to her seat, setting the envelope on the table in front of her and just staring at it. It almost seemed to mock her with its completely unassuming form.

“It’s not gonna go away just because you ain’t touching it,” A’keria pointed out.

Perhaps more reassuringly, Brooke kissed her forehead and hugged her tightly. “You got this, I know you do.”

Vanessa whined softly and hid against Brooke for another moment before finally accepting the inevitable. She stared at the page in unmoving silence for a beat, chewing on her lip.

“Well?”

Everyone’s eyes were trained on Vanessa, curiosity - and possibly concern - building as they watched her sit like a statue.

Then, with a sudden burst of emotion, she popped up with wide eyes. “I got a B!” she shrieked. With her voice loud and distinct by default, it was almost unsurprising that someone from another part of the hall shouted “Congrats, Vanessa!” in response.

But it didn’t even register to Vanessa. She had immediately thrown her arms around Brooke and hugged her close. Whether she would admit it or not, she was pretty sure she would not have achieved the same level of success without someone like Brooke, who knew how to study, what teachers wanted to hear, it was like having a set of cheat codes to education.

“Guess it’s really all over now, huh? Kinda wish they gave us yearbooks to sign or some shit,” A’keria mused when the excitement had died down. “What’s gonna happen with you two?” she gestured between Brooke Lynn and Vanessa.

The two girls untangled from each other and sat upright. “We’re still working out the details,” Brooke explained, rubbing the back of her neck. “But we’re optimistic.”

Optimism was all they had as everything was coming to an end. While they hadn’t officially labeled their relationship, they were optimistic that they could continue to have one. It would be complicated, it’d take effort, and they were both bound to face social repercussions one way or another. But they were optimistic it would be worth it.

And that was one of the many reasons they allowed themselves to relax and enjoy the end-of-summer celebration.

It was nothing extravagant – mainly pizza and snacks with music that consisted of an iPhone hooked up to a speaker. Still, it was a sign of good will and the teachers had organized it. Well, Nina and Monét did the vast majority of the work, but everyone else signed off on it.

“You know, I’m going to miss our lesbian den mothers,” Yvie remarked, glancing over at the two teachers who were watching the party with proud grins and linked arms. “I still can’t believe you guys hooked the two of them up.”

“Shit, me neither,” Brooke Lynn chuckled. There was no doubt that she would be bringing it up regularly once they were back at school.

“You’re lucky you get to see Ms. West at school, I don’t think anyone else has someone like that back home.”

She smiled fondly, even if the statement was bittersweet. “You’re right,” it was one of the few times she would admit as much. “Don’t know if I’d have gotten through this without her,” her gaze shifted to scan the scattering of girls dancing and mingling before settling. “Don’t know if I’d have gotten her.”

She swore there was something almost ethereal about Vanessa. The way the sun bounced off her skin, the way her wavy hair flowed, the way she could stand both elegantly but bursting with energy - she was special, and it made her feel at ease to know she wasn’t losing her.

“Here we go again," Yvie chuckled. "You really fell hook, line, and sinker for that crazy bitch, huh?” she asked, amused.

“Couldn’t have stopped myself if I tried.” Which she had, at least at first.

Not a minute later, Vanessa abandoned her conversation with A’keria and made her way over to Brooke’s side - the place she found most comfortable.

Brooke’s arm looped right around her. “Hey, Mami,” she hummed and leaned down to peck her lips.

“Imma steal you for a minute,” Vanessa took her hand and led her down the familiar trail, and they kept going until the generic pop music faded into the background.

At this point, it was no surprise to Brooke that they were back at the lake. But they had never caught a sunset quite like the one they approached. The sky was a near perfect gradient of warm colors, as if it were a scene on a postcard. It was almost too perfect, too picturesque to be real.

“I’m gonna miss this spot. Makes me want to get a cute little lake house, so we can have a view like this every day,” Brooke mused as she sat down.

Vanessa joined her, laying on her back and looking up at the sky. “Thought we was taking it slow. You already thinking about playing house?”

“What even is taking it slow for us? Our relationship doesn’t exactly make the best linear narrative sense.” Brooke laid down and held her hand. “Besides, it never hurts to dream.”

“Guess not.” She scooted closer, snuggling up to the taller girl’s side. “It is a real nice sight though. Like, I actually just wanna lay with you and enjoy it; we don’t even gotta fuck.”

Brooke snorted softly. “You don’t have to justify just wanting to cuddle, you know.”

“Yah-huh! I still got an image to uphold!”

“Okay, okay.” She held her close and kissed her cheek. “It’s just between you, me, and the lake.”

------

The next morning was pick-up day and Brooke Lynn was sat on a tree stump with Vanessa on her lap, their respective luggage on either side of it. The difference between their bags looked like a comically obvious representation of their different backgrounds – Brooke had a pristine designer set and Vanessa had a couple of beat up, hand-me-down duffel bags. It could have been the cover of a ‘princess and the pauper’ type of movie, easily.

“Who’re you waiting for, again?”

Brooke presses her lips into a fine line. She had hoped that maybe her parents would be the ones to come get her, just this once. “They’re sending a driver. His name’s Frank. Nice guy, worked for our family for like… fifteen years now.” As she spoke, she could see a Mercedes pull up and there was no guesswork needed as to whose ride it was.

She got up and gathered her things, making her way over with Vanessa in tow. “You sure your mom’s okay with this?”

“Uh-huh! Not every day you get a lift in a car that costs more than your apartment and all the fancy shit you got.” Vanessa chuckled, then offered a cheerful greeting when they approached the driver.

Frank looked between the girls with a perplexed – and somewhat amused – expression. “And who’s this, Miss Brooke?”

Brooke took Vanessa’s hand into her own, giving it a light squeeze. “This is Vanessa, my girlfriend. She’s going to spend the rest of the summer with us.”

The man quirked his brow, but began loading both of their bags into the trunk. “And your parents are okay with this… arrangement?” He wasn’t one to question Brooke – she was a pretty easygoing client as far as they go, but it was still the grown Hytes that signed his paychecks.

Brooke shrugged as she got in the car and ushered Vanessa (who was still floating on the high of hearing the word ‘girlfriend’) with her. “They’ll get over it.”

[blackfreethinkers]

The 2020 Democratic presidential campaign has been surprisingly promising when it comes to addressing poverty. Candidates have offered a host of ideas that would have a significant anti-poverty effect, from universal health care to debt-free college, a living wage, housing for all, universal child care, and more. They have also pledged to push for a debate focused exclusively on the issue—a promise they still need to make good on. But one region that hasn’t received the attention it needs in this or previous elections is the rural Black Belt, specifically the persistently poor counties in 11 Southern states that are home to more than half of the nation’s non-metro poor.

The name “Black Belt” originally referred to the region’s dark, clay soil, before eventually coming to signify its high population of African Americans as well. Today, the region’s roughly 300 rural counties—in Alabama, Arkansas, Florida, Georgia, Louisiana, Mississippi, North Carolina, South Carolina, Tennessee, Texas, and Virginia—each have populations that are between 30 and 80 percent African American. As of 2008, the Black Belt was home to 83 percent of African Americans living outside metropolitan areas. We’re just two weeks away from the South Carolina Democratic primary, on February 29; six more Black Belt states will vote on March 3. It’s time for a presidential candidate to not only engage with the needs of people living in this region but also begin to rectify a history of exploitation and neglect.

There is precedent for it: then-Senator John F. Kennedy’s visit to West Virginia during the 1960 Democratic primary. As Ronald D. Eller describes in his 2008 book Uneven Ground, Kennedy was “genuinely stunned” at the mass poverty he saw, particularly that of unemployed coal miners. He pledged on camera to introduce an aid program for the state if elected—and, after he was, he created a presidential task force to explore a unique federal-state-local partnership for regional development in Appalachia. The task force outlined a program that would support highway construction, health care facilities, land stabilization, timber development, water facilities and sewer treatment, and vocational training. But it would take until 1965 for President Lyndon B. Johnson to succeed in pushing it through Congress, establishing the Appalachian Regional Commission (ARC).

Since then, the ARC has received a total of $38 billion in federal funding (adjusted for inflation), benefiting counties across 13 states. While Appalachia still faces challenges such as labor force participation and poor access to health care, the ARC has contributed to largely eliminating the gap between the region’s rates of high school graduation and unemployment and those found nationally. It has helped both to cut Appalachian poverty from 31 to around 17 percent, and to lower the number of high-poverty counties in the region, from 295 to 107.

The idea for a corresponding regional development program in the Black Belt isn’t a new one. Scholars at Southern universities and some politicians—including Democratic US Representative (2003–11) Artur Davis of Alabama and the late Senator (2000–05) Zell Miller of Georgia—have pushed for it since the 1990s. The black rural South’s current unemployment rate of approximately 14 percent and child poverty rate of 51 percent are double those found in rural counties included in the ARC, according to a forthcoming paper from the Joint Center for Political and Economic Studies.

“I’ve heard it my whole life: ‘There’s nothing in the Black Belt.’ Are you kidding me?” says Dr. Veronica Womack, a Black Belt native and executive director of the Rural Studies Institute at Georgia College and State University. “This is a region where the people have always made a way out of no way. You can’t find any more hardworking, caring people—people who have continued to raise families, build community, go to church on Sundays, in spite of all of the challenges that have been put in place.” What has been lacking, Womack says, is a commitment to the region so people can “operate at their fullest potential.”

There have been piecemeal legislative efforts to increase the flow of investment to parts of the Black Belt. But none include all 11 states, focus exclusively on Black Belt counties, or—critically—prioritize community participation in designing and leading a commission to address the Black Belt’s unique challenges. “If you understand the tenacity and the resilience of the people who live there, then you understand the importance of them being a part of whatever solutions you have,” Womack says. “The commission has to know the history—the social, political, and economic dynamics of the place and space.”

In 2000, the Delta Regional Authority (DRA) was created as a state-federal partnership that is presided over by eight Southern state governors and a federal cochair. It includes some counties in five Black Belt states and received $25 million for fiscal year 2019. Seventy-five percent of the moneys are supposed to go to distressed counties, and half of those are required to be used on transportation and infrastructure. However, it does not include most of the Black Belt, and none of its board members are African American. It also lacks the community participation and leadership element that Womack says is key.

Arguably the most promising effort was the Southeast Crescent Regional Commission (SCRC), created under the 2008 Farm Bill. Modeled after the ARC, it encompassed counties within seven Black Belt states, and was intended to focus on funding distressed communities for transportation, infrastructure, job training and entrepreneurial development, telecommunications, and sustainable energy solutions. However, while the SCRC was authorized to receive at least $30 million every year through 2019, it was never appropriated more than $250,000 at a time, and “does not appear to be active” as of March 2019, according to the Congressional Research Service. In contrast, the Northern Border Regional Commission—created in the same Farm Bill to address economic hardship in the primarily white populations of northern Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, and New York—has received steady funding, including $10 million to $20 million in each of the past three fiscal years.

The SCRC was championed by the Democratic Representatives Hank Johnson of Georgia and Elaine Luria of Virginia, as well as majority whip James Clyburn, of South Carolina. “Congressman Clyburn has been committed to the SCRC since its inception,” says Hope Derrick, his communications director. “[He] is ready to fight for more funding when the administration appoints a federal cochair, the last hurdle in standing up the commission.”

Womack isn’t surprised by the lack of urgency the SCRC or Black Belt Commission proposals have received from most of the political elite. “When you start talking about policy that will be interpreted as benefiting a region significantly [comprising] black people, then where is the will to actually get that done?” she says. “Even though the Black Belt has all kinds of people in it, there is also a particular combination that our country has had a great difficulty addressing: poor people, and then poor people of color, and then poor black people.”

The need for a commission focused exclusively on the rural Black Belt is most apparent in places like Lowndes County, Alabama, where people are living with raw sewage in their yards.

Lowndes County is located between Selma and Montgomery, and every year tourists pass through, following the route of the historic 1965 civil rights march led by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Mostly made up of small rural communities, it has a declining population of under 10,000 people, of whom more than 72 percent are African American. Residents here struggle against the soil that gave the Black Belt its name and made Alabama’s cotton king: Water can’t percolate smoothly through the chalky clay. Traditional septic tanks don’t work there; plumbing backs up when it rains, sending wastewater back into homes through sinks, tubs, and toilets.

The median household income in Lowndes County is $28,000 a year—and the kind of tank that residents would need can cost up to $30,000 for purchase and installation. Some residents resort to “straight piping,” which involves running a PVC pipe away from the home and into the yard, where it discharges untreated waste. As a result of not having affordable waste treatment, families have no choice but to contaminate their own properties. A 2017 study of Lowndes County residents by the Baylor College of Medicine found that 34.5 percent tested positive for hookworm, an intestinal parasite associated with the developing world. After the UN’s special rapporteur on extreme poverty visited homes in Lowndes County and nearby Butler County, he described the waste crisis as “very uncommon in the first world…. I’d have to say that I haven’t seen this.”

“You can say all day long that [people] ought to just move, but [they] are born and raised here,” says Lenice Emanuel, executive director of the nonprofit organization Alabama Institute for Social Justice, who has worked with residents on this issue. “They don’t have the money to just uproot their lives and move to Montgomery 25 miles away. Then you have a transportation issue too—getting back and forth to their jobs,” since many work in the community. She also notes that there are businesses—most of which, advocates say, are white-owned—that do have the necessary infrastructure in place to treat their waste, just a half-mile away from homes dealing with raw sewage. Engineers say that simply expanding municipal sewer lines could help solve the problem for some Black Belt homes. For that, the County would need funding.

According to Emanuel, when county residents have invited state officials to come and witness the conditions firsthand, they have been subjected to “intimidation tactics” such as being threatened with arrest warrants, or even fined for lacking septic tanks they could not afford. These reactions from the state have also made it more difficult for residents to feel sufficiently safe to organize and advocate for change. While Alabama says it stopped issuing arrest warrants for sewage in 2002, a black pastor was arrested as recently as 2014 because a septic tank failed and his church wasn’t able to deal with the overflow. Emanuel says that the damage of past warrants is already done: Many people who received them now have a criminal record, and some have lost or can’t find jobs as a result.

Emanuel draws an analogy between the way people are being treated over the waste issue and the KKK’s showing up in their communities—“I liken it to that kind of terror.” She says it leaves people feeling “helpless” and “at the mercy of the institutions and power structures in the community. And it’s similar all over [Alabama’s] Black Belt counties.”

Alabama Democratic representative Terri Sewell sponsored the Rural Septic Tank Access Act—which passed in the 2018 Farm Bill—to help her constituents in Lowndes County and other rural areas access grants of up to $15,000 to install or maintain wastewater systems. This is still significantly lower than the cost of appropriate septic tanks in many homes. An aide to Sewell says she is working to increase the resources devoted to the issue, including the maximum allowable grant.

It can also be difficult for Black Belt communities to navigate the federal protocols to obtain funds—in part, Womack says, because these local governments just don’t have the staff to work on chasing grants. Case in point: Lowndes County is actually eligible for Delta Regional Authority funding, but if you look at the DRA’s most recent grants for infrastructure in Alabama Black Belt communities, the county with sanitation conditions comparable to the Third World is nowhere to be found. In contrast, the DRA did provide $509,000 to extend an industrial park’s water and sewer system to serve Enviva, the world’s largest wood pellet producer.

When Kennedy visited West Virginia in 1960, poverty in the region was stark: 33 percent of Appalachian families lived in poverty, compared to a national poverty rate of 20 percent; unemployment was 40 percent higher than the US average. Many more workers had given up on finding a job and left the workforce. That year, the Conference of Appalachian Governors declared that underdevelopment had meant that people in the region were “denied reasonable economic and cultural opportunities through no fault of their own.” Moreover, inadequate infrastructure for things like “transportation and water resources [had] hindered the local ability to support necessary public services and private enterprise.”

“The ARC is reparations,” says Spencer Overton, the president of the Joint Center for Political and Economic Studies. He says that in the coming months, the Joint Center will release a proposal for a Black Belt Regional Commission, hoping to address “an area of our country that once required a large number of people to work there. Those places became automated over time, but large populations are still there and there are fewer jobs. And so we have to come up with policy solutions. That’s the case when we talk about Appalachia; that’s the case when we talk about the Black Belt.”

Kennedy may have advocated for the ARC, in part, because he needed to win over West Virginia voters in the primary. As Michael Bradshaw describes in his 1992 book about the ARC, the senator’s visit to Appalachia came at a key moment in the campaign, when his challenger already had the support of organized labor. Kennedy announced his pledge for a state development program on the day before the vote. He had discussed black Southerners’ struggles during his campaign, but the fact that Appalachia was associated with white poverty made the program politically palatable to white voters and politicians.

Overton points to Appalachia and the Black Belt’s parallel histories of exploitation and resource extraction. In the case of the Black Belt, he says, it has been about “profiting off of cheap labor—whether that is slavery, Jim Crow, or the factories with low taxes, cheap wages, and no unions. Recognizing the unique history and consequent struggles in Appalachia, but not in the Black Belt, is like saying we’re going to treat the opioid crisis as a health epidemic, but we’re going to use the criminal code to deal with the crack epidemic.”

Andy Brack, former press secretary for the late South Carolina Democratic Senator Ernest Hollings and a longtime journalist and editor covering Southern politics, has no doubt as to the root of the structural inequality we see in the Black Belt today. In a 2013 piece, he compared a map showing deep poverty rates with a map of slavery in 1860: “With the blink of an eye, it’s easy to see that these areas easily correlate with where enslaved people lived in 1860. The [Black Belt] is a remnant of plantation life…. One hundred and fifty years after the Civil War, it’s time that this area starts receiving the same attention that Appalachia did.”

Researchers with the Southern Economic Advancement Project (SEAP)—an initiative founded by Stacey Abrams that focuses on policy solutions and capacity-building for vulnerable populations in the South—recently embarked on a listening tour in Alabama, Georgia, Mississippi, and North Carolina. (SEAP is a fiscally sponsored project of the Roosevelt Institute, where I am a journalist-in-residence.) As they spoke with nonprofits and grassroots groups to get a better sense of local challenges, there were some consistent concerns, including a lack of access to transportation, struggles with raw sewage and other environmental issues, and lack of investment from banks. One participant noted the “weight of racism”—as seen in housing separated by race, resegregated schools, and uneven development between predominately white and predominately black areas. Multiple groups cited the challenge of stigma, from outsiders who viewed their communities as hopeless and lacking potential.

Dr. Sarah Beth Gehl, SEAP’s research director, says that in western North Carolina and northern Alabama, which both have ARC funding-eligible counties, the local-state-federal partnership came up repeatedly—for example, for supporting children’s services, local government capacity-building, and transportation for those in addiction recovery. But when SEAP traveled to south Georgia or south Alabama, where counties aren’t covered by the ARC, the conversations were very different. “It was a lot about a lack of resources and a lack of attention,” says Gehl. “The infrastructure needed to take some innovative approaches to tackling deep challenges in these Black Belt communities—that piece was missing.” Moreover, when it came to what some people on the tour called “the basics needed for a dignified life”—like a grocery store, transportation, housing stock, or medical facilities—the resources just weren’t there.

“Economic progress for the Black Belt requires innovation and deep commitment, which means providing consistent investment to address the interconnected issues that hinder growth and block equity,” says Abrams in a statement to The Nation. “Funding the Black Belt Regional Commission would be a declaration of real intent to finally serve this Southern arc, and it is long overdue.”

It is easy to imagine the arguments against a Black Belt Regional Commission that would be loosely based on the ARC. If there is still extensive poverty in Appalachia, why would we repeat the model? But the ARC has had an enormous impact. In the 2018 fiscal year alone, it reported that its investments would create or help retain more than 26,600 jobs, and train and educate more than 34,000 students and workers. The ARC’s $125 million investment was matched by $188.7 million in public and other moneys, and is expected to attract over $1 billion in private investments.

There are ways too that a Black Belt Commission could be done differently. The ARC covers a huge region, including areas that do not suffer from persistent widespread poverty; funds are weighted toward distressed areas, but the appropriated money is inadequate to cover that expanse. A Black Belt Commission could focus exclusively on distressed communities. Also, much of the early ARC money was spent on highway construction through Appalachia—which, as Michael Bradshaw writes, the original ARC director felt was necessary in order to connect poorer economies with wealthier ones. (He also thought it would show legislators “results.”) While infrastructure is vital, a Black Belt Regional Commission could equally emphasize investment in people—their health, education, training, and the creation of jobs that would allow for upward mobility.

Dr. Veronica Womack says she would start with education—from early childhood to higher education—as well as infrastructure development, including for broadband Internet access, investment in start-ups and rural entrepreneurships, and rural health services for people who currently live in “health care deserts.”

“That’s just a start. Because if you’re not healthy, or you don’t have the proper education and training, the likelihood of you being successful in the 21st century is very small,” she says.

Spencer agrees. “Too often, there has been the notion that economic development is attracting a poultry processing plant—very hard, low-wage, unattractive work without a lot of prospects for growth,” he says. “We need to invest in human beings. It gets back to the concept of Black Lives Matter: We really want to recognize the humanity of people, and invest in people so they can achieve their potential.”

In addition to having local elected officials at the table, Womack says a commission should include community-based organizations that have been working in the region for decades, such as the Black Belt Community Foundation, the Federation of Southern Cooperatives, Southwest Georgia Project, and other similarly focused organizations “connected to agriculture and the land—a big piece of how we can be sustainable.” She would also want to invite historically black colleges and universities, technical and community colleges, and land grant and rural institutions such as Georgia College and State University that “understand rural places and are working in the region already.” Crucially, the commission should also hear from activists who are not attached to any particular organization, Womack says, because “the people in their community look to them and their leadership.”

“These folks can tell you exactly where the hiccups are—where the challenges and barriers lie in their being able to develop their communities,” says Womack. “And so, if we are going to hit the mark, it’s going to require us to do a different type of policy and a different type of policy implementation that doesn’t block off people from even being able to participate in the decision-making.”

Yet none of this will be possible without presidential leadership—the kind Kennedy embraced when he visited poverty-stricken areas in West Virginia.

Bernie Sanders, who has called poverty a death sentence, visited Lowndes County last May and pledged to a resident, “This is just the beginning. We have to get attention to the issue, and then we’ll do something about it.” That resident, Pamela Rush, also spoke at a forum on poverty convened by Elijah Cummings and Elizabeth Warren in 2018. Pete Buttigieg noted at one of the debates that poverty hadn’t come up, and that “it deserves a lot of attention”; both he and Amy Klobuchar have struggled to win over black voters. And while Joe Biden has touted his poll numbers with African Americans, he has struggled to connect with younger generations, many of whom feel he falls short in addressing systemic issues.

If any of these or other candidates spend more time in the Black Belt, will they offer so bold a proposal as a Black Belt Regional Commission? Or will they ignore the generational poverty and continued isolation of the region?

Lenice Emanuel says that elected leaders need to take stock of how they are serving, or failing to serve, the people of the region. “We have got to look inward at our own culpability in maintaining these systems of inequity,” she says. “We have to be real with ourselves about that. That’s where the answer lies.”

[artificialqueens]

Bad Girls Club (Branjie) Chapter 8 - Joley

A/N: I really can’t believe it’s done, you guys! Thank you all for your ongoing support and a special thanks to @artificialmeggie for being a fantastic beta ♥

Read on AO3

Brooke Lynn furrowed her brows when she woke up. Why was her bed smaller than usual? But then her eyes adjusted, and she realized Vanessa was sound asleep and nestled into her side. Ah yes, the limited space was well worth it. As it turned out, she had become quite accustomed to being confined to narrow spaces with the smaller girl, and it always worked in her favor. “You know what I just realized?”

Vanessa yawned and pushed the mess of hair off her face. “Hmm?”

“One of my fondest memories of our time here takes place in a supply closet. Can you imagine trying to explain that to someone?”

She laughed softly and buried her face into the crook of Brooke’s neck. “Ain’t no one gonna find out though.”

And sure, it would always be their little secret, but Brooke couldn’t help but picture the look on a classmate’s face if she confessed to her summertime endeavors. In an odd way, she was proud that she would be going home a changed girl, a well-rounded version of herself that no amount of voluntary extracurriculars would have ever been able to match. She had expected to awkwardly fly under the radar for the duration of the program - no confrontation, just keeping her head down and getting the job done.

“I don’t think there’s anything I could tell anyone that they would believe anyway.”

Vanessa snorted. “They’re gonna ask if you got shanked or tattooed or some shit, huh? They’ll be looking for a lil teardrop under your eye.” She poked her face where the tattoo would be, then kissed the spot of unmarked skin.

Brooke Lynn rolled her eyes and squeezed her lightly. “Baby, they don’t think I went to prison. Most of them don’t even know what the real story is, they think I’m a counselor at a camp for underprivileged youths.”

“I’m an underprivileged youth, it’s kinda true!”

And a lot of the girls in the program were in situations almost identical to Vanessa’s, or even worse. While Brooke had expected to be an outlier on campus, she could have never prepared herself for the stories she heard - abuse, neglect, poverty - and half the time the storyteller wouldn’t even bat an eye, in fact they sometimes appreciated the fact that she would sit and listen without insulting them. Or even worse, pity them.

Brooke sat up and pulled her hair into a ponytail. “I think that’s what I wanna do now, though. Like, I’ve always known how privileged I am, but actually having something to compare my life to really changes things, you know?”

Vanessa rolled to lay flat on her back, shifting her legs to trap Brooke between them. “Normally when I hear your type talk about trying to help my type out, it’s full of that bullshit white warrior complex.”

“White savior.”

“Whatever, same thing,” she huffed. “We’ve had rich white people come to the hood, click their tongues all ‘oh, poor baby’ like, maybe buy us lunch or a pair of sneakers, and walk away patting theyselves on their backs like they did us such a big favor. I seen the way you talk to the other girls, you actually give a fuck.”

Vanessa hated being patronized - though the actual word wouldn’t come to mind. There were times when wealthy folks would wander into the ‘bad part of town’ where she lived and just gawk at them like they were visiting the zoo. Sure, she would take the free meal if she were bored or hungry, but that didn’t mean she actually appreciated it.

But she appreciated Brooke, not just for seeing her humanity but seeing her as an equal. She knew it was something she should be able to expect from anyone, but that was unrealistic (not that anything about their current situation would sound especially realistic to an outsider). It was what made their relationship feel like more than just sex - they connected on some sort of deeper level that she had the unyielding desire to cling to.

And yet she had to put it in jeopardy one more time. “I need to tell you something. You know how I told you I got sent here over something dumb?”

Brooke’s brows knitted as she tried to recall. “It was like… weed and a fake ID, right?”

“That’s the story.” Vanessa looked down and sighed. “And it did happen a lot, but I got sent here ‘cause I was seeing this girl that actually had a boyfriend but kept jerking me around, so I TP’ed her house and hooked A’keria into it.” She spoke fast, just barely coherent, because the sooner she ripped off the bandage the better. “Just didn’t wanna seem crazy from day one.”

To Vanessa’s surprise, there wasn’t much of a reaction from Brooke. She shrugged, nonplussed. “That’s not so bad.” Her arms looped back around her waist and pulled her close. “I thought you were gonna say you tried to stab her or something.”

Vanessa elbowed her playfully. “You think I’m someone that could cut a bitch?”

“Baby, don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”

——

Waiting for report cards was making the crowd of girls shift and bounce in anxious anticipation. They whispered to each other, speculating about their final grades and what it meant for their respective futures. The dining hall was full and the air was heavy with tension, as if everyone were holding their breath.

“Last names A through H come to the front to get your report cards.”

Brooke Lynn took a deep, unsteady breath as she got up and made her way towards the front of the hall.

“What are you nervous about?” A’keria asked, walking in time with her. “You know you’re gonna get a fuckin’…. quadruple A+.”

“I don’t know anything,” she retorted in a harsh whisper.

Bouncing on her heels as the secretary sorted through the cards and gave A’keria hers first, Brooke Lynn’s nerves didn’t quell for a moment. Grading wasn’t straightforward like it was at school - in fact, she didn’t actually know what the criteria was, even Nina wouldn’t give her a clear answer.

Once back at the table, both Scarlet and A’keria opened their cards first, both earning an impressive A-. “I told you they grade on a curve,” Scarlet laughed. “Open yours, Brookie, you don’t have anything to worry about.”

“She’s just trying to be humble,” Yvie chimed in.

“It’s not like that, I swear,” Brooke insisted, cheeks tinting red. “I just don’t know how this shit works, okay?” But she did give in and opened the envelope and, without turning the page, simply said “Okay, it’s fine, let’s move on.”

“Nah, lemme see, boo.” Vanessa snatched the paper from her before the blonde had a chance to object. “Shit, Yvie was right, you just trying to spare our feelings or whatever.” She laughed, then clarified to the others, “A perfect score, no fucking surprise,” but then her expression changed and her demeanor quieted. “What, uh, happens if we don’t pass?”

Brooke Lynn shook her head and wrapped an arm around her. “You don’t even need to worry about that,” she assured, “you only need a C to pass. You can get a C, right?”

“I got 34 of ‘em, but then I take my bra off,” she couldn’t get any more of her concerns out before last names I through P were called and she had to march to her fate in a walk that seemed to take forever, and receiving the envelope only sent her heart racing into overdrive.

And she wasn’t feeling any relief by the time she returned to her seat, setting the envelope on the table in front of her and just staring at it. It almost seemed to mock her with its completely unassuming form.

“It’s not gonna go away just because you ain’t touching it,” A’keria pointed out.

Perhaps more reassuringly, Brooke kissed her forehead and hugged her tightly. “You got this, I know you do.”

Vanessa whined softly and hid against Brooke for another moment before finally accepting the inevitable. She stared at the page in unmoving silence for a beat, chewing on her lip.

“Well?”

Everyone’s eyes were trained on Vanessa, curiosity - and possibly concern - building as they watched her sit like a statue.

Then, with a sudden burst of emotion, she popped up with wide eyes. “I got a B!” she shrieked. With her voice loud and distinct by default, it was almost unsurprising that someone from another part of the hall shouted “Congrats, Vanessa!” in response.

But it didn’t even register to Vanessa. She had immediately thrown her arms around Brooke and hugged her close. Whether she would admit it or not, she was pretty sure she would not have achieved the same level of success without someone like Brooke, who knew how to study, what teachers wanted to hear, it was like having a set of cheat codes to education.

“Guess it’s really all over now, huh? Kinda wish they gave us yearbooks to sign or some shit,” A’keria mused when the excitement had died down. “What’s gonna happen with you two?” she gestured between Brooke Lynn and Vanessa.

The two girls untangled from each other and sat upright. “We’re still working out the details,” Brooke explained, rubbing the back of her neck. “But we’re optimistic.”

Optimism was all they had as everything was coming to an end. While they hadn’t officially labeled their relationship, they were optimistic that they could continue to have one. It would be complicated, it’d take effort, and they were both bound to face social repercussions one way or another. But they were optimistic it would be worth it.

And that was one of the many reasons they allowed themselves to relax and enjoy the end-of-summer celebration.

It was nothing extravagant – mainly pizza and snacks with music that consisted of an iPhone hooked up to a speaker. Still, it was a sign of good will and the teachers had organized it. Well, Nina and Monét did the vast majority of the work, but everyone else signed off on it.

“You know, I’m going to miss our lesbian den mothers,” Yvie remarked, glancing over at the two teachers who were watching the party with proud grins and linked arms. “I still can’t believe you guys hooked the two of them up.”

“Shit, me neither,” Brooke Lynn chuckled. There was no doubt that she would be bringing it up regularly once they were back at school.

“You’re lucky you get to see Ms. West at school, I don’t think anyone else has someone like that back home.”

She smiled fondly, even if the statement was bittersweet. “You’re right,” it was one of the few times she would admit as much. “Don’t know if I’d have gotten through this without her,” her gaze shifted to scan the scattering of girls dancing and mingling before settling. “Don’t know if I’d have gotten her.”

She swore there was something almost ethereal about Vanessa. The way the sun bounced off her skin, the way her wavy hair flowed, the way she could stand both elegantly but bursting with energy - she was special, and it made her feel at ease to know she wasn’t losing her.

“Here we go again,“ Yvie chuckled. “You really fell hook, line, and sinker for that crazy bitch, huh?” she asked, amused.

“Couldn’t have stopped myself if I tried.” Which she had, at least at first.

Not a minute later, Vanessa abandoned her conversation with A’keria and made her way over to Brooke’s side - the place she found most comfortable.

Brooke’s arm looped right around her. “Hey, Mami,” she hummed and leaned down to peck her lips.

“Imma steal you for a minute,” Vanessa took her hand and led her down the familiar trail, and they kept going until the generic pop music faded into the background.

At this point, it was no surprise to Brooke that they were back at the lake. But they had never caught a sunset quite like the one they approached. The sky was a near perfect gradient of warm colors, as if it were a scene on a postcard. It was almost too perfect, too picturesque to be real.

“I’m gonna miss this spot. Makes me want to get a cute little lake house, so we can have a view like this every day,” Brooke mused as she sat down.

Vanessa joined her, laying on her back and looking up at the sky. “Thought we was taking it slow. You already thinking about playing house?”

“What even is taking it slow for us? Our relationship doesn’t exactly make the best linear narrative sense.” Brooke laid down and held her hand. “Besides, it never hurts to dream.”

“Guess not.” She scooted closer, snuggling up to the taller girl’s side. “It is a real nice sight though. Like, I actually just wanna lay with you and enjoy it; we don’t even gotta fuck.”

Brooke snorted softly. “You don’t have to justify just wanting to cuddle, you know.”

“Yah-huh! I still got an image to uphold!”

“Okay, okay.” She held her close and kissed her cheek. “It’s just between you, me, and the lake.”

——

The next morning was pick-up day and Brooke Lynn was sat on a tree stump with Vanessa on her lap, their respective luggage on either side of it. The difference between their bags looked like a comically obvious representation of their different backgrounds – Brooke had a pristine designer set and Vanessa had a couple of beat up, hand-me-down duffel bags. It could have been the cover of a ‘princess and the pauper’ type of movie, easily.

“Who’re you waiting for, again?”

Brooke presses her lips into a fine line. She had hoped that maybe her parents would be the ones to come get her, just this once. “They’re sending a driver. His name’s Frank. Nice guy, worked for our family for like… fifteen years now.” As she spoke, she could see a Mercedes pull up and there was no guesswork needed as to whose ride it was.

She got up and gathered her things, making her way over with Vanessa in tow. “You sure your mom’s okay with this?”

“Uh-huh! Not every day you get a lift in a car that costs more than your apartment and all the fancy shit you got.” Vanessa chuckled, then offered a cheerful greeting when they approached the driver.

Frank looked between the girls with a perplexed – and somewhat amused – expression. “And who’s this, Miss Brooke?”

Brooke took Vanessa’s hand into her own, giving it a light squeeze. “This is Vanessa, my girlfriend. She’s going to spend the rest of the summer with us.”

The man quirked his brow, but began loading both of their bags into the trunk. “And your parents are okay with this… arrangement?” He wasn’t one to question Brooke – she was a pretty easygoing client as far as they go, but it was still the grown Hytes that signed his paychecks.

Brooke shrugged as she got in the car and ushered Vanessa (who was still floating on the high of hearing the word ‘girlfriend’) with her. “They’ll get over it.”

[bitchimlugoobrious]

I just finished reading Walden for the first time and people seem to have ~opinions~ on Thoreau, but personally, I enjoyed his imagery and even think he might’ve been pretty cool irl. Here’s some quotes I highlighted:

“[Thoreau] came early to recognize that some of his awkwardness in his social life was bound up with his own dissatisfactions, with looking for something, while all around him his fellow citizens seem to take their lives as they found them...”

“[Thoreau] was convinced that every singular existence, if it could be clearly perceived, could reveal, within itself, the whole, all that there is.”

“I should not talk so much about myself if there were anybody else whom I knew as well.”

“What old people say you cannot do, you try and find that you can.”

“This is the only way, we say; but there are as many ways as there can be drawn radii from one center. All change is a miracle to contemplate; but it is a miracle which is taking place every instant.”

“We are in great haste to construct a magnetic telegraph from Maine to Texas; but Maine andTexas, it may be, have nothing important to communicate.”

“... to maintain one’s self on this earth is not a hardship but a pastime, if we will live simply and wisely...”

“The youth may build or plant or sail, only let him not be hindered from doing that which he tells me he would like to do.”

“But I would not stand between any man and his genius; and to him who does this work, which I decline, with his whole heart and soul and life, I would say, Perservere, even if the world call it doing evil, as it is most likely they will.”

“Be sure that you give the poor the aid they most need, though it be your example which leaves them far behind.”

“His goodness must not be a partial and transitory act, but a constant superfluity, which costs him nothing and of which he is unconscious.”

“I found myself suddenly neighbor to the bird; not by having imprisoned one, but having caged myself near them.”

“Morning is when I am awake and there is a dawn in me. Moral reform is the effort to throw off sleep.”

“We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake, not by mechanical aids, but by an infinite expectation of the dawn, which does not forsake us in our soundest sleep.”

“It is something to be able to paint a particular picture, or to carve a statue, and so to make a few objects beautiful; but it is far more glorious to carve and paint the very atmosphere and medium through which we look, which morally we can do. To affect the quality of the day, that is the highest of arts.”

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as a put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion.”

“But if we stay at home in mind our business, who will want railroads?”

“God himself culminates in the present moment, and will never be more divine in the lapse of all the ages.”

“We meet at meals three times a day, and give each other a new taste of that old musty cheese that we are.”

“In our most trivial walks, we are constantly, though unconsciously, steering like pilots by certain well-known beacons and headlands, and if we go beyond our usual course we still carry in our minds the bearing of some neighboring cape…”

“Not till we are lost, in other words not to we have lost the world, do we begin to find ourselves, and realize where we are in the infinite extent of our relations.”

“Give me the poverty that enjoys true wealth.”

“If the day and the night are such that you greet them with joy, and life emits a fragrance like flowers and sweet-scented herbs, is more elastic, more starry, more immortal, - that is your success. All nature is your congratulation, and you have caused momentarily to bless yourself. The greatest gains and values are farthest from being appreciated. We easily come to doubt if they exist. We soon forget them. They are the highest reality. Perhaps the fax most astounding and most real are never communicated by man-to-man. The true harvest of my daily life is somewhat as intangible and indescribable as the tints of morning or evening. It is a little star-dust caught, a segment of the rainbow which I have clutched.”

“There is never an instant’s truce between virtue and vice. Goodness is the only investment that never fails.”

“Every man is the builder of a temple, called his body, to the god he worships, after a style purely his own...”

“... but what beside safety they got by sailing in the middle of Walden I do not know, unless they love its water for the same reason that I do.”

“A house whose inside is as open and manifest as a bird’s nest...”

“Nature puts no questions and answers none which we mortals ask. She has long ago taken her resolution.”

“Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads.”

“In spring the sun not only exerts an influence through the increase temperature of the air and earth, but its heat passes through ice a foot or more thick, and is reflected from the bottom in shallow water, and so also warms the water and melts the underside of the ice, at the same time that it is melting it more directly above, making it uneven, and causing the air bubbles which contains to extend themselves upward and downward until it is completely honeycombed, and at last disappears suddenly in a single spring rain.”

“The day is an epitome of the year. The night is the winter, the morning and evening are the spring and fall, and the noon is this summer.”

“I am affected as if in a particular sense I stood in the laboratory of the Artist who made the world and me, - had come to where he was still at work, sporting on this bank, and with excess of energy strewing his fresh designs about.”

“The very globe continually transcends and translates itself, and becomes winged in its orbit.”

“A single gentle rain makes the grass many shades greener. So our prospects brighten on the influx of better thoughts. We should be blessed if we lived in the present always, and took advantage of every accident that befell us, like the grass which confesses the influence of the slightest dew that falls on it; and did not spend our time in atoning for the neglect of past opportunities, which we call doing our duty.”

“We can never have enough of nature. We must be refreshed by the sight of inexhaustible vigor, vast and titanic features, the seacoast with its wrecks, the wilderness with its living and its decaying trees, the thunder-cloud, and the rain which lasts three weeks and produces freshets. We need to witness our own limits transgressed, and some life pasturing freely where we never wander.”

“Compassion is a very untenable ground. It must be expeditious. Its pleadings will not bear to be stereotyped.”

The last are only from the Conclusion:

“ The universe is wider than our views of it.”

“Patriotism is a maggot in their heads.”

“ I learned this, at least, by my experiment: that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours. He will put some things behind, will pass an invisible boundary; new, universal, and more liberal laws will begin to establish themselves around and within him; or the old laws will be expanded, and interpreted in his favor in a more liberal sense, and he will live with the license of a higher order of beings. In proportion as he simplifies his life, the laws of the universe will appear less complex, and solitude will not be solitude, nor poverty poverty, nor weakness weakness. If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them.”

“Let everyone mind his own business, and endeavor to be what he was made.”

“If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.”

“Sat what you have to say, not what you ought. Any truth is better than make-believe.”

“However mean your life is, meet it and live it; do not shun it and call it hard names.”

“Cultivate poverty like a garden herb, like sage. Do not trouble yourself much to get new things, whether clothes or friends. Turn the old; return to them. Things do not change; we change. Sell your clothes and keep your thoughts.”

“Humility like darkness reveals the heavenly lights.”

“Money is not required to buy one necessary of the soul.”

“Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth.”