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stillbandofbrothersthirsty · 3 years ago

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I feel like Harry doesn’t get enough love and attention in the fandom 🥲 and since it is The Summer of Harry, could we get a small fic or headcanons about being best friends with Harry and getting into shenanigans with him?

xoxo

Omg yesss I love Harry, I agree he does not get enough love!!!

Here’s my unsolicited preamble: I truly adore him. In all honesty he’s the character I relate to most, personality wise. SO I had to do both a few headcanon’s and then a short lil fic that played those out. Not sure if this was exactly what you had in mind but this is what I picture being besties with Welsh would be like :) (p.s. sorry for any typos, I didn't do a lot of re-reading and I'm dyslexic sooo free pass)

- I feel like Welsh would be a very affectionate and physical love kind of friend because he seems really sure in his body language and physical space.

- He would be the kind of bestie you could cuddle with without any sort of apprehension over it being anything more than friendship.

- Welsh is the kind of friend that will lead you straight into trouble but charm your guys’ way right out of it.

- Welsh is the kind of friend to give really good advice but never the kind to pressure you or judge you if you don’t take his advice.

- At the same time he’s a bit of a hot mess himself but in such a confident, surly way that keeps him from becoming a basket case. Which means he’s not an exhausting friend to have. He gives energy to his friends.

There was a good chance that those who didn’t know you and Harry well would assume you had a flirtationship. Everyone knew about Kitty, especially after three months of having Harry as an Easy Company officer. So a judgmental look from an onlooking stranger wasn’t uncommon. But those who knew you well knew things could not be more platonic between you two. You and Harry had bonded from the beginning; like long-lost twins. You filled in each other’s gaps. You met each other note for note in every situation, from teasing Winters to sobering conversations about core values. Most dangerously, you fed off of each other’s mischief (much to Winters’ chagrin). That night wasn’t much different from the many you shared with Harry. The difference was that it was preceded by a particularly terrible day.

You were exhausted by the day's work. You had had the privilege of being singled out by Sobel who had berated you at length without real cause. You had very little energy to do anything except take a shower and go to bed. But it was a Friday, and Harry wasn’t about to let you get away with that.

“Good evening!” Harry skipped through the doorway of your barrack. He was cleaned up and dressed neatly in his khaki uniform.

“Hi Harry,” you said unenthusiastically from where you were stretched out.

“What’s up, cookie?” he kicked the side of your cot, trying to elicit a jolt of action from you.

“Crappy day.”

“Well come out and we’ll at least make sure it ends well.”

“Not in the mood.”

“Aw come on,” Harry whined, “I want to go have fun.”

“I’m in a bad mood, Harry,” you protested.

“Who put the bee in your bonnet?” he sat down beside you.

You wriggled slightly out of the way to make room for him. “Sobel.”

Harry rolled his eyes, “the guy’s a yuck, don’t let him ruin your night.

“Too late.” You knew you were just being a brat at this point. But Harry knew he was going to win you over.

“Come on, you’re getting up and we’re gonna have a great night. Dick’s coming out for an hour or so, you can’t miss that.”

“Is he drinking?” you sat up in shock.

Harry huffed, “pff, no, of course not. Still, it’ll be good to chat with him. Come on, get up.”

The pub was full of soldiers from all of the Airborne companies. Harry was leading you to the bar when you spotted him, Sobel.

“The hell is he doing here?” You asked.

Harry followed your eye line. “Gross,” he muttered, “come on.” He pushed forward.

“Harry,” you said reluctantly.

“Trust me,” he grinned mischievously. You recognised that glint in his eye and you couldn’t help but smile in excitement.

“Captain,” Harry addressed Sobel formally as he approached. The haughty officer barely acknowledged them with a nod but Harry began to spin his web.

“So rowdy in here,” he leaned on the bar conspiratorially, “so much reckless drinking.” He paused to make sure you were in on the conversation. “We were just discussing how drinking should only be done in fine taste, with quality liquor.” Sobel seemed to be listening despite his silence.

“We were,” you jumped in, “the ability to appreciate quality is a mark of superiority.” You matched Harry’s buttery tone, careful not to appear too direct with Sobel.

“That’s why Colonel Sink has all those beautifully decanted scotches in his office! Have you seen those?” Harry directed to you, across Sobel.

“Beautiful!” you enthused.

You two let those words hang there. Sobel had obviously taken in your words, you wanted them to settle.

“Anyways,” Harry said cheerfully, “can I buy you a drink, Captain?”

“Oh uh-,” Sobel stumbled, “I uh-,”

“I’m gonna get your strongest scotch, neat please,” Harry grinned charmingly at the bartender. Then he turned to Sobel, “should I make that two?” There was a challenging look in your friend's eye. You suppressed a grin but relished in the situation.

“Sure,” Sobel said curtly, then as an afterthought he turned to you, “are you getting one?” Had it been anyone else it would’ve considered him thoughtful.

“Oh no,” you said you said nonchalantly, “can’t stand the stuff. It’s wicked strong.” You swelled with sadistic delight as you watched Sobel’s eyes widen in fear.

“Cheers!” Harry handed the officer the dark brown drink with a mischievous smile.

To Sobel’s credit, he did take a generous sip of the liquor with only the slightest of flinches.

The two of you posted up at a table with Winters, Nixon, and a few of the other officers who had distanced themselves from the enlisted men. You sat chatting and drinking and generally having a good time. After a drink or two, you spotted Joe Liebgott in the crowd. He smiled over his drink at you and you couldn’t help but smile coyly back. He always seemed to catch your eye on nights out. Though nothing ever came from it you enjoyed the attention from the handsome man.

Welsh caught the exchange between you and Joe. “That boy is trouble.”

“What? I thought you liked Joe!”

“I do, great soldier.”

“But trouble?” you asked jokingly.

“Yeah, part of why I like him. Why don’t you go for someone sweet?” Harry scanned the crowd, “like Carwood?”

“Lipton’s married, Harry.”

“Oh right, Shifty then!”

You sighed, “you know I adore Shifty but..”

“You’re right, he’s too sweet for you. Better stick with, Joe.”

You and Harry stared at each other until you both broke into laughs.

“Thanks for the romantic advice,” you teased.

“Anytime,” Harry laughed into his drink.

The night progressed. Winters left early and eventually, Nixon retired as well. Soon enough, you and Harry were left alone at a table playing tiddlywinks with coins. Between the alcohol and the company, you were feeling good. The pains of the day had melted away.

Smokey Gordon, with the assistance of George Luz, began to lead the crowd of soldiers in song. It was a darkly humoured Irish ballad that Harry seemed to know well. From beside you at your table he belted out the words off-pitch, a cigarette burning away between his fingers, momentarily forgotten.

“You’re shit!” you laughed over the music, “you’re a terrible singer!”

Harry paused quickly to say, “shut up, I’m singing,” before launching his voice back into the chorus.

You laughed as the Easy Company men wrapped up their song in cheers. You smiled to yourself, grateful to be a part of such a great group of men.

You were feeling intoxicated late into the evening but nowhere near as intoxicated as Harry. He had had a fair amount to drink but luckily he held his alcohol well. He wasn’t a sloppy, sick or angry drunk. The alcohol only exacerbated his most questionable traits; characteristics you had grown to appreciate.

“You hungry?” you asked him as he polished off another beer.

“I can always eat,” he responded.

“Do you think they’ll serve us something here?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said, “I bet they’ve closed the kitchen. Probably hours ago!”

You eyed the bar. Things had died down slightly. Many people had gone home and the patrons who hadn’t were losing their energy. Conversational groups furnished with half drunk pints peppered the pub. “I bet we can make them serve us something. Surely something!” you said.

Harry looked deep in thought before saying, “you know, you’re right.”

“What’s the harm in asking?” you said with an alcohol-induced sense of confidence.

“You’re right! Let’s go!” Harry pulled you up from the table and the two of you made for the bar.

Harry leaned across the wood counter. “Can we get anything to eat? One of those pies maybe?” he asked the bartender.

“Ooh or eggs and bacon!” You interject. The thought of breakfast made your stomach rumble.

“Oh yeah, that sounds really good! Good call,” Harry turned his attention back to the exasperated bartender, “can we can some eggs and bacon please?”

“You think I got bacon?” The bartender asked dryly. “It’s midnight…during a war,” he explained like he was talking to idiots, which he kind of was.

“Mm good point,” you were quickly defeated in your inebriated state.

“Ah come on, Fred,” Harry said, “I know you have food! Please, for one of your most loyal patrons.”

It was true, Harry was a loyal customer. He had quickly become a regular at this pub. You had dragged him off a barstool more than a few times when he was meant to be elsewhere.

The bartender Fred eyed the grinning, gap-toothed man. “Fine, but you gotta eat it in the back. I don’t want everyone seeing I’m serving food or they’ll all want some.”

“Ah thank you Fred!” You thanked him exuberantly. He shot you both a stern look as you scrambled around the bar.

You two of you waited patiently perched upon apple crates in the back kitchen as Fred fried you up a couple of eggs and slices of ham. It wasn’t exactly bacon but it hit the spot. You had never tasted anything so good in your life.

“I could eat this for the rest of my life,” Harry said through a mouthful of food.

“Mm s’good,” you responded with equal impropriety. You swallowed, “thanks for forcing me out Harry.”

“Aw,” Harry wrapped an arm around your neck and gave you a sloppy kiss on the forehead, “anytime, cookie.”

#band of brothers #harry welsh #the summer of harry #hbo war #hbo band of brothers #harry welsh x reader #besties

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victorianwhitechapel · 5 years ago

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The Illinios Daily Register published on 31 August 1888, the very day of Mary Ann 'Polly' Nichols’ murder, what it seems another different murder. On the article we can read:

"The police were called to a house in Whitechapel last night on an alarm of murder, in which they found a woman in great suffering. On examination it was found she had been horribly and indecently mutilated. She could not tell who inflicted the wounds save that he was a tall man with black beard. The woman was taken to a hospital, and it is doubtful whether she can recover from her terrible injures. This is the third case of the kind known to the police [are they referring to Emma Elizabeth Smith, Martha Tabram and Polly Nichols?]. It is believed the awful work is the crime of one man, and that he is a maniac."

The London’s ‘Evening Standard', 1 September 1888 issue published (highlight words and sentences by me):

“Buck's row runs through from Thomas street to Brady street, and in the latter street what appeared to be blood stains were early in the morning found at irregular distances on the footpaths on each side of the street. Occasionally a larger splash was visible, and from the way in which the marks were scattered it seems as though the person carrying the mutilated body [of supposedly murder victim Annie Nichols] had hesitated where to deposit his ghastly burden, and had gone from one side of the road to the other, until the obscurity of Buck's row afforded the shelter sought for. The street had been crossed twice within the space of about 120 yards. The point at which the stains were first visible is in front of the gateway to Honey's mews, in Brady street, about 150 yards from the point where Buck's row commences. Several persons living in Brady street state that early in the morning they heard screams, but this is by no means an uncommon incident in the neighbourhood; and with one exception nobody seems to have paid any particular attention to what was probably the death struggle of an unfortunate woman. The exception was a Mrs. Colville, who lives only a short distance from the foot of Buck's row. According to her statement she was awakened early in the morning by her children, who said someone was trying to get into the house. She listened and heard a woman screaming "Murder! police!" five or six times. The voice faded away as though the was going in the direction of Buck's row, and all was quiet. She only heard the steps of one person.”

It is reckoned that Mary Ann's body wasn't moved, so she was murdered where she was found. Could the Brady street blood stains and screams be from this other attacked woman?

‘The East London Observer' published on the same Saturday, 1 September 1888:

“ANOTHER HORRIBLE TRAGEDY IN WHITECHAPEL. A Woman Murdered in Buck's Row [Mary Ann Nichols] TERRIBLE DETAILS. Latest Particulars. While the George-yard horror [Marta Tabram’s murder] in all its sickening and revolting details is still before the minds of the people of Whitechapel, there has just been acted in the same district another tragedy, which bids fair not only to equal that of George-yard, for the horrible manner in which the victim has met her death, but also for the mystery which seems to surround the manner in which she was murdered, and, indeed her whole history. It seems that on Friday morning Police-constable Neale [Neil], 97 J, was on his beat at about half-past four, in the neighbourhood of Buck's-row. It was then just after half-past four, and, in the early light of day he discovered lying on the pavement just outside the high brick wall which surrounds the Essex Wharf, the form of a woman. She was lying on her back, with hands that were tightly clenched, and presenting altogether the appearance of one who had died in the greatest agony. She was wearing a little black straw bonnet, battered almost out of recognition, and placed at the back of her head. Around her was a cloak - a threadbare garment that had once been red, but was now a dull, dirty colour. It was open in front, and the black bodice of her dress was thrown slightly open, revealing a horrible gash more than an inch in diameter, extending from one ear to the other, and completely severing the windpipe, which protruded from the deep wound. Constable Neale at once called for assistance, and with the help of some scavengers who were cleaning the roads at the time, managed to carry the body to the mortuary, which is situated in the Pavilion Yard close by. Mr. Edmunds, the keeper of the mortuary, was in attendance, and assisted by the officer and the scavengers, undressed the poor creature and placed her in one of the black coffins lying about the mortuary. In the Dead-House. The news of the terrible tragedy spread like wild-fire amongst the inhabitants of Buck's-row and the neighbourhood, who, filled with morbid curiosity, surrounded Eagle-place, the entrance by which the body was taken into the dead-house. The Whitechapel Mortuary is a little brick building situated to the right of the large yard used by the Board of Works for the storage of their material. Accompanied by Mr. Edmunds, the keeper, our reporter visited the temporary resting place of the victim on Friday morning. The first evidence seen of the tragedy on arriving in the yard was a bundle of what were little more than rags, of which the woman had been divested, and which were lying on the flagstones just outside the mortuary. They consisted of a dull red cloak already mentioned, together with a dark bodice and brown skirt, a check flannel petticoat which bore the mark of the Lambeth Workhouse, a pair of dark stockings, and an old pair of dilapidated-looking spring-side boots, together with the little and sadly battered black straw bonnet, minus either ribbons or trimmings. Contrary to anticipation, beyond the flannel petticoat, and with the exception of a few bloodstains on the cloak, the other clothing was scarcely marked. The petticoat, however, was completely saturated with blood, and altogether presented a sickening spectacle. Entering the deadhouse, with its rows of black coffins, the keeper turned to the one immediately to the right of the door, and lying parallel with the wall. Opening the lid, he exposed the face of the poor victim. The features were apparently those of a woman of about thirty or thirty-five years, whose hair was still dark. The features were small and delicate, the cheek-bones high, the eyes grey, and the partly opened mouth disclosed a set of teeth which were a little discoloured. The expression on the face was a deeply painful one, and was evidently the result of an agonizing death. The gash across the neck was situated very slightly above the breastbone; it was at least six inches in length, over an inch in width, and was clean cut. The hands were still tightly clenched. The lower portion of the body, however, presented the most sickening spectacle of all. Commencing from the lower portion of the abdomen, a terrible gash extended nearly as far as the diaphragm - a gash from which the bowels protruded. There were no rings upon the fingers, and no distinguishing marks either about the face or the body. The body, with the exception of the face was covered with a white sheet and a blanket. Who is the Victim? Inspector Helson, of Leman-street, had called earlier, and had taken a description of the woman, together with a list of the articles of clothing. On finding the Lambeth Workhouse mark, he immediately proceeded there, but, up to the time of going to Press, he had not gleaned any authoritative information regarding the identity of the woman. She was unknown either to Police-constable Neale, or any of the officials, as a frequenter of the neighbourhood, and altogether the identity like that of the victim of the George-yard tragedy, seems likely for a time to be shrouded in mystery. Several people who were waiting outside the mortuary claimed to have had friends or acquaintances missing, but when put to the test, the descriptions failed to tally with that of the murdered woman. Who was the Murderer? There is absolutely no room for doubt that the woman has been the victim of a foul crime. It might have been within the bounds of possibility for a woman to have inflicted the wound across the throat, but the terrible abdominal wound could never have been self-inflicted. Moreover, the wound in the throat, which was evidently the first inflicted, was quite sufficient of itself to have caused almost immediate death. But, while there is, as we have said, but little doubt as to the woman having been murdered, there seems to be but little motive for the murder. Robbery was certainly not the motive, for the victim appears to have been in extreme poverty. Like poor Martha Tabram, of George-yard, then, the poor "unknown" appears to have been the victim of some fiend. Indeed, the inhabitants of Buck's-row, among whom the murder was the sole topic of conversation on Friday morning, go so far as to assert that the very similar manner in which both the victims have met their death - both in the dead of night, both with wounds of a most revolting character, and both without any apparent motive - point to the murderer of Martha Tabram having been the murderer also of the poor unknown of Buck's-row. Near the scene of the murder are the Essex Wharf and several private houses, mostly inhabited by the poorer classes, who have either come home very late at night, or have to go out very early in the morning, and yet nobody appears to have been aware of having heard any screaming or other sounds likely to fix the time at which the tragedy was perpetrated - probably judging from the appearance of the dead woman at the time she was found, about two or three o'clock on the Friday morning. The probability is that although the victim did scream, yet, so used are the inhabitants there to drunken brawls and cries of "Murder," that they took no notice of it, and that the murderer, whoever he is, thus escaped undetected. Mr. Banks, the coroner's officer, viewed the body early on Friday and communicated the particulars to Mr. George Collier, the coroner, who will probably hold the inquest some time to-day (Saturday). LATEST DETAILS. A more minute examination of the body shows the height of the victim to be five feet two inches. The hands are bruised and bear evidence of having engaged in a severe struggle. There is the impression of a ring having been worn on one of the deceased's fingers, but there is nothing to show that it had been wrenched from her in a struggle. Some of the teeth appear to have been knocked out, and the face is bruised on both cheeks, and slightly discoloured. People living near the scene of the murder all concur in saying that they heard no screaming at about the time of the murder. Mrs. Purkiss, who lives in Essex Wharf, states that although she was suffering from extreme nervousness, and failed to sleep during the night, yet she heard nothing to attract her attention. The wounds seem to have been inflicted with a large pocket knife.”

The details about the mortuary, the doctors and the coroner, doesn't seem to match with Polly's, whose post-mortem was performed by Dr. Llewellyn and the man in charge at the mortuary was Robert Mann, not Mr. Edmunds. However, the victim's description and the fact that nobody heard a thing, plus some of the witnesses' names, are the same as Polly's case.

There are more articles about the case/s. The September 1st 1888 issue of 'The New York Times' published: "London Aug. 31. A strangely horrible murder took place at Whitechapel this morning. The victim was a woman who, at 3 o'clock was knocked down by some man unknown and attacked with a knife. She attempted to escape and ran a hundred yards, her cries for help being heard by several persons in adjacent houses. No attention was paid to her cries however, and when found at daybreak she was lying dead in another street, several hundred yards from the scene of the attack..."

This article being from overseas, maybe got confused information, although published that she ran and did scream and people heard her but ignored her... Two more articles were published on September 2nd 1888. The ‘Lloyd’s Weekly Newspaper London' September 2nd 1888 issue talks about Mrs. Colville’s daughter. Mrs. Colville said (as published by ‘Evening Standard’’s September 1st edition) that head a woman’s screams of murder:

“A LITTLE GIRL'S STORY. Charlotte Colville, who lives about the middle of Brady-street, made the following statement to our representative on Friday night :- I am 11 years of age, and sleep with my mother. Early this (Friday) morning, before it was light, I heard terrible cries of "Murder! Murder! Police! Police! Murder!" They seemed a good way down Brady-street to the right, where the marks of bloody hands are. Then the sounds came up the street towards our house, and I heard a scuffling and a bumping against our shutters. I got out of bed and woke my mother. The woman kept on calling out "Murder! Police!" and the sounds went on in the direction of Buck's-row, where the body was found. I am sure the first sounds seemed to come from where the blood-stains of hands are on the wall. Mrs. Colville said that her little girl woke her, and she heard the woman's cries, but the rows go on every night, and people are constantly being knocked down and robbed by the fearful gangs about. It would not be safe for anyone to get out of their beds to go and interfere. People have done so, and only been terribly ill-treated.”

The above report was backed up by this, published on the same edition of the newspaper: “1 September 1888 The people living in Brady-street were thrown into a state of excitement on the terrible news spreading. Brady-street is a long thoroughfare that runs to the left from the bottom of Buck's-row. Early on Friday morning fresh blood stains were observed for quite a distance along the side walks. There would be drop after drop two or three feet, and sometimes six feet apart for a distance, and then a larger pool or splash. As soon as the [Mary Ann Nichols] murder became known a lively interest was taken in these blood-stains, and they began to be traced. They were soon found to be on both sides of the street, and it was afterwards seen that the bleeding person had travelled or been carried in a zig-zag line. The trail was easily followed down Brady-street for 150 yards to Honey's-mews. In front of the gateway there was a large stain, looking as if the bleeding person had fallen against the wall and lain there. From here to the foot of Buck's-row, in which the body was found, the trail of blood was clearly marked. It was wet on Friday morning, and at noon, although the sun had dried it, and there had been many feet passing over it, it was still plainly discernible. The zig-zag direction it took crossing and re-crossing the street was and is a matter of mystery. In the space of a hundred yards the woman crossed the narrow street twice, and whenever she crossed a larger stain of blood in place of the drops indicated that she had stopped. Our representative discovered, however, on making inquiries the same night, that at a house near where the blood spots were, a man, early on the morning of the tragedy, had made a murderous assault on his wife and cut her throat. She was carried to the London hospital, and it is very probable some blood dripped from her.”

It seems that something did happen around 1am on the Friday August 31st at Brady Street that caught the eye of Mrs. Colville and her daughter, a woman that was attacked by her husband, maybe she runaway and, on the street, cried for help, and then was taken to the hospital.

Mary Ann Nichols was murdered later, she was found around 3:40/3:45am (last seen alive, at 2:30am). The police at the time gave no importance at the Brady Street blood stains, the policemen and doctors said Nichols was murdered at the spot where she was found, so said most of the historians who studied the case later on. You will find more information, and discussion, in the following links:

JTR Forums tread 1 - tread 2

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unsettlingshortstories · 4 years ago

Text

The Minister's Black Veil

Nathaniel Hawthorne (1832)

THE SEXTON stood in the porch of Milford meetinghouse, pulling busily at the bell rope. The old people of the village came stooping along the street. Children, with bright faces, tripped merrily beside their parents, or mimicked a graver gait, in the conscious dignity of their Sunday clothes. Spruce bachelors looked sidelong at the pretty maidens, and fancied that the Sabbath sunshine made them prettier than on weekdays. When the throng had mostly streamed into the porch, the sexton began to toll the bell, keeping his eye on the Reverend Mr. Hooper's door. The first glimpse of the clergyman's figure was the signal for the bell to cease its summons.

"But what has good Parson Hooper got upon his face?" cried the sexton in astonishment.

All within hearing immediately turned about, and beheld the semblance of Mr. Hooper, pacing slowly his meditative way toward the meetinghouse. With one accord they started, expressing more wonder than if some strange minister were coming to dust the cushions of Mr. Hooper's pulpit.

"Are you sure it is our parson?" inquired Goodman Gray of the sexton.

"Of a certainty it is good Mr. Hooper," replied the sexton. "He was to have exchanged pulpits with Parson Shute, of Westbury; but Parson Shute sent to excuse himself yesterday, being to preach a funeral sermon."

The cause of so much amazement may appear sufficiently slight. Mr. Hooper gentlemanly person, of about thirty, though still a bachelor, was dressed with due clerical neatness, as if a careful wife had starched his band, and brushed the weekly dust from his Sunday's garb. There was but one thing remarkable in his appearance. Swathed about his forehead, and hanging down over his face, so low as to be shaken by his breath Mr. Hooper had on a black veil. On a nearer view it seemed to consist of two folds of crepe, which entirely concealed his features, except the mouth and chin, but probably did not intercept his sight, further than to give a darkened aspect to all living and inanimate things. With this gloomy shade before him, good Mr. Hooper walked onward, at a slow and quiet pace, stooping somewhat, and looking on the ground, as is customary with abstracted men, yet nodding kindly to those of his parishioners who still waited on the meetinghouse steps. But so wonderstruck were they that his greeting hardly met with a return.

"I can't really feel as if good Mr. Hooper's face was behind that piece of crape," said the sexton.

"I don't like it," muttered an old woman, as she hobbled into the meetinghouse. "He has changed himself into something awful, only by hiding his face."

"Our parson has gone mad!" cried Goodman Gray, following him across the threshold.

A rumor of some unaccountable phenomenon had preceded Mr. Hooper into the meetinghouse, and set all the congregation astir. Few could refrain from twisting their heads toward the door; many stood upright, and turned directly about while several little boys clambered upon the seats, and came down again with a terrible racket. There was a general bustle, a rustling of the women's gowns and shuffling of the men's feet, greatly at variance with that hushed repose which should attend the entrance of the minister. But Mr. Hooper appeared not to notice the perturbation of his people. He entered with an almost noiseless step, bent his head mildly to the pews on each side, and bowed as he passed his oldest parishioner, a whitehaired great-grandsire, who occupied an armchair in the center of the aisle. It was strange to observe how slowly this venerable man became conscious of something singular in the appearance of his pastor. He seemed not fully to partake of the prevailing wonder, till Mr. Hooper had ascended the stairs, and showed himself in the pulpit, face to face with his congregation, except for the black veil. That mysterious emblem was never once withdrawn. It shook with his measured breath, as he gave out the psalm; it threw its obscurity between him and the holy page, as he read the Scriptures; and while he prayed, the veil lay heavily on his uplifted countenance. Did he seek to hide it from the dread Being whom he was addressing?

Such was the effect of this simple piece of crepe, that more than one woman of delicate nerves was forced to leave the meetinghouse. Yet perhaps the pale-faced congregation was almost as fearful a sight to the minister, as his black veil to them.

Mr. Hooper had the reputation of a good preacher, but not an energetic one; he strove to win his people heavenward by mild, persuasive influences, rather than to drive them thither by the thunders of the Word. The sermon which he now delivered was marked by the same characteristics of style and manner as the general series of his pulpit oratory. But there was something, either in the sentiment of the discourse itself, or in the imagination of the auditors, which made it greatly the most powerful effort that they had ever heard from their pastor's lips. It was tinged, rather more darkly than usual, with the gentle gloom of Mr. Hooper's temperament. The subject had reference to secret sit, and those sad mysteries which we hide from our nearest and dearest and would fain conceal from our own consciousness, even forgetting that the Omniscient can detect them. A subtle power was breathed into his words. Each member of the congregation, the most innocent girl, and the man of hardened breast, felt as if the preacher had crept upon them, behind his awful veil, and discovered their hoarded iniquity of deed or thought. Many spread their clasped hands on their bosoms. There was nothing terrible in what Mr. Hooper said, at least no violence; and yet, with every tremor of his melancholy voice, the hearers quaked. An unsought pathos came hand in hand with awe. So sensible were the audience of some unwonted attribute in their minister, that they longed for a breath of wind to blow aside the veil, almost believing that a stranger's visage would be discovered, though the form, gesture, and voice were those of Mr. Hooper.

At the close of the services, the people hurried out with indecorous confusion, eager to communicate their pent-up amazement, and conscious of lighter spirits the moment they lost sight of the black veil. Some gathered in little circles, huddled closely together, with their mouths all whispering in the center; some went homeward alone, wrapt in silent meditation; some talked loudly, and profaned the Sabbath day with ostentatious laughter. A few shook, their sagacious heads, intimating that they could penetrate the mystery; while one or two affirmed that there was no mystery at all, but only that Mr. Hooper's eyes were so weakened by the midnight lamp as to require a shade. After a brief interval, forth came good Mr. Hooper also, in the rear of his flock. Turning his veiled face from one group to another, he paid due reverence to the hoary heads, saluted the middle-aged with kind dignity as their friend and spiritual guide, greeted the young with mingled authority and love, and laid his hands on the little children's heads to bless them. Such was always his custom on the Sabbath day. Strange and bewildered looks repaid him for his courtesy. None, as on former occasions, aspired to the honor of walking by their pastor's side. Old Squire Saunders, doubtless by an accidental lapse of memory, neglected to invite Mr. Hooper to his table, where the good clergyman had been wont to bless the food, almost every Sunday since his settlement. He returned, therefore, to the parsonage, and, at the moment of closing the door, was observed to look back upon the people, all of whom had their eyes fixed upon the minister. A sad smile gleamed faintly from beneath the black veil, and flickered about his mouth, glimmering as he disappeared. "How strange," said a lady, "that a simple black veil, such as any woman might wear on her bonnet, should become such a terrible thing on Mr. Hooper's face."

"Something must surely be amiss with Hooper's intellects," observed her husband, the physician of the village. "But the strangest part of the affair is the effect of this vagary, even on a sober-minded man like myself. The black veil, though it covers only our pastor's face, throws its influence over his whole person, and makes him ghostlike from head to foot. Do you not feel it so?"

"Truly do I," replied the lady; "and I would not be alone with him for the world. I wonder he is not afraid to be alone with himself!"

"Men sometimes are so," said her husband.

The afternoon service was attended with similar circumstances. At its conclusion, the bell tolled for the funeral of a young lady. The relatives and friends were assembled in the house, and the more distant acquaintances stood about the door, speaking of the good qualities of the deceased, when their talk was interrupted by the appearance of Mr. Hooper, still covered with his black veil. It was now an appropriate emblem. The clergyman stepped into the room where the corpse was laid, and bent over the coffin, to take a last farewell of his deceased parishioner. As he stooped, the veil hung straight down from his forehead, so that, if her eyelids had not been dosed forever, the dead maiden might have seen his face. Could Mr. Hooper be fearful of her glance, that he so hastily caught back the black veil? A person who watched the interview between the dead and the living scrupled not to affirm, that, at the instant when the clergyman's features were disclosed, the corpse had slightly shuddered, rustling the shroud and muslin cap, though the countenance retained the composure of death. A superstitious old woman was the only witness of this prodigy. From the coffin Mr. Hooper passed into the chamber of the mourners, and thence to the head of the staircase, to make the funeral prayer. It was a tender and heart-dissolving prayer, full of sorrow, yet so imbued with celestial hopes, that the music of a heavenly harp, swept by the fingers of the dead, seemed faintly to be heard among the saddest accents of the minister. The people trembled, though they but darkly understood him when he prayed that they, and himself, and all of mortal race, might be ready, as he trusted this young maiden had been, for the dreadful hour that should snatch the veil from their faces. The bearers went heavily forth, and the mourners followed, saddening all the street, with the dead before them, and Mr. Hooper in his black veil behind.

"Why do- you look back?" said one in the procession to his partner. "I had a fancy," replied she, "that the minister and the maiden's spirit were walking hand in hand."

"And so had I, at the same moment," said the other.

That night, the handsomest couple in Milford village were to be joined in wedlock. Though reckoned a melancholy man, Mr. Hooper had a placid cheerfulness for such occasions, which often excited a sympathetic smile where livelier merriment would have been thrown away. There was no quality of his disposition which made him more beloved than this. The company at the wedding awaited his arrival with impatience, trusting that the strange awe, which had gathered over him throughout the day, would now be dispelled. But such was not the result. When Mr. Hooper came, the first thing that their eyes rested on was the same horrible black veil, which had added deeper gloom to the funeral, and could portend nothing but evil to the wedding. Such was its immediate effect on the guests that a cloud seemed to have rolled duskily from beneath the black crepe, and dimmed the light of the candles. The bridal pair stood up before the minister. But the bride's cold fingers quivered in the tremulous hand of the bridegroom, and her deathlike paleness caused a whisper that the maiden who had been buried a few hours before was come from her grave to be married. If ever another wedding were so dismal, it was that famous one where they tolled the wedding knell. After performing the ceremony, Mr. Hooper raised a glass of wine to his lips, wishing happiness to the new-married couple in a strain of mild pleasantry that ought to have brightened the features of the guests, like a cheerful gleam from the hearth. At that instant, catching a glimpse of his figure in the looking glass, the black veil involved his own spirit in the horror with which it overwhelmed all others. His frame shuddered his lips grew white, he spilt the untasted wine upon the carpet, and rushed forth into the darkness. For the Earth, too, had on her Black Veil.

The next day, the whole village of Milford talked of little else than Parson Hooper's black veil. That, and the mystery concealed behind it, supplied a topic for discussion between acquaintances meeting in the street, and good women gossiping at their open windows. It was the first item of news that the tavernkeeper told to his guests. The children babbled of it on their way to school. One imitative little imp covered his face with an old black handkerchief, thereby so affrighting his playmates that the panic seized himself, and he well-nigh lost his wits by his own waggery.

It was remarkable that of all the busybodies and impertinent people in the parish, not one ventured to put the plain question to Mr. Hooper, wherefore he did this thing. Hitherto, whenever there appeared the slightest call for such interference, he had never lacked advisers, nor shown himself averse to be guided by their judgment. If he erred at all, it was by so painful a degree of self-distrust, that even the mildest censure would lead him to consider an indifferent action as a crime. Yet, though so well acquainted with this amiable weakness, no individual among his parishioners chose to make the black veil a subject of friendly remonstrance. There was a feeling of dread, neither plainly confessed nor carefully concealed, which caused each to shift the responsibility upon another, till at length it was found expedient to send a deputation of the church, in order to deal with Mr. Hooper about the mystery, before it should grow into a scandal. Never did an embassy so ill discharge its duties. The minister received them with friendly courtesy, but remained silent, after they were seated, leaving to his visitors the whole burden of introducing their important business. The topic, it might be supposed, was obvious enough. There was the black veil swathed round Mr. Hooper's forehead, and concealing every feature above his placid mouth, on which, at times, they could perceive the glimmering of a melancholy smile. But that piece of crepe, to their imagination, seemed to hang down before his heart, the symbol of a fearful secret between him and them. Were the veil but cast aside, they might speak freely of it, but not till then. Thus they sat a considerable time, speechless, confused, and shrinking uneasily from Mr. Hooper's eye, which they felt to be fixed upon them with an invisible glance. Finally, the deputies returned abashed to their constituents, pronouncing the matter too weighty to be handled, except by a council of the churches, if, indeed, it might not require a general synod.

But there was one person in the village unappalled by the awe with which the black veil had impressed all besides herself. When the deputies returned without an explanation, or even venturing to demand one, she, with the calm energy of her character, determined to chase away the strange cloud that appeared to be settling round Mr. Hooper, every moment more darkly than before. As his plighted wife, it should be her privilege to know what the black veil concealed. At the minister's first visit, therefore, she entered upon the subject with a direct simplicity, which made the task easier both for him and her, After he had seated himself, she fixed her eyes steadfastly upon the veil, but could discern nothing of the dreadful gloom that had so overawed the multitude; it was but a double fold of crepe, hanging down from his forehead to his mouth, and slightly stirring with his breath.

"No," said she aloud, and smiling, "there is nothing terrible in this piece of crepe, except that it hides a face which I am always glad to look upon. Come, good sir, let the sun shine from behind the cloud. First lay aside your black veil; then tell me why you put it on."

Mr. Hooper's smile glimmered faintly.

"There is an hour to come," said he, "when all of us shall cast aside our veils. Take it not amiss, beloved friend, if I wear this piece of crepe till then."

"Your words are a mystery, too," returned the young lady. "Take away the veil from them, at least."

"Elizabeth, I will," said he, "so far as my vow may suffer me. Know, then, this veil is a type and a symbol, and I am bound to wear it ever, both in light and darkness, in solitude and before the gaze of multitudes, and as with strangers, so with my familiar friends. No mortal eye will see it withdrawn. This dismal shade must separate me from the world; even you, Elizabeth, can never come behind it!"

"What grievous affliction hath befallen you," she earnestly inquired, "that you should thus darken your eyes forever?"

"If it be a sign of mourning," replied Mr. Hooper, "I, perhaps, like most other mortals, have sorrows dark enough to be typified by a black veil."

"But what if the world will not believe that it is the type of an innocent sorrow?" urged Elizabeth. "Beloved and respected: as you are, there may be whispers that you hide your face under the consciousness of secret sin. For the sake of your holy office, do away this scandal!"

The color rose into her cheeks as she intimated the nature of the rumors that were already abroad in the village. But Mr. Hooper's mildness did not forsake him. He even smiled again--that same sad smile, which always appeared like a faint glimmering of light, proceeding from the obscurity beneath the veil.

"If I hide my face for sorrow, there is cause enough;" he merely replied; "and if I cover it for secret sin, what mortal might not do the same?"

And with this gentle, but unconquerable obstinacy did he resist her entreaties. At length Elizabeth sat silent. For a few moments she appeared lost in thought, considering, probably, what new methods might be tried to withdraw her foyer from so dark a fantasy, which, if it had no other meaning, was perhaps a symptom of mental disease. Though of a firmer character than his own, the tears rolled down her cheeks. But, in an instant, as it were, a new feeling took the place of sorrow; her eyes were fixed insensibly on the black veil, when, like a sudden twilight in the air, its terrors: fell around her. She arose, and stood trembling before him.

"And do you feel it then, at last?" said he, mournfully.

She made no reply, but covered her eyes with her hand, and turned to leave the room. He rushed forward and caught her arm.

"Have patience with me, Elizabeth!" cried he, passionately. "Do not desert me, though this veil must be between us here on earth. Be mine, and hereafter there shall be no veil over my face, no darkness between our souls! It is but a mortal veil--it is not for eternity! O! you know not how lonely I am, and how frightened, to be alone behind my black veil. Do not leave me in this miserable obscurity forever!"

"Lift the veil but once, and look me in the face," said she.

"Never! It cannot be!" replied Mr. Hooper.

"Then farewell!" said Elizabeth.

She withdrew her arm from his grasp, and slowly departed, pausing at the door, to give one long shuddering gaze, that seemed almost to penetrate the mystery of the black veil. But, even amid his grief, Mr. Hooper smiled to think that only a material emblem had separated him from happiness, though the horrors which it shadowed forth must be drawn darkly between the fondest of lovers.

From that time no attempts were made to remove Mr. Hooper's black veil, or, by a direct appeal, to discover the secret which it was supposed to hide. By persons who claimed a superiority to popular prejudice, it was reckoned more an eccentric whim, such as often mingles with the sober actions of men otherwise rational, and tinges them all with its own semblance of insanity. But with the multitude, good Mr. Hooper was irreparably a bugbear. He could not walk the street with any peace of mind, so conscious was he that the gentle and timid would turn aside to avoid him, and that others would make it a point of hardihood to throw themselves in his way. The impertinence of the latter class compelled him to give up his customary walk at sunset to the burial ground; for when he leaned pensively over the gate, there would always be faces behind the gravestones, peeping at his black veil. A fable went the rounds that the stare of the dead people drove him thence. It grieved him, to the very depth of his kind heart, to observe how the children fled from his approach, breaking up their merriest sports, while his melancholy figure was yet afar off. Their instinctive dread caused him to feel more strongly than aught else that a preternatural horror was interwoven with the threads of the black crape. In truth, his own antipathy to the veil was known to be l so great, that he never willingly passed before a mirror, nor stooped to drink at a still fountain, lest, in its peaceful bosom, he should be affrighted by himself. This was what gave plausibility to the whispers, that Mr. Hooper's conscience tortured him for some great crime too horrible to be entirely concealed, or. otherwise than so obscurely intimated. Thus, from beneath the black veil, there rolled a cloud into the sunshine, an ambiguity of sin or sorrow, which enveloped the poor minister, so that love or sympathy could never reach him. It was said that ghost and fiend consorted with him there. With self-shudderings and outward terrors, he walked continually in its shadow, groping darkly within his own soul, or gazing through a medium that saddened the whole world. Even the lawless wind, it was believed, respected his dreadful secret, and never blew aside the veil. But still good Mr. Hooper sadly smiled at the pale visages of the worldly throng as he passed by.

Among all its bad influences, the black veil had the one desirable effect, of making its wearer a very efficient clergyman. By the aid of his mysterious emblem--for there was no other apparent cause--he became a man of awful power over souls that were in agony of sin. His converts always regarded him with a dread peculiar to themselves, affirming, though but figuratively, that, before he brought them to celestial light, they had been with him behind the black veil. Its gloom, indeed, enabled him to sympathize with all dark affections. Dying sinners cried aloud for Mr. Hooper, and would not yield their breath till he appeared; though ever, as he stooped to whisper consolation, they shuddered at the veiled face so near their own. Such were the terrors of the black veil, even when Death had bared his visage! Strangers came long distances to attend service at his church, with the mere idle purpose of gazing at his figure, because it was forbidden them to behold his face. But many were made to quake ere they departed! Once, during Governor Belcher's administration, Mr. Hooper was appointed to preach the election sermon. Covered with his black veil, he stood before the chief magistrate, the council, and the representatives, and wrought so deep an impression, that the legislative measures of that year were characterized by all the gloom and piety of our earliest ancestral sway.

In this manner Mr. Hooper spent a long life, irreproachable in outward act, yet shrouded in dismal suspicions; kind and loving, though unloved, and dimly feared; a man apart from men, shunned in their health and joy, but ever summoned to their aid in mortal anguish. As years wore on, shedding their snows above his sable veil, he acquired a name throughout the New England churches, and they called him Father Hooper. Nearly all his parishioners, who were of mature age when he was settled, had been borne away by many a funeral; he had one congregation in the church, and a more crowded one in the churchyard; and having wrought so late into the evening, and done his work so well, it was now good Father Hooper's turn to rest.

Several persons were visible by the shaded candlelight, in the death chamber of the old clergyman. Natural connections he had none. But there was the decorously grave, though unmoved physician, seeking only to mitigate the last pangs of the patient whom he could not save. There were the deacons, and other eminently pious members of his church. There, also, was the Reverend Mr. Clark, of Westbury, a young and zealous divine, who had ridden in haste to pray by the bedside of the expiring minister. There was the nurse, no hired handmaiden of death, but one whose calm affection had endured thus long in secrecy, in solitude, amid the chill of age, and would not perish, even at the dying hour. Who, but Elizabeth! And there lay the hoary head of good Father Hooper upon the death pillow, with the black veil still swathed about his brow, and reaching down over his face, so that each more difficult gasp of his faint breath caused it to stir. All through life that piece of crepe had hung between him and the world; it had separated him from cheerful brotherhood and woman's love, arid kept him in that saddest of all prisons, his own heart; and still it lay upon his face, as if to deepen the gloom of his darksome chamber, and shade him from the sunshine of eternity.

For some time previous, his mind had been confused, wavering doubtfully between the past and the present, and hovering forward, as it were, at intervals, into the indistinctness of the world to come. There had been feverish turns, which tossed him from side to side, and wore away what little strength he had. But in his most convulsive struggles, and in the wildest vagaries of his intellect, when no other thought retained its sober influence, he still showed an awful solicitude lest the black veil should slip aside. Even if his bewildered soul could have forgotten, there was a faithful woman at his pillow, who, with averted eyes, would have covered that aged face, which she had last beheld in the comeliness of manhood. At length the deathstricken old man lay quietly in the torpor of mental and bodily exhaustion, with an imperceptible pulse, and breath that grew fainter and fainter, except when a long, deep, and irregular inspiration seemed to prelude the flight of his spirit.

The minister of Westbury approached the bedside.

"Venerable Father Hooper," said he, "the moment of your release is at hand. Are you ready for the lifting of the veil that shuts in time from eternity?" Father Hooper at first replied merely by a feeble motion of his head; then, apprehensive, perhaps, that his meaning might be doubtful, he exerted himself to speak.

"Yea," said he, in faint accents, "my soul hath a patient weariness until that veil be lifted."

"And is it fitting," resumed the Reverend Mr. Clark, "that a man so given to prayer, of such a blameless example, holy in deed and thought, so far as mortal judgment may pronounce; is it fitting that a father in the church should leave a shadow on his memory, that may seem to blacken a life so pure? I pray you, my venerable brother, let not this thing be! Suffer us to be gladdened by your triumphant aspect as you go to your reward. Before the veil of eternity be lifted, let me cast aside this black veil from your face!"

And thus speaking the Reverend Mr. Clark bent forward to reveal the mystery of so many years. But, exerting a sudden energy, that made all the beholders stand aghast, Father Hooper snatched both his hands from beneath the bedclothes, and pressed them strongly on the black veil, resolute to struggle, if the minister of Westbury would contend with a dying man.

"Never!" cried the veiled clergyman. "On earth, never!"

"Dark old men!" exclaimed the affrighted minister, "with what horrible crime upon your soul are you now passing to the judgment?"

Father Hooper's breath heaved; it rattled in his throat; but, with a mighty effort, grasping forward with his hands, he caught hold of life, and held it back till he should speak, He even raised himself in bed; and there he sat, shivering with the arms of death around him, while the black veil hung down, awful, at that last moment, in the gathered terrors of a lifetime. And yet the faint, sad smile, so often there, now seemed to glimmer from its obscurity, and linger on Father Hooper's lips.

"Why do you tremble at me alone?" cried he, turning his veiled face round the circle of pale spectators. "Tremble also at each others Have men avoided me, and women shown no pity, and children screamed and fled, only for my black veil? What, but the mystery which it obscurely typifies, has made this piece of crepe so awful? When the friend shows his inmost heart to his friend; the lover to his best beloved; when man does not vainly shrink from the eye of his Creator, loathsomely treasuring up the secret of his sin; then deem me a monster, for the symbol beneath which I have lived, and die! I look around me, and, lo! on every visage a Black Veil."

While his auditors shrank from one another, in mutual affright, Father Hooper fell back upon his pillow, a veiled corpse, with a faint smile lingering on the lips. Still veiled, they laid him in his coffin, and a veiled corpse they bore. him to the grave. The grass of many years has sprung up and withered on that grave, the burial stone is moss-grown, and good Mr. Hooper's face is dust; but awful is still the thought that it moldered beneath the Black Veil!

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harinezumiko · 7 years ago

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Dickens Recap

What is this, con?

I am SO SORE my god. The dress can be repaired and the petticoat can be modified so maybe I don’t need to wear the waist trainer to keep that in place, but losing some diameter on the hoop might not be such a bad thing. The money I managed to tuck away in various pockets and pants and parts of my car more or less all went toward absolutely delicious crepes and juice, and I rather wish I’d had cider, but it was more expensive.

I already respect and adore stage performers, but the actresses in fishnets of any kind get a whole new level of that from me. I joined in a very simple group dance, promptly started having an asthma attack, but powered through the thing and destroyed my feet, in part because dancing in heels is a special type of torture.

For the record, these are the shoes I went in. Dancing and being merry from around 10:30-7pm in them was hell. I’m so glad there were places to sit down, even if doing it in my hoop skirt was not actually a thing my dress was intended for.

(The pants are gross because that’s what happens when you’re short and buy pants intended for people with normal leg lengths.)

I do regret not being able to find my goddamn lacy underthings, mostly because in the circle dance that killed me, we had to take too many steps inward, and my hoop was too big, so I think I flashed people. But that means my fishnets were validated, and they’re theatre people, so they’ve seen worse than multiple layers of tights at once.

I got to see Mrs. Jellyby again, who is always, always a delight. I found a picture of her actress on Pintrest, so this is not mine, and is apparently from 2014.

I have no idea who this fabulous fish is.

For people who speak Dickens’ works (I am not one!) Mrs Jellyby is hilarious. She is this sweet, bright, philanthropic woman, who’s always smiling, worried about her reputation, feeds children in the streets (I think they’re other cast members’ kids) and... she opens her mouth and horrible period racism comes pouring out. The woman who plays her is so sweet, and she gave me recommendations for how to fix the back of my dress so it won’t die, and I need to contact her through my friend to ask the location of the repairs place because I was already dying and words are hard. Still, though, I love Mrs Jellyby, even though the things she says are naughty and racist and terrible, and I love that this sweet lady plays her, because it’s hilarious. (And, of course, she knows how awful her lines are, it’s kind of supposed to be an uncomfortable reality check. But also, my god, look at her dress! I am in love with this gown.)

We did not get to see Mr. Edgar Alan Poe perform at Mad Sal’s, but he did get pecked on the nose, so that was always good.

I got to meet up with @cate-geo and I wanna do it again!! I will be more cuddly next time, I was too sore. ;__; I need to get whore garb so I can be less proper and upright and not sit like a goddamn lady ever again, my back is done with that forever.

@salacio appeared and I am so mad that I got no pictures, because 1) holy refs Batman, a glorious outfit this year, and 2) STOP BEING ATTRACTIVE WHY. >:V

Except that’s really the problem with everyone at these events; they’re all stupid attractive, especially in costume. Dickens is amazing because everyone is having fun, I think all of the sincerely “drunk” people were actors, so that’s schtick even though booze is available, the decor is beautiful, and even if Christmas is a sham, it feels so nice having people start and end conversations enthusiastically wishing you Happy Christmas.

I got propositioned by a chimney sweep and am very proud of myself for not busting up laughing, because that is a) my nervous response, and b) if I were in character, which I wasn’t, would have been an incredibly rude way to turn the poor man down. It was fun larping a little, even though I have no persona for my character, and the marvelous guy at the hat store does, in fact, look more like Tim Curry as Long John Silver than any other cinematic pirate. I wish I’d been able to buy my bonnet from him. Maybe next year. ;-;

There was also a darling street girl playing keep away with a man outside Mad Sal’s with a stick of mistletoe, and she helped me find my friend, and she was so cute. I know you’re not supposed to just pounce on actors and actresses, but I wanted to hug her for being adorable. (I say this, but I still hug Mrs. Jellyby. But it’s different when the character is that kind of person, you know?)

I had some lovely dance partners, and met a very drunk man professing the evils of gin, who was due to play a life-changing interpretation of Hamlet, but we had to leave his area, which was sad.

Next time (if I can get out there this year) I will either be a modern turkey or wear something less stupid so I can take a fencing lesson! Will that solve the problem of the horrific asthma? No! Will it maybe summon the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come? Maybe!

(Ghost of Christmas Past, if you see this, you were lovely and etherial and I was too scared to approach you.)

Also Fezziwig, you are... so tall... how do you do it... why do you wear a hat on top of your tallness...

Edit: Also, of the people in some of the pictures of my last post: All my good pictures came out from Mad Sal’s, because it’s the only place I was sitting the fuck down, but how uncanny was this guy?

He was one of the singing-types at Mad Sal’s, who was excellent, and I wish I had a picture to show him, because he was very confused that I needed to see him offstage to confirm that no, he is not a clone of my dad. (I did not tell him my dad is dead, that’d be awkward.) But uh. See man above.

See dad in garb when I was a child.

They both had the straight man role in their acts and had the dry, aside type lines, and if my dad were still alive and kept growing out his hair I am pretty confident he’d have this man’s ponytail. It was very strange.

Fortunately(?) the singing man’s similarities ended more or less there; off stage he doesn’t have my dad’s presence, which is probably better anyway.

#dickens faire #hari goes outside #dis my dad

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misscrawfords · 7 years ago

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Sparkling like granite?

So ITV is making a new adaptation of Pride and Prejudice which is going bring out its “darker tones”.

Here are my thoughts at considerable length (which nobody asked for) about this adaptation (which nobody asked for).

My initial response was mixed. On the one hand, I’m actually not averse to a new adaptation of P&P. Sure, it’s over-adapted and there are lots of novels which deserve a multi-part adaptation more than P&P. (Mansfield Park? The novels of Fanny Burney, Maria Edgeworth, Walter Scott?) However, P&P is one of the world’s most popular novels and there hasn’t been a straight TV adaptation of it in over 20 years. Adaptations of P&P often say as much about the time in which they are made as they do about the source material and a good adaptation, even if one doesn’t necessarily agree with the choices made, can make you see the book in a new light and provoke discussion. I’m not averse to that.

So there’s that response of muted interest. That warred with deep misgivings about the “darker tones” of Austen’s “adult” novel which is “much less bonnet-y” in an adaptation by someone who has apparently never watched an adaptation of the book, despite loving it. Really? Has she been living under a rock? P&P is so much part of popular culture that it seems impossible to adapt it in a way that does not pay homage consciously or subconsciously to previous adaptations. Can one avoid a “post-modern moment” as Lost in Austen so delightfully made explicit? I’m deeply sceptical. (Does one even want to? Intertextuality can add so much... but that’s a discussion for another day.) Anyway, back to the “darker tones”. My instinct is to say that this seems terribly wrong. Of all Austen novels, P&P is the most light-hearted, the most sparkling, the most comforting. Why oh why, would you want to mess with that? For goodness sake, let us have our romantic comedies and laugh out loud satire and implausible happy endings! Why must everything be marred with the brush of making things grim and dark and equating that grimness with gritty reality? Reality may be sometimes grim and dark but it is also sometimes hilarious and warm and full of love. Why must the former be prioritised? I have a massive problem with reinterpreting texts to “make them dark” as if that is a naturally good thing. But that’s probably also a discussion for another day.

So, mixed feelings. But naturally the purists are up in arms about this idea (and a part of me certainly wants to join them) and that makes me desperately inclined to take a second look and examine the possibilities of this adaptation and some of the potentially intriguing things the writer has said.

“Darker tones”

Okay, so firstly what does this mean? Does P&P even have darker tones? Surely you have to squint? Weeeeeell, yes and no. It’s a mistake to assume Austen never wrote about the nastier aspects of human nature and experience. The more obvious examples (leaving out Mansfield Park’s troubled potential references to the slave trade) are the fate of Colonel Brandon’s ward, Eliza; the decline of Mrs. Smith; the condition of the Prices in Portsmouth; the fate of Maria Rushworth; General Tilney’s treatment of his wife - and of course Wickham’s role in P&P. Just because Austen doesn’t write rape, seduction, abuse, death etc. explicitly on the page and just because her novels end (mostly) happily doesn’t mean she lives in a fantasy world untouched by these things.

Let’s look at Wickham. He attempted to seduce a vulnerable 15 year old girl who knew him and trusted him and used a woman in a position of authority to her to gain access to her. To use modern terminology, how long, one wonders, had he been grooming Georgiana? The elopement was prevented but only just. And while Darcy clearly thinks his sister’s reputation is intact (and her virtue), is it? Could Wickham have persuaded Georgiana to sleep with him before the elopement? I don’t personally think so - I think she would have somehow told Darcy if that had happened - but it is a possible and interesting idea, even if I don’t know where you would go with that except to show what an awful person Wickham is... which we know.

Wickham then successfully elopes with another 15 year old girl in a vulnerable position away from her family a year later - this is looking like a pattern of a rather unhealthy interest in underage girls (again to use modern theory, which is dangerous as an interpretation but sometimes useful). He’s the same age as Darcy after all - 28. Not an unheard of age gap in those days but still creepy considering the vulnerable positions of the girls in question. Lydia is ruined and by proxy, so are her sister’s chances. Wickham causes a LOT of problems by this one act. And all to get revenge on Darcy for refusing to give him money after he spent all his.

There is, moreover, the Meryton gossip: “He was declared to be in debt to every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues, all honoured with the title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman’s family.”

Is this true? Has he been seducing (raping?) respectable girls in Meryton? Who knows! This is the wisdom of Mrs. Phillips after all. But they are talking about it openly in the text, there is rarely smoke without fire and it would hardly be out of character.

Is this sufficiently dark? It’s certainly not exactly a riotous comedy. Pride and Prejudice from the point of view of a Meryton tradesman’s daughter who loses her virtue and her father his money would be a very different novel. Georgiana’s history bears close examination. As with Eleanor Tilney’s story in Northanger Abbey, a real Gothic tale right under Catherine’s nose which she doesn’t even notice, there’s something pretty horrible going on in P&P if you care to look.

Perhaps this is what the writer Raine means by “actually a very adult book”.

What else could that refer to? (Because I give her sufficient credit to assume she’s not going to add in random pornographic scenes for the sake of it. Honestly.)

Jane Bennet. Jane is basically depressed for the duration of the novel. Elizabeth constantly worries over her low-spirits and concern for her affects her own happiness. In fact, Elizabeth herself is miserable for a lot of the novel. She goes on a journey of self-discovery but that comes at a cost. She is affected by Charlotte’s marriage, Jane’s disappointment, her own disappointment in Wickham, the effect of reading Darcy’s letter, Lydia’s elopement and finally realising she loves Darcy and will never have him. That’s a lot to throw at even the most resilient, good-humoured and optimistic person. Just because Lizzy loves to laugh doesn’t mean she is not unhappy in some way or other for a lot of the novel. For example:

After disappointment re Bingley and Wickham:

“Oh! if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not much better. I am sick of them all. Thank Heaven! I am going to-morrow where I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has neither manner nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones worth knowing, after all.”

“Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of disappointment.”

(I am always struck by the great bitterness in Elizabeth’s humour in that scene. It’s often overlooked IMO.)

After reading Darcy’s letter:

...it may be easily believed that the happy spirits which had seldom been depressed before, were now so much affected as to make it almost impossible for her to appear tolerably cheerful.

The only other use of the word “depressed” in the novel also applies to Elizabeth.

When Lydia has returned with Wickham:

Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up, and ran out of the room; and returned no more, till she heard them passing through the hall to the dining parlour.

You’ve got to be pretty much at the end of your tether to run out of the room at the age of 20 because you cannot bear to hear your sister talking any more.

Elizabeth is not happy. Jane is not happy. Mrs. Bennet is certainly not happy. Sure, it’s a comedy and Elizabeth has the delightful ability to laugh at herself and others and Jane tries very hard to overcome low spirits and always sees the best and Mrs. Bennet absolutely must be a caricature or else the humour is lost and everything becomes terribly heavy and not like the novel at all, but we feel triumphant with Elizabeth at the end precisely because she has actually suffered so much along the way in very human ways - romantic disappointment, losing a friend to a lifestyle choice she can’t understand, family troubles... These are not the things of epic but that doesn’t make them unimportant. The Lizzie Bennet Diaries conveys this aspect of the characters so well without losing the comedy. It is possible. Certainly I don’t think any other period adaptation has succeeded so well and I would love to see an adaptation that does. It’s not graphic sex, but I would describe this as in the realm of adult themes.

“Much less bonnet-y”

Okay, I don’t really know what this means. I suspect it’s a dig at the period dramas of the 1980s and 90s with beautiful aesthetics and no dirt and everyone speaking very properly. I thought we got the reaction to that overwith in the 00s and I really don’t want more sackcloths and pigs in the corridors, please. Ladies in that period wore bonnets. Get over it. This strikes me as the most provocative statement in all the things that were said, but it is also largely meaningless without more context. Productions like Poldark and Victoria have made an effort with costumes and sets so I don’t see why this would skimp on them. Will it be set in the 1790s this time with more of a rompish Georgian feel than a neo-classical Regency tone? Time only will tell!

"I hope I do justice to Austen’s dark intelligence – sparkling, yes, but sparkling like granite.”

Now this intrigues me! This is what makes me curious and also hopeful. Because Austen pulled no punches and had a very good understanding of dark impulses and the awful ridiculousness of human behaviour - and she absolutely skewered it.

In Paragon we met Mrs. Foley and Mrs. Dowdeswell with her yellow shawl airing out, and at the bottom of Kingsdown Hill we met a gentleman in a buggy, who, on minute examination, turned out to be Dr. Hall — and Dr. Hall in such very deep mourning that either his mother, his wife, or himself must be dead.

Mrs. B. and two young women were of the same party, except when Mrs. B. thought herself obliged to leave them to run round the room after her drunken husband. His avoidance, and her pursuit, with the probable intoxication of both, was an amusing scene.

I give you joy of our new nephew, and hope if he ever comes to be hanged it will not be till we are too old to care about it.

How horrible it is to have so many people killed! And what a blessing that one cares for none of them!

You get the point. All expressed in very nicely balanced phrases and a genteel tone and they are very amusing - but what sentiments! In short, I think Raine’s description of Austen’s wit and intelligence actually very apt. Similar things are found in P&P as in her letters. Consider Mr. Collins.

You ought certainly to forgive them, as a Christian, but never to admit them in your sight, or allow their names to be mentioned in your hearing.

Ouch.

“She had better have stayed at home,” cried Elizabeth; “perhaps she meant well, but, under such a misfortune as this, one cannot see too little of one’s neighbours. Assistance is impossible; condolence insufferable. Let them triumph over us at a distance, and be satisfied.”

A nice thing to say about your friends and neighbours...

Next to being married, a girl likes to be crossed a little in love now and then. It is something to think of, and it gives her a sort of distinction among her companions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear to be long outdone by Jane. Now is your time. Here are officers enough in Meryton to disappoint all the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham be your man. He is a pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably.”

“Thank you, sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We must not all expect Jane’s good fortune.”

“True,” said Mr. Bennet, “but it is a comfort to think that whatever of that kind may befall you, you have an affectionate mother who will make the most of it.”

Such kind parental support!

Mr. Bennet’s sarcasm, Mr. Collins’ pomposity which is eventually revealed as truly cold-hearted, Elizabeth’s biting and often undeserved satire, Mrs. Bennet’s foolishness - all of these are funny and the adaptation must make them funny. The dialogue must glitter and shine or you lose the absolute light-hearted sparkling joy of the novel and everything becomes heavy. But there’s an edge to the humour, there really is. And you treat like the stereotype of Sunday night bonnets and swoonable men jumping in lakes to romantic soundtracks at your peril.

You know what, I’m willing to give someone who describes Austen as “sparkling like granite” a shot. Love and Friendship for the first time presented an Austen adaptation that took absurdity, satire and caricature as its starting point in adapting Austen and I would love to see an adaptation of P&P that did the same, with all the greater subtlety that this novel requires over several hours, considering that it is a beautiful love story as well.

Will this adaptation deliver? Who knows? And there are a lot of things to be concerned about in this endeavor. But it might be really quite interesting.

tl;dr Austen is uncomfortable funny, she has a dark side, but they can’t make the adaptation dark and grim because that misses the point.

#Pride and Prejudice #Jane Austen #period drama

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lalunangel · 5 years ago

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Dear Mom,

I was going to write to that girl we both dislike a bunch but then I realized... that’s a YOU THING to do and if I’m still upset over what happened I’ll post something in my own time. but not something you’d write.. something positive and hopeful so I can get through this block I’m stuck in. The one where I’m falling into your foot steps.

I got adopted.. I was already 18 and i had no clue someone could still adopt me but she did... and i about cried because as soon as i became her legal daughter i have never felt more loved and appreciated for all my goodness and hard work. She threw me a graduation party... i didn’t even want to go and it was months after i graduated.. and you didn’t bother to show up. you didn’t ask me any questions about it and it was so important to me that i graduated because i was going to drop out to help you pay bills... but i found out you made $16 an hour at your job and you worked 9hr shifts so that’s 54 hours a week and you got paid biweekly.. so that’s around $1,700 a paycheck? and rent was $800 a month. and it was all bills paid so that’s about $920 left over from your check after bills have been paid... IF i’m correct which i did the math and i am. that means all our “struggling” was fake just because you didn’t want to take care of us. and you only cared about your “bad habits” so that means all of the suffering without food for years wasn’t because you were actually broke broke it was because you didn’t want to take care of us. I know i’ve been putting a lot of thought and effort into trying to understand you and why you did and do these awful things but i genuinely can’t understand or process.

i’ve kept up with your pay and your information.. and honestly.. i may not have calculated back then how much bull shit you were feeding me but now at 19 i’m trying to understand how we were so POOR but you had the newest phones and how you could afford those shoes you could never wear... and i get it now. My sister and I were never a priority. With all that being said and me figuring it all out FINALLY it makes me even more mad because we lived so fucking terribly. In the state of Texas it’s illegal to Catch Rain Water because we have been in a never ending drought. But because we were “poor” we did it anyway and stored it inside of containers and would boil it and take bird baths in it. We never had actual food so we’d steal off the apricot tree and eventually grandma H got smart and started growing fruits and vegetables for us because you were STARVING us. Not because we were poor but because you’re actually a shit person. So all of those cute fun memories i have that seem so light back then... we’re actually just you being a neglectful parent and choosing to not care for us. So i was underweight for no reason. when i think about how we lived i want to scream at you. I get so frustrated when people talk about how they “grew up dirt poor” and i think about how we literally had to get our own shit grown and starve through winter until thanksgiving came and christmas because our family would cook like they were trying to feed the continent. So, i’m always going to be pissed off because you told me and i just never took it in my own hands to manage your money like i ended up doing in high school. i didn’t even live with you.

I still don’t hate you i’m just really upset with you. I think about how the only times we had food in the house was when you had a boyfriend or dad would pop back up for a few days out of the week and then it’d go missing. I think about how all of my belongings were pre owned and from the freaking 80’s. i think about how out of grandmas old shirts she’d feel obligated to sew me dresses and pants and shorts and shirts. I think about how much of a burden i was to everyone because you decided to not care for us properly. I still don’t hate you because of all of that i learned a lot about what it is to stick through the struggle. I would’ve followed you to the ends of the earth. even while you beat on me. I think about that too.. i think about all the busted lips and black eyes you told me to tell the schools that i fell at a park. we never went to the park unless with your sister and that’s because she wouldn’t let us play in the sun for too long because you noticed if we got “tan” you wanted pale dolls to play with and hurt. That’s what dad used to tell me.. that i was just an ugly porcelain doll with a cracked face. I used to hate him too because of you.. but that’s for later on. I really hate how you would hurt me. How you would hurt me and only me specifically. You used to scream at me and ask where i hid Cierra.. and i would stare at you and say nothing. She was under the restroom sink behind the cleaning supplies. I would stare at you and you would slap me.. and i wouldn’t give in. then you’d close hand hit me.. over and over.. and i kept telling myself that “This is how all families are” you’d hit me until i bled or i cried out. then you’d look at me with that twisted face... i know what crazy looks like.. and it’s ugly. You would start crying and laughing and you’d call me names and i would just sit there and look at you. I could take a beating at this point.. and it’s all your fault... i take so many...now... and i honestly think that i do deserve this.. but then i would just look at you and watch you cry and laugh and you’d scream... i’m not scared anymore... i wasn’t even close to two digits in my age yet. If i cried you’d scream more and threaten to kill me and i’d stop because i didn’t want to die... not then.. not yet... not yet. When you finally stopped being ugly and mean and you’d go to sleep after smoking.. i’d crawl under the sink to get her and tell her everything was safe now. I still don’t hate you... I really wanted to though. I really want you to know i remember that.. i want you to know how hurt i am by it.. how angry it makes me to know you could do that to me at such a young age... i want it to hurt you sometimes.. but i shut up and say nothing.

saturated happiness.

I don’t even think the beatings were that bad.. they didn’t make me angry they just made me sad. i think what hurts me the most is that you’d change when men were around. You wanted to be loved so bad that you hurt dad a lot.. I always hated him because the stories you told me. “He used to hit you” and “he left us because he doesn’t love you” and “he used to hit me because i had you” “he regrets having you” i.. hated him so much... he’d pop in and out of our lives for the rest of that time being with you and i would always hate him. “Come sit on my lap angel baby” no. You would get mad that i couldn’t forgive him. you’d get so angry you’d force me to sit on his lap and the whole time i would kick and scream... why would i want to be with someone who hated me so much. i realized that the way you tried to manipulate the ideas of my dad were actually your own ways of telling me YOU personally felt this way. I know dad used to hit me because i have very vivid images of it that sometimes scare me and make me worry that i might have some brain issues because of how often it’d happen... but what i remember more is him beating you for hurting me more... i remember every time you’d scream at me and then start hitting me like usual.. he’d see it and he’d tackle you and throw you out the house flat on your ass. and he’d hold me and cry.. “angel baby i’m so sorry i cant protect you” i think then i didn’t have the ability to cry just yet because it was all too normal to be this hurt so young. but he cried for me. he cried enough for me to realize i should be sad when you hurt me and express it. So i would tear up with him.. but stop because i knew you were lurking around the house still... waiting for him to leave so you could finish. I still don’t hate you for doing that to us.. because on our own Dad and i came together and I was finally able to be the “Daddies girl” i was always meant to be. but we agreed that it was “Daddies troll” and i never called him daddy... i called him dad.. father... papa. I hated Daddy because i hated Mommy. I felt like that was a form of affection neither of you fully deserved.

Do you remember those porcelain dolls i used to have that grandma h would bring home for me after garage sale hunting? The one in the blue dress with red trim and the bonnet to match with the light brown hair in specific. My favorite one. I carried it around with me for years after she bought it. I slept with it under the bed. You would tell me “The monsters will get you” and i would say “Let them take me. I want to play” I think natural child fears never reached me.. you had robbed me of that. My favorite doll because it looked just like me according to your mom. and she loved to see me hold it. She has a picture of me with it.. and she told you “I love how adorable it is to see her cling to it” i loved it so much. it was my only friend. you took it from me one day after realizing yelling at me wouldn’t work and i had developed selective hearing to spare my heart... and you threw her at the wall... and this was the first time in two years i cried... and you didn’t do the scary laugh cry thing.. you actually cried... and you grabbed the doll and ran to your room... the damage was done. it was done. but you got ribbon to match her dress and made her an eyepatch since you too out one of her eyes and cracked her face.. and you gave her back to me and held me and said sorry... and you didn’t stop until i stopped crying.. i had no attachments to anything on this planet except Cierra and that Doll. I hated your dogs. I didn’t like pets. I didn’t get attached to books or movies yet. I didn’t get attached to anything but that doll... and you broke her... because you were mad i wasn’t getting upset by you calling me ugly names... After that i didn’t carry her around anymore and you told your mom and she felt so sad she bought me a ton more porcelain dolls in hopes i’ll fall in love with another one and move on... but i didn’t... one day you screamed at me because i wasn’t grateful.. so i went to the room and grabbed her and i threw her at the wall and told you “do you love me now mom?” because i broke my favorite toy further.. to appease you. You just looked at me and sat on the floor. you told me i was a broken doll that day. i just nodded my head and walked back to my room. I didn’t cry this time because i wanted you to know that there’s no way you could hurt me ever again. I loved nothing on this earth. not even you at this point. not even this life. You took me on drives after that happened to “talk out our feelings” but you’d always ask “how do you feel” and i would say “nothing” you isolated me from the outside world. told me that i was unlovable... you broke all my favorite things.. you hurt me... it never ended. you canceled my fatherly love for YEARS. You stunted my emotional growth. So my knowledge expanded. In the 5th grade i read at a 12th grade level. I just read to have fun because you made me so sad. I liked how far it took me away from where I was. I liked fiction so much. But then I started reading people’s “published diary’s” and i loved them even more. Real people... living their lives.. documenting it and allowing the world to peer through their eyes. I never kept a diary because i didn’t want to remember anything but i had nothing then...but time to remember.

You hate christmas so we never celebrated but we always ate. If i got gifts you’d toss them out. They gave me old VHS tapes though and your mom said “If you toss those out i’ll beat your ass. She loves those movies” I did. She gave me the gift of escaping in a visual form. So many movies. So many musicals. I’d get so excited after school to go home.. and you’d watch some with me. This was the only time i really felt we could connect. We watched a movie about how the maid murders the main man of the house because he was evil but the whole plot wasn’t even about who murdered him it was why and you said “Because he’s mean” and i said “He touched her wrong” we were both right. He sexually abused her and treated her awful when guests were over... and you asked how i knew about “That” and I wanted to tell you George raped me. But i just said “Movies” I can’t even tell you now as an adult.. But i told dad with no issue. It’s because dad cares about me... through and through. even if he was abusive. he loved me.. he just had no experience... We got along much better after that.. as long as i was quite and out of your way you were happy and you stopped hitting me. You even found a doll that looked exactly like my old one and gave it to me as a christmas gift and i got so excited about it that i held on to it even tighter than the first one. You slowly became kinder.. slowly.. sweeter.. softer... I started to love you.. We would watch all sorts of movies together. The pit and the pendulum... phantom of the opera.. the first one that was made. we’d watch musicals even though you hated them. We watched Step up and you tried teaching me how to dance. A FAILURE BECAUSE YOU SUCK AT DANCING! You were only kind to me though because Cierras memory was developing. I found out in school that Children memories don’t develop until 4 and up. so anything before that is lost.. I took advantage of that though. I wanted you to love me. I wanted to be your doll... I let you do my hair and i let you dress me up for halloween and i let you put ugly makeup on me... and paint my nails. You didn’t like any of my hobbies but i loved to indulge in yours because it meant you would spend time with me.. loving on me... i wanted your love so badly that i did everything you asked without hesitation... but one day i cut my hand on accident and you were mad at me and called me ugly.. and said i did it on purpose and i looked at my hand..which was clearly dirty because i was climbing a tree... and.. i was hurting... and i realized.. you’d never change and be kind to me fully. so i wrapped it up and shut up. i never bothered you emotionally ever again.

you told me i’d marry this boy.. i hated him then.. but you kept insisting. and i wanted to tell you.. that you didn’t know how mean he was to me. but it processed that you think that abuse equals love. possession equals love. so i just agreed and let you think what you wanted. you started to figure out what he looked like and would point him out everywhere and i wanted to yell at you that i didn’t like boys yet. I WAS IN MIDDLE SCHOOL... and i still didn’t process feelings. I still didn’t think love was real because you closed me off to it completely. But i started dating behind your back. Oops. Just to see if i could figure it out and for some reason i kept dating mean guys.. and i realized that i only like the type you introduced me to. so i started dating different guys and realized.. as luck would have it. i don’t like guys. i wasn’t sure what i liked.. but in the 7th grade i realized i did like them.. but i also like girls... and i couldn’t find a word for it so i told people “i’m not picky” THAT WAS BAD. and i hate that i said it but i didn’t want you to find out i liked them both. you really dabbled in my life a lot and set me up for failure too many times... but somehow i got out of all of it alive, safe, and well. i even got out of some situations on the lighter side. like that time you and dad both got arrested... and the only phone number i could remember was grandpas from dads side of the family... and he drove in from amarillo to get us. you guys didn’t worry about us for almost two months... i know you got out three days after.. because grandma e came to tell me. i wasn’t phased by you abandoning me anymore. i had just hoped i finally found a home. but you came and i thought. wow misfortunate much?

you took us in... to abandon me at your moms.. only for your mom to kick me out... because “if your mom isn’t here then you don’t belong here either” to move in with dad.. to live with him for four years and love him with my whole heart.. for you to not worry about me AT ALL for YEARS to pop back in a thousand times more toxic and saying that i abandoned you.. and how everything was my fault.

I think the reason why im truly so cold and mean and angry isn’t because a boy broke my heart.. of my dad died.. or anything else.. or any other abuse i’ve dealt with. it’s you. you’ve been the issue in my life from DAY ONE... and i STILL DONT HATE YOU. But i tried so i could stop loving you... i know that more bad happened that good with us.. but i can’t cancel out your good qualities to work along side why i’m so messed up in the head and the heart. As much as you hurt me.. is as much as i should forgive. I’m not saying that what you did all my dang life was okay.. but.. well.. maybe next time around make sure to raise someone more malicious.. i turned off of my feelings a ton just to save myself the heartache and i’m really good at that now.. but i don’t hate you. I know we’re trying to find even grounds to stand in to accept one another again.. and it’s kind of hard.. because you’re still so terrible sometimes.. but as an adult i’ve found reasons why i’m less angry about the things you’ve done.

i just want us to move on together. i want us to finally have a relationship. i’ve waite literal YEARS.. an entire life time.. for your love. I’ve found other mothers.. and they’re dang fantastic. but i am birth from your womb. i think i at least deserve some sort of relationship with you.

Thank you for not really killing me though i know you wanted to.

thank you for giving birth to me.

I love you Mom.

#letters to the past #my mom

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johncarney-blog1 · 7 years ago

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UnBearable: The Unbelievable Awfulness Of The Berenstain Bears

(Note: This originally ran in the Fall 2012 issue of Scooter, the now-defunct parents magazine published by the New York Observer. Scooter’s website no longer works, so I’m putting this up here.)

Late last October, I found myself looking for a children’s book about Thanksgiving, something to introduce my two-and-half year old daughter to the approaching holiday. Owing to a surprising dearth of children’s literature about this cherished autumn feast, I wound up with The Berenstain Bears Give Thanks.

Here’s what happens in the book: Papa Bear has been doing work for a local farmer, who pays with a live turkey. Sister Bear adopts the turkey as a pet and refuses to eat turkey at Thanksgiving. The family relents and eats fish for Thanksgiving instead.

Give Thanks is part of the Berenstain’s “Living Light” series, a subdivision of Berenstain country in which lessons about God are imparted. I have no idea why the Berenstain God approves the eating of fish but not turkey on Thanksgiving. But I do know that the last thing a parent of a toddler needs is literary and faith-based encouragement for picky eating.

After just a few doses of that finicky Sister Bear’s behavior, my daughter arrived at her grandparents’ home for Thanksgiving with a driving passion against eating turkey. To her, the main point of the holiday appeared to be about avoiding the consumption of turkey, as it was for Sister Bear. For all I know, her two-year-old theology thought God hated turkey eaters. Thanks, Berenstains!

Berenstains will infiltrate your life in a number of ways. A well-meaning friend brings a Berenstain Bears book to a birthday party. Your mother in-law visits with a well-worn copy from your spouse’s childhood library. Perhaps you pick up one of the Berenstain books because of the relevance of its theme. This is one of the Berenstain Book Industrial Complex’s tricks: there are hundreds of titles, one for almost any occasion: a Valentine’s Day book, a first-day-at-school book, a budget-cuts-shutting-down-a-school-play-ground book, even a neighborhood-racial-integration book.

Since you are not an imbecile, you are initially put off by the hideous cover. It is sure to feature four or five members of the Berenstain family—all absurdly and insultingly ugly. Mama Bear is wearing a hat or, more commonly, a bonnet—a bonnet!—and a dress that looks like it was smuggled off the grounds of a breakaway post-Mormon polygamist cult. Brother Bear and Sister Bear are identical except for their clothes—blue slacks for Brother, some hideous pink romper for Sister. Papa Bear somehow wears overalls all of the time. Honey Bear, the baby of the family introduced in 2000, seems to be thrown in as an afterthought—which, in fact, she was.

Open the book and the situation is no better. The illustrations would be dull if the colors were not so garish. The bears typically stand around in wooden poses with not a suggestion of dynamism or movement. Their faces bear no indication of thought or emotional presence, unless a grin or grimace counts towards such a thing. Not a hint of charm or whimsy or technique redeems any of the art. The bears are devoid of wit. It’s a wonder anyone would inflict these pictures on a story that someone had actually taken the time to write.

At this point, if you are lucky or particularly wise, you will have set aside the Berenstain Bears. Preferably far from home, somewhere it will never be discovered by your offspring. If you are unlucky or unwise, the book will find its way into the proximity of your child. You will be asked to read the book. This is your last chance. You must refuse to read it. Do anything but read it. Suggest a different book. G oout to the park. Resort to declaring it ice cream time, if you must. But do not read the Berenstain Bears to a child.

Reading the book will reveal that the story is—unbelievably—worse than the art. The art merely betrayed lack of thoughtfulness. But the story is to thought as a black hole is to starlight. Where the art lacked action, the plot is grindingly dull. Where the drawings lacked whimsy, the text reads as if it were written under rigid orders to avoid creativity. There are no jokes that are funny. No surprises that are unexpected. It’s all wooden grins and grimaces.

As a parent, you know what is likely to follow: you will be required to read the book over and over. Your child will demand it at naptime, at bedtime, whenever his or her day becomes just slow enough to remember that some-where in the house there is a book about bears. Time and time again, you will spend precious minutes with your child—time you should rightfully be cherishing—resentfully reading the worst children’s books ever written.

The drudgery stems from the generic characters. As the official Berenstain Bears website puts it, the bears’ names were chosen to “emphasize their archetypical roles in the family.” But that fancy word “archetype” is wishful thinking. They are more like half-conceived types. The bear children are neither childlike or child-ish—they are likeish. Mama and Papa and Honey are likeish too. They are approximations of abstractions. To call the Berenstains anthropomorphized bears insults both humans and bears.

The incessant moral hectoring makes the dull-ness ever more excruciating. Each plot is organized around the relentless pursuit of a life lesson: Don’t be mean to your brother, mind your parents, weary our helmet and kneepads while skateboarding, don’t eat turkey on Thanksgiving. Fine enough advice, except for the weird turkey thing, but it is rendered tedious by the lack of imagination with which the themes are introduced, explored and resolved. It’s like watching a train wreck that you see coming a mile away—except there is no wreck. Just a train reliably pulling into station after station after station. The Berenstain books are the train spotting of children’s literature.

Most insidious is the Berenstain empire’s cleverness in coopting the otherwise unassailable canon of bear books for children, at whose pinnacle sits A.A. Milne’s Winnie-the-Pooh. The Berenstains are clearly derivative of the three bears encountered by Goldilocks. (Brother Bear was originally called Little Bear—and Sister Bear wasn’t introduced until later.) Don Freeman’s Corduroy tells the sweet tale of a stuffed bear looking for a home. Paddington Bear stows aboard a ship from Peru to London.

But the Berenstain series repudiates this proud tradition’s central tenet: that a book can be wonderful for parents and children. The franchise seems founded upon the almost anti-literary idea that children must be taught early reading through books whose art and narrative make them unbearable to read. Sure, kids may like them—but kids will drink detergent if you leave it in a cup placed on a low table. They aren’t the best judges.

Despite the dreadfulness of these novellas, they have been selling for 50 years, originally blessed by none other than Ted Geisel, aka Dr. Seuss. A few of the earliest installments, especially those rewritten in rhyme like the series-launching Big Honey Hunt, are admittedly pleasant reads. Not great, but good enough if you don’t have a Milne or Freeman around. But in short order, the books went terribly wrong. My research into the Berenstain oeuvre confirms that they have been awful for decades.

Perhaps we get the literature we deserve. But surely the delivery of just desserts has constitutional limits, I hope. Because even the most annoying parents among us should be spared these Bears.

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