#because my mom loves Italian cuisine and her mom and that’s pretty much it heritage wise on her end

[deathsmallcaps]

If you’re Irish Australian would you prefer us to hit the last option?

[notalotgoingonatthisinstant]

Of Hearts Breaking and Thunderstorms

Summary: A cloudy day in Malibu reflected Piper's exact feelings about what she knew she had to do. It didn't mean it hurt any less to turn this date into... a breakup.

Find it on: ffnet | AO3

It wasn’t a typical Californian day. Gray clouds covered the sky, hovering above the sea and turning it just as gray. The wind was chilly, making it feel like it was less than 65o out and forcing Piper to actually wear a hoodie. It might rain soon. The sand was lifeless.

Definitely, December wasn’t a postcard month in Malibu.

Still, Jason had bought them both ice-cream, which they now enjoyed on the beach. Well. Enjoyed was a bit of a strong word for Piper, since she felt like her head might explode at any minute from her turmoil of thoughts and doubts.

“I’ve a question for you.”

Coming from your boyfriend, that sentence was enough to set anyone into red alert mode; although, she debated, would that be such a bad thing?

“D’you remember that place I told you about?” Jason went on, animatedly. “In New Rome? With the brownies?”

“Yeah.” Her voice sounded far away. She wondered if he noticed how distracted she was.

“Well,” she caught his smile with the corner of her eyes, “one block over there’s this really nice restaurant that serves the best Italian food I’ve ever had – and we’ve been to Italy, even though we didn’t really enjoy the local cuisine. Anyway. I was thinking…”

The way his voice trailed off had Piper finally turning to look at him. She noted the slight blush on his cheeks and the way he was fiddling with his spoon, swirling the final pieces of his chocolate ice-cream. She noted how nervous he’d gotten. Then she remembered what day was approaching and cursed internally.

“It’s not, like, one of those super expensive Italian places where people wear suits and stuff, don’t worry,” he quickly explained, mistaking the meaning of her panicking face. “But it’s nice. I thought we could do something different. You know, for our anniversary.”

There it was. The word she didn’t want to hear.

It was ridiculous. She had dreamed about the time she would reach her first anniversary with Jason. She would plan something nice for them, something other than getting ice-cream from the street parlor or popcorn and a movie at her place. She would be over the moon.

She wasn’t, though. She wanted to ignore it completely. As it had gotten closer, she had dared to hope that Jason would be a stereotypical boyfriend who forgot anniversaries, but he wasn’t like that. He was… excited. He was trying to make plans.

Gods, how was she going to do this?

“Pipes?”

She turned to him sharply, noticing she had been staring at the ocean again and not answering him. Her ice-cream was finished, the empty cup next to her on the sand, so she busied her hands with the grains underneath them.

“Do you wanna do something else?” Jason offered. “It’ll be over break, so we can do whatever. If you don’t wanna go all the way to camp, we–”

“No!” Piper cut in. “That’s not…” That’s not the problem.

“It’s no trouble. I can get Tempest to take us. He’s probably hanging out close-by, with the weather like this. Or we can stay in, if you want? I could try to cook you dinner again.”

The image of Jason with an apron full of tomato sauce, holding a spoon over the stove while freaking out about water spilling from the pasta pan, nervous smiles and apologies for making a mess, filled her mind. He had been trying to cheer her up after another failed search for Leo. The meal had actually turned out alright, but he had freaked out during the preparation and refused any help. It had been adorable.

“… or something else?”

Poor thing, he looked so lost. She couldn’t do this to him.

“No! I – I just – I can’t!”

The effect of her outburst was instantaneous. What was left of Jason’s nervous smile melted away completely, as if his whole body sagged. At the same time, though, she could see him tensing up, and it physically hurt her. The sky seemed to darken.

“I’m sorry,” she buried her face in her hands and tried to put her thoughts in order so she could talk to him. She repeated, “I can’t.”

They were silent for a few moments, and then Jason said, in a careful, controlled voice she thought her would never use with her again, “Can’t what?”

“Do this to you.”

Piper heard him sigh and put his ice-cream cup down on the sand. When she finally got up the courage to look up, he was the one staring out at the ocean, eyes far away and face set. She knew that look and she didn’t like being the one to cause it.

“Before you say anything,” she started, “you didn’t do anything.”

He grimaced. “Was that the problem?”

“No.”

“Then what is?” He looked at her, those electric blue eyes piercing into her soul. You’ve been weird for weeks. Is it about Leo? Because you know you can talk to me. We’re going through this together.”

“It’s not about Leo.”

“Then what?”

Piper wanted to give him an honest answer, because he deserved at least that from her. He knew what she was doing right now. He knew where she was going with the conversation, and he was obviously hurt. She needed to make sure he understood her reasons if he was ever going to forgive for this. And she desperately needed him to forgive her.

She shrugged, lost. “What are we doing?”

With a sarcastic tilt of his head, Jason glanced down. “We were eating ice-cream and enjoying this cloudy day on the beach.”

“No, I mean…” She sighed, frustrated, and hugged her legs to her chest. “With us. What’re we doing?”

“Dating, Pipes. Because we love each other.”

“Because Hera told us we do?”

They had talked about this before and she knew where Jason stood, which is why it was no surprise that his face closed off and he turned away. “We had a deal.”

Right. The deal he’d made the night the Romans had left Camp Half-Blood and he’d sneaked them up to his cabin’s roof. He had kissed her and said that they would be rewriting their story from then on – no Mist memories, no amnesia. A fresh start.

Except they couldn’t have a fresh start.

“I wish it was that simple,” Piper said, feeling her eyes getting wetter. “I wish I could just… forget those memories of us she planted in my brain. But I can’t! I can’t just… ignore the fact that she – and my mom – just looked at us and thought we’d make a good couple, and then they just pushed us together!”

“Nobody made me be with you.”

“You can’t know that. You can’t!” she added when he gave her a look. “We can’t erase our memories of all that manipulation and start fresh. It’s a fact – from the moment we met, we’ve had preconceived ideas that we should be together. We never had an objective look on things!”

Jason closed his eyes behind his glasses and Piper’s heart squeezed hard in her rib cage.

“I never did anything I didn’t mean. If I say I love you–”

“I know that. I know you.”

“Then what, you think I don’t know what I’m feeling?”

“I don’t know myself!” she finally burst out, the backs of her eyes burning. “This last year was pretty crazy, play? And I know how hard it was for you, to miss a chunk of your life and wake up with amnesia on the other side of the country. But you’ve known your whole life that you’re a demigod. You’ve trained for this since you were a literal baby. I didn’t have the luxury of having time to get used to this.”

Jason was watching her with careful eyes. She still had so much to say and explain, but her head was a mess and her words betrayed her, especially if she met his hypnotizing gaze for too long; gods, why did she have to be so in love with him? She couldn’t stop now – finish what you started, McLean.

“One moment I was on a bus trip with my boyfriend and my best friend, the next I was falling down the Grand Canyon and there was this huge prophecy on my shoulders. My recollections of the past few months were apparently a lie. And throughout all of that, I was only sure of two things: Leo was my best friend and I liked you. That’s it. That was all I knew.

“Now the prophecy’s over, and Leo’s gone, and I just…” she shrugged, hopelessly. “I was just – I was thrown into this world and I had to readjust my image of myself. But the way it readjusted… I mean, even before we started dating for real, I was with in a way. I don’t know how to be me without being with you, and I don’t like that.”

Piper loved him, she did, and he deserved all the praise he got. But she was not – repeat, not – going to be defined as Jason Grace’s girlfriend. Maybe someday… when her head was on straight and she was sure of herself… she wouldn’t mind standing next to him. Now, though…

“I don’t know who I am either, you know,” Jason said like an off-comment, but Piper felt the bite nonetheless. “Seeing both camps and wanting to belong in both. I was raised a Roman – I wasn’t supposed to be tempted to leave some of it behind.”

“That’s different.”

He raised his eyebrows at her.

“I also have that,” Piper continued. “I’m half Greek goddess and half… what? Because, for the Cherokee, your heritage comes from your mother, so what am I, really? This whole gods business is messed up – I think all half-bloods go through at least one identity crisis. I…” she searched for the right words. “I can’t be defined by a person.”

“Did someone say something to you?” Jason turned his body a bit more to her. “Is that what triggered this? By the gods, Piper, you’re not defined by your relationship with me. Nobody in their right mind would be dumb enough to even think such a–”

“I am! I’m the dumb person!” The revelation seemed to strike Jason speechless for a moment. “It’s me, okay? I realized that I’ve been defining myself like that ever since I entered this world. Who am I if I’m not in love with you? If I’m not Leo’s best friend? If I’m not that girl who uses her powers to steal things? I don’t know the answer! And I can’t figure it out if I’m still with you!”

Even though Piper was pretty sure that Jason had picked up on where the conversation was going from the start, it apparently didn’t soften the blow. She felt it too, saying it out loud, like a cold claw closing around her heart. The clouds above closed in, nearly turning the day into night and the wind picked up. A storm was definitely on its way.

Jason blinked a couple of times and turned to the ocean. She couldn’t read his expression – he was wearing his mask of indifference he’d perfected over the years at Camp Jupiter. At last, he said, “Okay.”

“I just need some perspective.”

“Okay.”

It wasn’t okay. Piper had to remind herself why she had to do this in the first place, because all she wanted to do was throw herself at him and be held in his arms while he kissed her over and over and over.

When the silence felt too suffocating, she said, “I know it’s not fair to ask, but you’re my best friend too. I don’t think I can lose you. Not after Leo.”

“Okay.”

There was no emotion in his voice and it made her want to scream at him. Actually, she wanted him to scream at her. Or something. She wanted a reaction; anything to show her how he was feeling. It was a done deal now, though – Jason had closed himself off and nothing was going to pry him open at that moment.

“I guess I’ll just…” his voice cracked and he cleared his throat, moving to grab his forgotten ice-cream cup. He kept his head down, not meeting her eyes. “I’ll give you your space, then.”

“Jason…” But he was already getting up and leaving.

Piper knew it was going to hurt, as much as she knew she had to do it. However, actually watching him physically walk away from her broke something in her chest and a sob escaped her lips. Suddenly, the weather was fitting – cloudy, windy, cold. And if thunder and lightning rumbled above and followed his retreating figure… well, she just knew she would never enjoy a thunderstorm quite the same way ever again.

[mariacorley]

How to be Black

My original reason for self-publishing a novel was to allow my protagonists, Langston and Cecile, the light of day. I started with the notion that if only a handful of people read my book, my beloved creations would still have lived and breathed somewhere other than on my computer. Publishers who cater to people like me used to be called vanity presses; there's some truth to that. It didn't take long before I began to dream of a larger audience, watching YouTube videos and absorbing blog posts that purported to show indie authors how to achieve unimaginable success. One of the most important parts of the plan seemed to be reviews, and so, emboldened by three 5 star reviews from total strangers, I asked everyone I could who had read my book if they would mind posting their opinions about it on Amazon. Some did, but many didn't, so I took it to the next level, paying to join a database that allowed me to contact random people who had demonstrated an interest in writing and sharing reviews.

I sent out numerous requests, but so far only a couple of those people have followed through. One of them is the inspiration for this post. Dr. Jacques Coulardeau sent me his review—two pages so full of inaccuracies and negative extrapolation that I was shocked that he gave me 4 stars—on Martin Luther King Day, a coincidence that I find ironic. Examples of his misleading statements include his portrayal of Cecile as “one who makes love with any boy available that is rather good looking,” for whom “pre-marital intercourse is a basic principle,” even though she has sex with exactly two men in the book, the first a one night stand during which she loses her virginity, the second her eventual husband. Coulardeau then glosses over the character's considerable internal conflict between her religious background and her sexual relationship with the “love of her life” by saying, “She does not realize her contradiction.” Um...not true. When Langston and Cecile meet, the reviewer says that Cecile “of course gives herself as if it were a question of life or death,” even though their relationship unfolds long distance. He even rebuts his own statement by adding “Cecile in a way makes the relation kind of satirical, humorous, un-serious.” Dr. Coulardeau states that Langston's decision to open a West Indian restaurant is simply because the cuisine is trendy. Um...nope. He also mentions that Langston's friends-with-benefits relationship, while in college, with the daughter of his Italian boss is doomed because of her father's disapproval, implying that Langston and Marietta aren't both aware, from day one, that their contact is a dalliance, and failing to mention an even more intense disapproval from Langston's Jamaican grandmother. And so on.

I won't dispute every incorrect statement, but—call me Donald Trump—I can't leave his final conclusion about my protagonists alone: “They definitely tricked their life-treks and they ended lost in some kind of tasteless, heartless, mindless deculturated wasteland.” His evidence? The characters are neither black nor West Indian enough for him. They eat West Indian food, but they don't speak the way he thinks they should (he is apparently a linguist; I'm merely someone who grew up as a Canadian West Indian). Further evidence of lost cultural identity includes Langston's decision to cook a  jerked turkey with mango salsa at Thanksgiving. I forgot to mention that the expert on what West Indians are supposed to be is an elderly Jewish man, who also took time out to pass judgments on Cecile's Christian journey in ways that my devoutly Christian readers did not. Huh?

These days, it's rare that a white person is overtly paternalistic enough to publicly claim knowledge of who black people should be, which is pretty much the same thing as informing us of our proper “place.” For obvious reasons, these kinds of statements are not nearly so uncommon in the black community. For example, the inability to “code-switch” is seen by some melanated people as proof of being an oreo: black on the outside, white on the inside. What does that mean, though?

Being an immigrant changes things, whether your relocation is voluntary or involuntary. Isn't it both natural and human to exert and receive influence as a result? When Dr. Coulardeau rails against the evils of multiculturalism, I think he may mean that distinct ethnic groups shouldn't lose touch with their cultural heritage. I support this idea, however, what does that include and exclude? Am I allowed to like only a particular kind of music, or cook a particular kind of food? If I am allowed to like things that aren't native to my ethnic group, a concept that has become hopelessly tangled, in most cases, by intermarriage (and here I mean even Jamaicans marrying Nigerians), how much should we like those things? How often can we indulge in them? What if we understand some of our ancestral language or dialect, but aren't fluent? Do we all need to repatriate to a country of cultural origin? Can we live in the suburbs? Or should our entire lives become a kind of performance art?

Coulardeau noted that “Canada is the best representative of multiculturalism and New York (where Cecile attends Juilliard) is one of the most diverse melting pot or salad bowl in the world,” calling the references to the various cultures there “anecdotal.” First, Canada is a vast nation, and I can assure you that most of it isn't particularly multicultural, although Toronto, where Langston lives (in Little Jamaica!), certainly consists of distinct ethnic enclaves. My main focus in writing the book, however, had to do with issues of personal growth that people can confront regardless of their race. Nevertheless, one reviewer said, “The issue of race is an important sub-stratum of the story and adds to its depth.” Another take: “How refreshing to encounter complex people who deal with racism and nonetheless dream beyond the limits of what's realistic. Unlike a lot of prime time television, Letting Go's characters defy stereotypes and earn your trust as a reader.” This reviewer, who is an African American female activist, also said of Cecile, “She's confident in her blackness and even when she's down, she's not out.”

Enough self-defense. I am more drawn to people's internal lives, so people who are looking for detailed discussions of place may be disappointed; my references to setting have a tendency to be secondary. That said, my book is semi-autobiographical (SEMI!), and I certainly could have included more of my own experiences with race and culture, including the very self-conscious efforts made by me and my black friends to reject as much as possible that wasn't considered “black,” whether it was by claiming to hate most of the music on the radio in our overwhelmingly white town, or never wanting to say a white person was attractive, because black beauty was so undervalued that it seemed wrong to add to the problem by endorsing the prevailing notions, even slightly. Some of my other formative experiences with my culture included learning about slavery and segregation, both in America and the West Indies, being sent to classes in West Indian dance, joining the Junior Afro-Canadian society consisting of my siblings and friends (to mirror the Afro-Canadian society my parents had joined), annual visits to Bermuda with my mom, and learning Jamaican folk songs from my dad. I also felt especially proud of hall of fame quarterback Warren Moon and the similarly storied hockey goalie, Grant Fuhr. Then again, was it “black” to even be aware of hockey? Or was that, too, the result of losing touch with my roots? Was it breaking down a barrier or assimilation when Arthur Mitchell founded the Dance Theater of Harlem? And if ballet is okay for black people, should Misty Copeland have ended up in a predominantly white company?

To be fair, I suspect Dr. Coulardeau might have been okay with Cecile's focus on classical music if the book had followed up a conversation about the need to incorporate music by black composers into her repertoire— something I endorse and have put into practice—with concrete examples. I admit to dropping the ball on that one; I was more interested in her character's awakening as a self-confident woman, just as I was interested in Langston's need to confront the fears that kept him bound, but although the book is already 500 pages long, a few sentences here or there would have made my novel richer. Them again, why should any black person, real or imaginary, have to define him or herself by someone else's cultural standards, which are higher, in this regard, than the bar most white people need to reach? One answer is that everything about black people has been denigrated so much that we need to affirm our identity. The thing is, we're still human, which means we're not monolithic. Will black people ever earn the right to just be, in all of our complex variations and manifestations? Or should all books feature black protagonists who speak mainly the vernacular, ideally in the inner city, during slavery or the Civil Rights era? Will melanated people always have to earn their “black card,” even if they're fictional?

Coulardeau sarcastically refers to Langston “so black...that his first girl friend is a white woman.” I put that relationship in my book is because seeing a black man with a white woman still produces a twinge in my gut, even though I realize that the importance of race has been inflated by a history of hate. If I'm honest, I must confess that I have some litmus tests of black authenticity: Clarence Thomas doesn't pass, for example, because his Supreme Court rulings and other statements have shown what looks to me like evidence of self-hatred. Still, I don't think it's reasonable to assume that every black man who gets involved with a white woman has fallen for the false notion that their pale skin makes them the biggest trophy of all. I want black men and black women to heal the deep wounds inflicted by injustice, set down the resulting baggage, and truly embrace each other. Still, it is my firm belief that we can love ourselves without climbing into a box. At least, I hope so, because the opposite of multicultural is homogeneous. Even if it were possible to retreat behind impenetrable racial and cultural fences, is that advisable? Can't I be black and still cook a damned turkey? Especially in Canada, where Thanksgiving isn't connected to its ancestral sins against aboriginal people (which certainly exist), but rather the thought that having a day off to sit down with your family and express some gratitude sounded like a good idea?

People have mentioned finishing my book and wondering what the characters did after it ended. Despite everything I just said, if I do write a sequel, I may just go into more detail regarding culture, which is something I don't always analyze deeply unless affronted. So even though I find Coulardeau's  comments presumptuous, misleading, and at times completely inaccurate, they did make me think.