#hes an ocean man . not by choice but by the god his soul was sold to in a past life. thats how he looks at it

[freezeriafan]

Ok I'll just say it. When Robby's flipdeck said that he A.) Spent All of his money on Pizza and B.) Secured a Random Job as a deckhand on a shrimp boat to pay rent, that 100% felt like a manic episode. Like I dont know anything abt anything but also there is no doubt in my mind that that's what that was. I dont want to say that I think hes bipolar bc then when i call him Crazyass it's gonna look Rude but i think hes bipolar and I dont think hes diagnosed but he does have an old-timey sailor nickname and understanding of it all. That's what I think here on September 16 2020

[nauseateddrive]

4 POEMS by Jake Sheff

Elegy for Dog I: A Failed Acrostic

January was tired when it became king. Apples here love being red in the spring, Casting shadows against the stone architraves our Kapellmeister will never live down. You Stole Apollo’s cows, and let them graze to show me Heaven’s template. Where do failed heroes go? Eucalyptus cupolas and polar icecaps Frame the downtrodden gods. But you weren’t Freakishly wrong, as I so often am, on your

Joyride through nearly twice eight years, Á la someone far from beauty’s stepmom. Copper coin or grimacing sun? I’ve got 20,000 Kor of crushed grief on this threshing floor. Shark-sparks of sadness flood the impetiginous air… How, and why, do clouds cobblestone Entire days, and lakes, when you’re not here? Fixing every broken thing, poets go where Ferns and geraniums baptize the morning.

“Jur-any-oms,” is how you’d spell it; After all, a dog’s a dog, and wisdom knows futility. Cassations make a rusty brew, to drink the truth of truths, and Kill whatever ceases wanting to be new. Stewardship, the color of gravity’s silence, naturally Houses every “glur” (a glittery blur); go chase what plays Eternal games. I hear the swans by Rooster Rock. Your handsome Face, its happy handsomeness, in memory’s eye, goes in and out of Focus; in love’s better eye: your goodness neath its everblooming ficus.

Gravity and Grace on SW Murray Scholls Drive

“Impatience has ruined many excellent men who, rejecting the slow, sure way, court destruction by rising too quickly.” Tacitus, The Annals of Imperial Rome

The traffic lights control the people’s actions, but Not their feelings, as the limits of philosophy Collide head on with the nose of a Dalmatian.

I tell you, the day is stress-testing itself, and these Sidewalks wish that it’d just gone straight. Geese Take this sky-hairing wind for granted, as they

Land on the lake like memorable speech on The sensitive soul. Time is never sharp, but it’s Cutting something in the credit union. Maybe

It’s dancing a back Corte for the woman in line Thinking about the taste of limes from Temecula As she waits for the teller. Air Alaska and that

Haunted pie in the sky are not the only reasons For all the volatility in the air today. Rushing And perfectionism both produce a loss; behind

The Safeway Pharmacy, you’ll see the small Smells of both, sloshing around to the ticking- Sound of the ocean’s tides. I must admit, I am

Frozen in place by the sight of steam from Joe’s Burgers; it is poetry’s pale tongue, rising in And arousing the air. This neighborhood’s street-

Lights are more serious than kokeshi dolls. Lights From its windows outshine poison dart frogs. Maybe to forget about life for awhile, the lamps

Are focused on The Population Bomb? ‘Easy Tiger,’ all these incidents whisper. Each day’s A sign twirler’s dais; each corner a promise

Of something more in a different direction: it isn’t A marriageable daughter or impoverishment, But inguinal ingenuity plays a part, and that isn’t

Bad at all. What oaths and paths went here Before Walmart? What voices were voided by The liquor store? What are vague’s values

When the library shares a parking lot with a 24- Hour gym and a cargo cult? Gas stations satirize                                                                           The Queen of Hearts; I tell you, it makes every

Question seem incidental. Treaty-breakers in Pajamas swing on the swing sets. Was August That full of angst? It feels like autumn went too

Far on accident. Desertification, in a sugar tong Splint, takes a shot of ouzo and talks shit About the death of Brutus, but my Bible-thumping

Memory – on a ski hill in Duluth – is also too busy Watching some ducks on the lake to notice; and Desertification makes a face at me like a Swedish

Film. Poets make for poorly picked men to Familiarity’s paymaster-general. The Calvinistic Rain is an ill-starred attempt to make mayonnaise-

Fries just for me, but I must admit, it all seems – You know – cybernetic. And step-motherly as all Get out, if you ask the trees. They prefer “You

Can’t Hurry Love,” by The Supremes, to any Changes that take effect in one to two pay periods. Pretext ricochets; a perfect reverse promenade.

At Summer Lake, When the Vegetables are Sleeping

Cruelty drinks all the wine, and never gets drunk On these shores. When Summer Lake speaks, In every word, an introduction to the world. I am

Easily duped. The greatest duper duplicates my pride, Which always lingers, in the hallways of my heart And beneath the surface of Summer Lake. The sky is

Supplicating, it’s literally shaking. An hour passes Faster here, the hour always held too dearly dear In paranoid and ivied walls. The ducks can do

An unwise thing correctly, and it sounds more like Dusty than Buffalo Springfield to the enokitake Sold in Springfield, Illinois, which is the opposite

Effect it has on the wild mushrooms on these shores. On cables capable of love, the geese convince The weather to taste like kvass today. Basically,

Another Cuban Missile Crisis drowned itself just Now. The clouds might ask themselves, ‘Is lowliness Allowed here?’ To which the crows might ask,

‘Does omertà sound like lightning?’ The answer’s Oubliette is ten times worse than impotence. Summer Lake isn’t smart, but it stays quiet, like

Someone too smart to say all they know. ‘Whoa, Sweet potato,’ the capital gains tax mutters To itself, knowing that what matters doesn’t mean

A thing. Some say the lake bottom’s sands receive Commands from Hearst Castle, others say Its hands are King City’s hands, and still others

Maintain more sins have been than grains of sand Times secondary gains, and that explains The beauty and industry that none can see but

All can feel on these shores. (Some possibilities Play possum, or get opsonized by hate; this one snores Like Rip Van Winkle.) This orb-weaver spider is

The Milton Friedman of Summer Lake, the wind On her web is Grenache from The Rocks District Of Milton-Freewater AVA for the eyes. The day is

Stereotypical, although it feels like three days In one…But for the lake’s good counterfactual Questions, I would forget that some die young,

But most die wrong. I’ve tried to pick up Summer Lake’s reflections in three lines or less, but The hardest truth is your own impotence. Oh,

It’s hard to hand your power over to a thing No one can see. Hopped up on distinctions – not The obvious distinctions – Summer Lake is pretty;

Cold, but pretty! In the distance, with so many Intercessory prayers, hot air balloons are rising; Shaped like teardrops, upside down and rising.

This lake re-something-or-anothered me. Are first Impressions wrong sometimes? I am a season’s Golden calf, according to the sunlight, doing

A prospector’s jig on the surface of Summer Lake. If not for the Weimar Republic’s wooden- Headedness, I’d set down my heart-song and

Listen to reason on these shores. I never trust An activist guitar, if the weather is socially clumsy. The future is reflected on the lake: it always

Laughs at us – between its math and gratitude Lessons – and never thinks of (or gives thanks to) Us enough. The presence in the lake juniors

My ears. The day is not too baffling, nor is it Jane Eyre. Space-themed and spiritual, some autumn Leaves are swimming in the rain. The ducks arrest

My attention in the mardy weather, even though they Must know my attention is dying. The barbed wire Around my stated goal is an outcome out of

Their control. Picnickers picnic with acorns and apricots, On blankets covering Holy Schnikey’s death mask. My unsandaled thoughts thrive and increase on these,

And no other shores. They are pets for the days less Important than love, when Summer Lake says it’s Humble, because it knows the right thing to say.

Summer Lake gives the comfort of commonly held And seriously absurd beliefs to the blue heron. Nothing is wrong with this lake or anything in it,

Not even the ghost of Amerigo Vespucci. It’s all so Simple to the stiff-necked molecules of water, made out Of frogs and snails and puppy-dog’s tails. These thoughts

Are fine manna in a fine ditch. Post-structuralist squirrels Can tell my heart’s in Italy, and I’m in the intellectual Laity. Chivalry’s technician sees my shovel, and they say,

‘You’ve got to hand it to him.’ Neurocysticercosis Sets the bar high; it looks at this park, and thinks The smartest monkey drew the perfect landscape.

That’s this maple tree’s previous disease, its precious One. It unfurls the ferns of my firm and foremost Beliefs, I’m told, to partialize insufferable vastidity.

We Install a Sump Pump on (What Used To Be) a Holiday (Take 2)

The oppressive heat was born a fully grown Man. I admire the result of its effort, but Despise the means of achieving it. My wife Asserts her individuality in the gunk; her Body’s allegations aren’t too soft or hard today. Her self-interest seems to have drowned in the vortex.

Our little garden knows flippancy with regards To privacy is unwise. The stepping stones can Only blather, as slugs draw nomograms on Their faces. My wife’s body speaks Proto-Indo- European in the vortex and denim overalls. Marc Chagall’s The Poet studies her. He calls her

‘Innocence: The opposite of life! A criminal with A badge!’ I hand her the tools of a crude and Rudimentary faith, and she says, ‘Jill, great books Make fine shackles.’ Her arms only have An administrative objective in the vortex, but They are where good things come from.

Jake Sheff is a pediatrician in Oregon and veteran of the US Air Force. He's married with a daughter and whole lot of pets. Poems of Jake’s are in Radius, The Ekphrastic Review, Crab Orchard Review, The Cossack Review and elsewhere. He won 1st place in the 2017 SFPA speculative poetry contest and a Laureate's Choice prize in the 2019 Maria W. Faust Sonnet Contest. Past poems and short stories have been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology and the Pushcart Prize. His chapbook is “Looting Versailles” (Alabaster Leaves Publishing).

[toomanystacksofbooks]

Achilles Was More Than A Weapon

by @toomanystacksofbooks

Achilles, in my own understanding of his tale, has been horribly misrepresented by history. Born of heaven and earth, he was told to live a certain way- to be a certain way. He is, today, viewed as a warrior of the greatest kind, which he was, of course, but I’ve noticed a great number of people who seem to believe that his entire character is diluted by that fact- to war and blood and violence. To do such, one erases every other part of him, everything else- good and bad and gray.

First, we must understand his origins. His mother was Thetis, an ocean nymph, a goddess. She had fallen victim to the will of higher gods, forced into an unwilling marriage with Peleus, who was a king. And so Achilles came, breathed his first years on Phthia, a prince. He was greatly admired from a young age and known to be light on his feet, swift, and graceful.

Here we have our first example of something that was key to his character that was not his status as a warrior. Yes, his speed and grace and precision were all what made him a great warrior, but that is not why he had such talents. He was, first and foremost, a child. Before he ever was a fighter, a soldier, a killer- he was a kid who wanted to play.

We know that Thetis was not so fond of Peleus- at least in many interpretations- but she loved her son dearly, and wished for him to be divine some day. She visited him, and told him as much, and he listened and walked away when their meetings were over. She knew that heroes such as her Achilles would be fated to, one day, make a choice. A short, glorious life- gone down in history, adored- or a long, forgetful life- a man who would be forgotten, lost in the winds of time. Achilles, I think, never wanted more than to have fun when Thetis began thinking about this. He was a child, and what child would choose a war and grief and death, simply to be remembered and revered, over a full and happy life, all for oneself? I believe that he was taught, pressured, into thinking that he desired honor. At some point, he must have lost much of his childhood confidence, and began craving other people’s approval.

I can understand, honestly, what was going through Achilles’ mind as he made such decisions. There comes a point where you’ve covered up so many layers of yourself that you simply cannot remember who you are. Not truly. It is because of this that I sympathise with Achilles. I think his tale would have ended very differently had the social and peer pressure been lifted, had his mother understood what a child needs.

And a child needs nurturing. His nature was not to fight.

Another example of his skills and character outside of war is the lyre. He was known to have played it, to have marveled at the sounds it could make. It was a hobby, but he was Achilles so he mastered it quickly. Perhaps had he not been taken to war, he would’ve picked up his lyre and written and sung the tale of those who did. Perhaps Troy would not have fallen.

He was also, supposedly, honest. He was empathetic and caring, especially to those he was close to. He did not want to fight, I don’t think, but he knew- or thought- he was supposed to. He enjoyed the fighting, but not for the pain and hurt and blood, but for the rush of adrenaline, for the way he could run and dance, the way he could throw a spear. He never once stated that he enjoyed the killing.

Patroclus, lastly. Patroclus was his mortality, that half of his soul. I do not believe in soulmates, generally, but somehow Achilles and Patroclus have me sold. Patroclus was compassionate where Achilles was emotionally confused and distant, Patroclus was a healer where Achilles was a fighter, Patroclus was a little clumsy where Achilles was sure-footed. Patroclus was mortal where Achilles was divine. It was he who kept Achilles sane, who kept his mind from spiraling to true selfishness and cruelty. Patroclus gave Achilles a reason.

When he died, Achilles snapped. In The Iliad, it is said that Achilles sobbed so loudly that the gods at the bottom of the sea could hear it. He first wanted to kill himself, but he had no weapons. He wept by Patroclus’ body for days, and when the best of the Greeks, the greatest warrior who ever lived, died, they had their ashes mingled together (The Iliad, Homer: “There is nothing alive more agonized than man / of all that breathe and crawl across the earth,”).

Achilles killed, yes. He raided and fought and ran through a war he would not see won. But so did Hector. So did Patroclus. So did Odysseus, and Agamemnon, and Paris, and the Amazons. They were all fighting, because a woman was taken, or went, because she had no choice as to what was to happen to her. Achilles should never have had to fight. None of them should have. There is no “right side to this war” because both the Greeks and the Trojans did terrible things. And both of them paid the price.

“We men are wretched things,” is stated by Homer in The Iliad. And so that includes us all- men like Achilles, Patroclus, and Hector. Women like Briseis, Helen, and Hecabe. We humans are so diverse, yet we are so similar. Is it not wrong of everyone to go to war? Or just one side, the attacker? The defender? Or those which are both?

In The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller, Odysseus says to Patroclus: “He is a weapon, a killer. Do not forget it. You can use a spear as a walking stick, but that will not change its nature.”

But he is not a weapon. There is so much more to the tale of Achilles than the Trojan War, than when he fought a river god and killed Hector of Troy and was killed by Paris. He was a child, free and bright as the day. He ran on the beaches of Phthia, trained with Chiron on Pelion. He was Achilles, a golden boy with a golden lyre under a golden sun. He did not exist to assist Meneleus in his nonsense, he did not exist to sail a thousand ships. He did not exist to fight, for we know he could have changed the Fates when his grief was as great. He was shaped by all of this. He was sharpened by all that he experienced, by those who he met. Patroclus and Briseis and Odysseus and Diomedes and Agamemnon and, eventually, Thanatos, who led him down to Hades to rest.

A spear is a stick before it is a weapon. Achilles is no different.

[thespicn]

THE CRUX.

There is no ambiguity in your position: you do not think the voyage should continue when a threat lurks out in the white, growing hungrier each day. You’ve heard The Commander has advised The Captain to continue on with the expedition, and there are those who agree that the trip should not cow to tales of ghosts. You cannot change your story, but you can sully the Commander’s credibility, conjuring rumors and falsities out of thin air. Do you dare?

                                                                          ▷▷▷  

                  [ THE CAPTAIN’S PRIVATE CABIN. ] [ 03:00. ] [ ENTER ACTOR. ]

                                                                          ▷▷▷

ACTOR knows they do not want to leave the Island. It has no name for them, but this: The Island. They want to stay. They want to search the bodies of their friends—or, if not possible, their souls. They want to reach the creature and shakes its hand, its hands, its heart, its hearts. They want to see if it eats souls, as well as veins and cartilages.

ACTOR sits down.

ACTOR wants the Agathe crew to survive. They have no name for them, but this: The Agathe crew. It is not divisible in people and futures: it is a unitary hope. That something human will exist beyond the chaos. That the silver lining they always derided, ridiculed, scorned in favor of the more delicious tragedy, will break over this dawn at last.

They debated leaving the ship in the dead of night, taking a rowing boat. Reaching the Island, alone. Letting the others turn. Letting the others go. And then wading inland, walking, walking, walking til their muscles subside into moss, til their eyelids grow answers, grow sight beyond this world. Til they come upon this Silent beast. This forgotten God.

They might still do it. But first, they have to make sure the ship leaves.

ACTOR grazes eyes over the Captain. Moment of hesitation. Take two.

ACTOR: You astonish me, Monsieur Dowling. I would’ve thought you had enough yesterday. Had your fill. Or is that not why I’m here? A reconnoiter?

CAPTAIN remains quiet. Their pupils are the surface of the ice floe, unbroken. No crack in this glass - the crevasse may remain forever open, split half-through by the shared communion of sin, but it will not budge any wider. Drum of knuckles on the paneling. Waft of bourbon. ACTOR senses it. They must crinkle their nostrils like they mean it. Like they are surprised. Like vice is still a new page in the story.

ACTOR: I see. It’s our conversation you want seconds of, not the... how would you call it? Carnal debauchery?

Pause. The sound of the ocean tightening against the hull. ACTOR tightens, too; body and marrow and cock, straining against trousers. ACTOR nods and pushes it away. This is mental, you see, but it has to show on the face. Practice. Take three.

ACTOR: Bien, aussi. You really do want more bones dug up from the past. Well, I’m all out, Cap’n. Cross my heart and hope to... you know how it goes. Oui. Je croix. No more bones. None of mine, anyway. Alors... your commander?

Tactful pause. ACTOR must fidget with their hands, kick the chair with the side of their shoes. Lightly. ACTOR reaches for the bourbon right before picking up the fallen bomb.

ACTOR: Cedric knew him, a long time ago. At first I did not... comment vous-dites? Stick a face to the name? But then it came to me. My lover mentioned it in passing, when we were reviewing possible targets. Yes, yes. You heard correctly. One does not get by on acting along, do they? If anyone claims it, they are simply better at fooling themselves as well as you. Tip for the future. Neither Cedric nor your Montgomery ever had any intention of sticking to acting - or sailing, for that matter.

ACTOR wonders if they should lie. Once more, this has to break onto their expression - eyes have to drift to the edge of the room, lip has to surrender something of a sigh. The real stun? ACTOR does not need to lie. All of this is true, as much as Cedric told them. Of course, Cedric might have lied, but not even his brilliant, starburst of a mind could ever know that Bastien would meet this man at the ends of the earth. That he would meet him over Cedric’s own graveless grave. His boneless bones. ACTOR pulls themselves back.

ACTOR: Hugo Montogomery sold the secrets of his superiors, and his rivals, too. Sold naval property. Barter, back-alley trade. Women. Webs of lies. Scorch of ruin in his trail, all through France and England, until no one remembered his old name. His names. This is the man that serves you. This is the man you’ll have to stand beside, if you make the choice to doom us all to chaos. And, Captain? This is the man you’ll lose to.

                                                                     ▷▷▷

                                                     one final time,

                                                   you dare. you dare. you dare.

[stingslikeabee]

“i believe i should like to stay.” from Sephie

Bridgerton starters . not accepting

With time, Melissa had learned that much of what she thought to be true about Sephiroth was, in fact, incomplete at best. The idea that Shinra sold to the population, of an almost god-like war hero was not incorrect per se – his military feats had been amply documented, after all – but it was not everything that there was to him.

He was, first and foremost, a man – and a young one, who lacked experiences that anyone else of his age likely had gone through. He was a dedicated student and a faster learner, and for everything they did and for each moment she had spent with the 1st, he had rewarded her in some fashion.

Trips topside were her favorites – without the proper ID to leave the slums, Melissa only left the Wall Market when someone summoned her. But with Sephiroth, that meant that, most of the time, access to plateside was granted, no questions asked. And for every opportunity to gaze at the night sky or to eat at a different restaurant, she was always grateful for the kindness that apparently was never-ending on his side, even if it was hardly publicized.

They were also discreet – for a Wall Market self-styled queen and for someone popular enough to be Shinra’s posterboy, they tried to keep a low profile while doing all these mundane things around. And that evening, he had taken her to a different sort of outing – an aquarium. Melissa had never seen the sea, much less any of the creatures that lived in the ocean but for the ones that she was supplied with for the inn’s menu.

So visiting one of Shinra’s public aquariums had been one of her loveliest experiences – the brothel madame realized that she probably had acted (and reacted) like a child sometimes, filled with the excited glee of seeing a dolphin swimming just that close – but Sephiroth only smiled at her and never once hurried her along. Ever the perfect companion, the SOLDIER made sure to also return her home safely – after all, their first encounter many months ago arising exactly from an unsavory experience he had rescued Melissa from.

There was hardly a soul around by the time they return – the inn was a different sight without the excited chatter of the patrons and her girls, with lights turned off and whatever guests remained locked in their private rooms with their choice of companionship for the evening. Melissa sighed contently when they approached the stairs to the second floor and where her quarters were, letting go of his hands to stand on the tip of her toes to plant the softest of the kisses to his face as a goodnight gesture.

It was then that Sephiroth’s words surprised her – ‘I believe I should like to stay’. Melissa had invited him to stay the night, time and time again – but she had never expected him to accept. They were taking things slowly – and she had no idea of the commitments or the schedule the 1st needed to observe for work.

Well, that night was truly turning out to be full of surprises.

“Then please do - nothing would make me happier.”

[writingsbymarie]

Shameless Part 2: Secrets

prologue Part 1 

Word Count: 2,200

Warnings: Kissing, fluff 

A/n: i really know nothing about mobs lmao

You woke up, your eyes fluttering open. The sun leaking from the open spots of the blinds soaking your skin. You slowly sat up to see tom in front of the mirror buttoning up his shirt giving you a glimpse of his sun-kissed abs. You watched as he buttoned the shirt slowly, and all you wanted to do is go over there and unbutton it. You made eye contact with him in the mirror blushing, and looking down at the white sheets. As angry as you were in the situation you were in you couldn’t deny that your new man was gorgeous. His toned chest, strong arms, and kissable thin lips. You had also heard stories from others that he was a god in bed, and well you didn’t doubt it. 

“You're up” he noted turning to face you as he buttoned the last button on his shirt. “Did you sleep well”?

“Yeah” you mumbled rubbing your eyes and then brushing your hands through your hair. 

“So, I know this is out of the blue, but there is this ball or dance that's tonight. Its a fundraiser, and we need to be seen in public, so everyone believes this is true” he rambled playing with his hands. 

“I think I'll have to pass” you sighed. Not wanting anything to do with the mob bullshit. 

You never wanted to be part of this, but unfortunately, it was looking like you werent going to have a choice in the matter.

“Yeah that's not, really an option” he replied walking closer to you. “We're leaving at 6 pm, there is a dress in the closet for you, I am not asking you to come, I’m telling you your coming, so you better be ready to leave the house by 6 pm” he purred touching you bare shoulder dragging his hand down your arm softly giving you goosebumps. 

“You don’t control me, Tom,” You whispered standing up. You were so close to his body you could feel the heat radiating from his body. You put your hand on his chest dragging it down. Silently wishing there was no shirt blocking his chest. “But since your dad scares the living shit out of me, and I don’t want to die or get physically tortured I will come with you. You felt his body tense up at the touch of the hands making you blush, and quickly remove your hand. You walked away towards the bathroom closing the door. You leaned against it sliding down the down into a ball putting your head into your hands. Your head pounded as you thought of what your life was about to become. After the mobs know you and Tom are really together you'll have a target on your head. You slowly stood up turning on the shower. You removed your clothes stepping into the glass door. You stepped under the hot water steam rising from your body. You grabbed the soap rubbing it all over you closing your eyes taking a deep breath. This was going to be a long day.

--

It was around 5:00 when you started getting ready. You weren’t sure how you felt about the whole outfit he picked out for you though. It was a black dress that fit all your curves. You felt sexy in it, but sexy, well wasn’t your thing. You would have some bursts of confidence, but you tended to not have self-confidence when it came to being alluring or seductive. You get too nervous and you come off more like a clumsy awkward girl. You curled your hair. Applied some light makeup including mascara, eye shadow, and foundation. You added lip gloss to your lips because you hated lipstick. Every color you ever put on made you look like a clown. As you were applying the lipstick Tom appeared in the doorway putting one arm up on the frame leaning against it. You could have sworn you saw him checking you out as you glanced at him through the mirror. Your face went bright red.  

“I’m glad I picked that dress you look ravishing” he purred walking towards you. Somehow you got even redder. The heat coming from your face was making you dizzy. You were 19 and he was 23. He was older, more mature, and for some reason that made him ten times hotter. It not that you haven't had a boyfriend before. You were a virgin though. You had done little to nothing thing sexual, because your parents were crazy, and had you basically locked in your house because they didn’t want you to die probably because they needed you to be a pawn for their game. You hated that. 

“Thanks” you breathed as he came up behind you. You turned, and your chests bumped, and you took a step back looking down at your feet. 

“Turn around, I have the perfect necklace for you to wear tonight, and I have your ring, you'll need to wear this tonight,” he said lifting your hand to slide the ring onto your finger. He put his hand on your waist lightly spinning you around so your back was to him. He held a diamond necklace in his hands. He put the necklace on clipping it in the back. 

“Perfect” he mumbled, stepping back from you. He gestured for you to follow him. You grabbed your purse and placed your phone into the bag. You walked out of the bedroom trailing a bit behind Tom. You werent the best at walking in heels. That you could admit. You looked down at the ring on your finger. It was beautiful. That you couldn’t deny, but you were upset.You were tourn because you would never get a marriage proposal, never have a real wedding, and never get to experience falling in love. That was all taken from you, and it made you sick. You were stuck in your thoughts your body in autopilot when you bumped right into Tom.

“Sorry’ you sighed. Picking up your purse you dropped. You were at the front door walking towards the limo. Tom opened up the car door for you. You gave him a soft smile muttering a thank you as you entered the limo. You moved yourself to the window seat buckling yourself in. Tom was seated right next to you, and next to him was Harrison. The car rolled away from the castle making this the first time you left your prison or your home since your father dropped you off that dreadful day. As you watched buildings roll past you thought about escaping. Running away and never looking back. Starting fresh with a new name sounded like the best idea in the world, but you would never be able to live with the guilt because if you left your parents blood would surely be on your hands. You were so caught up in your dream world in your head that you didn’t realize the limo had stopped. Tom tapped your shoulder snapping you out of your daze. You opened the door of the limo stepping out feeling the fresh air on your skin. You looked up at the building. It looked like a 5-star hotel. It was gorgeous with a lit fountain liting up the garden below it. You began to walk towards the door Tom right next to you. Your hand brushed his and you blushed but tried to act casual. Harrison opened the 2 doors to the entrance, and that when Tom interlaced your fingers. At first, you pulled away but he whispered in your ear.

“Were supposed to be married just go with it” You nodded your head. Interlocking your fingers again. His hands where clammy. He seemed a bit nervous. So were you though. Anxiety was coursing through your veins. He leads you through the halls to a large ballroom. It was so crazy that although this was the mob in the public eye they were saints doing fundraisers like this. He took you to a circle table releasing your hand to pull out a chair for you. You sat down pulling your dress down over your thighs feeling overly exposed. One of your legs were bouncing up and down. Your hands shaking slightly. You were terrified that they wouldn’t believe the marriage, and that would result in the death of people on your side of the mob. Which would include your parents? The Hollands were extremely powerful and threating with death was their specialty. You had figured out in the past day that the reason your father sold you off was to save your family's life. It was either this or the Hollands would obliterate the Y/L/N mob. Tom noticed your anxiety and put his hand over yours squeezing it. He leaned over asking you a question.

“Do you want to dance” You swallowed, nodding slightly. You hoped you could make this looked convincing. You grabbed his hand and he leads you to the dance floor. He placed his hands on your back, and you lifted your hands to his neck. You both swayed to the music. 

“Are you okay?” he asked He sound genuinely concerned.

“Not really, I don’t want this Tom,” you said backing away from him releasing your hands from his neck. “All of this, always being a target, having to worry about my every move, being trapped in your castle”.

“I know” he sighed grabbing your hands putting them back around his neck. “I didn’t want to be forced into marriage either, but this is what had to be done so I can take over. We have no choice in this matter. We can't risk seeing other people, because we could ruin this all, so let's just make the most of it, I’d love to get to know you”. Your mind was racing with thoughts. Part of you wanted to slap him, and the other wanted to spill your whole life to him. You nodded looking down at your feet. It was a long silence before Tom spoke up. It was honestly a pretty awkward moment. Like when you are talking to your middle school crush and you have no idea what to say. 

“So what's your favorite color,” he asked out of the blue. You looked up from the ground giving a small laugh.

“Maroon, I like red, but I’m more of a fan of darker colors they look better on me, what about you” you responded

“Blue, like the color of the clear blue oceans, those are gorgeous” he answered, making you laugh. “What” he questioned looking at you like you were a little crazy.

“Idk I was just expecting your favorite color to be red like the color of blood, or black like the color of your soul” 

“What do you think I am some emo middle schooler who listens to screamo, I’m a future mob boss, not a psychopath” he laughed. 

“Eh, I guess I was expecting something less innocent” you trailed off. “Favorite animal”?

“Dogs, 100%, I don't think I could ever love anyone more than I love my dog”

“So you’ve got a soft spot for dogs. Noted” you giggled. “Mine is the Tiger they are fierce, majestic, and beautiful like me of course,” You said as you flipped your hair dramatically making him laugh. 

“Does that mean you're a cat person, because then we probably have to get divorced because I don’t do cats” he joked making you laugh.

“I prefer dogs over cats so I guess our marriage still stands” you smiled tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. 

“And also you are beautiful like a tiger” he interjected

“Thanks” You replied as your cheeks turned bright red. Heat radiating from yur skin like you were sunburnt. 

You and Tom talked for a couple more songs, you even danced for a bit. He spun you around, and you attempted to do the tango, but the almost lead to you falling to the ground and left both of you in hysterics. You were actually having fun with him which was the opposite of what you were expecting. So you could conclude with you and your husband actually had some things in common. You both were dancing in the middle of the dance floor when he pulled you closer to him. Your body tensed up as your foreheads touched. 

“Just go with it” he whispered, and then he placed his lips on yours. Your eyes were wide open and you froze. His lips were soft and warm. After a couple of seconds, your body relaxed into the kiss and you're melted into his arms. You slowly moved your lips against his pulling him closer to you. You tugged on the ends of his hair causing him to groan. You pulled away from the kiss to breath resting your head on his shoulder. He used his hand to lift your head up, and he whispered into your ear.

“How about we leave this, say you're sick and go have some real fun, I know the best clubs around town. And an ice cream place with the best ice cream you'll ever eat. 

“Lead the way Holland”

[naagi]

My Family’s Slave

By Alex Tizon

--

The ashes filled a black plastic box about the size of a toaster. It weighed three and a half pounds. I put it in a canvas tote bag and packed it in my suitcase this past July for the transpacific flight to Manila. From there I would travel by car to a rural village. When I arrived, I would hand over all that was left of the woman who had spent 56 years as a slave in my family’s household.

Her name was Eudocia Tomas Pulido. We called her Lola. She was 4 foot 11, with mocha-brown skin and almond eyes that I can still see looking into mine—my first memory. She was 18 years old when my grandfather gave her to my mother as a gift, and when my family moved to the United States, we brought her with us. No other word but slave encompassed the life she lived. Her days began before everyone else woke and ended after we went to bed. She prepared three meals a day, cleaned the house, waited on my parents, and took care of my four siblings and me. My parents never paid her, and they scolded her constantly. She wasn’t kept in leg irons, but she might as well have been. So many nights, on my way to the bathroom, I’d spot her sleeping in a corner, slumped against a mound of laundry, her fingers clutching a garment she was in the middle of folding.

To our American neighbors, we were model immigrants, a poster family. They told us so. My father had a law degree, my mother was on her way to becoming a doctor, and my siblings and I got good grades and always said “please” and “thank you.” We never talked about Lola. Our secret went to the core of who we were and, at least for us kids, who we wanted to be.

After my mother died of leukemia, in 1999, Lola came to live with me in a small town north of Seattle. I had a family, a career, a house in the suburbs—the American dream. And then I had a slave.

At baggage claim in Manila, I unzipped my suitcase to make sure Lola’s ashes were still there. Outside, I inhaled the familiar smell: a thick blend of exhaust and waste, of ocean and sweet fruit and sweat.Early the next morning I found a driver, an affable middle-aged man who went by the nickname “Doods,” and we hit the road in his truck, weaving through traffic. The scene always stunned me. The sheer number of cars and motorcycles and jeepneys. The people weaving between them and moving on the sidewalks in great brown rivers. The street vendors in bare feet trotting alongside cars, hawking cigarettes and cough drops and sacks of boiled peanuts. The child beggars pressing their faces against the windows.

Doods and I were headed to the place where Lola’s story began, up north in the central plains: Tarlac province. Rice country. The home of a cigar-chomping army lieutenant named Tomas Asuncion, my grandfather. The family stories paint Lieutenant Tom as a formidable man given to eccentricity and dark moods, who had lots of land but little money and kept mistresses in separate houses on his property. His wife died giving birth to their only child, my mother. She was raised by a series of utusans, or “people who take commands.”

Slavery has a long history on the islands. Before the Spanish came, islanders enslaved other islanders, usually war captives, criminals, or debtors. Slaves came in different varieties, from warriors who could earn their freedom through valor to household servants who were regarded as property and could be bought and sold or traded. High-status slaves could own low-status slaves, and the low could own the lowliest. Some chose to enter servitude simply to survive: In exchange for their labor, they might be given food, shelter, and protection.

When the Spanish arrived, in the 1500s, they enslaved islanders and later brought African and Indian slaves. The Spanish Crown eventually began phasing out slavery at home and in its colonies, but parts of the Philippines were so far-flung that authorities couldn’t keep a close eye. Traditions persisted under different guises, even after the U.S. took control of the islands in 1898. Today even the poor can have utusans or katulongs (“helpers”) or kasambahays (“domestics”), as long as there are people even poorer. The pool is deep.

Lieutenant Tom had as many as three families of utusans living on his property. In the spring of 1943, with the islands under Japanese occupation, he brought home a girl from a village down the road. She was a cousin from a marginal side of the family, rice farmers. The lieutenant was shrewd—he saw that this girl was penniless, unschooled, and likely to be malleable. Her parents wanted her to marry a pig farmer twice her age, and she was desperately unhappy but had nowhere to go. Tom approached her with an offer: She could have food and shelter if she would commit to taking care of his daughter, who had just turned 12.

Lola agreed, not grasping that the deal was for life.

“She is my gift to you,” Lieutenant Tom told my mother.

“I don’t want her,” my mother said, knowing she had no choice.

Lieutenant Tom went off to fight the Japanese, leaving Mom behind with Lola in his creaky house in the provinces. Lola fed, groomed, and dressed my mother. When they walked to the market, Lola held an umbrella to shield her from the sun. At night, when Lola’s other tasks were done—feeding the dogs, sweeping the floors, folding the laundry that she had washed by hand in the Camiling River—she sat at the edge of my mother’s bed and fanned her to sleep.

One day during the war Lieutenant Tom came home and caught my mother in a lie—something to do with a boy she wasn’t supposed to talk to. Tom, furious, ordered her to “stand at the table.” Mom cowered with Lola in a corner. Then, in a quivering voice, she told her father that Lola would take her punishment. Lola looked at Mom pleadingly, then without a word walked to the dining table and held on to the edge. Tom raised the belt and delivered 12 lashes, punctuating each one with a word. You. Do. Not. Lie. To. Me. You. Do. Not. Lie. To. Me. Lola made no sound.

My mother, in recounting this story late in her life, delighted in the outrageousness of it, her tone seeming to say, Can you believe I did that? When I brought it up with Lola, she asked to hear Mom’s version. She listened intently, eyes lowered, and afterward she looked at me with sadness and said simply, “Yes. It was like that.”

Seven years later, in 1950, Mom married my father and moved to Manila, bringing Lola along. Lieutenant Tom had long been haunted by demons, and in 1951 he silenced them with a .32‑caliber slug to his temple. Mom almost never talked about it. She had his temperament—moody, imperial, secretly fragile—and she took his lessons to heart, among them the proper way to be a provincial matrona: You must embrace your role as the giver of commands. You must keep those beneath you in their place at all times, for their own good and the good of the household. They might cry and complain, but their souls will thank you. They will love you for helping them be what God intended.

My brother Arthur was born in 1951. I came next, followed by three more siblings in rapid succession. My parents expected Lola to be as devoted to us kids as she was to them. While she looked after us, my parents went to school and earned advanced degrees, joining the ranks of so many others with fancy diplomas but no jobs. Then the big break: Dad was offered a job in Foreign Affairs as a commercial analyst. The salary would be meager, but the position was in America—a place he and Mom had grown up dreaming of, where everything they hoped for could come true.

Dad was allowed to bring his family and one domestic. Figuring they would both have to work, my parents needed Lola to care for the kids and the house. My mother informed Lola, and to her great irritation, Lola didn’t immediately acquiesce. Years later Lola told me she was terrified. “It was too far,” she said. “Maybe your Mom and Dad won’t let me go home.”

In the end what convinced Lola was my father’s promise that things would be different in America. He told her that as soon as he and Mom got on their feet, they’d give her an “allowance.” Lola could send money to her parents, to all her relations in the village. Her parents lived in a hut with a dirt floor. Lola could build them a concrete house, could change their lives forever. Imagine.

We landed in Los Angeles on May 12, 1964, all our belongings in cardboard boxes tied with rope. Lola had been with my mother for 21 years by then. In many ways she was more of a parent to me than either my mother or my father. Hers was the first face I saw in the morning and the last one I saw at night. As a baby, I uttered Lola’s name (which I first pronounced “Oh-ah”) long before I learned to say “Mom” or “Dad.” As a toddler, I refused to go to sleep unless Lola was holding me, or at least nearby.

I was 4 years old when we arrived in the U.S.—too young to question Lola’s place in our family. But as my siblings and I grew up on this other shore, we came to see the world differently. The leap across the ocean brought about a leap in consciousness that Mom and Dad couldn’t, or wouldn’t, make.

Lola never got that allowance. She asked my parents about it in a roundabout way a couple of years into our life in America. Her mother had fallen ill (with what I would later learn was dysentery), and her family couldn’t afford the medicine she needed. “Pwede ba?” she said to my parents. Is it possible? Mom let out a sigh. “How could you even ask?,” Dad responded in Tagalog. “You see how hard up we are. Don’t you have any shame?”

My parents had borrowed money for the move to the U.S., and then borrowed more in order to stay. My father was transferred from the consulate general in L.A. to the Philippine consulate in Seattle. He was paid $5,600 a year. He took a second job cleaning trailers, and a third as a debt collector. Mom got work as a technician in a couple of medical labs. We barely saw them, and when we did they were often exhausted and snappish.

Mom would come home and upbraid Lola for not cleaning the house well enough or for forgetting to bring in the mail. “Didn’t I tell you I want the letters here when I come home?” she would say in Tagalog, her voice venomous. “It’s not hard naman! An idiot could remember.” Then my father would arrive and take his turn. When Dad raised his voice, everyone in the house shrank. Sometimes my parents would team up until Lola broke down crying, almost as though that was their goal.

It confused me: My parents were good to my siblings and me, and we loved them. But they’d be affectionate to us kids one moment and vile to Lola the next. I was 11 or 12 when I began to see Lola’s situation clearly. By then Arthur, eight years my senior, had been seething for a long time. He was the one who introduced the word slave into my understanding of what Lola was. Before he said it I’d thought of her as just an unfortunate member of the household. I hated when my parents yelled at her, but it hadn’t occurred to me that they—and the whole arrangement—could be immoral.

“Do you know anybody treated the way she’s treated?,” Arthur said. “Who lives the way she lives?” He summed up Lola’s reality: Wasn’t paid. Toiled every day. Was tongue-lashed for sitting too long or falling asleep too early. Was struck for talking back. Wore hand-me-downs. Ate scraps and leftovers by herself in the kitchen. Rarely left the house. Had no friends or hobbies outside the family. Had no private quarters. (Her designated place to sleep in each house we lived in was always whatever was left—a couch or storage area or corner in my sisters’ bedroom. She often slept among piles of laundry.)

We couldn’t identify a parallel anywhere except in slave characters on TV and in the movies. I remember watching a Western called The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. John Wayne plays Tom Doniphon, a gunslinging rancher who barks orders at his servant, Pompey, whom he calls his “boy.” Pick him up, Pompey. Pompey, go find the doctor. Get on back to work, Pompey! Docile and obedient, Pompey calls his master “Mistah Tom.” They have a complex relationship. Tom forbids Pompey from attending school but opens the way for Pompey to drink in a whites-only saloon. Near the end, Pompey saves his master from a fire. It’s clear Pompey both fears and loves Tom, and he mourns when Tom dies. All of this is peripheral to the main story of Tom’s showdown with bad guy Liberty Valance, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Pompey. I remember thinking: Lola is Pompey, Pompey is Lola.

One night when Dad found out that my sister Ling, who was then 9, had missed dinner, he barked at Lola for being lazy. “I tried to feed her,” Lola said, as Dad stood over her and glared. Her feeble defense only made him angrier, and he punched her just below the shoulder. Lola ran out of the room and I could hear her wailing, an animal cry.

“Ling said she wasn’t hungry,” I said.

My parents turned to look at me. They seemed startled. I felt the twitching in my face that usually preceded tears, but I wouldn’t cry this time. In Mom’s eyes was a shadow of something I hadn’t seen before. Jealousy?

“Are you defending your Lola?,” Dad said. “Is that what you’re doing?”

“Ling said she wasn’t hungry,” I said again, almost in a whisper.

I was 13. It was my first attempt to stick up for the woman who spent her days watching over me. The woman who used to hum Tagalog melodies as she rocked me to sleep, and when I got older would dress and feed me and walk me to school in the mornings and pick me up in the afternoons. Once, when I was sick for a long time and too weak to eat, she chewed my food for me and put the small pieces in my mouth to swallow. One summer when I had plaster casts on both legs (I had problem joints), she bathed me with a washcloth, brought medicine in the middle of the night, and helped me through months of rehabilitation. I was cranky through it all. She didn’t complain or lose patience, ever.

To now hear her wailing made me crazy.

In the old country, my parents felt no need to hide their treatment of Lola. In America, they treated her worse but took pains to conceal it. When guests came over, my parents would either ignore her or, if questioned, lie and quickly change the subject. For five years in North Seattle, we lived across the street from the Misslers, a rambunctious family of eight who introduced us to things like mustard, salmon fishing, and mowing the lawn. Football on TV. Yelling during football. Lola would come out to serve food and drinks during games, and my parents would smile and thank her before she quickly disappeared. “Who’s that little lady you keep in the kitchen?,” Big Jim, the Missler patriarch, once asked. A relative from back home, Dad said. Very shy.

Billy Missler, my best friend, didn’t buy it. He spent enough time at our house, whole weekends sometimes, to catch glimpses of my family’s secret. He once overheard my mother yelling in the kitchen, and when he barged in to investigate found Mom red-faced and glaring at Lola, who was quaking in a corner. I came in a few seconds later. The look on Billy’s face was a mix of embarrassment and perplexity. What was that? I waved it off and told him to forget it.

I think Billy felt sorry for Lola. He’d rave about her cooking, and make her laugh like I’d never seen. During sleepovers, she’d make his favorite Filipino dish, beef tapa over white rice. Cooking was Lola’s only eloquence. I could tell by what she served whether she was merely feeding us or saying she loved us.

When I once referred to Lola as a distant aunt, Billy reminded me that when we’d first met I’d said she was my grandmother.

“Well, she’s kind of both,” I said mysteriously.

“Why is she always working?”

“She likes to work,” I said.

“Your dad and mom—why do they yell at her?”

“Her hearing isn’t so good …”

Admitting the truth would have meant exposing us all. We spent our first decade in the country learning the ways of the new land and trying to fit in. Having a slave did not fit. Having a slave gave me grave doubts about what kind of people we were, what kind of place we came from. Whether we deserved to be accepted. I was ashamed of it all, including my complicity. Didn’t I eat the food she cooked, and wear the clothes she washed and ironed and hung in the closet? But losing her would have been devastating.

There was another reason for secrecy: Lola’s travel papers had expired in 1969, five years after we arrived in the U.S. She’d come on a special passport linked to my father’s job. After a series of fallings-out with his superiors, Dad quit the consulate and declared his intent to stay in the United States. He arranged for permanent-resident status for his family, but Lola wasn’t eligible. He was supposed to send her back.

Lola’s mother, Fermina, died in 1973; her father, Hilario, in 1979. Both times she wanted desperately to go home. Both times my parents said “Sorry.” No money, no time. The kids needed her. My parents also feared for themselves, they admitted to me later. If the authorities had found out about Lola, as they surely would have if she’d tried to leave, my parents could have gotten into trouble, possibly even been deported. They couldn’t risk it. Lola’s legal status became what Filipinos call tago nang tago, or TNT—“on the run.” She stayed TNT for almost 20 years.

After each of her parents died, Lola was sullen and silent for months. She barely responded when my parents badgered her. But the badgering never let up. Lola kept her head down and did her work.

My father’s resignation started a turbulent period. Money got tighter, and my parents turned on each other. They uprooted the family again and again—Seattle to Honolulu back to Seattle to the southeast Bronx and finally to the truck-stop town of Umatilla, Oregon, population 750. During all this moving around, Mom often worked 24-hour shifts, first as a medical intern and then as a resident, and Dad would disappear for days, working odd jobs but also (we’d later learn) womanizing and who knows what else. Once, he came home and told us that he’d lost our new station wagon playing blackjack.

For days in a row Lola would be the only adult in the house. She got to know the details of our lives in a way that my parents never had the mental space for. We brought friends home, and she’d listen to us talk about school and girls and boys and whatever else was on our minds. Just from conversations she overheard, she could list the first name of every girl I had a crush on from sixth grade through high school.

When I was 15, Dad left the family for good. I didn’t want to believe it at the time, but the fact was that he deserted us kids and abandoned Mom after 25 years of marriage. She wouldn’t become a licensed physician for another year, and her specialty—internal medicine—wasn’t especially lucrative. Dad didn’t pay child support, so money was always a struggle.

My mom kept herself together enough to go to work, but at night she’d crumble in self-pity and despair. Her main source of comfort during this time: Lola. As Mom snapped at her over small things, Lola attended to her even more—cooking Mom’s favorite meals, cleaning her bedroom with extra care. I’d find the two of them late at night at the kitchen counter, griping and telling stories about Dad, sometimes laughing wickedly, other times working themselves into a fury over his transgressions. They barely noticed us kids flitting in and out.

One night I heard Mom weeping and ran into the living room to find her slumped in Lola’s arms. Lola was talking softly to her, the way she used to with my siblings and me when we were young. I lingered, then went back to my room, scared for my mom and awed by Lola.

Doods was humming. I’d dozed for what felt like a minute and awoke to his happy melody. “Two hours more,” he said. I checked the plastic box in the tote bag by my side—still there—and looked up to see open road. The MacArthur Highway. I glanced at the time. “Hey, you said ‘two hours’ two hours ago,” I said. Doods just hummed.

His not knowing anything about the purpose of my journey was a relief. I had enough interior dialogue going on. I was no better than my parents. I could have done more to free Lola. To make her life better. Why didn’t I? I could have turned in my parents, I suppose. It would have blown up my family in an instant. Instead, my siblings and I kept everything to ourselves, and rather than blowing up in an instant, my family broke apart slowly.

Doods and I passed through beautiful country. Not travel-brochure beautiful but real and alive and, compared with the city, elegantly spare. Mountains ran parallel to the highway on each side, the Zambales Mountains to the west, the Sierra Madre Range to the east. From ridge to ridge, west to east, I could see every shade of green all the way to almost black.

Doods pointed to a shadowy outline in the distance. Mount Pinatubo. I’d come here in 1991 to report on the aftermath of its eruption, the second-largest of the 20th century. Volcanic mudflows called lahars continued for more than a decade, burying ancient villages, filling in rivers and valleys, and wiping out entire ecosystems. The lahars reached deep into the foothills of Tarlac province, where Lola’s parents had spent their entire lives, and where she and my mother had once lived together. So much of our family record had been lost in wars and floods, and now parts were buried under 20 feet of mud.

Life here is routinely visited by cataclysm. Killer typhoons that strike several times a year. Bandit insurgencies that never end. Somnolent mountains that one day decide to wake up. The Philippines isn’t like China or Brazil, whose mass might absorb the trauma. This is a nation of scattered rocks in the sea. When disaster hits, the place goes under for a while. Then it resurfaces and life proceeds, and you can behold a scene like the one Doods and I were driving through, and the simple fact that it’s still there makes it beautiful.

A couple of years after my parents split, my mother remarried and demanded Lola’s fealty to her new husband, a Croatian immigrant named Ivan, whom she had met through a friend. Ivan had never finished high school. He’d been married four times and was an inveterate gambler who enjoyed being supported by my mother and attended to by Lola.

Ivan brought out a side of Lola I’d never seen. His marriage to my mother was volatile from the start, and money—especially his use of her money—was the main issue. Once, during an argument in which Mom was crying and Ivan was yelling, Lola walked over and stood between them. She turned to Ivan and firmly said his name. He looked at Lola, blinked, and sat down.

My sister Inday and I were floored. Ivan was about 250 pounds, and his baritone could shake the walls. Lola put him in his place with a single word. I saw this happen a few other times, but for the most part Lola served Ivan unquestioningly, just as Mom wanted her to. I had a hard time watching Lola vassalize herself to another person, especially someone like Ivan. But what set the stage for my blowup with Mom was something more mundane.

She used to get angry whenever Lola felt ill. She didn’t want to deal with the disruption and the expense, and would accuse Lola of faking or failing to take care of herself. Mom chose the second tack when, in the late 1970s, Lola’s teeth started falling out. She’d been saying for months that her mouth hurt.

“That’s what happens when you don’t brush properly,” Mom told her.

I said that Lola needed to see a dentist. She was in her 50s and had never been to one. I was attending college an hour away, and I brought it up again and again on my frequent trips home. A year went by, then two. Lola took aspirin every day for the pain, and her teeth looked like a crumbling Stonehenge. One night, after watching her chew bread on the side of her mouth that still had a few good molars, I lost it.

Mom and I argued into the night, each of us sobbing at different points. She said she was tired of working her fingers to the bone supporting everybody, and sick of her children always taking Lola’s side, and why didn’t we just take our goddamn Lola, she’d never wanted her in the first place, and she wished to God she hadn’t given birth to an arrogant, sanctimonious phony like me.

I let her words sink in. Then I came back at her, saying she would know all about being a phony, her whole life was a masquerade, and if she stopped feeling sorry for herself for one minute she’d see that Lola could barely eat because her goddamn teeth were rotting out of her goddamn head, and couldn’t she think of her just this once as a real person instead of a slave kept alive to serve her?

“A slave,” Mom said, weighing the word. “A slave?”

The night ended when she declared that I would never understand her relationship with Lola. Never. Her voice was so guttural and pained that thinking of it even now, so many years later, feels like a punch to the stomach. It’s a terrible thing to hate your own mother, and that night I did. The look in her eyes made clear that she felt the same way about me.

The fight only fed Mom’s fear that Lola had stolen the kids from her, and she made Lola pay for it. Mom drove her harder. Tormented her by saying, “I hope you’re happy now that your kids hate me.” When we helped Lola with housework, Mom would fume. “You’d better go to sleep now, Lola,” she’d say sarcastically. “You’ve been working too hard. Your kids are worried about you.” Later she’d take Lola into a bedroom for a talk, and Lola would walk out with puffy eyes.

Lola finally begged us to stop trying to help her.

Why do you stay? we asked.

“Who will cook?” she said, which I took to mean, Who would do everything? Who would take care of us? Of Mom? Another time she said, “Where will I go?” This struck me as closer to a real answer. Coming to America had been a mad dash, and before we caught a breath a decade had gone by. We turned around, and a second decade was closing out. Lola’s hair had turned gray. She’d heard that relatives back home who hadn’t received the promised support were wondering what had happened to her. She was ashamed to return.

She had no contacts in America, and no facility for getting around. Phones puzzled her. Mechanical things—ATMs, intercoms, vending machines, anything with a keyboard—made her panic. Fast-talking people left her speechless, and her own broken English did the same to them. She couldn’t make an appointment, arrange a trip, fill out a form, or order a meal without help.

I got Lola an ATM card linked to my bank account and taught her how to use it. She succeeded once, but the second time she got flustered, and she never tried again. She kept the card because she considered it a gift from me.

I also tried to teach her to drive. She dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand, but I picked her up and carried her to the car and planted her in the driver’s seat, both of us laughing. I spent 20 minutes going over the controls and gauges. Her eyes went from mirthful to terrified. When I turned on the ignition and the dashboard lit up, she was out of the car and in the house before I could say another word. I tried a couple more times.

I thought driving could change her life. She could go places. And if things ever got unbearable with Mom, she could drive away forever.

Four lanes became two, pavement turned to gravel. Tricycle drivers wove between cars and water buffalo pulling loads of bamboo. An occasional dog or goat sprinted across the road in front of our truck, almost grazing the bumper. Doods never eased up. Whatever didn’t make it across would be stew today instead of tomorrow—the rule of the road in the provinces.

I took out a map and traced the route to the village of Mayantoc, our destination. Out the window, in the distance, tiny figures folded at the waist like so many bent nails. People harvesting rice, the same way they had for thousands of years. We were getting close.

I tapped the cheap plastic box and regretted not buying a real urn, made of porcelain or rosewood. What would Lola’s people think? Not that many were left. Only one sibling remained in the area, Gregoria, 98 years old, and I was told her memory was failing. Relatives said that whenever she heard Lola’s name, she’d burst out crying and then quickly forget why.

I’d been in touch with one of Lola’s nieces. She had the day planned: When I arrived, a low-key memorial, then a prayer, followed by the lowering of the ashes into a plot at the Mayantoc Eternal Bliss Memorial Park. It had been five years since Lola died, but I hadn’t yet said the final goodbye that I knew was about to happen. All day I had been feeling intense grief and resisting the urge to let it out, not wanting to wail in front of Doods. More than the shame I felt for the way my family had treated Lola, more than my anxiety about how her relatives in Mayantoc would treat me, I felt the terrible heaviness of losing her, as if she had died only the day before.

Doods veered northwest on the Romulo Highway, then took a sharp left at Camiling, the town Mom and Lieutenant Tom came from. Two lanes became one, then gravel turned to dirt. The path ran along the Camiling River, clusters of bamboo houses off to the side, green hills ahead. The homestretch.

I gave the eulogy at Mom’s funeral, and everything I said was true. That she was brave and spirited. That she’d drawn some short straws, but had done the best she could. That she was radiant when she was happy. That she adored her children, and gave us a real home—in Salem, Oregon—that through the ’80s and ’90s became the permanent base we’d never had before. That I wished we could thank her one more time. That we all loved her.

I didn’t talk about Lola. Just as I had selectively blocked Lola out of my mind when I was with Mom during her last years. Loving my mother required that kind of mental surgery. It was the only way we could be mother and son—which I wanted, especially after her health started to decline, in the mid‑’90s. Diabetes. Breast cancer. Acute myelogenous leukemia, a fast-growing cancer of the blood and bone marrow. She went from robust to frail seemingly overnight.

After the big fight, I mostly avoided going home, and at age 23 I moved to Seattle. When I did visit I saw a change. Mom was still Mom, but not as relentlessly. She got Lola a fine set of dentures and let her have her own bedroom. She cooperated when my siblings and I set out to change Lola’s TNT status. Ronald Reagan’s landmark immigration bill of 1986 made millions of illegal immigrants eligible for amnesty. It was a long process, but Lola became a citizen in October 1998, four months after my mother was diagnosed with leukemia. Mom lived another year.

During that time, she and Ivan took trips to Lincoln City, on the Oregon coast, and sometimes brought Lola along. Lola loved the ocean. On the other side were the islands she dreamed of returning to. And Lola was never happier than when Mom relaxed around her. An afternoon at the coast or just 15 minutes in the kitchen reminiscing about the old days in the province, and Lola would seem to forget years of torment.

I couldn’t forget so easily. But I did come to see Mom in a different light. Before she died, she gave me her journals, two steamer trunks’ full. Leafing through them as she slept a few feet away, I glimpsed slices of her life that I’d refused to see for years. She’d gone to medical school when not many women did. She’d come to America and fought for respect as both a woman and an immigrant physician. She’d worked for two decades at Fairview Training Center, in Salem, a state institution for the developmentally disabled. The irony: She tended to underdogs most of her professional life. They worshipped her. Female colleagues became close friends. They did silly, girly things together—shoe shopping, throwing dress-up parties at one another’s homes, exchanging gag gifts like penis-shaped soaps and calendars of half-naked men, all while laughing hysterically. Looking through their party pictures reminded me that Mom had a life and an identity apart from the family and Lola. Of course.

Mom wrote in great detail about each of her kids, and how she felt about us on a given day—proud or loving or resentful. And she devoted volumes to her husbands, trying to grasp them as complex characters in her story. We were all persons of consequence. Lola was incidental. When she was mentioned at all, she was a bit character in someone else’s story. “Lola walked my beloved Alex to his new school this morning. I hope he makes new friends quickly so he doesn’t feel so sad about moving again …” There might be two more pages about me, and no other mention of Lola.

The day before Mom died, a Catholic priest came to the house to perform last rites. Lola sat next to my mother’s bed, holding a cup with a straw, poised to raise it to Mom’s mouth. She had become extra attentive to my mother, and extra kind. She could have taken advantage of Mom in her feebleness, even exacted revenge, but she did the opposite.

The priest asked Mom whether there was anything she wanted to forgive or be forgiven for. She scanned the room with heavy-lidded eyes, said nothing. Then, without looking at Lola, she reached over and placed an open hand on her head. She didn’t say a word.

Lola was 75 when she came to stay with me. I was married with two young daughters, living in a cozy house on a wooded lot. From the second story, we could see Puget Sound. We gave Lola a bedroom and license to do whatever she wanted: sleep in, watch soaps, do nothing all day. She could relax—and be free—for the first time in her life. I should have known it wouldn’t be that simple.

I’d forgotten about all the things Lola did that drove me a little crazy. She was always telling me to put on a sweater so I wouldn’t catch a cold (I was in my 40s). She groused incessantly about Dad and Ivan: My father was lazy, Ivan was a leech. I learned to tune her out. Harder to ignore was her fanatical thriftiness. She threw nothing out. And she used to go through the trash to make sure that the rest of us hadn’t thrown out anything useful. She washed and reused paper towels again and again until they disintegrated in her hands. (No one else would go near them.) The kitchen became glutted with grocery bags, yogurt containers, and pickle jars, and parts of our house turned into storage for—there’s no other word for it—garbage.

She cooked breakfast even though none of us ate more than a banana or a granola bar in the morning, usually while we were running out the door. She made our beds and did our laundry. She cleaned the house. I found myself saying to her, nicely at first, “Lola, you don’t have to do that.” “Lola, we’ll do it ourselves.” “Lola, that’s the girls’ job.” Okay, she’d say, but keep right on doing it.

It irritated me to catch her eating meals standing in the kitchen, or see her tense up and start cleaning when I walked into the room. One day, after several months, I sat her down.

“I’m not Dad. You’re not a slave here,” I said, and went through a long list of slavelike things she’d been doing. When I realized she was startled, I took a deep breath and cupped her face, that elfin face now looking at me searchingly. I kissed her forehead. “This is your house now,” I said. “You’re not here to serve us. You can relax, okay?”

“Okay,” she said. And went back to cleaning.

She didn’t know any other way to be. I realized I had to take my own advice and relax. If she wanted to make dinner, let her. Thank her and do the dishes. I had to remind myself constantly: Let her be.

One night I came home to find her sitting on the couch doing a word puzzle, her feet up, the TV on. Next to her, a cup of tea. She glanced at me, smiled sheepishly with those perfect white dentures, and went back to the puzzle. Progress, I thought.

She planted a garden in the backyard—roses and tulips and every kind of orchid—and spent whole afternoons tending it. She took walks around the neighborhood. At about 80, her arthritis got bad and she began walking with a cane. In the kitchen she went from being a fry cook to a kind of artisanal chef who created only when the spirit moved her. She made lavish meals and grinned with pleasure as we devoured them.

Passing the door of Lola’s bedroom, I’d often hear her listening to a cassette of Filipino folk songs. The same tape over and over. I knew she’d been sending almost all her money—my wife and I gave her $200 a week—to relatives back home. One afternoon, I found her sitting on the back deck gazing at a snapshot someone had sent of her village.

“You want to go home, Lola?”

She turned the photograph over and traced her finger across the inscription, then flipped it back and seemed to study a single detail.

“Yes,” she said.

Just after her 83rd birthday, I paid her airfare to go home. I’d follow a month later to bring her back to the U.S.—if she wanted to return. The unspoken purpose of her trip was to see whether the place she had spent so many years longing for could still feel like home.

She found her answer.

“Everything was not the same,” she told me as we walked around Mayantoc. The old farms were gone. Her house was gone. Her parents and most of her siblings were gone. Childhood friends, the ones still alive, were like strangers. It was nice to see them, but … everything was not the same. She’d still like to spend her last years here, she said, but she wasn’t ready yet.

“You’re ready to go back to your garden,” I said.

“Yes. Let’s go home.”

Lola was as devoted to my daughters as she’d been to my siblings and me when we were young. After school, she’d listen to their stories and make them something to eat. And unlike my wife and me (especially me), Lola enjoyed every minute of every school event and performance. She couldn’t get enough of them. She sat up front, kept the programs as mementos.

It was so easy to make Lola happy. We took her on family vacations, but she was as excited to go to the farmer’s market down the hill. She became a wide-eyed kid on a field trip: “Look at those zucchinis!” The first thing she did every morning was open all the blinds in the house, and at each window she’d pause to look outside.

And she taught herself to read. It was remarkable. Over the years, she’d somehow learned to sound out letters. She did those puzzles where you find and circle words within a block of letters. Her room had stacks of word-puzzle booklets, thousands of words circled in pencil. Every day she watched the news and listened for words she recognized. She triangulated them with words in the newspaper, and figured out the meanings. She came to read the paper every day, front to back. Dad used to say she was simple. I wondered what she could have been if, instead of working the rice fields at age 8, she had learned to read and write.

During the 12 years she lived in our house, I asked her questions about herself, trying to piece together her life story, a habit she found curious. To my inquiries she would often respond first with “Why?” Why did I want to know about her childhood? About how she met Lieutenant Tom?

I tried to get my sister Ling to ask Lola about her love life, thinking Lola would be more comfortable with her. Ling cackled, which was her way of saying I was on my own. One day, while Lola and I were putting away groceries, I just blurted it out: “Lola, have you ever been romantic with anyone?” She smiled, and then she told me the story of the only time she’d come close. She was about 15, and there was a handsome boy named Pedro from a nearby farm. For several months they harvested rice together side by side. One time, she dropped her bolo—a cutting implement—and he quickly picked it up and handed it back to her. “I liked him,” she said.

Silence.

“And?”

“Then he moved away,” she said.

“And?”

“That’s all.”

“Lola, have you ever had sex?,” I heard myself saying.

“No,” she said.

She wasn’t accustomed to being asked personal questions. “Katulong lang ako,” she’d say. I’m only a servant. She often gave one- or two-word answers, and teasing out even the simplest story was a game of 20 questions that could last days or weeks.

Some of what I learned: She was mad at Mom for being so cruel all those years, but she nevertheless missed her. Sometimes, when Lola was young, she’d felt so lonely that all she could do was cry. I knew there were years when she’d dreamed of being with a man. I saw it in the way she wrapped herself around one large pillow at night. But what she told me in her old age was that living with Mom’s husbands made her think being alone wasn’t so bad. She didn’t miss those two at all. Maybe her life would have been better if she’d stayed in Mayantoc, gotten married, and had a family like her siblings. But maybe it would have been worse. Two younger sisters, Francisca and Zepriana, got sick and died. A brother, Claudio, was killed. What’s the point of wondering about it now? she asked. Bahala na was her guiding principle. Come what may. What came her way was another kind of family. In that family, she had eight children: Mom, my four siblings and me, and now my two daughters. The eight of us, she said, made her life worth living.

None of us was prepared for her to die so suddenly.

Her heart attack started in the kitchen while she was making dinner and I was running an errand. When I returned she was in the middle of it. A couple of hours later at the hospital, before I could grasp what was happening, she was gone—10:56 p.m. All the kids and grandkids noted, but were unsure how to take, that she died on November 7, the same day as Mom. Twelve years apart.

Lola made it to 86. I can still see her on the gurney. I remember looking at the medics standing above this brown woman no bigger than a child and thinking that they had no idea of the life she had lived. She’d had none of the self-serving ambition that drives most of us, and her willingness to give up everything for the people around her won her our love and utter loyalty. She’s become a hallowed figure in my extended family.

Going through her boxes in the attic took me months. I found recipes she had cut out of magazines in the 1970s for when she would someday learn to read. Photo albums with pictures of my mom. Awards my siblings and I had won from grade school on, most of which we had thrown away and she had “saved.” I almost lost it one night when at the bottom of a box I found a stack of yellowed newspaper articles I’d written and long ago forgotten about. She couldn’t read back then, but she’d kept them anyway.

Doods’s truck pulled up to a small concrete house in the middle of a cluster of homes mostly made of bamboo and plank wood. Surrounding the pod of houses: rice fields, green and seemingly endless. Before I even got out of the truck, people started coming outside.

Doods reclined his seat to take a nap. I hung my tote bag on my shoulder, took a breath, and opened the door.

“This way,” a soft voice said, and I was led up a short walkway to the concrete house. Following close behind was a line of about 20 people, young and old, but mostly old. Once we were all inside, they sat down on chairs and benches arranged along the walls, leaving the middle of the room empty except for me. I remained standing, waiting to meet my host. It was a small room, and dark. People glanced at me expectantly.“

Where is Lola?” A voice from another room. The next moment, a middle-aged woman in a housedress sauntered in with a smile. Ebia, Lola’s niece. This was her house. She gave me a hug and said again, “Where is Lola?”

I slid the tote bag from my shoulder and handed it to her. She looked into my face, still smiling, gently grasped the bag, and walked over to a wooden bench and sat down. She reached inside and pulled out the box and looked at every side. “Where is Lola?” she said softly. People in these parts don’t often get their loved ones cremated. I don’t think she knew what to expect. She set the box on her lap and bent over so her forehead rested on top of it, and at first I thought she was laughing (out of joy) but I quickly realized she was crying. Her shoulders began to heave, and then she was wailing—a deep, mournful, animal howl, like I once heard coming from Lola.

I hadn’t come sooner to deliver Lola’s ashes in part because I wasn’t sure anyone here cared that much about her. I hadn’t expected this kind of grief. Before I could comfort Ebia, a woman walked in from the kitchen and wrapped her arms around her, and then she began wailing. The next thing I knew, the room erupted with sound. The old people—one of them blind, several with no teeth—were all crying and not holding anything back. It lasted about 10 minutes. I was so fascinated that I barely noticed the tears running down my own face. The sobs died down, and then it was quiet again.

Ebia sniffled and said it was time to eat. Everybody started filing into the kitchen, puffy-eyed but suddenly lighter and ready to tell stories. I glanced at the empty tote bag on the bench, and knew it was right to bring Lola back to the place where she’d been born.

----------

Alex Tizon was a Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist and the author of Big Little Man: In Search of My Asian Self. This article originally appeared in the June 2017 issue of The Atlantic and needless to say it was difficult to hold back the tears while reading this incredibly moving piece.

[imagine-all-the-fand0ms]

James Reed X OC Ch.01 /?

Hey this is my first fanfiction, So only nice comment Please

Sybil Rutter came with her sister to Jamestown to marry a man she's never met. Will it be love at first sight or a cruel twist of fate??

Prologue

Sibyl

July 1620

Sibyl’s stomach Rolled again as more waves crashed into the ship, her head leaning over the side of the ship. Hoping the cool spray of the ocean would help soothe her sickness a little. Beside her Alice, a girl her sister Verity had befriended whilst aboard the ship, patting her back. “It’s okay, it will pass soon,” reassured Alice as Sibyl stood up and Straighten her dress. Her legs struggling with what little weight her body held. At the start of the voyage, she’d been fine, but the further out to sea, they drifted the rougher became the sea had become and harder for her to keep anything in her stomach. “Aye pass, then return at supper with a vengeance,” replied Sibyl. Alice met her pessimism with a gentle smile before shifting her attention back to the sea. Alice was one of the few girls aboard the ship who has kept her optimistic views on their current Predicament of being taken to a new land to marry the men that travelled over here 12 years before build the colony. Maids to make wives as people called them, Women the men had paid to be brought over to said colony for them to wed. Her and Verity would be one of the first groups of girls to do this. Verity had joked, often joked that she felt more akin to a cow being sold than a woman being wooed by a suitor.  Although she’d say this with her usual boldness, Sibyl knew her sister and to Verity, marriage was no better than being shackled and locked away. Sibyl still herself was unsure of where she stood; It excited her to be traveling to the illustrious Virginia Colonies, Jamestown and see the new World. But another part of her a larger part of her feared this obscure place. 

This place was to be her home, a home she’d share with a man, a stranger she’d soon call husband. A man who she knew nothing about. Not his age or profession, not even a name. Will he be kind to her and allow her time to adjust to this new role to him? Or will he be cold and cruel man behind closed doors demanding she fulfils her wifely duties as soon as they’re wed regardless of whether she wanted too? These questions swirled around her head seeming to multiply, causing her sickness to rear its head again. A hand being placed on her shoulder pulled her attention from these thoughts and signalled someone new joined them.  It was Verity. “Let me guess, you’re both dreaming of your princes and their pot bellies?” She teased as she turned to lean against the ship. Sibyl sneered at her jab whilst Alice sighed and turned to Verity. “Aren’t you glad Verity? Aren’t you grateful we’re the ones to come to this new world?” Sibyl looked to Verity as her hand drifted to Sibyl’s opposite shoulder bringing her in close. “Hell’s teeth no” Grinned Verity before she let out a laugh one that neither Sibyl nor Alice could resist joining. Alice opened her mouth to counter when a ringing bell from above caught their attention. “Land!, Land!” Sibyl felt Verity’s arm tighten around her shoulder as a rush of girls hurried over to glimpse their new home on the horizon. There it was Virginia it looked like a dark grey smudge marking the end of the ocean and the beginning of the sky. As she gazed out at the distant land, she felt a cold tingled run down her spine, this was no turning back now. 

Although they had reached port before the sun completely set, they’d have to wait until morning disembarking due to an unforeseen problem much to the other girl’s dismay. Sibyl was grateful for this. Since they had seen land all the other girls had disappeared below deck to pack up their belongings and themselves presentable for the morning leaving the top deck empty except her. Verity and Alice disappear below deck not long ago. Alice went to help the other girls whilst she suspected Verity had gone to make sure no one ‘accidentally’ packed their belongings in their bags.  There were so many stars in this new world and quiet so quiet she could hear her own heartbeat in her chest. It seemed to echo in her ears. Back in London, Sybil was lucky to hear her own voice sometimes the crowd was so loud. This place would be different, she thought. No more working endlessly in her uncle’s shop to pay off her ‘debt’. Maybe her sister could find some peace here and settle a little but knowing her sister she’d be able to find mischief standing still.

Sibyl's mind drifted to her sister, Verity hadn’t been shy about her resentment towards the situation, but It was Jamestown or jail and for Verity, there was only one choice. When they were younger, Verity used to tell that even though they were the 2 sides of the same coin. Different but the same she’d say. It was true her and Verity looked more akin to cousins that siblings. A smile formed on her face; It was true although Sibyl’s dark auburn locks were curled it was no where near as wild as Verity’s fiery locks. It was the same with their eye to where Verity’s a bright blue, Sibyl’s bore a dark honey colour. A cough from behind her startled Sibyl out of the memory. She jumped to her feet pulling the shawl tighter around herself as if it was a shield and turned, stood at the top of the stairs, was a woman holding a lantern.  From what patience could see the woman older, dressed in a fine dark dress. It was the Governor’s wife, Mrs Yeardley. She was nice enough a little too god-fearing for Sibyl’s taste but nice all the same. Sibyl quickly bowed her head and addressed her “Ma’am”, Mrs Yeardley looked at her with an unreadable expression. “I thought everyone had retired. Why are you still awake, child?” questioned Mrs Yeardley as she descended the steps Sibyl was just sitting.  “I couldn’t sleep, and I didn’t want to disturb the other, so I came up here,” which was the vague truth sibyl thought. She hadn’t been able to sleep, not with all the excitable chat of the other girls and had quietly snuck away. Mrs Yeardley stared at Sibyl moment before smiling, accepting Sibyl’s answer.

“It is understandable, but it is late and it would be best for you to return to the sleeping quarters. You’ll want to be at your best when you meet your intended.” There was something in the older tone that hinted to Sibyl that this wasn’t the light-hearted suggestion it seemed. Mrs Yeardley placed a hand on Sibyl’s arm. “To Bed with you dear, The Lord has seen fit to bless you with a prosperous new home and husband. Don't repay his kindness with Impertinence.” Sibyl gripped her shawl tighter and bowed her head “yes ma’am”. Sibyl turned and biting her tongue as she walked towards the stairs that lead to the sleeping quarters.” blessed..” thought Sibyl, "… easy to say when your husband is the governor of Jamestown. Not to mention that you probably knew his name at least” She’d wanted to turn and scream this at the woman. But the rational side of her mind Knew better. Making an enemy of the governor's wife wouldn't be a wise move for her or for Verity’s future. She’d calmed down a little as she entered the sleeping quarter, most of the other girls had already turned in for the night, their lanterns blown out. Other were just finishing their prayers, Sibyl moved as quietly as she could to her bunk without disturbing them. S She reached into her bunk and pulled out her bag of belonging. Sibyl double-checked its content, unlike most of the other girl here she didn’t a lot to travel with. Happy that everything was as she left it that morning, Sibyl placed her shawl on inside before placing it back in her bunk to act as her pillow. She sat on her bed and looked for her sister, her eyes found sat with Alice and a blonde woman. Alice told her that the woman's name was Jocelyn Woodbryg after she’d seen them talking during a storm recently. According to Alice, she was just a lonely soul.  Feeling her weariness making its presence known,  Sibyl climbed into her bunk silently praying once last time before closing her eyes. “Please let him be kind.”

[noctiferous-fr]

can you do all the nitty gritty wb asks! :o

Oh my, sure! 

This took longer than expected and is longer than expected sooo under the cut it goes!

1. How/why did your clan get it’s name?

Sylvhurst gets its name due to the large tree that the Rulers live in. It used to house the ‘soul’ or ‘essence’ of Queen Azraea until a spell went awry and she became a dragon. ‘Sylv’ and ‘hurst’ are both tree/forest words.

2. Are there any other clans living near by? Are they friendly or are they rivals? Tell us about their interactions with your clan.

The closest ‘clan’ would be the Seelie Court, which is about a day’s travel south. The Seelie Court and Sylvhurst are allies who trade and lend eachother support in times of need. Given that the Seelie Court has a hidden entrance and is generally not entirely open to outsiders, most of the interactions between the members of both clans happens within the boundaries of Sylvhurst, or in the unowned sections of the Tangled Wood.

3. What is your clan’s main source of income? 

Probably the sale of magical goods and services. The Mage’s Quarter makes up a huge portion of the city, and there’s a good variety of magical beings each offering up their own unique type of magic.

4. What items does your clan have to import from other flights/clans/etc? Who is in charge of that?

The biggest import is building materials, despite the fact that Sylvhurst is in the middle of a forest. Because of Queen Azraea’s origin story, very few buildings in the town are made of wood, and it’s actually fairly difficult to get permission to build houses out of it. Instead, stone buildings are far more common (much to the joy of the magic users who find stone much more receptive to any spells they attempt to place on their residence). 

5. Does your clan produce any sort of item coveted by other clans? Specialty items, services, food/drink?

Sorta in relation to #3, I’d say maybe Perseus’s enchanted items would be one of the more popular items for sale in Sylvhurst. They’re notoriously reliable and he has a myriad of spells that he can place on all sorts of items. 

6. Is you clan independent or is it ruled by another governing body?

My clan is independent in the sense that Syvhurst is ruled by itself I guess?

7. Is your clan religious? Is there a single dominating religion or belief system in your clan or is it relaxed about different faiths?

All forms of religion are welcomed into Sylvhurst, though those who are fanatics may find some strange looks and whispers their way. For the festivals Sylvhurst dresses itself up and has a huge celebration for whichever God the festival is for. 

8. What sort of superstitions do many in your clan believe? Is there any merit to it, or is it just wives tales?

There’s plenty of superstitions concerning the forest surrounding Sylvhurst, and most of it actually does have merit. There’s been plenty of legends about a mysterious young hatchling with glowing eyes who guides lost hatchlings back to their parents. Or about a ghost who seems to show up before deaths or disasters, wringing his hands in worry. Or even stories about a cheerful young man who can be helpful one second and a thief the next, and what to keep on hand to give him in return for his aid. 

9. Any serious taboos?

Queen Azraea has been known to welcome all sorts of dragons into her clan, and even offer second chances to dragons who have done some fairly illegal things. The one crime that is expressly forbidden within Sylvhurst, however, is slavery or any form of trafficking. Any slavers moving through the territory are liable to be targeted and either killed or escorted out of the lands once their prisoners have been released. 

10. How is your clan operated? Is there a single leader, a council, or something else?

Queen Azraea and King Arguim (technically) have final say on decisions made for the entirety of Sylvhurst, but they employ a fair number of advisors on different matters. Trickmurk is the tactician who is technically the immediate supervisor of the Guards. Iravat, while being the main advisor is also the leader of a smaller and more elite force that is targeted to more ‘high danger’ targets (Think Emperor level danger). Undine is another important person who oversees the docks to the west and enforces import and export restrictions. For the most part these advisors are able to rule over their own sectors without the Queen and King stepping in and overriding their rulings. 

11. How is food stocked, stored and inventoried for rations during the lean times? Is there a specific dragon in charge of that?

Huh... I actually don’t have an answer for this. I would assume that the process would start with Undine at the docks, and she would begin to enforce export restrictions on anyone attempting to ship food out to make money. Then, she’d likely attempt to reach out to contacts and attempt to acquire more shipments of food. If it got really bad the treasurer, Aurelius, would most likely be brought in to sequester a portion of his vault for dried / salted portions of food. 

12. How are your clans defenses operated?

Sylvhurst has a few defenses, but not many because of its somewhat secluded location and relatively few threats that they have dealt with so far. One of the largest defenses is a ‘shield’ that is controlled by Harlequin, which essentially ‘steers’ malicious people away from Sylvhurst and sends an alert of the location. It acts as a sort of suggestion -- and it is by no means going to turn someone around who is actively attempting to reach Sylvhurst. It’s more to try and prevent random people from stumbling into town and causing trouble. 

Other than that, there are a number of guards who are stationed at the roads that enter and leave the city. This does leave the wooded areas without defenses, however, because there simply aren’t enough guards to actually surround the city.

13. How is waste removed from the clan?

Can I pull a JK Rowling and say it’s just magically vanished

I’m not sure! Waste such as packaging and trash is likely somewhat rare within Sylvhurst. Many things are reused and even bones from things like fish can be sold to vendors within the magical quarters for a small amount of money. Maybe any left over trash is incinerated? 

14. Does your clan have livestock of any kind?

Not within the walls of the city itself, no. However there are a number of farms that have carved their way along the roads leading into town and while most of them are crop farms there are a few that also have various types of livestock. 

15. How is water managed in the clan?

Water is collected for use in a number of ways. Almost every house in Sylvhurst has some form of a rain barrel (either for drinking water or for use in spells) which is the primary source for a number of people. There is a freshwater lake on the northern edge of the city which some people collect their water from as well. The ocean is another possibility, especially for those who live in the harbor area, as there are simple enchantments that can be used to turn the ocean water fresh and clean. Everyone handles their own water needs for the most part, barring of course businesses and inns which manage a much larger amount.

16. Is there a community hatchery/nursery, or do parents rear their young separately?

Parents rear young within their own homes, though there are nurseries which can look after hatchlings if something happens to their parents or if their parents cannot look after them all day long on their own.

17. Who teaches the younglings the basics?

The role of teaching is generally given to the parents, or, if they don’t feel comfortable it’s possible to find a mentor for the hatchling. The real basics of life are handled by the parents, but once they begin to branch out there are a number of tutors or mages that are happy to indulge the odd question from a child. 

18. How does your clan view Exaltation? Is it an honor, banishment, something else?

Exaltation is more personal than anything. Most in Sylvhurst form their own opinions about it from their own experiences with family members and friends deciding on it. For most, exaltation is simply a journey a dragon takes when they decide that they wish to serve their god in any capacity. It’s definitely not a banishment, and it’s also not exactly an honor. It’s simply a different choice.

19. If your clan has a diverse number of dragons of different elements, how does that affect society? Are some dragons prejudiced against certain elements/breeds? How does the clan handle this?

Sylvhurst is a melting pot of every single element present on Sornieth. While Prejudice may occur behind the scenes, it is fairly obvious that overt prejudice will not be tolerated by the people of Sylvhurst or the King and Queen. Most of the conflicts seen in the clan are actually conflicts between dragons of the same element. 

20. Are there Beast Clans near your clan? How does your clan interact with the Beast Clans?

Given the scope and mystery of the Tangled Wood I’d guess that there’s not-a-small amount of Beast Clans wandering near Sylvhurst. As of right now, no Beast Clans have taken up residence within the territory of the city, but they do stop by the marketplace or the docks more than occasionally. 

21. Are there some Beast Clans that are allies and others that are enemies?

I don’t have any actual Beast Clan OCs or anything like that, but I like to think that Sylvhurst is a bit more friendly to Beast Clans than is regular for dragon clans. Many of them know the story of Azraea’s transformation and the dryads especially feel a kinship to her that they don’t feel towards dragons often. 

22. Is your clan located near where the Emperor was sighted last? How is it preparing for that?

(I’m running on the assumption that the Emp was in Light territory because I don’t feel like looking it up lol). Sylvhurst is somewhat far from the border between Shadow and Light, so they’re not too concerned quite yet. The Queen and King aren’t doing many preparations other than the usual defenses. If it started moving closer, they might start taking preventative actions. 

[magmagruntalayne]

Heart of the Sea

The Sharpedo's Den was like most bars on this side of the mountain; so dimly lit, full of alcoholics whose disease was born out of tragedy, and hazy with cigarette smoke. Very few of the patrons were talking, most of them too focused on their drinks or their thoughts to bother trying to make friends. Hell, nobody was interested in making friends anymore since it was just as likely that the bastard that was making you laugh tonight would be dead by Thursday. Maybe he'd drown, or his debts would finally catch up with him; of course, that's if he was lucky. Most just starved to death or became the victim of someone, or something, that was hungry enough to see if they liked the taste of human flesh. It was like the Arceus-damned Donner Party out here nowadays.

Team Aqua had certainly made sure of that.

When Alayne had first joined Team Magma she had thought that the team rivaling her own was fairly harmless. Just a bunch of trainer dropouts pretending to be pirates while using the thin excuse of trying to clean up the oceans and making it a safer place for all sea-dwelling pokemon. Harmless, disorganized, and annoying. The complete opposite of Team Magma, the cause she had sold her soul to, which was a well-oiled machine: ruthless, tactical, and organized to the point it was almost maddening at times. A team dedicated to cleaning up the environment so that people and pokemon could live in harmony without the clash over land that was happening more and more often as people began to spread into wild areas. On paper, it was actually rather surprising to learn that Aqua and Magma were not actually two branches of the same team but competitors. From what she gathered they were one team, at some point long before she took up her red cowl, but the rift came from infighting over resources. Money, after all, was just as much of a necessary resource to a cause as clean water is to a living creature. Either way, the teams split and when she was approached with the offer of bettering not only her own future but the future of pokemon, Alayne sided with Maxie and the rest of Team Magma.

That's why she was so good at her job. She had been clashing with the members of Team Aqua even before both leaders had gone off the deep end. It was hard remembering just where both teams had gone wrong because the changes had been very subtle at first. Hell, she couldn't even remember which team had started this suicidal plunge that would ruin the world forever. Her head always said it was Archie since he's the one who had ruined the world after all so he was obviously the most logical choice, but her gut always said it was Maxie. Not that it mattered much, somewhere along the line both men began the hunt for the legendary pokemon: Groudon and Kyorge. Creators of the land and sea respectively.

At the time she never actually believed that either team would find the legendaries. Yes, she had believed they existed but at the same time, part of her believed that they were either dead, or gone, or because they were literal gods that they would never be found, let alone be bent to the wills of mere men.

Arceus must have been laughing its ass off when she first laid eyes on Kyorge.

Somehow, despite the ragtag nature of Archie's group of merry-men they actually did it. They found and summoned Kyorge to the surface in an attempt to have the god of the ocean cleanse the water of all the toxins that man had dumped into it. They had won. It was a fucking shame that it would come at the cost of the whole world.

Now instead of the world being made up of about 70% water, the currently estimated percentage was closer to 80% water, because who could have foreseen that a drawback to summoning the god that created the fucking oceans would lead to the water level rising by way fucking more than the world could take.

The waves and wind had torn Pacifidlog to pieces, ripping the wooden structures off of the Corsola colony it was founded on and dashed everything against the other rocks and islands nearby. Dewport and Slateport were just swallowed by the tide, although Slateport's famous lighthouse can still be seen when the tide is low, apparently, Dewport wasn't as lucky. Nothing was left of the little seaside town, not any kind of infrastructure either above or below water. If it wasn't for the fact that it was still in the memories of any who had ever visited it could almost be said that the town never existed. Not that Alayne could speak from first-hand experience. Exploring ruins for the lost hadn't been part of her job when she was still apart of Magma. Instead, her job had been trying to protect those places that Kyorge hadn't finished sinking, places like Rustboro, Lilycove, and her hometown of Mauville. The last of which had basically lost its whole east side due to the water rising out of Route 118. It was in the wreckage of her old home that she had been approached for a second time by a man with a job opportunity- only this time it wasn't some misguided attempt to try to save the world.

The same job had led her to leave Magma and its attempts to save the world it just as easily could have destroyed, to sipping cheap whiskey in the Sharpedo's Den as she watched the blond at the bar order another round for him and the brunette at his side.

"Ya know, you don't have to do this, right?"

The only sign that Trey's voice had startled her was the slight ripple in her cup from the tiny jerk she had given and the way her eyes cut sharply away from the couple at the bar to her companion. They both knew that she'd gotten so wrapped up in her work and brooding that she'd forgotten he was there, but he wasn't the type to complain, at least not anymore. Before the end of the world, he would have given her so much shit for it. Teasing her relentlessly until she was forced to silence him either with a look, a drink, or a kiss. The last being his all-time favorite. Not that she blamed him since it had been her favorite way of shutting him up too. Not that she had kissed him since Kyorge had resurfaced. That had broken them like it had broken all things. It didn't help that Trey had been considered Aqua's golden boy before Archie destroyed the world.

"I know," She replies, speaking mostly into her glass to avoid meeting his too green eyes.  It had been a long time since she had been able to meet his gaze, even though he was trying desperately to meet hers now.

"Then don't. Nothing's stoppin' you from walkin' out right now. It'd be easier." He leans back in his chair, tucking his hands behind his head. He was trying so hard to sound nonchalant about the whole thing but Alayne wasn't stupid. She knew he was trying to talk her out of it. It was a neat trick that she always seemed to be able to do with Trey, most people had always told her that he had been hard to read. Always putting up a happy front that few people, if any besides her, could see past. He was deeply troubled under all the smiles and the party vibe he used to give off.

Right now, he was scared, which meant that her contact had been right, the couple at the bar were Team Aqua members- and Trey knew them.

"Easier would have been killing myself a long time ago." She shot back, a surprising amount of venom in her voice.

"Hey," He drops the nonchalant act and reaches across the table to grab her free hand, which had been resting on the tabletop, "Don't talk like that, Laney. Please."

Alayne wanted to fucking cry. She wanted to crawl across the tabletop, into his arms, and cry until there was nothing left to cry about. This is why they couldn't keep doing this. One little touch and she was back in the world before- before the world forgot what the sun looked like because the rainclouds had blocked it out. Back when she was happy for the first time in her life. Magma had given her a job, friends, Pokemon, and in its own way, it had given her Trey. Aqua had stolen all of that.  Faces flashed through her mind of all the people and pokemon that she had lost. Misaki and Kira to the first failed attempt to retake Sootopolis. Adrian, Anders, and Oz to the mudslides. Kanno, Abrus, and Blue to the plagues. Leo in the riots. Ever starved and Ethan killed himself soon after. Milo to the bandits. Maxie to an assassination. Courtney, Tabitha, Cole, Mary, Lori, Felix, Bryan, Sandy-

She physically recoils from Trey's touch, spilling some of her drink, but successfully ripping herself from the flood of memories that threaten to overtake her. She couldn't do this. This is why they had to stop. He reminded her too much of all the things she lost, and they both knew that he was in part to blame for the reason they were all gone. Yet, as much as she couldn't stand him touching her because it grounded her too much in her shitty reality, Trey was the one thing that kept her from actually killing herself. And she was pretty sure that keeping her alive was the only thing that kept Trey from being completely consumed by the guilt of being a part of the reason the world had gone to shit. It was as if keeping her alive was the one thing that could redeem him in the end. Two desperate souls that couldn't be together but couldn't be apart either. It was fucking pathetic but it got her through. So she'd take it.

"Laney? Are yo-"

"Don't touch me." Alayne couldn't look at him, instead focusing on a spot on the floor, ignoring the way her vision swam with unshed tears.

She could almost feel him withdrawal his hand from her personal space even though he never touched her. She could hear the squeak of his chair on the floor as he settles back into it. Alayne closes her eyes. She couldn't afford to do this. Not now. She still had a job to do. If she was going to fall apart she could do it later.

"…Laney, please don't do this," His voice was a strained whisper, like a ghost trying to communicate through the void. It made something twist in her chest painfully, "Not them. They don't… Kegan didn't have a damn thin' to do with anythin' that happened. Let ‘em go."

She sets her drink down on the table, it was the first time she set the glass down all night, asides from the two times she had made the bartender refill it. Alayne drops her head into a waiting hand, covering her eyes so she could discreetly wipe the tears away. She was glad that she had decided to forgo wearing any kind of eye make-up tonight; it was always a good idea on nights like this. Not that seeing a woman with smudge make-up was anything anyone paid attention too anymore; likely she was either a prostitute at the end of her shift or mourning another soul that was lost to the endless rain. Arceus, she was so fucking weak for him. "You know if someone else catches up to them, they won't be as kind. You may be condemning them to the same fate as Shelly."

"Yeah, but they at least get a chance if you let ‘em go."

Alayne was quiet for a long time. She hated this part of her job, especially on nights when Trey was with her. She already had to go through this moral dilemma every-fucking-time she caught up to an ex-Aqua member but Trey always added an extra ton of guilt whenever he decided to tag along. One would think that with her kill count these debates would fucking stop, but it felt like they were only getting worse. She could barely even justify to herself anymore that she was merciful compared to most other bounty hunters. Well, she was now. She was a lot more violent when she first started taking revenge on old Aqua members. Now the poisons she used were always fast acting and were so painless that sometimes her targets even smiled at her when their hearts finally stopped. Hell, the fact that she was going so soft was probably part of the reason Trey had decided to show up tonight. He saw who her targets were, and knew he could probably talk her out of this. Bastard.

"I fucking hate you,"

"It’d be easier if you actually did." He uses her own words against her. It was so sudden and out of character that it made Alayne lift her head out of her hand, and actually look at him for the first time that night. Trey was watching her with such sad eyes and a matching smile. Even though she knew she looked as rough as the rest of the patrons in this hole in the wall, he somehow managed to look exactly like he did before the end of days. Complete with that green t-shirt with the kecleon silhouette she bought for him on his last birthday. Looking as if he was unfazed by all the tauroshit around them- unless you were looking at his eyes. They were just as haunted as everyone else’s, only his seemed to corrupt every expression that crossed his face, even his smile. Arceus, what she wouldn't do to make him smile like they used to.

Alayne sighs wistfully and glances over her shoulder. The brunette was sitting alone at the bar. Looks like she had missed her chance. She had been planning on ambushing him in the bathroom, then catching the girl when she came looking for her friend. She stands, noting the way that Trey seemed to jerk like he was going to try to stop her until he noticed that she was already waving him off. She missed her chance, and she was pretty sure that if she killed these two Trey would make himself scarce for a while. She wasn't sure what either one of them would do with the silence. It had gotten so bad last time that they had stopped talking- she really had been close to killing herself before Trey appeared to literally talk her off the edge. She wasn't ready to chase him away again.

Grabbing her glass and her purse, the ex-Magma made her way over to the bar and leans the gap between the seat the blond had been sitting in and the brunette's spot as she waits for the bartender to notice her. She didn't miss the way that the girl angled herself away just slightly or that she was only drinking a soda instead of something a little more… alcoholic. The bartender appears in front of her, and instead of exchanging words, she fishes her wallet out of her bag and passes him her credit card. He nods, shuffling farther down the bar to close out her tab. She takes a sip of the last of her drink as she watches him head to the register. "You two need to get out of here."

The girl next to her startles, turning to actually face Alayne. She was adorable. All freckles, big brown eyes, and a pretty round face that probably lit up a room when she smiled. There was no doubt about it now that she could actually see the girl up close. It was, in fact, Kegan Roth, ex-Aqua grunt, and close friend to Trey. She hadn't been a hundred percent sure that this girl had been Kegan but she had just assumed the moment she laid eyes on Blake, that his companion had been the farm girl. It seemed that once again her instincts had been right on point.

"W-what?"

"You're being hunted. Or at least were, but people will figure out sooner or later that I missed my mark."

The blood drained from the girl's face and Alayne eyes her as Kegan reached for her jacket. She either had a weapon in there or was just going to bolt. Judging by the look of pure terror in her eyes, she was betting on the latter rather than the former. Funny, she had always thought Trey's old friends had more moral than this. Then again, she did have the poor girl cornered, and the gentleman who had probably kept her safe all this time wasn't around to protect her. Although he'd be back soon enough, and she'd rather be gone by that time. She glances up to the mirror behind the bar her subconscious telling her that she was being watched. Trey was still sitting at the table, staring at her, and when he sees her looking waves at her with that same tragic smile.

"Trey says hi, by the way."

This stops Kegan in her tracks. The country girl sits up straighter and twists to look around the bar. She had this look of excitement on her face that made everything in Alayne's chest twist painfully such a way that made her want to drop to her knees and sob. It had been so long since she had seen such pure hope like that. No wonder Trey wanted to protect her. She was so innocent and open. "Trey's here? But I thought he'd-"

"He did." Alayne cuts her off quickly, breaking her gaze from Trey's in the mirror. She closes her eyes and slams back the last of her drink. It burned as it when down, but it chased the taste of acid out of her mouth. The glass hits the counter with more force than she intended, and when she opens her eyes the bartender is standing in front of her with his hand outstretched. Waiting for her to take her card and receipt. Kegan had gone quiet and was bowing her head.

Alayne takes the paper and plastic, shoving it into her pocket. She nods at the bartender and turns her back on the two. "Good luck."

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Blake coming back down the hallway from where the restrooms were. She could feel his eyes on her and even though he moved out of her line of sight, she had no doubt he was already back at Kegan's side- being filled in about the current situation and how their lives were spared mostly on a whim. This would most likely be the last time she would ever see the two. Even if she was instructed to keep them as a bounty Alayne doubted that she would ever chase after them again. Somehow it felt right. Maybe because in a previous life, she had been expecting to be on the run like they were. Although she always expected it to be because Maxie had figured out that she had fallen in love with Trey, and by some twist of fate he had fallen for her too-not because she was at fault for ending the world.

She passes by their table which was empty, minus Trey's untouched beer. Without thinking she reaches out and snags the bottle, bringing it to her lips. It was warm and the taste made her crinkle her nose in disgust but she still drank it. Part of her was expecting the bartender to try to stop her as she pushed open the door to head out into the rain, bottle still in hand, but he didn't. Just another example of how much of a shit people gave now that they realized that the world was on borrowed time. Pausing under the tin awning, Alayne carefully swings her purse around and with her free hand began the dig for her umbrella. Like all necessary things it somehow seemed to have ended up at the very bottom of her bag, regardless of the fact that she had just used it a few hours ago.

‘Thanks.'

The voice was so quiet that there should have been no way that she heard it over the sound of the rain beating on the metal overhead. Then again she guessed that was the upside of having voices in one's head. No matter how softly he spoke, Alayne could always hear him.

For a long time, she's silent, just rummaging through her bag. Finally, she unearths her prize, still damp from her walk to the bar. With the press of a button, the travel umbrella unfolds, snapping into shape with a click that was drowned out by the rain. Alayne shoulders the umbrella, before bringing the bottle back to her lips to finish it off. One day, she probably would be able to enjoy drinking beer but for now, it was just another reminder of the fact that Trey… wasn't actually here anymore. Once the bottle was empty, she set it gently on the edge of the steps before stepping out into the downpour.

"You're welcome."

[serenityandstardust]

100 Things

June 13, 2012

I had reconstructive surgery on my knee due to an 100% tear to my ACL.

I don’t know how to ice skate.

I’ve never been skiing — water or ice.

I’ve never been on a cruise.

I have a son, age 6.

My career is in education.

My cat’s name is Arwin — a LOTR character.

I live 5 miles from the ocean.

I lost 80 pounds in the past year.

I’m tired of superhero movies.

I like my steak medium rare.

I love Disney World. I could ride Space Mountain over and over and over.

I collect shot glasses from around the globe — places I’ve been or places my friends have been.

I have a tendency to wear a song out; I play it over and over again.  My 6 year old criticizes me for it.

I love college sports.

I get silly when I get sleepy.

I play with my food when I am full.

I hate professional sports — no heart…they are in it for the money.

I played softball for 8 years; was a prospective catcher for a local university until I tore my knee to shreds.

I played volleyball for 2 years; I had a killer overhand serve.  Aces on that back line.

My first kiss was at my sweet 16 birthday party.  We were a little pressured.  I can’t even remember his name.

On a dare, I drove a car a 100+ mph on a two lane highway with the headlights out on a back country road for five minutes.  

I used to be afraid of guns until I shot a AR-15.

I am a sorority girl.

I prefer a calla lily to a rose.

I have 5 holes in my ears.

I have a dragonfly tattoo on my foot.  The tail wraps up around my ankle bone.

I teach high school kids. They are a blast.  I tried my hand at primary and elementary, and did not enjoy it as much.

I used to sell insurance.  

My favorite color is purple.

I like things that sparkle in sunlight.

I have cooked an entire Thanksgiving dinner successfully without help. For 32, I’d say that isn’t bad.

I’ve lived in a foreign country (Spain, actually) for two years.

I took 5 years of Spanish, including conversational Spanish, and I barely know how to count to a hundred. I can comprehend it though…oddly enough; I can read it and understand it when spoken to me.  

My brother is a “recovering” drug addict. I was caught up in his drama for a long, long time.

I have two nieces and a nephew.

I am the oldest grandchild of 8 on my father’s side.

Don’t let my shyness fool you.  I have a naughty side.

I still sometimes use my fingers to count. This is BAD.

I can’t live in a land-locked state. Once I leave the coast, I start to feel claustrophobic.

I have a natural ability in art. It is nothing I pursued in life, but I dabble with it on the side.

I make homemade silver jewelry. Again, nothing I pursue in life, but I have made a few bucks on some of my crafts.

I wanted a second child, but that time has passed for me. I am happy with my son—he is my world.

I hate spiders. And snakes. Or anything that buzzes around my ear. Just thinking of these these things makes me shiver, literally.

I have been with my husband for 15 years and married for 9.  And I want a divorce.

I absolutely hate mopeds on major highways. The speed limit is 55 or 65. If you can’t hit the speed limit, keep the fucking two wheeled piece of shit off the road.

I love strawberries. Anything strawberry.

I only chew spearmint gum.

I only wear silver or black jewelry.

I wear contacts. And glasses at night. But 99.9% of the time…contacts.

One of my endearing phrases is “You’re a mess.” If I say it to you, it means I like you.

I love the beach, the salt water, the sand, the smell, the sounds.  It’s home.

I am extremely shy until you get to know me, then…you’ll have a hard time shutting me up.

I am very ticklish. Very very ticklish.

I love to learn. For me, it is never ending.

I have nine lives. I’ve almost drowned, I’ve been in a near death car accident, I’ve attempted suicide (a couple of times), I’ve had incurable bone cancer that miraculously healed without medical help.

I love spending time with my son.  I love getting on the floor, down on his level and playing with him, coloring with him, and pretending that I’m six again.

I have premonitions. I have dreams that come true. Some good, some bad, some sad, but they always come true.

I love to listen to music, especially in the car…but when I’m at home, alone…I enjoy the quiet.  I like to hear myself think.

I do not believe in God, but I believe in something. I choose not to give it a name.  I am very spiritual—a free spirit…so to speak.

I’ve been told by many that I have an old soul.

Many debate the color of my hair. Some say brown. Some say auburn.  I suppose it depends if you are looking at me under direct sunlight.

I want to travel. I want to backpack around the country and around the world. I want to take very little with me…just a camera and a journal.

I do NOT have a green thumb. Check my porch for proof.  I mean, I tried. I really did.

I kill with kindness.

I am persistent. Good lord, I’m persistent. Someone once told me that I never stop until I get my way.  I’m thinking this was his way of saying I’m selfish.

I am insecure. I get jealous easily, I have low self-esteem, I doubt myself and others.

I like to sing. I suck horribly at it, but I won’t sing around you.

If the world is going to end, I’ll be standing outside hitching a ride with my towel in hand.

I wish I had my own Narnia closet. What I wouldn’t give to live a thousand lifetimes and come back to be me again and again.

I am a crier. If you are close to me, really close…and I come over…be sure to have a box of tissues.  I cry sad tears, mad tears, happy tears.

I am not skinny or thin.  Though I despise the words fat and obese, I don’t feel that I am neither fat nor obese.  I am me, curves and all.  Women like me were once adored…a long time ago.

I have been known to make the first move, but would prefer the guy to. I still fear rejection.

I love body sprays, but hate perfumes.  I like a light lingering fragrance that I can spritz on anytime…nothing overpowering or choking.

I like spicy food. The older I get, the spicier it has to be.

I hate the way I look. HATE.

I have been published.

I have sold artwork.

I am never sitting down anywhere in my house without a throw blanket wrapped around me. My hands are cold all the time too.

I hate the smell of ketchup.  Just thinking about it makes me cringe.

My go to mixed drinks of choice sre an ameretto sours or a lemon drops.

I’ve never broken a bone in my body. Torn muscles and ligaments, yes…but no bones.

I love to dance, funny as shy as I am, but a little liquid courage helps.

Beatles or Elvis? If I had to pick…Elvis.

I carry a purse with me…in my car, but to fucking tote it in the mall or a restaurant? No.

My hair is naturally wavy.  You wouldn’t know it looking at pictures.

I’m short. 5’2 or 5’3 depending on the time of day you measure me. But hel, when I played volleyball, I was all palms above the net.

I love to read/watch anything science fiction (except the old Star Trek stuff - blame my uncle).

I love read/watch anything horror (blame my dad).

I smoke, probably way too much.

My erotic name … Chloe. (shhh) *she was my first kitten*

I am a ball of nerves.

I have tiny hands, or so I’ve been told.

I hate to see a man hide his butt.  Forget baggy, show me your ass, dammit!  On the other hand, I fall swiftly for the 90s alternative/grunge type. My men. My god…how they drive me crazy.

As much as I share online, there is a lot that I don’t share. The really personal stuff?  I save that for special people.

I love with all of my heart, all of my soul.  I give everything I have.

[spynorth]

@northliights sent me a meme forever ago and agreed to ship with me when i asked and is now paying for all of it and no doubt regretting all of his life choices (especially sending me a fucking aurora was kidnapped meme)

Somewhere, in what sometimes still feels like another world entirely, a version of Lucas North had curled under an empty metal bed frame, pleading with words that spilled from broken lips, a raspy and whispered prayer to the unrelenting artificial sun that refused him a reprieve. Dark was where the demons are meant to hide, monsters with curled claws lingering in shadowed corners ... but the mi5 agent had spent eight years in unrelenting light, and found the absence of hope underneath it. He had promised things, sold his soul in more ways than he can possibly remember, but always there was the blinding light and the pain until suddenly there was’t ... and on nights where he watches the brilliant light that heralds the return of a welcome darkness, he sometimes wonders what last desperate thing he had promised... wonders if the devil will ever come and collect its due....

It does, eventually. Evil is a patient thing, waits like a master of its game, studying the board before each move, and the pride of believing ones self capable of out maneuvering it is ever the banner before a man’s fall. Lucas has always known this, has wondered about the price he will one day have to pay, resolved to pay it without question. But now..

Not her. God, not her.

The man that walks in front of him is trembling, shoes slipping on the blood of his friends and dark eyes glancing down at the bodies that the mi5 agent barely notices and as he gives his prisoner another shove for motivation, Lucas briefly wonders if the shorter man believes he’ll survive this. Surely he’s not that stupid. His guide stops at a door in the back of the warehouse, hands that have been steady throughout the entire past few days suddenly beginning to shake, and he tightens his grip around the gun in his hand, pressing the muzzle forward until it digs harder into the sensitive skin between the knobs of his captive’s spine. Ocean blues watch as the other man fumbles for a key, a choked foreign word that he doesn’t recognize falling between them as the door finally swings open. 

I knew you’d find me ....

The statement is a simple thing, soft and full of an affectionate relief that settles somewhere in the hollow of his chest until that cold hold around his barely beating heart begins to thaw. A smile twitches into place at one corner of his mouth, shoulders losing their tension as worst case scenarios are thrown from his mind, leaving room for a bone weary exhaustion. He wants nothing more than to gather Aurora in his arms, to find some sanctuary from the entirety of the world and never let her leave his sight again .. but first...

His gun relieves its pressure against his captive’s spine and sharp gaze takes in the way the other man takes in a short breath, relief so palpable that Lucas can almost smell it. Mistake. A quick press against the shorter man’s head chased by a shot that echoes off stark concrete walls and his guide is suddenly nothing more than a corpse at the agent’s feet, a body in perfect repose. He’s covered in blood, the sweat of fear and the smell of a desperate man that’s hardly slept and as brown boots cross the floor between them, fingers already reaching for the ties that bind her wrists and making short work of them before he trusts himself enough to speak.

“Hey, beautiful girl.”

His voice is a rough and broken thing, words hard to push past a sudden lump that’s taking up the length of his throat and for the briefest of seconds, when Aurora reaches with a gentle touch to brush against his cheek, Lucas wonders if he’s bleeding from some wound he wasn’t aware of .. but her finger lingers, swiping across a lingering wetness that doesn’t hurt and it hits him like a ton of bricks .. he’s crying. He’s too exhausted to try and stop it, doesn’t care to anyways .. instead, he simply wraps his arms around her all the tighter, unmindful of the blood and salt that paint their shadows across her clothes and baptize her hair.

Evil always collects its due .. but she is his dawn and he will gladly crucify himself again.

[romanishin]

get in the car

get in my car. lets drive, never will we push the break, until the world ends... some boy far away went to war. picked up a gun sold by another state, his green camouflage dripped off his frame, his comrades told him he must be brave. he died on the first day   before he saw the eyes of enemy which was not there before he could ask "is this it?" - battle of yester days, pride and eye to eye is dead with him; coins and land change hands... put your feet on my knees, sleep while i take us where no one remembers guilt and lies, where we change the world like bullet through still pond. they will have no choice, to learn that kiss between a man and woman is the roots of beauty and universe expands every time - universe just smiled - it is the only abstract non-existence that makes sense; how else then, the universe could have come to be?... a generation without mothers screams: "thoughts of old must be gone" a generation without fathers declares: "you were all wrong", but you and i, we know: they stopped listening to their soul. we know that parent's eyes spoke the truth: everything else is like wind around calm in the center of a storm. beauty never moves... lets drive through the desert there will be no water until we reach men chose to shallow rivers, rid lakes of depth - for ease of walking through - sun does the rest. but i will drive our car off the pier, in the ocean we will swim.... ants in colony do not comprehend their roles even if they say "i am." there is an invisible force, it plays the strings of the guitar between oxygen and stars, and laughs at our declarations of momentary cause... i will show you how to be free! just get in my car and recline the seat. love is inspiration, and inspiration is not thinking about death. passion is the glue. all three will make us envy of old gods. our parents knew: that is the only way to break through.

[bokukkokhmer]

I love pear-shaped girls so much

Name: Apolline Lycotonum

Name meaning: Apolline is a vintage French, derived from the sun god Apollo, while Lycotonum is Greek meaning “Wolf’s bane” and refers the plant of the same name.

Age: 11 (Debut Episode)

21 (Final Episode)

Birthday: May 24 1994

Family: Lucinda Lycotonum (Mother), Belphegor (Father), Atticus Lycotonum (Younger Brother), Korinna Lycotonum (Grandmother, dead), Silas Lycotonum (Grandfather), Lycotonum Coven (Maternal family)

Appearance: Apolline is a beautiful girl with dark voluminous wavy hair that reaches her hips which she often tucks under wigs, fair skin, small button nose, almond shaped eyes, one red, the other green-blue, with pupil shape similar to a typical demon, which she can disguise to appear as normal eyes, slightly plump lips, and curved eyebrows. She's noted to be tall, being 5'10" and is noted to be rather curvaceous and slightly chubby. Apolline's typical style is lolita fashion, not a specific category, she'll change it up some weeks she'll dress sweet lolita, others it'll be gothic, and she also owns "normal" clothing such as T-shirts and jeans for when heavy lifting is required, or she doesn't have the time to dress up.

Personality: Apolline is suave, but she loves to use insults, sass and banter. She uses smooth, gratuitous sexual innuendo in an effort to make people uncomfortable and therefore give herself an advantage. She is a survivor at heart, and will use any means to accomplish this goal. In fact, she tends to only lose her temper when her personal safety is threatened or when dealing with what she considers overwhelming stupidity. Apolline at times appears incredibly volatile under her smooth and charming personality, as when she has screamed at multiple people, including Andrew and Nicole Lee, when appearing calm only seconds before.

She shows tendencies that can be seen as mischievous by her mother, and devious by others, such as causing a fire hydrant to explode in order to flood a street, or causing a teacher’s car to explode. One very disturbing detail about Apolline is that she has a massive crush on Lucifer, getting flustered when she can sense his presence. The general population of the school she goes to hates her, as she remodeled the whole surrounding neighborhood, forced the principal to adapt stricter policies, and forced parents to sign contracts that made them agree that whatever their child did was their responsibility, but they can’t do much as there is the constant looming threat of her ruining everyone in the school with a snap of her fingers. She describes herself as a young lady with refined, and classical tastes, having her school rebuilt so it was a French gothic style, her room being filled with classic literature in its original language, her home being modeled after Greco-Roman architecture, etc. etc.

There are so many ways to describe this girl, but the easiest way to do so was through Apollo’s lyre, which played a tune with loud, heavy beats that almost stopped Samson’s heart, all because she touched the lyre.

Likes: Bread, embroidery, tiramisu, green, Cymbidium, earth magic, baking, alchemy, ancient sports

Dislikes: Blue, cats, when her father bothers her, tomatoes, chunky tomato sauces, when her dresses get ruined, clothing with religious ties or imagery, modern sports (such as football, soccer, basketball, baseball etc. etc.)

Abilities: Apolline was born to a witch mother, and a demon father which has numerous advantages, Apolline knows magic, to start. Her specialty being elemental-based magic, specifically earth-based magic, turning any object made from the earth to protect her and to attack for her. There’s a special place in her heart for the abilities she gained from her demonic heritage, such as telekinesis, which she occasionally uses to toy with classmates. There’s also self-healing, Apolline can heal herself from vast array of wounds, small or large, due to a self-preservation seal that her mother put on her when she was born, the seal can heal her, and can bring her back from the dead unless someone kills her with a special knife made to kill her kind.

Like most demons, full or partial, Apolline can be harmed by crosses, holy water, holy oil, or spoken passages from the bible, if someone were to try and perform an exorcism on her it would cause excruciating pain, resulting in her eyes beginning to bleed and a rash appearing on her body. It’s not just Christian iconography that can harm her, iconography from all Abrahamic religions can harm her, even once she couldn’t be in a graveyard because there was a grave marker with a Star of David on it. Other weaknesses include blood of a holy man, such as priest, monks, rabbis, etc., certain sigils and seals, angel weapons, being unable to enter holy sites, and manipulation collars. Another weakness, which considered strange by many but true for all female witches, is that if you cut off a certain amount of her hair, it causes her to lose her magic, which will tick her off, and it means she has to wait until her hair grows back for her to use her magic.

Lucinda taught Apolline many things, one of them was multilingualism, Apolline knows almost all Germanic languages, with Turkish being her first language, and some very ancient languages such as Aramaic, Akkadian, and Persian, the only problem is that due to her age and where she lives there really is no use to knowing that many languages, unless it’s for spell work. Whenever she uses her magic, her eyes begin to glow, and temperature begins to drop, the downside to using her demonic abilities is that she needs to eat souls, 50 souls to be exact, she has been able to find loopholes, eating souls of animals, but there are times when she really needs it, so she’ll eat the souls of random people.

Background: Apolline Lycotonum was born on May 24 1994, to Lucinda Lycotonum, a witch from year 1444, and Belphegor, a demon and a lieutenant in Hell. Lucinda originally planned to hide the identity of the father until Apolline was 18, but Lucinda’s mother Korinna kept pressing the matter, so Lucinda killed her before Apolline was born. Apolline was raised in Turkey, for no particular reason besides the fact that her mother liked Turkish baths, during her early childhood she remembers her mother training her to use magic, usually in questionable methods, such as throwing her into the ocean, stranding the two in the middle of a jungle, or having Apolline perform a handstand and holding that position while reading a spell book. When she was 8 her mother sold her to be a millionaire’s servant, but in reality her mother wanted to steal a grimoire from the wife, so after months of infiltration Apolline finally located the grimoire and was getting ready to steal it, but was caught by the wife who tried to kill her, with no other choice Apolline killed the whole household, and ran off with the book. After Apolline returned with the book, mother and daughter pack their bags and fled to America. When she was 10 Apolline met her father, on complete accident, Apolline was defending herself from an angel that came to smite her after she opened a spell book, she tried the first spell she set her eyes on, which was a demon summoning spell, her father Belphegor rose from the pits of Hell and killed the angel. Belphegor called her Lucinda at first, mistaking the young girl for her mother, causing Apolline to become confused, and the two slowly realized that they were father and daughter. Apolline questioned her mother, and Lucinda confirmed that Belphegor was her father.

Nothing much happens afterward, but Apolline’s debut episode begins with her being responsible for siccing hellhounds on people.

Family Name Lore: The Lycotonum Coven originally started as a high class coven known as the Ricinus Coven, that had a rivalry with Liulfr Coven dated back to Alexander the Great’s time. This rivalry was like war, it was a constant cycle of killing and robbing, until Lucinda was born in 1444, Silas, Apolline’s grandfather, married into the family from a Mongolian coven, he changed his name after marrying Korinna, and led a night time mission to end the rivalry. Silas led the coven to the home that the Liulfr Coven lived in, and ambushed the coven, killing almost all except the 5 defect children, he left those children alone so they can warn other covens not to mess with the Ricinus Coven. After Liulfr Massacre, Silas requested that the coven change the name to Lycotonum to mock the surviving members of Liulfr, as Liulfr means “Wolf” and Lycotonum means “Wolf’s Bane”.

[dfroza]

they wanted to trick Him

to sneak around and capture Him, in order to arrest and do away with our Creator, the very One who made the heavens and beautiful earth.

betrayed.

An act we read of in Today’s chapter of the New Testament in the 26th chapter of Matthew:

And so this is what happened, finally. Jesus finished all His teaching, and He said to His disciples,

Jesus: The feast of Passover begins in two days. That is when the Son of Man is handed over to be crucified.

And almost as He spoke, the chief priests were getting together with the elders at the home of the high priest, Caiaphas. They schemed and mused about how they could trick Jesus, sneak around and capture Him, and then kill Him.

Chief Priests: We shouldn’t try to catch Him at the great public festival. The people would riot if they knew what we were doing.

Meanwhile Jesus was at Bethany staying at the home of Simon the leper. While He was at Simon’s house, a woman came to see Him. She had an alabaster flask of very valuable ointment with her, and as Jesus reclined at the table, she poured the ointment on His head. The disciples, seeing this scene, were furious.

Disciples: This is an absolute waste! The woman could have sold that ointment for lots of money, and then she could have given it to the poor.

Jesus knew what the disciples were saying among themselves, so He took them to task.

Jesus: Why don’t you leave this woman alone? She has done a good thing. It is good that you are concerned about the poor, but the poor will always be with you—I will not be. In pouring this ointment on My body, she has prepared Me for My burial. I tell you this: the good news of the kingdom of God will be spread all over the world, and wherever the good news travels, people will tell the story of this woman and her good discipleship. And people will remember her.

At that, one of the twelve, Judas Iscariot, went to the chief priests.

Judas Iscariot: What will you give me to turn Him over to you?

They offered him 30 pieces of silver. And from that moment, he began to watch for a chance to betray Jesus.

On the first day of the Festival of Unleavened Bread, the disciples said to Jesus,

Disciples: Where would You like us to prepare the Passover meal for You?

Jesus: Go into the city, find a certain man, and say to him, “The Teacher says, ‘My time is near, and I am going to celebrate Passover at your house with My disciples.’”

So the disciples went off, followed Jesus’ instructions, and got the Passover meal ready. When evening came, Jesus sat down with the twelve. And they ate their dinner.

Jesus: I tell you this: one of you here will betray Me.

The disciples, of course, were horrified.

A Disciple: Not me!

Another Disciple: It’s not me, Master, is it?

Jesus: It’s the one who shared this dish of food with Me. That is the one who will betray Me. Just as our sacred Scripture has taught, the Son of Man is on His way. But there will be nothing but misery for he who hands Him over. That man will wish he had never been born.

At that, Judas, who was indeed planning to betray Him, said,

Judas Iscariot: It’s not me, Master, is it?

Jesus: I believe you’ve just answered your own question.

As they were eating, Jesus took some bread. He offered a blessing over the bread, and then He broke it and gave it to His disciples.

Jesus: Take this and eat; it is My body.

And then He took the cup of wine, He made a blessing over it, and He passed it around the table.

Jesus: Take this and drink, all of you: this is My blood of the new covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins. But I tell you: I will not drink of the fruit of the vine again until I am with you once more, drinking in the kingdom of My Father.

The meal concluded. Together, all the men sang a hymn of praise and thanksgiving, and then they took a late evening walk to the Mount of Olives.

The Book of Matthew, Chapter 26:1-30 (The Voice)

and from the paired chapter of the Testaments with Matthew 26 we read in Ezekiel 33 of the way each of us have been offered the choice in life in how to conduct ourselves, for better or worse. and what humbling Oneself and repentance points to is a welcoming of grace which is clearly revealed in the New Covenant in the True illumination of the Son.

from the ancient writing of Ezekiel:

“Tell them, ‘As sure as I am the living God, I take no pleasure from the death of the wicked. I want the wicked to change their ways and live. Turn your life around! Reverse your evil ways! Why die, Israel?’

“There’s more, son of man. Tell your people, ‘A good person’s good life won’t save him when he decides to rebel, and a bad person’s bad life won’t prevent him from repenting of his rebellion. A good person who sins can’t expect to live when he chooses to sin. It’s true that I tell good people, “Live! Be alive!” But if they trust in their good deeds and turn to evil, that good life won’t amount to a hill of beans. They’ll die for their evil life.

“‘On the other hand, if I tell a wicked person, “You’ll die for your wicked life,” and he repents of his sin and starts living a righteous and just life—being generous to the down-and-out, restoring what he had stolen, cultivating life-nourishing ways that don’t hurt others—he’ll live. He won’t die. None of his sins will be kept on the books. He’s doing what’s right, living a good life. He’ll live.’”

The Book of Ezekiel, Chapter 33:11-16 (The Message)

and turning to inspiration from Today’s Psalms to accompany this:

ONLY those who stand in awe of the Eternal will have intimacy with Him,

and He will reveal His covenant to them.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 25:14 (The Voice)

For the word of the Eternal is perfect and true;

His actions are always faithful and right.

He loves virtue and equity;

the Eternal’s love fills the whole earth.

The unfathomable cosmos came into being at the word of the Eternal’s imagination, a solitary voice in endless darkness.

The breath of His mouth whispered the sea of stars into existence.

He gathers every drop of every ocean as in a jar,

securing the ocean depths as His watery treasure.

Let all people stand in awe of the Eternal;

let every man, woman, and child live in wonder of Him.

For He spoke, and all things came into being.

A single command from His lips, and all creation obeyed and stood its ground.

The Eternal cripples the schemes of the other nations;

He impedes the plans of rival peoples.

The Eternal’s purposes will last to the end of time;

the thoughts of His heart will awaken and stir all generations.

The nation whose True God is the Eternal is truly blessed;

fortunate are all whom He chooses to inherit His legacy.

The Eternal peers down from heaven

and watches all of humanity;

He observes every soul

from His divine residence.

He has formed every human heart, breathing life into every human spirit;

He knows the deeds of each person, inside and out.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 33:4-15 (The Voice)

with a reflection of the lines of Psalm 33 read in Psalm 148 where all of True nature (in the heavens and on earth) is told to worship God:

[Psalm 148]

Praise the Eternal!

All you in the heavens, praise the Eternal;

praise Him from the highest places!

All you, His messengers and His armies in heaven:

praise Him!

Sun, moon, and all you brilliant stars above:

praise Him!

Highest heavens and all you waters above the heavens:

praise Him!

Let all things join together in a concert of praise to the name of the Eternal,

for He gave the command and they were created.

He put them in their places to stay forever—

He declared it so, and it is final.

Everything on earth, join in and praise the Eternal;

sea monsters and creatures of the deep,

Lightning and hail, snow and foggy mists,

violent winds all respond to His command.

Mountains and hills,

fruit trees and cedar forests,

All you animals both wild and tame,

reptiles and birds who take flight:

praise the Lord.

All kings and all nations,

princes and all judges of the earth,

All people, young men and women,

old men and children alike,

praise the Lord.

Let them all praise the name of the Eternal!

For His name stands alone above all others.

His glory shines greater than anything above or below.

He has made His people strong;

He is the praise of all who are godly,

the praise of the children of Israel, those whom He holds close.

Praise the Eternal!

The Book of Psalms, Poem 148 (The Voice)

my personal reading of the Scriptures for October 25, the 33rd day of Autumn and day 298 of the year:

[top40gordy]

https://getpocket.com/explore/item/my-family-s-slave?utm_source=pocket-newtab

 This article was originally published on May 16, 2017, by The Atlantic, and is republished at https://getpocket.com/explore/item/my-family-s-slave?utm_source=pocket-newtab with permission. That is where this blogger viewed it on September 14, 2019 and shared it on Tumblr.com.

Pocket Worthy·

Stories to fuel your mind.

My Family’s Slave

She lived with us for 56 years.  She raised me and my siblings without pay.  I was 11, a typical American kid, before I realized who she was.

The Atlantic |  Alex Tizon

 All photos courtesy of Alex Tizon and his family.

The ashes filled a black plastic box about the size of a toaster. It weighed three and a half pounds. I put it in a canvas tote bag and packed it in my suitcase this past July for the transpacific flight to Manila. From there I would travel by car to a rural village. When I arrived, I would hand over all that was left of the woman who had spent 56 years as a slave in my family’s household.

Her name was Eudocia Tomas Pulido. We called her Lola. She was 4 foot 11, with mocha-brown skin and almond eyes that I can still see looking into mine—my first memory. She was 18 years old when my grandfather gave her to my mother as a gift, and when my family moved to the United States, we brought her with us. No other word but slave encompassed the life she lived. Her days began before everyone else woke and ended after we went to bed. She prepared three meals a day, cleaned the house, waited on my parents, and took care of my four siblings and me. My parents never paid her, and they scolded her constantly. She wasn’t kept in leg irons, but she might as well have been. So many nights, on my way to the bathroom, I’d spot her sleeping in a corner, slumped against a mound of laundry, her fingers clutching a garment she was in the middle of folding.

To our American neighbors, we were model immigrants, a poster family. They told us so. My father had a law degree, my mother was on her way to becoming a doctor, and my siblings and I got good grades and always said “please” and “thank you.” We never talked about Lola. Our secret went to the core of who we were and, at least for us kids, who we wanted to be.

After my mother died of leukemia, in 1999, Lola came to live with me in a small town north of Seattle. I had a family, a career, a house in the suburbs—the American dream. And then I had a slave.

***

At baggage claim in Manila, I unzipped my suitcase to make sure Lola’s ashes were still there. Outside, I inhaled the familiar smell: a thick blend of exhaust and waste, of ocean and sweet fruit and sweat.

Early the next morning I found a driver, an affable middle-aged man who went by the nickname “Doods,” and we hit the road in his truck, weaving through traffic. The scene always stunned me. The sheer number of cars and motorcycles and jeepneys. The people weaving between them and moving on the sidewalks in great brown rivers. The street vendors in bare feet trotting alongside cars, hawking cigarettes and cough drops and sacks of boiled peanuts. The child beggars pressing their faces against the windows.

Doods and I were headed to the place where Lola’s story began, up north in the central plains: Tarlac province. Rice country. The home of a cigar-chomping army lieutenant named Tomas Asuncion, my grandfather. The family stories paint Lieutenant Tom as a formidable man given to eccentricity and dark moods, who had lots of land but little money and kept mistresses in separate houses on his property. His wife died giving birth to their only child, my mother. She was raised by a series of utusans, or “people who take commands.”

Slavery has a long history on the islands. Before the Spanish came, islanders enslaved other islanders, usually war captives, criminals, or debtors. Slaves came in different varieties, from warriors who could earn their freedom through valor to household servants who were regarded as property and could be bought and sold or traded. High-status slaves could own low-status slaves, and the low could own the lowliest. Some chose to enter servitude simply to survive: In exchange for their labor, they might be given food, shelter, and protection.

When the Spanish arrived, in the 1500s, they enslaved islanders and later brought African and Indian slaves. The Spanish Crown eventually began phasing out slavery at home and in its colonies, but parts of the Philippines were so far-flung that authorities couldn’t keep a close eye. Traditions persisted under different guises, even after the U.S. took control of the islands in 1898. Today even the poor can have utusans or katulongs (“helpers”) or kasambahays (“domestics”), as long as there are people even poorer. The pool is deep.

Lieutenant Tom had as many as three families of utusans living on his property. In the spring of 1943, with the islands under Japanese occupation, he brought home a girl from a village down the road. She was a cousin from a marginal side of the family, rice farmers. The lieutenant was shrewd—he saw that this girl was penniless, unschooled, and likely to be malleable. Her parents wanted her to marry a pig farmer twice her age, and she was desperately unhappy but had nowhere to go. Tom approached her with an offer: She could have food and shelter if she would commit to taking care of his daughter, who had just turned 12.

Lola agreed, not grasping that the deal was for life.

“She is my gift to you,” Lieutenant Tom told my mother.

“I don’t want her,” my mother said, knowing she had no choice.

Lieutenant Tom went off to fight the Japanese, leaving Mom behind with Lola in his creaky house in the provinces. Lola fed, groomed, and dressed my mother. When they walked to the market, Lola held an umbrella to shield her from the sun. At night, when Lola’s other tasks were done—feeding the dogs, sweeping the floors, folding the laundry that she had washed by hand in the Camiling River—she sat at the edge of my mother’s bed and fanned her to sleep.

Lola Pulido (shown on the left at age 18) came from a poor family in a rural part of the Philippines. The author’s grandfather “gave” her to his daughter as a gift.

One day during the war Lieutenant Tom came home and caught my mother in a lie—something to do with a boy she wasn’t supposed to talk to. Tom, furious, ordered her to “stand at the table.” Mom cowered with Lola in a corner. Then, in a quivering voice, she told her father that Lola would take her punishment. Lola looked at Mom pleadingly, then without a word walked to the dining table and held on to the edge. Tom raised the belt and delivered 12 lashes, punctuating each one with a word. You. Do. Not. Lie. To. Me. You. Do. Not. Lie. To. Me. Lola made no sound.

My mother, in recounting this story late in her life, delighted in the outrageousness of it, her tone seeming to say, Can you believe I did that? When I brought it up with Lola, she asked to hear Mom’s version. She listened intently, eyes lowered, and afterward, she looked at me with sadness and said simply, “Yes. It was like that.”

Seven years later, in 1950, Mom married my father and moved to Manila, bringing Lola along. Lieutenant Tom had long been haunted by demons, and in 1951 he silenced them with a .32‑caliber slug to his temple. Mom almost never talked about it. She had his temperament—moody, imperial, secretly fragile—and she took his lessons to heart, among them the proper way to be a provincial matrona: You must embrace your role as the giver of commands. You must keep those beneath you in their place at all times, for their own good and the good of the household. They might cry and complain, but their souls will thank you. They will love you for helping them be what God intended.

Lola at age 27 with Arthur, the author’s older brother, before coming to the U.S.

My brother Arthur was born in 1951. I came next, followed by three more siblings in rapid succession. My parents expected Lola to be as devoted to us kids as she was to them. While she looked after us, my parents went to school and earned advanced degrees, joining the ranks of so many others with fancy diplomas but no jobs. Then the big break: Dad was offered a job in Foreign Affairs as a commercial analyst. The salary would be meager, but the position was in America—a place he and Mom had grown up dreaming of, where everything they hoped for could come true.

Dad was allowed to bring his family and one domestic. Figuring they would both have to work, my parents needed Lola to care for the kids and the house. My mother informed Lola, and to her great irritation, Lola didn’t immediately acquiesce. Years later Lola told me she was terrified. “It was too far,” she said. “Maybe your Mom and Dad won’t let me go home.”

In the end what convinced Lola was my father’s promise that things would be different in America. He told her that as soon as he and Mom got on their feet, they’d give her an “allowance.” Lola could send money to her parents, to all her relations in the village. Her parents lived in a hut with a dirt floor. Lola could build them a concrete house, could change their lives forever. Imagine.

We landed in Los Angeles on May 12, 1964, all our belongings in cardboard boxes tied with rope. Lola had been with my mother for 21 years by then. In many ways she was more of a parent to me than either my mother or my father. Hers was the first face I saw in the morning and the last one I saw at night. As a baby, I uttered Lola’s name (which I first pronounced “Oh-ah”) long before I learned to say “Mom” or “Dad.” As a toddler, I refused to go to sleep unless Lola was holding me, or at least nearby.

I was 4 years old when we arrived in the U.S.—too young to question Lola’s place in our family. But as my siblings and I grew up on this other shore, we came to see the world differently. The leap across the ocean brought about a leap in consciousness that Mom and Dad couldn’t, or wouldn’t, make.

***

Lola never got that allowance. She asked my parents about it in a roundabout way a couple of years into our life in America. Her mother had fallen ill (with what I would later learn was dysentery), and her family couldn’t afford the medicine she needed. “Pwede ba?” she said to my parents. Is it possible? Mom let out a sigh. “How could you even ask?,” Dad responded in Tagalog. “You see how hard up we are. Don’t you have any shame?”

My parents had borrowed money for the move to the U.S. and then borrowed more in order to stay. My father was transferred from the consulate general in L.A. to the Philippine consulate in Seattle. He was paid $5,600 a year. He took a second job cleaning trailers, and a third as a debt collector. Mom got work as a technician in a couple of medical labs. We barely saw them, and when we did they were often exhausted and snappish.

Mom would come home and upbraid Lola for not cleaning the house well enough or for forgetting to bring in the mail. “Didn’t I tell you I want the letters here when I come home?” she would say in Tagalog, her voice venomous. “It’s not hard naman! An idiot could remember.” Then my father would arrive and take his turn. When Dad raised his voice, everyone in the house shrank. Sometimes my parents would team up until Lola broke down crying, almost as though that was their goal.

It confused me: My parents were good to my siblings and me, and we loved them. But they’d be affectionate to us kids one moment and vile to Lola the next. I was 11 or 12 when I began to see Lola’s situation clearly. By then Arthur, eight years my senior, had been seething for a long time. He was the one who introduced the word slave into my understanding of what Lola was. Before he said it I’d thought of her as just an unfortunate member of the household. I hated when my parents yelled at her, but it hadn’t occurred to me that they—and the whole arrangement—could be immoral.

L: Lola raised the author (left) and his siblings and was sometimes the only adult at home for days at a time. R: The author (second from the left) with his parents, siblings, and Lola five years after they arrived in the U.S.

“Do you know anybody treated the way she’s treated?” Arthur said. “Who lives the way she lives?” He summed up Lola’s reality: Wasn’t paid. Toiled every day. Was tongue-lashed for sitting too long or falling asleep too early. Was struck for talking back. Wore hand-me-downs. Ate scraps and leftovers by herself in the kitchen. Rarely left the house. Had no friends or hobbies outside the family. Had no private quarters. (Her designated place to sleep in each house we lived in was always whatever was left—a couch or storage area or corner in my sisters’ bedroom. She often slept among piles of laundry.)

We couldn’t identify a parallel anywhere except in slave characters on TV and in the movies. I remember watching a Western called The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. John Wayne plays Tom Doniphon, a gunslinging rancher who barks orders at his servant, Pompey, whom he calls his “boy.” Pick him up, Pompey. Pompey, go find the doctor. Get on back to work, Pompey! Docile and obedient, Pompey calls his master “Mistah Tom.” They have a complex relationship. Tom forbids Pompey from attending school but opens the way for Pompey to drink in a whites-only saloon. Near the end, Pompey saves his master from a fire. It’s clear Pompey both fears and loves Tom, and he mourns when Tom dies. All of this is peripheral to the main story of Tom’s showdown with bad guy Liberty Valance, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Pompey. I remember thinking: Lola is Pompey, Pompey is Lola.

One night when Dad found out that my sister Ling, who was then 9, had missed dinner, he barked at Lola for being lazy. “I tried to feed her,” Lola said, as Dad stood over her and glared. Her feeble defense only made him angrier, and he punched her just below the shoulder. Lola ran out of the room and I could hear her wailing, an animal cry.

“Ling said she wasn’t hungry,” I said.

My parents turned to look at me. They seemed startled. I felt the twitching in my face that usually preceded tears, but I wouldn’t cry this time. In Mom’s eyes was a shadow of something I hadn’t seen before. Jealousy?

“Are you defending your Lola?,” Dad said. “Is that what you’re doing?”

“Ling said she wasn’t hungry,” I said again, almost in a whisper.

I was 13. It was my first attempt to stick up for the woman who spent her days watching over me. The woman who used to hum Tagalog melodies as she rocked me to sleep, and when I got older would dress and feed me and walk me to school in the mornings and pick me up in the afternoons. Once, when I was sick for a long time and too weak to eat, she chewed my food for me and put the small pieces in my mouth to swallow. One summer when I had plaster casts on both legs (I had problem joints), she bathed me with a washcloth, brought medicine in the middle of the night, and helped me through months of rehabilitation. I was cranky through it all. She didn’t complain or lose patience, ever.

To now hear her wailing made me crazy.

 ***

In the old country, my parents felt no need to hide their treatment of Lola. In America, they treated her worse but took pains to conceal it. When guests came over, my parents would either ignore her or, if questioned, lie and quickly change the subject. For five years in North Seattle, we lived across the street from the Missler's, a rambunctious family of eight who introduced us to things like mustard, salmon fishing, and mowing the lawn. Football on TV. Yelling during football. Lola would come out to serve food and drinks during games, and my parents would smile and thank her before she quickly disappeared. “Who’s that little lady you keep in the kitchen?,” Big Jim, the Missler patriarch, once asked. A relative from back home, Dad said. Very shy.

Billy Missler, my best friend, didn’t buy it. He spent enough time at our house, whole weekends sometimes, to catch glimpses of my family’s secret. He once overheard my mother yelling in the kitchen, and when he barged in to investigate found Mom red-faced and glaring at Lola, who was quaking in a corner. I came in a few seconds later. The look on Billy’s face was a mix of embarrassment and perplexity. What was that? I waved it off and told him to forget it.

I think Billy felt sorry for Lola. He’d rave about her cooking, and make her laugh like I’d never seen. During sleepovers, she’d make his favorite Filipino dish, beef tapa over white rice. Cooking was Lola’s only eloquence. I could tell by what she served whether she was merely feeding us or saying she loved us.

When I once referred to Lola as a distant aunt, Billy reminded me that when we’d first met I’d said she was my grandmother.

“Well, she’s kind of both,” I said mysteriously.

“Why is she always working?”

“She likes to work,” I said.

“Your dad and mom—why do they yell at her?”

“Her hearing isn’t so good …”

Admitting the truth would have meant exposing us all. We spent our first decade in the country learning the ways of the new land and trying to fit in. Having a slave did not fit. Having a slave gave me grave doubts about what kind of people we were, what kind of place we came from. Whether we deserved to be accepted. I was ashamed of it all, including my complicity. Didn’t I eat the food she cooked, and wear the clothes she washed and ironed and hung in the closet? But losing her would have been devastating.

There was another reason for secrecy: Lola’s travel papers had expired in 1969, five years after we arrived in the U.S. She’d come on a special passport linked to my father’s job. After a series of fallings-out with his superiors, Dad quit the consulate and declared his intent to stay in the United States. He arranged for permanent-resident status for his family, but Lola wasn’t eligible. He was supposed to send her back.

Lola at age 51, in 1976. Her mother died a few years before this picture was taken; her father a few years after. Both times, she wanted desperately to go home.

Lola’s mother, Fermina, died in 1973; her father, Hilario, in 1979. Both times she wanted desperately to go home. Both times my parents said “Sorry.” No money, no time. The kids needed her. My parents also feared for themselves, they admitted to me later. If the authorities had found out about Lola, as they surely would have if she’d tried to leave, my parents could have gotten into trouble, possibly even been deported. They couldn’t risk it. Lola’s legal status became what Filipinos call tago nang tago, or TNT—“on the run.” She stayed TNT for almost 20 years.

After each of her parents died, Lola was sullen and silent for months. She barely responded when my parents badgered her. But the badgering never let up. Lola kept her head down and did her work.

***

My father’s resignation started a turbulent period. Money got tighter, and my parents turned on each other. They uprooted the family again and again—Seattle to Honolulu back to Seattle to the southeast Bronx and finally to the truck-stop town of Umatilla, Oregon, population 750. During all this moving around, Mom often worked 24-hour shifts, first as a medical intern and then as a resident, and Dad would disappear for days, working odd jobs but also (we’d later learn) womanizing and who knows what else. Once, he came home and told us that he’d lost our new station wagon playing blackjack.

For days in a row, Lola would be the only adult in the house. She got to know the details of our lives in a way that my parents never had the mental space for. We brought friends home, and she’d listen to us talk about school and girls and boys and whatever else was on our minds. Just from conversations she overheard, she could list the first name of every girl I had a crush on from sixth grade through high school.

When I was 15, Dad left the family for good. I didn’t want to believe it at the time, but the fact was that he deserted us kids and abandoned Mom after 25 years of marriage. She wouldn’t become a licensed physician for another year, and her specialty—internal medicine—wasn’t especially lucrative. Dad didn’t pay child support, so money was always a struggle.

My mom kept herself together enough to go to work, but at night she’d crumble in self-pity and despair. Her main source of comfort during this time: Lola. As Mom snapped at her over small things, Lola attended to her even more—cooking Mom’s favorite meals, cleaning her bedroom with extra care. I’d find the two of them late at night at the kitchen counter, griping and telling stories about Dad, sometimes laughing wickedly, other times working themselves into a fury over his transgressions. They barely noticed us kids flitting in and out.

One night I heard Mom weeping and ran into the living room to find her slumped in Lola’s arms. Lola was talking softly to her, the way she used to with my siblings and me when we were young. I lingered, then went back to my room, scared for my mom and awed by Lola.

***

Doods was humming. I’d dozed for what felt like a minute and awoke to his happy melody. “Two hours more,” he said. I checked the plastic box in the tote bag by my side—still there—and looked up to see open road. The MacArthur Highway. I glanced at the time. “Hey, you said ‘two hours’ two hours ago,” I said. Doods just hummed.

His not knowing anything about the purpose of my journey was a relief. I had enough interior dialogue going on. I was no better than my parents. I could have done more to free Lola. To make her life better. Why didn’t I? I could have turned in my parents, I suppose. It would have blown up my family in an instant. Instead, my siblings and I kept everything to ourselves, and rather than blowing up in an instant, my family broke apart slowly.

Doods and I passed through beautiful country. Not travel-brochure beautiful but real and alive and, compared with the city, elegantly spare. Mountains ran parallel to the highway on each side, the Zambales Mountains to the west, the Sierra Madre Range to the east. From ridge to ridge, west to east, I could see every shade of green all the way to almost black.

Doods pointed to a shadowy outline in the distance. Mount Pinatubo. I’d come here in 1991 to report on the aftermath of its eruption, the second-largest of the 20th century. Volcanic mudflows called lahars continued for more than a decade, burying ancient villages, filling in rivers and valleys, and wiping out entire ecosystems. The lahars reached deep into the foothills of Tarlac province, where Lola’s parents had spent their entire lives, and where she and my mother had once lived together. So much of our family record had been lost in wars and floods, and now parts were buried under 20 feet of mud.

Life here is routinely visited by cataclysm. Killer typhoons that strike several times a year. Bandit insurgencies that never end. Somnolent mountains that one day decide to wake up. The Philippines isn’t like China or Brazil, whose mass might absorb the trauma. This is a nation of scattered rocks in the sea. When disaster hits, the place goes under for a while. Then it resurfaces and life proceeds, and you can behold a scene like the one Doods and I were driving through, and the simple fact that it’s still there makes it beautiful.

Rice fields in Mayantoc, near where Lola was born.

***

A couple of years after my parents split, my mother remarried and demanded Lola’s fealty to her new husband, a Croatian immigrant named Ivan, whom she had met through a friend. Ivan had never finished high school. He’d been married four times and was an inveterate gambler who enjoyed being supported by my mother and attended to by Lola.

Ivan brought out a side of Lola I’d never seen. His marriage to my mother was volatile from the start, and money—especially his use of her money—was the main issue. Once, during an argument in which Mom was crying and Ivan was yelling, Lola walked over and stood between them. She turned to Ivan and firmly said his name. He looked at Lola, blinked, and sat down.

My sister Inday and I were floored. Ivan was about 250 pounds, and his baritone could shake the walls. Lola put him in his place with a single word. I saw this happen a few other times, but for the most part, Lola served Ivan unquestioningly, just as Mom wanted her to. I had a hard time watching Lola vassalize herself to another person, especially someone like Ivan. But what set the stage for my blowup with Mom was something more mundane.

She used to get angry whenever Lola felt ill. She didn’t want to deal with the disruption and the expense and would accuse Lola of faking or failing to take care of herself. Mom chose the second tack when, in the late 1970s, Lola’s teeth started falling out. She’d been saying for months that her mouth hurt.

“That’s what happens when you don’t brush properly,” Mom told her.

I said that Lola needed to see a dentist. She was in her 50s and had never been to one. I was attending college an hour away, and I brought it up again and again on my frequent trips home. A year went by, then two. Lola took aspirin every day for the pain, and her teeth looked like a crumbling Stonehenge. One night, after watching her chew bread on the side of her mouth that still had a few good molars, I lost it.

Mom and I argued into the night, each of us sobbing at different points. She said she was tired of working her fingers to the bone supporting everybody, and sick of her children always taking Lola’s side, and why didn’t we just take our goddamn Lola, she’d never wanted her in the first place, and she wished to God she hadn’t given birth to an arrogant, sanctimonious phony like me.

I let her words sink in. Then I came back at her, saying she would know all about being a phony, her whole life was a masquerade, and if she stopped feeling sorry for herself for one minute she’d see that Lola could barely eat because her goddamn teeth were rotting out of her goddamn head, and couldn’t she think of her just this once as a real person instead of a slave kept alive to serve her?

“A slave,” Mom said, weighing the word. “A slave?”

The night ended when she declared that I would never understand her relationship with Lola. Never. Her voice was so guttural and pained that thinking of it even now, so many years later, feels like a punch to the stomach. It’s a terrible thing to hate your own mother, and that night I did. The look in her eyes made clear that she felt the same way about me.

The fight only fed Mom’s fear that Lola had stolen the kids from her, and she made Lola pay for it. Mom drove her harder. Tormented her by saying, “I hope you’re happy now that your kids hate me.” When we helped Lola with housework, Mom would fume. “You’d better go to sleep now, Lola,” she’d say sarcastically. “You’ve been working too hard. Your kids are worried about you.” Later she’d take Lola into a bedroom for a talk, and Lola would walk out with puffy eyes.

Lola finally begged us to stop trying to help her.

Why do you stay? we asked.

“Who will cook?” she said, which I took to mean, Who would do everything? Who would take care of us? Of Mom? Another time she said, “Where will I go?” This struck me as closer to a real answer. Coming to America had been a mad dash, and before we caught a breath a decade had gone by. We turned around, and a second decade was closing out. Lola’s hair had turned gray. She’d heard that relatives back home who hadn’t received the promised support were wondering what had happened to her. She was ashamed to return.

She had no contacts in America and no facility for getting around. Phones puzzled her. Mechanical things—ATMs, intercoms, vending machines, anything with a keyboard—made her panic. Fast-talking people left her speechless, and her own broken English did the same to them. She couldn’t make an appointment, arrange a trip, fill out a form, or order a meal without help.

I got Lola an ATM card linked to my bank account and taught her how to use it. She succeeded once, but the second time she got flustered, and she never tried again. She kept the card because she considered it a gift from me.

I also tried to teach her to drive. She dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand, but I picked her up and carried her to the car and planted her in the driver’s seat, both of us laughing. I spent 20 minutes going over the controls and gauges. Her eyes went from mirthful to terrified. When I turned on the ignition and the dashboard lit up, she was out of the car and in the house before I could say another word. I tried a couple more times.

I thought driving could change her life. She could go places. And if things ever got unbearable with Mom, she could drive away forever.

***

Four lanes became two, pavement turned to gravel. Tricycle drivers wove between cars and water buffalo pulling loads of bamboo. An occasional dog or goat sprinted across the road in front of our truck, almost grazing the bumper. Doods never eased up. Whatever didn’t make it across would be stew today instead of tomorrow—the rule of the road in the provinces.

I took out a map and traced the route to the village of Mayantoc, our destination. Out the window, in the distance, tiny figures folded at the waist like so many bent nails. People harvesting rice, the same way they had for thousands of years. We were getting close.

I tapped the cheap plastic box and regretted not buying a real urn, made of porcelain or rosewood. What would Lola’s people think? Not that many were left. Only one sibling remained in the area, Gregoria, 98 years old, and I was told her memory was failing. Relatives said that whenever she heard Lola’s name, she’d burst out crying and then quickly forget why.

L: Lola and the author in 2008. R: The author with Lola’s sister Gregoria.

I’d been in touch with one of Lola’s nieces. She had the day planned: When I arrived, a low-key memorial, then a prayer, followed by the lowering of the ashes into a plot at the Mayantoc Eternal Bliss Memorial Park. It had been five years since Lola died, but I hadn’t yet said the final goodbye that I knew was about to happen. All day I had been feeling intense grief and resisting the urge to let it out, not wanting to wail in front of Doods. More than the shame I felt for the way my family had treated Lola, more than my anxiety about how her relatives in Mayantoc would treat me, I felt the terrible heaviness of losing her, as if she had died only the day before.

Doods veered northwest on the Romulo Highway, then took a sharp left at Camiling, the town Mom and Lieutenant Tom came from. Two lanes became one, then gravel turned to dirt. The path ran along the Camiling River, clusters of bamboo houses off to the side, green hills ahead. The homestretch.

 ***

I gave the eulogy at Mom’s funeral, and everything I said was true. That she was brave and spirited. That she’d drawn some short straws but had done the best she could. That she was radiant when she was happy. That she adored her children and gave us a real home—in Salem, Oregon—that through the ’80s and ’90s became the permanent base we’d never had before. That I wished we could thank her one more time. That we all loved her.

I didn’t talk about Lola. Just as I had selectively blocked Lola out of my mind when I was with Mom during her last years. Loving my mother required that kind of mental surgery. It was the only way we could be mother and son—which I wanted, especially after her health started to decline, in the mid‑’90s. Diabetes. Breast cancer. Acute myelogenous leukemia, a fast-growing cancer of the blood and bone marrow. She went from robust to frail seemingly overnight.

After the big fight, I mostly avoided going home, and at age 23 I moved to Seattle. When I did visit I saw a change. Mom was still Mom, but not as relentlessly. She got Lola a fine set of dentures and let her have her own bedroom. She cooperated when my siblings and I set out to change Lola’s TNT status. Ronald Reagan’s landmark immigration bill of 1986 made millions of illegal immigrants eligible for amnesty. It was a long process, but Lola became a citizen in October 1998, four months after my mother was diagnosed with leukemia. Mom lived another year.

During that time, she and Ivan took trips to Lincoln City, on the Oregon coast, and sometimes brought Lola along. Lola loved the ocean. On the other side were the islands she dreamed of returning to. And Lola was never happier than when Mom relaxed around her. An afternoon at the coast or just 15 minutes in the kitchen reminiscing about the old days in the province, and Lola would seem to forget years of torment.

I couldn’t forget so easily. But I did come to see Mom in a different light. Before she died, she gave me her journals, two steamer trunks’ full. Leafing through them as she slept a few feet away, I glimpsed slices of her life that I’d refused to see for years. She’d gone to medical school when not many women did. She’d come to America and fought for respect as both a woman and an immigrant physician. She’d worked for two decades at Fairview Training Center, in Salem, a state institution for the developmentally disabled. The irony: She tended to underdogs most of her professional life. They worshipped her. Female colleagues became close friends. They did silly, girly things together—shoe shopping, throwing dress-up parties at one another’s homes, exchanging gag gifts like penis-shaped soaps and calendars of half-naked men, all while laughing hysterically. Looking through their party pictures reminded me that Mom had a life and an identity apart from the family and Lola. Of course.

Mom wrote in great detail about each of her kids, and how she felt about us on a given day—proud or loving or resentful. And she devoted volumes to her husbands, trying to grasp them as complex characters in her story. We were all persons of consequence. Lola was incidental. When she was mentioned at all, she was a bit character in someone else’s story. “Lola walked my beloved Alex to his new school this morning. I hope he makes new friends quickly so he doesn’t feel so sad about moving again …” There might be two more pages about me, and no other mention of Lola.

The day before Mom died, a Catholic priest came to the house to perform last rites. Lola sat next to my mother’s bed, holding a cup with a straw, poised to raise it to Mom’s mouth. She had become extra attentive to my mother, and extra kind. She could have taken advantage of Mom in her feebleness, even exacted revenge, but she did the opposite.

The priest asked Mom whether there was anything she wanted to forgive or be forgiven for. She scanned the room with heavy-lidded eyes, said nothing. Then, without looking at Lola, she reached over and placed an open hand on her head. She didn’t say a word.

 ***

Lola was 75 when she came to stay with me. I was married with two young daughters, living in a cozy house on a wooded lot. From the second story, we could see Puget Sound. We gave Lola a bedroom and license to do whatever she wanted: sleep in, watch soaps, do nothing all day. She could relax—and be free—for the first time in her life. I should have known it wouldn’t be that simple.

I’d forgotten about all the things Lola did that drove me a little crazy. She was always telling me to put on a sweater so I wouldn’t catch a cold (I was in my 40s). She groused incessantly about Dad and Ivan: My father was lazy, Ivan was a leech. I learned to tune her out. Harder to ignore was her fanatical thriftiness. She threw nothing out. And she used to go through the trash to make sure that the rest of us hadn’t thrown out anything useful. She washed and reused paper towels again and again until they disintegrated in her hands. (No one else would go near them.) The kitchen became glutted with grocery bags, yogurt containers, and pickle jars, and parts of our house turned into storage for—there’s no other word for it—garbage.

She cooked breakfast even though none of us ate more than a banana or a granola bar in the morning, usually while we were running out the door. She made our beds and did our laundry. She cleaned the house. I found myself saying to her, nicely at first, “Lola, you don’t have to do that.” “Lola, we’ll do it ourselves.” “Lola, that’s the girls’ job.” Okay, she’d say, but keep right on doing it.

It irritated me to catch her eating meals standing in the kitchen, or see her tense up and start cleaning when I walked into the room. One day, after several months, I sat her down.

“I’m not Dad. You’re not a slave here,” I said, and went through a long list of slave-like things she’d been doing. When I realized she was startled, I took a deep breath and cupped her face, that elfin face now looking at me searchingly. I kissed her forehead. “This is your house now,” I said. “You’re not here to serve us. You can relax, okay?”

“Okay,” she said. And went back to cleaning.

She didn’t know any other way to be. I realized I had to take my own advice and relax. If she wanted to make dinner, let her. Thank her and do the dishes. I had to remind myself constantly: Let her be.

One night I came home to find her sitting on the couch doing a word puzzle, her feet up, the TV on. Next to her, a cup of tea. She glanced at me, smiled sheepishly with those perfect white dentures, and went back to the puzzle. Progress, I thought.

She planted a garden in the backyard—roses and tulips and every kind of orchid—and spent whole afternoons tending it. She took walks around the neighborhood. At about 80, her arthritis got bad and she began walking with a cane. In the kitchen, she went from being a fry cook to a kind of artisanal chef who created only when the spirit moved her. She made lavish meals and grinned with pleasure as we devoured them.

Passing the door of Lola’s bedroom, I’d often hear her listening to a cassette of Filipino folk songs. The same tape over and over. I knew she’d been sending almost all her money—my wife and I gave her $200 a week—to relatives back home. One afternoon, I found her sitting on the back deck gazing at a snapshot someone had sent of her village.

“You want to go home, Lola?”

She turned the photograph over and traced her finger across the inscription, then flipped it back and seemed to study a single detail.

“Yes,” she said.

Just after her 83rd birthday, I paid her airfare to go home. I’d follow a month later to bring her back to the U.S.—if she wanted to return. The unspoken purpose of her trip was to see whether the place she had spent so many years longing for could still feel like home.

She found her answer.

“Everything was not the same,” she told me as we walked around Mayantoc. The old farms were gone. Her house was gone. Her parents and most of her siblings were gone. Childhood friends, the ones still alive, were like strangers. It was nice to see them, but … everything was not the same. She’d still like to spend her last years here, she said, but she wasn’t ready yet.

“You’re ready to go back to your garden,” I said.

“Yes. Let’s go home.”

L: Lola returned to the Philippines for an extended visit after her 83rd birthday. R: Lola with her sister Juliana, reunited after 65 years.

***

Lola was as devoted to my daughters as she’d been to my siblings and me when we were young. After school, she’d listen to their stories and make them something to eat. And unlike my wife and me (especially me), Lola enjoyed every minute of every school event and performance. She couldn’t get enough of them. She sat up front, kept the programs as mementos.

It was so easy to make Lola happy. We took her on family vacations, but she was as excited to go to the farmer’s market down the hill. She became a wide-eyed kid on a field trip: “Look at those zucchinis!” The first thing she did every morning was open all the blinds in the house, and at each window, she’d pause to look outside.

And she taught herself to read. It was remarkable. Over the years, she’d somehow learned to sound out letters. She did those puzzles where you find and circle words within a block of letters. Her room had stacks of word-puzzle booklets, thousands of words circled in pencil. Every day she watched the news and listened for words she recognized. She triangulated them with words in the newspaper and figured out the meanings. She came to read the paper every day, front to back. Dad used to say she was simple. I wondered what she could have been if, instead of working the rice fields at age 8, she had learned to read and write.

Lola at age 82.

During the 12 years she lived in our house, I asked her questions about herself, trying to piece together her life story, a habit she found curious. To my inquiries, she would often respond first with “Why?” Why did I want to know about her childhood? About how she met Lieutenant Tom?

I tried to get my sister Ling to ask Lola about her love life, thinking Lola would be more comfortable with her. Ling cackled, which was her way of saying I was on my own. One day, while Lola and I were putting away groceries, I just blurted it out: “Lola, have you ever been romantic with anyone?” She smiled, and then she told me the story of the only time she’d come close. She was about 15, and there was a handsome boy named Pedro from a nearby farm. For several months they harvested rice together side by side. One time, she dropped her bolo—a cutting implement—and he quickly picked it up and handed it back to her. “I liked him,” she said.

Silence.

“And?”

“Then he moved away,” she said.

“And?”

“That’s all.”

“Lola, have you ever had sex?,” I heard myself saying.

“No,” she said.

She wasn’t accustomed to being asked personal questions. “Katulong lang ako,” she’d say. I’m only a servant. She often gave one- or two-word answers, and teasing out even the simplest story was a game of 20 questions that could last days or weeks.

Some of what I learned: She was mad at Mom for being so cruel all those years, but she nevertheless missed her. Sometimes, when Lola was young, she’d felt so lonely that all she could do was cry. I knew there were years when she’d dreamed of being with a man. I saw it in the way she wrapped herself around one large pillow at night. But what she told me in her old age was that living with Mom’s husbands made her think being alone wasn’t so bad. She didn’t miss those two at all. Maybe her life would have been better if she’d stayed in Mayantoc, gotten married, and had a family like her siblings. But maybe it would have been worse. Two younger sisters, Francisca and Zepriana, got sick and died. A brother, Claudio, was killed. What’s the point of wondering about it now? she asked. Bahala na was her guiding principle. Come what may. What came her way was another kind of family. In that family, she had eight children: Mom, my four siblings and me, and now my two daughters. The eight of us, she said, made her life worth living.

None of us was prepared for her to die so suddenly.

Her heart attack started in the kitchen while she was making dinner and I was running an errand. When I returned she was in the middle of it. A couple of hours later at the hospital, before I could grasp what was happening, she was gone—10:56 p.m. All the kids and grandkids noted but were unsure how to take, that she died on November 7, the same day as Mom. Twelve years apart.

Lola made it to 86. I can still see her on the gurney. I remember looking at the medics standing above this brown woman no bigger than a child and thinking that they had no idea of the life she had lived. She’d had none of the self-serving ambition that drives most of us, and her willingness to give up everything for the people around her won her our love and utter loyalty. She’s become a hallowed figure in my extended family.

Going through her boxes in the attic took me months. I found recipes she had cut out of magazines in the 1970s for when she would someday learn to read. Photo albums with pictures of my mom. Awards my siblings and I had won from grade school on, most of which we had thrown away and she had “saved.” I almost lost it one night when at the bottom of a box I found a stack of yellowed newspaper articles I’d written and long ago forgotten about. She couldn’t read back then, but she’d kept them anyway.

The site of Lola’s childhood home.

 ***

Doods’s truck pulled up to a small concrete house in the middle of a cluster of homes mostly made of bamboo and plank wood. Surrounding the pod of houses: rice fields, green and seemingly endless. Before I even got out of the truck, people started coming outside.

Doods reclined his seat to take a nap. I hung my tote bag on my shoulder, took a breath, and opened the door.

“This way,” a soft voice said, and I was led up a short walkway to the concrete house. Following close behind was a line of about 20 people, young and old, but mostly old. Once we were all inside, they sat down on chairs and benches arranged along the walls, leaving the middle of the room empty except for me. I remained standing, waiting to meet my host. It was a small room, and dark. People glanced at me expectantly.

“Where is Lola?” A voice from another room. The next moment, a middle-aged woman in a housedress sauntered in with a smile. Ebia, Lola’s niece. This was her house. She gave me a hug and said again, “Where is Lola?”

Lola’s gravesite.

I slid the tote bag from my shoulder and handed it to her. She looked into my face, still smiling, gently grasped the bag, and walked over to a wooden bench and sat down. She reached inside and pulled out the box and looked at every side. “Where is Lola?” she said softly. People in these parts don’t often get their loved ones cremated. I don’t think she knew what to expect. She set the box on her lap and bent over so her forehead rested on top of it, and at first I thought she was laughing (out of joy) but I quickly realized she was crying. Her shoulders began to heave, and then she was wailing—a deep, mournful, animal howl, like I once heard coming from Lola.

I hadn’t come sooner to deliver Lola’s ashes in part because I wasn’t sure anyone here cared that much about her. I hadn’t expected this kind of grief. Before I could comfort Ebia, a woman walked in from the kitchen and wrapped her arms around her, and then she began wailing. The next thing I knew, the room erupted with sound. The old people—one of them blind, several with no teeth—were all crying and not holding anything back. It lasted about 10 minutes. I was so fascinated that I barely noticed the tears running down my own face. The sobs died down, and then it was quiet again.

Ebia sniffled and said it was time to eat. Everybody started filing into the kitchen, puffy-eyed but suddenly lighter and ready to tell stories. I glanced at the empty tote bag on the bench and knew it was right to bring Lola back to the place where she’d been born.

Alex Tizon passed away in March. He was a Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist and the author of Big Little Man: In Search of My Asian Self. For more about Alex, please see this editor’s note from The Atlantic. (https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2017/06/a-reporters-story/524538/)

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