#if i survive the rest of this week with my (remaining) sanity in tact i might be persuaded to believe in god

[ctraceywrites]

I've gotten into so many arguments about the Myth of Irish slavery and everyone who argues that it for sure happened always cites this book (if your only source is one badly put together book you might want to rethink your stance) so I figured I'd see how bad it is for myself.

I've read About this book before, so I was already aware of some of its problems (historian Liam Hogan who did a good analysis of this book and all the Irish slave myth stuff you find online, I suggest looking at that here. Even just in the introduction he's cherry picking information and none of the quotes he uses are properly sourced. More of the quotes in the first chapter are just the English bad mouthing the Irish instead of more useful quotes to back up much of the information he's on about.

I imagine this is going to be a pain of a week while I sludge through this book. X_x

___________

In To Hell Or Barbados, the author Sean O'Callaghan mentions the research of Reverend Aubrey Gwynn and attributes the number of "50,000 innocent people [who] would be sent [to Barbados] as slave labor." There are 3 sources listed by Gwynn in this book, I just finished reading the first, "Cromwell's Policy of Transportation" on jstor. Here's the link if you want to read it too (you need an account, but you can make a free one easy).

In "Cromwell's Policy of Transportation", Gwynn already disproves any idea of Irish Slavery, and the 50,000 number O'Callaghan attributes to him. Gwynn mentions a few records calling for the request of some hundred prisoners to be sent out and schemes to entice the Irish to volunteer, but is clear that we don't have a clear number on the amount of people who were actually shipped out.

Gwynn is also clear that it was indentured servitude, not slavery, explicitly stating as much. He does mention that the conditions of the Irish where horrible, but doesn't list them. However, once these conditions were made clear (the whole thing lasted about 5 years), it was made illegal for Irish prisoners to be forcibly sent to Barbados.

The Irish went though many horrible events, several of which were clear genocides perpetrated by the English, but a system of slavery, especially one at anyway comparable to what happened to black people in the United States, flat out did not happen.

I also should mention, Gwynn states in the source above that the idea of selling some Scotsman off as slaves to somewhere else was bright up as an idea, but doesn't appear to have actually happened, citing that it would have been too much of a cost mostly.

Despite the horrible working conditions the Irish found themselves in when they arrived in Barbados, and without the money and clothes they were offered if they volunteered, they were still seen as People and legal action was taken to prevent the continued suffering of the Irish who were forced from their home in this instance.

Black people who were forced into chattel slavery were not seen as people. They were property. They weren't even given the false promise of being able to work off their debt.

The Irish slave myth is used by white supremacists to undermine black people and the tortures they went through under slavery and jim crow and the Civil rights movement and their continued struggle today. Let this harmful myth fucking die already.

[post-nuclear-sweetheart]

Tranquille Moments In Chaos (1)

The start of several moments that fill in the gaps of developing a friendship, then relationship, with Hancock.

Hancock x reader/sole.

Find it on ao3 as well!

(1853 words)

“Come with me.”

You had begun to question your sanity before the words fully escaped your lips. You leaned against the wall of the State House in Hancock’s disorganized bedroom, attempting your best not to look like a complete mess inside.

You saw how his blackened, clouded eyes looked you up and down. It was casual, and it reminded you of how the “cool kids” - you deemed them - would look through your flimsy persona back in high school. His dry and malformed lips stretched into a grin, and you could see amusement play across his face.

Hancock let out a short, breathy chuckle, before reaching into his back pocket of his trousers for the crumpled pack of cigarettes. “So lemme get this straight,” he started as if you were merely having a casual conversation. He pulled out his lighter from his other pocket, leaving you hanging off his words, until he lit up the cigarette and took the first drag.

“This is your… what, second week? Roamin’ around the Commonwealth like a stray dog?” That amused look slowly turned into a scrutinizing smirk. “Fahrenheit told me all about how you turned on Bobby. Can’t even hold a gun without the recoil throwin’ your arms all over - and you wanna run with me?”

The heat of embarrassment crept up to your face. True, you still weren’t terribly handy with a gun, despite your ex-spouse having military experience, but you made plenty sure they kept that sort of violence outside the house, what with the arrival of your newborn. Oh, how you would come to regret that rule.

But if there was one thing you were good at, that you honed over your college years, was how to fake confidence. You steeled yourself and pushed off the wall, standing your not-so-tall stance against Hancock. Sure, your cheeks were still very red, but you fronted a coy smile and a raised brow.

“I dunno, Hancock. You said it yourself - you’re soft. I may have been out here for a few weeks, but you’ve been lounging around longer than I’ve been surviving. Are you sure you can run with me?”

You stared into his dark eyes, appearing so sure of yourself. You began to falter inside, however, when his playfully degrading look turned to one that was serious. He took another painfully slow drag, starring you down all the while, then blew a puff of smoke into your face. You suppressed your cough, but the tears from the stinging smoke escaped.

Hancock chuckled darkly. “I can admire a babe willing to stand up to the man. Alright, hot stuff. I’ll tag along and maybe give you a few pointers.” He winked at you then, deciding he was done with his half-burnt cigarette, tossed it down and squished it out with the heel of his boot.

“First I gotta address the people; give ‘em a big mayoral speech. Don’t wait up.” He pressed the tip of his tricorn hat down, as a way to physically show he was switching over to his “business side”, and disappeared through the white door next to the wall you had leaned next to.

You released a sigh. There was no way you could keep up that air of confidence for long, especially around the man who radiates pure confidence. Pair that up with his natural ability to remain cool and keep it all from going to his head, and you looked like a nervous teenager on the first day of work next to him.

You heard the guards that stood outside the door to his bedroom snicker. You didn’t blame them. There was one thing that made you feel a little better about devolving into a mental puddle around Hancock. Irma had told you all about how he used to be a major hit with the ladies, and sometimes the gentlemen, and it wasn’t unusual when a person or two would fall at his feet. Of course, this was all before he turned into a ghoul, and yet…

Something tells you his ghoulification only amplified his charm.

-

He made good on his promise, even if it was made in jest. In your days wandering with this alluring ghoul at your back, he had taught you how to properly hold your 10 mm gun, and when you felt ready for rifles, he taught you how hard to press the stock against your shoulder and how to safely handle them. Although seeming to be intimately familiar with most common place guns, he himself preferred the ol’ reliable shotgun.

You’ve also come to be acquainted with his way of life and his morals. He lived up to his self-proclaimed title of “freedom fighter” with his rebel-rousing, tough guy nature who kept an eye out for the little man. He tried telling you after he shanked Finn to death, but you didn’t quite believe it then. A mayor, fronting as a freedom fighter? It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t until one dark day with a downpour to rival a waterfall that would change your mind.

After one particularly bad firefight, you both found shelter in a half-dilapidated, vacant home. You had a friend in this neighborhood many years ago, although he moved away to another town to attend high school.

You sat on a dust covered cushion near a fairly in-tact windowsill, watching languidly as the rain fell heavy. One leg was tucked under you, while you stretched the other so that Hancock could remove the bullet deeply embedded in your thigh. You didn’t feel much of his makeshift surgery, what with the drug concoction he fed you. You were more entranced by the rainfall, and how the droplets pattered on the crumbling road not far from the house. The only light you had to serve was the half burned candles from the last squatter at the residence; five waxy candles that illuminated a warm, flickering orange against the cold darkness of the rest of the house.

“Hancock?” You quietly called for him, never moving your stare from the outside world. He hummed in response.

“Did you-“ you paused yourself. Your drug-filled mind struggled to figure out how to word your question. “Were you… Did you grow up here, before the war?”

Although the pain was completely numbed, you did feel an intense pressure from his work. You felt that pressure stop momentarily, before starting again.

You heard Hancock let out a scoff. It didn’t sound rude, but baffled. “What makes you think I’m one of those pre-war ghouls?”

“You’re a ghoul.”

Hancock laughed quietly. “Would you believe me if I told you I’m in my thirties?”

“Thirties?” You lulled your head, rolling lazily on your shoulders to face Hancock. Your vision was blurred by the pain killers, but still you could see the deep ravines in his skin. His eyes appeared exceptionally black, and where his nose rotted off long ago appeared darker. At the sight of what would have frightened you 200 some years ago, you smiled. “You look amazing for your thirties.”

“You should’a seen me before.” He looked up to wink at you, before reaching for a roll of bandages he kept hidden away in his coat pocket. “Drugs are a hell of a… drug.”

“Drugs can make you a ghoul?”

“Not just any drugs. This stuff,” he blew air from between his recessed lips as his mind dove back into his memories. “they didn’t even have a name for this stuff. Picture it - a vial of this scary glowing liquid that promised to give you a high that was outta this world. And get this, there was only one more hit of it left. You know what I did, doll?”

There was something so charming, so endearing, about the way he spoke. It was old school, but his rumbling voice, no doubt caused by their decay via radiation, kept you enraptured. Your smile grew more silly and enamoured. “What did you do, Hancock?”

“I shot it up.” He began to wrap the bandages around your thigh. “Lemme tell you, there’s nothing else in this whole damn world that’ll make you see - no, feel - the things I did. Everything else pales in comparison.” He tied them off with a yank, and gave your leg a light pat before continuing his story. “‘Course, it came with a price. That price is this gorgeous mug you see before you.”

You giggled at his display of gesturing to himself and giving you an exaggerated smoulder. He shifted over to the cushion that was beside the one you sat on and took his place beside you. You came to an agreement to wait, guns ready, for the rain to pass before moving on. Hancock leaned his back against the wall from where he sat, and in your drugged-up haze, you slumped over against him.

“Good Neighbour didn’t mind a ghoul for a mayor?” You asked, unaware of how your line of questioning came across. Still, Hancock answered freely.

“I wasn’t a ghoul yet.”

“How did you become mayor?” You asked him, moving your head to look up at him.

Seeing no harm in telling you, Hancock regaled you in the bigotry of Diamond City, and the reign of terror Vic held over Good Neighbour. He told you, laughing through it as he explained how the red coat of John Hancock could speak to him, and with the courage of drugs and a take-no-bullshit attitude on his side, he and a group of fed up people stormed the town hall. He went into gruesome detail of gunning down Vic’s men, and how they tied a noose around Vic’s neck and hung him over the same balcony Hancock would give his speeches. It was then, with unanimous decision, that John Hancock became mayor of Good Neighbour. It stayed a safe haven for everyone Diamond City rejected, and the rest was history.

It was then, as you stared up at Hancock with a mixed look of disbelief and admiration, that you truly believed he was, and is, a freedom fighter.

“And you traded a life of gunning bad people down for office work?” You nudged him playfully.

“Hey, I can do both, can’t I? Good Neighbour’s full of good people. They can fend for themselves while their fearless mayor cuts his teeth on some raiders.”

You attempted to nod in agreement, but found your head heavy and comfortable against his shoulder. You let out a yawn, the last thing you remembered, before the haziness you felt finally took over your senses and dragged you to sleep.

Hancock glanced your way and lightly chuckled at your slumbering form. He gently moved your wrist in your lap to peek at the time on your Pip-Boy. It was getting well into the evening, but still it was early enough that raiders and gangsters didn’t roam quite yet.

He reached up to tip his hat down over his eyes and slouched against the wall. There was a long night ahead of you both, and if there ever was a time to nap, a dark rainy evening was certainly it.

“Sweet dreams, vault dweller.”