#for a normal person i think it just promotes an unnecessary fear of growing old

[infinityonimmortals]

the only older-adult ive heard say "take care of yourself while you're young" vs. "don't get old" is my mother and she's a real one for that honestly

[vakarians-babe]

Because I’m still in hyperfixation mode and I just finished replaying the og Mass Effect trilogy at midnight, have a lil essay on why Shakarian (at least how I’ve played it) breaks me every time! Essay under the cut, bc it’s longer than I ever intended lmao

I’ll start by saying I play as femShep, with the Earthborn and Sole Survivor backgrounds, as the infiltrator class (main weapon is sniper) My canon Shep is named Anais and follows much of the Paragon track. So, ME1. There’s Anais, fresh out of what she thinks is the biggest failure of her career since Akuze. Nihlus is dead and so are almost all of the colonists and Jenkins. It’s kind of raw, but she’s determined to do things her way—the ‘right’ way. No one left behind, no unnecessary sacrifices; you do what you can to save everyone, not enact an arithmetic of death. She’s a little older than Garrus (my canon is 27 at the beginning of ME1, while Garrus is 25), who is this brash, angry proponent of ‘justice’ as he sees it, and she recognizes a little bit of her own pain and her own motivations in him as he tells her how desperately he wants to take Saren down. Throughout the game, from Feros and Noveria to Virmire and Ilos, she does her best to teach him that you don’t take shortcuts. You don’t let your anger lead the direction of your scope. It’s the encounter with Dr. Saleon that really hits some of that home for Garrus, because he’s let his thirst for vengeance for /himself/ rather than justice for the victims take over, and she helps him see that. When she has to choose between Kaidan and Ashley, it destroys her, but she does it, and for once Garrus gives her a little comfort, because he sees now /why/ she never wanted to choose. By the time they’re at the final showdown on the Citadel, the two are incredibly close. Garrus respects her, Anais respects him and cares deeply for this friend. And Garrus maybe even adores her (her hair is nice and her waist is very supportive, after all) in a way that he denies.

And then Anais dies. Garrus is at CSec, working on reforms and making sure the processes are about taking care of people and trying to flush out corruption. It flashes across nearly every vidscreen in the room: SSV NORMANDY ATTACKED. COMMANDER SHEPARD LOST. Garrus has to watch, then, as Anais is lauded for a few months, and then swept under the rug. It’s like this force of nature never even existed for so many others, but not for him. Corruption continues in CSec, his efforts earn him reprimands, and it all becomes too much. He hands in his badge and goes to Omega. Builds up his band of comrades, just like Shepard. He fights for normal people, to give them better lives and to keep the bullies off their backs. Just like Shepard. But Sidonis is there, and eventually he betrays them all. Garrus, now Archangel, is devastated. He’s tried so hard to hold onto what Anais had taught him, and now, at the same age she was when she died, he’s ready for one last battle, with all of the gangs of Omega, and he doesn’t care if he dies, because there’ll be less bullies in the world and the only collateral damage will be him. He’s already lost his team, he won’t let there be anyone else left behind, no others unnecessarily sacrificed. He may be dealing in an arithmetic of death, but it’s about how many he can take out before he goes.

Instead, someone breaks through the gangs’ lines. Someone with a build and a gate and a way of sniping on the move that is so familiar to Garrus, but he can’t let himself believe it. Lots of people have dark hair and big noses (but he still remembers what she looked like, two years ago, and he knows its her even though he tells himself it’s not). But suddenly she’s there, and it’s his chance to be cool and show her how he’s grown, and she does look exactly the same up close, except for these lingering scars. When the gunship takes him down briefly, he thinks it’s ironic that now they even share facial scars.

As they catch up, Garrus starts to realize how much /he’s/ grown. They’re the same age now, he keeps reminding himself, because Anais is still 27, and two years spent as little more than cells in a lab don’t include birthdays. Anais is seeing it too, and part of her is sad, because she knows Garrus has been through so much to make him the way he is. The loss of his team hurts her. But Garrus is tougher than she expected, and he took her lessons to heart, even if he’s interpreted some of them in his own ways. As Anais feels more hopeless, pulled more deeply into Cerberus and into a way of things that she doesn’t like, she finds herself forced to be angry. To choose some of the options she might not have chosen before. Her scars are mostly healed, and the strange light has left them, but her face is still newly knitted flesh. It’s Garrus who tries to soften Anais now, because in those two years he’s gained an understanding of hope and hopelessness that he never had before.  

When the chance comes to catch up with Sidonis, the two of them find themselves snapping back towards who they were that day so long ago on the Citadel. Garrus, despite his losses, is angry again. /He/ wants vengeance, though he tells himself it’s justice for his /squad/. Anais knows she can’t let him do it, because sole survivors will always blame themselves in the end, and when Sidonis is gone, only the self hate and the feelings of failure will remain. So she stops him. And when he asks her “what do you want from me, Shepard?” she shatters inside, because she realizes suddenly that somehow, she’s falling in love with him, and she knows how he feels. She felt that way on Akuze, felt that way when she faced her commanding officer, felt that way about herself when she failed her team. She wants him to stop blaming himself, but that’s so much to ask.

But he does realize that, deep down. When she looks at him with all the pain of experience, he knows in that moment that she has blamed herself for years, and it’s what she’s afraid will happen to him. It’s the start of something new for Garrus, and he finally listens to those little feelings inside him whenever he sees Anais tying up her waist-length hair, or smiling softly in the corner of the mess hall, or surreptitiously buying a new model ship or fish or hamster. They start to flirt, slowly, both of them pretending this is just a friendship with a little more when they know it isn’t.

The Batarian relay is even worse for Anais than Horizon was. She knows exactly how many people she tried to save, and who died anyway. She listened to Dr. Kenson, and it’s all her fault. But Garrus stops, he stands in front of her, and he tells her quietly that she /tried/ and she knows she has to stop pretending she only sees him as a friend, because she loves him completely. He doesn’t know when he stopped pretending to himself anymore.

The Collector Base is terrifying, for both of them. The final journey to and through the Omega Four relay is one they spend tangled up, sometimes awkward, but always right. Despite what’s coming, that time in the loft is theirs. When Anais leaves Garrus as the leader of the second squad, they both know it’s because she trusts him and his skills completely, more completely than anybody on the team, save perhaps Miranda or Tali. They both wish she didn’t have to. But they win, and they all make it out of the Suicide Mission unscathed. The goodbye is impossibly hard, but neither one of them can bring themselves to say the three words they want to say. Garrus goes back to Palaven, where he’s promoted. Anais faces her trial on Earth. They both kick themselves for the things they never said.

The final coming of the Reapers shakes Anais. She can’t help but think of Garrus, on Palaven, as the reports start drifting in while they fly to Mars. And then she finds him, on that moon, and he’s whole and he’s alive and he’s there and she wants to blurt it out (he does too). They’re both amazed afterwards by how easy it is to resume things, and by how much more open it feels. Though neither of them say anything, they know what’s changed. They know it’s really for real. They’re on more even footing now, with Anais choosing more Renegade options than she would a year ago but still trying to do what’s right, and Garrus refusing to cut corners, even though he makes hard choices. When she cures the Genophage, Garrus is in awe at how easy the decision is for her. When she saves the Geth /and/ the Quarians, Garrus doesn’t know how she /exists/. Somewhere along the way, he realizes he would die for her. And when they sneak up to the presidium roof and she misses her shot, Garrus knows she did it on purpose, because Commander Anais Shepard can hit a traveling Banshee between the eyes. Anais thinks it’s her secret and she’ll never tell him. But what she really wants is to say she loves him. 

As the nightmares get worse for Anais, Garrus does what he can to make things easier. He cleans her guns for her, when she’s not looking or thinking. He brings food up to her cabin, to force her to eat when she sits there just looking at the reports from the Battlespace, watching the casualty lists scroll across the screen of her personal communicator. She always takes him on her missions, when she can. And when she comforts him about his family, he wants to come undone right there in the gun battery. He doesn’t. 

They both have a feeling that one of them won’t make it out of this. Despite the numbers, despite those readiness ratings, there’s that fear. All the talk of turian/human babies and of adopting is just a blind hope for the two of them. But god, do they want that future. They want to live off of the royalties from the vids and grow old and gray and be able to remember with amazement how they once were able to barrel roll and fight Brutes without arthritis pain stopping them. 

The run to the beam, that headlong, dead-out sprint, is full of panic. Anais trips more than once as she glances over her shoulder for Garrus. He grips her under her shoulders and yanks her to her feet like a ragdoll, setting her gently onto her feet each time. When the beam hits the Mako, and it rolls over in the explosion, Anais thinks she’s lost everything. The Crucible doesn’t matter if Garrus is gone, because there’s no Shepard without Vakarian. Even though he’s heavy, so much heavier than her, she drags him to the bay doors of the Normandy. And because she thinks this is the last chance, because she doesn’t know which one of them will live, she finally tells him she loves him. As he fights back tears, he says it back. And then the doors close and she’s gone. 

With the Citadel so fully alien and terrifying, Anais tries to think only of him. Only of what they might name their first kid. Would they adopt? She knows that their DNA isn’t compatible. But they could always try something. Maybe they’d be Krios, for Thane, or Kaidy, for Kaidan. Standing in front of the Illusive Man, feeling the threads of indoctrination in her head, it’s the thought of returning to Garrus that lets her break free, just for a moment, to pull the trigger. It’s not enough to save Anderson. Maybe their child will be named David. With unfeeling fingers, Anais arms the Crucible. She can’t rid the world of synthetics--Edi and the Geth are just as alive as they are--but there will be no dominating the reapers. She hopes everyone will understand as she chooses Synthesis. And then she lets go. She’s sure she’s died. 

But the next day, when the dust has settled somewhat, and the crew of the Normandy are gathered around their memorial wall, Garrus feels differently. It’s amazing, how when they were together and saying their goodbyes he was sure he wouldn’t see her again. But now, even when those around them are sure that Commander Shepard, /the/ Commander Shepard, is dead, he knows she’s not. She died once, after all, and that didn’t stop her. Besides, her cybernetic augmentation is designed to heal her.

And while Garrus stands there, hoping, Anais takes a breath on that wreckage. 

[cyanoscarlet]

Ghost of a Feeling: a commentary

This is quite late on my part, but I finally found time to break away from academic responsibilities and do this write-up. Love you and thousands of ghost hugs, Doc @luckychanmd! :)

Promotional post done here.

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I have to admit, I was immediately piqued upon reading the book blurb. You have a protagonist who’s all but given up on life and a deuteragonist who’s all but given up on love, brought together by an old horror story in an incredible way like no other - what could get better than that? I knew once I signed up for an advanced reader’s copy that I was in for quite the ride. (I’d actually peeked and read a few chapters in the middle of duty, and I definitely wasn’t disappointed. I couldn’t wait to read the rest.)

I’d previously done a live-tweet thread as I first read GOAF in full last November 1st. It’s mostly just me screeching incoherently and forgetting to tweet, but I did make a few observations of my own on some aspects apart from the main story itself. 

Ghosts in My Mind

In the story, the protagonist, Cris Villareal, is cornered - literally - after everything in her life crashes down: her career, her relationships, her own mind. With no other escape route other than leaping off the roof deck, she attempts to end her life. She is, however, stopped by Emilio, a ghost haunting the building who did just that almost a century ago, and harbors great regret over what he’d done. They develop an unusual friendship like no other, eventually progressing to something more, but Emilio is not all who he seems to be.

I can’t really say I’m a believer of the paranormal, though the occasional horror flick does scare me to my wits’ end. What I’ve always held is that ghosts appear to man as sort of a metaphor. They are a manifestation of the person’s own worries and fears, or something important they must face. Emilio serves as this for Cris, and more. He comforts and confronts her on the issues she must face, and it is through their nightly conversations that Cris eventually learns to live life again, taking steps for herself to move forward. This is why she is utterly devastated when she finally finds out that Emilio is not at all who he claims to be, her heart broken by the shards of her shattered belief.

The same could be said for the deuteragonist, Nathan Morales, who can practically be considered a living ghost, of sorts, as he goes through the motions of life without living at all. For him, love has ceased to exist after he loses Andrea, the love of his life, to another man, yet all the ghosts of his past remain to haunt him, his own heart still deeply hurt and unable to move on. It is only when his and Cris’ paths cross and converge that he is able to let go and hopefully start over.

As I do this write-up, I ponder over these different aspects of the concept “ghost” presented in the book, and though this may not be the author’s intention for interpretation at all, I am impressed at how it ties well with the main story, adding layers of dimensions you’d normally not find in other stories of a similar type. In addition to the unusual romance, the book also tackles issues on mental health, its perceptions by society, especially among medical professionals. It can be said that many people with mental illnesses deal with “voices in their heads”, either literally, figuratively, or both. They, too, have their own ghosts, which do not require a third eye to see.

I Am My Own Dr. Santos.

Surprisingly, a character I identify well with other than Cris is Dr. Santos. A senior doctor to Cris in the hospital, he is a major reason why she has ended up where she is at the beginning of the story. I can attest that doctors like him do exist in real life, and though I (fortunately) have had no experience with such seniors yet, I have heard stories making the rounds in the wards, in conferences, on group chats and social media rants. It is definitely a hurtful thing to be humiliated into silence over mistakes instead of being taught properly to grow and learn from them.

I personally have experienced such hurtful things, for I am my own Dr. Santos.

I see the character of Dr. Santos as a manifestation of the voices in my mind, the hurtful words not unlike those he used on Cris very much the same as the nagging whispers I try (and fail) to block out on a daily basis. My depression is especially worse when I (think I) screw up in my work, my mind continually berating me for doing wrong by my patient/co-clerk/resident, even if they themselves already repeatedly tell me to snap out of it. Some days are better than others, and I feel that I am in control. Some days, on the other hand, I feel like my own mind has all but turned against me, and I am left helpless and in tears, barely functioning during the times I need to deliver more than what is required of me. In this regard I believe Cris and I to be the same, and I more than identify with her in this regard.

I have presented this point to the author, and her response (click for thread) is absolutely worth reading.

For medical professionals, to have such a condition to begin with further compounded by external demands and demeaning remarks, it is no wonder that many physicians succumb to the system, the pressure, or both. Some of them are cornered like Cris, and when pushed over the edge, are irrevocably plunged to their ends, cruelly truncating whatever dreams and potential they once had. One does not simply “suck it up” and just “grin and bear it”. It is something that must definitely be addressed, and I am glad this book does well in tackling this issue.

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For sure, I have definitely enjoyed reading Ghost of a Feeling, and though I may have added more (unnecessary) layers to it than I should have, I daresay it is part of the fun of reading. It is that good.

Get your e-copy on Amazon today!

[samuelfields]

The Importance Of Feeling Uncomfortable For Personal And Financial Growth

With the racism and sexual assault allegations that have befallen the Governor of Virginia, the Attorney General of Virginia, and the Lt. Governor of Virginia, I was reminded of all the racist altercations I experienced growing up in Virginia for public high school and public university in the mid-to-late 90s.

Given the revelations at the senior levels of Virginia government today, you know racism in Virginia wasn’t unusual decades ago. Racism wasn’t a constant ubiquity, but I did experience some type of racist encounter about every 10th time I went out of the house.

One of the more milder examples I remember was while waiting in line to go to the bathroom at a gas station off I-95 heading south. A white guy behind me said, “Hey, don’t you understand English? What are you waiting for? The bathroom is open!“

I turned around and said, “There’s actually someone in there. They just didn’t lock the door. Do you understand the English that’s coming out of my mouth?”

He backed down with an “Oh, never mind.” But I was ready to rumble.

The amazing thing about all these racial experiences is that it’s all I knew after coming to America for high school.

I thought it was normal to be on the receiving end of racial slurs or racial innuendos every so often. I just endured and fought back as hard as I could each time.

Yes, I got suspended from school multiple times for fighting, but it was worth it to defend my honor. Kids stopped messing with me once they felt my fists of fury.

After I got a job in 1999 in New York City and again when I moved out to San Francisco in 2001, I realized that being a minority in America felt so much more comfortable in a diverse city.

My racial conflicts dropped from every 10th time I went outside to maybe every 25th time I went outside in Manhattan. In San Francisco, I can’t remember my last racial conflict because we are a minority majority city.

The Positives Of Discomfort

Looking on the positive side of racism, I thank my past racial altercations for having given me the extra strength I needed to endure those long work hours in banking for so many years. Racism gave me tremendous motivation to prove that I could succeed in America.

Yes, it is harder in the workplace when so few in management look like you and no one wants to mentor you. But screw that, I always told myself. Being a minority working in a smaller business in a satellite office was simply a great challenge to get ahead by being more energetic and entrepreneurial.

When I got promoted to VP at age 27, it was one of the greatest feelings ever. All of my contemporary colleagues were still Associates, one level down, and would stay Associates usually until 30-32 years old.

Getting the promotion was when I first realized the allure of meritocracy. It was also my first taste of power. When you need consensus from a committee to get promoted, you don’t mess with your senior colleagues.

Despite being gone from the workforce since 2012, I still have the energy and motivation as I did when I was a teenager.

It’s like having Ironman’s arc reactor, pulsating in my chest, driving me to keep going no matter what thanks to all the hate I experienced growing up.

And to be honest, this energy feels wonderful! I remind myself every day that it is this energy that has enabled both my wife and me to leave work behind at age 34.

And it is this confidence that has fortified me to take big risks in my career, in my investments, and in our online business.

Without this energy, I would not have been able to regularly get up by 5am for the past two years work on Financial Samurai for three hours before my wife and son woke up to then get to work as a dad. Instead, I would have probably slept in until 7am because taking care of a toddler is exhausting.

Hardship makes us better appreciate the good times.

Let’s Move To Virginia Instead!

Given how much racism and bullying has given me, I think it’s best for us to move back to Virginia and rejoin a 5.5% minority.

To survive in a less comfortable situation forces you to adapt. Learning things like self-defense, conflict resolution, self-deprecation, positive thinking and humor are all useful skills through our adult lives. What wonderful skills to teach our son.

Hawaii just seems like too comfortable a lifestyle to get motivated to do more than the average. When it’s 79 degrees and sunny, only the most disciplined individual would stay inside and study for three hours instead of go to the beach and play.

Virginia, overall, is a wonderful state with a strong economy and good people. People are products of their time, and I don’t blame a minority of Virginians for thinking the way they do about minorities.

In general, I look back upon my eight years there with fondness. The good outweighed the bad. Virginia was my rite of passage into adulthood.

It’s just the recent racial incidents involving Virginia’s political elite that have triggered forgotten memories.

Norther Virginia is about 50% cheaper than San Francisco in terms of housing. Meanwhile, there are plenty of solid public schools, where we’d probably end up as opposed to southern Virginia, where I went to college.

With each difficult encounter, his mother and I will mentor him by teaching him about hate and ignorance. And perhaps with each encounter, our boy will also develop a chip on his shoulder and a FIRE to prove the haters wrong that he cannot become somebody great.

By shunning a diverse environment for a more homogenous environment, my son will have a chance to experience more racial discrimination than if he were in San Francisco or Honolulu.

I fear that if we shelter our children too much, they’ll grow up to be ignorant, unmotivated individuals who will whine at the slightest of inconveniences.

I have three immediate neighborhood households that all have adult sons still living at home with their parents because life is too easy. When your parents pay for everything as an adult, there’s no longer an incentive to try.

Taking away a person’s ability to provide for themselves is so sad because it feels so amazing when you establish your independence.

My hope is that by putting our son in an environment where he will have to struggle more to get ahead, he’ll gain a tremendous amount of satisfaction and self-esteem as he grows older.

Besides, my mother-in-law lives in Virginia, my sister and nephew live in Manhattan, and my sister-in-law and family live in North Carolina.

Related: A Massive Generational Wealth Transfer Is Why Everything Will Be OK

Examples Of Uncomfortable Situations

When life becomes too easy, nothing really happens. Besides experiencing racism growing up, here are some personal examples of uncomfortable situations that helped me grow:

Being the new kid at school all the time. I was the new kid every 2-4 years growing up and I hated it. But I grew to have no fear chatting up anybody in a new environment, which made a big difference in my professional growth.

Having to get into the office at 5:30am. Getting in by 5:30am for two years at my first job, and then by 6am on average at my second job for 11 years, never felt natural. But after about 10 years, I no longer needed an alarm clock. I was conditioned to naturally wake up earlier than my peers to get things done. This productivity accelerated my path to financial freedom.

Confronting my boss for a severance. Without a manual, not many people have the confidence to argue their case for a severance. But I knew my worth, and I knew what would happen to the business if I suddenly left, or worse, went to a competitor. This confidence came from having to repeatedly stand up for myself growing up.

Writing mind-benders that may offend. I go through a process every six months which I call, “The Culling.” The Culling entails publishing an article that enrages a subset of undesirable readers who are unwilling to read beyond a headline or unable to understand the nuances of what I’m trying to say. My goal is to reduce the accumulation of easily triggered readers and grow a community of intelligent readers with well-argued rebuttals.

Now that I’ve shared such convincing arguments about the importance of consistently being uncomfortable for personal and professional growth, it’s clear that we should move to Virginia and not to Hawaii.

Oh, but wait. With important geoarbitrage moves, unless a divorce is what you want, it’s a good idea to have a consensus between spouses and partners.

Let’s see what my wife has to say. She spent 20 years growing up in Charlottesville, Richmond, and Williamsburg, Virginia.

The Choice Is Obvious

Hi everyone! Sam and I are fortunate to be quite a balanced couple. Opposites attract as they say.

He’s mostly an extrovert; I’m a total introvert. He’s very athletic; I’m a total klutz. He’s super efficient and fast at most things; I tend to be slow and cautious.

So what are my thoughts on Sam’s idea to move to Virginia? Absolutely not. My answer is, Hawaii of course!

Here are just a few of the reasons why. 

1) I grew up in Virginia and although I agree that it is a beautiful state with plenty to offer, I booked a one way ticket out of there after college graduation faster than Quicksilver in X-Men: Days Of Future Past. Virginia: Been there, done that. I’ve never looked back.

2) Racism is terrible. Plain and simple. Does it exist more in less diverse places? Probably. But sadly it exists everywhere. Our son will likely experience some encounters of racism no matter where he grows up. I also do not want to intentionally expose our son to unnecessary negativity and hatred. I do plan to teach him to respect people of all sorts through travel, reading, volunteering, and having many open discussions wherever we live.

3) I do not believe our son needs to experience racism and be a minority in school in order to be a driven, hard working individual. His personality is unique and definitely a blend of both Sam and me, although I see Sam’s focus and determination in our son as clear as day. My motherly instinct already tells me our son is going to be a good student who wants to succeed. I know he will need coaching and a supportive environment to get past obstacles and we’ll be there for him. 

For example, when our son can’t do something, like get a block to fit into his shape sorter toy, he yells out in frustration and throws the block to the ground. He has daddy’s fire. 

That’s my cue to pick up the block, put it back in his hand, help him wiggle it into the right spot, and then share in his excitement. Seeing the ear-to-ear grin on his face when he pushes the block in followed by him immediately try another shape by himself says it all.

Fight Or Flight

Growing up as a multiracial kid, I was at the top of the minority list in school. I was literally the only one of my “kind” – Japanese mother, Caucasian father. I didn’t look Asian; I didn’t look white. Our town was almost completely 50% white, 50% African American. 

I looked “weird” as some girls said. “What ARE you?” was another question I’d often get. Fortunately, I had a few friends who looked past my appearance and the shock that I had an Asian mother. 

I didn’t “belong” in Japan either. Everyone stared at me wherever I went in Japan. Some whispered look at the gaijin; this word for foreigner has a bit of a negative connotation. 

Others said I was so lucky to be half because I had pale skin and big eyes. Thank you, I guess. But what are they saying about people who are tan with small eyes?

Fortunately, I didn’t experience frequent bulling or racist remarks, but I still had my share. That didn’t make me want to fight back like Sam though. 

The hurtful comments made me want to leave. The rest were just annoying distractions. I knew they didn’t define who I was and that my racial background made me unique and wasn’t something anyone could take away. 

I don’t like confrontation; I never have. When kids and adults have said mean things to me I don’t talk back; I usually stay silent and walk away. Sam sees this as letting them walk over me. Perhaps, but I don’t give people like that any power over me. 

I’m just the type of person who doesn’t want to waste any energy or time on disrespectful people who just don’t get it. 

That doesn’t mean I wasn’t hurt. I felt sadness, isolation, and frustration especially growing up. But, I really don’t like to dwell on negativity. I have so many better things to do!

Finding Motivation From Within

The one thing I’m certain of is that we are all motivated by different things. I remember someone telling me that during management training at work and it’s totally true. 

You might be motivated by adversities, or discrimination, the desire to be the best, money, family, power, financial freedom, a better lifestyle, countless other things and likely a whole combination of things.

Growing up, I was self motivated to get good grades. Perhaps it was my perfectionist personality or the desire to be like my smarter sister. Who knows. What I don’t remember though is my parents ever pushing or telling me I had to get straight A’s.  

In middle school and high school, I was motivated to be the best violinist in school and to get the lead part in every theater production. I think a combination of wanting recognition and enjoying those activities were my main motivators. 

In my career, I was definitely motivated by power, gaining autonomy, earning money, and recognition for my niche skills and efforts.

As a parent, I’m motivated by an immeasurable amount of love, and wanting to see our son happy, develop and succeed. 

Ultimately, I believe motivation is very personal and has to come from within. I think it blossoms in supportive environments.

Some people get motivated in harsh environments, but definitely not all. I probably would have been mentally crushed over time if I was in a worse situation growing up. So I’m thankful my experiences weren’t much worse. 

Making The Right Choice

Now that you’ve heard from both sides, we’re curious to hear what you would do if you were us? Your vote will help determine our family’s future.

Would you move to warm and sunny Honolulu, where life is even more comfortable than it is in San Francisco? The majority of the Honolulu population will look like our boy, either Asian or multi-racial. He’ll grow up in an environment that is much more chill because most people in Hawaii are working to live, not living to work.

Or, would you move to somewhere in Virginia, where it is very hot or very cold for half the year. Such temperature will help him appreciate the other half of the year better. Our boy will feel the discomfort of being a 5.5% minority. As a result, he’ll better learn how to deal with difficult situations like racism and bullying. He’ll also get a quicker taste of how cruel the real world is so he can hopefully be more motivated to study and work hard.

In conclusion, what a blessing it is to grow up as a minority in America. If all I experienced was love and acceptance, I’d probably still be working at my soul-sucking job wondering what else is there to life. There would be no Financial Samurai.

Experiencing the bad has really helped me appreciate the good. I hope we can all realize this juxtaposition one day.

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Related Posts:

Silent Threats In The Night: My Charlottesville Story

Explaining Why Asian Income Is Highest In America

Beware Of Financial Blind Spots On Your Road To Financial Freedom

Readers, what were some uncomfortable situations you experienced growing up that helped make you stronger? How much real world hardship should we subject our children to before they enter the real world? Are people simply a product of their times, and as times change, people change?

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[ronaldmrashid]

The Importance Of Feeling Uncomfortable For Personal And Financial Growth

With the racism and sexual assault allegations that have befallen the Governor of Virginia, the Attorney General of Virginia, and the Lt. Governor of Virginia, I was reminded of all the racist altercations I experienced growing up in Virginia for public high school and public university in the mid-to-late 90s.

Given the revelations at the senior levels of Virginia government today, you know racism in Virginia wasn’t unusual decades ago. Racism wasn’t a constant ubiquity, but I did experience some type of racist encounter about every 10th time I went out of the house.

One of the more milder examples I remember was while waiting in line to go to the bathroom at a gas station off I-95 heading south. A white guy behind me said, “Hey, don’t you understand English? What are you waiting for? The bathroom is open!“

I turned around and said, “There’s actually someone in there. They just didn’t lock the door. Do you understand the English that’s coming out of my mouth?”

He backed down with an “Oh, never mind.” But I was ready to rumble.

The amazing thing about all these racial experiences is that it’s all I knew after coming to America for high school.

I thought it was normal to be on the receiving end of racial slurs or racial innuendos every so often. I just endured and fought back as hard as I could each time.

Yes, I got suspended from school multiple times for fighting, but it was worth it to defend my honor. Kids stopped messing with me once they felt my fists of fury.

After I got a job in 1999 in New York City and again when I moved out to San Francisco in 2001, I realized that being a minority in America felt so much more comfortable in a diverse city.

My racial conflicts dropped from every 10th time I went outside to maybe every 25th time I went outside in Manhattan. In San Francisco, I can’t remember my last racial conflict because we are a minority majority city.

The Positives Of Discomfort

Looking on the positive side of racism, I thank my past racial altercations for having given me the extra strength I needed to endure those long work hours in banking for so many years. Racism gave me tremendous motivation to prove that I could succeed in America.

Yes, it is harder in the workplace when so few in management look like you and no one wants to mentor you. But screw that, I always told myself. Being a minority working in a smaller business in a satellite office was simply a great challenge to get ahead by being more energetic and entrepreneurial.

When I got promoted to VP at age 27, it was one of the greatest feelings ever. All of my contemporary colleagues were still Associates, one level down, and would stay Associates usually until 30-32 years old.

Getting the promotion was when I first realized the allure of meritocracy. It was also my first taste of power. When you need consensus from a committee to get promoted, you don’t mess with your senior colleagues.

Despite being gone from the workforce since 2012, I still have the energy and motivation as I did when I was a teenager.

It’s like having Ironman’s arc reactor, pulsating in my chest, driving me to keep going no matter what thanks to all the hate I experienced growing up.

And to be honest, this energy feels wonderful! I remind myself every day that it is this energy that has enabled both my wife and me to leave work behind at age 34.

And it is this confidence that has fortified me to take big risks in my career, in my investments, and in our online business.

Without this energy, I would not have been able to regularly get up by 5am for the past two years work on Financial Samurai for three hours before my wife and son woke up to then get to work as a dad. Instead, I would have probably slept in until 7am because taking care of a toddler is exhausting.

Hardship makes us better appreciate the good times.

Let’s Move To Virginia Instead!

Given how much racism and bullying has given me, I think it’s best for us to move back to Virginia and rejoin a 5.5% minority.

To survive in a less comfortable situation forces you to adapt. Learning things like self-defense, conflict resolution, self-deprecation, positive thinking and humor are all useful skills through our adult lives. What wonderful skills to teach our son.

Hawaii just seems like too comfortable a lifestyle to get motivated to do more than the average. When it’s 79 degrees and sunny, only the most disciplined individual would stay inside and study for three hours instead of go to the beach and play.

Virginia, overall, is a wonderful state with a strong economy and good people. People are products of their time, and I don’t blame a minority of Virginians for thinking the way they do about minorities.

In general, I look back upon my eight years there with fondness. The good outweighed the bad. Virginia was my rite of passage into adulthood.

It’s just the recent racial incidents involving Virginia’s political elite that have triggered forgotten memories.

Norther Virginia is about 50% cheaper than San Francisco in terms of housing. Meanwhile, there are plenty of solid public schools, where we’d probably end up as opposed to southern Virginia, where I went to college.

With each difficult encounter, his mother and I will mentor him by teaching him about hate and ignorance. And perhaps with each encounter, our boy will also develop a chip on his shoulder and a FIRE to prove the haters wrong that he cannot become somebody great.

By shunning a diverse environment for a more homogenous environment, my son will have a chance to experience more racial discrimination than if he were in San Francisco or Honolulu.

I fear that if we shelter our children too much, they’ll grow up to be ignorant, unmotivated individuals who will whine at the slightest of inconveniences.

I have three immediate neighborhood households that all have adult sons still living at home with their parents because life is too easy. When your parents pay for everything as an adult, there’s no longer an incentive to try.

Taking away a person’s ability to provide for themselves is so sad because it feels so amazing when you establish your independence.

My hope is that by putting our son in an environment where he will have to struggle more to get ahead, he’ll gain a tremendous amount of satisfaction and self-esteem as he grows older.

Besides, my mother-in-law lives in Virginia, my sister and nephew live in Manhattan, and my sister-in-law and family live in North Carolina.

Related: A Massive Generational Wealth Transfer Is Why Everything Will Be OK

Examples Of Uncomfortable Situations

When life becomes too easy, nothing really happens. Besides experiencing racism growing up, here are some personal examples of uncomfortable situations that helped me grow:

Being the new kid at school all the time. I was the new kid every 2-4 years growing up and I hated it. But I grew to have no fear chatting up anybody in a new environment, which made a big difference in my professional growth.

Having to get into the office at 5:30am. Getting in by 5:30am for two years at my first job, and then by 6am on average at my second job for 11 years, never felt natural. But after about 10 years, I no longer needed an alarm clock. I was conditioned to naturally wake up earlier than my peers to get things done. This productivity accelerated my path to financial freedom.

Confronting my boss for a severance. Without a manual, not many people have the confidence to argue their case for a severance. But I knew my worth, and I knew what would happen to the business if I suddenly left, or worse, went to a competitor. This confidence came from having to repeatedly stand up for myself growing up.

Writing mind-benders that may offend. I go through a process every six months which I call, “The Culling.” The Culling entails publishing an article that enrages a subset of undesirable readers who are unwilling to read beyond a headline or unable to understand the nuances of what I’m trying to say. My goal is to reduce the accumulation of easily triggered readers and grow a community of intelligent readers with well-argued rebuttals.

Now that I’ve shared such convincing arguments about the importance of consistently being uncomfortable for personal and professional growth, it’s clear that we should move to Virginia and not to Hawaii.

Oh, but wait. With important geoarbitrage moves, unless a divorce is what you want, it’s a good idea to have a consensus between spouses and partners.

Let’s see what my wife has to say. She spent 20 years growing up in Charlottesville, Richmond, and Williamsburg, Virginia.

The Choice Is Obvious

Hi everyone! Sam and I are fortunate to be quite a balanced couple. Opposites attract as they say.

He’s mostly an extrovert; I’m a total introvert. He’s very athletic; I’m a total klutz. He’s super efficient and fast at most things; I tend to be slow and cautious.

So what are my thoughts on Sam’s idea to move to Virginia? Absolutely not. My answer is, Hawaii of course!

Here are just a few of the reasons why. 

1) I grew up in Virginia and although I agree that it is a beautiful state with plenty to offer, I booked a one way ticket out of there after college graduation faster than Quicksilver in X-Men: Days Of Future Past. Virginia: Been there, done that. I’ve never looked back.

2) Racism is terrible. Plain and simple. Does it exist more in less diverse places? Probably. But sadly it exists everywhere. Our son will likely experience some encounters of racism no matter where he grows up. I also do not want to intentionally expose our son to unnecessary negativity and hatred. I do plan to teach him to respect people of all sorts through travel, reading, volunteering, and having many open discussions wherever we live.

3) I do not believe our son needs to experience racism and be a minority in school in order to be a driven, hard working individual. His personality is unique and definitely a blend of both Sam and me, although I see Sam’s focus and determination in our son as clear as day. My motherly instinct already tells me our son is going to be a good student who wants to succeed. I know he will need coaching and a supportive environment to get past obstacles and we’ll be there for him. 

For example, when our son can’t do something, like get a block to fit into his shape sorter toy, he yells out in frustration and throws the block to the ground. He has daddy’s fire. 

That’s my cue to pick up the block, put it back in his hand, help him wiggle it into the right spot, and then share in his excitement. Seeing the ear-to-ear grin on his face when he pushes the block in followed by him immediately try another shape by himself says it all.

Fight Or Flight

Growing up as a multiracial kid, I was at the top of the minority list in school. I was literally the only one of my “kind” – Japanese mother, Caucasian father. I didn’t look Asian; I didn’t look white. Our town was almost completely 50% white, 50% African American. 

I looked “weird” as some girls said. “What ARE you?” was another question I’d often get. Fortunately, I had a few friends who looked past my appearance and the shock that I had an Asian mother. 

I didn’t “belong” in Japan either. Everyone stared at me wherever I went in Japan. Some whispered look at the gaijin; this word for foreigner has a bit of a negative connotation. 

Others said I was so lucky to be half because I had pale skin and big eyes. Thank you, I guess. But what are they saying about people who are tan with small eyes?

Fortunately, I didn’t experience frequent bulling or racist remarks, but I still had my share. That didn’t make me want to fight back like Sam though. 

The hurtful comments made me want to leave. The rest were just annoying distractions. I knew they didn’t define who I was and that my racial background made me unique and wasn’t something anyone could take away. 

I don’t like confrontation; I never have. When kids and adults have said mean things to me I don’t talk back; I usually stay silent and walk away. Sam sees this as letting them walk over me. Perhaps, but I don’t give people like that any power over me. 

I’m just the type of person who doesn’t want to waste any energy or time on disrespectful people who just don’t get it. 

That doesn’t mean I wasn’t hurt. I felt sadness, isolation, and frustration especially growing up. But, I really don’t like to dwell on negativity. I have so many better things to do!

Finding Motivation From Within

The one thing I’m certain of is that we are all motivated by different things. I remember someone telling me that during management training at work and it’s totally true. 

You might be motivated by adversities, or discrimination, the desire to be the best, money, family, power, financial freedom, a better lifestyle, countless other things and likely a whole combination of things.

Growing up, I was self motivated to get good grades. Perhaps it was my perfectionist personality or the desire to be like my smarter sister. Who knows. What I don’t remember though is my parents ever pushing or telling me I had to get straight A’s.  

In middle school and high school, I was motivated to be the best violinist in school and to get the lead part in every theater production. I think a combination of wanting recognition and enjoying those activities were my main motivators. 

In my career, I was definitely motivated by power, gaining autonomy, earning money, and recognition for my niche skills and efforts.

As a parent, I’m motivated by an immeasurable amount of love, and wanting to see our son happy, develop and succeed. 

Ultimately, I believe motivation is very personal and has to come from within. I think it blossoms in supportive environments.

Some people get motivated in harsh environments, but definitely not all. I probably would have been mentally crushed over time if I was in a worse situation growing up. So I’m thankful my experiences weren’t much worse. 

Making The Right Choice

Now that you’ve heard from both sides, we’re curious to hear what you would do if you were us? Your vote will help determine our family’s fate.

Would you move to warm and sunny Honolulu, where life is even more comfortable than it is in San Francisco? The majority of the Honolulu population will look like our boy, either Asian or multi-racial. He’ll grow up in an environment that is much more chill because most people in Hawaii are working to live, not living to work.

Or, would you move to somewhere in Virginia, where it is very hot or very cold for half the year. Such temperature will help him appreciate the other half of the year better. Our boy will feel the discomfort of being a 5.5% minority. As a result, he’ll better learn how to deal with difficult situations like racism and bullying. He’ll also get a quicker taste of how cruel the real world is so he can hopefully be more motivated to study and work hard.

In conclusion, what a blessing it is to grow up as a minority in America. If all I experienced was love and acceptance, I’d probably still be working at my soul-sucking job wondering what else is there to life. There would be no Financial Samurai.

Experiencing the bad has really helped me appreciate the good. I hope we can all realize this juxtaposition one day.

Note: There is a poll embedded within this post, please visit the site to participate in this post's poll.

Related Posts:

Silent Threats In The Night: My Charlottesville Story

Explaining Why Asian Income Is Highest In America

Beware Of Financial Blind Spots On Your Road To Financial Freedom

Readers, what were some uncomfortable situations you experienced growing up that helped make you stronger? How much real world hardship should we subject our children to before they enter the real world? Are people simply a product of their times, and as times change, people change?

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from https://www.financialsamurai.com/the-importance-of-feeling-consistently-uncomfortable/

[electriceell]

Someone in this room is a rape survivor

@ihaveacuttingplan - i just came across this while cleaning up my laptop and man, I still like this piece. and since it’ll never be published I figured I’d dump it on my tumblr

TW: rape mention, discussion of rape culture

(written for UMass GWIS, 11/2015)

Getting to leave home and go to college was, without a doubt, what got me through the doldrums of high school. Upon arrival, the entire first-year class had a week of orientation before we began our classes. During this week we moved into our dorms, chose classes and computer passwords; we were given the “don’t drink to excess” talk, the sex talk, and even the “consent is only a sober yes” talk. And then we were given rape whistles. The box of them was set out and female students were encouraged to take them, but everyone was welcome to them. We signed a contract stating we wouldn’t use the whistles unless we were in danger. No one talked about what to do if they heard a rape whistle being blown or what to do if we didn’t have the whistle on us or if we were too drunk, scared, or drugged to use it. Never mind the fact that I had my rape whistle in my pocket when I was raped. No one talked about the fact that people are four times more likely to be assaulted by some they know than a stranger. I didn’t think about my whistle too much when I got it, but it began to weigh on me. I went to my chemistry and physics classes with male professors and predominantly male classmates and attached to my wallet was my room key and a piece of metal that screamed, “you are never safe.”

           Women and girls are taught over and over by society to fear males because women are prey and their bodies are bait. Men cannot control themselves and “boys will be boys” so it is on women and girls to arm themselves against the world. I don’t know who it was who taught me to carry my keys between my fingers like knives, just in case, but I do it to this day. There are plenty of emails and posts on social media explaining the easiest self defense mechanisms that implore people to share with the women they love. Because women must protect themselves. Because the world is a threat. And what about when women are attacked? They are blamed. It is not always external sources that blame victims, but the internal sense of not being enough. There is a sense that a woman who “allows herself to be attacked” was not prepared enough, didn’t fight hard enough, wasn’t thinking. Survivors review in their minds what they did that was wrong, where they could have changed their actions to prevent their attack. Why aren’t we thinking about all the reasons our attackers should rot in jail?

Many of my female friends have been given mace by fathers, mothers, and brothers “just in case”. We are taught to believe that these are reasonable, preventative measures, but only women are expected to take them. These actions and objects teach us that, when we enter a public space, a man’s space, we are responsible for both our own actions and any actions men might take against us.  When we walk home alone we are “taking an unnecessary risk” and “were asking for it” if we are attacked. Walking across campus or town at night is not inherently dangerous for men. They will not be blamed if they are mugged. If a woman is mugged people mutter, “Why was she walking alone? Didn’t she know better?” You tell me: why does she have to know better than to walk home? Why can’t he know better than to attack someone? Why are women blamed when they are the victims of violence? (Something about how teaching preventative measures is counter productive and victim-blaming in essence under the veil of practicality; focuses on female responsibility not male culpability).

Beyond the threat of muggings and murders, the threat of sexual violence is present, with it’s own insidious edge. At a young age, 11 or 12 years old, I learned to dull my ears to the catcalls of men and boys; even believed it was complimentary, despite how frightened it made me. The mentality that any male attention is good attention is such a pervasive part of rape culture and party culture. When I entered college I had the mindset that any male ‘affection’ I received was a compliment, so, at parties, I didn’t stop men when they touched me in ways I didn’t want because ‘it was a compliment.’ Party culture on US campuses says that it is okay for men to touch and exploit women’s bodies for their own pleasure and it is always happening. It has been reported that 40% of men believe it is acceptable to force sex with an intoxicated women and that 70 and 80% of campus rapes happen when the female is intoxicated. While the mere presence of a bystander makes a completed rape 44% less likely, party culture, under the guise of being accepting sexual freedom and promiscuity, makes it simple for a rapist to lead their victim to somewhere without a bystander, like their house, dorm room, or even an empty room at the party.

           Currently as UMass there is a poster campaign, spearheaded by Northwestern District Attorney David Sullivan, meant to promote bystander intervention as a technique to prevent assault on campuses. At a superficial level this attempt is a very good thing; bystander intervention has the potential to stop a lot of assaults. The administration is also acknowledging the prevalence and problematic nature of sexual assault on campus, which is the first step towards rectifying this problem. Unfortunately, if we look a little more closely, this campaign is only superficial and creates and worsens the problems it is aimed to alleviate. The idea of bystander intervention is like mace or a rape whistle, it stops a single incident if it actually gets used and these good intentions have insidious implications. When we think critically about the active bystander approach it puts the onus of prevention on friends and bystanders, while moving blame away from perpetrators. It also creates a self-congratulatory environment for the “good” people who work to be an active bystander. Personally, I feel like this is just being a decent human being. Many universities fund training sessions on how to be an active bystander and require RAs to be trained, which I applaud, but why aren’t schools running mandatory training sessions on consent? In 2004, 9% of college-aged men admitted to having acted in a manner that aligns with the current definition of rape, but none of them identify as a rapist. Clearly, there is a problem in the public understanding of what constitutes rape and this problem must be rectified. If someone does not know their own rights or the rights of others, the chances for violations increases. If we do not give people the language to communicate consent the overwhelming rate of rape will only grow. When people do not know what constitutes rape, the chances of it happening increase and the chances of it being reported decrease.

           The “active bystander” posters can be seen around UMass campus on the buses that run to and from campus. They have pictures of (remarkably diverse) young people with catchy sayings like “Be a man, show me respect” and “What if she were your sister?” These phrases undermine the actual problem of assault and rape. The first example takes the focus away from the violence of attacking another person and instead highlights the institutionalized sexism. It suggests that protecting one’s sense of “manliness” would be the only reason not to rape someone. Additionally, it makes respect a gift to be given, as opposed to something that should be expected. This sentence normalizes the idea that showing a woman respect is a great kindness and builds the self-congratulatory environment centered on the male sense of grandeur. The second phrase spotlights the sense that women are only people if they are related to you; women are only people if you are not socially allowed to be attracted to them. On top of the negative connotations and ideologies behind these posters they can also be triggering to survivors. In this way, a campaign meant to help with a very serious problem serves to increase bias and is damaging to the people it means to help. When making these posters and designing this campaign why weren’t survivors, psychologists, and feminist scholars consulted to create something that would actually eliminate acceptance of rape culture and sexism and not hurt people who have been assaulted.

We have built a society that teaches men to take without regard to women and for women to be silent. Additionally, we are taught that women are catty, women are liars, women are gossips. Since women has been taught to be silent when they do talk it is a weapon to be used against each other and against men. With all of this and the prevalence of sexual assault and abuse, how can we be confused by the low rate at which rapes are reported. Think of the person or people you know who have been raped or assaulted. Yes, someone you know is a survivor, whether they have told you or not, since 1 in 4 college-aged women survive sexual assault or attempted sexual assault. (Remember this next time you make a rape joke or complain consent laws.) How many of us have told you that our attacker is in jail? In my experience, myself included, the number is zero. It is zero, not because they don’t know who attacked them, but because they were scared to speak up and report, scared of how it would affect their relationships and reputation. Women and girls are aware that their stories will be challenged, that they will be called liars, and that their male attackers words will be given more weight. When the victims are more scared of how the police and society will treat them for being attacked, there is a huge problem. This systematic, institutionalized fear affects more than just assault survivors, it carries over and bleeds into all aspects of women’s lives, always present, if subconsciously.

           So now, here I am, a woman in a STEM graduate program. Armed with my rape whistle I take the bus to campus, I see posters imploring men not to rape me, and I walk into a classroom with a male professor and predominantly male classmates and peers. How can you possibly expect me to give a presentation with confidence and assurance when everything around me reminds me of how unsafe the world is for me? I have been told that more than half of the room and most of the people in a position of power are potential threats to my safety. Society has taught me that I always need to be prepared should they choose to attack. It is ridiculous that anyone is surprised that women don’t assert themselves. When questions are posed in class, we, as women, tend not to answer because flying under the radar is the best way to keep safe. If we sit down and shut up we will be left alone. Just think of how much energy our brain uses analyzing threats and reviewing defense tactics; think of how much more we could contribute and dominate our fields if we weren’t constantly looking over our shoulder or scared of upsetting the wrong person.

Women balance themselves on a knife point. We want to be intelligent and capable, but not too smart or good at our jobs, that makes us a threat; assertive, but not too aggressive because then you are a bitch; opinionated, but not too intimidating because no one will like you and without allies, you don’t even stand a chance. These veiled threats are always present. We are like monkeys at the circus; we attempt to juggle while balancing on a moving elephant. We are tightrope walkers, constantly aware of our outward appearance as well as our performance, but for us there is no safety net. If we fall, we are dead on the ground. The greater movement for women in STEM focuses on teaching us to take up more space and encourages us to speak our minds and give our opinions. In classes and meetings I always strive to do these things, as I’m sure all women in STEM do, but how do we recode our very natures when we have been taught across our lifetimes how to protect ourselves. Given that these things are currently incongruous, how do we find a way to juxtapose them? Where is the balance between being a “good” woman in science and protecting yourself?

The answer is one that I have yet to find. Instead, I tend to fall to one side or other. I am too acquiescing and taken advantage of or I am too loud, too opinionated and professors and colleagues hate me. Sexism, and particularly the sexism faced by women in STEM is a complicated, multi-headed beast, but the threats of violence and rape culture are one of those heads. When we deconstruct the dangerous and toxic environment that teaches girls “constant vigilance” as the only way to remain safe, we will create so much more space, time, energy, and brainpower for women to excel in whatever they choose. Without the fear of violent repercussions for acting in the same manner as men, women will be free to claim their rightful places in scientific pursuits.

[pureblood--draco-blog]

Sleeping with a Slytherin (DM)

*Gif not mine*

WATTPAD

Summary: No one suspected a thing. The pair hated each other, so they held no reason for suspicion.  They left no traces, they gave no hints. No one saw it coming. And perhaps that was what caught everyone off guard; the idea that a girl like her would be sleeping with a guy like him, a Slytherin. Based on the fifth book.

CHAPTER ONE: Belittled.

Jasmine’s POV

The scream pounded through my ears as I stared at him. His eyes were wide and wild, filled with an insanity that was clinical. And that mocking, taunting laugh that bellowed manically from his demented smile was enough to cause the blood in my veins to freeze over, for my breath to choke, for the fear to invade.

I stood there and did nothing.

And as a result he took that opportunity to slaughter the innocent before me.

But right before it happened I could see her turn her head and look at me, those gorgeous blue eyes electrocuting my own; the last moment I’d remember. And she screamed again, the noise twice as loud, only this time it was my name, and this time the sound was choked in her throat as her eyes met death and her body went limp, lifeless.

“Jasmine!” She had yelled.

“Jas?” he had whispered.

“Jasmine are you alright?” Came another voice, one that wasn’t supposed to be there. “Jasmine, hey, you there?” Suddenly I felt my shoulders being shaken roughly and soon enough it all became clear and the sense was obvious.

Closing my eyes for a second, I took a deep relieving breath before turning and looking up at the person who was trying to get my attention. Caleb Hawkins looked down at me, a concerned look on his face as I gave him an apologetic smile. He simply nodded his head in understanding.

This wasn’t the first time; they’d been happening a lot lately, the flashbacks that is. Always so clear, always so vivid. It was almost as though it had just happened right in front of me when in reality it was nearly a year ago.

God, the memories of it, after all this time; they were supposed to fade but each one was as explicit and precise as the last. It terrified me.

And they happened at the most inconvenient of times too, mostly during classes which was why I was struggling so much this year. I’d been told off one too many times for getting caught ‘daydreaming’ by Professor Snape which I suppose is what it must look-like, and in a way it is…just a much more mentally-severe and involuntary daydream.

I had ran out of my tablets for the past two weeks, stupidly choosing not to pack them all – thankfully I had owled my brother, Hunter, to send them to me because God knows I couldn’t go on like this for the rest of the year.

It was a stupid idea really, forgetting them. I was still in denial, see. My refusal to take them showing my refusal to accept what happened. But I’d been telling myself for weeks now that I needed to grow up, accept it and move on.

What had the past eight months been about then if it wasn’t for recovery?

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to Madam Pomfrey? She might have some potion to help or could brew up a calming draught even-“

“I’m fine, Caleb. Really. Hunter will have sent me my stuff within the week.” I reassure him, giving him a small grateful smile. And he sighed in defeat deciding there’s no point in arguing as he returned to try and juice one of the leeches to make our Confusing Concoction, our potions task for today.

Caleb was a tall dark-haired boy and probably one of the – if not the – closest friends I had. Good mates since first year, it was our hopelessness at Herbology that ‘brought us together’, if you like. After being paired together by Professor Sprout during our first ever lesson, we both found it hilariously funny how clumsy and helpless we were in restraining and capturing the Bouncing Bulbs we had been instructed to re-pot.

However, it was just unfortunate that Caleb was a Ravenclaw when I was a Gryffindor – not that it was to do with House points or refusal to interact with people of other houses, it was more so it just lessoned our chances of having classes together (thank God we had a few together this year – Potions, Charms and, God help Professor Sprout, Herbology).

Focusing back on this damn Concoction, I returned to my job of separating the Barbs from the Jabberknoll Feathers. And thankfully, my concentration was maintained and there were no more mental interruptions on my part.

Potions class eventually ended with our remedy being somewhat recognisable as what it was supposed to be – though ‘thorough revision and reconsideration of taking Potions as a class’ was advised so wisely from Professor Snape after his inspection of the mixture (but we knew not to take that to heart as he was a harsh teacher and supposedly said the same thing to anyone who didn’t have an absolutely perfect potion.)

Caleb and I finally began to make our way to the Great Hall where we’d have our lunch, and we chatted and laughed as we walked the stone corridors.

It was well into Autumn now, with us being at Hogwarts for well over a month. The air was cold, the ground damp and pupils smothered themselves in their heavy cloaks and scarves to stay warm, even indoors.

It was good to be back here, back with my friends, back to classes. It was just like every other year, the atmosphere the same, the familiarity giving me solace.

However, this year, something was different – or more so, something was more frequent than normal.

For a reason unknown to me, a certain Slytherin had brought it upon himself to torment me, to wind me up every chance he got. He had read, just like every other wizarding family out there, what had happened last year after The Daily Prophet published a tainted eight page article on the tragic episode, and of course, naturally, given his Slytherin title and Malfoy name – along with being a straight up asshole – he believed this gave him the perfect reasoning to hound me every chance he got.

And unfortunately, that opportunity fell into his hands once more as Caleb and I rounded a corner leading to the Great Hall, and we were sadly faced with Draco Malfoy.

He recognised me almost instantly as that large smirk I wish I could jinx from his face spread across his lips. His friends, Crabbe and Goyle, accompanied him on either side, his little army of intimidation.

“Well, well, well. Look who we have here.” Malfoy mocked, rubbing his hands together as though he was about to feast. I could already feel a flare of anger bolt through me knowing whatever words he would say next would strike yet another nerve, just like every other instance I’ve met him with had.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Caleb visibly stiffen, knowing of the unnecessary torment I’d been receiving from Draco for the past number of weeks and I knew he would get defensive. Giving him a look, I silently pleaded him not to do anything, not in the mood to have to deal with whatever repercussions the teachers would give us if Caleb were to act on his defence. God knows we’d probably be in detention for month – that’s what happened last time.

Last time, Caleb had, quite hilariously, shot a spell at Malfoy that had him coming out in warts for nearly a week, and Malfoy, being the little snitch that he was, went to Professor Snape immediately, and conveniently I got blamed too as Caleb and I were faced with a month of detentions on the very first week of the new school year.

But apparently Malfoy hadn’t ‘learnt his lesson’ seeing as he was still harassing me.

“Save it, Malfoy. I don’t want to hear it.” I spat, trying to avoid receiving his malicious comments altogether, but of course it wasn’t that easy. Tugging Caleb’s arm, I was about to step around the blond boy when he simply stepped to the side, blocking my path.

“Where do you think you’re going, Hill?” He cooed, seeming to completely ignore Caleb’s presence as he continued to grow restless next to me. Draco’s arms crossed over his chest while Crabbe and Goyle stood menacingly behind him as though to try and threaten me from trying to get passed them again, but really I wasn’t scared. Just fed up.

“Away from you.” I gave a sarcastic smile, again taking another step to go around the other side of him, but he just moved to the side once more. There was a slight glare in Malfoy’s eyes that glowered when I said this, something I’d noticed a couple of times before.

He was growing irritated with me and my backtalk. Perhaps it was because in previous years when he threw a malicious comment at me – though back then he did it to practically every Gryffindor – I would take every insult he chucked (well, more so just ignored them not bothering to give him a reaction), yet this year I retaliated a lot more, maybe becoming rather mouthy.

I supposed I’d just grown sick of how arrogant the boy was and wanted to set him in his place, but even that seemed to have the same impact on him as a feather in a line of gun fire.

Though, I could tell it pissed him off that I dared to talk back to him, and so of course, I could predict, his next words would be something insensitive towards me, something cruel, in an attempt to get me to crack.

“How’s Hunter doing?” Draco hissed, and for a moment I was confused as to what he meant. What could he possibly say about my brother? ���I heard about his new job he has now.”

My face fell, knowing of the things that would leave his lips next.

“What were the words my father used? Oh yes, ‘he supplies the Quidditch players with drinks and snacks’. My, God, you must be proud.” Draco derided, taking a step closer to me as I almost shook in my boots with both hurt and anger. And I could see Caleb take a step towards Draco protectively, but still Malfoy made no motion to move away. “That’s a big old promotion for him, isn’t it, Hill? Last year he was cleaning their uniforms, and now, now he’s their water-boy. Wow, that’s such an improvement.” His words were low, almost dangerous as though he was implying some hidden threat beneath them. And he cackled nastily, howls from Crabbe and Goyle adding to the belittling as I could feel my ears flame hot.

It wasn’t a secret that my family weren’t exactly well-off. What with the small one floor house we lived in and basically thrifted Hogwarts equipment, we were barely scraping by. And let’s say that the amount of money that the Malfoy’s had in comparison was something we only met in a dream.

But it wasn’t the foul ball of throwing the lack of money that we had that had me rile in anger, for I had heard it all before from the boy.

No, it was more so the idea that my brother receiving this promotion was such an achievement for him for he worked incredibly hard – something that unfortunately didn’t show explicitly in his ranking at the Ministry of Magic.

Hunter worked in the Department of Magical Games and Sports, more specifically in the Foreign Affairs and Sports Department. He worked for the people that were in charge of organising events like the Quidditch World Cup and those sorts, helping to make relationships with other countries through sporting.

But he’d only been working in the Ministry for a year, and although it had been boring – and stinky - work, cleaning up after Quidditch players, he had his eyes set on the higher ranks of the department and he was determined to get there, to earn his way to the top. And getting this promotion was his first step, and it was very exciting for him. I had been so proud of him, knowing how desperate he was to make a living and how persistent and driven he was to get a rewarding job within something he loved.

But then for Draco to completely demean and discredit his rank in a matter of words had me furious. How dare he. Who did he think he was saying something so malevolent?

I could feel myself about to erupt, but before I could act, Draco’s words seemed to have also gotten to Caleb, for within a blinking second, Caleb had Draco by the collar of his shirt as his wand was held against his jaw.

“Say that again, Malfoy. I dare you.” Caleb warned, taking joy in the way Malfoy struggled under his hold.

And as much happiness as I took out of the sight, I knew I couldn’t just stand and watch no matter how bad I wanted to. Caleb and I really couldn’t afford to get in trouble again.

Stepping towards the pair, I tugged on Caleb’s arm, pulling him back slightly from Malfoy. “Caleb, it’s alright.” I tried to get his attention. “There’s no point.” I sighed, almost disappointed that I had to be the voice of reason because part of me really did want to see what would happen next.

Hearing my words, Caleb gave me a look that said ‘are you sure?’ and, when I nodded, he reluctantly released Draco, shoving him back a little.

Fixing his shirt dramatically and giving us one last nasty glare, Draco beckoned to Crabbe and Goyle and they stomped away, clearly irritated that that ‘encounter’ didn’t go the way they had planned. (Though I didn’t see the point of Crabbe and Goyle being there if they were just going to stand and watch Caleb threaten their friend.)

Nevertheless, I can’t deny I’m a little relieved that Caleb did in fact back down, for Malfoy’s sake.

For Malfoy was a great wizard, no doubt about it, but Caleb wasn’t necessarily fair in that way.

He had a muggle family see, and growing up with two brothers, he’d learnt to fight. With a broad build and thick muscles, he was strong. So physically – compared to Caleb – Draco was screwed, and I was certain that, although he threatened Draco with his wand, Caleb’s actions would’ve been purely physical.

“What the fuck is that guy’s problem?” He was still heated, as Caleb turned to me, his dark eyes flamed.

“I have no bloody idea.” Shaking my head with cluelessness, I let out an exasperated sigh. “Thank you though for…that.” I appreciated where Caleb was coming from, standing up for me, even though the way he came about the situation wasn’t ideal.

Encounters with Malfoy were never pleasant, and part of me always filled with dread every time I saw him. But the few times that I’ve been with Caleb and Malfoy had approached me, I’ve been forever grateful he was by my side. It wasn’t that I couldn’t defend myself, but sometimes it just got exhausting. Draco was just a bully, but unfortunately some of the things he said would get to me, and to have that mental strain – along with everything else – of facing him every day and worrying about what he’d say next was so fucking exhausting.

Not to mention there was a large portion of my peers that suddenly avoided me because they thought I was poisonous or something, after what happened last year and I couldn’t help but feel rather isolated.

And so having Caleb do the defending for me was somewhat comforting in the idea that at least someone was on my side.

Shrugging as though it was nothing, Caleb threw an arm around my shoulders and pulled me in to him as we continued to make our way the Great Hall.

For the longest time, people thought that the pair of us were a couple, because we hung out so often and apparently it was ‘rare’ for a girl and guy to be just friends. Even so, Caleb and I, our friendship was strictly platonic and there never had been any hints or moves of something more, something else. He was just a really good friend.

But to an extent I could understand why people would presume such things, for I suppose we would sometimes be quite ‘touchy’ with each other, hugging each other, and teasing one another. But that was purely for comfort and reassurance from Caleb, his way of letting me know that he was there for me.

And I was so goddamn thankful.

As the pair of us finally entered the Great Hall, we went our separate ways as I walked over to the Gryffindor table, and him to the Ravenclaw table.

Quickly spotting a seat next to Hermione Granger, I made my way over and took a seat, giving her a small smile which she returned. Ron Weasley and Harry Potter sat across from us.

“There she is - we thought Snape had killed you or something,” Ron greeted me, bread spluttering everywhere as he spoke with his mouth full.

Giving him an unamused expression at his melodramatic words, I sighed. “I just had a bit of a run in with Malfoy, is all.” I admitted, glancing over at the Slytherin table momentarily to see the blond boy laughing nastily at a first year whom Goyle had spilt his drink over. Part of me still felt in a low mood, hurt a little at what Malfoy said even though I shouldn’t be.

The three let out a simultaneous groan, clearly knowing how much of a pain that was.

“What’d he say this time?” Harry almost rolled his eyes, just knowing it was going to be an unkind comment.

“Just shit about my brother,” I answered vaguely, reaching across the table for a small bread roll. I didn’t want to get into it.

“God, I’d really love to set him in his place.” Ron said. “Do you remember last year when Moody turned him into a ferret – now that was hilarious.” He praised, chuckling a little.

Harry smiled in acknowledgement before turning to me again, but I just remained quiet, not having anything else to say. And unfortunately Harry could sense something was up.

“Are you alright, Jas?”

“Jesus Christ, Harry. I’m fine, ok?” I spat, all of a sudden. I didn’t mean to sound so irate at such an innocent question but I suppose it had just been building up to this point. For I was so sick of everyone babying me all the time.

How are you feeling?

We’re here if you ever want to talk.

Everything’s going to be OK.

Those were all just words, thrown together in a sentence that were supposed to give a sense of sympathy, of comfort. But when they’re uttered too often and you hear them too much, they become meaningless; they become nothing but a nuisance.

And that’s precisely how I felt right now. Everyone that tried to show care towards me always started with something along those words, and I was sick to death of it. Maybe I was being rash, inconsiderate, over-dramatic, but I couldn’t help it. It was October, a whole month into the school year and yet people still felt the urge to pity me.

At first it was reassuring, refreshing almost, surprising certainly. I felt cared for by my friends, and some of the teachers like Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick gave me words of sympathy – hell, even Professor Dumbledore himself gave his condolences through his infamous wise words that somehow made anyone feel somewhat better about a situation.

Yes, to begin with it was fine. I could deal with the polite concern of individuals – along with insensitive comments from some, though I knew to ignore these people since they had no idea what they were talking about – but now, it was nothing but draining.

Now anytime someone uttered something along those lines, it simply reminded me of the incident that first led everyone to speak those words to begin with, which was the complete opposite of what I was wanting to do, remember it.

I was fine.

“Alright, alright – no need to get your knickers in a twist.” Ron defended Harry. Obviously I had caught everyone off guard. “I’ll remind you never to make small talk with her again.” He muttered to Harry, and I scowled at the ginger boy.

Harry gave me a small apologetic smile, and instantly I began to feel bad about my outburst.

I never used to be so bad-tempered and fractious, but it was obvious to everyone I had… changed.

The polite innocent girl they had grown used to since first year had grown up significantly, being forced to mature too quickly through experience.

“You know we’re only looking out for you, Jas.” Hermione nudged me gently in an attempt to maybe calm me down a little.

“I know, but I just want to move on from this whole thing.” I waved her hands in front of me, gesturing to the whole ordeal. “I don’t understand why everyone keeps checking up on me so much, and yet they’ve stopped asking how Harry’s been. He had a pretty traumatising year too don’t you know.” I couldn’t help but bring up Harry’s recent ‘adventure’, so to speak, with everything that happened in that cursed graveyard last spring, as my defence.

“Yes, but Harry only entered a bloody wizard competition. He wasn’t considered a missing person for 6 months after an innocent trip home for the Christmas holidays last year.” Ron retorted forcefully, though making sure to give Harry a small look so as the brown-haired boy knew not to take offence at his sudden dismissal and demeaning words of Harry’s own eventful year.

For, although there was an ever growing tension within Gryffindor as the house seemed to split into two sides – with those who believed Harry, and those who didn’t – Harry took no offence to Ron’s words as he was glad the attention wasn’t on his claim of the Dark Lord returning. Yes, it had been a difficult time for him, but this conversation wasn’t about him – for once - and he was thankful for it.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, I gave up trying to argue. “Well, I’m back, aren’t I? I’m not missing.” I finished, putting an end to the conversation. A thick tension-filled silence blanketed us.

I did feel guilty that I had snapped at Harry, for I knew he meant well, but there was only so much of the pity I could take, and over a month of it seemed to be the tipping point.

What happened the past year was just that – the past. And I wanted it to stay that way. I just wish people would understand where I’m coming from and respect that.

I hadn’t told anyone – except Caleb – what really happened last year. They only knew the press’s version, which was stained and inaccurate, always making the victims out to be people who weren’t.

Harry, Ron and Hermione knew that The Daily Prophet’s words weren’t true, for I had told them that much, but I just wasn’t ready to tell them the real thing. Not yet.

Telling Caleb had been such a big step for me at the time, for I was still in distress but yet I also wanted so desperately to have at least one person know the truth. And I knew I could trust Caleb.

But hell did it hurt that everyone else believed certain people were evil when they weren’t, that certain people were made out to be a criminal when they weren’t. Of course I wanted to tell people the truth, but one, I wasn’t ready, and two, I doubted anyone would believe me. I’d probably be called delusional and claimed to ‘still be in shock’, for the truth was something that not many would believe.

And that fucking sucked. The idea that words written in black and white, a piece of paper, held more power than I ever could. The power of persuasion and creed.

Hell, they had so many people convinced that on my first day back at Hogwarts you would’ve thought I was a rare species of animal at a zoo with the number of people that stared at me as I passed them. Obviously some people were surprised I’d returned to Hogwarts this year after everything, but really I saw no other option – for what had I at home anymore?

And that was probably the most twisted thing of them all, after the things I had been through, after the things I’d seen, Hogwarts was the only thing that was normal to me now.

It was the last bit of hope I had, and I prayed to fucking God it wouldn’t slip through my fingers.

 - - -

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My Best Friend And I Were Inseparable Till The Day I Got My Period

The two Indias and the maladies of a stigma that affects innocent lives.

Recently I saw the poster of a film called Phullu, which has a man sprawled across on what is obviously a sanitary napkin. A decade ago something like that would have been politically incorrect and embarrassing, but today as I looked at the poster without an iota of discomfort, it transported me back to my teenage years.

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“Education about Menstruation Matters”

We were twelve years old. She was a lefty. So when my best friend and I sat on our chairs that came with attached ovals for a desk, it looked like a make-shift couch. We were perfect for each other, even our chairs fitted perfectly - a match made in heaven. At that time if someone had told me that our friendship wasn’t forever, I would’ve laughed at them. But, it didn’t last and how, or should I say why.

Growing up amidst three older brothers and a household that was quintessentially patriarchal and regressive, meant that she was the one I could pour my heart out to - over jam and jelly sandwiches during lunch breaks. As for her, she was the only child. Loneliness found us and we found each other.

Two years later that all was going to change as womanhood gripped us by our ovaries, and tore the two of us apart the way it tore our bodies apart internally.

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No shame in menstruation. Image source: thenewsteller.com

The evening I got my period my mother wasn’t home. No one had bothered to educate me about these things. As a result I was confused, helpless and clueless. On returning, my mother inspected my underpants like a seasoned detective, holding it up daintily with two fingers. She gestured the maid to leave us as I welled up, fearing a scolding I didn’t deserve. In a soft but stern voice my mother explained what had happened - I had become impure. I was no longer her fairy princess, I was now changing into a woman and I had to guard this information with a world of care and caution, else people would find out and not like me.

“Respect is the only thing that makes a woman. Without respect, you will be like those women who stand on the road late at night,” my mother explained in a grave voice. “Remember how mean they looked darling? Do you want to be like that?”

“No Mummy,” I replied obediently.

“Good girl. Now go on and stick this on your underwear and don’t ever tell anyone else about this. Ok? Especially boys…” she directed and sent me off without explaining what was really happening, or why.

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I was an obedient child. There wasn’t any other way I was taught to be. So I followed my mother’s orders and kept my dirty little secret to myself, not even sharing it with my best friend, who knew every single unnecessary detail about my life.

A few months later I walked into school one morning and found her waiting in her seat bubbling with information she wanted to share. In the washroom I entered the cubicle with her like so many times before, but less than a second later I ran out, leaving her there shocked and devastated. She couldn’t fathom why I had slapped her so hard.

She spent the entirety of the first four classes sniffing and crying until lunch break came - our sacred hour, and I passed on the wisdom my mother had bestowed on me.

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Periods are not a secret anymore. Image source: standardissuemagazine.com

“You shouldn’t have shown that to me! That’s dirty. You’re supposed to keep it a secret. Didn’t your mother tell you?” I patronized my friend.

“It’s not dirty! It’s normal. All girls have it. My mother did speak to me. She had already told me something like this might happen. She told my father too. They think I am growing up and to celebrate they gave me a glass of wine but it was bitter so I didn’t have it,” she said, blowing her nose into a tissue.

I didn’t know how to react. Was she saying that my mother had lied to me? Did my mother lie to me? Was I the only dirty person? How can her parents give her alcohol? Confused, I had drifted away, which resulted in a temporary dousing of the fire. We were fine even till then.

Another year went by as the gap between us kept widening.

In the first year after we got our period, I was the only one who noticed our relationship shifting. I was now only a listener. I had stopped sharing because I was too ashamed to share what I was really going through, and listening to her experiences made me feel smaller. I mistook her sharing for gloating because in reality I had begun resenting her.

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When she told me about the first bra her mother bought her, I didn’t have an equally appealing story to return. Hers was a light pink with chocolate coloured hearts (I remember), mine was an excruciatingly tight sports bra that ensured my breasts looked as small as they possibly could.

When she told me how painful her first waxing session was, I couldn’t be happy for her silky smooth limbs because I couldn’t stop staring at my own hairy, obnoxious ones. I just moved uncomfortably trying to hide them by tucking them under the chair.

What for her were the joys of growing up, for me was a punishment - the blood, the hair, the aching breasts, all of it. I couldn’t bask in my youth because I was being told at home to lock it up in a box and keep it as far away as possible. What for her meant an outing with her mother, for me was a taboo hushed up with the glares of my mother’s cautioning eyes.

I spent one night at hers and returned home with glowing legs and arms. I ran to my mother to show her what my friend had gifted me. I felt beautiful until she slapped me and called her a bad influence. I cried myself to sleep that night, blaming my best friend for getting me into trouble. Mother was right. She was trouble. Or so I thought. Trapped within the shackles of my own household, I only felt resentful towards her. A resentment I could no longer hide. She bore with it for a long time until one day I invited her home for lunch.

She asked my mother for some newspaper to throw her pad away, and after she was done in the toilet she walked proudly into the kitchen and dumped it in the garbage bin.

“This girl has no manners! How can she enter our kitchen like that, that unholy dirty little she-devil,” said my mother to me at a decibel she thought wasn’t audible. But it was, and it was also the last straw.

My best friend walked out of my house that afternoon leaving a note that read: I have tried to be your friend but I don’t understand you anymore. You don’t share anything anymore. You have changed. Also your mother hates me. She is such a meanie!! Love, forever.

For as long as she reminded me of what I was missing, for as long as the grass on her side was greener, I only felt anger. With that note however I chose to wipe her out of my life, because she had told me the truth about my life as it was. And it was bitter.

It took me many years to change the way I felt about myself and about women in general. Looking at life through a prism different from the one at home, made me address the issue of menstruation and stigmas in a mature and objective way. Having a partner, who doesn’t abstain from making love to me even when I bleed has helped me embrace my own body and the complexities that come with it. Moving to Mumbai has also given me perspective about my family. For years I believed periods had shred my friendship to bits. But that day as I stared at the poster, I realized the real nail in the coffin was not my period, but the entire world of taboo around it.

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Menstrual Hygiene Day (MH Day) is a global platform that brings together non-profits, government agencies, the private sector, the media and individuals to promote Menstrual Hygiene Management (MHM). Menstrual Hygiene day is celebrated to break the silence and build awareness about the fundamental role that good menstrual hygiene management (MHM) plays in enabling women and girls to reach their full potential.

Disclaimer: The views expressed in this article are independent views solely of the author(s) expressed in their private capacity and do not in any way represent or reflect the views of 101India.com.

By Vandana Khaitan Cover photo credit: pinterest