#i also have multiple professors who just love cows and talk about them and their research or veterinary work with them

[teabookgremlin]

i love listening to people who have devoted their lives to working with cows talk about cows

[moonbaby26]

(gif from Jason Passaro’s youtube edit here)

Title: One Shitty Friday Night (Part 1)

Pairings: Peter Maximoff x Fem!Reader, Colossus x Shadowcat

Summary: Set after the events of Deadpool 2, you and your boyfriend Peter are on a double date downtown with your fellow X-Men Piotr Rasputin (Colossus) and Kitty Pryde (Shadowcat) when Deadpool and Russell arrive unexpectedly. Chaos and violence naturally ensues, including taking down mafia henchmen, dealing with news media and paparazzi who circle in with the action, and a jealous Peter. This will be concluded in Part 2 with the mixed reactions of Logan, Charles, and Erik when you all bring Wade and Russell back home, etc. 😄

Notes: For simplicity’s sake as Piotr R. is normally called “Peter” as well, he’ll just be referred to as Colossus here.

Warnings: Some alcohol use. And it’s Deadpool, so a lot of cursing and irreverent jokes of course. This started out as just crack!fic that became actual fic that had to be split into two parts because it hit post limit. Holy cow.

Peter Maximoff x Reader Masterlist

—————————

Kitty all but snorted, trying to put her drink back down on the table before it could end up fully sideways instead as her laughter left her trembling.

Colossus sighed quietly, but you could still see the warmth in his eyes as he looked down at her before helping dab up some of her errant wine off the table with a thick cloth napkin.

It was late Friday night, and save for your semi disapproving, large and very Russian designated driver, the other three of you were now several drinks deep and a bit too loudly enjoying Peter’s retelling of the Led Zeppelin cover band debacle. You’d been there with him that night, but it never got old the way Peter told it.

“I shit you not, and this guy still keeps hitting on Jean.” Peter continued, his third nearly empty glass of craft beer still in hand. “Scott’s about to fry the dude. They’re playing Immigrant Song, and these lasers start up. All dudebros in the club go wild, and Scott tries to sneak off a warning shot. Freaking air balls it! I have to move like forty people and it still blows a damn hole in the wall. But nobody even noticed! Fake Robert Plant is screaming his heart out and everybody is just eating it up. I swear my Dad could have flown in there, cape billowing and they still would have thought it was part of the show!”

You were at risk of being elbowed in this small restaurant booth, with how animated Peter was as he spoke beside you. But you didn’t mind. The lighting was dim, possibly verging on romantic, the smell of good food from the kitchen reminded you of what was to come, and you were just enjoying time with some of your favorite people.

When Peter did finally drop his hand again though, the not so subtle movements of it then up your thigh also promised something much more personal later tonight. Maybe it was the warmth from the mixed drinks you were also nursing, but you shifted your leg a little, pushing even more into his touch under the table. Your movement just signaled your silent agreement to him that tonight would be a perfect night to be throwing clothes on the floor as soon as you got back to your shared room at the mansion.

It’d been a long, tiring week after all. Helping teach classes during the day and training your ass off in the danger room every night, you didn’t think it was unreasonable to cut loose a bit now.

Even Colossus was chuckling a little at last, but the big guy was always softest around Kitty. You in particular had been one of her biggest supporters when she’d first confessed her attraction towards him. You’d noticed his bashfulness with her as well, and all the little glances he’d given her long before she’d ever worked up the courage to ask him out.

But that seemed so long ago now, it was hard to really remember a time when they weren’t together. Almost as long as you and Peter really.

You glanced up as the waiter came back by to check on you all, saying your food would be out in a few more minutes and asking if anyone needed more drinks.

“Oh gosh, we’re really running up the tab right?” Kitty smiled.

You could see the little bit of relief in Colossus’ expression as she waved the waiter off though, her current wine glass still nearly full. “I’m fine for now, thank you.”

Peter glanced at you and you nodded as well. A buzz was fine, but you didn’t want to be climbing the mansion stairs full on drunk tonight. “I’m good.”

As the waiter left, your conversation got a little more subdued. You leaned into Peter somewhat, hip to hip in the booth as he put his arm around your waist.

Kitty was now talking about a movie she thought you should all go see next weekend if you could. You were just in the process of agreeing as you’d wanted to see it too, when Colossus suddenly went stock still, a look of real surprise on his face.

Kitty evidently noticed as soon as you did, you both staring up at him in unison.

“Do not turn around,” He instructed to you and Peter, eyes locked on something behind you.

Of course when told to do one thing, it would take everything in Peter’s willpower to not do the opposite. But to his credit he actually did hesitate. “Do we need to be dodging something? I mean, I can move us if I need to, man. You just gotta let me know.” Peter stated.

“I don’t think he’s seen us yet. Please do not draw attention.” Colossus responded, still frustratingly vague to the rest of you.

But he hadn’t metaled up yet, his skin still entirely human looking. So on the plus side, it couldn’t be someone he thought an immediate physical threat.

You glanced to Kitty for some hope of explanation as she was seated beside Colossus and facing the same direction. But she was too short in comparison to him, and couldn’t see all the way across the booth dividers as easily as he could. “Well who is it?” Kitty demanded quietly.

But you heard an impatient voice carry over clearly from the nearby restaurant entrance.

“Look, you know he’s here. I know he’s here. Don’t make me leave you guys a bad Yelp review. I will totally Karen that shit up. I’m just here for him.” A pause. “...And some of the cannolis. God, I love those things. You went a little scarce on the filling last time though. Don’t make me add that to the Yelp review.”

You heard the hostess stutter, fear evidently building. “Sir, firearms are not allowed in this restaurant. The owner, he, I...I can’t.”

There was a loud sigh from the man, the distinct sound of a gun cocking, and then all hell broke loose.

“WADE!” Colossus screamed, your entire table flipping as he stood up, metal now encasing him in this even larger form.

Abruptly you were now standing back by the entrance yourself. Peter had one arm around you, and the other around Kitty as he let you both go just as instantly, having just brought you there before he disappeared again.

That little flare up of vertigo from the speed and sudden stop didn’t mix well with the alcohol, and she and you both stood there another moment, queasy as Peter appeared again with an armful of guns.

It would have been comical as he clearly had no idea where to put them now, but everyone else that had still been in the restaurant was already screaming and running for the doors in a panic.

The owner of the multiple guns couldn’t care less about the crowd however, only turning his full focus to the lot of you then in exasperation.

“Oh my God, you anti second amendment, mother fuckers. I’m in the middle of a job here!”

“You can’t just point guns at innocent people, Wade! We have talked about this many times!” Colossus retorted, all seven foot of him now standing over Deadpool with paternal like annoyance.

“For fuck’s sake, it’s called a threat. I wasn’t going to kill her you overprotective, asshat! Now Giovanni is probably holed up in some pussy ass panic room, or he’s already ghosted me out the back door! And yes, I know that is such a stereotypical mob boss name and totally sounds like the Pokemon villain. Fuck him and his always trying to take Pikachu! He had a talking cat the whole time who just wanted his love, but no, got to have the electric rat. Fuck!”

“Language, Wade!” Colossus scolded. “There is still a child present!”

And honestly in all this insanity, that was the first time you actually noticed Russell also still standing there. Everyone else in the room had now fled out into the street.

“I’m fucking fourteen,” The boy replied defiantly. “And yeah, we were working!”

“Daddy and angrier metal daddy are just talking, hon.” Deadpool commented, waving a hand.

There was a small gust of air beside you and you looked to Peter knowingly. Wade’s guns were now all on a table, though intentionally still distant from your current position. “So I just made a couple laps.” Peter spoke up. “The cops are already coming, and there’s still a bunch of guys in the basement. They were opening some crates, probably getting weapons? I didn’t know if we were taking them out yet though. I didn’t touch anything. But is Giovanni like a big dude with gold rings and all?”

“I’m telling you besides the drug and human trafficking, it’s practically more criminal how much he sets back Italian-American stereotypes. They are an honest, manicotti making people goddamn it.” Deadpool answered.

You really were starting to regret the amount of drinks you’d had. If you’d known tonight was going to be anything like this, you would have gladly stuck to water. Your head was already trying to throb a little as you finally spoke. “So, does this guy actually have warrants out on him? If the cops come, they’re all going to end up shooting each other most likely. Can we just defuse this by giving him up to them?”

“I would say we assist to prevent unnecessary bloodshed, if that is the case, yes. I’m sure the Professor would prefer that.” Colossus agreed.

“Freaking goody two shoes, all of you.” Wade sighed. “But he has to get arrested or dead okay? I don’t get paid otherwise.” He paused though, then looking back up to Colossus before suddenly elbowing him. As if he’d even really feel that. “And hello rudeness, are you not going to introduce me to your little girls night out club here before we go bust some heads in a gratuitous X-Force/X-Men hotties crossover?”

“X-Force?” Kitty asked, sounding as already over this as could be.

“Well, we are a little empty on the roster at the moment. Some...unfortunate parachuting incidents. Wind advisory that day. You know how it goes.” Deadpool shrugged.

By her expression, no. She did not know how it went.

But the sooner you started, the sooner this could be over. Colossus motioned to each of you in turn, “Peter, (Y/N), and Kitty. These are my teammates and friends.” He nodded back to Deadpool, “And this is Wade.” And then to the boy. “And Russell.”

Of course you already knew who they both were. It’d been a bit of a scandal really, with the whole Essex House fiasco and the deaths that had occurred there. Fair or not, a lot of the blame had ended up on Juggernaut the second time around though you thought. Which is why Charles hadn’t had to deal with too much bad press in the aftermath.

You could not let this become another Essex House situation for the X-Men though. You were about to speak up about heading to the basement together and Deadpool staying out of your way so you all could neutralize everyone without any fatal hits, when he gasped dramatically, making you freeze again.

“Kitty!? Like an actual girl named Kitty? Oh my God, this whole time I thought you were his cat!” He hit his own leg, laughing. “I’m thinking, holy shit this guy loves his goddamn cat, but who am I to judge you know? I had a dog named Mr. Shuggums. Cutest little fucker.” He took a breath. “I miss him.”

“Wade.” Colossus groaned. “We do not have all night.”

Okay, so there was still something sweet about Colossus gushing about his girlfriend even to this manic mercenary. But no kidding, this show really needed to get on the road here.

“Guys, why don’t we just let Peter disarm them all, Colossus, you grab Giovanni, and Kitty and I deal with anyone who still resists? No one has to get hurt, and then it’s all done, easy.”

“And then we go find somewhere else to eat. Killing me here. I wanted that damn calzone and tiramisu.” Peter sighed, pulling his goggles back down over his eyes again. “More guns coming up.”

He disappeared at once, but when he didn’t return immediately as you were so accustomed to, you and Kitty exchanged a nervous look.

And after only another few seconds, your instincts told you something had definitely gone wrong.

“Is the basement directly beneath us?” You asked Deadpool sharply, already reaching out a hand to Kitty. Your adrenaline was starting, all good feelings gone as it was now time to act.

But you’d worked together long enough now, you didn’t have to explain your plan to her or Colossus.

Yet when the previously mouthy merc had no instant response, just staring at you in thought, it was clear he hadn’t done any recon beforehand at all. He’d literally just walked in here and expected everything to work out.

“Perfect.” Kitty said sarcastically, glancing quickly to Colossus as she took your hand. “You’re our backup, dear, in case our vertical entrance doesn’t work out. Come find us.”

“Always.” He said, already turning, his weight shaking the floor as he ran to look for any stairway downward while you and Kitty dropped straight through the floor.

It was surely a risk of its own to use her phasing ability so blindly as this. You could end up in a too small crawlspace, in underground piping, a sewer system, anything really. She’d make sure not to go solid until it was safe, as to not impale or bury you alive of course. But if Peter were in trouble, there was no time to waste by ending up at a dead end and having to go back up and try again.

You’d held your breath, as there was no way for you to process oxygen either as your lungs and every other part of you shifted through the other matter. It was darkness and insulation, pipes, and conduit that flashed by at first. But in the fractions of seconds that it took to fall, you had already powered up. The white light of your energy field overtaking your body, shielding you both as you did fall into a larger open area.

It was even darker than the restaurant above, all concrete and dampness. The glow from your body was the brightest thing there as much more men than you’d expected all turned in surprise. You saw the glint of multiple gun barrels now, but the thing you wanted to see most was Peter’s silver hair as you’d scanned the area for him instantly.

There was a stairwell in the distance. He was laying near the bottom of it. But you had no time to be shocked or afraid, only anger swelled as you released Kitty’s hand, making you solid again. “I’ll get him.” Was all you said. Letting her know to protect herself as you flew to him. Bullets couldn’t hurt her if she was ready for them. But Peter would be defenseless without one of you now, and by means of your power of flight you were the faster of you and her.

The man closest to Peter had a different kind of gun though you realized. Something you didn’t recognize at all as he aimed at you. You splayed your palms to create an energy shield in front of you as he pulled the trigger.

It didn’t make a sound though. But everything around you instantly distorted as pain exploded through you. You saw five or six of him now, as your feet hit the ground, unable to concentrate enough to fly then. But even as you stumbled, realizing your shielding wasn’t fully stopping whatever that weapon was doing, you were still able to expand your shield rapidly, hitting the man with the force of a car in your pain and sending him flying into a nearby wall, the weapon clattering to the ground lightly against his now limp body.

But you still felt like you were going to puke.

“Kill them you idiots!” Someone screamed.

You dropped yourself, laying over Peter just as quickly, grateful to feel him breathing as you focused through the pain to extend a shield around you both as the gunfire started.

“Bitch!” Another man yelled as Kitty just walked unharmed through all the flying bullets towards you.

“Shadowcat actually,” She said, skilled enough in her powers to choose what was solid and what wasn’t. Just the outside of her fist being all she needed to crush his nose in one punch with a squirt of blood, and only the end of her foot used as she swept her leg after to knock his own right out from under him.

Even among your own team, sometimes people could forget that that petite Jewish girl was about as skilled a martial artist as anyone could be.

“Babe?” You heard against your ear though, glancing back down to Peter. There was real relief even in the chaos as you saw him smile up at you.

He talked back against your ear in the noise as Kitty continued to utterly wreck the guys around you. “I fucked up a little, right? That gun...they already had it going, aimed at the door when I came back, a trap...I think I hit every stair on the way down...I still see like three of you right now.”

“Ditto.” You breathed.

And then there was another even louder noise as the remnants of a door also came flying down the stairs. Colossus barreled in behind it like a stampeding elephant, Deadpool right behind him as they leapt over the both of you and joined the fray.

“We found the basement!” Deadpool announced gleefully, swords swinging. “Don’t think they’d even locked the door back actually, but fuck if big Russki doesn’t love a dramatic entrance!”

For a moment you thought all your words about at least trying not to kill had been for nothing, thinking Deadpool was going to chop these men into literal pieces. But even as blood sprayed left and right, you realized he was just cutting tendons. The men then unable to hold their guns, unable to stand at all as he crippled each he reached in succession.

It was still completely horrific, but hell, how much could you really ask for from someone like him? Especially when you yourself had slammed that one man into a concrete wall as if he were a ragdoll. You glanced over anxiously for a moment, glad to see him shifting a little, but still crumpled exactly where you’d thrown him. He was alive, a small relief at least.

——————————

Obviously the other gunmen hadn’t had a prayer either though once you’d all been down there together.

Colossus already had a still cursing Giovanni slung over one shoulder as you were now helping Peter back up and trying not to step in all the blood as you all walked over to Kitty.

“What a mess...very interesting weapon though,” She spoke of that odd gun that’d been used on you and Peter, it now in her hands as she turned it one way and then another examining it. “I’m bringing this back with us. The police don’t need anything like this. Hank and I can figure out how it works. And how to defend against it hopefully before we run into another one of these out in the field.”

“It seems this Giovanni was more a threat than expected,” Colossus said, giving the still squirming man an unhappy look, before looking back to you all. “Are you alright, Peter?”

“I’m still hungry.” Peter grumbled, an arm over your shoulder to still help stabilize him as his other hand went to his head as if it were pounding. He also had some bruising starting on his face, no doubt from his tumble down the stairs. “I wouldn’t have drank so damn much if I’d known we weren’t going to eat...”

With the speed of his metabolism, that alcohol likely was hitting him pretty hard now on his already empty stomach.

“We should turn this guy over and get out of here.” You agreed. Though you didn’t feel so hot yourself. Still a little nauseous from whatever that weapon did to your senses. But at least you weren’t seeing triple of everything anymore.

“Hold it, girl scouts!” Deadpool piped up, chipper as ever as he grabbed something at Giovanni’s neck before any of you could think to stop him.

The man choked just a moment though, before a piece of metal snapped off into Wade’s hands. It was a necklace, with a symbol of some sort. You saw just a glimpse of it before Deadpool pocketed it. “No proof of finishing the job, no payday for DP. No payday, then no liquor, no coke, no hookers. Am I right?”

It was too difficult to tell when if ever he was serious, and you all chose to ignore his comment, starting back up the stairs. The odd sounds of bullet fragments falling back down the stairwell caught Peter’s attention though as he gave a grossed out look to Wade for a moment.

The now impact deformed bullets were starting to work themselves back out of all the bloody holes in Deadpool’s costume. You knew where you’d seen that before of course, but Peter was the only one that actually said it aloud.

“Damn, you and Logan would be a pair.”

There was a pause, and you could swear even with the mask, you thought you saw Wade’s cheekbones move in a way that signaled he was outright grinning from ear to ear. “At least someone gets it. He still won’t return my calls though. Such a diva lately.”

Once you did get to the top of the stairs, you only found a very agitated Russell standing there, Wade’s guns in his arms. “You took long enough, the cops are outside you know. I’m not going back to jail for you!”

“Cool your tater tots, kid.” Deadpool responded lazily, in no hurry, but grabbing the weapons back to holster them all regardless.

“I could have finished this faster! I would have fried their asses!” Russell argued.

“You would have been shot. Fire does not stop bullets.” Colossus only answered matter of factly.

Russell made a face, but Wade cut him off before he could say any more.

“Now now, listen to metal daddy. No sass. And actually, I think there’s something we should talk about, champ. X-Force is way more badass and all, but we don’t exactly have a training and junior member tier yet. Maybe later. You might want to think about riding home with these guys and checking their setup out. I don’t have any powers myself to relate to you like that, except me being very shootable, devastatingly charming, sexy, smart, and a competitive level Skee-Ball player...”

Deadpool sighed, continuing. “But these guys have a Danger Room. Which is totally not a sex dungeon, yeah I was bummed about that too. But they could let you unleash that school shooter level teenage angst and burn all the shit you wanted until you really figure out your powers.”

Russel bristled. “I’m not a school shooter you prick! And you always said the X-Men were neutered dweebs and-”

Wade coughed loudly, ushering Russell forward suddenly as you all continued to walk. “Hah, kids. Such darlings. Mishear everything don’t they?”

Colossus only answered without offense though. “The offer is still open, Russell. Though you have said no before. The Professor would never turn down a young mutant in need.”

It was Peter who surprised you a little, a smirk on his face as he contributed. “Freaking sweet house too, man. Xavier’s loaded. Big screen TV, a pool, basketball court, your own room, supersonic jet. Bunch of cute girls as well, or cute boys, you know whatever you’re into.”

“I’m not gay.” Russell huffed, but actually looked to be listening now as he didn’t immediately spit back with a sarcastic retort.

Though you gave Peter a weird look and he just grinned. “What? I stayed for you didn’t I, babe? Just saying. I wasn’t exactly on board with the whole team thing before that either. I know where he’s coming from is all.”

“It’s up to you, Russell.” Kitty said more diplomatically, before returning to the matter at hand. “We’re parked at that parking garage two blocks south. Everyone meet back there, Colossus and I will hand this guy over to the cops out front. The rest of you, I’m sure there’s got to be some emergency exit you can sneak out of. Probably better to split up actually. Less attention.”

—————————

Just as Kitty had suggested, Deadpool and Russell went out one way, and you and Peter another. You came out onto another street behind the restaurant. And you’d just finally started to relax again, Peter taking your hand in his own and walking away like an honest to God normal couple for once, just out on the town together before you noticed an oddly placed white van with distinct lettering on it.

Peter saw it too just as the light from a camera hit you both.

“Hell,” You breathed.

“Want to run?” He asked seriously.

“Too late, they’d just film us ditching, and say we had something to hide.”

Your headache was returning in full force you thought as you steeled yourself, seeing the reporter now in a full sprint towards you.

“It’s Quicksilver! And (your codename)! The X-Men are here!” A woman shouted.

As you walked closer to the news van, the camera flashes only increased. It looked like a small group of paparazzi had also camped out here, hoping for this exact result. How did word travel so damn fast?

“Marcia Fletcher, WAFN nightly news!” She introduced herself at once, her camera man there just as quickly, huffing a little from the run as he got you both in focus.

You could see the lights on on his camera as she shoved her microphone in front of you and Peter. “You’re on live coverage of the Ruffiano’s restaurant shootings with WAFN. Is it true that Giovani Marcello was apprehended here tonight by the X-Men? And how did you know he was here when he’s been on Interpol’s most wanted list for four years?”

You knew without looking at him that Peter was happily deferring the speaking role to you now as you tried not to look rattled. You attempted to think of what Charles would and wouldn’t want you to say, even with the pain in your head and lingering nausea. “We didn’t know who was here. We were in the area and saw people running and went to help, that’s all.” You lied.

“But the reports of gunshots, witnesses also said Deadpool had drawn a gun on a restaurant employee and Colossus was seen inside. Is Deadpool now affiliated with the X-Men again? Did he shoot anyone?”

“Deadpool is not affiliated with the X-Men. Colossus was here tonight, but he only would have been defending anyone he thought in danger. Deadpool did not shoot anyone.” You tried to keep to short truths that time.

“But then why was Deadpool there? Should people really believe it would be a coincidence that the X-Men and Deadpool would be at the same incidence at one time if not working together?”

“Well you’re here aren’t you? Are you affiliated with us?” You replied before you could stop yourself, though still restraining the annoyance you really wanted to put into that statement. “Trouble attracts a crowd.”

Peter made a sound, a restrained laugh you knew. But before the reporter could blurt out another question, one of the now growing number of paparazzi called out, “(Your codename), hey look here! Is it true you and Quicksilver are still dating!?”

You knew better than to be baited, humoring any of them just made it worse. They were like piranhas. But Peter couldn’t help it, turning to look as so many cameras flashed. His arm slid around you protectively. “Why wouldn’t we be, dude?” He called back.

“Are you saying the photos of (your codename) and Gambit were before you two reconciling?”

It took every ounce of your self control to not respond, but oh God did you want to. It was the mission in Tanzania. You knew it. You, Storm, and Gambit. Peter had stayed in the U.S. for that one as it’d been the holidays and his Mom had wanted both he and Wanda over for some time together.

After the mission was over, the three of you had ended up on one of the beautiful Tanzanian beaches for a single day. Just a single day to yourselves.

You’d had the audacity to wear a revealing bathing suit though and you and Remy had been photographed together, him shirtless of course because it was a goddamn beach. And laughing and smiling because, surprise, you were friends! And they’d cropped Ororo out in all the closeups for complete loss of context.

It’d been a thing in some of the tabloids for a while, but you really thought that had finally blown over. Of course if anyone asked Remy, he liked to play coy on the whole subject to keep up his God’s gift to all men and women sex symbol status.

“Peter, let’s just go,” You whispered in his ear, sure anything else said would only make things worse.

But you could read him all too well, and when he turned his face to look back at you, you already knew what he was going to do. You didn’t try to stop him, because never would you humiliate him on live television with any type of rejection, but oh, you would never live this one down. Never.

He kissed you hard. And there was nothing fake about it, honestly the kind of kiss usually reserved for your bedroom as you felt heat rising up in you. The camera flashes clicking over and over as you could still taste the alcohol he’d drank before.

When he finally released you again, you gasped a little. He gave the photographers a ‘fuck you’ look, before speaking just to you. “Now we can go.”

“Fly or run?” You breathed.

“Fly please. I’m still about half out of it.” He admitted.

You powered up to some surprised and excited sounds from the crowd. Your whole body glowing white again in the energy you emitted.

“Wait, aren’t you going to stay and talk to the police!?” The reporter shouted.

“They know where to find us if they need us.” You answered, extending your energy field around Peter, before you took off vertically, making sure to get sideways over the rooftops as soon as you could though to breakup their camera angles and finally give you privacy again at last.

You landed gently atop the parking garage only a few moments later, letting him go again as you powered back down.

“Are you mad at me?” He asked, just taking your hand again though.

“No.” You said truthfully. “But, I have no idea what we’ve really just done. We still have to go home...home where the Professor always watches the 10:00 news with his late night tea.”

Peter sighed, only half joking. “We could always go stay with my Mom for a while?”

You just moved in closer, pulling him against you as you laid your head on his shoulder. “We’ll survive, babe. Somehow we always do.”

“I think that says more about you than me though. Pretty sure I’d be face down in a ditch somewhere already if it weren’t for you.”

You chuckled, wrapping your arms around his neck then before raising your head back up to kiss him once more. Much softer this time, and even longer than his jealous little display a few minutes ago.

He made one of his little noises of contentment, hands sliding down to squeeze your butt through the thin pants you were wearing. As he pulled your hips tighter against him, he broke the kiss enough to speak regretfully. “I really was hoping to get lucky tonight...”

“Same.” You smiled. It had been a while. Mostly from you both being so tired by the time you finally got in bed. Passing out on each other had more been the norm the past couple weeks. “We get some food in you, and see where things go?”

“Gross! Get a room!”

You startled at the sudden shouting, having wholly thought yourselves alone up here in the moonlight.

Peter rolled his eyes, yelling back at Russell, “Kid, we have one! And we’d already be back there by now if it wasn’t for your little mafia hunting shenanigans!”

You looked over to see Deadpool and Russell both standing in the doorway to the parking garage stairs.

Wade whistled, leaning back against the doorframe. “Way to take down that Marcia Fletcher a notch! I always found her too uppity to be honest. I think she’s still butt hurt that they didn’t give her the lead anchor spot when Carl Sanderson moved to the early bird morning show. Tanya Meyer on the 5:00 news though, that’s my girl.”

You blinked. “How...how do you know-” It was literally minutes ago, it would have taken them just this long to walk here.

Deadpool lifted up his cell phone. “Facebook live, bitches. Don’t you follow WAFN? The recipes they post from Saturday morning cooking with Pat are always delish.” He looked back down at the phone though, happily reading. “Hah! Peggy Fredrickson from Brewster, New York thinks Marcia’s contouring and drawn on eyebrows are getting worse. Fire your makeup person, Marcia.” He tapped something on the screen. “Like comment! Oh, and Michael Morris from Ridgefield says who wouldn’t do Remy LeBeau. Damn, Michael, all out and proud on main.”

Peter let go of you, taking an annoyed breath. But then looking back to you. “Please let me at least prank Remy, something, anything.”

“But he didn’t do anything.” You replied, though only more stressed now that this was already blowing up on social media.

“Exactly! He should have at least denied it! But no, Mr. cool Cajun can’t admit that you’d actually choose me over him.”

“Hey now, I think you’re looking at this the wrong way, Quickie.” Deadpool interjected. “There’s always the ménage à trois option. I mean he’s French right? And Michael from Ridgefield is just spitting truth. Who wouldn’t want to do Remy LeBeau? He could shuffle my cards anytime.”

“You guys are so fucking weird.” Russell groaned. “Can we go find your damn car now?”

But you didn’t move yet, still looking fully at Peter. “Wade’s just trying to get under your skin. We all know how Remy is. He’d flirt with a piece of cardboard if it suited him. It doesn’t mean anything to him.” You recognized that Gambit was physically attractive of course, you had eyes too after all. But that was the only extent of it. You loved Peter. Not to mention you wouldn’t at all want to get on Rogue’s bad side. She and Gambit were tumultuous enough without someone else being added to the mix.

“This is adorable, really. But I did bring ‘good job team for sending a little girl selling, gentrification funding, pencil dick mob boss to butt fucking federal prison’ cannolis. Want some?” Deadpool offered, lifting up a large takeout box you somehow hadn’t noticed before.

Peter’s shoulders dropped a little, still heavily annoyed though eyeing the box. “So does this mean you’re coming back with us too?”

Wade shrugged, “The kid doesn’t know you guys. What kind of daddy would I be if I didn’t at least go and make sure he actually wanted to stay in your little mutant commune before I ditch him there?”

“You aren’t my damned dad.” Russell said, though almost sounding too tired to argue further at this point. He reached up, taking a cannoli from the box and biting into it as he started to walk back down the stairwell. “What floor is the car on?”

“Just one down from here, you already passed it. Black SUV,” you answered. Colossus and Kitty must not have been here yet if Wade and Russell had made it all the way to the top deck without finding them.

Peter grabbed your hand again, walking with you to the doorway as he grabbed three cannolis out the box begrudgingly with his other hand. He passed one off to you, before biting into the other two in quick succession.

And you only had a moment to see all the thick scarring under Wade’s mask as he lifted it just enough to start eating one himself, before turning to follow you both out and down the stairwell.

———————————

(Concluded in Part 2 here)

[impossiblelibrary]

Today's rant brought to you by: Queer Eye Japan, can we all just try to be as kind as they try to be?

After watching the Queer Eye Japan super short season, I wanted to google to see the overall reaction to the show, make sure that my western eyes were correct in seeing the care that was given to the culture. Were cultural taboos, other than being outwardly gay, crossed? So I find this article in the top results and other than the perspective, why tho? Tokyoesque.com had an article with a higher reading level, with surface level appreciation but at least better written.

I can't get over this hate article though. Unfounded, dumb, wrong and incorrect. Do not go forward unless you like that blistering kind of anger from me.

But the reasons just get weaker as the article extends: "Hurts the country it set out to save?" Looking for white savior much? They did not go to save Japan, they gave some free shit to like 4-5 people, think smaller.

Their culture guide wasn't gay enough.

You want to suggest any lgbt insta models or celebrities, use your platform to raises some up?

"There is a growing sexless culture in Japan for married and unmarried people, and it is perilous watching Queer Eye present this without any context behind what is driving this behavior."

Sexiness is what the fab 5 embrace, unfortunately and it was probably discussed behind the scenes of how much talking about sex was allowed or polite and the conversation of not having sex is closer to the tip of the tongue rather than the feeling of sexiness. The West is not the ones blasting that information. It is across multiple Japanese printed newspapers and online stories by now and the "context" is still being discussed and debated amongst Japanese. So I don't think any outsiders should be weighing in or "explaining" this phenomenon. We can repeat what we have been told but guessing at the reasons is not our place. The reasons illustrated by the author of the article seem lacking, a take but not the only one, but who am I to speak on that being in a sexual relationship with someone who pulls from that culture?

Kiko begins to lecture Yoko-san on how she “threw away her womanhood” (referring to a Japanese idiom, onna wo suteru) by going makeup-free and wearing drab, shapeless clothes.

The mistranslation by the subtitles fixed by this author was necessary information. But Kiko didn't lecture her on it, it was brought up by Yoko before any of them arrived, that was her theme, that was what she had decided to focus on. Meanwhile, if you watched Jonathan, he understood there was no time to spend on makeup and skincare so provided her a one instrument, 3 points of color on the skin to feel prettier. That and the entire episode being the 5 treating her like a woman on a date, not trying to hook her up, which is what they did in American eps.

"In teaching a Japanese woman, who already struggles to find time for herself, how to make an English recipe, Antoni is making great TV and nothing more."

So Antoni shouldn't have taught her apple pie because it's too exotic for a Japanese woman. (Can you smell the sexism?)

He didn't make an apple pie, altho Yoko did mention her mother made that for her when she was a kid. He made an apple tartine after going to a Japanese bakery who makes that all the time. Then highlighted the apples came from Fuji in true Japanese media fashion. Honey, American television doesn't usually highlight where the ingredients come from. A Japanese producer told him to do that. So all worries handled within the same ep. She got Japanese ingredients, had the recipe shown to her and then made it for her friends in her own house. Did the author actually watch this show or nah?

"beaten over the head with his western self-help logic. “You have to live for yourself,” he says."

The style of build up the 5 went for was confrontational but in a "I'm fighting for you" way. It's hard to describe, but the best I can say is, a person has multiple voices in their head, from parents, siblings, society, and maybe themselves. By being loud and obnoxious, American staples right there, they are adding one more voice. You deserve this, you are amazing, you are worth it. I know this is against most Japanese cultural modesty, but maybe it shouldn't be.

Sarcasm lies ahead:

Apparently: mispronunciation is microaggressions, not just someone who had a sucky school system. Yea okay, They're laughing at the language not at how stumbling these monolinguals are with visiting another country. Mmhm. Japanese don't say I love you and don't touch and that should stay that way instead of maybe, once in awhile, feeling like they can hug. Yeah, let's just ignore Yoko's break down that she had never hugged her lifelong friend after hugging strangers multiple times. Maid cafes are never sexualized in Japan ever, just don't go down that one street in Akihabara where the men are led off by the hand sheepishly blushing. Gag me. And Japanese men love to cry in front of their wives and would never break down once the wife leaves. I have never seen a Japanese movie showcase that move. Grr.

"I identify as many cultures."

So you're a Japanese man when it's convenient for you to get an article published? Are you nationally Japanese or just ethnically or culturally?

Homeland is an inherently racist word?

"After the Bush administration created the Department of Homeland Security after the 9/11 terrorist attacks, a Republican consultant and speechwriter Peggy Noonan urged, “the name Homeland Security grates on a lot of people, understandably. Homeland isn’t really an American word, it’s not something we used to say or say now.”

Yes, let's use a Washington Post article rather than a etymology professor. Yes, the google search results increased after 2001 Homeland Security was used but the word has been around since the 1660s and I've read multiple turn of the century lit on white people returning to their homeland, i.e. the town off the coast they were born in.

"But" is not disagreeing. I think the repeated offender for the author is the not acknowledging the makeover-ees feelings. But, that is how LGBT have decided to deal with the inner voices that invade from society. They are just that, not our own, they are the influence of society, and we can choose, we have to choose, to be influenced by someone, anyone else.

Karamo can't speak about being black when an Asian is speaking about being Asian, even though the Asian gay man was feeling alone. It's called relating bitches, and I'm done with people saying that is redirecting the conversation, it's extending the conversation. That's how we talk, the spotlight is shared, especially when someone's about to cry and doesn't want to be seen as crying, time to turn the spotlight.

The gay monk wasn't good enough, you should have invited the gay politician.

Yeah, causes I'm sure a politician has all the time in the world for a quick stint and cry. They picked a Japanese monk who travels to NY because they had a guest who travels to the West too. Did you want him to stop traveling back and forth? Did you want a pure, ethnic and cultural Japanese gay man who has no ties to the west to talk to this Western educated young man? Seriously?

This is just not how it works in Japan.

Being in a multi-cultural marriage between two rebels, discussions on facets of culture are plenty in my household. Culture should be respected enough to be considered but not held on a pedestal like we should never adjust or throw some things out. LGBT being quiet and private for instance. "Being seen" was Jonathan's advice, and a good one especially for a Japanese gay man that was called feminine since he was a kid. Some gay men can hide, but as Jonathan said, he couldn't hide what he was, he couldn't hide this. So fuck it. Don't hide. It's actually more dangerous for a feminine man to come off as anxious rather than gay and proud. It makes you more of a target if they think you won't fight back. Proud means, Imma throw hands too, bitch.

This is also from the civil rights playbook going back to Black America: never hold a protest or a fight without the cameras, without being seen. LGBT have found the more seen they are, in media, in the streets, the better off we are. When LGBT Americans were being "private" about our lifestyles, we died, a la 1980s. They won't care if you start dying off if they never saw you to begin with.

And hence why I think the author's real anger is from these 5 being seen dancing flamboyantly in Shibuya, in Harajuku, afforded the privilege of doing this safely because of their tourist status, cameras and very low violence rate in Tokyo, loud and obnoxiously. Honestly, they wouldn't have been invited or nominated if they didn't want that brash American-ness coming into their home, just for a taste, at least.

Here's my real anger, my own jealousy: Japan's queer community currently does not have marriage or adoption rights. US does, so we have progressed further. But we are also not that many years from being tied to cow fences with barbed wire, beaten with baseball bats and left for dead overnight. If things are so bad over there, maybe take a few pages from the civil right playbook we took so much time to perfect and produced by the Black Americans who fought first. But so far, I only hear loss of jobs and marriages, which we still have here too. Stop trying to divide us, we are one community, LGBT around the world and we are here to try to help. Take it or leave it, it's not like we're going to go organize your own Pride parade for you.

Rant over? I guess. Is this important enough to be put in the google results along with his. Hell no, anyone with half a mind can see he's reaching more than half the time. And any argument about: this wasn't covered! There are a shit ton of conversations that are not covered in the 45 min they have. They are not a civil rights show, it's a makeover show, doing their best in that direction anyway. Know what it is.

Next blog post, what research I would guess was happening behind the scenes for each of the 5? I'm pretty sure I saw Jonathan doing Japanese style makeup there...

[lunarlooroo]

I loved all of your 🔥🔥🔥prompts where Heather and Severus where going at each other heh. I have a traditional crack!fic request: the ministry mandates that sex ed be taught at Hogwarts. Unfortunately, this year Snape and his assistant are in charge of addressing the whole student body en masse. It ends up being an uncomfortable experience for most, a hilarious one for some, but also an interesting one for Heather ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

DAY TWO OF TWELVE DAYS OF FICMAS!

Probably not as raunchy as what you had in mind. Also, I did the bare minimum amount of research into this topic, so don’t hold it against me if there are any glaring inaccuracies.

“Come, Heather. We are due to give the lecture on sexuality education this year.” Severus walked past her, scowling up a storm.

Blinking, she hastened her footsteps to catch up with him. “Wait, what? What do you mean?”

“Are you not aware of the most recent demand from the Ministry?”

She frowned. “I think I heard something about it, but I thought Poppy would be in charge or something!”

“Well, last week the Sorting Hat decreed that the responsibility would be foisted onto me. Otherwise, I would never be involved in such a troublesome matter,” he said in distaste.

Well, that really put a new perspective on ‘picking a name from a hat’.

“Okay, but what does that have to do with me?” She raised an eyebrow. “The hat didn’t call my name, now did it?”

Severus stopped and turned to face her with a smug expression. “Indeed. However, as my apprentice, you are obliged to carry out tasks that I set aside for you. Trying to impart such delicate information to immature cretins is something I refuse to do alone.”

Sighing, she nodded in resignation. “Okay, but why am I only hearing about this now? Wouldn’t it have been better if we’d done some sort of preparation?”

“What is there to prepare?” he asked dryly, “Ah, good they are here.”

Heather walked through the door after him and almost froze in shock. What seemed like the entire population of students, from the first to seventh years, were seated in the room, which had probably been expanded for this very purpose.

She caught Severus’ arm and pulled him closer. “The lecture isn’t for all the students, is it?” she hissed, “That’s just preposterous! What we’d need to teach 11-year-olds and 17-year-olds are totally different!

Severus sneered, crossing his arms. “Blame the sodding Ministry. This was not my idea at all. Fortunately, in future years we will only need to give the talk to the first years.”

Heather didn’t know how they were going to pull this off, let alone next year’s.

“Attention!” Severus said, not even bothering with a Sonorus. The whole room quietened, knowing better than to cross their Potions Master. “As you are no doubt aware, this lecture is focussed on sexuality education.” A few snickers sounded. Severus glared around, cowing everyone into silence.

“Make no mistake. This is not sexeducation orsexualeducation. Surely even you lot can fumble through that yourselves without me to hold your hand through it.”

Heather had to stifle a laugh at the innuendo, knowing Severus must have said it on purpose, despite his straight face. She could see a few students half-disturbed and half-amused by their strictest Professor saying anything even remotelysuggestive.

“We will begin with basic anatomy.” Severus produced a large scientific diagram with both the male and female human body, parts annotated clearly. He ignored the sudden chatter for about a minute, before shushing them all.

“We will begin with the male body. Pre-puberty, the testicles are less than 4 millilitres in volume.” The image of the testicles on the diagram lit up. “Puberty is the period in an adolescent’s life when they undergo changes to their body for sexual maturation. Theoretically, after puberty the person is a fully mature adult. Of course, I know this is rarely the case.” He stared pointedly at the seventh and sixth years, who fidgeted in their seats.

“In males, puberty begins with the enlargement of the testicles, typically beyond 4 millilitres. They experience an increase in height and muscle mass. Some pubic hair will grow around the groin. Thereafter, their penises grow in length and their voice breaks and begins to deepen. They begin to grow facial and axillary hair.”

As Severus described the changes that occur through puberty, the diagram changed as well. Up until the picture of the boy became a man.

He then went on to describe the development of females in a similar manner. Though Heather noticed the girls looked a tad discomfited at having a male teacher teach them this.

She was rather impressed that Severus knew that much about this subject, though. She probably wouldn’t have been able to give this much detail, and so clinically, too.

“If you have any questions thus far, you may direct them to Miss Potter.”

Surprised at being called, she straightened to attention. She placed an encouraging smile on her face, stepping forward to receive questions.

A few hands were raised, mostly from boys. There were a few girls that she saw seemed to want to ask something, but were too shy to.

“What does axillary mean?” a third year Gryffindor asked.

Heather gave Severus a look, wordlessly suggesting that he stay away from scientific jargon for the remainder of his lecture. “It is the scientific name for the armpit region. Next?”

Most of the questions were simple and easy to explain. Eventually, she managed to get the shyer kids to speak up as well. The older students, on the other hand, were beginning to fall asleep.

Severus then moved on to explain the mechanics of intercourse and reproduction, speaking so dryly that not even the most rambunctious of students were able to make any dirty jokes.

In fact, some of them were looking rather disturbed by how boring Severus was able to make sex sound.

“Poor Miss Potter. The bat can’t be very satisfying in bed if this is how he’s like. I bet his idea of foreplay is reading a Potions journal.”

Because she was closer to students, she was able to hear the snide whisper from one of the sixth years. Though she didn’t put it past Severus go have heard it anyway. He had ears as sharp as, well, a bat.

Far from being offended, Heather was beyond amused. She certainly had no complaints about her lover’s prowess in bed, not that it was any business of her students’.

She didn’t if know what people said about men with big noses was correct, since a single anecdotal case wasn’t exactly robust evidence, but suffice to say these boys were reallyoff the mark.

Shaking her head, she banished the train of thought from her mind. A classroom was hardly an appropriate place to be thinking of such things.

“We will now be covering our last main topic. Menstruation. Sometimes referred to as monthly bleeding or periods. You will find, of course, that not every person’s menstrual cycle is the common 28 days. Each person’s body varies, so naturally no two cycles are exactly the same.”

A group of boys began making a ruckus. One foolhardy one amongst them stood up with a defiant tilt to his chin. “Why do we have to sit here and listen to this? It’s gross, girly stuff! Sir.”

The female yearmates sitting around the group all pinned their collective ire on them. Heather foresaw that these idiots wouldn’t be enjoying the next few months. It was when she saw some younger girls hunch in on themselves, ashamed, that she wanted to throttle the boys herself though. Puberty was difficult enough without ignorant people making them feel embarrassed about their own bodies.

Severus got to them before she could.

“Farley,” Severus intoned lowly. The single word was enough to make the boy pale and look regretful of his decision to speak. “Tell me, do you have a mother, sisters, aunts, any females close to you?”

The boy, Dorian Farley, looked back to his friends for help, but none of them dared to meet his eyes. Heather resisted the urge to scoff. Typical.

“Answer the question!”

Farley jumped, visibly gulping. “Y-yes, sir.”

She nodded to herself. The boy was a middle child, with two sisters. One of whom had been in the same year as Rian and the other, a third year sitting right in this very room.

“Tell me then, why you would disparage a natural process that occurs in most women, a process, I might add, that was crucial to your very existence? Any reason other than pure ignorance and selfishness, of course.”

His younger sister, Bella Farley, was glaring daggers across the room at him, eyes promising some sort of retribution. The girl was a spitfire, Heather knew.

“Well, don’t keep us all waiting, Farley. Surely you have a good reason to dismiss this heavy burden placed on women everywhere by nature. Perhaps you do not deem it necessary to learn more because you do not respect the hardship they have to face on a regular basis and you have no intention of doing what you can to ease the struggle?”

A few moments passed before Farley realized that Severus really wouldwait for his answer before continuing. The combined stares of everyone in the room might have done the trick as well.

“N-nothing, Professor. I don’t have a good reason. Sorry.” His words all but slurred together as he forced them out, face burning red. He sat down hard enough that a ‘thump’ echoed through the room.

Severus continued to Lookat Farley for a moment more, before stating, “Now, as I was saying…”

No one made a peep during the rest of the lecture, especially not the boys.

By the end of it all, Severus was on the receiving end of multiple starry-eyed gazes, not the least of which was her own. He had made himself something of a hero, with his passionate speech. On the menstrual cycle, of all things.

He had always been considerate of her during her periods – understanding when she felt a little moodier and not holding it against her, casually handing her a hot bottle charmed to remain at a perfect temperature, even handfeeding her chocolate, on some memorable occasions.

“If any of you have any personal questions that you don’t feel comfortable asking now, please feel free to arrange a meeting with either of us, or submitting a note if that is easier for you.” Heather said, as Severus wrapped up the lesson.

Heather beamed up at Severus as the last student filed out. “You did a wonderful job! I barely even needed to do anything! I don’t know why you insisted I be here.”

Her lover turned his back to her to pack up his diagrams and models, not saying a word.

Pursing her lips, she pondered over his behaviour. A delighted smile took over her face. “You were nervous!”

“Of course not!” he rebutted, too quickly. He faced her with an indignant frown. “I was- concerned, that I would not be able to instruct them properly. I’m not the first person anyonewould go to for matters of such a delicate nature.” He ended his sentence with a deprecating twist to his lips.

She shook her head fondly, going up to wrap her arms around him. “Severus, believe me when I say that you handled that excellently. The only thing I would find fault with is your use of too-complicated language. If you had perhaps dumbed down your words a little, then it would have been perfect.”

“It went better than I expected, I admit.”

“Oh come on, that’s an understatement if I ever heard one. You’ve amassed quite a following amongst the female student,” she said teasingly, “And who could blame them? You were quite thorough in your advocation for menstrual cycle awareness. My gentleman.”

Pink dusted over Severus’ cheeks. “Nonsense.”

Giggling, Heather leaned up to peck his lips. “I’m not joking. And I really am impressed with your lecture. You really got them to take the topic seriously. There were hardly any dirty jokes at all! Well, aside from your own, of course.”

Severus rolled his eyes. “Well, at any rate I’m glad that’s over.”

“Mmh. I’d say you deserve some reprieve after all that. Why don’t we head back to our quarters and just relax.” She lowered her voice to a husky whisper. “Don’t worry, I can do all the work.”

His hands clenched in her robes. “That, Heather, is a fine suggestion indeed.”

[onlystraightforjongup]

Tanzania 2018

This January, I traveled for 24 days.  Of those days, I spent almost 3 days traveling, 1 night in Amsterdam, and 20 days in Tanzania.  I went to Arusha National Park, Tarangire National Park, the Kno Forest, Ngorongoro Conservation Area, and Serengeti National Park.

Sunset over Tarangire National Park

Between those visits, I got to live with three of the hundred tribes in Tanzania.  They were the Maasai, a pastoral, polygamous society with massive land issues and almost no women’s rights, the Hadza, a completely traditional hunter-gatherer group known for their equality, their conservation and as the happiest people in the world, and the Iraqw, an agro-pastoral society with resource and expansion issues and also with little women’s rights.

A young Maasai boy, looking curiously at the camera lens

My experiences there - with the animals, with the guides, with the country - are hard to explain.  This was the greatest trip of my life, and I’m so, so extremely lucky that I got to do it.  Under the cut, I’ve tried to explain as much as I could and tell stories.  This trip was more than a vacation, and it’s opened my eyes to so many new people and issues.

This is a long post, so feel free to skip it or just scroll for photos.  It was hard for me to decide what made the cut and what didn’t, but I think I’ve included only the very best of the trip.  The problem is - there was a lot of the very best.

I said above that it’s hard to explain this trip because we did so much.  Every day felt like a week, beginning usually by waking in a tent before dawn and ending around midnight in a circle around the fire.  I’m going to start with two stories, slightly out of context.  Both involve the Maasai, one near the end of the trip and one on our very first day in Africa.

First, is our first day in Africa, in the Lark Plains and on Maasai land.  Three Maasai girls/women came over to talk with us.  I call them both girls and women because all three were married with children, but we estimated their ages between 14 and 16.  Midway through the conversation, they told us “Moyo moja” a Swahili phrase that means “One heart.”  To the Maasai, it means that we’re all different people and all from different places, but we have one heart.  We are all human.  Tunakupenda, they told us.  We love you.

The Lark Plains, a Maasai grazeland

Second, was our last day in the Ngorongoro Conservation Area.  We’d watched the Maasai slaughter a goat, and it now roasted around the fire.  The sun had dropped in the sky, and 18 students, 1 professor, 5 guides, and 3 Maasai men sat around the fire.  We started a discussion, complete with a translation from Maasai to Swahili to English and back.  The men asked us what we think they need to do to solve their problems, particularly land conservation and hunger.  We answered women’s rights.

Three Maasai men, preparing a goat 

With those two stories in mind, I’m going to try and explain the places we visited through pictures and interspersed stories.

That requires first mentioning our guides.  My university went through the company Dorobo, which I highly, highly suggest if you ever travel to Tanzania.  The couple who owns it knows our professor because of past trips, so they came along, and our guides were Mama Mage (pronounced Maggie), Elisa, and Mika.  Elisa and Mage were 2 of 6 female guides in Tanzania, and both told us about the struggles women face.  Mama Mage even showed us the scars on her hands, face, and neck from a time in school where she bled through her skirt while on her period, and her teacher beat her because she asked to answer a question while still sitting down.

Mama Mage with a leopard tortoise 

Mika with a flap-head chameleon 

Arusha National Park

A blue monkey

A giraffe drinking

African Fish Eagle

Tarangire National Park

Red-billed Hornbill

Elephants

Impala

The Kno Forest - a tropical, high elevation rainforest

A waterfall, which we swam in - worth it, despite catching mild giardia from it!

The Kno

At the Kno, we visited our first tribe, the Iraqw.  We met a woman, who had never heard of a place where men and women were equal.  She said little about her thoughts on it, and the man translating between Iraqw and Swahili, Karoli, told us it’s not for him.  The woman asked what farming we do in America, because as a woman she takes care of the fields, the children, and all cooking, cleaning and other house chores.  We told her about little vegetable and spice gardens in our backyards.

She told us if an Iraqw man married us, he’d divorce us by sunset.

Three Iraqw people and Jenn, who is showing the kids a picture of themselves, while their grandmother watches on

Nas, to Karoli and the Iraqw.  Thank you.

From there, we went to live with the Hadzabe.  A much different tribe, with less work because of their hunter-gatherer lifestyle.  They had few belongings and a lot of laughter.  Every Hadza person has a voice and so everyone is equal.

Two Hadza men standing with their weapons

But the Hadzabe face their own challenges.  They own 10% of the land they once did, opposed by other tribes and their own government for being “backwards” despite being, as determined by a study, the happiest people in Tanzania.  The last time the government attempted to force them to change was 1990.  It failed, like the other five previous attempts since the 1960s.

Hadzabe women collecting tubers

We tried a tuber named //equa.  The slashes represent a lateral click, a click in the side of your mouth.  There aren’t many Hazda, and their native language is dying.  It’s beautiful to listen to, with three distinct clicks and bird names which are an exact replica of the bird calls.

We also hunted with the Hadzabi, the Hadza men.  They practice sustainability, only taking as much as exactly necessary.  It’s also humane; they tip their arrows with the poison of the desert rose.  It kills animals within a minute if it enters their bloodstream.

The Hadza man I hunted with, holding a Van der Decken’s hornbill he caught

Above Average Joe, which we called him because he never told us his name and it’s what his shirt read (our translator explained the name later, and he told us he liked it), moved through the land silently, aware of every bird call, every sound, and no doubt very aware of the three students behind him, crashing through branches and quickly finding out every plant in the Yaeda Valley is covered in thorns.

Nube’eya, to the Hadzabe.  Thank you.

The Ngorogoro Crater

A young zebra with its mother

two wildebeest fighting

The view at the rim of the crater

Driving in this crater

A long-crested eagle

The Crater was the most beautiful place I’ve ever been, and wow, the pictures feel inadequate.  They just can’t capture it.

From there, we met with the Maasai.  We visited a tribe who rarely ever got visitors, one who lived the completely traditional way.  We were likely the first white people some of the children had ever seen, for there were no roads leading to the boma. 

The handbuilt home of the eldest wife, within the thorny walls of the boma

The boma is the home of a single family, which consists of a man, multiple wives, six in this case, and their children, about sixty in this case.  This is a typical size.  In the beginning, I said the Maasai face land problems.  They live in Ngorongoro Conservation Area, where they moved and were given permission to live, with restrictions, after they were manipulated out of Serengeti National Park.  

There were once 10,000 people.  Now there is 90,000, a number the Crater can’t sustain with its wildlife.  They are not allowed to grow crops, as that destroys natural habitat, nor can they hunt wild animals.  The people are malnourished and starving, eating only beef, goat, and drinking the milk from both.  Their population is skyrocketing, with no sign of slowing down, but the land is the same size and becoming lower and lower quality grazing.

Two Maasai half or full brothers posing for a woman who I taught how to use my camera

A young Maasai boy posing for a Maasai girl, who I showed how to use my camera

They asked us how we’d advise them to solve this problem.  And how do you answer?  You can’t tell them to stop their way of life, they can’t get more land... where do you go, what do you do?  We answered women’s rights, because right now, a woman’s status comes from her number of male children.  If that changed, then women wouldn’t push for more and more children, would be able to do more, to have other interests than raising kids and milking cows.  

They stopped and thought about it, saying they weren’t against it.  It’s hard, they said, because a man who gives his wives equal rights is seen as weak, unable to even control women.  

We answered, and ended the conversation, by saying sometimes, even if your society sees you as weak, standing up for what you believe in and what you know is right takes more strength than anything else.

Asha, to the Maasai people.  Thank you.

Ngorogoro Conservation Area

Maribu storks surrounding a lappet-faced vulture on a new carcass

A male lion resting with a full belly

Two cheetah cubs poking their heads out of the grass

Serengeti National Park

Two spotted hyaena with a wildebeest nearby and many wildebeest further away

hippos in a pond

A leopard female with a cub hidden further up the tree

This trip was the greatest thing I’ve ever done.  I learned so much, and I hardly touched upon my experiences there.  If anyone wants more stories, message me, because I am more than happy to share.  I hope this was somewhat coherent, and I hope you found it worth it to read until this point.  I’ll likely post more pictures at some point, in a point where it won’t be obscenely long like this one.  I took more than 2500 while I was there, and while I’m nowhere near Nat Geo quality, I still love a lot of them!

So to summarize my feelings about this trip and everyone involved with it: Asante, Tanzania.  Thank you.

[sciencespies]

Father Reginald Foster Used Latin to Bring History Into the Present

https://sciencespies.com/history/father-reginald-foster-used-latin-to-bring-history-into-the-present/

Father Reginald Foster Used Latin to Bring History Into the Present

The death of Latin has been greatly exaggerated.

Of course, Latin is no longer the default language for European learning and diplomacy, as it was from the Roman Empire through the early modern period. Since the implementation of Vatican II in the early 1960s, even many priests don’t speak the language in a meaningful way. Still, despite Latin’s decline in political and ecclesiastical circles, hundreds of folks around the globe continue to speak it as a living language—and no teacher is more responsible for the world’s remaining crop of latineloquentes (“Latin speakers”) as Friar Reginald Foster, the Carmelite monk who served as Latin secretary to four popes from 1969 until 2009, translating diplomatic papers and papal encyclicals into Latin, which remains the official language of the Holy See. Foster died on Christmas Day, at the age of 81.

In 2007, Foster himself lamented to the BBC that he thought the language was on its way out altogether. He worried that a modern world, illiterate in Latin, would lose contact with crucial portions of history, and half-jokingly recommended that then-Pope Benedict XVI replace Italy’s traditional siesta with a two-hour daily Latin reading.

The Pope never took up Foster’s suggestion, but the irony is that Foster had already managed, almost single-handedly, to reverse some of the trends that so troubled him. His deepest passion was teaching Latin at the Pontifical Gregorian University in Rome, starting in 1977, and running his famous spoken Latin course nearly every summer, beginning in 1985. Through these courses, Foster launched multiple generations of classicists who have used his techniques to bring their students into closer contact with a past that, until recently, had seemed to be vanishing.

Foster is well remembered for his boisterous, generous presence in the classroom and on field trips. He was beloved among students, and distrusted by Vatican grandees, for his eccentric habits, which included dressing in a blue plumber’s suit and issuing caustic statements about church hypocrisy. When he was teaching—in Rome until 2009, thereafter in Wisconsin—he often nursed a glass of wine. Known by the Latin sobriquet “Reginaldus” to his legions of pupils, who in turn refer to themselves as “Reginaldians,” Foster was a hero and a jester, a pug-nosed provocateur with a satirical streak who would have fit right into a comic epistle by Horace or Erasmus. “Like Socrates, his default mode in public was ironic,” says Michael Fontaine, an administrator and professor of Classics at Cornell University.

A portrait of Foster by artist Lucy Plowe

(Courtesy of Michael Fontaine)

Fontaine, who first met Foster in the spring of 1997, makes no bones about the extent of Foster’s legacy.

“Reginald Foster succeeded in reversing the decline in living Latin. He actually, really, genuinely did it. Reggie’s success is total: There is a burgeoning movement and critical mass of young people who have now learned Latin [as a spoken language]. Reggie taught some, his students taught some, those people are teaching some, and on and on. Some of the best Latinists in the world are in their 20s or early 30s”—a remarkable development that Fontaine credits squarely to Foster’s peerless influence.

Leah Whittington, an English professor at Harvard University, who first met Foster during a summer Latin course in 1997 when she was 17, recalls the friar’s “phenomenal, ebullient energy.” “He never sat down, never seemed to need rest or eat or sleep,” Whittington says. “It was as though he was fueled from within by love for Latin, love for his work, love for his students. I had never been pushed so hard by a teacher.”

Like all of Foster’s students who spoke with Smithsonian, Whittington recalls his visionary dedication to preserving Latin by keeping it alive in everyday conversation.

“For most classicists trained in the United States or in Great Britain, Latin was a learned, non-spoken language; it was not a language that one could converse in, like French or Spanish. But for Reginald, Latin was an everyday functional language that he used with his friends, his teachers, his colleagues, with himself and even in his dreams.”

Foster went to extraordinary lengths to make sure he was keeping his students as engaged as possible with their work outside the classroom, which the friar referred to not as homework but as ludi domestici—”games to play at home.” This playful approach often proved a revelation to students used to more staid ways of teaching a language they’d been told was dead. “It’s so rare to have an immersion experience in Latin that it couldn’t fail to improve and deepen your knowledge of the language and history,” says Scott Ettinger, a Latin and Greek teacher in the Bronx, who attended Foster’s summer course in 1996.

Daniel Gallagher, who in 2009 succeeded Foster in the Latin section of the Vatican Secretariat and today teaches the language at Cornell University, still marvels at Foster’s “extreme dedication to his students.”

“He told us, ‘Call me at 2 in the morning if you’re stuck,'” says Gallagher, who began studying with Foster in October 1995. “He said, ‘I’ll even come to your house to teach you Latin.’ And I learned that he wasn’t kidding—he really would come to my house.”

Foster launched multiple generations of classicists who have used his techniques to bring their students into closer contact with a past that, until recently, had seemed to be vanishing.

(Courtesy of Michael Fontaine)

Classicist Jason Pedicone recalls his first course with Foster in 2004: “He made me feel like learning Latin was a key that would unlock endless beauty and wisdom of history, art and literature.”

“Studying Greek and Latin with Reginald was spiritually enriching,” he says. “I don’t mean that in a doctrinal way; it was just really life-affirming and made me stand in awe of humanity and civilization.” In 2010, Pedicone co-founded the Paideia Institute with Eric Hewett, another of Foster’s students; the organization offers immersive courses in Latin and Greek.

Tales of Foster have long been common among anglophone classicists. Even those who never visited him in Rome had often heard something about this eccentric priest who gave free, immersive Latin lessons.

“I had heard for some time that there was a priest in Rome who spoke Latin and gave free summer courses where you actually spoke Latin,” says Alice Rubinstein, a now-retired Latin teacher living in Virginia. “I remember some woman telling me he was like a priestly version of Don Rickles.”

“[Foster] reminds me of the humanists I study in the 15th century, especially Lorenzo Valla,” says classicist Chris Celenza, a dean at Johns Hopkins University who took courses with Foster in 1993 and marvels at the friar’s unerring ability to bring the past into the present, to make old texts new. “Foster could almost ventriloquize the authors we were studying. He was a living anachronism, and I think he knew it and kind of delighted in that.”

In his obituary for Foster, John Byron Kuhner, who is writing a biography of the friar, sounded a similar note about Reginaldus’ uncanny ability to make ancient writers seem intimate and accessible—a closeness that he fostered in his students: “The writers and artists of the past seemed to be equally [Foster’s] friends. He loved them in a way we could see, the way we love our living friends who happen to be far away.”

Foster’s famous summer Latin course was full of day trips. Traditional jaunts included the site in Formia where Cicero was assassinated by Mark Antony’s men in 43 B.C. (“Reginald would weep while reciting Cicero’s epitaph,” Whittington recalls); the gardens at Castel Gandolfo, the Pope’s summer residence, where students sang Latin songs to “papal bulls”—that is, cows grazing outside the Pope’s house; to the port town of Ostia; Pompeii and Naples; the spot at Largo Argentina in Rome where Julius Caesar was assassinated; the castle in Latium where Thomas Aquinas was born.

“Walking with Reggie through these Italian sites made Rome come alive in a way that it couldn’t have without someone of his encyclopedic knowledge of Latin,” says Alexander Stille, a journalism professor at Columbia University, who profiled Foster for the American Scholar in 1994.

“Foster used to tell us that ‘Reading Augustine in translation is like listening to Mozart on a jukebox,'” Stille says, “and that being in Rome without access to Latin was to see an impoverished version of it. He made the city come alive.”

Foster is well remembered for his boisterous, generous presence in the classroom and on field trips.

(Courtesy of Michael Fontaine)

There are many classicists (I am one of them) who never met Foster but who benefited from his teachings by studying under his protégés, many of whom use techniques pioneered by Foster.

“When I led student trips to Italy, I modeled them on the field trips Foster used to take with us,” says Helen Schultz, now a Latin teacher at a private school in New Hampshire. “On one memorable occasion, he joined me and a group of my students to talk about their studies and his work at the Vatican. He didn’t just love Latin; he also loved and cared deeply about every one of the students who learned from him and were inspired by him to do our best to keep his legacy alive.”

Like many of Foster’s students, Ada Palmer, a European history professor at the University of Chicago, says the friar opened up a whole world of post-Classical Latin literature for his charges. Rather than falling back on the typical, and almost entirely ancient, canon taught in most classrooms, he introduced scholars to the Latin of St. Jerome’s autobiography, or medieval bestiaries, or Renaissance books of magic, or rollicking pub songs from the 17th and 18th centuries, Palmer says, and thereby widened the possibilities for Latin studies across the world.

“Reggie’s enthusiasm was for all Latin equally,” Palmer says, “and he encouraged us to explore the whole vast, tangled and beautiful garden of Latin, and not just the few showpiece roses at its center. He trained scholars who have revolutionized many fields of history and literary studies.”

Celenza agrees, referring to the millions of pages of Latin from the Renaissance onward as “a lost continent” that Foster played a central role in rediscovering.

Foster was famous for many of his one-liners, perhaps none more so than his frequent reminder to students that “Every bum and prostitute in ancient Rome spoke Latin.” (In one variant on this line, “dog-catcher” takes the place of “bum.”) His point was that one needn’t be an elite to appreciate the riches of a language that began, after all, as a vernacular. But Foster’s interest in bums and prostitutes was not merely rhetorical. “He did a lot of good for the prostitutes of Rome,” Ettinger says. Foster was known for giving what little money he had to the city’s downtrodden, even though, by keeping his classes free, he ensured that he had practically no income. (He was also known sometimes to pay a student’s rent in Rome for a semester.)

“In one’s life, if you’re lucky, you’ll meet a certain number of people who are genuinely extraordinary and who try to change your life in some way. Reggie was one of those people in my life,” Stille says. “There were few people on the planet who have the relationship to Latin that he did.”

In his final weeks, Foster’s friends say, he was as boisterous as ever, even after testing positive for Covid-19: He continued working with Daniel P. McCarthy—a Benedictine monk who began studying with Foster in the fall of 1999—on their book series codifying Foster’s teaching methods. And he maintained lively conversations with protégés, often in Latin, via phone and video calls.

Today, classicists, philologists and anyone else who wishes they had taken a Latin immersion course with Foster can console themselves with several options offered by his former students. Each summer, you will find Ettinger helping organize the annual Conventiculum aestivum (“summer convention”) in Lexington, Kentucky, an 8- to 12-day immersive program that welcomes 40 to 80 attendees a year. Other Foster protégés, including Whittington, Gallagher, Fontaine and Palmer, have taught immersive classes through the Paideia Institute. Foster may be gone, but his dedication to Latin as a living language, one that puts us in direct conversation with our past, continues to thrive against all odds.

#History

[made-from-galaxies]

As his environment changed, suspect in El Paso shooting learned to hate

A police officer stands outside a home in Allen, Tex., believed to be associated with a mass shooting at a busy shopping area in the border city of El Paso on Aug. 3. (Jake Bleiberg/AP)

ALLEN, Tex. — Patrick Crusius watched the sprawling north suburbs of Dallas where he grew up dramatically change over the course of his short life. The number of Hispanic residents soared, while the non-Hispanic white population plummeted from nearly 80 percent to just more than half. Diversity flourished across Collin County, in its restaurants, shops, neighborhoods and in the public schools, where one high school welcomed both a new black student union and a prayer center for Muslims and others.

Authorities think Crusius, 21, closely noted the shift and spent countless hours on the Internet studying the white supremacist theory known as “the great replacement.” And then, after hanging out with family members late last week, he jumped in his car with his newly purchased assault-style rifle and made the 10-hour drive to El Paso, where, authorities say, he fatally shot 22 people and injured dozens at a shopping center on Saturday near the Mexican border to stop “the Hispanic invasion of Texas,” according to a statement police think he posted online shortly before the attack.

On Friday, police said in an affidavit for an arrest warrant that Crusius was clear about his intent. In the affidavit, which was obtained by The Washington Post, he told detectives that he shot multiple innocent victims and that he had been targeting “Mexicans.”

[Read the arrest warrant affidavit]

Crusius surrendered after the shootings when police encountered his car at a nearby intersection. El Paso police Detective Adrian Garcia wrote that Crusius got out of the car with his hands in the air and declared: “I’m the shooter.”

A car that police say belongs to Patrick Crusius, 21, the suspect in the El Paso mass shooting, is shown at an intersection near where the shooting occurred on Aug. 3. (Robert Moore/For The Washington Post)

That Crusius apparently was quietly but thoroughly indoctrinated into racist theories on websites such as 8chan, where police think he posted a missive attempting to explain his hatred, came as a complete shock to his family members back in Collin County, according to Chris Ayres, a lawyer who represents the family. He was with his twin sister, Emily, just two nights before the shooting, and he did not betray anything unusual going on in his life, Ayres said. His grandparents, with whom he lived until about six weeks ago as he attended Collin College, said they always welcomed him in their home and never had a problem with him.

[Will taking down 8chan stop the worst people on the Internet?]

“This all came out of left field,” Ayres said, adding that Crusius would occasionally chat about history and current events but that no one thought his opinions were unusual. “There weren’t hot political opinions flying back and forth or anything.”

Crusius’s parents — Bryan, a therapist, and Lori, a hospice admissions nurse — said in a statement this week that they are devastated, believing their son’s actions “were apparently influenced and informed by people we do not know, and from ideas and beliefs that we do not accept or condone, in any way. He was raised in a family that taught love, kindness, respect, and tolerance — rejecting all forms of racism, prejudice, hatred, and violence.”

Lori Crusius called police several weeks ago when she realized her son was in the process of obtaining an assault-style rifle, Ayres said, noting that her call was simply “informational.” She wanted to find out if he could legally have one, which he could.

Ayres said that there was no indication of why he wanted the gun — Crusius occasionally went to a gun range with his father — and that his mother had “absolutely zero concern about any violence or imminent threat.”

Investigators are looking into whether Crusius might have been radicalized online, where they say he has claimed he spent nearly eight hours a day. But friends and former teachers and classmates say he might have been hardened, too, by the tensions in his changing community in real life.

Many people here describe the diversifying community in an overwhelmingly positive way, speaking of a place that has thrived on new arrivals who have flocked here for plentiful jobs and good schools.

But some say the changes have come with a backlash.

Sisilen Simo, 19, a Liberty High School graduate, said she endured racist comments from teachers and students alike and was ultimately inspired to create a Black Student Union at the school in 2017. After President Trump’s victory, students started showing up at school with “Make America Great Again” T-shirts and hats and began making jokes citing the president’s policy positions. Simo said she started hearing chatter about building the wall and banning Muslims that she said made her and other students of color feel uncomfortable.

“So when I hear the kid who shot up Walmart went to my school, part of me was surprised,” Simo said. “The other part was like, ‘This is America.’ ”

When Crusius was in high school, some students bullied him, friends said; one friend said a group of Spanish-speaking students harassed him in the hallways. White-supremacist groups peppered his college campus with pamphlets. And an area public official said he received threats and racist screeds from people who didn’t shy away from giving their real names and addresses.

Michael Phillips, a Collin College professor and historian of race relations in the Dallas-Fort Worth region, said some residents continued to espouse racist sentiments.

Shortly after the 2016 election, a flier in a Collin County town warned “Muslims, Indians, Blacks, and Jews” to leave Texas and “go back to where [they] came from” or face “torture starting now.” While Crusius was a student at Collin College, fliers appeared on campus and in mailboxes around the county that spoke of dangers posed by immigrants, arguing that they are crime-prone and a threat to white women. Other fliers warned of harm from interracial dating, Phillips recalled.

This week, as north Texas baked in the summer sun, Mario Cesar Ramirez sat in the small ice cream shop he owns a few miles from Crusius’s childhood home — with a Spanish menu of Mexican ice pops and traditional desserts — and contemplated the roots of Crusius’s hate.

“He saw the majority started fading, shrinking away,” said Ramirez, who opened his first business, a bakery, when he was 23 and now runs a taqueria chain. “He started seeing more bakeries and taco shops . . . and by the time he went to high school, it was a full melting pot.”

Years ago, when Ramirez used to drop his nephew, who is a few years older than Crusius, off at the nearby Head Start program, he noticed the great diversity of the preschoolers and said he hoped they would grow up to be friends. But his idea of a welcoming, inclusive country “forever changed” in 2016 with Trump’s election, he said.

“The things that Mr. Smith and Mrs. Smith used to only think, they can talk about now,” he said. “You go to the movies and you will hear, ‘Here come the f—ing Mexicans.’ I have felt it. I have heard it.”

Crusius, he said, appears to have been in some ways a symptom of that phenomenon, part of the group that now feels it can “tell us openly, ‘We don’t like you; you’re not welcome,’ ” Ramirez said.

Patrick Crusius, 21, is the suspect in the mass shooting in El Paso. (El Paso Police Department/AFP/Getty Images)

A few blocks up the road, Uriel Trujillo smiled when he talked about the diversity of the customers who frequent the Mexican restaurant his family opened in 1976. He said that when he decided to add menudo, a traditional Mexican soup made with cow’s stomach, to the menu a few years ago, he was nervous about how it would be received. “But now I see Anglo people eating it, I see African people eating it,” Trujillo said, remembering a white customer from San Antonio and a black customer from Louisiana separately telling him it reminded them of home. “Now we sell one every day.”

Trujillo also thinks, though, about the bullying his 13-year-old son has experienced at the same middle school that Crusius attended. At times he has come home crying, complaining that other students ask him: “Are you illegal?”

The population of Collin County, north of Dallas, has more than doubled since 2000, to more than a million in 2018, according to U.S. Census data. That growth — driven in large part by the arrival of new businesses, including Toyota, Liberty Mutual and the commercial property insurer FM Global — has come with increased diversity. As the county has undergone a business and housing boom, the white non-Hispanic population fell from 77 percent in 2000 to 56 percent in 2018, while the Hispanic population jumped from 10 percent of county residents to 15 percent. The total number of Hispanic residents tripled in those years, as the total population surged across demographics.

“It’s a microcosm of the United States,” said Harry LaRosiliere, the first African American to be elected mayor of the county’s largest city, Plano. In 2017, LaRosiliere was challenged by an opponent who promised to “keep Plano suburban” — which LaRosiliere said was “absolutely a dog whistle” for some residents who want to keep the city the white, wealthy suburb they knew. His critics deny that, saying their concerns are about preserving a “suburban lifestyle” and have nothing to do with race or ethnicity.

Friends and classmates said that Crusius — who has an older brother in addition to his twin sister — grew up as a somewhat odd, lonely boy who loved snakes and playing video games such as Halo. He had difficulty interacting socially and had an aversion to loud noises — particularly music. His parents had a troubled marriage that was marred by his father’s drug and alcohol problem, the father, Bryan, said in a self-published memoir in 2014.

In 2013, Patrick Crusius was enrolled in Liberty High School, where his mother, Lori, taught health sciences. She resigned from her teaching position in June 2014 to return to nursing, and her son ultimately enrolled in Plano Senior High School, where classmates said he was bullied.

Allison Pettitt, a classmate, said she saw Crusius pushed around in the hallways and “cussed out by some of the Spanish-speaking kids.” She said that bullying was common at the school and that teachers often ignored it.

“He started getting more depressed closer to the end of junior year,” Pettitt said. “He started wearing a trench coat to school and becoming more antisocial and withdrawn.”

Lesley Range-Stanton, a spokeswoman for Plano’s school district, declined to comment about whether Crusius was bullied, citing student privacy.

In the fall of 2017, Crusius enrolled in a local community college, Collin College, imagining he might one day have a career in software development.

“I’m not really motivated to do anything more than what’s necessary to get by. Working in general sucks, but I guess a career in Software Development suits me well,” he wrote in his LinkedIn profile.

But according to the missive published online just before the shooting, he may have become increasingly disillusioned. Classmates said he would mutter to himself in class.

Then he bought a gun several weeks ago.

It is unclear how long Crusius might have been planning the mass shooting of which he is accused, but he moved out of his grandparents’ home about six weeks before the shooting, and it appears he wrote an online composition some time ahead of the attack, posting a rambling screed that borrowed language and ideas from white supremacist propaganda and parroted ideas that Trump has espoused about a minority “invasion.”

The missive said that “Hispanics will take control of the state and local government of my beloved Texas” and ultimately destroy the country.

After his 10-hour drive to the Mexican border, police said he became lost in a neighborhood and stopped at a Walmart because he was hungry. Then he allegedly strode through the parking lot and the store, gunning down shoppers with a blank look on his face. Ultimately, 22 people, including eight Mexican citizens, would die.

Crusius is charged with capital murder, and federal authorities are investigating the massacre as a potential domestic terrorism attack.

People leave flowers and dedications outside the Walmart where 22 people were fatally shot Aug. 3. (Michael Robinson Chavez/The Washington Post)

Robert Moore in El Paso and Mark Berman in Washington contributed to this report. Nevins is a freelance journalist based in Texas.

Source: https://opengeekhouse.com.br/2019/08/11/as-his-environment-changed-suspect-in-el-paso-shooting-learned-to-hate/

[biofunmy]

It’s the Anniversary of Everything!

By any measure, the summer of ’69 was, as the kids say today, “a lot.”

June had the Stonewall riots, a landmark moment in the modern gay rights movement. July, the moon landing. August, the grisly Manson murders, followed by the endless mud of Woodstock.

These events have been fodder for countless songs, movies, university courses, history books and romance novels. And now, in 2019, they have begot another special summer: of 50th-anniversary celebrations that are public, elaborate and full of nostalgia. Millions of people from around the world are joining in, along with sneaker designers, toothbrush companies, hotels, museums and news organizations.

Far be it for us to deflate the spirits of those, say, dancing in constellation-printed rompers and drinking Budweiser at the Space Center Houston a couple of weeks ago. But then to happen upon less momentous commemorations, like a copy of People magazine celebrating the 30th anniversary of the movie “When Harry Met Sally” at the corner newsstand, is to wonder: Just what is the point of marking them? Is doing so essential somehow for society’s psychological well-being, an attempt to collectivize experience increasingly diffused by the distractions of the internet? Or just more chances for corporations to sell us stuff?

Also, what’s with the nice round numbers (or, more specifically, multiples of five)? “We need to point out the strangeness of it, the peculiarness of it, the fact that no one voices dissent in any media forum, to say ‘We are overdoing this’ or ‘Let’s talk about something else this weekend,’” said William Johnston, a history professor emeritus at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst, and the author of the 1991 book “Celebrations: The Cult of Anniversaries in Europe and the United States Today.” “Something gets wiped out because it’s not an even number. Hitler’s assassination attempt, it was 51 years ago, so we won’t pay attention to it.”

Many people seem to enjoy celebrating significant anniversaries of cultural occasions almost as much as those of their own marriages.

Nineteen percent more people visited Space Center Houston in the first week of July than the same week last year, according to the organization.

Five million people (more than half of the New York City’s entire population) attended the Stonewall 50 celebrations that culminated the last week in June; 200,000 of them, about 130,000 more than last year, walked in the official parade, wearing rainbow outfits and Lady Liberty costumes, according to Chris Frederick, the executive director of NYC Pride.

“Invitations for Pride events were coming from every brand, every hotel, every bar, every toothpaste,” said Ross Matsubara, 34, a publicist and style director in New York who is gay. “I think if I was an older cis male who isn’t as prideful, I might be sick of it.”

Turn it On Again

One of the main reasons this hype is happening now, said Carolyn Kitch, a professor of media and communications at Temple University, is because these Big Three events were among the first to have vibrant, cohesive footage (and much of it in color). “There are iconic photographs, iconic news coverage that every television station and newspaper wants to use,” she said. “It makes the stories take on a greater importance.”

Mr. Johnston pointed out that “100-year anniversaries only have black and white photos. That’s why 1969 is just ideal. All the television stations have tapes of Woodstock, Stonewall, the moon landing. You can ignore it for the weekend of the anniversary if you want, but it’s the same choice as choosing to turn off the World Series.”

People also live longer now, and are in better health in their 70s and 80s. That means there are a lot of people who were adults during the original event and want to revisit the moment 50 years later (perhaps more clearheadedly).

In 1969, Steven Janney Smith was a 19-year-old with long, unruly hair and a wardrobe that included a rhinestone-collared T-shirt. He remembers driving all night from a party in Detroit at 100 miles an hour to get to Woodstock for the tail end of the festival. “I was at a house party, and I just decided, ‘I want to go,’” said Mr. Smith, now 69 and an interventional radiologist in Chicago. “I can’t remember what bands we saw, but I remember it stunk. The festival was in a cow pasture, which nobody ever mentions in rhapsodic stories about that sacred gathering.”

Still, the anniversary is giving him a chance to pull out his photos and figure out how to get some of that freedom back. “There were no cellphones then, no one knew where you were. I didn’t have any place to be, I didn’t have any worries in the world,” Mr. Smith said. “That was a type of freedom that I need to get back now.” He paused: “I need to find somewhere to celebrate this anniversary with people who get it.”

One group he might not want to party with are the younger generations, for whom the monoculture is a distant concept, flocking to these celebrations.

For some it’s a fascination for events that happened before their time. “I’ve always joked my biggest regret in life was not being born in time for the moon landing,” said Stefanie Waldek, 27, a writer, editor and digital producer based in Brooklyn who traveled to Houston for the lunar landing anniversary. “I think that the moon landing was the greatest achievement of mankind, and I wanted to be surrounded by people who made it possible.”

Ms. Waldek met astronauts from the Space Shuttle program and listened to flight controllers who were part of the missions speak. She also met current administrators who are plotting upcoming missions back to the moon and then to Mars. She visited the newly restored mission control center made famous by the movie “Apollo 13.” Still, “I don’t necessarily think that being in Houston for the 50th anniversary could ever compare to watching the landing live in 1969,” she wrote in an email. ”But I did feel a great sense of gravitas.”

For others “milestoning,” as we’ll call it, might offer a chance to escape their current troubling reality of ecological emergency and mass shootings. “The frenzy of collective remembering supplies an excuse briefly to forget everything else,” said Mr. Johnston.

Emilie Aries, 31, who owns a professional development company based in Denver, will spend the Woodstock anniversary weekend at her in-laws’ farm in North Branch, N.Y. Her father-in-law was at the original event, and he’s inviting his peers over for a party with a local band. Guests have been instructed to bring photos of themselves from the ’60s to display on a tree.

“I want to be around all these hippies and talk to them about how they rebelled against the establishment,” Ms. Aries said. “It is a counter to the hate we are seeing from the current administration today. I want to be reminded of the power of love and see if I can take away any lessons.”

Mr. Smith is excited that some millennials want to learn from his generation. “I always thought they see baby boomers as some sort of fossils who screwed up things for them like climate change,” he said.

The Rainbow Reconnection

The main argument against anniversary celebrations, particularly the glitzy 50ths, is that they’ve been corrupted by corporate interests.

Corporate sponsors of Stonewall 50 included T-Mobile, Mastercard, Hyatt, Macy’s, Target, Delta, Diet Coke, Unilever, Nordstrom, MAC, Skyy vodka, Omnicom Group and many, many others. In late July, a month after the anniversary celebration, there was still a sign on a bus stop in the West Village from TD Bank announcing itself as “A Proud Partner of Stonewall 50.”

“Commercial enterprises are exploiting this event to call attention to their product,” Mr. Johnston said. “I think most people can see right through that.”

But while Mr. Matsubara noted rainbows at a WeWork, an “old fuddy-duddy dress shop” and on Seamless, he was untroubled. “Some might be doing it for the wrong reasons, but I also feel these brands and organizations have the right to celebrate in their own way,” he said. “Everyone else is.”

Including, perhaps most tellingly, media organizations.

Warner Bros Television is honoring the 25th anniversary of “Friends” (didn’t we just honor the 20th?) by staging a month long pop-up of Central Perk, its fictional cafe, in SoHo. Starting Sept. 7, there will be set recreations, photo ops and, of course, a chance to buy merchandise from the on-site store.

Paramount Pictures and Fathom Events have announced they will be screening the original 1979 movie “Star Trek” in theaters for two days in September to commemorate the movie’s 40th anniversary (this following Columbia’s successful revival of “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” in 2017).

As it goes monthly this month, Entertainment Weekly magazine, always a chronicler of significant cultural anniversaries, will probably be doing so even more. Besides allowing media to relish its own past successes, anniversaries give television stations, film production companies and, yes, journalists a break from having to create new content all the time.

“It’s very convenient,” said Mr. Johnston. “You can decide what you want to cover five years, 10 years, 50 years ahead. Everyone can decide what we will be celebrating in 2029.”

Sahred From Source link Fashion and Style

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[mrmichaelchadler]

Bright Wall/Dark Room December 2018: An Essay on A Ghost Story, Certain Women and Food by Marissa Higgins

We are pleased to offer an excerpt from the latest edition of the online magazine, Bright Wall/Dark Room. Their theme this month is "Food." In addition to Marissa Higgins' piece below on "A Ghost Story" and "Certain Women," the new issue also features essays on "A Christmas Story," "Howl's Moving Castle," "Eat Drink Man Woman," "Obvious Child," "Landline," "The Neon Demon," "Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia," "Allegro Non Troppo," "Bread" (1918) and "My Best Friend's Wedding." They are also offering discounted holiday gift subscriptions for just $15/year ($10 off the regular annual price) through December 24. 

You can read our previous excerpts from the magazine by clicking here. To subscribe to Bright Wall/Dark Room, or look at their most recent essays, click here

In the months after the woman I loved, C., died, I ate meat when drunk, sober, alone, and among strangers. Until then I had been a vegetarian. I would return to the dining hall to devour a double cheeseburger, sans friends, when I’d been there just an hour before, picking at a salad. I ate the burger in two, three bites. Past midnight, I crept to the vending machines, tucked into the basement near the laundry room, and bought multiple packages of Pop-Tarts, Cheetos, and Diet Coke. I drank cheap beer in my dorm room before class in the morning, hungry but avoiding the dining hall, full of friends and their questions.

Alone, I finally had the space to open and honor my grief. What I really wanted, and what I did not want to admit to anyone, not even to myself, was that I wanted my grief to be seen. My grief and my love.

This is something that David Lowery’s A Ghost Story does well. To watch the film, you have to watch grief. Messy, aching, uncomfortable grief. Rooney Mara, playing M, grieves the unexpected death of her partner, C, played by Casey Affleck, who dies in a car accident early in the film. She mourns him, and visible only to viewers and other ghosts, he returns as a simple white sheet, moving through time to watch not only M, but what came before the both of them. A Ghost Story is many strange and beautiful things; a temporal mediation on life; a question of how we haunt others, and ourselves; a statement on what endures, and how we manifest memory. Grief aches throughout.

But for me, A Ghost Story is Rooney Mara eating a pie until she pukes.

M, sitting on the kitchen floor eating pie is an expression of grief that comforts me. Nothing distracts from her ache; Lowery gives audiences no relief. There is no music, so we hear her chew, hear the fork scrape the bottom of the dish. We hear cars pass, a reminder that life goes on around us while we cry into our grief pies. Music would offer a distraction, a place for our brains to go and forge other connections. In loss, grief does not allow such escape.

The camera doesn’t move. M’s face, wet with tears, stays wet with tears. When she slows her chewing to breathe, to wonder if her body is going to reject this much food this fast, we can feel her stomach distend, adjust. When she springs to the bathroom to vomit, the camera brings us no closer. Neither does it turn away.

Reviewers, from film critics to YouTube commenters, struggle with the scene. The general sentiment is: We get it. Why does it have to be so long? That is to say, people understand that eating in grief is painful, mourning is difficult, she eats too much, too quickly, and immediately vomits. What they are saying is: We understand what grief looks like. Why must we sit through it?

*

Women’s trauma surrounds us. Women grieve our losses day in, day out. Not just literal deaths. We grieve the lives we had before sexual assault, domestic abuse, abductions, eating disorders. In movies, women’s trauma is represented as caricature: an anorexic withers away, unable to take even a bite of food during dinner with her family; a wife covers bruises from her husband, terrified to leave an otherwise comfortable life; a woman is brutally raped, reminding us that women’s bodies and pain are collateral damage to further along a plot.

But so rarely do we see women’s grief, uncomfortable and unapologetic. Often when we see a woman’s grief—her pain for any kind of loss—it’s a mere hint. A chip in the glass, a rupture in an otherwise strong facade. We wonder at the depth of her pain, are guided to think: it is beyond imagination. In A Ghost Story, it isn’t beyond imagination. It’s right there: The onus is on you, the viewer, not to look away.

In A Ghost Story, M’s grief takes up space. Grief is space. Grief is seen, if you only will yourself to look.

*

In the six months I spent with C. (yes, that little), I knew. I accompanied her to the hospital; curled beside her in a very narrow hospital bed; laid, alone, in her dorm room bed; beside her, again, in her childhood bed, at her family’s house, just after Christmas, as she healed from an emergency open-heart surgery. I knew that I _____ her. I knew I did not have ___ _____ to tell her.

I never said _ ____ ___. Then she died.

I could not make my grief neat. Friends, classmates, family, professors, a waitress, all asked: What were you two? Was she ___? Are you sure you ____ her? Did she know? I could not answer. I craved validation. Someone, anyone, to put into words what I could not. What we were was obvious, wasn’t it? Not to them, not to me.

What they said instead was: We know grief. Please, do not make us sit through it with you. Please, they said, make your grief small enough to understand.

Corresponding initials aside, my relationship with C. hadn’t been as clear-cut as the M and C of the film. In A Ghost Story, we watch a heterosexual couple kiss, cuddle, bicker about living in the city or the country. With my C., I didn’t know what we were then, and I don’t know what we were now.

I am nearing a decade since her death and the questions have not changed. I am asked: Well did you ever ____ ___ with C.? Did you ever talk about ____? Did you feel____? Did you say _ ____ ___?

These questions haunt me, as does knowing I can never answer them. Words were not, are not, enough. Perhaps all I can do is look at my own grief, will myself not to cut away.

*

IFC Films

Food pulled me to C. before her death, too. In Certain Women, Beth (Kristen Stewart) and Jamie (Lily Gladstone), meet at a local diner for several late, late night orders of burgers and soups. Beth eats, Jamie watches. Beth, exhausted from her job as a lawyer, teaches a community class on education law that Jamie, a rancher, takes for seemingly no reason. Jamie drives her car into the parking lot, following other cars, and settles into class.

The first night C. invited me to her room for whiskey and pizza, I had walked around my campus, aimless. Why am I outside? I’d wondered. Why is my body taking me in circles? The cars could have led Jamie anywhere. My feet could have taken me to my bed. Chance changes so much.

Of course, the reason Jamie stays in the class is evident; she is attracted to Beth. Their relationship remains entirely ambiguous, but viewers—and the characters themselves—feel the tension.

At the diner, Beth eats a few spoonfuls of the soup, slices a burger in half and bites into it. She is messy, quick, slouched. The camera doesn’t shy away from a woman eating. She talks with her mouth full, wipes her mouth on a napkin still wrapped around silverware. You can practically feel the grease on her fingers, the skin around her mouth. There are no delicate salads, no denials of hunger, of need.

Each time, she orders too much food. I can understand that when one desire feels forbidden, you indulge in another.

Beth pushes her plates, still full of fries and meat, toward Jamie. Jamie refuses each time, the grilled cheese, the soup, the ice cream. How difficult it is to accept love when we do not know it is being offered. When we do not yet realize it is limited.

“Are you gonna come back?” Beth asks Jamie as she chews. The law class, Jamie admits, is one she hadn’t even signed up for. But it doesn’t matter; she’ll return every Tuesday and Thursday, if not for a passion for law, to see Beth. With hope, of course, of taking her to the cattle ranch where she lives and works. With hope, of course, for more.

After three classes, Beth quits. Not just the diner dinners, but the class, the town, the hope. The drive is too long—four hours each way—and she is exhausted. Jamie doesn’t know this until she makes the drive herself and sleeps in her car, parked by Beth’s law office, hoping to see her again. Beth explains, and it is all reasonable; the drive, her fatigue, the roaming cows on country roads at 2 a.m. on a Tuesday night.

What they do not explain, what they do not ask of one another is: Are you ___? Do you ____ me? What are we? Where could this go?

Jamie starts the long drive home to her ranch. Those diner nights are sometimes all you get.

*

Food as desire is nothing new, but trepidation around food, and by extension, trepidation around desire, feels intrinsically queer. C. was always trying to get me to eat. In the dining hall, at restaurants, at divey diners. She kept snacks in her dorm room, but sustenance, too. Endless cans of soup. I was 19, then, and felt like we were middle aged, choosing canned soup and watching movies in bed. We didn’t clamor for fake IDs, happy, instead, to drink rum and Cokes in her room.

I shook with joy.

Before the nausea of grief, it was the nausea of excitement. Proximity to C. shut down my insides. At 1 a.m., she’d drive us to a local diner, order pancakes, eggs, and bacon. Eat, she’d prompt, eat. How could I chew, taste, swallow when she sat across from me?

Months later, when she was dead, food became background. Chew, swallow, chew, swallow. I did not taste, did not count calories, did not pace myself. 

C. said Eat, I said yes. C. said Get in my car, we’re going to the diner, I said yes. C. said I am awake, come to the hospital, I said yes. C. said Take the long train to my parent’s house, and stay, and I said yes. Yes, yes, yes. Then C. died and what could I say yes to?

*

Grief is not neat. You think you have more time. The half-eaten burgers, the dropped glances, the surgeries that keep a heart together. These moments, you believe, are the start. These moments promise. In grief, you remember—because you have always known, as I knew—that these moments were both the beginning and the end. Long drives at night, a grilled cheese at the diner, mostly uneaten. Watching her sleep, inches apart, afraid touch would dissolve me. These moments, all of them, make up a life. Grief, too, is living.

This year, on what would have been her 29th birthday, I sit on my kitchen floor and eat an apple pie. Days before, I had poured sliced apples into a crust that came from a box from the local supermarket. To the apples, I add cinnamon, lemon juice, brown sugar, chunks of butter. I bake it, I let it cool. The pie is hideous, but I eat it anyway. No one else eats the pie. I take a fork to it, make it last a few days. At first, I eat it standing, looking out my kitchen window. In the years since C.’s death, I have wanted my grief to be seen. I craved validation; not spotlight, not centering, but nods of understanding. The depth of my grief did not feel seen, the validation of my queerness, of my love, of my queer love, did not appear in ways I could understand it. People, I felt, were always turning up the music, cutting short a scene, wanting to fast forward the aches.

On her birthday, I sit on my kitchen floor, eat my pie, watch myself in my oven’s glass door. People have slowed in their questions, now, eight years later. It is my turn to ask them to myself. I put forkful after forkful of pie into my mouth. Watch myself chew. Now, it is my turn to look at my grief. To ask and answer the questions that haunt me. Now, it is on me not to turn away.

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[dcnativegal]

I moved here for love

New Year’s Day, 2018

Entire swaths of my old identity mean nothing here in Oregon. The fact that I was DC born, DC public school educated, and a DC resident for all but my college years, is an odd bit of personal trivia. Back east, this DC Native thing made me a special, rare being. My intimate experience of being a small marshmallow in a sea of cocoa, a minority in a majority black city, doesn’t register as interesting here. My knowledge of back alleys and short cuts through Mount Pleasant, or Brookland, or Chevy Chase DC is not necessary here. My memories of landmarks in Adams Morgan or Georgetown don’t come up in conversation with other DC natives, because I’m the only one. (Remember the cherry cokes at the fountain at People’s Drug Store at 18th & Columbia Road?) My experience as the one white girl in my journalism class at Penn Center’s Urban Journalism Workshop, where I spent my senior year of high school, means nothing, although I’m convinced that my write up of that extraordinary year got me into Oberlin, since my only extracurricular activity was running away from home. I graduated from high school the same year that Roots played on TV, 1977.

Having lived through the Uprising of 1968 while living in Adams Morgan, and having memories of 9/11’s impact on the Pentagon and DC, might be an interesting anecdote here in the Oregon Outback, but the conversation in which that experience might come up is hard to imagine. The knowledge I have about presidential motorcades (that they always have an ambulance at the end and that’s how you tell it’s a presidential one and not a head of state) is downright peculiar. I know that there are two large helicopters that transport the President out of town, and that one is a decoy. That no planes are allowed in DC airspace, except the presidential ones. I’ve seen senators and congress people in downtown restaurants. The famous people of DC are not movie stars; they are more likely to be journalists. The traffic downtown is different when Congress is not in session. Cherry blossom season means the residents avoid the Tidal Basin and the tourists flock there. Seriously, the best place to see the azaleas in April is the National Arboretum.  

My long-lived, meticulously collected, history of daily life in the District of Columbia has been mothballed.

I traded that history for quiet. For zero light pollution. For a glimpse of the milky way on a clear night. For moonlight so bright that I can see dramatic landscapes illumined by it. I traded my familiarity for wonder.

I’ve left behind traffic. There is no traffic in Lake County. Ever. There is the occasionally cow-choked two lane highway: I have learned how to drive very carefully between enormous bovine fellow-travelers on Route 31. There is the inconvenience of a large truck laboring at the top speed of 40 up the Picture Rock Pass. But I’m not in a hurry. I’ll labor, too, and eventually pass the truck when we get back on the flats.

I worked long hours in various social service positions in D.C., hanging out all day with people who had cancer, or dementia, or ALS. In Lake County, I work about 28 hours a week. A little over 3 days. This schedule is … there are no adequate words… luxurious.

My old self was cosmopolitan, and oriented to alphabetical streets, with avenues named after states, the biggest avenues named after the original colonies. Northeast and Northwest DC encompassed most of my world. My idea of wilderness was Rock Creek Park. The beaches of the Atlantic are sloping and the water is warm during summer. I’ve traded all of that for a state that apparently has almost every sort of land and weather the United States seems to offer, in microcosm. Except the waters of the Pacific are very cold, and the beaches are embraced by cliffs.

I am still me. I am an anthropologist from the East Coast, eyes wide open, taking notes for this blog. I moved here for love.

___

People who live in Lake County tend to ask me why I moved from Washington, D.C. to Paisley, Oregon. Depending on the context, I may or may not come out to them, because the answer can be, because I have lots of family here (although they do not know that the family is not actually my kin) or because I have a partner here (and she is originally from Bly.) I may then get asked, how did you meet her? I may well inform them that she and I were both members of a listserv for women who were married to men while figuring out that they may be ‘not strictly heterosexual.’ I knew her as a woman who wrote beautifully and was very funny.  Valerie lived in Germany at the time with her youngest child in high school. She referred to him as the Tall Monk. Her husband was a civilian chemist, serving the Army base. She’d figured out she was pretty darn lesbian some years before, but didn’t have anyone to focus on as a potential female partner, and had this son to finish rearing and launching. We met online as fellow confused gay women, in 2004. We didn’t date until 2011.

In 2003, I had fallen in love with an old friend, a butch woman who lived in Chicago, while I was still in DC.  My husband had given me permission to pursue this woman, following his shocking heart attack at age 43, which drove home the idea that life can be very short indeed. His great gift of permission was one we both occasionally regretted, but it led us to more authentic lives, just separately, by 2006, when I moved out of the only home our kids had known. My children were 11 and 9 at the time. This old friend and I managed a five-year relationship, long distance, until we broke up.

Valerie and I had met once in person back in 2006, and later that year, I’d made her an offer: if she’d come to DC to help me prepare the apartment that I would soon be moving to as a newly separated woman, I would pay all her expenses. She accepted, and we got the one-bedroom apartment ready for moving. I thought she was adorable, and I was very grateful. Off she flew back to Utah, where’d she’d moved by then, still coupled to the chemist.

In 2011 I was single, and training for a half marathon. I don’t know who started what but by late Spring, she and I were contemplating a romance. In June, she was a firewatcher for the Forest Service at Indian Rock in eastern Oregon. By August, I was there, visiting. A more dramatic locale for a first date I can hardly imagine. I stayed a week. The lookout was way up in the air, affixed to a pointy rock much like the one from the Lion King, jutting out into the Malheur Forest. It had 50-mile views, and mountain goats for company. Because I’d been running faithfully in my training, I had no trouble with the altitude. It was a magical time.

I guess because Valerie now had a girlfriend, she wrote letters to her husband, adult children, and siblings announcing she was a) gay, b) leaving her third husband and c) moving to DC for the winter. Needless to say, minds were blown. As soon as fire watch season ended, she moved to DC. By then I’d bought a house in the Edgewood part of northeast. Over the next five years, Valerie would winter with me and then fly back to Oregon to work on the Hyde ranches, or set up a weed whacking business with her youngest granddaughter.

My kids moved back and forth between their parents’ houses, and grew up beautifully, if I may say so. Their dad, Brian, began a relationship with a funny, talented, cheerful and 100% heterosexual woman who lived in the bungalow across the alley from our old house. We six would celebrate Christmas morning together, and go to school events as well. I was active at the church I’d started attending in high school, and Brian worked there for years as Parish Administrator.

Over the course of our relationship, Valerie and I talked about various scenarios. It was clear early on that having her move to DC permanently (including the sauna-like summers) was not going to work for several immutable reasons. One was the heat: Valerie’s multiple sclerosis is not a huge variable in her life most of the time, but when it’s very hot, she decompensates, and becomes a stuttering, lurching mess. Plus, all of her family is in Oregon. I don’t have much family: there’s my beloved sister, who lives in Philadelphia, and her amazing sons, who are wandering young people, just like mine are. I have lovely cousins who are all west of the Mississippi, so I’d be closer to them if I moved west.  Valerie has children, grandchildren, siblings, nieces and nephews in Oregon and northern California. Lastly, although officially retired and receiving social security, Val has several jobs she can do part time in Eastern Oregon that don’t exist in the urban context. There is little demand inside the Beltway for tending cows, irrigating, and general fence maintenance.

When I began accepting that the best thing was to move west, I knew I’d wait until the kids were out of the house. At one point I told her, you know, Valerie, if I’m pulling up all my roots and moving where I know no one besides you, I want a ring on my finger. She considered my depth of feeling and was respectful. She didn’t say no way. She didn’t propose either.

When I’d visit her for 10 days each summer, we’d travel around the state. We considered Ashland OR as a possible place to settle as a couple. She’d lived there when she was a student at Southern Oregon University, taking care of three kids and her grandmother as her husband also studied. It’s a bit of a resort town, known for its theater. It has an Episcopal parish we visited, and a dear friend of Valerie’s who’s a professor. We decided against it because it’s really too hot in the summer. And pricey.

Our next choice was Eugene. It’s a progressive college town, and we already knew 3 people: a former coworker of mine, and Valerie’s first husband and HIS husband. We settled on that place, despite my concern that it is so very white. The entire state is so very white.

In the last couple of years I lived in DC, I felt myself slowly withdrawing. I kept in touch with my good friends, but I no longer pursued people I thought would make good future friends: I’m leaving soon, I thought. I need to prioritize. My work as a hospice social worker was more stressful than I thought it would be and not because my clients were dying at a fast rate. It was the Medicare-induced stressors around compliance with a thousand regulations, and productivity pressures.  

At church, I agreed to be on the search committee for a new Senior Priest, and proceeded to pour heart and soul into a very time consuming and conflict-ridden process. My faith community of 40 years got the last bit of oooomph I had left, and once the process was finished and the priest chosen, I was kind of done. I never thought I’d feel that way about that place. And I probably would still be there, enjoying the fabulous liturgy, the kind people, and the new directions I know he is steering it toward. But knowing I was moving west ‘soon’, I could let go of being a part of those adventures.

My children’s father made it easier to contemplate leaving the city of our children’s birth when he decamped for Tucson Arizona in April of 2017 with his long-time girlfriend. He’s originally from California, and Jenny’s folks and sister live in Tucson. They sold their homes in Brookland DC and bought a much bigger home outright.  

Jonah was ensconced in Brooklyn, and making a living as a music video director. Clara was a rising senior at Oberlin, and not at all sure where she’d be after graduating in 2017. So all it took was a particularly terrible staff meeting at Hospice one day in July 2016, and I was ready. I started looking for work in Oregon as a social worker. I got all the paper work together to get licensed there. I found a job, interviewed over Skype, and accepted the position as a care manager in Eugene. Within 2 weeks, I’d resigned at hospice, lined up a mover for mid August, and started packing. In early August, my new job evaporated: they said they couldn’t wait so long for me to get there. Valerie told me, come out anyway, we’ll stay in Paisley, and figure something out. And so I did.

Looking back, I don’t know how we considered any place besides than Paisley. For one thing, living in the home that Valerie and her son rehabilitated means rent free living for me. I didn’t realize that being a licensed social worker made me such a hot commodity in a county that is so rural, it’s called ‘frontier’ in the public health nomenclature.  My being queer doesn’t seem to matter, thanks to the Eastern Oregon-born status of the well-respected Valerie, and the fact that Hope was right: no one really cares.

We probably won’t marry, although I have fantasies about a really fun wedding. Maybe someday, if, and I mean if, I feel as though there is a community, IN Paisley, that would commit to our well-being as a couple. She’s had 3 marriages to my one: getting married to each other is unnecessary.  Meanwhile, I’ve come to see how loyal Valerie is, and how much she loves me. I thought maybe she’d regret my having moved into her world, bugging her 12 months out of the year instead of 6 or 7. But she has lots of places to go while I work, lots of family members to help paint a house or construct a room, and dear friends to ranch for when needed. I spent this past summer driving to Fort Klamath, Beatty, Brothers and Chiloquin. We took the train to visit her brother and sister in law in Lotus, California. If Valerie needs a break from me, there’s lots of opportunities. And I can binge watch Netflix without her ever-so-mild disapproval.

It’s all worked out remarkably well.

I moved to Paisley for Valerie, and a slower, kinder, quieter life. It was a good decision. Even though I still miss Black people, Jews, Ethiopian food, free museums, gingko trees in the fall, and liturgy with an enthusiastic thurifer…

[nancygduarteus]

Love in the Time of Individualism

C.S. Lewis’s wife, Joy Davidman, died of bone cancer on July 13, 1960. The next day, the famous author wrote a letter to Peter Bide, the reverend who had married them, to tell him the news.

“I’d like to meet,” Lewis writes, suggesting the two grab lunch sometime soon. “For I am—oh God that I were not—very free now. One doesn’t realize in early life that the price of freedom is loneliness. To be happy is to be tied.”

When it comes to romance, Americans are freer than they’ve ever been. Freer to marry, freer to divorce, freer to have sex when and with whom they like with fewer consequences, freer to cohabitate without getting married, freer to remain single, freer to pursue open relationships or polyamory.

But what if the price of freedom is loneliness? Would you pay it?

Mark Regnerus, a sociologist at the University of Texas at Austin, thinks a lot about the price of human relationships. His new book, Cheap Sex, is all about how the modern dating scene has been shaped by sexual economics, a theory which sees human mating as a marketplace. His idea, as you might suspect from the title, is that sex is not as costly to access as it once was—in terms of time, effort, and risk. Contraception makes sex less risky; online dating platforms make it more accessible. If that doesn’t work out, there’s always porn, which requires next to no effort to find. These factors, Regnerus argues, “have created a massive slowdown in the development of committed relationships, especially marriage.”

Marriage rates have indeed plummeted among young adults, to the point that a demographer cited by  Regnerus estimates that one-third of people currently in their early 20s will never get married. But another new book about modern relationships, Eli Finkel’s The All-or-Nothing Marriage, contends that while “the institution of marriage in America is struggling ... the best marriages today are better than the best marriages of earlier eras; indeed, they are the best marriages that the world has ever known.”

Because marriage for many is no longer a gateway to adulthood, but rather an optional “capstone,” it’s held to a higher standard. Regnerus asserts that modern mating dynamics make it hard for people to find a relationship that seems worth committing to; Finkel argues that when marriages manage to live up to today’s lofty expectations, they can be extremely fulfilling. One may be more optimistic than the other, but both show how increasing romantic freedom has changed romance itself.

* * *

Regnerus’s description of sexual economics relies on a stark division of gender roles: Men provide the demand and women are the supply. There is a long history of what he calls the “exchange relationship,” in which women control men’s access to sex. In order to get it, men bring to the table resources, commitment, and fidelity.

In previous eras, this exchange was effective at producing marriages (though it also went hand-in-hand with strict sexual mores and women’s subjugation). But now that sex before marriage and sex outside of relationships is common, safe, and less stigmatized, men don’t have to work as hard for it, according to Regnerus. So they ghost and flake and dither about committing to one person. Many women don’t need what resources men have to offer, anyway; they have their own. But men have more power in the mating market in this model, which leads to women also embracing, or at least going along with, cheap sex and some of the rude behavior that comes with it.

Regnerus doesn’t talk much about LGBT relationships, except to say that these market dynamics might make women more likely to “experiment with same-sex relationships,” to circumvent the problem of noncommittal men. He also writes that because there is no gatekeeper in gay men’s relationships, they are less likely to be sexually monogamous.

When it comes to heterosexual relationships, Regnerus sums up his theory like this: “It’s not that love is dead, but the sexual incentives for men to sacrifice and commit have largely dissolved, spelling a more confusing and circuitous path to commitment and marriage than earlier eras.”

This all smacks strongly of gender essentialism. Regnerus’s underlying premise is sound: Many studies have found that, on average, men want sex more than women, and women value having sex in the context of commitment more than men do (though of course individuals differ). Still, throughout the book, Regnerus takes this theory pretty far. He sounds a bit like your proverbial grandma cautioning that a man will never buy the cow if he’s getting the milk for free.

Regnerus writes about one woman who would sometimes have casual sex with men she didn’t like that much and who felt frustrated because she wasn’t finding men she did like: “She wishes to be a free rider—in this case, to find a good man—without contributing to the kinds of normative relationship behavior that make men better. It won’t work. It can’t work.”

He goes on: “In the domain of sex and relationships men will act as nobly as women collectively demand. This is an aggravating statement for women to read, no doubt. They do not want to be responsible for ‘raising’ men. But it is realistic.”

Even under a theory that believes women, through sexual gatekeeping, control how relationships unfold, it’s quite something to imply that men do not have responsibility for contributing to norms around how romantic partners should treat each other.

Regnerus also argues that the easy availability of sex makes men less motivated in their professional lives, because they don’t need to become successful, i.e., marriageable, to woo women to their beds. While this may sound dubious, there is an established precedent for this theory in the field. Regnerus quotes the famous psychologists Roy Baumeister and Kathleen Vohs, who write that “giving young men easy access to abundant sexual satisfaction deprives society of one of its ways to motivate them to contribute valuable achievements to the culture.” Still, it seems extreme to suggest that men need to be dragged by the dick into being productive citizens.

Overall, sexual economics discounts the other things men and women have to offer each other—besides sex and “resources” and commitment. Am I naïve to think that companionship and attention should have some place in this equation? If the modern mating market has made people more isolated, and if smartphones and other technology are increasingly mediating human relationships and driving us to distraction, shouldn’t the value of a present and proximate companion increase?

Still, there is a lot in Regnerus’s analysis that is uncomfortably astute. He’s right that it can be hard to escape these old gender dynamics when dating, especially online dating. Popular dating apps put women in the position of gatekeeping, whether deliberately or not. It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a smartphone will swipe right on basically everyone. This forces women to be choosier about who they say yes to. Even if they also swipe with abandon, they end up with more matches to sort through—yet more gatekeeping. On Hinge and OkCupid, which don’t require a mutual opt-in before people can send messages, women’s inboxes are deluged with men whom they must then sort through. Bumble just went all-in and made gatekeeping a selling point: Women have to message men first, putting them in control of who has access to their attention.

While Regnerus believes that the “cheap sex” mating market gives men the upper hand in relationships, he notes that after spending a long time in the market, men and women alike grow frustrated and exhausted. This is something I’ve found in my own reporting as well—that prolonged use of dating apps often leads to burnout and ambivalence. “Online dating,” Regnerus writes, “forces participants to play by its rules.” And many find that being able to hyperefficiently move through romantic options doesn’t actually make it easier to find a relationship.

This is only further complicated by the fact that what Americans want from their relationships is radically different than it’s been for most of history.

* * *

In The All-or-Nothing Marriage, Finkel, a professor of psychology at Northwestern University, traces the history of the institution over what he sees as three thematic eras. For a very long time, people married for pragmatic reasons. Most of the clothing, food, and other goods a family used were produced by the household itself, so an eternal bachelorhood would be a serious liability. People needed the labor of a partner—and often multiple children—to survive.

Things eventually became less dire, and people started marrying for love. Finkel dates that transition to around 1850, but notes that it was a shift that took place over centuries. In contrast, the transition from love-based marriages to the current era of what Finkel calls “self-expressive” marriages only took about 15 years, thanks to the counterculture shake-ups of the 1960s and 70s. During those years, the second-wave feminist movement pushed back against breadwinner/homemaker marriages and helped women earn more individual freedom. Meanwhile, concepts like “self-esteem” and New-Agey “self-discovery” found footholds in the culture.

What Americans want from their marriages nowadays, Finkel argues, is love, yes, but also someone who will give their lives meaning, and make them into the best versions of themselves. “Marriage has a self-expressive emphasis that places a premium on spouses helping each other meet their authenticity and personal-growth needs,” he writes. “The pursuit of self-expression through marriage simultaneously makes achieving marital success harder and the value of doing so greater.”

Taken together, the changes described in Finkel’s and Regnerus’s books illustrate how intensely modern American relationships have been shaped by that most star-spangled of values: individualism.

“The marriages Americans are fashioning today seldom emphasize the idea of marriage as a functional form, enabling two people to accomplish things they otherwise could not alone,” Regnerus writes, very much seeming to mop what Finkel is spilling. “Now we can accomplish a great deal—certainly enough—on our own. Hence, marriage in America has shifted away from being a populist institution—a social phenomenon in which most adults participated and benefited—to becoming an elite, individualist, voluntary, consumption-oriented arrangement.”

Even outside of marriage, in any romantic entanglement, Westerners value what British sociologist Anthony Giddens calls the “pure relationship.” The pure relationship is one which people are a part of only because they want to be, because it satisfies both individuals. It’s different than romantic love, which assumes you’ll find The One and stay with them forever, for better and for worse. In a pure relationship, if someone is no longer satisfied, it’s assumed they’ll leave.

“While the dyad—the couple—is the basic structure to the union, it is never to usurp the individual’s primacy and will,” Regnerus writes.

According to Baumeister and another psychologist, Michael MacKenzie, the self is now seen as a “value base”—that is, a good so self-evident that it doesn’t even need to be questioned. Just as a devout Christian would not question the importance of God’s will, a modern Westerner would likely not question the importance of being “true to yourself.”

But Americans are unique, Finkel writes, in that they not only believe in being true to themselves, but they also still strongly value commitment. So the United States has higher rates of both marriage and divorce than many other countries. The sociologist Andrew Cherlin calls this “the marriage-go-round.”

* * *

Modern Americans are freer than ever to spend their time finding the right person, the one who will improve their lives. And they’re freer than ever to leave. Not just in the sense of “you can get divorced now,” but cultural norms have created an environment where it’s easy to feel like if something doesn’t work out right away, you should pull out your phone and look for other options. Where high expectations are often disappointed. Where, after enough letdowns, people may lose faith in finding the kind of fulfillment they seek outside of themselves. Where they wander through the mating market, halfheartedly picking up the bruised wares, then putting them back in the bin when they’re not shiny enough.

Regnerus recounts a post he saw online where a man in a long-distance relationship discovered his girlfriend had posed for some racy pictures and was asking for advice on how to talk to her about it. One of the responses the man received was “She doesn’t belong to you.” True enough—she’s her own person who can make her own choices. The phrasing, however, prompted Regnerus to “reflect on the place of belongingness in the ‘pure relationship’ era. Do people belong to other people?”

As people’s search for romance becomes increasingly divorced from their communities, many relationships start with two individuals, who know next to nothing of each other’s context, trying to figure out if they’d fit into each other’s lives. In the best of circumstances, according to Finkel, they each elevate the other, and live meaningfully—if not always happily—ever after. In less ideal circumstances, individualism leads to loneliness.

“Interdependence has faded, leaving only independence,” Regnerus writes. “It is freer but also far more vulnerable than many wish to acknowledge.”

C.S. Lewis would likely agree.

from Health News And Updates https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2017/09/love-in-the-time-of-individualism/540474/?utm_source=feed

[ionecoffman]

Love in the Time of Individualism

C.S. Lewis’s wife, Joy Davidman, died of bone cancer on July 13, 1960. The next day, the famous author wrote a letter to Peter Bide, the reverend who had married them, to tell him the news.

“I’d like to meet,” Lewis writes, suggesting the two grab lunch sometime soon. “For I am—oh God that I were not—very free now. One doesn’t realize in early life that the price of freedom is loneliness. To be happy is to be tied.”

When it comes to romance, Americans are freer than they’ve ever been. Freer to marry, freer to divorce, freer to have sex when and with whom they like with fewer consequences, freer to cohabitate without getting married, freer to remain single, freer to pursue open relationships or polyamory.

But what if the price of freedom is loneliness? Would you pay it?

Mark Regnerus, a sociologist at the University of Texas at Austin, thinks a lot about the price of human relationships. His new book, Cheap Sex, is all about how the modern dating scene has been shaped by sexual economics, a theory which sees human mating as a marketplace. His idea, as you might suspect from the title, is that sex is not as costly to access as it once was—in terms of time, effort, and risk. Contraception makes sex less risky; online dating platforms make it more accessible. If that doesn’t work out, there’s always porn, which requires next to no effort to find. These factors, Regnerus argues, “have created a massive slowdown in the development of committed relationships, especially marriage.”

Marriage rates have indeed plummeted among young adults, to the point that a demographer cited by  Regnerus estimates that one-third of people currently in their early 20s will never get married. But another new book about modern relationships, Eli Finkel’s The All-or-Nothing Marriage, contends that while “the institution of marriage in America is struggling ... the best marriages today are better than the best marriages of earlier eras; indeed, they are the best marriages that the world has ever known.”

Because marriage for many is no longer a gateway to adulthood, but rather an optional “capstone,” it’s held to a higher standard. Regnerus asserts that modern mating dynamics make it hard for people to find a relationship that seems worth committing to; Finkel argues that when marriages manage to live up to today’s lofty expectations, they can be extremely fulfilling. One may be more optimistic than the other, but both show how increasing romantic freedom has changed romance itself.

* * *

Regnerus’s description of sexual economics relies on a stark division of gender roles: Men provide the demand and women are the supply. There is a long history of what he calls the “exchange relationship,” in which women control men’s access to sex. In order to get it, men bring to the table resources, commitment, and fidelity.

In previous eras, this exchange was effective at producing marriages (though it also went hand-in-hand with strict sexual mores and women’s subjugation). But now that sex before marriage and sex outside of relationships is common, safe, and less stigmatized, men don’t have to work as hard for it, according to Regnerus. So they ghost and flake and dither about committing to one person. Many women don’t need what resources men have to offer, anyway; they have their own. But men have more power in the mating market in this model, which leads to women also embracing, or at least going along with, cheap sex and some of the rude behavior that comes with it.

Regnerus doesn’t talk much about LGBT relationships, except to say that these market dynamics might make women more likely to “experiment with same-sex relationships,” to circumvent the problem of noncommittal men. He also writes that because there is no gatekeeper in gay men’s relationships, they are less likely to be sexually monogamous.

When it comes to heterosexual relationships, Regnerus sums up his theory like this: “It’s not that love is dead, but the sexual incentives for men to sacrifice and commit have largely dissolved, spelling a more confusing and circuitous path to commitment and marriage than earlier eras.”

This all smacks strongly of gender essentialism. Regnerus’s underlying premise is sound: Many studies have found that, on average, men want sex more than women, and women value having sex in the context of commitment more than men do (though of course individuals differ). Still, throughout the book, Regnerus takes this theory pretty far. He sounds a bit like your proverbial grandma cautioning that a man will never buy the cow if he’s getting the milk for free.

Regnerus writes about one woman who would sometimes have casual sex with men she didn’t like that much and who felt frustrated because she wasn’t finding men she did like: “She wishes to be a free rider—in this case, to find a good man—without contributing to the kinds of normative relationship behavior that make men better. It won’t work. It can’t work.”

He goes on: “In the domain of sex and relationships men will act as nobly as women collectively demand. This is an aggravating statement for women to read, no doubt. They do not want to be responsible for ‘raising’ men. But it is realistic.”

Even under a theory that believes women, through sexual gatekeeping, control how relationships unfold, it’s quite something to imply that men do not have responsibility for contributing to norms around how romantic partners should treat each other.

Regnerus also argues that the easy availability of sex makes men less motivated in their professional lives, because they don’t need to become successful, i.e., marriageable, to woo women to their beds. While this may sound dubious, there is an established precedent for this theory in the field. Regnerus quotes the famous psychologists Roy Baumeister and Kathleen Vohs, who write that “giving young men easy access to abundant sexual satisfaction deprives society of one of its ways to motivate them to contribute valuable achievements to the culture.” Still, it seems extreme to suggest that men need to be dragged by the dick into being productive citizens.

Overall, sexual economics discounts the other things men and women have to offer each other—besides sex and “resources” and commitment. Am I naïve to think that companionship and attention should have some place in this equation? If the modern mating market has made people more isolated, and if smartphones and other technology are increasingly mediating human relationships and driving us to distraction, shouldn’t the value of a present and proximate companion increase?

Still, there is a lot in Regnerus’s analysis that is uncomfortably astute. He’s right that it can be hard to escape these old gender dynamics when dating, especially online dating. Popular dating apps put women in the position of gatekeeping, whether deliberately or not. It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a smartphone will swipe right on basically everyone. This forces women to be choosier about who they say yes to. Even if they also swipe with abandon, they end up with more matches to sort through—yet more gatekeeping. On Hinge and OkCupid, which don’t require a mutual opt-in before people can send messages, women’s inboxes are deluged with men whom they must then sort through. Bumble just went all-in and made gatekeeping a selling point: Women have to message men first, putting them in control of who has access to their attention.

While Regnerus believes that the “cheap sex” mating market gives men the upper hand in relationships, he notes that after spending a long time in the market, men and women alike grow frustrated and exhausted. This is something I’ve found in my own reporting as well—that prolonged use of dating apps often leads to burnout and ambivalence. “Online dating,” Regnerus writes, “forces participants to play by its rules.” And many find that being able to hyperefficiently move through romantic options doesn’t actually make it easier to find a relationship.

This is only further complicated by the fact that what Americans want from their relationships is radically different than it’s been for most of history.

* * *

In The All-or-Nothing Marriage, Finkel, a professor of psychology at Northwestern University, traces the history of the institution over what he sees as three thematic eras. For a very long time, people married for pragmatic reasons. Most of the clothing, food, and other goods a family used were produced by the household itself, so an eternal bachelorhood would be a serious liability. People needed the labor of a partner—and often multiple children—to survive.

Things eventually became less dire, and people started marrying for love. Finkel dates that transition to around 1850, but notes that it was a shift that took place over centuries. In contrast, the transition from love-based marriages to the current era of what Finkel calls “self-expressive” marriages only took about 15 years, thanks to the counterculture shake-ups of the 1960s and 70s. During those years, the second-wave feminist movement pushed back against breadwinner/homemaker marriages and helped women earn more individual freedom. Meanwhile, concepts like “self-esteem” and New-Agey “self-discovery” found footholds in the culture.

What Americans want from their marriages nowadays, Finkel argues, is love, yes, but also someone who will give their lives meaning, and make them into the best versions of themselves. “Marriage has a self-expressive emphasis that places a premium on spouses helping each other meet their authenticity and personal-growth needs,” he writes. “The pursuit of self-expression through marriage simultaneously makes achieving marital success harder and the value of doing so greater.”

Taken together, the changes described in Finkel’s and Regnerus’s books illustrate how intensely modern American relationships have been shaped by that most star-spangled of values: individualism.

“The marriages Americans are fashioning today seldom emphasize the idea of marriage as a functional form, enabling two people to accomplish things they otherwise could not alone,” Regnerus writes, very much seeming to mop what Finkel is spilling. “Now we can accomplish a great deal—certainly enough—on our own. Hence, marriage in America has shifted away from being a populist institution—a social phenomenon in which most adults participated and benefited—to becoming an elite, individualist, voluntary, consumption-oriented arrangement.”

Even outside of marriage, in any romantic entanglement, Westerners value what British sociologist Anthony Giddens calls the “pure relationship.” The pure relationship is one which people are a part of only because they want to be, because it satisfies both individuals. It’s different than romantic love, which assumes you’ll find The One and stay with them forever, for better and for worse. In a pure relationship, if someone is no longer satisfied, it’s assumed they’ll leave.

“While the dyad—the couple—is the basic structure to the union, it is never to usurp the individual’s primacy and will,” Regnerus writes.

According to Baumeister and another psychologist, Michael MacKenzie, the self is now seen as a “value base”—that is, a good so self-evident that it doesn’t even need to be questioned. Just as a devout Christian would not question the importance of God’s will, a modern Westerner would likely not question the importance of being “true to yourself.”

But Americans are unique, Finkel writes, in that they not only believe in being true to themselves, but they also still strongly value commitment. So the United States has higher rates of both marriage and divorce than many other countries. The sociologist Andrew Cherlin calls this “the marriage-go-round.”

* * *

Modern Americans are freer than ever to spend their time finding the right person, the one who will improve their lives. And they’re freer than ever to leave. Not just in the sense of “you can get divorced now,” but cultural norms have created an environment where it’s easy to feel like if something doesn’t work out right away, you should pull out your phone and look for other options. Where high expectations are often disappointed. Where, after enough letdowns, people may lose faith in finding the kind of fulfillment they seek outside of themselves. Where they wander through the mating market, halfheartedly picking up the bruised wares, then putting them back in the bin when they’re not shiny enough.

Regnerus recounts a post he saw online where a man in a long-distance relationship discovered his girlfriend had posed for some racy pictures and was asking for advice on how to talk to her about it. One of the responses the man received was “She doesn’t belong to you.” True enough—she’s her own person who can make her own choices. The phrasing, however, prompted Regnerus to “reflect on the place of belongingness in the ‘pure relationship’ era. Do people belong to other people?”

As people’s search for romance becomes increasingly divorced from their communities, many relationships start with two individuals, who know next to nothing of each other’s context, trying to figure out if they’d fit into each other’s lives. In the best of circumstances, according to Finkel, they each elevate the other, and live meaningfully—if not always happily—ever after. In less ideal circumstances, individualism leads to loneliness.

“Interdependence has faded, leaving only independence,” Regnerus writes. “It is freer but also far more vulnerable than many wish to acknowledge.”

C.S. Lewis would likely agree.

Article source here:The Atlantic