#crying. they asked us to raise our hand if we come from a culturally diverse background and I was the only one 😭😭

[sailermoon]

this is how it felt in my seminar

👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏽‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻👩🏼‍💻

[be-gay-do-heists]

hello yall :) the holy month of elul started last night, which is typically a time for contemplation, so since it is impossible for me to stop thinking about leverage, i decided to write an essay. hope anyone interested in reading it enjoys, and that it makes at least a little sense!! spoilers for leverage redemption

-----

Leverage, Judaism, and “Doing the Work”: An Essay for Elul

When it comes to Elul and the approaching High Holidays, Leverage might seem like an odd topic to meditate on.

The TNT crime drama that ran from 2008-2012, and which released a new season this summer following its renewal, centers on a group of found-family thieves who help the victims of corporations and oligarchs (sometimes based on real-world examples), using wacky heists and cons to bring down the rich and powerful. In one episode, the team’s clients want to reclaim their father’s prized Glimt piece that had been stolen in the Shoah and never returned, but aside from this and the throwaway lines and jokes standard for most mainstream television, there’s not a ton textually Jewish about Leverage. However, despite this, I have found that the show has strong resonance among Jewish fans, and lots of potential for analysis along Jewish themes. This tends to focus on one character in particular: the group’s brilliant, pop culture-savvy, and personable hacker, Alec Hardison, played by the phenomenally talented Aldis Hodge.

I can’t remember when or where I first encountered a reading of Hardison as Jewish, but not only is this a somewhat popular interpretation, it doesn’t feel like that much of a leap. In the show itself, Hardison has a couple of the aforementioned throwaway lines that potentially point to him being Jewish, even if they’re only in service of that moment’s grift. It’s hard to point to what exactly makes reading Hardison as Jewish feel so natural. My first guess is the easy way Hardison fits into the traditional paradigms of Jewish masculinity explored by scholars such as Daniel Boyarin (2). Most of the time, the hacker is not portrayed as athletic or physical; he is usually the foil to the team’s more physically-adept characters like fighter Eliot, or thief Parker. Indeed, Hardison’s strength is mental, expressed not only through his computer wizardry but his passions for science, technology, music, popular media, as well as his studious research into whatever scenario the group might come up against. In spite of his self-identification as a “geek,” Hardison is nevertheless confident, emotionally sensitive, and secure in his masculinity. I would argue he is representative of the traditional Jewish masculine ideal, originating in the rabbinic period and solidified in medieval Europe, of the dedicated and thoughtful scholar (3). Another reason for popular readings of Hardison as Jewish may be the desire for more representation of Jews of color. Although mainstream American Jewish institutions are beginning to recognize the incredible diversity of Jews in the United States (4), and popular figures such as Tiffany Haddish are amplifying the experiences of non-white Jews, it is still difficult to find Jews of color represented in popular media. For those eager to see this kind of representation, then, interpreting Hardison, a black man who places himself tangential to Jewishness, in this way is a tempting avenue.

Regardless, all of the above remains fan interpretation, and there was little in the text of the show that seriously tied Judaism into Hardison’s identity. At least, until we got this beautiful speech from Hardison in the very first episode of the renewed show, directed at the character of Harry Wilson, a former corporate lawyer looking to atone for the injustice he was partner to throughout his career:

“In the Jewish faith, repentance, redemption, is a process. You can’t make restitution and then promise to change. You have to change first. Do the work, Harry. Then and only then can you begin to ask for forgiveness. [...] So this… this isn’t the win. It’s the start, Harry.”

I was floored to hear this speech, and thrilled that it explained the reboot’s title, Leverage: Redemption. Although not mentioned by its Hebrew name, teshuvah forms the whole basis for the new season. Teshuvah is the concept of repentance or atonement for the sins one has committed. Stemming from the root shuv/shuva, it carries the literal sense of “return.” In a spiritual context, this usually means a return to G-d, of finding one’s way back to holiness and by extension good favor in the eyes of the Divine. But equally important is restoring one’s relationships with fellow humans by repairing any hurt one has caused over the past year. This is of special significance in the holy month of Elul, leading into Rosh haShanah, the Yamim Noraim, and Yom Kippur, but one can undertake a journey of redemption at any point in time. That teshuvah is a journey is a vital message for Harry to hear; one job, one reparative act isn’t enough to overturn years of being on the wrong side of justice, to his chagrin. As the season progresses, we get to watch his path of teshuvah unfold, with all its frustrations and consequences. Harry grows into his role as a fixer, not only someone who can find jobs and marks for the team, but fixes what he has broken or harmed.

So why was Hardison the one to make this speech?

I do maintain that it does provide a stronger textual basis for reading Hardison as Jewish by implication (though the brief on-screen explanation for why he knows about teshuvah, that his foster-parent Nana raised a multi-faith household, is important in its own merit, and meshes well with his character traits of empathy and understanding for diverse experiences). However, beyond this, Hardison isn’t exactly an archetypical model for teshuvah. In the original series, he was the youngest character of the main ensemble, a hacking prodigy in the start of his adult career, with few mistakes or slights against others under his belt. In one flashback we see that his possibly first crime was stealing from the Bank of Iceland to pay off his Nana’s medical bills, and that his other early hacking exploits were in the service of fulfilling personal desires, with only those who could afford to pay the bill as targets. Indeed, in the middle of his speech, Hardison points to Eliot, the character with the most violent and gritty past who views his work with the Leverage team as atonement, for a prime example of ongoing teshuvah. So while no one is perfect and everyone has a reason for doing teshuvah, this question of why Hardison is the one to give this series-defining speech inspired me to look at his character choices and behavior, and see how they resonate with a different but interrelated Jewish principle, that of tikkun olam. 

Tikkun olam is literally translated as “repairing the world,” and can take many different forms, such as protecting the rights of vulnerable people in society, or giving tzedakah (5). In modern times, tikkun olam is often the rallying cry for Jewish social activists, particularly among environmentalists for whom literally restoring the health of the natural world is the key goal. Teshuvah and tikkun olam are intertwined (the former is the latter performed at an interpersonal level) and both hold a sense of fixing or repairing, but tikkun olam really revolves around a person feeling called to address an injustice that they may have not had a personal hand in creating. Hardison’s sense of a universal scale of justice which he has the power to help right on a global level and his newfound drive to do humanitarian work, picked up sometime after the end of the original series, make tikkun olam a central value for his character. This is why we get this nice bit of dialogue from Eliot to Hardison in the second episode of the reboot, when the latter’s outside efforts to organize international aid start distracting him from his work with the team: “Is [humanitarian work] a side gig? In our line of work, you’re one of the best. But in that line of work… you’re the only one, man.” The character who most exemplifies teshuvah reminds Hardison of his amazing ability to effect change for the better on a huge stage, to do some effective tikkun olam. It’s this acknowledgement of where Hardison can do the most good that prompts the character’s absence for the remainder of the episodes released thus far, turning his side gig into his main gig.

With this in mind, it will be interesting to see where Hardison’s arc for this season goes. Separated from the rest of the team, the hacker still has remarkable power to change the world, because it is, after all, the “age of the geek.” However, he is still one person. For all that both teshuvah and tikkun olam are individual responsibilities and require individual decision-making and effort, the latter especially relies on collective work to actually make things happen. Hardison leaving is better than trying to do humanitarian work and Leverage at the same time, but there’s only so long he can be the “only one” in the field before burning out. I’m reminded of one of the most famous (for good reason) maxims in Judaism:

It is not your duty to finish the work, but neither are you free to neglect it. (6)

Elul is traditionally a time for introspection and heeding the calls to repentance. After a year where it’s never been easier to feel powerless and drained by everything going on around us, I think it’s worth taking the time to examine what kind of work we are capable of in our own lives. Maybe it’s fixing the very recent and tangible hurts we’ve left behind, like Harry. Maybe it’s the little changes for the better that we make every day, motivated by our sense of responsibility, like Eliot. And maybe it’s the grueling challenge of major social change, like Hardison. And if any of this work gets too much, who can we fall back on for support and healing? Determining what needs repair, working on our own scale and where our efforts are most helpful, and thereby contributing to justice in realistic ways means that we can start the new year fresh, having contemplated in holiday fashion how we can be better agents in the world.

Shana tovah u’metukah and ketivah tovah to all (7), and may the work we do in the coming year be for good!

------

(1) Disclaimer: everybody’s fandom experiences are different, and this is just what I’ve picked up on in my short time watching and enjoying this show with others.

(2) See, for example, the introduction and first chapter of Boyarin’s book Unheroic Conduct: The Rise of Heterosexuality and the Invention of the Jewish Man (I especially recommend at least this portion if you are interested in queer theory and Judaic studies). There he explores the development of Jewish masculinity in direct opposition to Christian masculine standards.

(3) I might even go so far as to place Hardison well within the Jewish masculine ideal of Edelkayt, gentle and studious nobility (although I would hesitate to call him timid, another trait associated with Edelkayt). Boyarin explains that this scholarly, non-athletic model of man did not carry negative associations in the historical Jewish mindset, but was rather the height of attractiveness (Boyarin, 2, 51).

(4) Jews of color make up 20% of American Jews, according to statistics from Be’chol Lashon, and this number is projected to increase as American demographics continue to change: https://globaljews.org/about/mission/. 

(5) Tzedakah is commonly known as righteous charity. According to traditional authority Maimonides, it should be given anonymously and without embarrassment to the person in need, generous, and designed to help the recipient become self-sufficient.

(6) Rabbi Tarfon, Pirkei Avot, 2:16

(7) “A good and sweet year” and “a good inscription [in the Book of Life]”

[gladly-be-the-good]

"Hi I'm Boyd, a definitely real boy! Do you want to see the lab?" Danny raised an eyebrow as his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Suuure." Jazz smiled widely at the little boy bot and said, enthusiastically,

"We'd love to!" Boyd reached out for their hands. Jazz took his immediately while Danny shoved his hands in his pockets. Boyd didn't seem too discouraged, so Gyro wouldn't eject the moody teen from his lab, yet.

As soon as they were in another room Boyd started taking.

"This is where Dr. Gearlose first thought up the Gizmoduck armor! He made it as a tool to help around the lab, but then Dr- um, I mean, someone totally random that I definitely don't know and love, nailed it, wanted to help people all over duckburg, and beyond!"

"So he's a good person then? Not someone who would be upset with another superhero reaching out to him?" Jazz asked.

This little boy was clearly incapable of subterfuge, so his goodness was genuine. She could trust him as much as she could trust any other sweet ten year old.

"Oh yes! He loves when he gets to work with other heroes! He needs breaks sometimes and is happy for any help he can get."

"Is he someone that would approve of, I don't know, magic or ghosts or underaged superheroes?" Boyd smiled at her, taking her words at face value even as Danny, who had been listening carefully, shot them both incredulous looks.

"You've never met Mr. McDuck before have you? He employs Gizmoduck and he has a ghost butler! And a niece that used to be a spirit and is entirely magic. We even have an intern here who is.... I don't actually know, but he's really nice too! And as far as thinking kids can't be heroes, he wanted me to be one! And he works with Darkwing who has a sidekick that's twelve. Here at McDuck enterprises, we follow rule 53 in the Junior woodchuck guidebook! Greet the unknown with an open mind and an open heart."

"Wow. You people are basically perfect aren't you?" Danny asked sarcastically. He didn't like where Jazz was going with this and he really didn't need a little kid, who obviously couldn't lie to save his life, knowing a secret that would get Danny killed. Or, more killed, at least.

"Oh no, nothing is perfect. Even machines are flawed."

"So Boyd, tell me about Dr. Gearlose?" Jazz interrupted, a nervous lilt in her voice.

"Dr. Gearlose is amazing!" Boyd exclaimed, spinning in a circle with his arms above his head. Danny swore he saw a rainbow in the background. "It's a secret, so don't tell him please, but I like to call him Dr. Dad."

"He's your dad?"

"Well I don't exactly have a dad, but he was the one who created me so- I mean, in the way that all kids, are, created, dude?" Little bulb smacked his head, the sound of metal hitting glass was the only sound in the room as Jazz and Boyd both looked nervously at Danny, though Boyd was looking at Jazz too.

Poor, sleep deprived Danny, who had grown up with awkward Tucker as a best friend, just blinked slowly and said,

"So, are we gonna learn about any of the science stuff here or just your family?"

"Oh! Yes! Those two things are definitely separate things! Over here we have, uh, no that's for Gizmoduck, but this upgrade is-! Oh, no, that's for me, me phone! Yup. Me phone. Ha ha hahahaha. I'm a definitely real boy!!" The kid started shaking and looked so stressed.

Jazz big sister mode: activated.

"Boyd, come here." He ran to her without hesitation. She hugged him and said, "I know you're a robot-"

"He's a what?!"

"And we don't care. Do we Danny?" Jazz emphasized her messing with a sharp glare. Danny raised his hands in submission.

"Nope. Totally cool with the robot boy. I'm just surprised."

"How? How are you surprised by this? When was the last time you got a good night's sleep?"

"Oh come on, Tucker pretended he was secretly a robot for nine months when we were kids."

"You, aren't scared?" Jazz cooed and held Boyd tighter.

"How could anyone be scared of someone so sweet?!"

"A lot of people used to think I was bad, a lot of people still do. Even Dr. Gearlose was worried I was going to hurt people, that that's all I could do." This was a story Danny knew all too well. He looked away and scuffed his shoe against the floor.

"So, what changed?"

"I don't know, actually. One second my programming is being overwritten to terrorise the world, the next I'm being held." Danny moved his hands out of his pockets so he could cross his arms tightly against his chest.

"And you've never worried about, I mean, the guy's a scientist, robotics especially, aren't you worried he'll open you up one day to, to see what's inside? Or break you down for spare parts?' Boyd rubbed his chin.

"I, never thought about that before. I don't think he would, because he loves me. But maybe..." Boyd's chin started to wobble. "What, what If I disappoint him? What if I hurt somebody on accident and I'm too dangerous to be online anymore!?" Little bulb burned a bright red and shook a first at Danny.

"Woah, sorry, just um, stop that? Please? I'm sure your dad loves you too much to ever turn you off okay?" Boyd wiped at his eyes, even though he couldn't cry, and said, desperation and fear in his voice,

"I'll go ask him!" He jumped out of Jazz's arms and ran to the conference room.

"Boyd!"

When they burst into the room, Scrooge McDuck was standing on the table waving his cane in the air.

"Now see here you huanter hunting hooligans-!"

"Dr. Gearlose!" Gyro, the only person in the room that had still been sitting, bolted to his feet and caught Boyd as he jumped into his arms. Gyro instinctively cradled the boy bot and glared at the other kids. Boyd was literally vibrating. Fenton, who was already standing, watched with worried eyes. This was going to end badly.

"You. What did you do to Boyd?" He growled. Little bulb hopped from the chair to the table to Boyd and pat his little brother's head.

"Our kids didn't do anything! We've raised them to be fine upstanding citizens!" Maddy insisted.

"That's right! They know how dangerous ghosts are, don't you kids?" Danny felt all the emotions, guilt, regret, bitterness, jealousy, fear, resentment, building inside of him. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair for him to be angry because Boyd had parents who loved him no matter what. It also wasn't fair that Danny didn't. He was so tired of always being scared to go home. Of having to run away from his parents as they shot to kill or capture. If they knew what he was, Danny didn't doubt for a moment that the only reason they'd want him alive would be to dissect him. The fact that Jazz had been asking questions about the heroes here proved that she knew the same thing.

"In my experience," Danny said, voice carefully controlled, "ghosts are very dangerous." His parents looked over at the table of angry strangers victoriously. It was the proudest they'd seemed of Danny in a long time. Seeing Boyd, burying his face in his Dr Dad's chest, he felt the words coming out, and with them all the pain and resentment he'd felt for so long, all before he could try to stop it. "But so are people. In my experience."

"Danny, what are you saying?"

"And you don't just throw away a person because they cause you trouble!" He continued. Looking Boyd directly in the eyes as the younger boy had turned his head. "You don't break them down into usable parts, or molecules. Because they feel things and want things and love things! They're just like anyone else!"

"Danny, what has gotten into you?!" Danny walked right up to Boyd and said softly,

"The only people who don't believe that, they," Danny swallowed past the lump in his throat and the realization that came with saying the truth out loud. "They don't really love you." Boyd sniffed and held out a fist. Danny smirked wryly and bumped it with his own.

"What are you talking about? Ghosts don't have feelings, you know this."

"Do we though? Do we even know why they haunt people? Even if they are just, just bad, we don't have to tear them apart." He implored. This was the first time he'd contradicted his parents. This was the closest he would ever get to asking if they could really love him, spooky bits and all.

They weren't even looking at him anymore, they were holding at each other.

"He gets this from you, you know." Jack said, arms crossed.

"What?!"

"Well we Fentons sure don't have that kind of open mindedness."

"I'll say! Who's idea is it out Fenton before everything we own?!" Jack, clearly offended, raised his voice.

"It's called branding! It was your idea to bring the kids with us anyway! It'll be good for them Jack, they'll experience different cultures. Look at what cultural diversity did! It poisoned our impressionable son's mind against ghost hunting!"

"Well excuse me for wanting our children to be educated!"

Danny sighed and his shoulders slumped. His courage died inside of him.

"I was only kidding. Haha. Let's go back to Amity and live in ignorance for the rest of our lives." Jack's face lit up.

"Atta boy!"

"Honestly Jack, he's clearly lying."

"Danny wouldn't do that, we raised him better than to lie, at least to his old man."

"Kids, RV, now. Jack, we'll be discussing this later." She turned back to the scientists and said, professionally, "Thank you for your time, sorry it was a waste for us both." Boyd waved hesitantly, still sniffing,

"Bye Jazz, by Danny." Danny offered a single wave of his hands before slumping it the door. Jazz waited a moment after her parents were gone too. She hurried and took the card she'd made for just this purpose and handed it quickly to Boyd.

"See you soon." She whispered. She was almost at the door when Jack poked his head back in.

"Come on Jazz, we don't need these ghost-lovers."

"Coming dad." Just like that the Fenton family was gone. Scrooge, still standing on top of the table, summed up the feelings of the group pretty well.

"What in dismal downs just happened here?!"

[nitannichionne]

Chi to Cali, Chapter 18: Finish Line (Henry Cavill Fan Fic)

CAV POV

I don't believe this. I don't believe this!

I reread the text message telling me not to go through with the press conference endorsing the Mountain Lion Fund.

Mr. Cavill, please postpone the press conference regarding the Mountain Lion Fund. There are pressing matters I would like to discuss with you regarding a more lucrative venture than saving cougars, as well as the safety of your friend.

I saw a short video of people breaking into my house, but I didn't see a capture. "You aren't getting Rand or Janelle on their phones?" I asked security. I’d asked a few of them to keep trying. They shook their heads. My stomach dropped. "How long till this starts?"

"Fifteen minutes."

I took a deep breath. I kept thinking of the last time I saw Janelle, how she pleaded to come with me. I should have kept her safer, at my side. If something happens to her...

I heaved a sigh of relief as I saw Rand's number ring through. "Rand--"

"She's gone."

"What?"

"They broke in--"

"Yes, I saw their video."

"I got shot."

"What?"

"Janelle drove me in the V-8 to the inland, and as soon as we got to the hospital she hopped out of the ambulance and took off."

"Was she hurt?"

"No."

"She took my V-8?!"

"She actually didn't crash it."

"She took it?"

"We had no choice."

"And she ran?"

"Yes."

"She's scared," I thought aloud. "she's afraid to stay in one place." 

“She’s coming to you.”

I exhaled heavily. "She should have been with me in the first place."

“Henry? She’s comin’ in hot. I think they’re still after her.”

I sat and waited. I could either start the conference on time or I could extend and wait for her.

"It's time," one of the MLF representatives said. "What do you want to do?"

I took my cell phone out, put my Bluetooth on, and dialed Janelle's number.

"Henry?!"

"I'm making the speech."

"Okay, go!"

"Where are you?"

"Look, I'm just doing what the Google god tells me to do at thirty miles an hour!"

"What?"

"I'm on a scooter!"

"How far away are you?" I asked.

"About three miles?"

"That can be a pretty long time."

"Not on a scooter or bike," she said. "It'll be fine!"

"Darling--"

"Sweetheart?" she cut in. "DO THE DAMN SPEECH!"

I didn't know what got my attention more-her calling me sweetheart or her yelling at me.

"...We are proud to announce that we have someone here-a new resident in California-who has decided to help us with our cause. May I introduce to you Mr. Henry Cavill!"

"Go, baby," she said softly. "Go!”

I put on my best smile and stepped up to the podium. I shook hands with the founder of the Mountain Lion Fund and faced press and fans, but all I could hear was Janelle in traffic breathing hard.

"First, I want to say thank you to Mr. Crenshaw and Mr. Imala for honoring my request to be part of this venture," Henry said. "I haven't seen half this country, and I can honestly say that it is breathtaking and diverse-in its people, in its cultures, its landscapes, its environments, and yes, its wildlife."

"Shit!" I heard Janelle say. "Ran out of gas! Using app to find another..."

I took a deep breath. "America struggles to maintain such a diverse balance of well-being for all, and the same can be said for its wildlife habitats, but they can't speak for themselves. It is easiest to react to--"

"I don't believe this!" Janelle whispers. "How did they find me?"

"To react to what they are doing and not addressing their causes," I finished, swallowing hard. I averted my eyes briefly to collect myself. "That is why the Mountain Lion Fund is so important." I could hear her panting and running. Oh God, run, baby. "We interfere in and develop in these ecosystems for our own gain, but we are also destroying one already in place that keeps down overgrown vegetation by controlling grazing populations and the populations of other carnivores that can overpopulate and pose real threats to all since mountain lions shy from humans anyway."

"I have to turn off my phone. They must have some sort of trace on it. I will call or text when I'm close." The line clicked off.

"We need to have a better balance with the past in so many respects, and this is one of them," I went on. "That's why I am helping and contributing to the Mountain Lion Fund here in California. We are in the process of trying to develop and fence off an area, with the help of state government, where mountain lions and their system can thrive and do well in our absence. It has its own water source and is ideal. Lions will be tagged for study and research, but also to ensure their safety. I hope you agree that this animal, its way of life in its environment, is worth saving. Thank you."

Applause sounded as I signed a check and handed it to Mr. Imala and then signed officially on as an ambassador with Mr. Crenshaw on camera. I shook hands with both of them and stepped off stage. Where was she?

My phone rang and I moved faster. "Nelle?"

"Yes, I'm in the lobby." Janelle sobbed.  "They're still coming!"

"The press conference is still running!" I said. "It won't be aired for another ten minutes." I felt like I was panting right with her. "You okay?"

"Steps, Henry!"

"I need security, now!" I asked one team to take the stairs with me and the other to take the elevator. As soon as I opened the door I could hear her whimpering and still on the steps, maybe with a limp. "Janelle?!"

I looked down three stories. She was running up the steps...with two men behind her. I used the bannisters to slide down, careful of balance since I wasn't in gym shoes. We met on the second floor, and she fell into my arms crying. I put her behind me as the men who had been chasing her raised weapons.

"Come along with us, both of you--"

I heard feet scuffle behind me and heard multiple clicks, the sound of the authorities behind us and to my surprise, behind them.

"No," a voice said from behind us. "I think you need to come with us."

[eyayah-oya]

Ancient Foundations to Build Upon

Clone Haven Ship of the Month | Prompt 4 | Ancient

Waxer/Boil

Rating: G

Warnings: none

Ao3

           There were thousands of planets across the galaxy and very few beings could say they’ve been to all of them, most in the galaxy never straying from their home planet.  Others traveled throughout the stars, gaining experiences as they met other species and tried different cultures.

           Since the war began, Boil had been to many planets, though most have been far from the Core, fighting the Separatists.  He’d been to worlds that only seemed to be a single biome, and others that were so diverse, he could be in a jungle one day, and then half a klick away, find himself in a field of snow.  Each world was so different and unique.  Boil had even crash-landed on a fair few planets and moons throughout the galaxy.  Including the one they were stranded on now.

           Boil had never seen a planet like this before.  Aside from the platoon of troopers that had crashed on the planet with them, there were no inhabitants.  From the atmosphere, they’d managed to catch a brief glimpse of some ancient ruins in the distance, overgrown with enormous trees that must have taken eons to grow, before they crashed through the canopy and all the way to the surface far below.  In fact, all around them were trees so large around, they could fit an entire gunship inside the trunk, and some were even bigger.

           “Do you think this is like Kashyyyk?” Waxer mused. Boil turned to look at him, and found Waxer trying—and failing—to wrap his arms around one of the smaller trees. A tree that could fit every soldier in the platoon on the planet with room for more.

           “What?” Boil asked.

           “Kashyyk.  You know, the home planet of the wookies?  I’ve heard that they’re homes are up in trees that are as enormous as these.”

           Boil looked around at the strangely spiny shrubs, the large, fallen leaves, and the damp floor of the forest then up at the leafy roof far above their heads.  “I think the trees are a lot more spread out on Kashyyyk,” he said.  “And I don’t remember anything about the weird glowing moss when we learned about Kashyyyk during flash training.”

           “Yeah, okay, the moss is definitely a bit weird.” Waxer pulled away from the tree, and Boil immediately noticed the strange, bio-luminescent blue moss smeared across his armor, giving him an odd glow in the dimness of the forest floor.

           As Waxer crouched to examine some of the small plants and fungi growing on the forest floor, Boil turned his attention back to his surroundings. He couldn’t help but feel there was something . . . other about this planet.  The very air of the planet felt ancient to him, enforced by the towering ruins far in the distance.  It was almost as though time flowed around this planet.  The war would not touch this place beyond the troopers that had crashed to the surface.  A thousand different wars across the centuries would never affect this planet.  Time didn’t matter.

          Maybe it was the isolation.  Or perhaps the knowledge that there were no other sentient beings on the planet. Something about the air and the trees and the weird glowing moss burrowed deep in Boil’s chest and caught his breath. It gave him hope and terrified him at the same time, and he couldn’t understand it.

           The air was thick with stories long lost and the knowledge that no one would ever remember the history that had built the foundations of the planet. Boil had a feeling that even if he and the other troopers made any kind of mark on this planet, it would disappear within a decade, if not sooner.

           But as he stood, looking at the strangely beautiful foliage, Boil could feel a longing desire deep in his bones to stay.  To allow himself to grow old with this planet, Waxer at his side.  That they would live as long as the planet allowed them too, regardless of immaterial things like genetics.  Nothing the Kaminoans had done to the clones would affect them here—he could feel it—and there was a deep desire to just . . . not go back.

           “Boil?”  Waxer laid a hand on Boil’s vambrace and gave him a small shake.  “Are you alright?”

           “Yeah.  This planet is just weird.  It’s like—”

           “It’s asking us to stay,” Waxer finished.  “Like it wants us to stay and make memories and create a home here.  Almost like it’s lonely.  Do you think we could find this planet again after the war?”

           “Dunno, Wax.  We weren’t supposed to be here in the first place.  We were supposed to meet up with the rest of the 212th on Umbara when our ships went all weird.”

           “Maybe it’s some kind of Force osik,” Waxer mused.  “If we’re meant to come back, then I’m sure we’ll find a way.  It just feels like this place was meant for us.  Us and our brothers, and maybe even the Jedi.  We’d be safe here.”

           And it was true.  Despite how strange the planet was, Boil could practically feel the way the planet wanted them to be there.  That they would all be safe until they could get a communication out to General Kenobi or someone found them.  There was nothing that would harm them while they were there.

           Shaking himself out of his thoughts and back into the mindset of an officer of the 212th Attack Battalion, Boil gestured to the squad of shinies that had been in his gunship when they’d crashed.  “Are you all okay?” he asked.

           “Yes, sir!” they all responded and snapped off sharp salutes.

           Waxer waved the salutes aside.  “At ease, troopers.  We don’t know how long we’re gonna be stuck here, so let’s skip the formalities.  We need to set up a base camp, preferably near the ships so anyone who comes looking for us can find us easily.  Boil, do you want to round up some scouts and figure out if there’s anything edible for us nearby?”

           Boil nodded and only paused to knock his vambrace against Waxer’s before he set off to find Wooley and a few other of the older vod’e to come with him.  He certainly wasn’t taking shinies out into the mysterious forest that wanted them to stay. Between Waxer and Boil, they would make sure everyone was still alive to rescue.

           Four years after the platoon of 212th troopers had gotten stranded on the mysterious planet, Boil found himself standing on his porch, looking out over the dozens of other houses built on the branches of the enormous trees.  The luminescent moss lined the pathways they’d built between houses and lit up doorways. It was perfect for nighttime, when it was so dark, Boil couldn’t see his hand in front of his face.  But during the day, the moss just added a gentle glow as soft sunlight filtered through the leaves, beams of light dappling over the large community that had settled down on this planet.

           Red rays of light flickered down through the canopy as the sun set beyond the distant horizon, dancing across the large platform that had been built in the center of the tree, surrounded by the rest of the community. A group of children listened as Wooley told them a folk tale from Alderaan.  Jedi and clones alike sat among the children, practically buried beneath several tiny bodies, nodding off to the soft lilting tone to Wooley’s voice.  He had found his calling in the After.  So many vod’e had.  It warmed something deep in Boil’s heart to see them happy.

           A soft scuff on the porch behind him had Boil turning to find Waxer standing in the doorway to their home.  He had that soft, sappy smile on his face whenever he was feeling something especially happy.

           (Boil wasn’t sure why, but this planet affected some of the vod’e more than others.  The cadets and the Tubies were especially affected, treasured by the strange planet they now called home.  General Kenobi took one step on the planet and had blacked out for days as he received vision after vision of the people who had once lived there long ago.  Of the hopes the planet held to have a peaceful people for once.  Ones that would treasure the land and the trees and would seek no violence but would offer protection to any who needed it.  From that moment on, General Kenobi and Commander Cody had begun planning, along with several other Jedi and Commanders in the GAR.  And it just so happened, when they finally were able to flee the Republic and find their new home, Waxer was one of the ones the planet affected the most. He was more attuned to the emotions of everyone around him, and would frequently spend time in the nurseries to take care of the babies.  And he was most attuned to Boil’s emotions.)

           “Hi,” Boil said.

           Waxer took the last few steps until he stood at the edge of their porch, right beside Boil and leaned against him.  “It’s a beautiful night tonight.  Crys said it might rain sometime tonight, though, so it might be a good idea to bring your boots inside.”

           Boil hummed in acknowledgment, bringing his arm up to wrap around Waxer’s waist.

           “You’re quieter than normal tonight.”

          “Just thinking about how we managed to end up here,” Boil answered.  “What do you think would have happened if our ships hadn’t gone all haywire and landed us here on this planet instead of going to Umbara.”

           “I think things might have been worse if we hadn’t landed here. Krell’s trap would have worked if Cody had had enough men to send to go to the coordinates.  And General Kenobi might not have figured out the Sith Lord before it was too late,” Waxer said with a shudder.

           “And we wouldn’t have found out about the chips in our heads. That would have been disastrous.”

           Waxer was silent for several minutes.  “I think it’s better to focus on what really did happen. On the lives that we have now, instead of what could have happened if we hadn’t landed on this planet.  Not even a Sith Lord can change the Will of the Force, and that’s what brought us here.  The Force gave us this home, gave us a chance to be safe and happy, a chance to raise the younglings on a planet without war or slavery.  We can give them warm, loving homes.”

           Boil looks back down at the group of children, most of them fast asleep on their chosen pillows, though not a single vod or Jedi would ever complain about it.  The children were precious to them.  So very precious.  And there were very few feelings in the galaxy that compared to having a warm Little asleep on your chest after a long day of playing and working.  The trust and the knowledge that the adults would never let them get hurt pulled emotions Boil hadn’t known existed to the surface.

           “Come on,” Waxer said, turning to tug him back into their home.  “Numa’s staying with Cut and Suu for the night.  She wanted a sleepover with Shaeeah.”

           “Is that right?” Boil asked with a grin.  He followed Waxer easily into their home, shutting the door and locking it behind him.  All thoughts of the life they’d built together on this beautiful, mysterious, ancient planet disappeared and all he could focus on was his husband.

[ladymazzy]

One year on: the BLM event that divided a Gloucestershire town

I'm beyond furious and exasperated with the perpetuation of the lie that racism is a thing of the past. This woman is only 25, and her recounting her experiences of going to school as a Black girl in the West Country only around a decade ago speaks volumes

Some highlights from the article. (CW for racism and White Fragility™️):

Growing up, Khady Gueye was one of just a handful of black pupils at her school in the Forest of Dean in Gloucestershire. By the time she was a teenager, she was desperate to fit in and conform. And so when her nickname became “Nigs” – short for the N-word – Gueye didn’t challenge it.

Here, in the rural west of England, where she had been fed racist stereotypes of black people her whole life, she didn’t want to be labelled “the angry black girl” or the self-pitying minority who “couldn’t take a joke” or what was considered a “bit of light banter”.

And so it was, that on the last day of school where it is tradition for year 11s to scrawl goodbye messages on one another’s school shirts, Gueye took home a shirt covered with the N-word in giant block capital letters across the front. “Gonna Miss You Nigs” was written on the back next to jokes about golliwogs and messages of good luck.

Gueye was supposed to consider it an affectionate send-off; it was written by her own friends. It was 2012, the year Britain proudly celebrated its optimistic and diverse Olympic Games opening ceremony, or as Conservative MP Aidan Burley would call it, “multicultural crap”.

“I became complicit in allowing it to continue, by being ‘Ha ha! Good joke guys,’” says Gueye, flatly. “But when you grow up in an area that is so predominantly white and are already made to feel different, you just do your best to fit in. The ideal is don’t call out racism. Let it slide. You become so accustomed to it, it becomes your norm.”

Now 25 and on the verge of finishing her English degree at Manchester University, Gueye has become a local community organiser and is more visible than ever in the town where she was born and grew up.

“I don’t want my daughter to grow up with the same experience I did,” she says emphatically, over lunch at her local pub. “This is my home and it’s a lovely area to bring up a family in. I want my daughter to have a life where she is celebrated for who she is, not feel attacked or unwelcome because of her skin colour.”

But Gueye’s attempts to hold a small “celebration of BAME (black, Asian and minority ethnic) culture” sparked a furious backlash that, one year on, still reverberates throughout the small Gloucestershire town of Lydney.

...an online petition was set up to stop the event going ahead on the grounds that it was unsafe and high risk in the middle of a pandemic. Organiser Natasha Saunders wrote: “A mass gathering is a slap in the face to people who have been tirelessly shielding themselves, the elderly and loved ones from this virus.”

Anger, tension and outright abuse boiled over online as a counter-petition to support the event was organised. It got twice the number of signatures, leading Saunders to say that hers was more valid by claiming “90% of [signatories] are from Lydney, can you say yours was?” Later, she would make Eldridge-Tull gasp by posting: “He couldn’t breathe, now we can’t speak”, in a reference to Floyd’s murder by a police officer.

“We’re a happy community, we don’t really have an issue with racism,” said one middle-aged man, who didn’t want his name published, as he nursed a pint outside a local pub. “Outsiders bring their problems, but there’s not a lot of them here,” he said, echoing in politer terms a point that was made repeatedly to the Observer last week.

Last year, Gueye and Eldridge-Tull spent hours patiently replying to comments online in an attempt to explain the event and reassure people about it, but still received threats. Hundreds of screenshots of the abuse have been shared with the Observer. A typical missive read: “Fuck off. Not everyone agrees with black lives. I can’t say what I want on here coz I’ll be reported for racism. But I would bring back black slavery.” Gueye was repeatedly told to go back to where she came from if she didn’t like it and that she would be responsible for bringing harm to Lydney residents.

The pair’s standard response to those with genuine concerns about mass gatherings in a health pandemic, during a lockdown, was to keep explaining that social distancing was being strictly adhered to – two-metre grids were hand-chalked by Gueye and Eldridge-Tull on the site – and that PPE was being provided to anyone who didn’t have any.

“I think it speaks volumes that BAME people are still willing to protest for their human rights even though they are disproportionately affected by the pandemic,” wrote Gueye. “Maybe this should highlight the severity of the inequality in our society”.

....

When asked if she [deputy mayor, Tess Tremlett] accepted there were a lot of racist aspects to the abuse the organisers had endured, Tremlett replied: “I think some of the comments coming from supporters of the event were actually racist in themselves. They were called ‘white trash’, they were called Nazis and all sorts.”

But as anti-racist activists have spent the last year explaining, racism isn’t simply prejudice based on how one looks, but a system...[based] around a specific set of ideas – in this case, racist ones.

It is useful to explain why it is possible for white people to experience individual prejudice and unpleasant behaviour simply based on the colour of their skin but why it is inaccurate to call that “racism”. Being white does not mean one is more likely to be criminalised by the police, or that one is more likely to work in lower-paid frontline work or that one is more likely to be exposed to and die of Covid as a result.

In Gloucestershire, for instance, police statistics show that being black means you are nine times more likely to be stopped and searched by the police than you would if you were white.

The numbers are blankly disproportionate; there are just over 5,000 black people resident in the county compared with 570,000 white people. Last year, Gloucestershire council published evidence that jobseekers from minority ethnic groups had to send an average of 60% more applications to receive the same level of interest as white candidates. It’s not a conversation that Lydney, like much of the country, appears to have much interest in yet.

Tremlett, who has two decades of experience working in community engagement, explained that her sole reason for opposing the event was to be lawful. “Racism is the biggest insult anyone can say to me and I was called a racist by Khady’s team, whoever they are.” Was being called a racist worse than the actual racism that Gueye was continually facing in her everyday life? At this, Tremlett began to cry.

”You don’t understand,” she said, explaining that her daughter had been to three Indian weddings, that her builder was black, and that she had run an equalities panel for years as a councillor. Her experience – being called a racist, being abused online – when she felt she was doing the right thing, understandably made her defensive and upset. But it’s a difficult position for Gueye and Eldridge-Tull to deal with. Especially as she described Gueye as “aggressive and confrontational”.

Last year, Tremlett took the matter of the Forest of Dean’s BLM movement to local Conservative MP Mark Harper, who raised the matter in the House of Commons.

On 17 June, Harper, who may be best known as the immigration minister responsible for sending vans encouraging illegal immigrants to “go home” around parts of London, appeared to encourage an online pile-on against Eldridge-Tull, who had a tenth of his 30,000 followers, and demanded she apologise to the local community for tweeting: “The reaction to the BLM protest in Lydney has brought to light so much support, but so much hate. I love where I live, but I’m ashamed of my neighbours, and ashamed to be part of a community that has so widely endorsed and exacerbated racial hatred.”

....

When Gueye posted a picture of her school-leaver’s shirt on Instagram last year, one of her schoolfriends wrote that it was outrageous, and that she was impressed with everything Gueye was doing. “I was really happy she felt that but it was awkward,” says Gueye. “I messaged her back to say that she was one of the people who wrote those messages.” An embarrassed silence followed, but Gueye is hopeful and optimistic. “It’s still a positive sign.”

[axther]

the dead things we carry

in the end, it’s all dust to dust. 

oc x reader 

warnings: blood, lovecraftian horror, swearing 

To live is to suffer. 

That was what Fredrich Nietzsche said, anyway. But mortal opinions were not what Gazadrdiel brought himself to be part of. He had one job, one fate, and one opinion alone. 

Watch the child. 

The child in question, a female by the name of YN LN, was not quite a child anymore. She had grown and persisted for almost eighteen years under Gazadrdiel’s watchful eye and created her own thoughts, despite the hive mind that Gazadrdiel always observed in humans. Though, he couldn’t truly expect her to have a mind like humans. Not when she wasn’t one. 

Gazadrdiel glanced down at the young woman, watching her murmur over her phone. He couldn’t care less who she was talking to; merely that she stayed out of harm’s way. Two others were at her side. One was a human girl, with a pep in her step and hair she had dyed half pink, half blue. She was pastel aesthetics from head to toe, and she seemed to flit from one sight to the other with wide brown eyes. 

Speaking of sights, the other one was a boy. He was by no means human, with a writhing tattoo that crawled over his skin like black tentacles, but he kept the guise with black hair and blue eyes. He glared at anyone that so much as glanced at the quartet before looking over YN’s shoulder at her phone. 

“Yo, Gaz.” YN didn’t look up at him but fiddled with a headphone in one ear. She leaned into the mic like she was on the phone. “D’ulli’s supposed to be around here, right?” 

“Supposedly.” Gazadrdiel floated upside down, letting his snowy wings flop down like dead fish. Mortals couldn’t see him, but the boy stifled a laugh when he turned like a rotisserie chicken. “Chances are, she’d notice Nikolai first, then you. Mates, you know.” Gazadrdiel couldn’t care less, but a quelled, laughing joy rose in him when YN pointed a finger into her mouth and gagged. 

“Hets. So disturbing.” YN shook her head and Nikolai stifled another laugh with his hand while looking away. 

“Hey!” The girl turned around while walking with a light glare. “We are not disturbing! We’ve actually got an incredibly diverse culture, and we…” She rambled off, crossing her arms and turning around again before she could see YN and Nikolai exchange a look. 

“Why is she here, again?” YN pulled the mic up again but Gazadrdiel heard her clearly. He shrugged. 

“Mandatory human presence.” 

YN gave the girl’s back a disgusted look before dropping it. “Why does she even act like that? It’s gotta be something that I don’t have…” 

“Extra brain cells. She doesn’t know what to do with them.” Nikolai gave a short huff before fondling his hair, making the mess flop in front of his left eye. YN looked at him with confusion. 

“You gotta stop doing that. You look like...I dunno, a cringy Gerard Way? We’re in twenty-twenty, dude. We have better taste than that.” 

“My taste is better than that. It’s my style.” He stuck out his tongue. 

“You don’t even look like you should have that hair. You dress like you should be an e-boy or something.” YN pulled at a lock of Nikolai’s hair before he swatted her hand away. 

“She’s got a point.” Gazadrdiel raised a relenting eyebrow. Nikolai huffed before looking off to the side. YN dropped the mic and went back to looking over her phone, texting someone that Gazadrdiel didn’t care to check. His eyes drifted over to the girl herself, watching the same black tattoo as Nikolai’s crawl around her neck and shift like a snake. It remained just under the ponytail she had, enough that it was out of eyesight, but with Gazadrdiel floating above her, it was clear within his sight. 

The guardian remembered back to the first time that he truly met YN. It was her thirteenth birthday, she had just been considered ‘of age’, and Gazadrdiel had been ordered to inform her of her status. 

“You’re not human.” 

Thirteen-year-old YN stared up at Gazadrdiel with wide, confused eyes. Her hair fell into her eyes and she was on her bed, playing with a stray feather from Gazadrdiel’s wings. Her shyness gave way to her confusion and awe. 

“What?” 

“You are not human. You are one of an elite race of remote, ancient entities that oversee the lives of humans.” 

“Like...God?” YN looked from Gazadrdiel to the feather, and back. “Are you my guardian angel?” 

“If it’s easier for you to think that way, then yes.” 

“If my dad’s God-” 

“Not God. There is not one god. Not here.” 

YN faltered. “Why am I here?” Her brow was furrowed with confusion and sadness that no child should feel. “Where is here?” 

“Earth. You are here because your father, Azyrre of the stars and sky, is the eldest and most superior of the Ionians. Your parent’s best friends, Xothrith’ri of the mountain and Vhozi of the trees, decided to send you here because of the unparalleled risk and power you represent, and the fact that your father’s old lover has and will attempt to kill you using their child, who killed the Ionian of the tides, Z’undi.” Gazadrdiel nodded, like he was checking off a list, eyes half-lidded with his white eyelashes getting in the way of his slitted eyes. YN had a mixed look of disgust and confusion, with one side of her nose tilted up. 

“So...some lady-” 

“We can’t really say Iuhxyu’s a female, to be honest. It gets confusing with all the tentacles.” 

“Decided to send their kid-”

“N’ikicite of the fire.” 

“After me, who killed my...mom?” 

“Again, genders aren’t really a thing with the Ionians, but essentially.” 

YN groaned and covered her eyes. She flopped onto her back and the plush comforter puffed around her, sending a teddy bear to the ground. Gazadrdiel leaned over and picked it up, letting his tanned fingers barely trace over a beady black eyeball before placing it gently at YN’s feet. 

“I’ve been instructed to watch over you. Since your father is so…” Gazadrdiel waved his hands a bit, trying to find the right words. “Elite amongst the Ionians, and with Iuhxyu deciding to prove their dedication to your father through killing you, there are many enemies after you. And that’s where I’ve been instructed to come in.” 

YN said nothing but brought up a pillow to her face. Gazadrdiel sat at the edge of her bed, letting his bare feet touch the carpet with a grimace. He shelved it, though, seeing as the child in front of him was having a breakdown. 

“Amongst Ionians, you are Angyosz of the moon. You are a living legend, for having avoided Iuhxyu for so long.” He paused. “You can thank me for that.” 

YN said nothing for a moment, before moving the pillow so one eye peered at Gazadrdiel. 

“Who are you?” 

Gazadrdiel hesitated. “I am Gazadrdiel, subservient of the ridge.” 

“Gazadriel?” 

“Gazadrdiel.” 

“Gazadriel.” 

“Gazadrdiel.” Gazadrdiel huffed, wrinkling his nose. “Gaz.” 

“Gaz it is.” YN moved the pillow back across her whole face. “How come we look normal? Except for your...wings.” 

“Earth cannot contain our true forms.” Gazadrdiel hummed. “Mortals cannot see me, and you haven’t decided your true form yet. So you copy everyone else off of instinct.” 

“Instinct?” The shocked cry was muffled until YN threw the pillow off and sat straight up. “Wait, this isn’t what I really look like?” 

“Nope,” Gazadrdiel popped the ‘p’. “No one will know what you look like until you turn eighteen.” 

“Ugh,” YN fell back onto the pillows. “And I gotta deal with a kid after me, too.” 

“Not quite.” Gazadrdiel stood and walked over to YN’s desk, picking up a book with a phoenix on the cover. “You’ve already got that covered.” 

“Huh? Wait, how?” 

“Nikolai. Nikolai Volatire.” 

“Wait, Nicky?” YN tittered. “No way he’s tryna kill me! Unless he, like, killed the kid or something...” 

“You’ve managed to befriend N’ikicite.” Gazadrdiel put the book down. “How, I have no idea, but you have. And he’s no longer hunting you.” 

“Wow. How many other…?” YN looked directly at Gazadrdiel for the first time since he first appeared in her room. 

“Many. Earth is essentially a nursery. They all should theoretically kneel to you, but there’s no one to stop them from slitting your throat. So it’s best that you find the local ones and befriend them.” 

“You guys are twisted.” YN wrinkled her nose but hopped out of her bed. “How am I supposed to find others like me?” 

Gazadrdiel shrugged. “You think up of a way. Humans made the internet. Use that.” 

YN gave him a half-hearted glare before nodding. 

“Alright.” YN paused, looking at her hands before looking back up at Gazadrdiel. “What are we called?” 

Gazadrdiel looked at her with surprise, honestly having not expected her to ask. He closed his eyes with a soft smile.  

“Hionera. The Ionian youth are called the Hionera.” 

“You think that’s her?” 

YN’s voice snapped Gazadrdiel out of his thoughts and he glanced down at her. She was looking intently at something across the street, and Nikolai stopped playing a game on YN’s phone to look up. The other girl had been walking in her own little world and ignored when YN pointed across the street, into a little cafe. 

Indeed, there was someone there. She was a young woman, in a sleek black dress with red hair that oozed maturity. There was a squad of humans around her, chattering loudly and trying to get attention. More than one man was leaning across the table, talking in hopes she would lend her ear. People that passed by did double takes and some tried to discreetly pull out their phones and take pictures. Like she was struck, she stiffened and turned her head ever so slowly and discreetly over to where YN, Nikolai, Gaz, and the girl were. Her eyes, a vivid purple, lowered slightly, and it was clear that she had zeroed in on Nikolai. She looked him up and down before licking her top lip, slightly. Nikolai flushed, played with his hair a bit more, and took back YN’s phone. 

“Oh, yeah.” Nikolai looked back down at his game. “That’s gotta be her.” 

“Hehhh.” YN let her chuckle drone. “Gaz, you were right.” 

“Naturally,” Gazadrdiel hummed. 

“Should we send Nicky to the wolves?” YN gave a malicious but animated chuckle when Nikolai snapped his head up with a furious flush. 

“Don’t call me Nicky! And no! You do it!” 

“We could send Cassie,” YN mused, and the girl snapped to attention. 

“You could at least introduce me as Cassiopia to her! It’s a cuter name! And it makes me sound special.” 

“No,” Gazadrdiel shut down the suggestion. “You go, YN. We can’t force N’ikicite.” 

“Don’t call me N’ikicite-!” 

“Bet.” YN began strutting across the street, looking almost hunched over. She walked to the cafe with a purpose, and the crowd around the woman parted in awe at her blatancy. The woman narrowed her eyes before relaxing them and checking out her nails. 

“What do you want?” Her voice was deep and edgy, like she smoked. 

“D’ulli?” YN raised her hand like she was in class. The three others trailed behind her, with Nikolai almost trying to hide his entire self behind YN. “Right?” 

D’ulli narrowed her eyes, and the crowd around her seemed to shift. “What do you want?” 

“This is N’ikicite, that’s Gaz, and I’m Angyosz.” 

D’ulli’s face went from restrained disgust to piqued curiosity. “And who’s the girl?” 

“Oh.” YN waved a lackadaisical hand. “That’s just Cassie. She’s normal.” “Hey!” Cassie snapped out of her daze and crossed her arms. “What do you mean, normal? I’m about as weird as they get, and I embrace it! Not only do I…” 

The four others ignored Cassie as YN sat on the spare seat, and the crowd let out a gasp. Nikolai gave an uncharacteristic squeak and made a dive for the next seat over, and Cassie took the seat next to him and D’ulli. YN propped her feet on the table, and the men on it scattered like cockroaches. 

“D’ulli of the rains, we have come to make an oath of allegiance. Ihuxyu of the earth core is after me and I want allies.” YN crossed her arms casually, and D’ulli raised an eyebrow. 

“If Ihuxyu is after you, then why is her son with you?” She looked at Nikolai and gave a flirty wink. The poor boy took a deep breath in and looked like his soul left his body. “Tell me, N’ikicite of the fire. Why are you with your mother’s mortal enemy?” 

YN snorted before Nikolai could answer, and he glared. “She’s not my enemy…” 

“Or you’re just a simp.” 

“I’m not a simp-!” 

D’ulli raised a hand. “I get it. You two aren’t at each other’s throats-” 

“Most of the time.” YN mused. 

“Here I am called Daenerys.” The entire table fell silent, and D’ulli flushed. “What?” 

“Daenerys? Seriously?” Nikolai raised an eyebrow, and YN took her feet off the table to stare at D’ulli with shock and confusion. 

“My copy was reading it.” D’ulli reared up, clearly threatened. “It’s the name she said when I met her…” 

No one spoke, but YN blinked owlishly. There was a moment of awkward silence before D’ulli broke it again. 

“A-Anyway, I’ll be your ally.” She stiffened, placing her hands on her lap. YN smiled and put her feet back up on the table. 

“Great! Then I’ll-” 

“At a price.” 

“Name it.” 

“A night with N’ikicite.” 

“Wait, what-?” 

“Deal.” 

“Wait, what-!” 

“No, YN.” Gazadrdiel smacked YN at the back of her head, and she whined and rubbed the sore spot. “You can’t offer up N’ikicite.” 

“Thank you, Gaz!” Nikolai stood. The side of his arm had caught fire from nothing, but YN didn't so much as flinch. She flicked a hand and a jet of water from D’ulli’s drink doused the flame. “And don’t call me N’ikicite!” 

“Why not, N’ikicite?” D’ulli batted her eyes at Nikolai, who reared up. 

“Because I just met you!” He waved his hands. “And I like someone else-!” 

“You can say ‘YN’, we won’t judge you.” Cassie piped in. 

“Shut up! And it’s more than that! You can’t just do that, YN!” Nikolai whined, looking ready to cry. “That’s not fair!” 

YN pursed her lips. “You can just say no.” 

Nikolai paused, his eyes popping open. “Huh?” 

“Deal’s off,” YN turned to D’ulli, standing and bowing a bit. “Thanks, but you heard the man.” 

D’ulli sputtered as YN took Nikolai’s hand and began dragging him away, leaving Gaz and Cassie to trail behind them. She watched them go, with Nikolai gasping and stammering the way into the distance, blinking as the crowd around her murmured to life. She looked down at the table and noticed a scrap of paper. She snatched it and popped it open with a nail, before her eyes went wide. 

719 266 2837, in case you change your mind. 

“I still have no idea what happened.” 

Gazadrdiel was floating above YN’s bed, watching Nikolai hold his head in his hands. YN’s room hadn’t changed much from when she was thirteen, and she still sported the same desk-one that she sat at with her computer open. She was on Craigslist, updating an ad for Hionera she had. 

“D’ulli wanted to fuck you. You didn’t want to. We left. Bada bing, bada boom.” She finished her sentence with a definitive tap to the period key and say back with a sigh. “It’s whatever. What can rain do against the earth’s core?” YN made jazz hands when she said and it put a joking accent on ‘the earth’s core’. 

“But still…” Nikolai watched as YN checked her phone. “What, you waiting on a call?” 

“Kinda. Don’t worry, dude.” She waved a hand and pointed at Gazadrdiel. “So that’s...what? The third that we’ve turned down so far?” 

“Fourth.” 

“I can go back and say yes.” Nikolai looked like a kicked puppy. “I guess I was just surprised.” 

“Nah. Like I said, what’s she gonna do? Rain on your mom?” YN paused. “Heh. Your momma so big…” 

“We need to make sure that the next couple Hionera we talk to, we accept. The more we reject, the more likely word’s gonna spread that we’re picky.” Gazadrdiel plucked off a stray feather from his moulting wings. It fell onto Nikolai’s head, but he said nothing about it. 

“I can just talk to her-!” Nikolai started, but YN cut him off. 

“If the rumour spreads, then technically, it just makes everyone think we have an elite force. And then it’s like...people are gonna want to join.” 

“That’s wishful thinking.” Gazadrdiel hummed. “If you think the Ionians are proud, then the Hionera are devils.” 

“Guys!” Nikolai barked. Both YN and Gazadrdiel jumped, looking at him. 

“What’s up?” YN said a bit sheepishly. 

“I don’t mind spending the night with Daenerys! I can just tell her I don’t want to...you know…” He flushed, but before anyone could say anything else, Mother Mother began blasting from YN’s phone. Hayloft played as YN picked up her phone and squinted to see who the caller was. 

“You need to get glasses,” Nikolai murmured. 

“Shut up, shut up. If we’re lucky, we won’t have to talk to D’ulli again.” She waved a hand, put the phone to her ear, and answered. “This is YN. Or Angyosz, depending on whether or not you’re mortal. Uhh...whatcha need?” 

The room was tense and silent. 

“Uh-huh. Yeah, this is her.” YN nodded, pursing her lips. “Yup. Yeah.” She glanced at Nikolai. “Well, you heard him…” 

Nikolai shot up from the bed, realising who YN was talking to. Gazadrdiel flew out of the trajectory of Nikolai’s head when he began trying to pry at YN’s arm to get the phone, and his own braid smacked him in the face. 

“Gimmie, I can-” Nikolai whispered urgently, but YN smacked his arm. 

“Dude, shut up!” She whispered back. “Fucking-yeah! I’m still here!” Her voice rose again, and Gazadrdiel watched the two fight over the phone while trying to not insult D’ulli on the other end. 

“Yeah, he’s a bit shy, that’s all-” 

“YN, give me-!” 

“And he’s kinda stupid too!” 

“YN, just gimme the-!” 

“Nicky, I swear to god-!” 

“YN, there is no god for us!” 

“Yeah! We’d really appreciate it!” All the struggling ceased when YN gave him a pointed look with a smile. “Seriously, that’s super nice of you. Is it okay if I save your number?” 

Nikolai backed up when YN rose and grabbed a piece of paper and a pen. 

“We can do the pact over text, it doesn’t really matter. Just so long as we have your consent. Yeah, no problem. Thanks again!” She gave a thumbs-up to Nikolai and Gazadrdiel, both of who sighed in relief. She hung up and shot a finger gun to Nikolai. 

“Ayeeee...gotcha!” She threw the paper in the trash and began typing on her phone, presumably to write the pact to D’ulli. “She was touched by the fact that we ‘forsook’ her for your comfort, and now she’s in the squad!” She made a sing-song voice for ‘squad’ and danced a little bit. “Now that’s what? Twenty-six?” 

“Twenty-eight,” Gazadrdiel smiled softly. “We got lucky.” 

“We always do, Gaz.” YN closed the tabs on her computer with a wiggle. “We always do.” 

There was a comfortable silence for a moment before YN stood with a satisfied sigh. 

“That’s probably all we’re gonna manage to squeeze before the date, lads.” 

“Wait, what?” Nikolai looked disturbed, and Gazadrdiel’s brow furrowed. 

“We have a day before your eighteenth birthday. Can no other Hionera answer the ad?” He floated over to YN, who shrugged. 

“No one could make it before the week is over. It’s Wednesday, my dudes.” She plopped onto her bed with a sigh. “It’s pregame season, or whatever football nerds say. Shit will be fucked...soon.” She waved her hands before placing a spare pillow over her face and resting her hands over her stomach. 

“It’s too soon.” Nikolai sat on the edge of her bed. “What’s gonna happen, Gaz?” 

“I…” Gazadrdiel faltered. “I don’t know. YN’s been my only ward for...for a while. I can’t tell you what’s going to happen. Chances are, they’ll just ask what you want your true form to be like. It’ll be nothing too drastic, since Iuhxyu is after you. If they do take you away, then...the chances are high we’d never see you again.” 

YN groaned into the pillow, and Gazadrdiel was viscously reminded of when he first told her, all those years ago. 

“Big yikes.” She murmured before going silent. Nikolai laid across her legs with a huff and Gazadrdiel wrapped himself up into his wings. He hated seeing YN so nervous, no matter how either of them hid it. If anything, Nikolai was the most expressive of them all. At least he took the liberties he wanted. 

Gazadrdiel shook his head with a sigh and leaned over Nikolai. “Are you going to stay the night again?” 

Nikolai nodded, tossing an arm over his eyes before scooting across the bed so he was parallel to YN. There was space between them, but Gazadrdiel still gave a stare at the two’s closeness. 

“And did you check off the calendar, YN?” 

There was an affirmative groan, and he pursed his lips and floated over to the light switch to flip it off. He still glowed ever so vaguely in the dark, but both Nikolai and YN seemed undisturbed. 

And like a sentient cloud, he hovered over the desk and hid himself within his wings, and he fell asleep, only hoping that he could protect her a day more. 

Gazadrdiel woke up right before it happened. 

Gazadrdiel didn’t get dreams. But that night he did, with a thousand voices screaming at him and the night sky staring down at him with a million eyes. The sea crawled up his legs and pulled him under, and when he finally opened his eyes, he saw the moon. It was beautifully glowing and pristine, and when he held out his hands to hold it, it fit. Tears came to his eyes, even underwater, and a choking sensation overtook him. 

Then, the voice came. 

His eyes snapped open right before the glass broke, and before he knew what he was doing, he was kneeling over both Nikolai and YN. The hefty glass doors and windows burst just as he laid his wings over YN’s sleeping face, and immediately the shards embedded into his wings. Gazadrdiel let out a howl, and both Nikolai and YN woke. The younger of the two leapt up in his seat, panting and face to face with Gazadrdiel, but YN simply laid there with wide eyes. She was shaky but rose and began assessing the damage. 

“What the fuck?” She bit, and a wind began tearing through her room. It was ferocious, like a hurricane, and Gazadrdiel brought his wings up to protect them again, despite the pain. Rain pummeled in, and YN stuck a hand out through Gazadrdiel’s wings. He let out a yelp of worry, but she poked her head out and glared through the rain and the leaves. 

“There’s something out there!” She gasped, and nudged Gazadrdiel’s wing ever so slightly. Before he could shove her back under the protection, she ran out, and both Nikolai and Gazadrdiel yelled, at the same time. 

“Jesus Christ! It’s a hurricane out there! Come back!” 

“YN! Get back here!” 

YN ignored them both, soldiering through the rain and the wind until she came to the edge of her balcony. She held a hand in front of her eyes to try and shield from stray debris, but a rock clocked her in the cheek and made her lose her balance. She glared into the darkness. A thousand beady lights glared right back at her, and she reared up. 

“You’re a day early!” YN howled, before wincing. The tattoo on her neck had begun worming left and right across her skin, and it felt as though it was searing her skin. She brought her spare hand up to try and hold it in place, but it wriggled in and out of her fingers. Finally, she slapped it on her bicep with full force, and it writhed pathetically like a dying snake before going still. At once, the rain stopped and held itself in mid air, suspended like diamonds. She panted, staring into the abyss as Nikolai rushed past Gazadrdiel and onto the balcony, and the guardian himself cautiously approached. 

“Why are they here? Gaz!” Nikolai spun around and glared at Gazadrdiel. “They’re a day early!” 

“No,” Gazadrdiel stared at the little lights before grabbing Nikolai’s shoulder and pulling him back. “I think...we’re a day late.”  

YN ignored them both, watching as the darkness moved. A cancerous, insipid, coarse, solemn fear came over her, and her glare fell into a fearful look. Something, something baleful and sleepless and terrible, crawled out of the darkness. It had no mouth, but eyes upon eyes upon eyes and horrible lanky arms. It had tentacles for hair and it’s entire torso was a bloody, exposed ribcage, and it crawled on all fours across nothing but air. It looked as though it should have reeked, but YN smelled nothing. 

Another thing came out of the shadows, and this time, it had not one, not four, but nine arms, all snowy white and long-fingered. It’s face was long, like a horse’s might be, but huge human teeth jutted out at painful angles. In the middle of it, it looked like there might have been a human nose, and a human eye to the right, but the left was so deliriously disfigured that it looked like something from a corpse pile. It had hair light straw and a torso that looked malnourished, but all in all, it could have once been a man. 

“What are you here for?” Nikolai spat, only somewhat trying to fight against Gazadrdiel’s hold. YN’s face went from fear to being perfectly blank, head tilted and eyes wide. From just beyond the clouds, the moon came out, and like a bloodstained pearl, there were blotches of red and gold across the great light. 

The second Ionian began to speak, it’s mouth moving but no sound coming out. It only looked at YN, like she was the only thing in the world. The hand that YN had over her eyes fell, and a single tear fell out. Nikolai started struggling harder against Gazadrdiel’s grip, but it was no use. 

“Go! We have one more day! Why…!” Nikolai began to plead. “Why are you here?” 

“They came to take me back,” YN whispered in a mournful reverence. She began to blink quickly, but tears began falling out nonetheless. Some, in the bloody moonlight, looked pink, as though tinted with blood. Nikolai howled like a dog, but Gazadrdiel still held him back. 

“No! No! No! We still had a day! You promised us!” He didn’t seem to be talking to YN or the Ionians in particular, but cursing the air itself. It grew thick and warm, but no one else seemed to notice. The first Ionian leaned forward and extended a long and bony arm, letting a long, claw-like nail poke at the exposed skin of YN’s shoulder and drag across. It cut like a knife through butter, and blood began to pool out. But instead of flowing down and dripping across the balcony, it perfectly dissolved, evaporating into the air like water. YN didn’t even seem to feel it, but gave a fish-eyed stare at the second Ionian, who never looked away. 

The first Ionian let it’s claw hang in front of YN, and the hand that held the tattoo let go and began to slowly drift towards the hand. Gazadrdiel gasped. 

“YN, think before you do this. Once you accept the bloodbond, you can’t go back. If you wait until you’re twenty-one, you can bide your time. You don’t have to leave yet.” He tried to not let the fear of her going leak into his voice, but he had no idea she would go so soon. 

YN’s hand stopped moving, but the second Ionian’s mouth started moving again. Her eyes went blank and just before her hand touched the first Ionian’s, Gazadrdiel let out a yell. 

“You were supposed to tell her! To tell her the full consequences!” He looked not at her, but at the second Ionian. “Vhozi! That was your job!” 

Vhozi tilted it’s head, finally looking away from YN and looking dead on Gazadrdiel. The guardian didn’t falter, but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t terrified. Vhozi spoke, and still no sound came out. Gazadrdiel felt his blood freeze. 

“I don’t know all the consequences.” He stood firm, and for a moment, Nikolai stopped struggling. “I can’t tell her. You or Xothrith’ri has to, and Xothrith’ri doesn’t have a mouth.” 

Vhozi’s eyes narrowed, and it was bone chilling. It’s mouth moved again, and then it looked back to YN. She looked at him, and at once, a thousand emotions ran through her face. Fear seemed the most prominent, but at the end, she seemed calm. Vhozi gave a shadow of a smile and moved to the right, letting Xothrith’ri take center stage. Nikolai let out a scream that felt so earth-shatteringly heartbroken that Gazadrdiel nearly let him go. 

“No! Oh my god! I wasn’t ready! I-I love you! YN! For fuck’s sake, let go, Gaz!” He choked on his own tears and spit, flailing like a crazed man and lighting Gazadrdiel’s wings on fire. “You can’t go! Not yet! We could go together! I can’t let you go!” 

YN closed her eyes, a blissed expression taking over her entire being. The moon glowed brighter, Vhozi was grinning, and quietly, YN took Xothrith’ri’s hand. 

The next thing that happened was like a silent bomb. There was no noise, nothing to prove that it had happened. But it erupted in a brilliant light, white and red and gold, all at once, and YN had her mouth open in a scream that would never sound. Her eyes were no longer e/c, but a blank white, and when she bent over in pain, her spine looked ready to burst out of her skin. She threw her head back, and Nikolai fought, and the Ionians watched, and Gazadrdiel could only silently cry as she let out one last bone-chilling, blood curdling scream. It was the scream of a soul being ripped apart, of something dying a thousand times and being reborn only once. 

Then, the light burst, and there was only darkness. 

Gazadrdiel didn’t know how long they had been there. 

Morning had come and gone, with a sobbing Nikolai in Gazadrdiel’s arms. YN’s apartment had been completely destroyed, and the bed was nothing more than stuffing and feathers from the pillows. Neighbours stepped out and stared, but with a tired wave of Gazadrdiel’s hand, they all turned and spoke no more of it. Nikolai didn’t move besides his body-shaking sobs, and the fires he had induced on Gazadrdiel’s wings had long gone out. The guardian himself was still in pain, with the blood from the glass shards and the burns from the fire almost definitely disfiguring them forever. But at the moment, all Gazadrdiel had on his mind was comforting Nikolai. The Hionera seemed as though he would never move again, with how he refused to move from the fetal position. 

Gazadrdiel watched him, and then eyed the bright sun above them. It seemed to be getting later in the afternoon, and Gazadrdiel knew that if he didn’t get Nikolai to his mortal parents, he would have more trouble on his hands than what he was at all emotionally capable of. 

“Nikolai,” Gazadrdiel whispered. “Nikolai, we have to go. I need to get you home.” 

Nikolai said nothing but responded with a fresh wave of sobs, curling even further into himself. Gazadrdiel sighed. 

“N’ikicite.” 

Still nothing. 

“I’ll carry you.” 

Gazadrdiel picked up Nikolai bridal-style and walked across the ruined balcony, letting the glass and splinters dig into his bare feet. Nikolai popped an eye when they entered YN’s room, only to wail louder and curl into Gazadrdiel’s embrace. Gazadrdiel himself felt tears beginning to come on, but ignored them in favour of walking through YN’s apartment door and beginning the trek to Nikolai’s house. He knew that if he pushed using his wings, they would be irreversibly ruined, but seeing as he couldn’t just waltz into Nikolai’s house with the Hionera in his arms, he knew it was a sacrifice he had to make. 

The sun was shining, people were staring, the flowers were blooming, and at once, Gazadrdiel felt the great grief of the loss of what was his only friend. He knew he couldn’t mourn, not until Nikolai was safely home, but he had no idea what YN was doing, or if she even survived the encounter. For all he knew, she was launched to Pakistan and was trying to make her way back home. The bloodbonds were so disambiguous that he could only hope that by some miracle, YN was still on earth, and all she had to do was crawl her way back to Gazadrdiel and Nikolai. 

He stopped, right in front of a tree that led up into Nikolai’s room, and Gazadrdiel looked at his wings with a grimace. They were charred and a bloody brown, but Gazadrdiel still spread them and gave one last push. 

Gazadrdiel let out a subdued scream, feeling the pain rocket through his system as he landed on a branch. Trying to ignore the urge to drop everything, including Nikolai, and cry, he pried open Nikolai’s bedroom window and slipped in. Nikolai peeked out from his huddled self and watched as Gazadrdiel gently placed him on his bed, before standing perfectly still. Nikolai sniffed. 

“Thanks,” He murmured, wiping his nose with his sleeve. He looked up at Gazadrdiel, who was staring at the ground and swaying from side to side. His wings seemed almost clipped, like they could fall off at any moment, and wounds covered his entire body. Gazadrdiel nodded, and reached up to his shoulder. He pulled out a large shard of glass and dropped it onto Nikolai’s carpet. They both watched as it bounced and landed, and Nikolai looked back up to Gazadrdiel. 

“Are you okay?” Nikolai croaked. 

Gazadrdiel dropped to the floor, and all he knew was darkness. 

“Let her go, Gaz.” 

[baldbae-tele]

Foreigner

The Diaspora Blues

" I am I said... to no one there and no one heard at all, not even the chairs. I am I cried. I am said I. And I am lost and I can't even say why....Leavin me lonely still." - Mikey Spice

Above is an excerpt from one of the songs I've recently grown to appreciate and identify with. The song is a story of a man who was born and raised in Jamaica and moved to the USA. Upon returning to Jamaica, he feels like a stranger in his own birth-land and at the same time, he feels like a foreigner in the place in which he currently resides. 

He feels out of place and alone.

I get it.

I am him and he is me.

I mentioned in an earlier post that I risked it all and dove head first into the opportunity of pursuing my undergraduate degree abroad. I went to Toronto, fell in love with the big city, grew so involved in and passionate about my University that I almost didn't want to leave. As far as I was concerned I could rack up as many degrees as possible there so long as I got to stay.

I was connected to an amazing Ryerson University community and awesome friends from many diverse backgrounds... from Sri Lanka to Bangladesh to Nigeria and Kenya and all of the points of Canada.

These people have taught me so much about diversity and culture.

My Caribbean and Latin American friends were the ones who helped to curb the pang of homesickness the most though. They managed to make me feel like I was back home in Trinidad even during the months of January and February. My friend group was like a melting pot of culture, spanning from St. Kitts to El Salvador, from Jamaica to Bermuda and of course my fellow Trinbagonians.

We cooked together, we studied together, we laughed, we cried, we partied together (Return dates, Caribbean pub nights, D Cals etc) ...but most importantly we supported each other in every single decision. We helped each other overcome many hurdles. Through health and sickness we were there and in some cases we had to hold each other's hands even in death. (R.I.P. Karlene, you will not be forgotten)

I am eternally grateful for each of these people who hold a special place in my heart and some of whom I continue to have daily, weekly or monthly interactions with.

However, after graduation, many of us went our separate ways. I relocated to a less action packed part of Toronto, where I definitely couldn't get Italian sausage hotdogs for $4.50, A chicken shawarma combo for $20 or thereabouts, and of course my beloved Wanda's waffle ice-cream special for $8.99.

I became sullen and depressed during the winter time and practically refused to leave my apartment. This was the modified behaviour of a girl who once stood outside of a return fete after taking off one of her two jackets to wrap around the freezing feet of my Trini homie and myself.... because he forgot his ticket for Return Fete home...much to my displeasure.

I realized though...that I wasn't a huge fan of Toronto. Point blank...it wasn't for me. I was entranced by my University and the bonds that I'd created but when that winter cold really set in and there was no one around to get some good cod fish and potatoes from... I was tremendously unhappy and homesick. I found and took EVERY single opportunity I had to come home. I would ugly cry every time I hopped on that plane back to Toronto, knowing that my crew was no longer there to continue feeling that strong home connection and the ones who remained I didn't get to see often because of the grueling demands of work. 

I was alone and homesick.

And so a girl decided to come home!

So here I am. In the land I love more than anything in the world. I arrived with a smile as big as the Cheshire cat. If I could have flown that plane faster myself, I would have. I was back with my family. I would get to see my best friend at long last! I was reunited with those two strong Caribbean women who raised me. Happy like pappy as they say.

But something had changed.

Me, I had changed.

I was no longer the 17 year old girl who left Trinidad with wonder in her eyes and in awe of everything. I had seen things, some good, some bad. I had experienced things... some good, some bad. Some of my new found values and ideologies had changed and therefore differed from those of parents. Much to their displeasure. I'm pretty sure I told my mom I was WOKE several times to which she asked, "What nonsense you talking?" Upon explanation she was convinced I had returned home to be a freedom fighter and not to work with the degree "she spend her hard earned money for me to get."

I had changed but so did everything and everybody else. Life didn't stop when I left. My high school friends moved on. We grew up, we grew apart...And that smile vanished when I recognized that It was not going to be as easy as I thought to settle back in. I now had to find my place again in a place that was once my own.

[carolineguzewiczcrim]

Slavery Era

Slavery Era Rebellion does not always have to be crying from the rooftops, it can be sneaky and silent and quite literally, underground. If anything, having to be sneaky makes you smarter. It forces you to think outside of the box because thinking inside the box just like everyone else will get you caught. The Underground Railroad, a secret slave society lead by saviors of an otherwise abhorrent time, is a perfect example of this subliminal resistance to what most people thought was right; at least, the people who were in charge ‘above’ ground. The thing about quilts is that the stories they tell are passed down traditionally by oral story-telling. “The idea of quilts being used in the Underground Railroad for purposes other than bedding was not mentioned either in the written documents of the period or in the interviews given years later. That is not to say they could not have been used in a form not discussed. However, care must be taken not to romanticize this possibility” (Underground Railroad Quilt Code). Every stitch is a symbol and every pattern tells a story. For a population that was restricted from learning how to read and write and communicate in the commonly ‘conventional’ white-way of speaking, visual art such as quilt-making allowed for slaves who couldn’t interpret words to be able to interpret patterns in a way that their white counterparts wouldn’t think twice about. While all of this is still up for questioning, I find it very plausible and commendable if it is indeed true. Either way, quilt-making is still very pertinent to the culture of the Underground Railroad. The fact that it is underground raises a lot of important points for me. 1. The way in which we govern our society is so rigid and unaccepting of difference. There are more ways than one to learn or communicate or just simply to live just there are more manifestations of the human race than just white or black. The fact that we are color-blind now isn’t helping us, it’s just ignoring that fact 2. Your voice is wildly important. Whether it be through spoken word or written on a page or shown through color and imagery, what you have to say is literally all you have to offer. The way you say it, although it can still be governed by the same rigid policies as aforementioned, is understood depending on your audience. Giving former slaves the chance to share their stories through written narratives is something vital to our understanding today. The Slave Narrative Project, which allowed for a wide variety of people to share and have their experiences published are a perfect example of this, and something that should be shared and made more available to the general public in order to make this kind of first-hand information for available to all since they usually are silenced the most. Although education of reading and writing was restricted, some slaves still managed to pick up some skills during their enslavement as well as after being freed from captivity. They write how they speak, which is not ‘perfect’ English but it is still English. Most of the accounts in The Federal Writer’s Project, however, are transcribed from interviews between the head of the project and those who agreed to be interviewed. Quinn-Tuttle from Texarkana, Arkansas, when asked if he wanted to take part in the project, “readily agreed to answer all my questions as best he could”. When recounting his experience after the war in The Federal Writers' Project, he says: “Not long after de negroes wuz freed, I took 86 ob dem to de votin’ place at Homan and voted ‘em all straight Democratic. On my way back home dat evenin’ five negroes jumped frum de bushes and stopped me. Dey ‘splained dat I wuz too ‘fluential wid de negroes and proceeded to string me up by de neck. I hollers as loud as I could, and Roy Nash and Hugh Burton, de election officers, just happen to be comin’ down de road and hear me yell. Dey ran off de n*gg*rs and put me down, but by dat time I had passed out”. I chose this specific narrative because I found the name interesting: “Quinn-Tuttle”, and as I rad the above statement I thought it was interesting for a couple of different reasons. 1. The fact he was able to convince that many people to vote and be able to have them do so, considering the fact that voting was so barred from many African Americans. Also the fact that he had them all vote Democrat. I’m not exactly sure when the switch between what Democratic was during the slavery era to what it is today, but it might explain the second question it raised for me if it hadn’t switched yet which is in regards to: 2. The fact that it was other African Americans who retaliated against him and the election officials (who more than likely were white although it is not explicitly stated) were the ones who saved him. Either way, it’s still very interesting the way in which his responses are recorded, paying careful attention to the grammar (or lack there of) and the spelling of the words in which he was saying coming out differently than what they are supposed to on paper. I wonder if maybe even the interviewer took the liberty of purposefully making some words more off the mark than others when it comes down to the spelling, since they had the autonomy in recording his spoken answers onto paper and he might not know the difference either way. I’m also curious to know if he had any type of access to the recorded information after it was taken down at all or if he was just trusting that the interviewer would do him justice in the end. To be restricted to right to learn but then discriminated against for being illiterate is the pinnacle of hypocrisy and a common theme that has seemed to reiterate itself through our history. We criminalize certain people by placing them into social-constructs that force them into these made-up definitions of what we think they should be and then we criticize them for it. Very similar to how we still do this day criticize slang used by African Americans and their dialect in general, even though it’s the same as any other diverse way of speaking, it’s just the people who are doing it that we seem to have a problem with. If you have any thoughts, opinions, stories to add or questions this posed for you, leave them in the comment section of this post with the hashtag #FreedomANDspeech if your post is in regards to slave narratives and language barriers/issues or #SecretUnderground if your post has to do with the Underground Railroad and the secret language of rebellion. If you’re interested in doing any further research, below are some links which I used that tell more about what I covered briefly above and also feel free to leave any links you find that may be pertinnent as well! Additional Resources: For more information of the Underground Railroad Quilt Code: http://www.quilthistory.com/ugrrquilts.htm For access to more Slave Narratives click here: https://www.loc.gov/collections/slave-narrativesfrom-the-federal-writers-project-1936-to-1938/about-this-collection/

[pamphletstoinspire]

Novena to Mary Undoer of Knots - 2 -This Nine-day Novena may be said at anytime.

The good hearted angel looks to Mary holding the ribbon of our life and says: "We trust you, Mother; You can help us. Undo, then, the knots of our life!"

Then, Mary takes our life into her compassionate hands and with her long fingers of mercy goes on to undo each knot, one after the other.

Another angel comes over, and taking the ribbon of our life, freed of all knots, looks at us and seems to say, "See what she did.

Look at what Mary, through her intercession can do again. Trust her, place your problems and afflictions in her hands."

***

EXPLANATION OF Mary Undoer of Knots — The Favorite Devotion of Pope Francis

Mary has been known as the Undoer of Knots or the Untier of Knots since the early Church. This is one of the biggest devotions in Brazil, the world’s most Catholic country.

Why did Catholics ever give up the many and diverse devotions which for centuries have provided people with a personal connection with heaven? As individual as our personalities, the breadth of traditional devotions to Jesus, Mary, and the Holy Spirit, the angels, archangels, and the saints have served a pious purpose for many centuries when practiced with an honest heart. It will take generations to rediscover many of these wonderful devotions. In an effort to advance the cause, just a little, let us shine the light of attention on the Blessed Virgin Mary, “Undoer of Knots.” In a time of cultural complexity, of confusion and disarray in personal relationships, this beautiful devotion brings that rare commodity for which we sometimes despair: hope.

With the supernatural patience and wisdom of the Mother of God, the image of Mary, Undoer of Knots, shows the blessed Mother serenely at work untying a length of cord that is riddled with kinks and tangles, representing the difficulties in our lives. Broken relationships, sinful behaviors, unforgiven enemies, prejudices and hates, lukewarm faith, anguish, regrets, loneliness, ignorance, cowardice, and so many other human failings on our part and on the part of others are responsible for the knots in our lives.

The bondage of sin, and the realization that sins may appear to be “freeing” actually bind and enslave us, is a traditional biblical image. Jesus, upon raising Lazarus from the dead, declared that his bonds should be loosed so he could be set free. Our Lord gave the power of binding and loosing to Peter and the Apostles when establishing His priesthood. Sin, from the Old to the New Testament, is described as an enslavement that keeps us from the company and grace of God the Father. Also traditional from the early Church is Mary’s role as the great mediatrix, whose nimble fingers can undo the tangles of our sins in a heavenly intercession of maternal love.

The origin for the devotion to Mary, Undoer of Knots, is a meditation from Saint Irenaenus, Bishop of Lyon and a martyr of the early Church. In his book Adversus Haereses (Against Heresies), he builds upon Saint Paul’s parallel between Adam and Christ, stating “Eve, by her disobedience, tied the knot of disgrace for the human race; whereas Mary, by her obedience, undid it...For what the virgin Eve had bound fast through unbelief, this did the Virgin Mary set free through faith.”

The beautiful image of the Undoer or Untier of Knots, has been venerated in the pilgrim church of St. Peter in Perlack (Perlach), Bavaria, Germany, since 1700. For over three centuries, the devotion has survived among the faithful and appears to be growing, thanks to published booklets and websites.

An official publication, containing the devotion’s history, and a novena with nihil obstat and imprimatur, and testimonies have been printed in 19 languages and distributed worldwide.

Contemplation of the image shows Mary with a crown of twelve stars adorning her head, a sign of Her Queenship of the Apostles, whom she consoled after Jesus’ earthly departure. Her blue mantle represents her glory as Queen of the Universe. Her feet crush the head of the serpent indicating Her victory over Satan. She is suspended between heaven and earth, resplendent with light, and accompanied by the Holy Spirit in the form of a dove, reminding us that she became Mother of God and full of grace by virtue of the Third Person of the Trinity. Assisting her at the task of straightening the cord of our life is an entire heavenly court of angels, signifying her position as Queen of the Angels, and Queen of Heaven.

“Ah, the knots of our life! Knots of discord in your family... the knots of deep hurts between husband and wife, the absence of peace and joy in the home. Knots of hurt and resentments that so torture our hearts...How they suffocate the soul, beat us down, betray the heart’s joy and even the will to continue living,” writes Dr. Suzel Frem Bourgerie, a contributing author of the publication, “Mary, Undoer of Knots.”

Knots that separate us from God, chaining our arms, legs, all our being and our faith, keeping us from flinging ourselves like children into the arms of God and glorifying Him. The Virgin Mary does not want this to continue... she comes to you...to give her all these snarls because she will undo them one by one...more than ever the Holy Mother of God is ready to succor those who cry out to her…”

No matter how knotted are the events in your life, the Blessed Virgin can undo the tangles because her son empowers her to do them. Through this prayerful devotion we are reminded that sin never entangled Our Lady; that Christ gave His Mother to be our Mother, and that she is uniquely endowed with grace and perfection to fulfill her role, which she willingly accepts out of great love and humility.

Mary, Undoer of Knots, is a devotion that speaks to the hearts of the suffering who have become entangled in their vices and failings. In the following NOVENA we pray and entrust our specific "knots" to her loving hands, learning how to let go of that which binds us. To be free of the weight of our own chains means our hearts and minds are free to accept God’s mercy and begin to do His will in our lives.

You may ask, why such a picturesque devotion, because we are human. To ponder something at once fantastic and yet attainable raises our minds and strengthens our faith that this world we live in is not the only one, and is far from the best one available. Devotions, such as Mary, Undoer of Knots, take the everyday difficulties of the human experience and transforms them into opportunities to grow closer to our Creator and to our goal of heaven.

“Mary, Undoer of Knots, dearest Mother, I thank you for undoing the knots in my life. Wrap me in your mantle of love, keep me under your protection, enlighten me with your peace!”

***

The following prayer is said each day of the novena after the days reading, reflections, and Holy Rosary

Prayer to Our Virgin Mary Untier of Knots

Holy Mary, full of the presence of God, during your life you accepted with great humility the holy will of the Father and the legacy of your Son our Lord Jesus Christ, and evil never dared to entangle you with its confusion. Since then you have interceded for all of our difficulties as you did at the wedding feast of Cana. With all simplicity and with patience, you have given us an example of how to untangle the knots in our complicated lives. By being our Mother forever you arrange and make clear the path that unites us to Our Lord.

Holy Mary, Mother of God and ours, with your maternal heart, untie the knots that upset our lives. We ask you to receive into your hands

(here mention your prayer request)

and deliver us from the chains and confusion that restrain us. Blessed Virgin Mary, through your grace, your intercession and by your example, deliver us from evil, and untie the knots that keep us from being united to God. So that free of all confusion and error, we may find him in all things, keep him in our hearts, and serve him always in our brothers and sisters.

Mother of Good Counsel pray for us. Amen.

Begin daily prayers each day by … make the

Sign of the Cross - [In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

By the sign of the cross deliver us from our enemies, you who are our God. In the name of the Father... ],

and say the

Act of Contrition - [O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of heaven, and the pains of hell; but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, Who are all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to confess my sins, to do penance, and to amend my life. Amen.].

Pray: Blessed Virgin Mary, the one who unties the knot, in marriage, in people and of nations, I offer you this novena requesting the following intentions:

(mention here the favors that you wish to obtain).

First Day:

Bible Reading… and now she will bear a Son. You shall call Him 'Jesus' for He will save His people from their sins…(Matthew 1: 21)

Brief Reflection: Our Lord Jesus, was born of the flesh and blood of the Holy Virgin Mary, spouse of the Holy Spirit. Jesus, untied the tongues of the mute, the obstacles to the paralytics, He removed the yoke of oppressed, and He liberated the sinners with His death. Jesus, through His Death and Resurrection is the Great Untier of Knots of our humanity united to sin. His Mother, first disciple and co-redemptrix, will untie our knots.

Meditate with one decade of the Holy Rosary, and the prayer to "Our Virgin Mary Untier of Knots" Above then pray,

Mother Three Times Admirable, pray for us.

Second Day: Begin Daily prayers as on day one:

Bible Reading… and the Angel said to her in reply, "The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the most High will overshadow you. Therefore the child to be born will be called holy, the Son of God". (Luke: 1, 34).

Brief Reflection: The Holy Spirit, Third Person of God, overshadowed the womb of the Virgin Mary full of grace, and the power of the most High was with her so that she would give birth to our savior made man. That is why the Virgin Mary is blessed and holy. In her, The Son of God inhabited. Who better than His Mother, to aid us and help us to dismantle our tangled conflicts! Meditate with one decade of the Holy Rosary, and the prayer to "Our Virgin Mary Untier of Knots" Above then pray Mother Three Times Admirable! Mother of Good Counsel, pray for us.

Third Day: Begin Daily Prayers as on day one:

Bible Reading… Mary said, "Behold, I am the handmaid of the Lord. May it be done to me according to your word." "Then the Angel departed from her." (Luke 1, 38)

Brief Reflection: The Virgin Mary meekly undergoes the designs of God, although with certain reservations. "..How can this be if I do not know man?... she accepts with some concerns. How many doubts will we have when we have moved away from God, and in our mistakes, we have knitted a useless cobweb of knots. Let us give our griefs to the council of Mary. Meditate with one decade of the Holy Rosary and prayer to "Our Virgin Untier of Knots" Above then pray Mother Three Times Admirable! Mother of Good Counsel, Mother of Divine Grace, pray for us.

Fourth Day: Begin Daily Prayers as on day one:

Bible Reading...When the angels had left them and gone back to heaven, the shepherds said to one another, "Let us go as far as Bethlehem and see what the Lord has made known to us." (Luke 2, 15-19)

Brief Reflection: They went to Bethlehem, where they found the Child, "The word made flesh", the only Truth, let us walk through our desert, that with the guidance of the Archangel Raphael, that we may come closer to Mary Mother of the Church, and with her to Jesus. Little by little, the knots of error that make us prisoners will be untied. "The Truth shall set us free". Let us walk in confidence towards our liberation." Meditate with one decade of the Holy Rosary and prayer to "Our Virgin Untier of Knots" Above then pray Mother Three Times Admirable! Help of Christians, pray for us.

Fifth Day: Begin Daily Prayers as on day one:

Bible Reading… Ask and you will receive; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened. For everyone who asks, receives; whoever seeks, finds; and the door will be opened to him who knocks. (Matthew 7, 7-8)

Brief Reflection: The Heart of Mary is opened to us, like the door to heaven. We only need to ask for her help and her maternal arms will open for our tortured spirits. In her we will find the solution to our problems, balm for our pain, and answers to our doubts. Mary our help, intercede for us. Meditate with one decade of the Holy Rosary and prayer to "Our Virgin Untier of Knots" Above then pray Mother Three Times Admirable! Door to Heaven, Consolation of the Afflicted, pray for us.

Sixth Day: Begin Daily Prayers as on day one:

Bible Reading… Jesus replied, "Woman, your thoughts are not mine! My hour has not yet come." However His mother said to the servants, "Do whatever He tells you." (John 2, 4-5)

Brief Reflection: In the Wedding Feast of Cana, the patient Virgin Mary intercedes for the guests. With this act, she inaugurates her mediation between the Son of God and men. The faithful servant of the Lord, is our most humble and maternal servant, in our afflictions, despairs, tribulations and wrong doings. She is the Mediatrix of all graces, to which we commend ourselves in our intricate problems, that with her maternal hands, she will untie the knots that still imprison us. Meditate with one decade of the Holy Rosary and the prayer to "Our Virgin Mary Untier of Knots" Above then pray Mother Three Times Admirable! Mother of Divine Grace, pray for us.

Seventh Day: Begin Daily Prayers as on day one:

Bible Reading… "It was now about noon and darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon." (Luke 23: 44)

Brief Reflection: The Father’s Will is about to be accomplished; Our Lord Jesus Christ will die on the cross for our salvation, in the promise of His Resurrection. From the darkness, the light will shine to illumine us, freedom from darkness. We already see our problems with more clarity. Our ties loosen, in the measure in which they conform to the Lamb of God that takes away the sins of the world. At this time we are closer to His Mother, the Virgin Mary. Meditate with one decade of the Holy Rosary and prayer to "Our Virgin Mary Untier of Knots" Above then pray Mother Three Times Admirable! Mother of Christ, pray for us.

Eighth Day: Begin Daily Prayers as on day one:

Bible Reading… When Jesus saw His Mother, and the disciple whom He loved, He said to His Mother, "Woman, there is your son." Then He said to the disciple, "There is your mother." And from that moment the disciple took her to his own home. (John 19, 26-27)

Brief Reflection: At the moment Jesus went to the Father, He leaves us in the care of His Mother. It is the greatest legacy that Jesus left to Our Virgin Mary, and when He points this out to the disciple He loves, He gives her custody of all of humanity. She will be our Advocate, Helper, Benefactress, and Mediatrix. The handmaid of the Lord, will grant us freedom, through her intercession, she will untie the final knots that make us prisoners. Meditate with one decade of the Holy Rosary and prayer to "Our Virgin Mary Untier of Knots" Above then pray Mother Three Times Admirable! Mother of Christ, Help of All Christians, pray for us.

Ninth Day: Begin Daily Prayers as on day one:

Bible Reading… All of these together gave themselves to constant prayer. With them were some women and also Mary, the mother of Jesus, and His brothers… and when the day of Pentecost arrived, all were filled with the Holy Spirit.

Brief Reflection: Our Father sends the Holy Spirit on the feast of Pentecost, that will free us in our faith. This is the same faith that with Mary’s maternal help, will remove the bonds that keep us prisoners. With the light of the Holy Spirit we see in meridian clarity, which of our anguishes had our spirit trapped. The guidance of St. Michael the Archangel has always been certain, St. Gabriel the Archangel will announce my freedom and St. Michael, will protect me from any attack. The Evil one (the serpent), overpowered by the presence of Mary, lies at her feet, made into a useless knot, unable to touch us. Meditate with one decade of the Holy Rosary and prayer to "Our Virgin Mary Untier of Knots" Above then pray Mother Three Times Admirable! Mother of Christ, Help of all Christians, pray for us.

Imprimatur: Nada obsta a la Fe y Moral catholicas para su publicacion. Revdo. Mons.:jose luis duhourq Censor Puede Imprimirse.

***

Look at Mary Undoer of Knots! Look at her, with love and tenderness. As she hears our pleas, this ribbon becomes free of any type of knot. Trust her, place your problems and afflictions in her hands. One by one the knots in your life will be Undone. May Mary wrap you in her Mantle of Love and Protection and her Son watch over you always!

***

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Novena Pamphlet - 2 - Mary Undoer of Knots

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All Novena Pamphlets

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[pretendpapi]

No Apologies for Queer White Tears

By Faith Cheltenham

Delivered as a keynote address to the 2016 BlaQOUT Conference at UC Riverside on April 9th, 2016.

White tears is a term that has a startling effect on white folks. Developed over time to describe the phenomenon of white people being upset at the very act of discussing race, it’s evolved into a funny yet, extremely effective way to describe white people’s discomfort in discussing the very racism they perpetuate. One of the earliest articles available online about white tears written by a person of color is the 2007 College Student Affairs Journal article “When White Women Cry: How White Women’s Tears Oppress Women of Color” by Mamta Motwani Accapadi. In the article, Accapadi describes a case study of a white woman bursting into tears when being pressed by a woman of color about diversity resources at the college that employs them both. Instead of working on the issues affecting students, the case study states that the rest of the meeting was spent consoling the white woman about her white tears. So it’s white tears I immediately thought of last July, as I sat talking to Kathryn Snyder about white folks interrupting Black people to tell us about their own racism, when what do you know? A young Tearful White Woman (let’s call her TWW for short) interrupts us to ask, “Can we talk? Just talk as people? About race?” Her friends tried to pull her back and whisper in her ear but TWW was inebriated and loudly whispered back “No! I get to ask! I get to ask!” I told her, “You can ask, but I am not required to answer you.”See, I’d never met this particular TWW before, and neither had Kathryn Snyder, an amazing Black bi+ queer organizer everyone should know (that’s her on the right with the triangle earrings). We were all of us, tearful white people included, at the 2015 Netroots Nation convention in Phoenix, back in July where a whole bunch of Black folks experienced a whole bunch of racism. You know, like they do most months.The kind of racism where white liberals you’ve never met before are suddenly touching your face without asking in their best petting paternalism, or the kind where you repeatedly turn a corner to find a Black girl sobbing but surrounded in love by other Black people. #YouOKSis? It was the kind of space where Black people were openly targeted, in this case mostly by Bernie Sanders supporters who were reeling from recent reports that Sanders wasn’t scoring well with Black voters. Shit was going down, so it made sense that many white people would immediately turn to any Black person they could find to assuage their white guilt, express their privilege and stump for their candidate too. Like “Black voters” were a product to obtain, instead of listen to, and to harp on, instead of hear from.An older, respected white LGBT advocate invited a number of LGBT people of color to his suite party and made it clear that people of color were welcome. So me and Kathryn showed up, and with a bunch of other people proceeded to have a great time. At one point we went on an excursion looking for supplies, and the elevator was really slow. As we waited, the full elevators would open and we would pose in different forms, much like we used to do when I was a young’un at UCLA. Once when the door opened, I saw a few Black women I had seen before but not yet talked to. I called out, “Hey now, we’re up in Rm 512 if you want to hang with some queer people of color and some Black folks!” The women locked eyes on me, and that moment happened, the one where they were no longer surrounded by oppressive whiteness, discomfort, tone policing, and silencing. The moment when you’re not thinking at all about white tears?  You know, the moment when you’re free?#BlackLivesMatter co-founder Patrisse Cullors, Ferguson BLM activist Ashley Yates, and #NN15 QPOC Caucus co-organizers Faith Cheltenham, Eyad Alkurabi, Sommer Foster and Daniel Villarreal at Netroots Nation 2015. Photo Credit: Faith CheltenhamThe Black women in the elevator called back to us, “We’ll come back up” and we decided to skip going back downstairs.  We went back to the suite and chilled, and Kathryn and I started talking about our Netroots Nation experience so far, in particular the ability of white folks to interrupt her at every moment to “talk about race” or tell her what Bernie Sanders had done for Black folks (#BernieSoBlack has more details). I was just telling her some of the things that had unfolded for me when I got a tap on the shoulder from the aforementioned Tearful White Woman. Even after I expressed that it wasn’t my responsibility to educate this tearful white woman, she persisted. Kathryn raised an eyebrow at me and I decided that TWW did need to know something from me after all. As I finished a custom hand roll, I looked up from licking the paper and said, “Listen to me OK? This is really important.” TWW nodded bravely, visibly squaring herself for a barrage of statements she really needed to hear, but I only had one. “I want you to imagine that every time you walk up to Black folks and interrupt their conversation, you are interrupting a conversation about Black folks being interrupted by white people.” As she opened her mouth to reply, I held up my hand and went all “you shall not pass”. Stoic, I handed her my most recent hand roll. “Listen”, I said gently, “that’s all I got for right now, but you take this with my best wishes. Goodbye.” Her friends dragged her out my space and one stayed behind. Kathryn raised another eyebrow, and I sighed. TWW’s friend quickly said, “Listen, I am SO SORRY her white privilege got all over you when you were just hanging out. We were on the elevator just now and she became convinced you were talking to her and telling her to come to room 512. We told her you were talking to the other women of color and told her about the need for safe space in oppressive white spaces, but she’s really new to social justice.”I had tears of laughter in my eyes, at the ridiculousness of those white folks who ALWAYS insist that EVERYTHING in Black lives is REALLY all about them. And I had hope, simply because of the friend who had stuck behind to quickly explain, apologize, and make right. So I thanked TWW’s friend and wished them all a good night. As they walked away, Kathryn and I burst out into big ass belly laughs because sometimes racism IS good for a laugh. Faith Cheltenham in the San Luis Obispo Telegram-Tribune, age 9. Photo Credit: Faith CheltenhamWhite tears wasn’t a term I knew when I was in middle school and organized my first protest against my school’s “Jungle Fever” ball. See, I grew up in white town, white county, very white USA. My hometown of San Luis Obispo, California prided itself on its “slo-ness” in all things, from the ban on drive thru’s to its slow to evolve racial sensibilities. From a very early age, I withstood taunts of “Aunt Jemima”, pulls on my braids intended to show my “real hair”, and insults from students and teachers alike, with the favorite being “Buckwheat” due to my hair’s tendency to stand up so straight you’d think my follicles themselves were stressed. My daily school experience was of avoiding the kids who threw rocks at me only to come back from recess to fight with my teachers about their racist views. By the time I was in high school I was writing about my experiences of race, inspired by Nikki Giovanni, Richard Wright, James Baldwin, Maya Angelou and Toni Morrison. I won an honorable mention from a USA Today writing racial justice content as a high school freshman and kept writing, hoping to create an invisible ring of protection that would keep my hope (and self) alive. I battled race at school, but when I went home, I didn’t go home to a Black home that welcomed me, but to a biracial one ruled by a mentally unstable, racist, biphobic and homophobic white Pentecostal pastor. At home I faced abuse of a different kind, most of which I kept secret for many years until taking a hammer to my own wall of silence. And at home too, I protested. I protested and called the police. I protested and called CPS. I protested and called for help, and when I couldn’t get it, I called RAINN, a hotline that helped me find a teen homeless shelter to stay in until I could feel safe at home again. These are the experiences of so many Black people: the loss of safety at home and abroad in their everyday lives, all-the-while experiencing the colonization of our bodies, appropriations of our culture, and the fragility of white people who refuse to dismantle their own supremacy in a world where it’s far too difficult to tell the difference between the GOP and the KKK. My background led me to raise my voice consistently for those unheard, and those kept at the margins. I’ve done that with blogging, writing, slam poetry, reality show appearances, stand-up comedy, and Black and bisexual community organizing. Everywhere I go I’ve been standing up for oppressed people, because before I knew the words and the mechanism for my own oppression, I knew the feeling. I knew the feeling of crying alone, desperate to end my own life because I couldn’t take another adult yelling the N word at me at 9 years old. I knew the feeling of being patted down and frequently profiled by police because that’s what walking down the street in San Luis Obispo, CA any damn day entailed. I knew what it was like to be raped because a boy thought he knew what a big breasted Black ten year old girl like me wanted. I have always known what it is like to be treated as a second class citizen in comparison to my peers. Still, racism can always find new ways to surprise you.Photo of #TheBlackPanel at #LGBTMEDIA16 handouts with a love note from ForHarriet.com’s Ashleigh Shackelford. Photo Credit: Faith CheltenhamRecently, I re-experienced the phenomenon of gaslighting racism which Black LGBT YA author Craig Gidney defines as a situation "where (mostly) (some) white people will twist themselves into logic pretzels to deny racism, even when it is obvious."We were about to begin #TheBlackPanel at #LGBTMedia16, an annual gathering of LGBTQ journalists, bloggers and media professionals. Our panel featured a rising star in discussions of race, New York Times columnist Charles Blow, alongside NBCNews.com contributor Danielle Moodie-Mills, and Vox.com’s Race and Identities editor Michelle Garcia. The panel was developed by myself, Sharif Durhams of the WashingtonPost.com and Matt Foreman of the Haas Foundation with the support of Bil Browning, founder of bilerico.com. We were the 2nd panel to go and as we gathered to get everyone settled, I turned around to find a wonderfully styled white woman invading my personal space to whisper to me how beautiful Charles Blow was and how much she loved him and could she have her picture right now, before everyone else because she was such a fan. Since we literally were about to start the panel, I asked her to wait and sit down so we could get started, which she did. As we began the panel and started having a really good and profound conversation, from the podium I noticed a rise in concerning behavior from the wonderfully styled white woman (we can call her WSWW for short). After the panel had begun, she got up and walked over to the panel table and put her phone down to tape. After a few minutes, she began to look concerned for her phone and she began to quietly crawl forward. The whole time I’m watching her, like WTF, are you literally crawling slowly forward towards our panel? And she kept crawling closer and closer. I admit it, at that point all I saw was WHITE PEOPLE. I was furious with the general lack of respect and disregard for the panelists and for myself as a moderator. When, from the moderator’s podium, I asked her to take her seat because I found it distracting, instead of nodding and moving back to her seat she began to argue with me about why it wasn’t a big deal for her to be there, and why I should just let it go and why it’s OK to tape things because “look, we have a celebrity”. In those statements, I felt a disregard for my own work and a general slight to my own experience as a journalist and a person who’s worked with high profile institutions like the White House or Sarah Ferguson, The Duchess of York, a woman I’m proud to call a mentor. While it seemed like such a small thing, coupled with her previous invasion of personal space and her comments on her love for beautiful Black men, it just read racist and real racist at that. However, it won’t surprise you that the only support I felt in that room for my desire to stay on topic was from my fellow Black girl queers. As I struggled to “keep my eyebrows on”, I thought about  Black writer and The Nightly Show contributor’s Franchesca Ramsey’s run in with white queer women at The Sundance Film Festival and I took strength from looking Ashleigh Shackelford right in the face as she raised her eyebrows at Charles Blow for his apologies to the white woman of behalf of me, the Black woman who invited him to speak on the panel. In those moments of racial microaggressions, and in the moment when white tears threaten the ability for Black people to even discuss race, we all lose. All the LGBT people of color in attendance at #LGBTMedia16. Photo Credit: Cathy Renna/TargetCueI believe I pulled it together, and we were able to continue a meaningful conversation that multiple people later remarked being deeply impressed by during the public feedback session. As we ended the convening, I tapped WSWW on the shoulder and asked if we could speak. We went off to the side and had a difficult conversation, certainly for both of us. She, like myself, is bisexual and had been deeply influenced by Charles Blow’s discussions of sexual fluidity. She told me others had apologized to her for my “crazy” response to her being a fan girl, and she said she was worried for me since I had humiliated myself by bullying her.  Image of crying Peter Parker with caption, “White Boy Tears / I’m Offended Your Offended At that, a smile broke across my face, and I will never forget telling her “That’s OK, because you’re going to your grave having told a Black woman that she humiliated herself when she responded to your racism.” WSWW blanched at that, and swallowed hard when I followed up with a tearfully stated, “I call you racist to your face, and name your actions as racist”. As she teared up, she asked me how it could be racist just to bring her phone up to the panel. And I took her through the sequence of events from my perspective, and I asked her if she realized she had touched me, or if she realized she was in my space, attempting to lean across my body to reach Charles Blow, when we’d never even met before. Her eyes went WIDE, and she said, “Oh, my gosh. I totally invaded your space and I didn’t even think about it.” We talked about her “Black friends” in Oklahoma, and I told her that having Black friends doesn’t mean you’re actually invested in the movement for Black lives. We talked about her “love of Black people” and how that can be misconstrued into fetishization if one isn’t careful, especially when you begin crawling towards them with puppy dog eyes during a panel about race in America. We began to laugh with each other and I realized I really liked her even though I didn’t think she’d ever had the opportunity to learn how to respect a Black person like me, and culturally exchange with them instead of culturally appropriate from them. Image from Paying an Unfair Price: The Financial Penalty for LGBT People of Color report by the Movement Advancement Project.That’s a responsibility, I feel should be left squarely at the feet of a lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and queer community that’s doggedly refused to dialogue about race in favor of reinventing racism in new flavors. I had to wonder if WSWW had been influenced at all by the #LGBTMEDIA16 keynote address the night before that found gay legend and filmmaker John Waters telling jokes about Freddie Gray’s broken back alongside Bill Cosby rape stories. In a rare move, the convening had asked the attendees to refrain from taking photos or video of John Water’s “address”, which was probably for the best, as I feel like someone could have lost their job just for listening to the atrocities that dropped from Waters’ mouth like little white nuggets of gay racism. Experiencing that, even briefly since I walked out early, was a form of racial trauma visited upon the people of color in the space, and for what? Since you’re gay and white, you’ve been hurt and can hurt people too? Since you’re a white gay man, you know what it’s like to fear police so Freddie Gray’s broken vertebrae is a good punchline when you’re feeling salty? Since you’re a white LGBTQ person, you have no problem stepping into photos where people of color are already posed together, with nary a thought as to whether they want you in the photo too? Since you’re a white lesbian, you’re a “sister” to Black women? Since you’re queer, you can culturally appropriate Black culture with a “SLAY!” or “YASSSSS QUEEN!” or “GIRL, GET IT!”? The six openly LGBT U.S. ambassadors, all white, all gay and all cis. Photo Credit: WashingtonPost.com/ (Blake Bergen/GLIFAA) Oh no, I think not!!! I call that racist too, and long past time for an end. It’s time for all people of color to see some basic levels of respect in the LGBTQIA community for who they are. So that means no more “Namaste!”, and it means dropping the “No Blacks, No Asians” from your dating profile. It means fighting just as hard for clean water for Native people as it does for the residents of Flint, MI, and shouting #Not1More to amplify the fight of Latinx immigrants. It means fighting #pinkwashing in all it's forms and it ABSOLUTELY means acknowledging the existence of dozens of cultural experiences and peoples still fighting to be heard. It also means that LGBT orgs should quit touting the numbers of people of color on staff, until the management reflects those colors too. When all the coordinators, service providers, and facility people are of color and all the management is white, it still looks like a plantation in my book! #GayMediaSoWhite that LGBT publishers shouldn't bother counting the magazine covers with people of color on them, if they aren't also counting the number of people of color on staff writing and editing in them. Until the day comes that the rainbow really reflects all of us, I will stand up against racism in LGBTQIA communities with whatever tools I have at my disposal. I will keep telling myself, and telling you too, that it is OK to cry, and BE MAD. We should be mad that our community does not support us! It is OK to protest white LGBT people, in fact one might argue it is our duty as their fellow queer, bi+ and trans* community members. We must do what needs to be done to find some respect for our voices and our bodies, and make clear that the LGBTQIA community is one that supports freedom for everyone, and not just for some.

[americanlibertypac]

This Nationwide Program Is Teaching Millions of Students to Become Leftist Snowflakes

Photo Credit: Pixabay, PublicDomainPictures, CC0 Public Domain, https://pixabay.com/en/anger-angry-bad-burn-dangerous-18658/

Parents beware: A program called Challenge Day that applauds a culture of victimhood is planting the leftist agenda into young minds under the guise of anti-bullying education.

The program uses the power of peer pressure and groupthink to impress upon high school students the idea that everyone is a victim.

Challenge Day is no small initiative. According to the program’s website, it has been held at more than 2,200 high schools nationwide and reached millions of students.

Challenge Day purports to teach tolerance and acceptance, yet nearly every member of its board of directors and Global Leadership Council is politically left of center.

Of the 17 members of Challenge Day’s board of directors, 15 openly support leftist leaders and causes, and two have an unknown affiliation, according to Federal Election Commission records and personal social media accounts. Of their 22-person Global Leadership Council, 17 of the members support leftist leaders and causes.

This is an organization that preaches diversity but is not politically diverse itself.

The most concerning member of Challenge Day’s global governing board? The former “green-jobs czar” under President Barack Obama, Van Jones.

While Jones was in jail after a mass arrest, according to the East Bay Express, he said, “I met all these young radical people of color—I mean really radical, communists and anarchists. And it was, like, ‘This is what I need to be a part of.’”

When in high school, I myself participated in Challenge Day. At 16 years old, I was a junior at Grosse Pointe North High School, a public school outside Detroit.

I was asked to step forward if I were ever called a bad kid, tried to run away, isolated myself, was made fun of by someone I trusted, or felt as if I were treated differently because of my skin color.

Approximately 100 of my peers joined me in this exercise. During this session, I felt pressured to cry, and if I didn’t cry I was made to feel heartless. Whenever someone burst out in tears, we were asked to raise our hands in unity with our hands in a “love gesture.”

In truth, it felt like an initiation ceremony for a cult.

Everyone was asked to confess their challenges. At that age, I learned to move on from my struggles and show strength when faced with adversity. Yet, I felt compelled to come up with something to say with a tear in my eye.

It felt “cool” to be a victim and to cry during public “apologies.”

During the exercise, I finally came up with an experience that fit the program’s conception of victimhood. On Election Day in 2012, I wore a “Mitt Romney for President” T-shirt to school.

In a discussion about the election, one of the students sitting next to me in class opined that those who refused to support Obama were racist.

So, at Challenge Day when asked to step forward if I had been treated differently because of my skin color, I did. Yet, students did not display the “love gesture.” Instead, I was met with blank stares.

Perhaps I would have been better off apologizing for my sex or my skin color.

Although schools often ask for the permission of parents before students participate, the program largely leaves parents out of the equation and often unaware of the curriculum of the program, or what their children say that day.

Organizers do not apprise parents of any identified problems and, as a result, parents may not know if their children need actual professional help.

Recently, Challenge Day’s leftist indoctrination became even more apparent.

After the election of President Donald Trump, the organization released a statement on its website implying that Trump is a bully, noting, “Since the election, reports have arisen of young people on campuses all over the United States who do not feel safe on campus due to acts of violence, bullying, racism and intimidation.”

Challenge Day conveniently left out the fact that the president has encouraged no such behavior and that many of these reports have been proven false.

Furthermore, the organization forgets the countless reports of violence against conservative students, including the violent riots at the University of California, Berkeley when conservatives attempted to speak there, the left-driven riots and arson during Trump’s inauguration, and the anti-Trump May Day demonstrations in Portland, Oregon.

In the same statement, Challenge Day’s endorsement of the politics of privilege becomes more apparent. It said: “We stand in solidarity with all of our communities; from the marginalized to those who have privilege and are committed as allies.”

Challenge Day even released a “Post-Election Kindness Grant.” The grant goes to schools that “have experienced post-election bullying” and want to participate in Challenge Day programs.

It must think the general public is naïve when it says that the grant is not driven by a leftist agenda. From my research, Challenge Day’s “post-election” statement and grant were not issued after previous elections.

If a school doesn’t receive a “Post-Election Kindness Grant,” it can always rely on the taxpayer. According to Challenge Day’s website, schools “have used a variety of federal, state, and foundation grants to pay for Challenge Day programs.”

According to its website, “Common grants include School Climate Transformation Grants, GEAR UP, TRIO programs including Upward Bound, i3 Grants, School Improvement Grants, and Title 1 funding, among others.”

Yes, the taxpayer is footing the bill for additional leftist indoctrination programs in high schools.

No longer are young people taught to find the good in people and society, to be optimistic, to be self-reliant, to be hopeful, and to have good relationships with their families.

Programs like Challenge Day teach students to find divisions constantly: Everyone and everything is racist, poses a direct threat to their safety, or is the product of some form of social privilege.

Instead of teaching resilience, respect, and independence, students are taught to break down and cry, discuss their feelings, and check their social “privilege.”

Want to end bullying? Teach the golden rule: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” Or, teach the great commandment: “Love thy neighbor as thyself.” That’s all you need.

The kind of victimhood culture that Challenge Day promotes has devastating consequences for our society. This is particularly the case when students become adults who are unable to recognize the importance of free speech and individual responsibility.

If Challenge Day is coming to your child’s school, hold the school’s leadership accountable. Ask how the program is funded or if a comparable program promoting individual responsibility and traditional values is offered.

Also, the Department of Education should ensure that federal funds no longer finance programs with such fractious ideological agendas.

Until students, parents, educators, and public policy leaders take action against snowflake-producing programs such as Challenge Day, our society will continue down this perilous path of political correctness and national division.

Commentary by Grant Strobl. Originally published at The Daily Signal.

[academiablogs]

Developing a Taste for Taste

(Image source)  There are few definitions longer in the Oxford English Dictionary than that of “taste,” which has numerous meanings both as a noun and verb, all related to the idea of tasting or sampling something, but few meaning quite the same thing. When we ask the question, “what does it mean to have artistic taste?”, we’re using the definition supplied by the OED relatively far down the page, which says, “8a. The sense of what is appropriate, harmonious, or beautiful; esp. discernment and appreciation of the beautiful in nature or art; spec. the faculty of perceiving and enjoying what is excellent in art, literature, and the like.” One of the earliest recorded uses of this definition in English comes from Milton’s Paradise Lost (1671), where he writes, “Zion’s songs, to all true tastes excelling,/Where God is praised aright.” However, this is itself a dated construction, since it has become unpopular to suggest that taste has a “true” meaning or designation. In our multicultural world, taste is subjective, different from one person to another, and not quantifiable in terms of artistic excellence or stylistic perfection. As it is used today, it is more akin to the sense of taste, which renders a dishing pleasing to some and displeasing to others; either too bitter or too sweet, not everyone’s cup of tea. In this case, it is something that can be acquired with practice or experience, like learning to enjoy Thai or Ethiopian cuisine (or American cuisine, if you’re Thai or Ethiopian).

While it's true that taste is acquired, I think there’s also a kind of universal law to taste--almost like mathematics. There are combinations in art that are more than just personal preference, they're truly masterful and unique. For example, you might not like British literature, and if you do, you might not like 19th century novels, and if you do, you might not like Jane Austen; but her prose is so rich, perfectly balanced, and matched so well to her characters and her themes that it reaches the very pinnacles of what the written word can do in the conventions of the novel. Some might still cry "that's just a matter of taste," but if we coldly, logically, took apart the structure of the novel, as well as the timbre and craft of her sentences, it simply emerges as highly skilled and cultivated art, whether or not you like to read it. For example, take this rather random sentence from her novel Mansfield Park (1816):

“Surprise, consciousness, and pleasure, appeared in each of the three on this unexpected meeting; and as Edmund was come on the very same business that had brought Miss Crawford, consciousness and pleasure were likely to be more than momentary in them. He too had his book, and was seeking Fanny, to ask her to rehearse with him, and help him prepare for the evening, without knowing Miss Crawford to be in the house; and great was the joy and animation of being thus thrown together—of comparing schemes—and sympathising [sic] in praise of Fanny’s kind offices” (Vol 1, Ch.18).

In this scene, the timid Fanny Price is helping Miss Crawford, a cunning beauty from London, practice lines for a play she and her friends are performing to while away the time at Mansfield Park (where Fanny lives). She is portraying the male part, which is played by her cousin, Edmund, which Fanny secretly loves and Miss Crawford is more openly pursuing. As they rehearse, Edmund enters the room and finds them together, leading to the passage quoted above. All conventional enough, but what makes this crackle is how Austen shows how three very different people all share the exact same emotions upon encountering each other: surprise, consciousness, and pleasure. Fanny didn’t expect him to be here, so is a little embarrassed on having him see her playing his role (she’s very prim, almost to the point of being a prude), yet delighted to see him all the same; Miss Crawford is less embarrassed as conscious of how he might interpret her being there—if she’s being too forward, since she’s starting to get lost in her role and actually beginning to love him a little; and Edmund worries that she might feel he’s pursuing her too hotly, but no longer really cares.

Austen goes on to qualify this by saying “and as Edmund was come on the very same business that had brought Miss Crawford, consciousness and pleasure were likely to be more than momentary in them.” Here, “them” no longer means all three, but only two—Edmund and Miss Crawford. Fanny may or may not realize that both of them are merely using Fanny as a subtext to get closer to teach other, to speak the words of love to Fanny as a proxy for Edmund/Miss Crawford. Now, they no longer have to use her at all, since they can use this “accident” to practice with each other (and Fanny can vouch for their innocence—they meant to practice with Fanny, but since they ran into each other, and she was there to act as chaperone, why not?). Now Austen artfully adopts Edmund’s voice without using dialogue (a technique known as free indirect speech), as he explains what brought him here: “He too had his book, and was seeking Fanny, to ask her to rehearse with him, and help him prepare for the evening, without knowing Miss Crawford to be in the house.” This gives us the sense that the narrator is hurrying over his pointless explanation (pointless both for Miss Crawford and the reader), yet he’s so tongue-tied that he doesn’t know what else to say.

The narrator abruptly cuts him off, saying how happy they were to be “thus thrown together—of comparing schemes— and sympathising [sic] in praise of Fanny’s kind offices.” Another masterful sentence, since it unites all of their sentiments while slyly undercutting Fanny and removing her from the conversation. Both Edmund and Miss Crawford quickly take control of the conversation, praising Fanny’s virtues in order to exclude her from their rehearsal. Able to see each other’s surprise and delight, they have laid their cards on the table, and no longer need the emotional protection of a go-between. Fanny will quickly realize herself becoming a third wheel in this group, and the reader picks it up even faster through the verbal sleight-of-hand of the narrator. We could go on examining this entire scene, or the entire chapter, or the entire book—but a single sentence or two makes the point. This is “taste” as applied to literature, meaning the application of style, art, and sentiment. There’s nothing clumsy or accidental here, but everything is weighed carefully to communicate a specific meaning for the reader, and to help us ‘see’ the inner world of the characters and their emotions.

Of course, not everyone will appreciate this passage or find such passages agreeable reading. For some, it will sound too old, too fussy; others will find the pacing too slow; still others might find it boring. So who’s right? All of us? None? This begs a second question regarding taste, particularly if we regard taste as a universal attribute: is taste a matter of education? Does your taste improve with education (meaning an education that focuses on liberal arts, literature, culture, etc.)? Clearly you can be a great reader without an education, but does an education help elevate, expand, refine, or broaden your aesthetic vision? Can a lack of education also doom you as a reader and/or writer?

Granted, it sounds elitist to say “if you don’t like Jane Austen you’re not educated!” And that’s not how I mean it. But rather, the more you read, and become knowledgeable in the different literatures of various times and lands, the easier you can relate to what Jane Austen (and others) are doing, and so appreciate it. In the same way, if you’ve never listened to much classical music, and go to a concert featuring Mahler’s 9th symphony (which clocks in at around an hour and thirty minutes) you might be bored out of your mind. However, take some Music Appreciation courses in college, or spend a year listening to and learning about symphonies in general, and you will understand how to follow and appreciate a long symphonic score. So much of what we appreciate and don’t appreciate can be called ‘taste,’ but it can also be called ‘experience.’ What we dislike is often because it’s not familiar to us, and thus seems “wrong” or “out of place.” Yet when we learn to put it in its place, it becomes both familiar and pleasing. Some argue that we form our individual aesthetic judgment more on the basis of routine than experimentation. What we live with, we learn to enjoy—and then prefer. It’s the same reason so many people practice the religion of their parents, prefer their mother’s home cooking, and want to raise their kids back home. Aesthetics or Upbringing? You be the judge...

In the same way, if you don't know much about literature, history, culture, or tradition, then you can read a pretty lackluster, cliche-ridden book and find it thrilling. However, when you read and learn more, you can see how derivative and uninspired it is. Think of all the kids' books we were enthralled by that no longer do it for us. Education 'ruined' those books for us. But at the same time, it helps us appreciate the virtues in more sophisticated and nuanced books. The more educated I've become (not just through school, but through my own reading and writing), the more I can appreciate and enjoy- it's opened so many doors to me. But I think it's unpopular to admit this in our culture; we like to think universities and education is elitist and that everything is relative. I don't think it is, though. You can read and enjoy anything, but you'll read and enjoy more if your education increases. And education simply means exposure and familiarity to more diverse materials and knowledge.

I hesitate to call anything a ‘bad’ book or a ‘good’ book. But I never hesitate to call something ‘great.’ Taste allows me to do that. Taste isn’t really all that subjective. It merely helps you discern artistic style and other notable characteristics in a single sentence or a single bar of music. Greatness truly stands out, whereas goodness is harder to define (or taste). So by developing a taste for taste, you are merely exercising your ability to appreciate the world of art, and to understand why people have been raving about this one book or author for over 200 years. I’m looking at you, Jane Austen!

[kansascityhappenings]

Christmas comes early for toddler with terminal cancer

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COLERAIN TOWNSHIP, Ohio — “Jingle Bells” played on radios across Ohio. The local mall plastered “Merry Christmas” on its digital signs. And hundreds of people, in 90-degree weather, wore Santa hats as they caroled in front of one little boy’s home.

It’s only September, but for a 2-year-old with terminal brain cancer, Christmas came early this year.

Colerain Township, a suburb of Cincinnati, celebrated the holiday this weekend because doctors say the boy, Brody Allen, wouldn’t make it to December.

Despite aggressive and painful chemotherapy, brain scans showed that Brody’s five embryonal tumors were not responding to treatment. “The doctor had tears in his eyes as he was telling us,” said his aunt, Dina Brock. “The poor boy had gone through so much in the hospital, but there wasn’t any good news.”

After Brody spent more than 90 days at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital, much of it in the intensive care unit, the Allen family decided to bring him home.

Painful radiation therapy would do little for his prognosis, doctors told the family, and “we wanted to do everything we could to let him live life,” said Brock.

“He can’t use the left side of his body, his speech has changed, and he has tremors,” she said. But back at home, “he doesn’t get down about it. He doesn’t know what we know. He doesn’t know he has cancer.”

‘Team Brody’ goes viral

The family started a Facebook group, “Team Brody,” to update loved ones on his status. Hoping to celebrate the holidays one last time with their son, the family made a post asking friends and family for Christmas lights.

Brody Allen

That small request went viral, and more than 13,000 people have since joined the group, sending prayers from as far away as London and Paris. “The love and attention they’re giving Brody is unbelievable,” said Brock. “People are reaching out for no other reason than their good will.”

Back at home, Brody’s neighborhood soon turned into a winter wonderland. Inflatable snowmen lined the streets and garland hung from fences and front doors.

Brody was the Grand Marshal of his own superhero-themed Christmas parade, which featured Santa riding a firetruck, cheerleaders and a dazzling fireworks display this past Sunday.

“When the parade started, my family was in the front row to see it all,” said Amanda Hill, a Colerain Township resident who watched with her husband and twin children. “It was overwhelming and abundantly clear how much that little boy meant to the community.”

A town comes together

In divisive times, Brody’s story has brought family, friends and even strangers together.

“This is a community of people with diverse backgrounds, beliefs, ethnicities and genders coming together for Brody,” said Matt Castleman, a pastor at the Crossroads West Side church outside of Cincinnati. Castleman, who studied musical theater, worked with local radio station WARM 98.5 to organize a flash mob on Saturday outside of Brody’s home.

The Children’s Theatre of Cincinnati provided reindeer and elf costumes, Castleman’s church helped turn out singers, and the station took photos. Volunteers handed out lyric sheets at a local grocery store before consolidating cars and heading to Brody’s neighborhood, where they distributed gifts and sang songs like “Silent Night” while holding hands.

“The Allen family knew that we were coming, but they were shocked when we showed up with hundreds of people,” Castleman said. It was so hot, he added, that “you couldn’t tell if people were crying or sweating.”

The airwaves were blanketed with the holiday spirit, too. “We decided to play one Christmas song per hour with a shout out to Brody before every song, to help him celebrate with his family a little early,” said Brian Demay, the program director at WARM 98.5.

‘He definitely seems happier’

That support has meant the world to Brody, an outgoing boy who spent months in the ICU, where he often wasn’t allowed to see his brothers or sisters. “He definitely seems happier to me,” said Brock. “He loves people and he’s not afraid of anyone.”

“He’s a flirt,” she added. “He’s a major flirt. He’s flirting with any and everybody, but mostly the ladies.”

And he has fans, too. Supporters have been using the hashtag #TeamBrody to send support to members of the Allen family, who have already raised more than $37,000 through a GoFundMe created to cover Brody’s medical expenses.

The boy’s father, Todd Allen, wrote on Facebook that “the world collectively has reached out to hug our son.”

“You have taught me that we are not bound together solely by our nationality, language, religion, culture, race, social or economic status,” he said. “We are bound by our humanity.”

from FOX 4 Kansas City WDAF-TV | News, Weather, Sports https://fox4kc.com/2018/09/28/christmas-comes-early-for-toddler-with-terminal-cancer/

from Kansas City Happenings https://kansascityhappenings.wordpress.com/2018/09/29/christmas-comes-early-for-toddler-with-terminal-cancer/

[themadameditor]

I love LOVE, I’m a huge sucker for it and in my stories, happily ever after is the theme. The world is shitty enough and in no need of more darkness, so I choose love. From the moment the world got wind of their courtship to the wedding, the union of Prince Harry and Meghan Markle has been subject to immense scrutiny from the press, and public alike. Talk show hosts and pundits questioned her affection for him, whilst royalist and elitist are still frothing at the mouth, at the thought of a bi-racial woman entering into the royal family, so much so, Kensington Palace had to release a statement condemning these attitudes that revealed that ugly underbelly of British society, that part of society some like to pretend does not exist.

But before we address that, let’s look at the different aspects that tied this all together. Meghan, a bi-racial, Hollywood actress bringing together elements of her background and culture, acknowledging that multi diversity from both sides of her heritage, and Harry the bonny rebel prince. If I didn’t know better I would believe this to be a script out of Hollywood, reminiscent of Grace Kelly back in the day. But unlike the Kelly marriage, there was a lot of symbolism in this wedding, a lot of pinned hopes and perception this union gives a nation, regardless of how you look at it.

In 1937 when an American divorcee married the king of England, it caused a constitutional crisis that would change the face of the monarchy itself. Six months after abdicating the throne, King Edward and Wallis Simpson got married, were bestowed with the title of Duke and Duchess, and would go on to live like pariahs of the establishment; common socialites ostracized by an institution refusing to acknowledge a different way of life to its own traditional existence. In 2018, the narrow streets of Windsor were lined with flag waving fans, black, white and all other ethnicities, in celebration of the Hollywood actress, American divorcee, biracial woman marrying into the same said royal family. Talk about a season of change; the world and all its colours celebrated a story of love, a new and modern kind of love that most hope will guide the royal family into navigating this more progressive world.

Mother of the bride Doria Ragland, for whom many cheered, attended as Meghan’s only family, following the much publicized brouhaha with her father and the palavers of her step siblings. She looked divine in a light green embroidered ensemble from Oscar De La Renta. Her dread locks in a ponytail, and a nose ring, she looked on proudly, if a little overwhelmed by it all, as her daughter married into this institution, inducted into the most secretive and highest echelons of British society, a foreign land with foreign ways; a far cry from her life as a yogi in America. Her presence represented a marked difference especially when directly beside the grandness of the royal family, of which she is now a part. Dreadlocks, nose ring and all.

Meghan, a product of a biracial marriage, now herself in a biracial marriage, is a woman acutely aware of what her race represents in today’s climate. This is not simply a marriage to a prince, this is a marriage of a prince to a commoner, one of mixed heritage whose story is not riddled with perfect clichés and rose gilded images. On both sides this was a significant union, but in the eye of the vortex is the woman marrying into a family much watched by the world, a family whose whiteness and class has often defined who they are, and afforded them a particular privilege, fairly or unfairly. This is a family whose whiteness is peak, whose history is steeped in colonization and slavery, whose crown jewels tell a sordid story, welcoming a woman whose heritage would have been another cause for crisis, some ten years ago even. The law prohibiting women from ascending the throne was only amended in 2012, to show you how steeped in the rigidness of the past the royal family is. Image is important, and watching Prince Charles walk Meghan down the quire of the aisle, spoke more to the character of the bride. Some would have preferred if she walked with her mother, but looking at the woman sitting in the pew, who sometimes caught her breath as the reality of the day dawned on her, one can see why Meghan asked Prince Charles to do the honours.  Above all else, it’s her prerogative.

Her dress, in all its simplicity, was a grand symbol that told the story of a woman comfortable in her own skin, confident in her being, and a way for Markle to assert herself whilst going into an institution that would mean losing some of that self-assertion, where everything is choreographed and every move watched and dissected. The dress was simple; bateau neckline, wide enough to be almost off shoulder, long sleeves, nipped in waist, made from heavy silk with a muted finish. It schemed her body regally down to the exquisite train that glided easily with her every step. It was a dress free of the usual bride frothiness and was made all the more elegant because of its understated grace. This was a dress that made a statement in its quietness, one that spoke of and for a woman who understands the task and duty ahead of her, but at the same time, a promise to hold on to the woman who was raised by a dreadlock wearing Black mother. Images are important, the new Duchess of Sussex, is a woman whose life will forever remain public therefore, she is both a mirror and a window; a mirror in which young girls will see themselves and a window into which the world will look to define the institution she now represents. Whether Ms. Markle will remain that woman, time will tell. When one marries into such an institution as the royal family, it is with a sense of dependence; an establishment to speak on your behalf and orchestrate every aspect of one’s life. Her veil denoted that sense of history and acknowledged the duty she is to embark on. Five meters long, hand embroidered with every flower of the fifty three countries of the common wealth, much like Queen Elizabeth had at her wedding, and two of Meghan’s favorite flowers, California poppy and Winter sweet. Her tiara, on loan to her by the Queen, belonged to Queen Mary, two aspects make up this tiara; the broach which was gifted to Queen Mary in 1893 and the bandeau which was fashioned for the tiara in 1932.

A lot has been said about the Duchess’ ethnicity, her biracial background, the way the press has talked about her, the unfair way they have treated her father, the undertones and at times blatant racism from the press and some public figures. She is who she is, the daughter of a white father and a Black mother and she acknowledges both sides to her wholeness; you have to respect that. By all royal wedding standards this was a different, markedly different; even if all aspects would have been approved by the Royal Family. Mad props to Meghan because culture and heritage were a central part of the day. The descendant of slaves, Bishop Michael Curry, an Episcopal reverend from Chicago, delivered a very powerful, very inspiring sermon, quoted Dr Martin Luther King and referenced slavery in the antebellum American South, in an old English church in the small village of Windsor; wrap your head around that for a minute. Passionate and sometimes animated, his notes hit on love, taking us to church like they do in the Southern Baptist Black churches in America. A Black choir led by Karen Gibson sang their version of the soulful Ben E King’s Stand By Me. Sheku Kanneh-Mason, the nineteen year-old cellist whose rendition of Ave Maria is quite simply the most breathtaking version (I have most likely listened to all versions), received a call from Meghan asking him to play at her wedding. It was an acknowledgement of her heritage as a Black woman, a statement to those who have questions her roots, but also of Black Britain. She understands what her presence in the royal family might mean for some. Being mixed race, (I’m not, but I have half-sisters who are), is fraught with a feeling of being othered on both sides and having others project their sense of what your identity should be, onto you, as if the decision to claim your identity is not wholly yours, knowing that to choose one over the other will cause some measure of discomfort on either side. In a world where race and identity have become increasingly important, existing in the grey areas of who you are, outside of the margins of what is acceptable to society, can be daunting to say the least; the colour of your skin precedes your entire ability as a person. However, the idea that the presence of a biracial woman in the royal family is suddenly going to fix Britain’s race problem, is in itself a ludicrous assumption because she won’t. Furthermore, it is a rather unfair expectation; let Britain deal with its mess.

 “Two people fell in love and we all showed up” Whether or not we know them, their love moved us enough to take time out of our own lives to celebrate with them from whatever corners of the world we are. The love of a man and woman, who happen to be indicative of the country we live in today; if something more were to come out of that, it would be a plus. For now, we can celebrate their love and expect nothing more. We can all enjoy something and still be acutely aware of the society we live in.

wedding dress image via Kensington Palace

Harry & Meghan | Two People Fell In Love, And We All Showed Up. I love LOVE, I’m a huge sucker for it and in my stories, happily ever after is the theme.

[republicstandard]

Northern Ireland Is Ripe For Invasion: Police, Media, Politicians Bow To Islam

Considering the bloody history of Northern Ireland when it comes to sectarian violence, one might understand the reticence there to recognize the threat of Islam. On the other hand, given the bloody history of Catholic versus Protestant, one might expect a greater understanding of what turf wars between religious rivals can look like.

It appears that we must again recognize the power of the Cathedral; what the neoractionaries call the sometimes-self-aware social construct of media, education, and government. The narrative that runs through all aspects of this profane artifice is one of tolerance above all else- shattering the wisdom of Karl Popper and setting the stage for destruction.

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Unlimited tolerance must lead to the disappearance of tolerance. If we extend unlimited tolerance even to those who are intolerant, if we are not prepared to defend a tolerant society against the onslaught of the intolerant, then the tolerant will be destroyed, and tolerance with them. ~ Karl Popper

There is a small pan-Christian identitarian group in Northern Ireland which has adopted the moniker Generation Sparta. One might have imagined a slightly more Celtic influenced name, but in any case, the group is counter-jihad in orientation and have taken it upon themselves to alert their countrymen to the threat posed by Islam to the West. What I am about to describe mirrors almost perfectly both my own experience as a young man growing up in an almost entirely White town in Yorkshire and also that of the YouTuber Millenial Woes in his own White Scottish village.

People in virtual ethnostate conditions have no idea how good they have it. They may look at a pamphlet that bears uncomfortable news and uncritically reject it. We are all, I am sure, guilty of this at some point. We have only people like ourselves to contend with, which becomes boring. Mundane. We might fantasise about the exotic East, or the cosmopolitan cities; far away from the backwards looking troglodytes we are spawned from and fear to become. Islam itself becomes exciting, culturally enriching, and a colorful counter to the dour gloom of the slate-gray Ulster skies.

I will wager good money that I know of someone who feels today as we once felt. So begins the story of Northern Ireland resident 'Meg'.

This insane and terrifying pamphlet was posted through my door yesterday wtf pic.twitter.com/vHWJadJej5

— Meg Brad (@MegMog95) April 3, 2018

Yes indeed, this looks like a scary leaflet to receive if one does not have the prerequisite education -or rather, if one has the requisite indoctrination- to understand the reality of it. It is easy to dismiss as insane and terrifying that which we do not understand. To assist Meg in understanding this matter, let us look at the claims made by Generation Sparta.

CLAIM: Will Britons be a minority in the United Kingdom in 2066?

Yes; at least according to Professor of Demography at Oxford, Peter Coleman and the Migration Observatory.

“On current trends, European populations will become more ethnically diverse, with the possibility that today’s majority ethnic groups will no longer comprise a numerical majority.”

This study does refer specifically to the White British, which as we have written about before are a distinct ethnic group; with a distinct culture and set of values. Generation Sparta are correct in saying that British people were not balloted on immigration- frequently they voted for parties that promised to curb immigration and were ignored. Though I have asked many times myself for a reason why Britain will not become a country where the indigenous population is a minority, I have never received a reasoned answer. Without fail, the question is dismissed as implausible. Without fail, this question is treated as evidence of racism.

The police came round, impressively speedy response from @PoliceServiceNI. They took the pamphlet with them and are gonna investigate

— Meg Brad (@MegMog95) April 4, 2018

Until sufficient evidence is produced that disproves the projections of demographic replacement, we must -if we claim to be living in a somewhat evidence-based shared reality- recognize that replacement migration is real. Generation Sparta are entirely correct to make the claim in their leaflet. We know that the UN itself desires this process.

CLAIM: Nothing is done following terrorist attacks in England.

Can any deny that this is true? The bombing of a pop-concert in Manchester is quickly replaced in the narrative by the tragedy of Grenfell; dealing with terrorism is hard. Blaming Britain for poor constructions that incinerate illegal immigrants is easy. We have seen no steps taken in the United Kingdom to even contend with the difficult questions around Islam as a philosophy. We cannot discuss it, not even in the House of Lords.

We must agree again that Generation Sparta are correct- in so far as nothing positive is done- we see our civil liberties eroded a little more after every Peace-Stabbing or Peace-Bomb.

With emotive language, Generation Sparta lay the blame for this dire future at the feet of their own politicians. Note that well- there is no mention of violence, or hate towards Muslims- or anyone else. The political elites are whom Generation Sparta blame for the enrichment of Ireland; and if the responses to Meg's original tweet are to go by from Alliance Party members, we must again agree with the pamphlet.

I'd definitely pass that to the police. Goes way beyond opinion to incitement. The fact that it's deranged notwithstanding 🙄

— Naomi Long MLA (@naomi_long) April 3, 2018

I know! And there are a significant amount of Muslim people in this area, I'd hate for them to feel unwelcome because of a few hateful people

— Meg Brad (@MegMog95) April 4, 2018

Alliance's policies also indicate a fatal misunderstanding of human population dynamics; buying in entirely to Lockean blank slate ideas, that all humans are fundamentally interchangeable.

Is the cry of RACIST! unfamiliar? As the Journal reports:

South Belfast DUP MP Emma Little Pengelly and MLA Christopher Stalford have condemned the distribution of the leaflets.

“These leaflets, distributed by an unknown and anonymous group, do not speak for the people who live in that area or the vast majority of people across Northern Ireland,” they said.

“We have seen attempts before to incite racism within Northern Ireland and thankfully they have failed on every occasion.

It is absolutely wrong and dangerous to try and stir up racist sentiment by conflating an entire religion with the vile, violent acts of terrorists, who are just masquerading under the cover of religion."

Once again we are treated to the gloriously myopic bleatings from cuckold politicians who claim to know the minds of religious fundamentalists better than the religious fundamentalists themselves. This, from a hardcore Protestant Unionist party who have campaigned in the past to "save Ulster from sodomy" and advocated for creationism in schools. Let us not pretend that this party is one of tolerance and such fancies- but even the DUP cannot bring itself to say; No- we do not want an Islamic Northern Ireland. Strange then, that over a year ago the atheist community in Northern Ireland submitted a letter to the Home Secretary "raising serious concerns about the UK Government’s ‘independent review’ into Sharia courts in Britain."

Strange that in Northern Ireland the godless will go where the God-fearing fear to tread.

CLAIM: The media tar opponents of multiculturalism as racist

Of course! It's racist to point it out. As predicted in their own pamphlet, Generation Sparta are accurate again. Now, one might say- well, of course, the press will say this pamphlet is racist because it is racist! The counter is simple- there is nothing racist in the pamphlet unless we are to believe that Islam is a race- and therefore immune from critique. This is a fundamental point of contention. If you cannot criticize ideas because it is racist to criticize those ideas, you are living under tyranny. You are living under laws that persecute blasphemy.

I will say that it is wrong to use the image of Fusilier Lee Rigby in this manner. There is no need to politicize his death further- he shall not be forgotten, but sympathy must be shown to his family; who have repeatedly requested that his image is not used by activists. That should be respected- and Generation Sparta should know better. This being said, the words accompanying his image are also accurate- these are the sites of terrorist attacks in England. Far more than 1500 English girls have been raped by predominantly Pakistani men. These facts are not in dispute, surely.

You have seen the pamphlet and read the criticism in the press, but I want to show you the depths to which our media outlets will sink in search of a bias-confirming story. Here are the tweets from the press, begging for a comment from the girl who received the pamphlet.

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Hi Meg, I'm from the @IrishTimes - would it be ok for us to use your pics of the leaflet as part of our coverage?

— David Cochrane (@davidcochrane) April 5, 2018

Can you follow for a DM?

— Arthur Strain (@Fronkenstrain) April 4, 2018

Meg, I'm a reporter with https://t.co/aSXrpCFHE9. Would you mind if we were to share this image with full cred to you?

— Kate Demolder (@katedemolder) April 5, 2018

Hi Meg, my name is Michael and I work for the @BelTel - would it be OK to use these images of the leaflet?

— MichaelSheilsMcnamee (@MichaelOnassis) April 5, 2018

In lockstep, these so-called journalists role out the same talking points with the same downstream thinking. We only ever look at the effect, and never the cause. We may even find out that indeed Generation Sparta are racists or such, but that information will never come from the spineless British press. I have reached out to Generation Sparta myself to obtain a comment, and will update this article should i receive one.

And so we see how a crime is manufactured from the truth.

Chief Inspector David Moore of the Police Service of Northern Ireland said:

"We are treating this as a hate incident at present and we are making a number of enquiries.

"The PSNI continues to make it clear that hate crime, in any form, is unacceptable."

That a pamphlet of relatively uncontroversial statements reveals that Ireland, which spent much of the last century witnessing extreme sectarian violence, can now no longer bear criticism of Islam is truly saddening. It is a hate crime, after all, to say “This is Ireland. This land is of the Irish.” Isn’t that what we were looking for, all those troubled years? Are we so deluded that we ignore that the most likely thing to unite a people is a common foe? I am willing to bet that if this group is bringing Protestants and Catholics together, there might actually be something to be learned; if not from the beliefs of Generation Sparta per se, but surely from how sectarian lines may be bridged.

I suppose as she reported the pamphlets to the police, we should leave the last word to Meg herself. Remember; the pamphlet warns against rape gangs. It is, you might say, an anti-rape leaflet.

If you talk to any woman about rape or sexual assault, the chances are that they will have a story about a time they were raped or almost raped or in fear of being raped. I don't think men realise that.

— Meg Brad (@MegMog95) March 28, 2018

May I suggest that the men of Generation Sparta realize that very well?

It is very easy to just be accepting of everything. To imagine that nothing really matters, and history was backward, dirty. Racist. Homophobic. This way of thinking leads us to value nothing, to preserve nothing of ourselves. The very idea that somewhere a religious person might be offended by a leaflet drives a multi-branch crackdown to root out these evil people who have looked at the world as it is, and not as we would wish it to be.

The establishment is terrified. You can see it in the reaction to wrongthink. It is this lack of thought in the response that will ultimately prove Generation Sparta right, and the media, the police, the political establishment and probably-gender-studies-major-Meg, will all be proven wrong. If you cannot think freely, then you will act as a slave.

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The worst part of that reality is that it is so easily preventable; if we steel ourselves, put our shoulders back, and contend with the problems at hand. All we have to do is take responsibility for our own futures.

Is that really so hard?

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