#join my prayer oval friends

[cillyscribbles]

                         🕯

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              tequila sunrise

    🕯   fix my withdrawal   🕯

          and also make this

  🕯      munkustrap i'm        🕯

            drawing rn serve

      🕯     so much cunt      🕯

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[dickwheelie]

this is a few days late but it’s still technically Hanukkah, so! here’s a fic about Jon and Martin celebrating Hanukkah in the safehouse (shhh timelines aren’t real) because I like to project and I really like the idea of Jon being Jewish. a lot of us are having weird holidays this year, away from friends and family, so the boys having a weird one too seemed appropriate. in particular, Jon not having a menorah because I don’t have one this year either :(

the stuff in this is based on my own experiences celebrating Hanukkah growing up in a pretty secular household, so if you see anything that’s “wrong” then that’s why, lol. the prayer is accurate as far as I know though, it’s the same one my family and I sing every year.

(also this is not a good representation of how to make rugelach! if you really want a good recipe, hmu and if you ask nicely I might share my mother’s 😁)

enjoy and Happy Hanukkah!! 💙🕎✡️💙

___________

“I just feel bad,” Martin said, watching from the sofa as Jon put the challah in the oven. “You’re doing all this cooking, and I’m just sitting on the couch like a lump. And this is supposed to be your holiday.”

“Martin, for the tenth time, it’s fine. Besides, the holiday doesn’t actually start until sundown,” Jon called, cheerfully enough, from the kitchen. Jon liked cooking, Martin knew, and he didn’t really see it as a chore in the same way Martin did. Still, this was a special day for Jon (well, eight days, really), and Martin wanted to be of some use. He’d offered to do everything from peeling potatoes to rolling matzoh balls, but Jon, ever the control freak in the kitchen, had stopped him at every turn. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a bit guilty about not helping out as Jon bustled about, trying to make Hanukkah dinner for the both of them.

More than helping out, really, Martin just kind of . . . wanted to share this with Jon. The way Jon talked about it, it sounded as though he’d had more Hanukkahs alone than with friends or what little family he had. Martin wanted to make Jon feel like he didn’t have to be alone this year, and even if Martin was new to this, he was game to learn. Jon had already told him about the holiday and all the different foods he was making, but there was still some distance there, a disconnect, that Martin knew Jon wasn’t putting between them on purpose. It seemed to Martin more like a force of habit than anything else.

After setting the timer for the challah, Jon nodded, satisfied, and came over to join Martin on the couch. He slouched against him comfortably, and Martin automatically put an arm around his shoulders. Jon had a bit of flour on his nose, and Martin gently swiped it off, which made Jon’s face wrinkle up like a disgruntled cat. Bloody adorable, Martin thought.

“I get a bit of a break before I have to start on the latkes in a few hours,” Jon said. “Got to make those right before dinner so they’re fresh.”

“Can I please help with those?” Martin said, half-joking.

“Fine,” Jon laughed, “yes, Martin, you can help with the latkes.”

“You won’t regret it.”

“I’m sure.”

“Is there dessert?” Martin asked, offhandedly. He hadn’t noticed Jon getting out any sugar or making anything sweet that day. “Do people eat anything sweet on Hanukkah?”

“Well, there’s gelt,” Jon says. “Chocolate coins. But the grocer’s didn’t have any. Unsurprisingly.”

Martin laughed. “Yeah. Probably not a huge priority in the Highlands.”

“People also make rugelach, sometimes.”

“Arugula?”

Jon laughed, not unkindly. “Rugelach. Different from the vegetable. Very different,” he said. “It’s a pastry. A kind of holiday cookie, I guess you could call it. Sweet dough with chocolate or cinnamon inside. It’s simple to make, but I didn’t buy the right stuff for it, and honestly I have enough cooking to do.”

“Yeah? How d’you make it?” Martin asked, innocently enough, though an idea was brewing.

As Jon explained, he waved his hands in the air, miming the process. “You just roll out some pastry dough, cover it with chocolate or cinnamon or walnuts or whatever you like, cut it into strips, and roll them up.” He thought for a moment. “They look a bit like seashells.”

“Huh,” Martin said. “Seems easy enough.” He’d never made dough before, but how hard could it be, really. The hardest part, he figured, would be actually making the things in their tiny cabin and even tinier kitchen without Jon finding out.

Soon after that, the oven timer started beeping, announcing that the bread was done. Martin took advantage of Jon busying himself in the kitchen to slip out the door, giving him some offhand excuse about wanting to get some air, to which Jon waved him off.

In the baking aisle at the grocer’s, Martin quickly realized he was out of his depth. He stared at the display of flour and sugar and baking powder and all sorts of other stuff, utterly at a loss as to what one needed to make pastry dough. He tried, once again, to Google a recipe on his phone, but once again, there was no service and no wifi.

Well, there was always pre-made, frozen dough. Not ideal, but it’d probably work in a pinch. Much faster to make, too, Martin thought as he dropped a couple cans of it into his basket. The filling, at least, he knew he’d be able to handle; he grabbed a few bags of baking chocolate and a shaker of cinnamon, and brought everything up to the checkout counter.

Martin didn’t even know which lucky stars to thank when he arrived back at the cabin to find the kitchen empty, and Jon passed out on the bed in a post-challah, pre-latke cooking nap. Martin gently closed the bedroom door and immediately set to baking.

Going by Jon’s vague descriptions, he rolled out some of the dough into a flat oval shape, but the pre-made kind wasn’t meant to be used all at once, and the end result was a sort of lumpy mass. Digging around in the cupboards, he was able to find some flour, which helped make the dough less sticky, at least. Eventually, he was able to get it flat enough to cover it with the filling, like Jon had told him. Half of the dough he covered in cinnamon, liberally shaking it out all over the dough. The other half he covered with the baking chocolate, which came in little chunks, but he figured it would melt in the oven just fine.

Next, just as Jon had described, he cut the dough into even strips, thin and rectangular, and rolled each of them up, so the filling made a little spiral shape inside. The chocolate ones were a bit chunky and awkward-looking, but, well, it was the taste that counted, wasn’t it.

Martin turned to face the oven, realizing he had no idea how long they ought to bake for, or at what temperature. He checked the instructions on the tins of pre-made dough, deciding to go by whatever they suggested. It wouldn’t do for the dough to be raw, he figured.

Soon enough, the pastries were in the oven, and Jon was still dead to the world, none the wiser. Martin felt quite satisfied as he cleaned up, mentally patting himself on the back for a job well- and stealthily-done. He’d hide them in the oven, he decided, until after dinner, and then he’d surprise Jon. Smiling, he went to join Jon in bed, curling up next to him as he slept, until he fell asleep himself.

Martin woke groggily several hours later to Jon gently shaking him awake, telling him it was time to make the latkes. He’d already got the batter done, a thick, floury mixture of potato and onion, and a pan of oil was bubbling on the stove. Jon showed Martin how to drop spoonfuls of batter into the pan, patting them down to shape them into little fist-sized “pancakes.” He let both sides brown in the oil until they were nice and crispy, before transferring them onto a paper towel-covered plate to cool. It was simple enough, and Martin was able to finish up the batch as Jon set the table, bringing out the challah and matzoh ball soup he’d made, as well as sour cream and apple sauce to dip the latkes in.

Once the latkes were done (and Martin was quite proud to say they’d come out very nicely), Jon retrieved some red wine he’d gotten in the village and poured them both a glass. Then, as Martin was getting ready to sit down, Jon glanced around sheepishly, gesturing at an empty space on the kitchen counter.

“I, ah, normally I’d have a menorah to light. But obviously I didn’t bring one when we came up. And out here, well, it’s the same as with the gelt. No real place to buy one.”

“Oh,” Martin said, heart sinking. He reached out to squeeze Jon’s hand. “That’s a shame. I’m really sorry.”

“Really, I just wish I could show you,” Jon said, shaking his head as he took his seat at the table. “It’s really lovely. You light a new candle every night, and when they’re all lit . . . I’m sure it’d look nice here, especially.” He gestured at the space in front of the darkened kitchen window.

“Yeah,” Martin agreed, wistfully. He’d seen photos of menorahs before, and he could just picture it, he and Jon gathered around, lighting candle after candle as the eight nights passed.

“Well,” Jon said, turning back to face Martin at the table, “we may not have a menorah, but I can still do the blessing.”

“Blessing?”

“Yes. You’re supposed to do it while lighting the menorah, but, well. I’m sure this will do, given the circumstances.” Jon reached his hand across the table, and Martin took it.

“Alright.” Jon cleared his throat, almost self-consciously, and then began to sing in Hebrew, a melodic, practical tune that sounded comfortable and familiar on his tongue, like a well-worn shawl. “Barukh ata Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha’olam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav, v’tzivanu, l’hadlik ner, shel Hanukkah.”

Martin couldn’t really sing along to the words, but he nodded along to the melody, and when Jon was done he looked up at him and smiled, and Martin beamed back. They both raised their glasses and drank.

They ate heartily, or at least Martin did, because Jon kept shoving second and third bowls of soup at him, and insisting he finish off the latkes. Not that Martin was complaining, of course; it was all delicious, and Jon did praise him for how nice the latkes had come out.

They left the dirty dishes for later (or, knowing the two of them, tomorrow morning), and after dinner they went straight for presents. Though his options were limited without online shopping or anything outside of the tiny village, Martin had managed to find an adorable little painted china Highland cow in a local antiques shop.

“I know you think they’re cute,” Martin said as Jon lifted it out of the box.

“How did you know,” Jon deadpanned, but he grinned as he brought it up to his nose and stared at its little painted snout. “I love it, Martin, thank you.”

Jon had gone the homemade route, and knitted Martin a scarf. And a pair of mittens. And an entire bloody sweater.

“Oh my god, Jon,” Martin said, staring in disbelief at the mounds of knitwear before him. “How did you find time to do all this? How did you find time to do all this without me knowing?”

Jon looked away sheepishly. “I, uh, I’m a fast knitter.”

Martin shook his head fondly. Unbelievable. But he immediately took off the sweater he’d been wearing and pulled on the one Jon had made. It fit rather well and was as cozy as it looked. “Thank you, Jon,” he said, feeling the sleeves, knowing that every loop and stitch of the fabric had been purposeful. He could practically feel the care and love Jon had put into each one of them. “I love it,” he said, leaning over to kiss Jon at the corner of his eye.

“Well,” Jon said, cheeks darkening, “Happy Holidays, then.”

“Oh,” Martin said, rising from the sofa, “I’ve actually got one more thing. Sort of a last-minute gift.”

“Hm?”

Martin went over to the oven and took out the trays of rugelach. He’d checked them earlier to see if they were cooked through, but hadn’t gotten the chance to taste one yet. “Tried my hand at a bit of dessert,” he said, selecting a couple nice-looking ones and putting them on a plate for Jon to try.

Jon had followed Martin into the kitchen, and was staring at the pastries lined up on the trays. “Oh, well, thank you,” he said, surprised, taking the plate Martin handed to him. “What are they?”

Martin cocked his head at him. “Rugelach,” he said. Wasn’t it obvious?

Jon’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Ah,” he said, voice strained with positivity. “Of course. Right.”

Martin was starting to get a sinking feeling in his stomach.

Gingerly, Jon took one of the rolled-up pastries, and bit into it.

Martin tried one as well. It was one of the chocolate ones, and it was . . . crunchy. Very crunchy. The chocolate, it seemed, had only partially melted in the oven, and the pastry dough itself was a bit hard to bite through. Besides that, it wasn’t very sweet, the chocolate being too dark and the dough being too salty.

He tried a cinnamon one. Again, the dough was crunchy, and the cinnamon was overpowering without any sweetness to it. Martin considered the possibility that perhaps he ought to have added sugar.

Jon, for his part, was doing his best impression of a person who was very much enjoying the pastry they were eating, honest. “Mmm,” he said, demonstratively, as he swallowed one of the cinnamon ones. “Thank you, Martin, these are . . . delicious.”

Jon was actually reaching for seconds, which Martin knew he was only doing to make him feel better, so he reached out a hand and placed it on Jon’s, stopping him short.

Jon looked up at him. Martin shook his head wordlessly. Jon cracked a smile.

“They’re not good,” Martin said, putting them back on the trays one by one.

“Martin--”

“It’s okay,” Martin said, smiling back at him, “I know. They’re rubbish. I didn’t even use a recipe, of course they were gonna turn out--”

“Well,” Jon said, stubbornly, “you tried. It’s the thought that counts. Thank you, Martin, really,” Jon said, bringing up Martin’s hand to kiss the back of it. “It was very sweet of you to put all this effort into it.”

“Next time, I’ll look up a recipe,” Martin said, bringing one of the trays over to the kitchen bin. Jon was quick to assist him.

“There’s seven nights of Hanukkah left,” Jon said, after a moment’s thought. “We can always try again. Tomorrow, we’ll get more ingredients, and I’ll show you how to do it properly. It really is easy, you just need . . . well. Sugar, for one.”

Martin laughed as he tossed the last of the batch away. “Okay. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

“I mean it, though,” Jon said, looking at him fondly. “Thank you. For this, and for the cow, and for sharing the holiday with me. It’s . . . this has been really . . .”

Jon was gesturing in the empty air, struggling for the proper word, but Martin understood well enough. “Yeah,” he said. “And thank you, for sharing it with me.” He pressed a kiss to Jon’s cheek.

“Happy Hanukkah, Jon.”

[artisticestheticreads]

SWEET TOOTH

A/N: So I saw a post from @wakandascrystal that said “hear me out,  (Y/N) got 4 older brothers who won’t hesitate to end a nigga life if they try anything with their baby sister..but The short yellow off the shoulder dress (Y/N) got on at the neighborhood cookout got Erik ready to risk it all.” LIGHT BULB. Don't worry. I got her permission and she wanted to be tagged so here it is. There are also links in this piece so watch for bold and italicized font. 

A/A/N: So, this is still a reader and Erik one shot but you will go by the nickname “Sweets” and “Baby Girl”...oh and your last name is Moore.

WARNING: Contains drug use, swearing, sexual puns, angst, and fluff

SONG RECOMMENDATION: Nite and Day by Al B. Sure!

  It was a hot July day where the neighbor was holding its 50th Annual Block Party. There was old school music playing loudly, children in swimwear running around with water toys, mothers bringing tons a food down to the eating area and men playing games like dominos, spades, and poker. The smoke of the grills filling the air making people even more hungry. At one home, a young man stood on the porch in a crisp white tee, tan cargos and white running shoes with a chain with a ring, another with a gold ankh and a matching watch on his wrist. He dreads were tossed to the left and he had a Budweiser in his right hand. He was with his long term friend Ron who looked like Odell Beckham with no tattoos and short hair. 

    “It’s good to have you back, E. Real talk. You been gone for too long” Ron said as he rolled a blunt and began to smoke. Erik sipped his beer and said “yeah, decided to visit my real family. My Aunt is like my moms now, T is like that annoying ass big brother that think he know everything and princess was showing me some sneakers she making for me. They coo.” What he didn’t mention was the scars he had for ever kill were removed and how he was dead for like a week and brought back to life by his genius cousin and also that he had royal blood in his veins.

 Erik saw a group of four men walking to a house across the way; the Moore Brothers. From left to right, there was Darnell, Andre, Mitchell, and Junior. “Welp, there goes the Nigga Turtles”, Erik said before Ron laughed. “Yeah, they keep getting bigger to keep niggas away from Baby Girl.” Speaking of, a white Nissan Altima pulled up passed the orange sign that cut off the street and parked; that’s when Erik saw her as if they were in slow motion. Her skin was a bronze glow that glittered in the sun. Her 4c curls resembled a cloud that framed her round, babyface with big roasted chestnut eyes that can hold heat in them. She finally walked from the driver side to show her figure. Her off the shoulder yellow dress hugged her thick body oh so well. Her curves screamed ‘look at me’. Her breasts were sitting at attention and her behind was like a chocolate peach. She showed off her legs in a pair of wedges and her golden chain read ‘Sweets’. The back of her right shoulder was home to an adorable baby jaguar tattoo. 

   “There’s our Baby Girl”, Darnell said getting her families attention. She opened up her arms to her mother and father with a smile receiving hugs then her brothers waited for their turn. Erik watched as he placed his hands in his pockets and when he saw them walking in their home, Baby Girl, walking behind, he whistled. She looked around and finally saw Erik. He nodded at her with a smirk and she waved small with a wink before walking in. “Cuh, you must got a death wish or somethin’. You know damn well them negroes do not play ‘bout their sister.” Erik turned to his friend with a chuckle. “Ron, aint no one scared of them muthafuckas, dawg. You talking to a man who has killed at least 2,351 people around the world. I’m a Navy Vet, they should be scared of me.”

   “E, they don’t care about that shit. To them, you still Lean Bean to them,” Ron said as he smoked. Erik cringed at how he used to look and said: “Why you gotta bring up old shit for, huh?” He turned back to the street to see Nat and Baby Girl walking down the street with trays of food. Erik smiled and walked down catching up to him as Ron followed. “How y’all ladies doing”, E asked making her smile. “We good. How about you? Long-time, no see, E”, she said with her brow raised. “Eh, I’ve been good but who told you to get thick on me, looking a cute fine apple”, he said with a smirk. “Good one, E. But I can say the same about you”; they smiled at each other.

   He looked behind to see that the brothers were nowhere in sight. Erik got closer and she said “getting a little close there. You don’t wanna get in trouble by my brothers, do you?” He chuckled and said, “I ain’t worried about them.” When he was about to wrap his arm around her neck, he felt a palm on his chest and they looked to see it was the Moore Brothers and Sweets rolled her eyes. “Well, well, well. If it ain’t Lean Bean all grown up. What you tryna do”, Darnell asked as he signaled Mitchell to remove his hand. “Guys, we were just talking and besides, I’m not a baby anymore. I can handle myself”, Y/N said making everyone look at her. Erik held her hands up with a chuckle and said “y’all heard her. She can handle herself.” Darnell’s eyes cut to him then he said to Andre “get the food” and signaled Junior to flung her over his shoulder. Darnell said “that was strike two. First was whistling at her. We watching you, Lean. Bean”. They walked into the crowd but Sweets and Erik’s eyes were still on each other. Ron looked to Erik who stood with a look in his eyes like he wasn’t about to give up. Erik started walking and said  “that gives me one more strike. I love a good ol’ challenge.”

“Fuck. This is like high school all over again”, Ron said following him. Erik saw Baby Girl being put down, fixing her dress, poking each brother in her chest and taking the food from them walking away; the brothers walked the other way. “I need you to cover me. I’m going in”, Erik said to Ron. He saw her in the food area, dropping off the food and stood by her. “You okay, Sweets”, he asked and she looked up to him. “My bad. I’m good. I just wished they would stop babying me. I’m gonna be thirty soon for God sake.” Erik nodded, started to caress her arm and said “I get it. You the only the girl and you the baby. You gotta put yo foot down, Baby Girl, if you want them to respect you. I mean you are a grown-ass woman after all.” 

   She looked up at his face and grinned as he did the same. They noticed how the music was turned down so she took his hand into hers and made their way onto the curb with everyone else. The neighborhood got into a huge oval and the leader of the block with her family stood in the middle; she had a headset microphone. “Good afternoon, neighborhood. I just wanted to thank everyone who has come out and brought out many dishes to this affair. I have a few announcements to make beforehand though. I would like to congratulate the new addition to the Smith Family. Jeremiah Richard Smith was born at seven pounds and 8 ounces.” Everyone cheered and Erik leaned into Y/N’s ear and said “that’ll be ours one day”; she grinned. The leader continued with “and also congratulations to the neighborhood’s favorite baby girl, Y/N “Sweets” Moore for her grand opening last week of her own bakery called ‘Baby Girl’s Sweets’ located in the Crenshaw Mall. We are very proud of you”. Everyone applauds and the smile on her face lit Erik’s whole world. 

  “And finally, we would like to welcome back Mr. Erik Stevens for his safe trip back home from being in the Navy and from his home country of Wakanda.” Everyone cheered and laughed as he took a cheesy bow. “Now, everyone please bow your heads and join hands as we go into prayer.” Everyone did so but before Erik did, he looked across the way to see the Moore Brothers with joined hands and death stared across the way. It reminded him of the US Movie and he could have sworn he heard the horror version of ‘I Got Five on It’ somewhere. Y/N looked up to him and caressed his beard, saying “E, it’s ok. Look down”; he did what he was told after she kissed his cheek.

“Lord Jesus, our brother, be with us today. Bless our happy gathering, and bless this meal that we share. Protect us all, and help us to grow in your love. Lord Jesus, we praise your holy name forever. In Jesus Name, Amen.” Everyone started to make their plates and Y/N with Erik made theirs the same; grilled chicken, mac n cheese, greens, potato salad, and cornbread with cups of her Koolaid. Erik asked, “so, how the bakery doing?” She sipped her drink after she ate a chunk of mac n cheese. “It’s actually really good. My folks have been spreading the word getting me noticed. Even ABC 7 came down. You should come and try some of my cake.” Erik looked at her as she ate again and said “why try some? I want the whole thing.” She looked at him and scooted closer to him. “Be careful. You may get a sweet tooth.” He took her soft hand and kissed it. “Girl, I’ve had a sweet tooth for years now”, he said smoothly and she blushed with her cute nose wrinkled. Nat and Ron came to the table with plates and drinks were dead silent.

  “How the food, y’all”, Darnel asked with a smile and cup in his hand, sipping. “Good”, Nat and Ron said but Baby Girl and Erik only looked at one another until Junior and Andre pulled her seat far away and place their seats between them. “Yeah, Ms. Richards did the damn thing with the mac and cheese,” said Mitchell as he pulled up a seat next to their sister and began eating his plate. “Boy, if you don’t stop smacking in my ear, Ima hurt you”, she said ith her brow raised that made E smile. As the group ate, Erik and she would steal looks at one another. As Junior and she talked, Erik sipped from his cup, noticing Darnell looking at him. Nigga staring too damn hard but I got something for all of them, he thought to himself, leaning back into his chair with a smirk.

  “So, Baby Girl, when can I try that cake of yours?” Everyone at the table looked at him and she answered “anytime you would like. But, I should warn you. It will be the best cake you have ever had and ever will”, she said. “I would love to have some right now if you don’t mind”, he said and with that, she stood, looking at him with a grin of her own. “Coming. Right. Up.” She looked at Nat and they made their way to the dessert table. Erik watched her with a grin and his head slightly tilted. “Strike Three”, Andre said and Darnell added, “you think you slick, huh nigga? Tryna fuck with our baby girl like we ain’t here. That's aight. Let’s go.” The brothers stood and Ron looked at E. “Cuh, you a dead man. Real talk.” 

  “Man, shut yo ass up,” E said looking into his friend’s soul. After dessert, the group sat and talked for a little but there was no sign of the brothers anywhere. Erik and Sweets talked and laughed until the announcer said “aight, calling all men. It is time for the basketball game and Andre & Darnell volunteered to be captains. They will call their other four members one by one. Winners get a $50 Visa gift card.” They all applaud and Andre started to read off names. “Aight, so I choose Junior Moore, Toni M. Montell, Chad Jordan, and Ronald D. Duke.” Erik, Y/N, and Nat looked at Ron who stood slowly walking towards his team confused. Darnell said “on my team. I chose Mitchell Moore, Wolf Thomas, Erik ‘Lean Bean’ Stevens and Daniel Bryant.” Baby Girl looked at Erik and shrugged as he stood making his way. 

  Two hoops were across from one another a couple yards away and the guys were preparing themselves. Y/N stood in front since she was tad short and Erik slid his shirt off, making her lips part. He looked at her and walked over to her with shirt in hand. “Hold this for me, yeah”, he winked and kissed her head. The game was going and it was tied 20 - 20. Darnell’s team actually got along, like if they were family. They cracked jokes and played fought on the sidelines like nothing happened...or was it? There were two minutes left in the game and the opposite team missed the shot but Erik took the rebound. He ran down court being guarded by Mitchell. He looked over at Baby Girl with a smirk and right when he was about to shoot it, Mitchell hit him with a hard elbow to the nose resulting him to fall hard to the ground: he still made the shot. 

  Mitchell, Junior, Darnell and Andre ran to Erik as the others watched and aimed to attack him. Darnell hit him with a left hook, Erik did the same and Baby Girl screamed “stop it! Leave him alone.” She slipped out her mother’s hands and stood in front of the flying hands which stopped. “Y/N ‘SWEETS’ MOORE, GETCHO LIL ASS OUT THE WAY, NOW. HE AIN’T NO GOOD. WE PROTECTING YOU”, said Darnell but she said “NO! I CARE ABOUT HIM TOO MUCH AND HERE Y’ALL ARE! THE FUCK Y’ALL JUMPING HIM FOR! Y’ALL ACTING LIKE A GROUP OF PUSSY ASS NIGGAS! What y’all couldn’t do one on one or something? He did nothing to y’all but y’all being such fucking idiots that you think you’re protecting me but you’re actually hurting me!” The brothers looked at her and as Darnell reached his hand out, she pushed aside and smacked him with the black side of her right hand. He covered his jaw as his mother pulled them out the street. “Team Andre is disqualified. Team Darnel is the winners.” The crowd went away from the drama and back to the party. 

   Y/N stood in front of him with nose dripping blood and his head held up. “E, I’m so sorry. I-I don’t know what to do to make this better.” He snatched his shirt out of her hand and held it to his nose. “Don’t bother. Ima just catch you later”, he walked off and heard muffled crying behind. He wanted to stop and hold her but his feet wouldn’t let him. He was in Ron’s house, lying on the couch with an ice pack to his face and eyes closed. “She tried to help, E”, Ron said and Erik said “I know, Ron. But the Moores are right. I ain’t good for her. I wasn’t back then and I’m damn sure not now.” 

“E, she don’t give a fuck so why should you? I mean Sweets smacked the dog shit outta her brother and told them off. She didn’t deserve what you did,” Ron said and Erik sat up looking at Ron as he sat in his armchair. “You right. I guess I’ll go apologize since my nose stopped bleeding.” Erik went into the bathroom to see his nose slightly swollen and had a scar on it. He grabbed a band-aid to place on top and took a few aspirins, he put on a black shirt and walked out the door to the dance floor. The sky had gotten dark and the street lights were on. “Hey, Stevens. Wait up”, Darnell said but Erik kept walking. The Moores rand and stood in front of him making him stop. “What the fuck y’all want? Y’all tryna try and jump me again,” he asked and Darnel sighed. 

   “We sorry, man. I mean, we can be a bit protective but what you expect? We got a baby sister and this shit hard. She ain’t little anymore and we just don’t want her to get hurt”, Mitchell said. “Yeah, we just tryna make sure she good but I guess she can make her own decisions”, added Junior. Andre had his arms folded and said: “Y/N is literally our world and we just don’t want to see her cry.”

“But we made her cry because we tried to kick ya ass. We hate seeing her cry and all. We apologize and if it means anything, we think you cool. The laughing we did earlier was real. You a cool ass nigga, Lean Bean. No hard feelings”, Darnel said and reached his hand out. Erik looked at them all and took his hand into his shaking it. “If y’all don’t mind, Ima go to apologize to my girl”, he said walking to Y/N who back was turned. He tapped her shoulder and she looked up to him. “E, I’m really, really sorry. I didn-”, she said before his thumb grazed her bottom lip. “I’m sorry. I mean. I shouldn’t have been mad at you. Sweets, I love you a lot. I’ve always had.” His lips touched hers in a peck then eventually, as “Nite and Day” by Al B. Sure played through the air, the kiss got needy and intimate with fireworks popping in the background.

𝕊𝕀𝕏 𝕐𝔼𝔸ℝ𝕊 𝕃𝔸𝕋𝔼ℝ

   It was late July when Erik walked into a huge bakery in jeans, a black tee and matching sneakers Shuri gifted him. He went to the counter to the cashier who had a big smile. “Hi, sir. How can I help you today?” Erik nodded and said, “yeah, lemme get a slice of the famous Sweetie double chocolate cake, a whole Lean Bean pie and lemme get a cute four-year-old Hershey Kiss.” With that, he heard a pair of little feet running to him. He felt a pull at his jeans and a cute little girl with her curly hair pulled into a pineapple style. She wore a pair of jeans with a cute chef jacket and a mini pink apron. “Hi, daddy”, she said smiling up at him. He picked her up and said “hey, baby girl. Where my kisses”, he asked and she kissed all over his face. “That’s more like it. Now, who told you that you can look cute pineapple today?”

  “Her mommy did”, a voice from behind the counter said. It was Y/N in a similar outfit and hair as their daughter, Mariah. He leaned down and kissed her lips softly making Mariah giggle. “Are y’all on break now,” he asked Mariah and she nodded hard and fast making them laugh. He sat her down in his lap as Y/N stood at the counter with her cashier. Mariah pulled down his bottom lip and he said “uh, baby girl. What you doing?”

“Momma told me about the stowy of when y’all fell in love and I’m making suwe youw teeth awe okay.” He looked at his daughter confused until she asked “daddy, do you still have a sweet tooth?” He chuckled and looked at his wife. “I will always have a sweet tooth, baby girl.” Sweets looked at them as he looked up at her and they winked at each other with a smile.

𝒯𝒜𝒢𝒢𝐸𝒟 𝐿𝒪𝒱𝐸𝒮

@muse-of-mbaku

@im5ftbutmythroat66

@chaneajoyyy

@melanin-samii

@theunsweetenedtruth

@doux-ciel

@unicornluvin8765

@vikkidc

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@toniilaney

[comeondowntosouthparkrpg-blog]

Bradley Christian

out of character info

Name/Alias: Tots

Pronouns: she/her

Age: 19

Join Our Discord: yea why not lol mine is cursed bitch #0955

Timezone: EST

Activity: it honestly really depends- between 6-8 on a good day tho

Triggers: n/a

Password: Jimmy can fastpass my ass

Character that you’re applying for: Bradley(not THAT one. the one from season 11 episode 2 Cartman Sucks)

Favourite ships for your character: Bradley x Butters, Bradley x chemistry

in character info

Full name: Bradley David Christian

Birthday: December 25th

Sexuality, gender, pronouns: closeted homosexual, male, he/him

Age and grade: 18, senior

Appearance: Temporary face claim is Valter Torsleff. Bradley is a very nervous person and it shows in his nubby fingernails, in the way that his shirts are wrinkled from clutching at them, the dark circles under his eyes and the way they dart around. He’s tall but it’s difficult to tell from the way he hunches over in some attempt to try and hide himself. At his full height Bradley is six foot even. His body is pathetically scrawny making him look like you could easily snap him in two. Seriously, get this kid a fucking sandwich or something.

Bradley has pasty skin, blue-grey eyes and short curly golden blond hair that’s shaved at the sides. He’s always clean shaven and has a gaunt, oval shaped face with a pointy chin. He speaks quickly and mumbles frequently.

His clothing is well put together- mostly because his parents still choose his wardrobe for him. Button down shirts. Nice slacks and shoes. Business casual is the best way to describe his wardrobe. He has a few casual looking articles of clothing(t-shirts that are either plain or have some stupid cheesy christian slogan or a scripture on it, maybe cargo shorts or sweatpants) but he’s very seldom seen wearing these. Usually they’re reserved for when he’s lounging at home or if it’s a required part of a uniform.

Personality: Christianity is Bradley’s whole world. It’s what he sleeps, eats, drinks and breaths. He wants nothing more than for the holy spirit to get inside him( ;) ). He spends hours and hours pouring over the bible, devotionals and other forms of christian media to keep himself in check. Deep down however he’s disgusted by all this and loathes it all but his irrational fear of god and his parents keeps him going.

He’s an extraordinarily anxious and timid person with twitchy hands and is consistently easy to startle. He’s a closeted homosexual, having gone through conversion therapy and been considered cured. Bradley knows he’s gay and he hates this part of himself. He’s full of internalized homophobia. He’ll do whatever he has to in order to try and ‘fix’ this part of himself. So far nothing has worked.

Because of his heavy involvement with the church Bradley is repressed in the sense that he doesn’t know who he is or what he likes that isn’t involved with the church. Any hobbies he has, any personality traits, has to be somehow linked to christianity. It makes him a boring person since he has nothing else to talk about but God. He doesn’t know what else to talk about because he’s never been allowed to think about anything else. Because of this, most people brush him off and he’s used to that. However he has a hard time being as adamant to people about converting them then other people in his church, he’s more timid and is worried about upsetting other people.

History: Having grown up in a heavily conservative, christian home, Bradley David Christian has known nothing but religion his whole life. Within a week of his birth, he had gone to church for the first time and continued to go for the entirety of his life. His parents were completely and totally enthralled with christianity and wanted nothing more than for Bradley to be every bit as religious as them.

His relationship with his parents is… less than ideal to be putting it lightly. They’re controlling and invasive. They put everything under a microscope and leave him with little to no privacy. They choose his wardrobe, choose if he’s allowed to continue being friends with someone or not, go through his phone and social media accounts and so on and so forth. Bradley knows this isn’t normal but there isn’t really anything he can do about it seeing as he still lives with him and is too young to be on his own. So he just tries to appease them and keep them as happy as possible, working to be their wet dream of a child.

The church he went to was very conservative and pushed the ‘Fear the Lord’ mentality leading him to being constantly anxious about having any sort of sin weighing on his soul. The idea of hell is terrifying, and he would do anything to avoid being sent there. Convinced that the rapture could occur at any given moment he worked to have his soul constantly free of sin. His parents had successfully indoctrinated their son into their religion.

As Bradley grew older, he started to notice that he was developing an attraction to the same sex and that terrified him. He prayed to God to fix him and when that didn’t work, tried to hide it. But eventually his parents found out and sent him to Camp New Grace.

The camp didn’t change Bradley(There was a brief period of time where a certain boy with a cute smile and bubbly laugh that made him think maybe it was okay to be gay but that hope was quickly squashed). In fact it probably left him in a worse state than when he first entered. But he could certainly convince himself that it did. Thinking he was cured, he was sent home only to discover, much to his chagrin, that he was still plagued by these demons. But the very last thing that Bradley wanted was to be sent back to that place so from that day forwards he did everything in his power to hide and repress that part of himself. After all, Camp New Grace did always say that being straight, being NORMAL, was a choice. So he could just…. choose to be hetero. He would be his own accountabillibuddy and keep himself in check.

Bradley became an extremely active member of the church, had brief relationships with girls that always ended with frustration and tears, ran the christianity clubs at his school, maintained perfect grades and above all tried to keep his life as free from sin as possible. But deep down he still felt that gnawing guilt in his heart knowing that he really was. The reminder clung at the back of his mind like a tumor. Whispering to him that no matter what he did, he would never be rid of it. It kept him up at night, made his heart pound in his chest when the church talked about the sin that was homosexuality, made him sweat when he tried to deny just how much a boy’s laugh could make his stomach flip or a smile could make his face heat up. But if he could keep himself pure, maybe- just maybe God could overlook that and he wouldn’t be sent to burn in the fiery pits of hell.

A kid could hope.

Sample paragraph: A success story. That’s what they called him. A shining example of how homosexuality was a choice, that Bradley had been able to overcome his sinful urges and become a pure, gleaming light for the Lord Almighty.

The thought burned like acid in his throat, ate at his stomach, twisted his guts into painful knots. He was a liar and he knew it. He knew he was sinning every time his heart flipped when a handsome boy would call his name. Sinning when only thoughts of masculine voices could stir a fire in the pit of his stomach. Sinning every night when all he had was his own thoughts and fantasies.

It was ripping him apart, all the lies, the lust, the desires- he was an abomination wearing the skin of a holy man. Did that make him worse than the average sinner? He prayed, day and night, for forgiveness from a God he both feared and worshiped.

“Bradley, why don’t you share with the congregation how you were you able to overcome these desires?” the pastor asked, a smug gleam in his eye. Wasn’t pride a sin?

“W-well-” His hand twitched as Bradley had to remind himself to not lift his hand and chew at it. Instead he settled for rubbing the back of his neck, fingers catching on locks on the back of his head and anxiously tugging. Scriptures- scriptures- “As Matthew 26:41 says, ‘Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.’. So uh, I prayed. A lot. And the power of prayer… helped me overcome my temptations?"

The priest smiled like Bradley had gotten a correct answer on a test. His anxiety lessened for only a brief moment. The fear, the anxiety was always at the back of his mind. His hand pulled away from his hair to clutch tightly at his chair. This was humiliating. He didn’t want a soul to know about how he had struggled. How he was still struggling. But here Bradley was, in front of a group of kids lying to them about how they too could overcome temptations and sin to become pure in the eyes of God. He licked at his dry lips. “I’ve even uh, been able to have a few girlfriends.” His eyes darted at the kids and saw himself in their faces. “Anything is possible through the power of God.”

The way the priest smiled, his lips curling, made Bradley feel sick. Did he know what was going on in his head? Was he aware of the lies pouring from his lips or was he just proud of his ability to ‘fix’ people? Bradley wanted to vanish from here. Being near one of these conversion therapy places was the last thing he ever wanted but his parents insisted it would be ‘good’ for him to share his story. They’d arranged everything, written the emails for him and sent him here.

“Now, do you still experience those old…. Urges?”

Did the way his head shot up make him look guilty? “What? Uh- no- I mean uh-” Lying. He hated it. “Y-yeah. But I just pray to God in those moments. And he helps me.”

The priest’s face tightened, lips pressed into a thin line and a quick nod followed. Bradley felt like someone had stuck a knife into his stomach and twisted it. Should he have said something different? But the holy man laughed- “Well maybe you should come back and do our little program! Just kidding.” Bradley could taste metal in his mouth at the thought but forced out a laugh of his own.

“M-maybe!"

His limbs felt like tightly wound coils, ready to spring out of the chair and run from here. His muscles were tense and he couldn’t keep himself still. Hands gripping, twitching, leg bouncing, eyes darting. Did he look like a liar or just like someone with stage fright?

“Well, thank you for coming and speaking with us Bradley. God truly has blessed you.” Was it over? Relief washed over him. He smiled and lied once more.

“It was good to be here.”

Headcanons: nervous tick extraordinaire. He constantly tries(and fails) to break his finger biting habit through using fidget toys and fidgeting in other ways but always goes back to it. He has a tendency to pull at his hair as well as recite scriptures from the bible to keep himself in line. Part of why he’s so skinny is because he makes himself so nervous he gets sick and can’t eat or throws up whatever's in his stomach.

Anything else: I hope this meets the length requirements! Hope to hear from you dudes soon, constructive criticism is always welcomed and encouraged even if I’m not accepted!

[thepilotanon]

Hiding.

Trying Kylo again with something a bit more deeper. I gave the {reader} a name this time, because that’s what I’m currently most comfortable with but I will still keep trying! I really like playing with the {reader}’s place in the First Order and still maintain an unusual happiness.

Warnings: mention of death, sad {reader}!

Supreme Leader Kylo Ren.

Powerful leader of the First Order, in control of a new form of Empire that will bring greatness to the galaxy, he plans to finish the job of that his grandfather could not do before his death. Promising to end the war and bring peace to his loyal followers, Kylo Ren was a man of all seriousness and order; no one was to disobey the Supreme Leader, lest they have a desired death wish with his cross-bladed lightsaber. Everyone knew to fear him, and never go against his orders…

Everyone, except his wife. Nova.

Everyone knew that Nova, the Supreme Leader’s wife, was different from anyone else in the First Order, even far different than General Hux’s hair or the new tech in the repaired control panels. She was something that many people had a hard time believing being Kylo’s other half, much less still breathe after being married for as long as they have. She was the only one who ever dared to approach him during his tantrums to ask him random questions (What would you like for dinner? Do you need your uniform cleaned tonight? Have you seen the medical droid for your headaches, or did you destroy it again?). Each defeat by the scavenger girl or trying to get her to join him in ruling the galaxy, she was the first one to go to his side and keep him calm. Nova was the only one who ever dared to laugh or bring happiness around the decks, mostly to annoy Hux and distract her husband from the General’s annoying lectures; as well as hugging, smiling and making people’s day cycle a little bit brighter in any way that she can.

Sometimes people forgot that she was the new Commander and the trainer for the Knights of Ren.

Yes, people wonder all the time at how anyone such as Nova could capture the black heart of Kylo Ren, but that was something that neither husband or wife will exploit any time soon with the war still raging. People are sometimes caught daydreaming by the Supreme Leader of the married couple telling their children - a daydream instantly shot down by reminding them of their place and get back to work. No one but his wife was really allowed to wander off when there was nothing important to do.

Speaking of his beloved, Kylo Ren was currently in the midst of searching for her.

Knowing that she had finished training the Knights for the day and even taking on some stormtroopers for extra conditioning, Kylo expected Nova to return to their quarters or find her attempting to annoy Hux. When he couldn’t find her anywhere in their rooms or at the command deck, Kylo slowly came to the idea that he was to find her in one of her hiding spots among the vast ship of the Finalizer, using the Force as a guide. Knowing how his wife had a miraculous talent finding nooks and crannies that many people in armor can’t fit into, Kylo is having his work cut out for him.

Entering and exiting different control rooms without a word, startling many officers and stormtroopers by his sudden appearance, Kylo paid no mind to anyone taking a break or conversing among one another when he didn’t find a familiar Force signature within the room. He went to every mess hall and even pushed his abilities to search within the women’s lockers for her, only to come up empty of a bright and shiny light. When he went to the medical center and casually stared at one of the nurses, it didn’t take long for them to let him know that they haven’t seen his wife lately, much less one of his own Knights and stormtroopers who were being treated from Nova’s ministrations during training.

“She appeared to be fine, Master,” one of his Knights answered from his cot, his helmet still on while a nurse applied ointment to a dagger cut on his ribcage. “Did not sense anything wrong with her, even while we remained to help clean the training facility. No sign of intending on hiding anywhere...”

“Do you know which way she went after dismissing you?” Kylo asked in a low voice, ignoring how the unmasked stormtroopers did everything is their power to avoid looking at him out of habit.

“She said something about the observation deck, but I did not see her there when I passed by on my way.”

Realizing that he found what he was looking for, Kylo simply turned around and made his way to the only observation deck he knew Nova would want to go to.

The previous Supreme Leader had an observation deck installed above the throne room, where Kylo only casually stole a glance in before moving on (normally Nova would sit on his throne, if she waited for him), and he could recall the many times Snoke complained about the “brainless” brat ignoring his threats about lounging up there whenever she pleased. It still appalled Kylo, looking back, how Snoke never raised a finger at Nova when she did what she wanted, even though she would technically be out of his way… Snoke never used the Force to make her submit, or even threaten her life when she began behaving naughtily after being hired. It was like Nova had a way of getting what she wanted, regardless whom it may be in power, she didn’t care. As far as the Supreme Leader’s observation deck went, it was one of Nova’s best hiding places.

Climbing the stairs with his long limbs, his cape flowing from the breeze of the vents, Kylo could finally pick up his wife’s Force mark. It was quiet, which was very unusual to find from a usually extremely hyper and bright aura that often reminded Kylo what he was fighting for in this war. Seeing his wife’s back as she sat on the ground, he waited for her to acknowledge his presence as he made himself known of coming up the stairs. He heard her mumbling under her breath softly and moving her hands and arms around, as if fiddling with something, but she gave no response to her husband’s arrival. She was quiet, and Kylo knew that this was not his wife’s usual behavior, even when she was having a hard day…

Stepping onto the hangar of the deck, Kylo listened as he began picking up his wife’s words. She was trying to say something, struggling with the pronunciation and vowels.

“Doba...min - val tru,” Nova muttered before sighing. “Doba val tru...do ba…”

“Doaba ol’val tru,” Kylo corrected in a soft tone, making his way to stand next to her sitting form. With his hands placed behind his back, he glanced to the vast view of the stars and distant moons. “You want to say ‘Doaba ol’val tru’, otherwise you’re speaking gibberish and probably drunk.”

“Doaba ol’val tru,” Nova tried carefully, her voice slow as to try and copy her husband’s guide. In their reflection, Kylo nodded.

“Very good, my darling.” Kylo finally looked down to see Nova for the first time all day. Beautiful as always in his eyes, he noticed the tear tracks sparkling faintly on her cheeks and her usually curious and loving eyes seemed distant and tired. Her bottom lip had obviously been chewed on, probably to keep her sobs quiet. In her hands, though, was a rock.

The rock was roughly the size of Kylo’s large hands, oval-shaped and roughly mixed in different colors of grays, browns and speckles of a bright blue on top. Nova has to use both of her hands to hold it properly to avoid making a ruckus, her thumbs rubbing around the surface of the rock. Kylo recognized it from the bookshelf back in their quarters, as Nova kept it within her reach next to her collections of scrolls and books he had given her throughout the years. Of course his wife had a collection of unique trinkets (or...useless), and Kylo sometimes found it interesting in contrast to his otherwise boring collection of books and manuals.

Kylo knew where that rock came from.

“Who were you saying the funeral prayer to, love…” Kylo spoke quietly, already knowing the answer as to why his wife was trying to recite something in Olys Corellisi. Sometimes Kylo would read his wife something in his father’s language, translating and teaching her some phrases.

“Phasma.”

Sighing, Kylo slowly got himself to sit on the ground, crossing his legs before taking off his gloves and setting them to the side. Reaching over, Kylo carefully picked up his wife and lift her to his lap. Once settling her comfortably with her rock still in her grasp, Kylo held on to Nova by wrapping his arms around her body and pressing a light kiss to her temple, nuzzling his forehead against her head.

Since the battle that lost many lives on both sides of the First Order and the Resistance, it took a while before the disappearance of Captain Phasma was brought to light and the official documents declared her as deceased, Nova was the last one to be notified.

Phasma was one of the very, very few who took an instant liking to Nova since she was brought to work for the First Order, originally thinking she would become her second in command with her expertise with weapons and ability her fight anyone without fear. Phasma actually took care of Nova when she was confused by many rules and guidelines of serving Snoke, taking time to teach her the basics - even though Nova eventually neglected most of them. Kylo assumed that Phasma saw his wife as bit of her younger self, when she first got into the war, confused and only knows surviving is important. Once Nova got accustomed to her position as a trainer, being tied to the ship, Phasma made it a secret habit to bring small gifts to her as gifts to teach her about the worlds Nova never knew.

When Kylo began secretly courting Nova without Snoke’s knowledge, he had an idea that Phasma knew something was up and supported Nova’s presence near him as often as possible.

Captain Phasma was the only friend she had, and now she was gone.

When the announcement of Phasma’s death was revealed to the First Order assembly, Kylo knew Nova wanted to burst out into tears and begin mourning for her friend. But, as Hux kept going with the future plans and Kylo becoming the Supreme Leader, Nova knew that expressing emotion was not an option for the time. As soon as everything was in place, everyone was put to work right away, Nova and Kylo included. There was rarely any time to mourn for lost comrades in war, no sense to give or receive comfort…

Kylo can only guess that Nova wanted time to miss her friend in peace, and not shame her husband’s public reputation. Not that anyone would dare to look down upon Kylo’s wife, but she knew that her strong image also influenced the image of her husband.

Crying was not an option. Attachments are meant to be a distraction, thus mourning was looked down upon.

“I miss Phasma,” Nova said with a sore throat, looking at the rock the old Captain had given her a few years ago. “I wish that they found her body…”

“There were many that were not found,” Kylo informed her, “you know this.”

She nodded, feeling tears well in her eyes again. “I know that, but...Phasma and the others fought for you and the purpose of the First Order, they should at least be honored. Phasma would have pledged to you as Supreme Leader as soon as she found out. I just want her body back to say good bye.”

Kylo nodded, silently agreeing. Feeling her sobs starting again, Kylo carefully pulled her head to tuck into his neck, cradling her against him as she began crying. His fingers rubbing her scalp as he rest his cheek against her head and holding her tight, he quietly hushed her. “Nova…”

“I never had anyone like Phasma in my life, Kylo,” Nova confessed. “I know it’s terrible of me to be so sad with something that’s expected in war but -” she turned her head into his shoulder and broke down “- I miss Phasma, I can’t stop the feeling of missing her.”

The Supreme Leader kept silent, allowing her to release a tired cry. Her hands dropping the rock to her lap as she wrapped her arms tightly around him in a desperate embrace; she needed comfort, her mind and heart a confused mess and lost in emotions. Kylo knew that his wife never experienced death so personal before - her prior life to the First Order was all about survival and killing anyone who was a threat to her. She had no one. She was alone with her bustling planet of employers and those seeking her advice before being taken… As someone still new to the vast galaxy, she was also new to many emotions she never thought existed inside of her and Kylo knew that all too well.

And, as her husband, Kylo wasn’t going to let his wife experience loneliness any longer.

The memories of Ben Solo slowly crept to his mind, and Kylo found himself remembering the times as a small boy crying to the holographics of his father, demanding that he came home. The time he watched his mother proudly project to the council while sitting on either his father or servant’s lap, how he reached his then-small hands to her, wanting her embrace instead. The good-bye kisses his parents spoiled him with and the hello hugs and snuggles every time he went to train with Luke Skywalker. Kylo knew that Ben Solo experienced the mourning of the death of his father, and…

Cradling Nova’s head with one hand, Kylo pressed a long, firm kiss to her forehead. Thumb brushing the back of her skull as he tucked her closer to him and allowed her to cry as much as she wanted.

“Doaba ol’val tru,” Kylo began reciting the funeral prayer that he remembered fluently as a young man. His father taking him to visit the graves of his parents and paying respect. “Ol’val, min dul’skal, ahn guld domina…”

After crying for what probably felt like forever to her, Nova fell asleep in her husband’s embrace as he waited patiently for her to calm down. He kept his gaze to the outside, minding the reflection of his wife in the window as he recited the funeral prayer in his father’s language about a few dozen times, his deep voice vibrating comfortingly against her as she let out all of her negative energy. He repeated the full chant for her, in a sense that he was saying it for Phasma and the other hundred stormtroopers who were never accounted for in the cleanup. For him, he didn’t really care for the deaths, as it was expected...but he found his wife’s thoughts swelling of her fears that she didn’t voice.

Who will pray to Kylo if he died? Will he get time to mourn if I were to die? What if I can’t remember how to say the funeral prayer correctly?

Kylo Ren knew he wasn’t going to die on her, much less have her die on him from war. He made his vow to her in their secret marriage that he will destroy armies and slaughter anyone who dared to try to keep them apart - Snoke included, if it were to happen. He promised her on his knees that he will protect her with everything in his own power, should his own Empire turn on him. He had given her a silver whistle for a first gift that she cherished like treasure everyday, same goes for the wedding band he forged himself with awe and loving gaze when she couldn’t wear it out in public; Kylo Ren had given the remains of his black heart to Nova as a sign to his love, his allegiance and life to her. Kylo Ren had given her all he had and planned on giving her the galaxy as his queen…

If Nova were to ask him to spar with her, he would for her own amusement. If she were to tell him that she wanted to see a planet he was going to go on, he instantly readied his ship to have her sit by his side. Kylo Ren made it clear on a daily cycle that she mattered to him, even when he couldn’t return her affectionate gestures infront of other officers or General Hux; he would voice it in coded messages and return the kisses, touches and embraces later in their quarters. For all that Nova did to keep him sane and reminded him of his goal, Kylo knew that it still wasn’t enough to return the favor to her.

So, if she desired to mourn for her friend, then let it be done in his hold.

Carrying Nova in his arms through the private passages restricted for the Supreme Leader and very few, trusted staff, Kylo entered their chambers and made his way to their bed. Placing her sleeping body on top of the sheets, he was careful to remove her shoes and socks first, then unbuttoning her trousers and peel off her uniform coat. Undoing her hair and removing the silver whistle from around her neck, Kylo placed that and her wedding ring on the nightstand by her side.

Combing his fingers through her hair to ease the roots, Kylo then shifted her body to properly lay on the bed, her head resting on one of the many pillows. Nova inhaled deeply in her sleep, whining a bit, but settled into the sheets and curled a bit as he waited for her to relax before undressing himself. Not bothering to fold their clothes as they normally would out of habit, Kylo was careful to pick up the rock still lying on the bed, the blue specks sparkling from the outside light and seeming to glow.

Holding the rock, Kylo remembered when Nova first received it from Phasma and just had to show him the gift, as if it was the most interesting thing she had ever seen. He remembered asking what was so special about it, even bringing it up to Phasma that she should know better than to bring rubble onboard, but the response from Phasma herself made him rethink of how he interpreted his then-secret crush and her lifestyle.

“She sees everything with new eyes, but she also sees the good in everything,” Phasma had said, looking at him through her helmet with an amused tilt. “You would think, if something as simple as a rock would bore her...but she adores so much of what she has been hidden from. I’d rather watch Nova take something good from any job I do, to see her happy for me.”

Instead of putting the treasured rock back on the bookshelf, Kylo was careful to place it on the nightstand beside Nova’s sleeping form, having it closer to the edge so it can be near her when she wakes up. Moving around to the other side of the bed, Kylo waved a hand to summon the lights off as he climbed in and faced her on his side, hand supporting his head. He watched her for a few moments, hand reaching to her face as his fingertips barely traced the dried teartracks skimming down her face, tracing her bottom lip before finally holding her cheek. Kylo leaned over and kissed Nova’s forehead, then under her eye...her cheekbone, temple, brow and finally her lips with the most gentle care.

Keeping his strong arm around her as he took one last look to the rock, Kylo rest his mouth against the crown of her head. “Min Larel, min turhaya...don’t be afraid to cry,” he whispered in a low voice against her hair. “I’ll be there to hold you.”

You know that Phasma would have a soft spot for someone who would end up being Kylo’s wife - she knows that the crabby space man needs a balance and she could see it in Nova/{reader}. The lines written in Olys Corellisi can be found online, too, if you’re interested!! I had some fun writing this and I hope you enjoyed reading this, despite failing to use Y/N like in “silver whistle”. 

I also want to take a moment to thank everyone who liked, reblogged and left comments on my other works - I was honestly not expecting such positive feedback from amazing people and it makes me so happy. I hope to hear from you guys soon, and hope you enjoyed!

[pamphletstoinspire]

August Is The Month Dedicated To The Immaculate Heart Of Mary - MARY'S GIFT OF THE GREEN SCAPULAR

The Green Scapular or Scapular of the Immaculate Heart of Mary is, like the Miraculous Medal, a gift of our Blessed Mother to the Daughters of Charity of St. Vincent de Paul.

On November 27, 1839, Justine Bisqueyburu, destined by Providence to make known this devotion, entered the Novitiate of the Daughters of Charity, 140 Rue du Bac, Paris. On January 28,1840, during her first retreat, the young sister was favored with a celestial vision. Our Lady appeared to her clothed in a long white robe over which hung a bright blue mantle. In her hands she held her Heart, from the top of which issued brilliant rays. The same apparition was repeated four or five times during her novitiate. This favor seemed to have no other end than to increase in the Sister herself tender devotion to Mary Immaculate.

Clothed with the habit, on September 8, 1840, feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin, Sister Bisqueyburu was favored during prayer with an apparition of the Mother of God, who held in her right hand her Heart surrounded by flames, and in her left a sort of scapular, consisting of a single piece of green cloth suspended from a cord of the same color. On one side was a picture of the Blessed Virgin as she had shown herself in the apparitions; on the other, a Heart all inflamed with rays more brilliant than the sun, and clearer than crystal. This heart pierced with a sword was surrounded by an oval inscription, surmounted by a cross. The inscription read:

"Immaculate Heart of Mary, pray for us now and at the hour of our death."

At the same time an interior voice revealed to the Sister the meaning of this vision. She understood that this new Scapular, through the medium of the Sisters of Charity, would contribute to the conversion of those who have no faith, and above all, procure for them a happy death, and that it should be distributed with confidence. As the scapular was distributed, wonderful conversions and some bodily cures were produced.

The Scapular is not the badge of a confraternity but simply a double image attached to a single piece of cloth and suspended from a cord. The Blessed Virgin declared to her faithful servant that no special formula of blessing was necessary. It suffices that it be blessed by a priest and worn by the one for whom it is intended. It may be placed in the clothing, on the bed, or simply in the room. The only prayer to be recited is the inscription surrounding the heart on the reverse of the Scapular:

"Immaculate Heart of Mary, pray for us now and at the hour of our death."

This should be repeated daily, if not by the one wearing it, by the one giving it. The Scapular may be distributed everywhere. Although wonderful graces are attached to it, they are proportionate to the confidence with which it is given. The Green Scapular was twice approved by Pope Pius IX, in 1863, and again in 1870 when he said:

"Write to these good Sisters that I authorize them to make and distribute it."

MY EXPERIENCE WITH THE GREEN SCAPULAR OF THE IMMACULATE HEART OF MARY

Rev. Leo Steinbach

When I first came in contact with this devotion, I read an explanation which seemed to give the impression that it was intended only for lax Christians. I thought it might be useless for me since I had very little contact with Christians, be they good, bad or indifferent. My contacts were mostly with Buddhists and Shintoists whom I was trying to christianize. However I put a few scapulars in my pocket and decided to try one out. That very day I went to a nearby hospital where I discovered a non-Christian woman patient who had been unconscious for 10 days previously. The doctor explained to me that she would very probably die within three days without regaining consciousness. He and a nurse escorted me to the room. I addressed the sick woman but she gave no indication whatsoever that she understood a word I was saying. Thereupon I took a green scapular from my pocket, applied it to her forehead and repeated the invocation, "Immaculate Heart of Mary, pray for us now and at the hour of our death."

And what happened? The woman immediately regained consciousness, joined her hands and very devoutly asked God to forgive her sins. I was amazed. The doctor and the nurse both non-Christians were also flabbergasted. I immediately instructed and baptized the dying patient that same day much to her joy. She remained perfectly conscious for three days more during which time she very devoutly received Holy Viaticum. She breathed her last while praying to the Immaculate Heart of Mary.

News of this double miracle spread rapidly. People kept asking me for green scapulars and since I only had a couple dozen which I had received from an army chaplain and since I had no means of replenishing my supply, I started to lend my remaining scapulars with a proviso that they be returned after three days. I did this in order to help as many people as possible. Meanwhile a Catholic newspaper reporter helped me procure the necessary materials and we began making them. During the past 25 years we have made and distributed many tens of thousands to people living all over Japan. We have also sent quite a number to the United States, Brazil, Paraguay, Korea and Indonesia. A Catholic magazine here in Japan published an explanation of the green scapular about a year ago and we have been receiving requests daily ever since. On one single day we received 140 letters and we try to fulfill each request promptly. We never charge for them nor do we ask for postage. However we have never been in debt. Grateful people send us donations which cover the cost of materials and postage.

It is edifying to read the letters of gratitude. Many people report spiritual blessings and there have been miraculous cures too of almost every type of human ailment including blindness, deafness, cancer, tuberculosis, high blood pressure, rheumatism, arthritis etc. Luke-warm Catholics and non-Catholics seem to receive more favors than good practicing Catholics.

An 80-year-old non-Christian lady said she would like to visit the church in her vicinity but she was unable to walk because of arthritis. Every winter both her ankles and wrists were swollen and very painful. She was given a green scapular which she applied daily but since she could not remember the prayer she merely asked the Mother of Christ for help. Within a few days she was completely cured. After a brief instruction and Baptism, she attended mass daily and always received Holy Communion. She kept up this habit for two years until she was called to her reward. During this interval she converted her aged friend who lived just across the street from her home and she had the happiness of being her godmother. Her good husband, a staunch Shintoist, also treasured his green scapular but no one could induce him to become a Christian. However, just three days before he died, he had a change of heart. He died very happily after receiving the sacraments.

The owner of a fleet of 60 taxis in Kyoto asked his pastor to bless his vehicles on New Year's Day, whereupon he presented each of his drivers a new green scapular. He encouraged them, although they are non-Christians, to recite the prayer at least once a day. During the year there were just a few bent fenders but there were no accidents that caused a personal injury. The Blessed Mother is never invoked in vain. Her prayers are powerful. Japanese "kamikaze" drivers moving at a high speed in all kinds of weather, day and night, are very grateful to their Protectress.

[ramrodd]

9 Ways to Read the Bible Wrong

COMMENTARY:

That tin foil becomes you, Matt, if you can't find your MAGA hat. It provides a certain veritas to your stage presence.

Cornelius is the person with whom I most closely identify in the whole of the Bible, with Gideon as a close second. I'm an Army brat and I was surrounded by centurions and their consorts, the Uriah wives of the Army community. I, in fact, sought to join their ranks, in the fullness of time, to become a man among men such as these for whom it can be said "Not in all of Israel have I found such faith" You can say that about Gideon's 300 as well as the Green Berets, which whom it was my unfulfilled goal to serve when I first took up the cross of the Liberation Gospel in 1962 and began to prepare for a career as a servant leader in the US Army Infantry. That was Plan A until Jesus revealed that a military career was not my destiny and said "Follow me and, in the fullness of time, I will make you a fool for the Holy Spirit".

And here I am, today. I didn't have a Plan B when I left the Army in 1971 beyond a vague ambition to become filthy rich like Elon Musk and marry my college sweet heart and build a palace for her anywhere her heart desired.

It turned out, that wasn't my destiny, either, but it was an important first step in becoming a guru for process theology like Frank "Be All You Can Be" Burns, the Army's process theology guru and the group leader  of Task Force Δ. He and I are the only people in the world doing what I do and he's dead.

As I say, I am a Christian heretic. I was raised in the Army Protestant Chapel and, before I went to Vietnam in 1970, all the chaplains I knew were combat veterans and four square immersed in the Liberation Theology of the US Army of George C. Marshall and Dwight Eisenhower. In fact, one of my favorite memories is taking communion on a muddy firebase in a light drizzle from a Baptist chaplain before putting on a helment, climbing in a slick and going into the woods looking for people to kill. I deliberately took communion at that time as a fire for effect gesture in the leadership by example mode of servant leadership, but I also sought out the serenity communion always offers. I was severely, and purposefully dehydrated as a result of the water discipline we had to observe, with salt tablets making up the difference, and when the thimble o wine hit my palate, it sort of exploded like tossing gasoline on a fire.

This is the moment when the Lord's Prayer could be seen as putting on the Armor of God in a St. Paul Ephesians 6:10 – 20 kind of way, but it was far more the Blessed are the Meek, Lord, help me overcome my unbelief spirit of servant leadership,

At the time, there weren't any Evangelical Spiritual Warriors of the Salvation Gospel in Vietnam: they all tended to be Campus Crusade for Christ homeboys with other priorities than military service. One of my sergeants was a Charismatic lay preacher from back in the hollows of the Smokey Mountains and my impression is he did a little snake handling and talking in tongues back in the 'hood, but he was a veteran of the Cambodian Incursion and pretty well committed to the Liberation Gospel that there are no atheists in fox holes theology everybody else more or less accepted as, well, gospel.. Not surprisingly, we called him "Preacher" which he liked.

So, as near as I can tell, your #3 Bible Proves My Pre-Existing Theology catagory of 9 ways of reading the Bible wrong fits the "no atheists in fox hole doctrine" of the church of them what's been shot at theology of me and the Preacher, back in the day.. At least, that seems to be the universal opinion of the Evangelical pastors committed to Solo Scriptura trumps experience school of thought you're flogging, near as I can tell. During the Civil War it was called "meeting the elephant" and, apparently, it holds no truck in the rarified temples of the Salvation Gospel.

So, I have mostly ignored them. I first ran into the Salvation Gospel in 1966 when one of my best friends brought Campus Crusade for Christ to the ΘΧ house and began badgering me (along with everybody else: he went on staff after graduation with his wife and we exchanged a couple of letters after I got back from Vietnam, but the trail's gone cold) to give my life over to Christ.

I was offended on a number of different levels. First of all, that had happened years before and the fact he didn't seem to be aware of my spiritual status bothered me. But more important, I studied Bill Bright's 4 Spiritual Laws and thought "Then what?".  The Salvation Gospel it represents seemed to me to be a sort of theological narcissism and amounted to a little more than cosmic navel gazing. It's taken me from then til now to sort out the conflicting emotions of the moment, but, in the end, the Holy Spirit advised me to go ahead and accede to Bill's Decision Challenge, publicly: it didn't violate Jesus's prelude to the Lord's Prayer and it would satisfy Bill's ego. So, I did and kept the turmoil close to my heart.

Liberation Theology proceeds from the proposition that salvation is a given and the Great Commission demands that we proceed from that point of departure into the world and implement the Will of God on earth as it is revealed to us from Heaven through such mechansms as the Lord's Prayer. The reason why process theology works is because God is eternal, unchanging, forever faithful, like a north seeking arrow of a Rose Compass. I've never had a need to examine the character of God: like Job, you cannot unknow God. What I try and discern is how to navigate my tiny craft on the vast sea as a perfect channel of God's will in my world. In this regards, the sriptures are like the outrigger on a Hawaiian dugout to keep me upright and steady on the course God has laid out for me in Plan B.

In this regards, the John 3:16 mantra of the Evangelical Spiritual Warriors has the same moral substance as "Thank you for your service". If I was Jesus, I'd think “Yeah, that's true: I did become the Word, Incarnate,  because Our Father who art in Heaven so loved this world that He sent Me to give mankind the tools it needs for its dominion, but what have you done for me, lately, Matt? Put on a MAGA hat to vote to close down Planned Parenthood? Deny global warming? Applaud the white nationalism and anti-constitutional agenda of Oval Office? What part of your 9 Ways to Read the Bible Wrong video do you not understand?”

But I'm not Jesus. That would violate category #5: I'm the main character of the Bible. I'm channeling Cornelius and the Gospel of Mark is a report of the big magic of Resurrection. All I know for sure is that Jesus validates the God Hypothesis with perfect existential clarity. Everything else is above my pay grade. Amen.

[joannrochaus]

One hero salutes another: A video I hope you’ll see

Throngs of people streamed into the Capitol Rotunda yesterday to spend a moment before the flag-draped casket of President George H. W. Bush. Among them was Sen. Bob Dole.

While serving in the Army during World War II, Dole was badly wounded by German machine gun fire. He never regained use of his right arm; his left arm is minimally functional. Nonetheless, he went on to serve Kansas in Congress from 1961 to 1996 and run for president in 1996 as the Republican nominee.

Now ninety-five years old, he is confined to a wheelchair. But he wanted to pay his respects to President Bush, so aides helped him stand. He then used his left hand to salute the casket.

It was one hero saluting another. I hope you’ll watch the now-viral video.

“Your success is now our country’s success”

Today has been designated a day of mourning for President George H. W. Bush. His remains are lying in state at the US Capitol this morning. His son, President George W. Bush, will deliver the eulogy at Washington National Cathedral later today.

Many are mourning the passing not just of a great man but also of the civility he represented. Consider one example of his gracious spirit.

In 1989, President Reagan left a humorous note for his successor in the drawer of his Oval Office desk. In 1993, after a bitterly fought presidential campaign, President Bush left a letter in the desk for the man who defeated him, cementing a tradition that has continued to this day.

Here is what he wrote:

“Dear Bill,

“When I walked into this office just now I felt the same sense of wonder and respect that I felt four years ago. I know you will feel that, too.

“I wish you great happiness here. I never felt the loneliness some Presidents have described.

“There will be very tough times, made even more difficult by criticism you may not think is fair. I’m not a very good one to give advice; but just don’t let the critics discourage you or push you off course.

“You will be our President when you read this note. I wish you well. I wish your family well.

“Your success is now our country’s success. I am rooting hard for you.

“Good luck–George.”

“There is but one just use of power”

Consider another example of President Bush’s kindness and humility. Before the collapse of the Soviet Union, he invited Mikhail Gorbachev to Camp David. Driving the presidential golf cart, he took the Soviet leader to one of his favorite spots, the horseshoe pit.

Bush asked Gorbachev if he had ever played horseshoes. Gorbachev said he had not. Bush suggested a game. Gorbachev agreed and got a ringer on his first throw. Bush had the horseshoe mounted on a plaque, which he gave to Gorbachev at dinner that night.

It seems everyone who worked with Mr. Bush had a story about his gracious spirit. The president was not just being himself–he was modeling the change he wanted to see in the nation he led.

In his inaugural address, President Bush began with a prayer in which he stated, “There is but one just use of power, and it is to serve people. Help us to remember it, Lord. Amen.” Later he stated: “If the man you have chosen to lead this government can help make a difference; if he can celebrate the quieter, deeper successes that are made not of gold and silk, but of better hearts and finer souls; if he can do these things, then he must.”

So must we.

“Then shall your light rise”

One of the ways I believe God wants to redeem the passing of George Herbert Walker Bush is by calling us to follow his example.

After describing Mr. Bush as “arguably [America’s] finest single life of patriotic service,” Purdue University president and former governor Mitch Daniels asks: “Is it too much to hope that the final contribution of this giant life might be to cast before the country an example of virtues that have eroded and nearly disappeared? The very virtues that have sustained the American Experiment through its hardest trials?”

We live in a day dominated by geopolitical conflicts and economic uncertainty (as yesterday’s stock market plunge shows). Brexit is dividing Great Britain from Europe and Brits from each other. The European Union is more divided than at any time in its fifteen-year history. Muslims are split into Sunni and Shia. Russia threatens Eastern Europe and China is ascendant.

Big problems seem to call for big solutions. It is tempting to think that we cannot change anything unless we can change everything. But the opposite is actually true.

The most significant way to change the world is to help someone in need: “If you pour yourself out for the hungry and satisfy the desire of the afflicted, then shall your light rise in the darkness and your gloom be as the noonday” (Isaiah 58:10). That’s because the only things in this world that are eternal are not things.

“Engaged in high moral principle”

When we serve others, we emulate the One who “came not to be served but to serve” (Mark 10:45). And we love our Father by loving our neighbor (Matthew 22:37-39; 25:35-40).

Years ago, a friend encouraged me to “make a difference where you are, because you certainly can’t make a difference where you’re not.”

I will close today with my favorite lines from President George H. W. Bush’s inaugural address: “America is never wholly herself unless she is engaged in high moral principle. We as a people have such a purpose today. It is to make kinder the face of the nation and gentler the face of the world.”

Will you make this purpose yours today?

NOTE: Please join me today for a live Q&A on Facebook Live at 12 p.m. CST. I will take questions and discuss the latest headlines. Click here to visit our Facebook page. See you there!

The post One hero salutes another: A video I hope you’ll see appeared first on Denison Forum.

source https://www.denisonforum.org/columns/daily-article/one-hero-salutes-another-video-hope-youll-see/ source https://denisonforum.tumblr.com/post/180825724082

[denisonforum]

One hero salutes another: A video I hope you’ll see

Throngs of people streamed into the Capitol Rotunda yesterday to spend a moment before the flag-draped casket of President George H. W. Bush. Among them was Sen. Bob Dole.

While serving in the Army during World War II, Dole was badly wounded by German machine gun fire. He never regained use of his right arm; his left arm is minimally functional. Nonetheless, he went on to serve Kansas in Congress from 1961 to 1996 and run for president in 1996 as the Republican nominee.

Now ninety-five years old, he is confined to a wheelchair. But he wanted to pay his respects to President Bush, so aides helped him stand. He then used his left hand to salute the casket.

It was one hero saluting another. I hope you’ll watch the now-viral video.

“Your success is now our country’s success”

Today has been designated a day of mourning for President George H. W. Bush. His remains are lying in state at the US Capitol this morning. His son, President George W. Bush, will deliver the eulogy at Washington National Cathedral later today.

Many are mourning the passing not just of a great man but also of the civility he represented. Consider one example of his gracious spirit.

In 1989, President Reagan left a humorous note for his successor in the drawer of his Oval Office desk. In 1993, after a bitterly fought presidential campaign, President Bush left a letter in the desk for the man who defeated him, cementing a tradition that has continued to this day.

Here is what he wrote:

“Dear Bill,

“When I walked into this office just now I felt the same sense of wonder and respect that I felt four years ago. I know you will feel that, too.

“I wish you great happiness here. I never felt the loneliness some Presidents have described.

“There will be very tough times, made even more difficult by criticism you may not think is fair. I’m not a very good one to give advice; but just don’t let the critics discourage you or push you off course.

“You will be our President when you read this note. I wish you well. I wish your family well.

“Your success is now our country’s success. I am rooting hard for you.

“Good luck–George.”

“There is but one just use of power”

Consider another example of President Bush’s kindness and humility. Before the collapse of the Soviet Union, he invited Mikhail Gorbachev to Camp David. Driving the presidential golf cart, he took the Soviet leader to one of his favorite spots, the horseshoe pit.

Bush asked Gorbachev if he had ever played horseshoes. Gorbachev said he had not. Bush suggested a game. Gorbachev agreed and got a ringer on his first throw. Bush had the horseshoe mounted on a plaque, which he gave to Gorbachev at dinner that night.

It seems everyone who worked with Mr. Bush had a story about his gracious spirit. The president was not just being himself–he was modeling the change he wanted to see in the nation he led.

In his inaugural address, President Bush began with a prayer in which he stated, “There is but one just use of power, and it is to serve people. Help us to remember it, Lord. Amen.” Later he stated: “If the man you have chosen to lead this government can help make a difference; if he can celebrate the quieter, deeper successes that are made not of gold and silk, but of better hearts and finer souls; if he can do these things, then he must.”

So must we.

“Then shall your light rise”

One of the ways I believe God wants to redeem the passing of George Herbert Walker Bush is by calling us to follow his example.

After describing Mr. Bush as “arguably [America’s] finest single life of patriotic service,” Purdue University president and former governor Mitch Daniels asks: “Is it too much to hope that the final contribution of this giant life might be to cast before the country an example of virtues that have eroded and nearly disappeared? The very virtues that have sustained the American Experiment through its hardest trials?”

We live in a day dominated by geopolitical conflicts and economic uncertainty (as yesterday’s stock market plunge shows). Brexit is dividing Great Britain from Europe and Brits from each other. The European Union is more divided than at any time in its fifteen-year history. Muslims are split into Sunni and Shia. Russia threatens Eastern Europe and China is ascendant.

Big problems seem to call for big solutions. It is tempting to think that we cannot change anything unless we can change everything. But the opposite is actually true.

The most significant way to change the world is to help someone in need: “If you pour yourself out for the hungry and satisfy the desire of the afflicted, then shall your light rise in the darkness and your gloom be as the noonday” (Isaiah 58:10). That’s because the only things in this world that are eternal are not things.

“Engaged in high moral principle”

When we serve others, we emulate the One who “came not to be served but to serve” (Mark 10:45). And we love our Father by loving our neighbor (Matthew 22:37-39; 25:35-40).

Years ago, a friend encouraged me to “make a difference where you are, because you certainly can’t make a difference where you’re not.”

I will close today with my favorite lines from President George H. W. Bush’s inaugural address: “America is never wholly herself unless she is engaged in high moral principle. We as a people have such a purpose today. It is to make kinder the face of the nation and gentler the face of the world.”

Will you make this purpose yours today?

NOTE: Please join me today for a live Q&A on Facebook Live at 12 p.m. CST. I will take questions and discuss the latest headlines. Click here to visit our Facebook page. See you there!

The post One hero salutes another: A video I hope you’ll see appeared first on Denison Forum.

source https://www.denisonforum.org/columns/daily-article/one-hero-salutes-another-video-hope-youll-see/

[krisrampersad]

What my mother told me Your Wealth Is Your Mind

The National Award for Development of Women/Journalism to me represents an acknowledgment of the sometimes nameless and voiceless women and others I have tried to represent; whose stories I have written, and whose views I have tried to articulate variously as a journalist, as an advocate and activist, as an author, educator and media practitioner in the quest for equity and inclusion, to open up spaces for women and advance a level playing field for all.

We who are given opportunities have a responsibility to give back and to leave our sphere better for those who come after. The wind beneath my wings has always been my now octogenarian mother, Phulmatia Rampersad, who had little such opportunity as what she tried to provide for my siblings and I, who inspires with her humility and abundant love; who gives and asks for little in return and who instilled in me that my wealth is my mind. It is to her courage and resilience and quick wit that strengthens my resolve in substituting the pursuit of material wealth for the pursuit of knowledge. It has energized me in the most trying of times. I must thank all those who have believed in me and shared the journey with me, because we are not an island in ourselves. The world in return, has given back, particularly the close friends and relatives whose prayers, with the endeavours of some very dedicated medics, unearthed a long buried dilemma and returned me to life in the most miraculous way with a restructured heart to beat a few more beats to enjoy this day.

The engagement with learnings and knowledge and the impulse to share has been a vocation rather than a career.

Sharing some highlights below and some brief brief preview bits of Ma, from my upcoming autobiography, Life! HoleHeartedly!

Ma and me

Ma surprises me one day.

I thought the battle was won.

It is no mean feat to decondition centuries of tradition of the notion that marriage is not the ultimate goal for a woman’s self-fulfillment but I believe I had convinced Ma. I wasn’t in anyway averse to the notion. But life gets in the way. So much to do and so little time to do it in.

The hints and suggestions of appropriate life partners were becoming less frequent.  It was a long time since I heard her speak of it. Perhaps she has resigned herself, I think.

Then Ma surprises me. We are talking now about my career. It is difficult to explain. I do not have a career. I do not really have what people consider a real job. The demands of the NGOs had escalated. It left little time to visit, to talk. The schedule was getting hectic, one international NGO meeting after the other  I was beginning to feel the strain. There was little time to earn a living and there were bills to pay. One December, I was invited to a meeting to design international policy for Information and Communication Technology in Geneva – a follow-up meeting to the first WSIS meeting held in Tunisia some years earlier, to assess the distance travelled in ICTs and the way forward. I had presented on the need for gender-sensitive ICT policy, with a critique of gender blindness in ICT policy. Rewind! FastForward, it was entitled. Fastforward was the name of the national ICT policy.

My friend Gail turns up to take me to the airport. I was growing weary of the number of trips she, my friend Yma and Yasmin and Ganesh made to the airport. I could take a cab, but they wanted to give me a sense of homecoming, and warm send offs. But it was taking its toll on all of us. Suitcases stepped over from previous trips to get on the other one. The world thought it was glamorous, this jetting. I never thought that the air travel was impacting my yet unknown condition.

Gail finds me sitting, half-dressed, my winter booths next to me, pensive.

“Come on. You are going to be late!” She bristles, as I slowly pull on my clothes. She sits me down and pull my boots on.

“I don’t think I should go,” I tell her. “Ma’s not feeling well.” Ma had just turned 80. I told Gail of my visit with Ma the day before. The tears in Ma’s eyes when I was leaving, tears that would never flow because she would not let them. She celebrated the paths of all her children but she wasn’t feeling well. She was weak.  I could tell that she was beginning to feel that every meeting and departure would be the last we would see each other. But her tears never flowed, nor mine. I left to get ready for my trip, but my thoughts were on Ma’s uncomplaining farewell.

“It’s only for a few days. You will be back soon. She will be okay,” Gail reassures me. She pulls the boots on and zips my luggage. “Come on, you are going to be late.”

The meeting saw me get locked into the Geneva headquarters of the United Nations as long after the meeting ended and everyone had left, I as dealing with emails and responses to things everyone thought was urgent, losing track of time.  As with many of these meetings, it was one where I hardly saw outdoors. In the winter month of December, I left the hotel in darkness and returned in darkness, not seeing much of the outdoors or the place. If I wanted to do that I had to book in extra time.

There were many family occasions missed too. I felt that my nephews and nieces knew of me from what they read of and by me. For many years my birthday went uncelebrated or in other lands. In Uganda, coordinatng the outreach for the Women's Affairs Minister's Meeting, the women came together because Hazel Brown insisted that my birthday be noiced with a cake. 

In the weeks that I tried to pull together my second book, Through the Political Glass Ceiling so it could be out before the general elections. I felt a launch before the elections was crucial, because for me there were prophetic elements in the introduction, The Clash of Political Cultures: Cultural Diversity and Minority Politics in a Small Island with its inside into intangibles of political ideology that has often been overlooked in political and sociocultural analysesthat generally focus primarily on overt factors with which I wrapped the chronology of speeches by the woman who was in line to shatter the political glass ceiling as the first woman Prime Minister. When my family gathered for Mother’s Day, I had to beg leave. The book had to get to the press; the launch was in a few days. And a few days after that the elections. Ma understood. She encouraged me to get it done. I took comfort that she would be at the launch. How much we take our mothers for granted.

It was after the launch of Through the Political Glass Ceiling that we are sitting. I had just finished giving her a massage, with coconut oil, as she liked.

 “When you going settle down, girl?”

Oh dear. The conversation again, I think:

“But I am settled Ma.”

“But who you going to leave your wealth to?”

“What wealth Ma? I asked. Startled. I explained to her that I generally worked for just stipends to cover daily allowances, and when time permits, a few contracts that would have to cover the expenses of the months not formerly working.

“I am doing what I am called to do,” I tell her.

That’s when Ma surprised me.

“Your wealth is your mind. Who you going to pass that on to?” Ma says.

At the grinding stone

‘Everytime I passing gyul you peesaying masala….’

I discover the world in Ma’s kitchen: the crossroads of new and ancient Asian, Arabian, African, American European culinary delights. The scents in Ma’s kitchen are like the convergence of global force winds and waters at the crosscurrents of the world.

Ma is humming, ‘Everytime I passing gyul you peesaying masala’ as she presses out ancient family culinary secrets from the mystical Orient beyond the Middle Passage through Pacific-Atlantic Spice Routes, rerouted and rerooted. Like tantalising tall tales of the Arabian Nights they tease my senses out of my comfort zones of fairytales through Tunisia and Turkey, Venice and Manhattan to discoveries that will overturn histories and empires and turn pages, heads and square, oval and round tables of global diplomacy.

Everytime I passing gyul you peesaying masala, Ma hums.

From the bowls of spices surrounding her, ancient unrecorded lore transfers an exotic and erotic past from the perfumed gardens of the ancient new world. Silken curtains swish against each other sinuously and in sensual whispers seduces me to board closely guarded camel-drawn caravans laden with dhania, pippali, nutmeg, cloves, maithi, nigella, cinnamon, cardamom, mace, turmeric, across the deserts from Dravidian civilisations; aboard Persian carpets of Iran and Iraq; pausing for refueling at the intersection of shipping ports via the Arabian Sea into the Egypt’s Nile and the courts of Ramses; then onward through to Mediterranean parts, Turkey, swashbuckling with the Ottomans to enter Greece, to join Marco Polo through Rome, Venice; and Vasco De Gama then Magellan in Portugal, and onto Spanish, French, Dutch Europe, and to the British Empire.

Peesaying masala, peesaying masala

Everytime I passing gyul you peesaying masala….

Ma’s humming is casual, in three notes, the Holy Trinity, a Trident of notes; the beginning, middle and end as the keys of AUM evoked on a harmonium. Ma’s peesaying is a havan to the deities of spices and aromas.

Everytime I passing gyul you peesaying masala….

Ma is a musical being. I would see that more clearly much later. When we are grown and she as not as busy tending the house, tending the crops, tending the animals and tending to us, her love for music is drummed out in dholak-speak. As most of us have left home spread across the diaspora in the Americas, she entertains herself recording old Bhojpuri songs of her days of yore, spiced with lyrics composed of the chutney of her own experiences.

Outliving many of her contemporaries, Ma drums up their memories in strains that stretch into once upon a time and a long long time ago…

The years shed away.

‘Everytime I passing gyul you peesaying masala,’ Ma hums.

Like the refrain, it’s an image indelibly impressed on my mind - Ma’s pressing on spices and herbs. Ma is sitting on her peerhah – a low bench just about one foot off the floor. She bends over a somewhat flat slab of stone that sits on the ground to a height of about half a foot, a sill, or seel, she calls it.

Self-sacrifice and surrender, Ma’s posture inspires metaphor: at the grinding stone - routine, the daily grind – toil; grind it out/stick to the grind – persistence, are all in Ma’s body bent over her sill and lorha, cradling me in her womb, protecting me, murmuring to me the secrets cures in her spices.

Ma is making her own masala. Ma is the Queen of masala-making. In one hand, Ma holds the lorha, which, when not in use, sits as a constant companion on the sill. It is a smooth, somewhat round stone.

The sill and lorha do only Ma’s bidding. Like Sita’s bow destined only to be broken by her Lord Rama, the sill will not budge later when I try to move it to sweep away dust and cobweb with my cocoyea broom.

The sill is glossy, as is its lorha, reflecting the stains of its years of service to spice routes.

Ma is surrounded with portions of her potions of parched pippali, dania, maithi/fenugreek, geera, dalchini/cinnamon, mace, nutmeg, cardamon, nigella, ginger, kolonji, turmeric, mustard …

‘Everytime I passing gyul you peesaying masala,’ Ma hums with her lorha.

The singing invade the twisted veins of my heart and they relax in confort, to hide their secrets for many years to come. Comforted in her womb, I am enveloped in scents sublime. Like the wafts from the havan pyre as the pundit performs puja, Ma performs her culinary ritual for harmony of the domestic spheres with a heart full of melody and a spirit overflowing with song. Household harmony is the Holy Trinity of three notes pressed out with a sill and lorha for world peace.

Ma’s lorha hums in harmony with the sill:

Peesaying masala, peesaying masala

Everytime I passing gyul you peesaying masala.

 Ma hums, a musical mixture of mystical melodies spiced with the rhythm of the lorha sliding over the sill. Holding the lorha with one hand, she scoops up some more grains. The seeds surrender their scents to Ma’s lorha, like Ma’s posture over the sill, cradling me in her womb. I feel the muscles of her stomach move around me as she grinds, and I sing with her lorha

Everytime I passing gyul you peesaying masala

She deftly moves her hand closely up and down the sill, applying pressure so the bits that are finely ground moves to the upper edge of the sill, and the coarse bits move back down the end closest to Ma, get a second roll of her lorha.

Everytime I passing gyul you peesaying masala, Ma hums, with her lorha.

The emerging strains linger on the senses from the scents, secrets of spirits escaping from Ma’s spice bowls onto the sill in rhythm to the lorha, humming, with Ma, this whimsical refrain:

‘Everytime I passing gyul you peesaying masala.’

‘Everytime I passing gyul you peesaying masala,’

Clan-destine confessions

I am a bastard. The name I carry is not the one I was born with. And I do not refer only to the truncated byline that accompanies this article.

(That was the Guardian’s doing. Days into what would turn out to be a career, not many moons ago, a dashing sub-editor faced me with the ultimatum of truncating my name or run the risk of not being credited for my articles. My given name would take up an entire paragraph, and space was a valuable newspaper asset, he argued, rather convincingly. I acquiesced. It reincarnated into Kris, his option over Krissy – that one had come in the late years of primary school, so christened by a teacher from “town,” fresh out of Training College.)

For years I harboured clandestine thoughts that I was a bastard. In times when I wanted to disown my family, I convinced myself I was orphaned; on better days I savoured my secret – that I was a love child!

While I combed her hair, made wavy from decades of plaiting, or massaged her back, I would smilingly indulge in this little secret I shared with my Ma. She groaned approvingly every time I massaged an ache out. I dread to think what her real reaction would have been had I voiced my thoughts…

But it was not just my imagination running wild. My bastardisation was the doing of the State.

It began when I discovered my birth certificate a few weeks before sitting the Common Entrance examination.

Under the column “Father’s name” there was a dash. Nothing else. A dash, then blank. Everyone assumed I was Rampersad because my many, many brothers and sisters carried one of my father’s names, and when you’re number 10 on the list you can’t really choose your name, or so they thought. I’d disprove it! Trice!

Though all my official records made me his, his name was not on the birth certificate. Instead, that carefully rolled, still crisp but yellowing piece of paper Ma kept in her secret place stated I was a Sookraj.

Even when Rampersad went to the Red House in Port-of-Spain to swear I was his, I reserved the option of being Sookraj when I wanted. Really, I should be Kris (blank) or Kris — (dash).

Three years ago, I again saw Sookraj’s named on paper. One then long-unknown cousin, Nelson Ramdeen, was tracing his maternal ancestors and it led him to my mother. He jotted down all our names, and the names of the children of my siblings, and the names of ma’s siblings, and their children, and her mother’s name, and her father’s name: Sookraj, a grandpa I had never known.

Her unregistered Hindu marriage to my father not being recognised by law, not even 10 children later, I was stuck with her father’s name, her maiden name, hence her love child, and my romanticised bastard status.

So Rampersad is the name that defines my place in a place that didn’t recognise my parents’ cultural relationships – an oral culture – in a place where the emphasis is on things written.

Writing made things real.

In that way too, Moneah became real.

From Ramdeen’s research, she popped to life. He traced my mother’s lineage to this faceless woman, who, for whatever reason, at age 22, from a village in India, packed her husband, Ramchurn, and her Jahaji bundle; boarded the Hougoumont on October 13, 1870; braved four months of treacherous, unfamiliar kala pani, to arrive in Trinidad on February 15, 1871, one day after what would come to be known as Valentine’s Day.

Thus began her love affair with Trinidad, which would outlive two husbands, spawn 10 (known) children, some 50 grandchildren (and counting, some blanks still exist); each of those had on average 40 grandchildren; each of those some 30 grands.

Five generations later, I need a better capacity for math than I now possess to calculate Moneah’s contribution to Trinidad and Tobago’s voting and working population and to the Trinidad diaspora in North America, Asia, Australia, Europe and the Caribbean, which in a rough estimate is beyond 5,000 human souls in various places, professions.

(All except politics, the family jokes, and on the agenda is a motion to disown from Moneah’s lineage any who enters that profession at the next clan gathering – the first was 130 years after Moneah’s arrival, so the next might not be until another century or so.)

Moneah now lives: In the faces and the mannerisms and quirks of character of the some 3,000 women who can trace a bloodline to her.

From what I know of some of those women in her lineage, I could see her, on Ramchurn’s death two and a half years after their landing, pulling her widowed orhini over her head and shrugging off considerations of becoming Suti and being burned on a pyre with her husband, a tradition that died in the New World with the dying embers of the Suti practice. I could hear her saying, “Sati who? Mere nam, Moneah” (Meh name’s Moneah!).

She would mourn him properly in the traditionally defined ways, and two years later consort with our grandsire, Shewpersad, who said farewell to his cows and his village, boarded the Brechin Castle (ship) on December 26, 1874, to Trinidad and 25 years of Moneah.

Those two would seed Trinidad soil with cane and cabbages, pumpkins and pawpaws, and offspring like peas.

Though only one of her sons, one great grandaughter, and two great, great grandsons would demonstrably exceed her level of fertility, the average offspring of each of the descendants over five generations stands around six.

Several have inherited her genes of outliving husbands.

They include beef-eating Hindus, pork-eating Muslims, bhajan-singing Christians; through their veins have flowed T&T’s coconut water and Carib, French wine, Scottish whisky, Japanese sake, India’s lassi, and whatever other beverages rage in the places they have settled and spawned their own dynasties – in the USA, Canada, Europe, Australia and India.

A solid bridge now stretches seven generations – each step boldly labelled – towards. Because we know her name.

(Adapted from article fist published, Trinidad Guardian, June 1 2003. Elaborated in upcoming autobiography, Life! HoleHeartedly)

Dr Kris Rampersad work has spanned the arenas of Education; Literature, the Arts and Culture; Media Communications and Information; and Gender Equity, Empowerment and Advancement for access to opportunities from grassroots to high level agenda setting international arenas. This has enhanced the impact and ability to envision and advocate for meaningful gender and culture-sensitive approaches to sustainable development in ways that bridge and span gaps between and among fields and disciplines from agriculture, culture, industry, education, governance and ICTs for all ages and across gender divides.

She functions as an Independent educator, researcher, author, advocate, activist, advisor, mentor, facilitator and consultant.

Highlights of Media/Journalism Career: Spans print, television, education and advocacy across spheres of conventional and new media prnt and production 1988-2018.

v  Blog Demokrissy is a widely read by international think tanks, including the UN community. It won the BBC/UNESCO Communication Initiative policy development blogging for new media

v  Coordinated international media for Summit of the Americas and Commonwealth Heads of Government Meetings

v  First sitting journalist to complete doctorate. Inspired many journalist to pursue higher education.

v  Articles and columns have occupied and guided public opinion from editorial pages for some 30 years

v  Doctorate on process of literary development and influences of journalism on award winning writings considered seminal and ground breaking in its depth and scope that spans 100 years of socio-cultural-political evolution of Trinidad and Tobago. Published as Finding A Place

v  Wrote first book on the first female Prime Minister of Trinidad and Tobago, Through the Political Glass Ceiling,  released on the eve of election of 2010 with prophetic insights into premiership of Kamla Persad Bissessar.

v  Third book  LiTTscapes – Landscapes of Fiction from Trinidad and Tobago represents almost everything written in fiction from Sir Walter Raleigh 1595 to the turn of the 21st century was commemorative publication of 50th Jubilee Anniversary of Independence;

Presented ground breaking research at first World Summit on Information Society in Tunisia on engendering ICT policy. Has helped develop media, information and communication policy as integrated into achievmeents of Millennium Development goals and Sustainable Development Goals at global levels of agenda setting and policy making of the UN Commonwealth and OAS agencies.

Pioneered research on  gender sensitive policy making in areas of Freedom of Information, Access to Information, and other spheres for hemispheric, commonwealth and UN bodies   

v  Served as Editor of Sunday Guardian and presided over the transition from broadsheet to tabloid.

v  Founding journalist of Newsday – wrote first lead story, ‘5000 Lives Saved, dubbed ‘the good news reporter’

v  Youngest journalist to win BWIA media award for excellence in journalism. Won in social and economic commentary category for gender bender article, War of the Sexes Goes to the Calypso Stage from Discover Trinidad and Tobago series

v  Won Pan American Health Organisation Award for Excellence in Health Reporting

v  Top student of diploma course in international journalism , Rajasthan Patrika Award from Indian Institute of Mass Communication (Scholarship).  

v  Research and Writer of programmes of Cross Country for AVM Television (as well as AVM Special Report, Survival (food programme) Booktalk among others. Cross Country became rated as the number one local programme that held prime time television spot for its duration and won several BWIA Media Awards.

v  Awarded Nuffield Foundation Fellowship to Wolfson College, Cambridge

v  Awarded fellowship by Foreign Press Centre of Japan

v  Commonwealth Professional Fellow

Highlights of Gender Actions

For almost three decades Dr Kris Rampersad has been devoted to leveling the playing field for women and girls in pursuit of:

•Gender equality in the work place

• The elimination of all forms of discrimination against women by the promotion of gender equity.

• Legislative and cultural reform to ensure gender equity.

• Institutional mechanisms for the advancements of women.

• Economic empowerment by: overcoming marginalization, oppressive social norms access and rights to resources;

• Incentive and awards based initiatives encouraging women to fulfill their potential and

• Education- based programs, initiatives or personal action that offer and afford women broader choices & enhanced opportunities

Highlights of Gender Actions & Achievements

Highlights of such achievements in pursuit of implementation of the CEDAW recommendations  for the elimination of all forms of discrimination against women and promotion of gender equity include:

1.       Research, preparation of the pioneering comprehensive national report and spearheaded follow up action in the InterAmerican system to encourage State bodies to implement the CEDAW convention provisions and recommendations that informed the Summit of the Americas, Commonwealth and UN processes.

2.       Her work in awareness raising and building capacities to understand gender sensitive policy and legislation to strengthen the capacity of institutions in addressing gender inequalities as for reform to the child marriage act, gender sensitive budgeting and engendered political processes.

3.        She coordinated the outreach and advocacy for the Commonwealth Foundation’s campaign for gender equality for Commonwealth Women Affairs Ministers Meetings. This fed into the Commonwealth Head of Government Meetings to build acceptance of the Commonwealth Campaign on the slogan, ‘Where’s the Money for Gender Equality.’ It spotlighted and propelled the movement of gender equity beyond rhetoric to actioning developmental programmes.

4.       Her impact on gender equality in the workplace has been not just in pursuing the rights of colleagues in the workplace but for across-the-board equity in treatment, equity in promotions and remunerations; representation of women at higher levels of administration and decision making.

5.        She has been a strong advocate to removal of discriminatory practices and revisiting entrenched notions of gender roles within social systems and cultural practices through her work with traditional and grass roots communities across the Caribbean.

6.       She has herself blazed a trail for women in the media and has filled several senior level positions as well as being the first sitting editor to have completed a PhD while in the demanding and high-stressed environment of the newsroom, as well as in her actions in supporting women journalists.

7.       From the inception of her career as a journalist Dr Rampersad supported the global mandate for equality of women that came out of the Beijing Platform for Women, and has a substantial portfolio of articles, columns as Woman to Woman, interviews, investigations, that tell women’s personal stories of trials and triumphs, revealing discrepancies and imbalances from data, highlighting the plight of the underprivileged, unearthing inequalities in national life, in the homes and in the work place, and the campaign against domestic violence.

8.       She has also been actively involved in supporting and encouraging women’s development from community to international policy arenas.

9.       Her writings, from profiles of achievements to policy critiques have encouraging women in public , civic and entrepreneurial arenas, utilizing all her roles to this end.

10.   She has initiated and developed a number of awards for women.

i.                    As editor she partnered with the United Nations, corporate community, NGOs and others to spearhead the Woman of the Year Award. S

ii.                  She conceptualized and piloted to national and international acceptance the Commonwealth Caribbean ‘Women Agents of Change’ Award, which was the forerunner to introduction of the Medals for Women in Trinidad and Tobago.

iii.                She identified women to be recognized among others for the Trinidad and Tobago Publishers’ and Broadcasting Association Awards for Media Excellence.

11.   She created & produced television documentary as the series That is Woman that features leading women figures in national life to showcase women’s achievements and have them tell their stories in their own words, and researched and scripted many other stories of women for radio, television and print.

12.   For the most part of the last fifteen years she has been the spokesperson on women’s issues and gender parity, shaping and supporting the work of local and international Networks for gender equity and the advancement of Women of Trinidad and Tobago.

13.   As an educator, she also trained women in gender sensitive approaches to policy making, understanding and engaging with media.

14.   Among organisations that have benefitted from her input are UN Women/UNIFEM; UNESCO dedicated programme actions on its priority focus on women,  the Caribbean Institute for Women and the Commonwealth Women’s Organisation; CIVICUS – World Assembly for People’s Participation.

15.   She was researcher and lead spokesperson for gender equality for the OAS Active Democracy Network in the build up to and through the Fifth Summit of the Americas and presented pioneering research on gender sensitive approaches to changing development policy agenda in areas of Freedom of Expression, Access to Information .

16.   At national level, she articulated to build awareness as the Outreach and International Relations Director of the Network of NGOs for Women and articulated the vision around the Put A Woman Campaign of the Network of NGOs for the Advancement of Women, which drew from the UN resolutions for gender parity in national decision making. It included the slogan, A Woman’s Place is in the House – Of Parliament, that saw the .drive for fulfilment of the quota of women in Parliament along with women in the positions of Speaker of the House and President of the Senate. The same campaign also supported the ascension into office of the First Female Prime Minister and first Female President of Trinidad and Tobago in one decade.

17.   She wrote the pioneering book, Through the Political Glass Ceiling, that along with mapping the journey of the First Female Prime Minister of Trinidad and Tobago through her speeches also includes revisionary research, study and analysis of the national politics of the day through gender and cultural sensitive lenses that has become a text for gender studies and analyses. This has become an important global text in appreciating the challenges of women in ascension public office.

18.   These contributions spilled over to her functions in other arenas. As the Co-Chair of the UNESCO Executive Board’s Public and External Relations Commission responsible for programme actions she drove and supported international actions and motions to strengthen UNESCO’s priority focus on women and gender equality as well as in championing rights of journalists and others and for injecting gender sensitive approaches to decision making in culture, education, information and other spheres.

19.    She was herself acknowledged and featured in Hazel Ward Redman’s celebratory series as CentreStage and Woman of Substance and has been featured in articles as Express Woman, ‘Helping Dreamers Dream’ and Newsday Woman’s Weekly as Changing the World With Ideas.

20.   She has mentored many at national and international levels

Pioneering Work

Dr Kris Rampersad's work is pioneering in relation to her research and fearless and courageous and selfless advocacy and actions in the face of tremendous odds and challenges of a small island society. She has enhanced the image of Trinidad and Tobago and women both in the national arena and abroad as a  flagbearer of national development interests through all her endeavours as journalist, editor, advocate, educator, development specialist.

Through her work and in networking with others she has actively created and improved the availability and accessibility of spaces for women in the public sphere and has helped spotlight challenges and streamline the focus on perceptions of their roles and functions in the private/domestic spheres.

Her groundbreaking research offer new insight into national phenomenon within local and international contexts to enlighten approaches to agenda setting, policy and decision making encompassing research, production, advocacy, institutional capacity building and enhancement through to face to face and hands on leadership and youth development initiatives in education and awareness and skills building for women and girls.

Her life and work putting service before self, often at little or no remuneration and at the expense of her health and a life threatening medical condition, she has given up many personal and professional comforts and security in her efforts at creating opportunities and advancement of women

Through her passion, energy, devotion, and commitment to actions for meaningful change, she has inspired women and girls of all ages and across national to international spectrums as an inspiration to women educators, women leaders, women in the media and in the sphere of arts and culture.

Awards/Recognitions & Service

Education

St Julien Presbyterian School New Grant Princes Town - Primary School:

St Stephen’s College, Princes Town - Secondary School:

PhD in Literatures in English University of the West Indies

BA Literatures in English, sociology, politics,  University of the West Indies

Diploma in Mass Communication - Indian Institute of Mass Communication, India and its highest award  Rajasthan Patrika Award;

Fellow, Wolfson College, University of Cambridge UK (globalisation);

Commonwealth Professional Fellowship

Participated and benefitted from numerous courses, lectures, workshops in  multimedia, information technologies, leadership, management, computing, managing diversity, and conservation and safeguarding of cultural heritage.

Scholarships and Fellowships:

Wolfson (Journalism) College, University of Cambridge UK;

Foreign Press Centre of Japan (journalism fellowship);

Association of Commonwealth Universities, Professional Fellowship;

UWI Post Graduate Scholarship;

Awards & Commendations:

Ø  Trinidad and Tobago Luminary Award 2015/2016

Ø  Winner Development Policy Blogs on New Media (BBC Trust/UNESCO Communication Initiative); 2011

Ø  Award for Excellence in Health Reporting 1994 (World Health Organisation/Pan American Health Organisation)

Ø  Award for Excellence in Journalism (BWIA) 1987;

Ø  Moms for Literacy Award for Literary Achievement

Ø  International Who’s Who in Cultural Policy Research (ConnectCP)

Ø  Award for Contribution to Literature and Culture; (Global Organisation of Peoples of Indian Origin)

Ø  Rajasthan Patrika Most Outstanding Student Award (Indian Institute of Mass Communication)

Ø  British High Commission Award for English Literature

Ø  UWI Award Student Awards.

Organisation Affiliations – International/National

Ø  Founding Adviser, International Institute for Gastronomy, Culture, Arts & Tourism

Ø  Founding Member, U40 Coalition on Promotion of Diversity of Cultural Expressions

Ø  Founding Member, Scientific Committee, International Culture University

 Served on numerous committees and boards, including  

Ø  UNESCO General Assembly, Chair Education Commission

Ø  UNESCO Executive Board, co-chair Programmes and External Relations Commission, member of Special Committee

Ø   Chair, National Museum and Art Gallery;

Ø  Chair, National Commission for UNESCO of Trinidad and Tobago 

Ø  Member Trinidad and Tobago Government Expert Panel on Arts and Culture Member, Trinidad and Tobago Registry of Cultural Workers Committee

Ø  Member, Trinidad and Tobago Heritage Tourism Committee

Ø  Founder,/Coordinator Awards for Agricultural Journalism

Ø   Founding member, Friends of Mr Biswas – St James House for Mr Biswas

Ø  Founder/Coordinator, Trinidad Theatre Workshop Fund for Literature, Drama, Film

Ø  Outreach & International Relations Director, Network of NGOs of Trinidad and Tobago for the Advancement of Women

Other Career Highlights

International Development Educator, Lecturer, Facilitator, Consultant: 21 years

MultiMediaMedia/Journalism: 30 years: editor, manager, investigative reporter, script and storyboard writer, producer/publisher in print, electronic and new media

Author: Finding A Place (Ian Randle Publishers, 2001); Through the Political Glass Ceiling; LiTTscapes – Landscapes of Fiction from Trinidad and Tobago

AudioVisual Producer/Director/Writer/Researcher:20 years

Academia - lecturing at tertiary level formal, non-formal and informal sectors, course design, development and evaluation - 22 years

Some 30 years’ experience in developing formal and informal education sectors as a researcher, writer, educator, outreach and communication specialist and analyst of culture, migration, rural and urban development, diversity, multiculturalism and related areas of cross sectoral sustainable development;

Holds a PhD in Literatures in English. Doctoral theses examined issues of globalization, migration processes of adaptation and society-formation drawing from global-local knowledge and experiences of media and literary development of a small island state.

Have written and published extensively on themes of identity, migration, adaptation, urbanisation, and rural development in contexts of youth, gender, trade, crime, ecology, education and other topics;

 Numerous peer reviewed articles and conference presentations, including three books that approach the issues of migration and social adaptations from various angles: journalism/information and communication (Finding a Place, Ian Randle Publications, 2002); gender appreciation (Through the Political Glass Ceiling - Race to Prime Ministership by Trinidad and Tobago’s First Female Kamla Persad Bissessar (2010) and popular culture (LiTTscapes – Landscapes of Fiction from Trinidad and Tobago (2012);

Educator/Train the Trainers & Capacity Building :

a: UNESCO: Training of Caribbean Stakeholders in diversity appreciation, activating Cultural Heritage and Creative Sectors: Belize, Trinidad and Tobago, Jamaica, Antigua and Barbuda, Guyana, Grenada, St Kitts/Nevis. UNESCO..

b. Caribbean Agricultural Research and Development Institute (CARDI). Training of Caribbean Agriculturalists in Outreach, Education and Development of Academic Journals and Publications:

c. National Institute of Higher Education Research, Science and Technology (NIHERST): Development of Outreach Initiatives for Science Popularisation:

d. Caribbean Institute of Women in Leadership: Develop Course Materials and Train Caribbean Women Leaders in Gender Sensitivity, Diversity Appreciation, Engagement & Outreach:  Guyana, Antigua, Barbados, Trinidad and Tobago, Grenada

e. The College of Science, Technology and Applied Arts of Trinidad and Tobago (COSTAATT):  Development and Delivery of Journalism and Literature Courses

f. Part Time Lecturer: Literatures in English; Foundational Courses; Literature and Caribbean Society: University of the West Indies.

g. External Supervisor, MSc Thesis Cultural Diversity Management: Institutional Reform

h. External Thesis Editor/Publication Adviser

i. Guest Lecturer: Literature, Culture, Media, Civic Empowerment for Sustainable Development, University of Catalona, Barcelona, Spain

Career Highlights: Education & Culture:

Educational Policy Development: Formal and Informal Education, Literature, Media Outreach, Lifelong Learning and Global Citizenship Education:

a. Capacity development for cultural and civil society communities across the Americas Successful trained stakeholders of all three Caribbean Small Island Developing States which achieved World Heritage status over the last five years (Antigua and Barbuda, 2016; Jamaica, 2015, Barbados, 2011 prior to this last inscription was in 1998).

b.       Pioneered several international level policies through UNESCO/other international agencies for relevant actions for integrated and transboundary approaches to positively impact the Sustainable Development Agenda and integrate culture in development, promote global citizenship, rationally explore issues of migration and adaptation.

c.        Devised models for multisectoral media and cultural outreach including one adopted from a model developed for the Caribbean for ACP-EU Seminar on Media and Agriculture, Brussels;

d. Development of the blue print of the action plan being used English speaking Caribbean countries for implementation of UNESCO Conventions; culling appreciation and development of incentive and award schemes; integrating developmental approaches across sectors and national boundaries and developing transboundary connections.

e.       More than 15 years’ hands on experience in development and implementing policy programmes and actions in the global to local cultural heritage and creative industries spheres in UN agencies, UNESCO, OAS, ACP-EU, Commonwealth and civil society glocal organisations;

f.       Keenly committed to working on realization of the sustainable development agenda, even beyond its stated goals to proactive engagement of culture-centred development for equity and fairness in all spheres and have participated in its development globally & locally;

g.         Lifelong experiences of NGO work and community level experience in cultural development and have both culled international policy and worked on implementing such areas as Creative Cities, World Heritage, Intangible Heritage, Diversity of Cultural Expressions, Creative Industries, Copyrights, Trade and Development;  Slave, Silk and Indentured Indian Immigrant Routes, Memory of the World, Rural and Urban cultural development, policy and legislative reform, civil society, youth and gender participation, empowerment and equity

Career Highlights: Journalism, Media, Information and Communication

j.         More than 30 years as a communicator and journalist and about a decade as producer and publisher in multimedia forms exploring comparative cross-cultural and issues;

k.          Extensive experience in research,  writing for multimedia forms and presentation of messages on  migration, diversity, inclusion for sustainable development, with intimate knowledge of most of international policy instruments in these regards and devising, developing, implementing and evaluating policies and strategies, advice and technical support, managing the process and content, transactions and operations in these areas and combined experiences in Management, having been a staff manager of a major media house before an independent career in cultural project management and policy development in the cultural and allied spheres of education and communications

l.     Extensive experience in networking and collaborations both internally and externally, across boundaries, sectors, stakeholder interests, institutions and agencies with considerable successes in devising and developing networks around cultural matters, working with the diplomatic community, embassies, intergovernmental agencies, regional and international organizations, the European Commission and the European Council, Organisation of American States, Commonwealth Secretariat and commonwealth Foundation, InterAmerican Institutions and other organisations of  the UN system, and Africa, Caribbean and Pacific Regions.

Find Dr Kris Rampersad on Social Media as:

KrisRampersad: LinkedIn/Instagram/YouTube/PInterest/

KrisRampersad1: Facebook; @krisramp – Twitter;

Blog Demokrissy – https://ift.tt/2pwwUvl

Related Links:

Contact: Website. FB KrisRampersad1. T @krisramp. LinkedIn. InstaGram. PInterest. YouTube

Website: https://goo.gl/FDLQdg:

The Funeral Scores. Sir Vidia Naipaul final farewell in a fanfare of Naipaulian fictive irony https://goo.gl/NQibgR

Year of LiTTributes to Laureattes  https://goo.gl/oW81Nm

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Murder She Wrote: Death Written in Stone in Dana Seetahal Assassination Creating Centres of Peace in Trinidad and Tobago The Price of Independence:#DanaSeetahalAssassination Conceive. Achieve. Believe Demokrissy: Wave a flag for a party rag...Choosing the Emperor's ... Oct 20, 2013 Choosing the Emperor's New Troops. The dilemma of choice. Voting is supposed to be an exercise in thoughtful, studied choice. Local government is the foundation for good governance so even if one wants to reform the ... http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Old Casked Rum: The Emperor's New Tools#1 - Demokrissy - Blogger Apr 07, 2013 Old Casked Rum: The Emperor's New Tools#1 - Towards Constitutional Reform in T&T. So we've had the rounds of consultations on Constitutional Reform? Are we any wiser? Do we have a sense of direction that will drive ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Valuing Carnival The Emperor's New Tools#2 Apr 30, 2013 Valuing Carnival The Emperor's New Tools#2....http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ See Also: Demokrissy: Winds of Political Change - Dawn of T&T's Arab Spring Jul 30, 2013 Wherever these breezes have passed, they have left in their wake wide ranging social and political changes: one the one hand toppling long time leaders with rising decibels from previously suppressed peoples demanding a ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Reform, Conform, Perform or None of the Above cross ... Oct 25, 2013 Some 50 percent did not vote. The local government elections results lends further proof of the discussion began in Clash of Political Cultures: Cultural Diversity and Minority Politics in Trinidad and Tobago in Through The ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Sounds of a party - a political party Oct 14, 2013 They are announcing some political meeting or the other; and begging for my vote, and meh road still aint fix though I hear all parts getting box drains and thing, so I vex. So peeps, you know I am a sceptic so help me decide. http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: T&T Constitution the culprit | The Trinidad Guardian Jun 15, 2010 T&T Constitution the culprit | The Trinidad Guardian · T&T Constitution the culprit | The Trinidad Guardian. Posted by Kris Rampersad at 8:20 AM · Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to Facebook ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Related: Demokrissy: To vote, just how we party … Towards culturally ... Apr 30, 2010 'How we vote is not how we party.' At 'all inclusive' fetes and other forums, we nod in inebriated wisdom to calypsonian David Rudder's elucidation of the paradoxical political vs. social realities of Trinidad and Tobago. http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: DEADLOCK: Sign of things to come Oct 29, 2013 An indication that unless we devise innovative ways to address representation of our diversity, we will find ourselves in various forms of deadlock at the polls that throw us into a spiral of political tug of war albeit with not just ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: The human face of constitutional reform Oct 16, 2013 Sheilah was clearly and sharply articulating the deficiencies in governmesaw her: a tinymite elderly woman, gracefully wrinkled, deeply over with concerns about political and institutional stagnation but brimming over with ... http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Trini politics is d best Oct 21, 2013 Ain't Trini politics d BEST! Nobody fighting because they lose. All parties claiming victory, all voting citizens won! That's what make we Carnival d best street party in the world. Everyone are winners because we all like ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ New Media, New Civil Society, and Politics in a New Age - Demokrissy Jan 09, 2012 New Media, New Civil Society, and Politics in a New Age | The Communication Initiative Network. New Media, New Civil Society, and Politics in a New Age | The Communication Initiative Network. Posted by Kris Rampersad ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: T&T politics: A new direction? - Caribbean360 Oct 01, 2010 http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Oct 20, 2013 Choosing the Emperor's New Troops. The dilemma of choice. Voting is supposed to be an exercise in thoughtful, studied choice. Local government is the foundation for good governance so even if one wants to reform the ... http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Old Casked Rum: The Emperor's New Tools#1 - Demokrissy - Blogger Apr 07, 2013 Old Casked Rum: The Emperor's New Tools#1 - Towards Constitutional Reform in T&T. So we've had the rounds of consultations on Constitutional Reform? Are we any wiser? Do we have a sense of direction that will drive ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Valuing Carnival The Emperor's New Tools#2 Apr 30, 2013 Valuing Carnival The Emperor's New Tools#2....http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ See Also: Demokrissy: Winds of Political Change - Dawn of T&T's Arab Spring Jul 30, 2013 Wherever these breezes have passed, they have left in their wake wide ranging social and political changes: one the one hand toppling long time leaders with rising decibels from previously suppressed peoples demanding a ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Reform, Conform, Perform or None of the Above cross ... Oct 25, 2013 Some 50 percent did not vote. The local government elections results lends further proof of the discussion began in Clash of Political Cultures: Cultural Diversity and Minority Politics in Trinidad and Tobago in Through The ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Sounds of a party - a political party Oct 14, 2013 They are announcing some political meeting or the other; and begging for my vote, and meh road still aint fix though I hear all parts getting box drains and thing, so I vex. So peeps, you know I am a sceptic so help me decide. http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: T&T Constitution the culprit | The Trinidad Guardian Jun 15, 2010 T&T Constitution the culprit | The Trinidad Guardian · T&T Constitution the culprit | The Trinidad Guardian. Posted by Kris Rampersad at 8:20 AM · Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to Facebook ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Related: Demokrissy: To vote, just how we party … Towards culturally ... Apr 30, 2010 'How we vote is not how we party.' At 'all inclusive' fetes and other forums, we nod in inebriated wisdom to calypsonian David Rudder's elucidation of the paradoxical political vs. social realities of Trinidad and Tobago. http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: DEADLOCK: Sign of things to come Oct 29, 2013 An indication that unless we devise innovative ways to address representation of our diversity, we will find ourselves in various forms of deadlock at the polls that throw us into a spiral of political tug of war albeit with not just ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: The human face of constitutional reform Oct 16, 2013 Sheilah was clearly and sharply articulating the deficiencies in governmesaw her: a tinymite elderly woman, gracefully wrinkled, deeply over with concerns about political and institutional stagnation but brimming over with ... http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Trini politics is d best Oct 21, 2013 Ain't Trini politics d BEST! Nobody fighting because they lose. All parties claiming victory, all voting citizens won! That's what make we Carnival d best street party in the world. Everyone are winners because we all like ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ New Media, New Civil Society, and Politics in a New Age - Demokrissy Jan 09, 2012 New Media, New Civil Society, and Politics in a New Age | The Communication Initiative Network. New Media, New Civil Society, and Politics in a New Age | The Communication Initiative Network. Posted by Kris Rampersad ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: T&T politics: A new direction? - Caribbean360 Oct 01, 2010 http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Others: Demokrissy: Old Casked Rum: The Emperor's New Tools#1 ... Apr 07, 2013 Old Casked Rum: The Emperor's New Tools#1 - Towards Constitutional Reform in T&T. So we've had the rounds of consultations on Constitutional Reform? Are we any wiser? Do we have a sense of direction that will drive ... http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Valuing Carnival The Emperor's New Tools#2 Apr 30, 2013 Valuing Carnival The Emperor's New Tools#2.  http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Wave a flag for a party rag...Choosing the Emperor's New ... Oct 20, 2013 Choosing the Emperor's New Troops. The dilemma of choice. Voting is supposed to be an ... Old Casked Rum: The Emperor's New Tools#1 - Towards Constitutional Reform in T&T. Posted by Kris Rampersad at 10:36 AM ... http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Carnivalising the Constitution People Power ... Feb 26, 2014 This Demokrissy series, The Emperor's New Tools, continues and builds on the analysis of evolution in our governance, begun in the introduction to my book, Through the Political Glass Ceiling (2010): The Clash of Political ... http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Envisioning outside-the-island-box ... - Demokrissy - Blogger Feb 10, 2014 This Demokrissy series, The Emperor's New Tools, continues and builds on the analysis of evolution in our governance, begun in the introduction to my book, Through the Political Glass Ceiling (2010): The Clash of Political ... http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Futuring the Post-2015 UNESCO Agenda Apr 22, 2014 It is placing increasing pressure for erasure of barriers of geography, age, ethnicity, gender, cultures and other sectoral interests, and in utilising the tools placed at our disposal to access our accumulate knowledge and technologies towards eroding these superficial barriers. In this context, we believe that the work of UNESCO remains significant and relevant and that UNESCO is indeed the institution best positioned to consolidate the ..... The Emperor's New Tools ... http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Cutting edge journalism Jun 15, 2010 The Emperor's New Tools. Loading... AddThis. Bookmark and Share. Loading... Follow by Email. About Me. My Photo · Kris Rampersad. Media, Cultural and Literary Consultant, Facilitator, Educator and Practitioner. View my ... http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/

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This photo of teens praying on prom night is sparking controversy

A photo of teens praying on prom night has sparked controversy. (Photo: Facebook/Frank Somerville)

A photo of teens praying on prom night has started a debate over the definition of a “good” kid. 

On Tuesday, Frank Somerville, a journalist at KTVU news station in Oakland, Calif., posted a photo from a viewer featuring a group of teens sitting at dinner on prom night, clasping hands and bowing their heads in prayer. “I want to share a picture of my daughter and her friends from prom night,” read the note from a mom named Noelle Smith. “Now with the stories today about teenagers and Tide pods and condoms gathering headlines — this picture speaks for itself.”

Smith added: “So impressed with these young people on their prom date at Longhorn. They all said grace before eating and were all well behaved.”

Somerville wrote in the caption, “It sure does. And coupled with the post I did yesterday about the kids playing basketball who kneeled when a funeral procession went by, it says a lot about young people these days. It’s REALLY nice to see.”

The photo scored 1,400 likes and stirred emotions over the implications of the image. Some applauded the teens for praying. “…Why is it that some of you want to start a rant over a simple photo?” commented Facebook user Debra Kiriu. “Just let it be and be grateful that people can join hands in unity and say grace, it is not something we see enough of anymore!” 

Lisa Henderson wrote, “Love this! Proud of (some) of the children today. Hopefully, the rest will catch up.” Lois Jenners added, “This what I mean when I say that parents need to be taking their children to church and Sunday School, instead of buying them violent video games, and taking them to violent movies. This is just a great example of respectful kids. Thanks for sharing.”

However, many didn’t agree that saying grace automatically means someone’s a good person, while others felt the post was discriminatory to non-religious people.

Anouck Green commented, “No offense, but saying grace doesn’t mean any of those things. I’ve known people who do exactly this kind of stuff in public, but who are the most hypocritical, hateful jerks in private. Not saying these kids are like that, but just assuming they’re great based on this is a) taking quite a leap and b) kind of implying people who don’t believe can’t possibly be on the same level.”

Added commenter Josh Gilbert: “My guess is their opinions on gay marriage, interracial families, equal rights, and other things we hold dear might not thrill you.”

Angela Marie Perez wrote, “Let’s be clear though, kids who don’t say grace are also good kids. Just because you aren’t Christian doesn’t make you a bad person.”

And Jason Ovalle: “Sorry but that’s not impressive at all try going to work paying bills and attending school matter of fact pay a mortgage or even a car note making minimum wage or not much more then that while living on your own and I will be impressed with no help at all from parents friends or colleague.” 

Eventually, the mother of one of the depicted teens interjected: “….They conducted themselves as adults. Not because they prayed but because they sat up straight in their chair, they didn’t disrupt others, and [they] showed and used good manners which is the whole point…. and also that we as parents have done our job producing productive members of society!”

The mom added: “And for the rest of you…my daughter went to prom, twerked, probably said a few curse words, stayed at a prom house all weekend…that I waited for her at and chaperoned…. I couldn’t be more proud and blessed that she is a humble and kind person. That’s what this picture shows…maturity and good judgment.”

Somerville, who did not return Yahoo Lifestyle’s request for comment, also wrote, “I’m honestly surprised by some of these comments…I wasn’t trying to imply that you have to be a Christian to be a good person. What I see from these kids is that they are respectful… that they are humbled… and that they are appreciative for what they have…I could care less whether they are religious…but by saying grace it shows me that they have those qualities.. and those are the qualities… regardless of whether you believe in god…that I admire.”

Scientists have questioned whether religion plays a role in positive outcomes — in March, Stanford University’s Graduate School of Education released a study that found religious teens do better in school. “Generally, kids who are religious drink less, have less sex, and are more closely supervised by their parents,” study author Ilana Horwitz, said in a press release.

She later added, “Being religious helps adolescents in middle and high school because they are rewarded for being obedient and respectful and for having self-control.” 

However, another study conducted by Drexel University College of Medicine and the University of Pittsburgh found that the teenage birth rate is higher in religious states, possibly due to a lack of sex education.

Read more from Yahoo Lifestyle: 

See the evolution of the prom dress from the 1940s to the 2000s

Teen asks himself to prom with a flashmob, flowers, and banner

Jay Feely, gun-toting prom dad, sparks an intense debate

Follow us on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter for nonstop inspiration delivered fresh to your feed, every day.

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Former White House Photographer Pete Souza Reveals Photos Of Barack Obama

Former official White House photographer Pete Souza shot close to two million photos of then-President Barack Obama during his eight years in office and they weren’t all adorable candids with children.

In his new book, , Souza reveals that one of his hardest days at the job was what he described as “the worst day” of Obama’s presidency: December 14, 2012, when 20 first-grade pupils and six team members died in the shooting massacre at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut.

“[The shooting] affected me in a deep manner that no other position in the eight decades did. I can believe that my eyes tearing up now speaking to you about it,” Souza says in an exclusive interview with PEOPLE. “It certainly affected [President Obama] … He cried on phase one time reliving that, since I believe he was responding not only as a president, however, as a parent”  

In his publication, Souza introduces four photos capturing the Obama family response to the tragedy. 1 photo shows Obama first learning about the deaths from Homeland Security Advisor John Brennan. (Souza clarified that photos that were never before released were printed with the Obamas’ permission)

“The president slumped in response against the Oval couch, clearly deflated,” Souza writes in his publication. “I’m certain he was thinking top of the parents, imagining the horror of understanding that their six-year-old kid had been shot to death by a madman and would never come home”

Opposite that snapshot, Souza introduces a never-before-seen photograph of President Obama hugging daughter Malia in the residence later that afternoon as a Michelle Obama appears. “The president hugged her for a long time,” Souza writes. In the photograph, Obama and the mom of Ben Wheeler hug.

“I really don’t think I’m the best photographer on the planet. I’m a competent photographer,” Souza said when asked how he seized such emotionally charged seconds. “However, I believe I was absolutely the perfect man to become [President Obama’s] photographer… I believe he trusted me totally… I was respectful of their privacy. I’d make a few pictures in romantic conditions and back off when I needed to.”

Barack Obama agrees.

“In addition to his outstanding eye, Pete has a remarkable talent for making himself invisible. In I think, is something more than simply his capacity. It’s his ability to capture the mood, the atmosphere, and the significance of the moment,” Obama writes in the book’s foreword.

He also describes Souza as “a friend, a confidant, and a brother,” adding that the photographer and his wife, Patti, are part of the Obama family that their wedding was held in the White House Rose Garden.

Two days Souza joined the president in Newtown for the memorial ceremony. However, not before catching Obama’s daughter Sasha’s dress rehearsal for her dance recital.

“The president needed to miss Sasha’s dance recital to attend, so that he saw that the dress rehearsal before boarding the plane to Connecticut. The auditorium was mostly empty, and at one point, I jumped down to the front chairs to take a few pictures of Sasha dancing,” Souza writes. “Shortly afterwards, about 25 young performers registered out of backstage and sat down next to me. A lump filled my throat. ‘are you ? ” I asked one girl. ” she replied. I looked at that row of children seated in the auditorium and began to shout”

Souza claims that his remarks were prepared by Obama before the memorial ceremony.

“Two teachers had written on the whiteboard: ‘Dear President Obama, the Newtown community is so grateful that you’re coming to help us heal. In times of adversity it is reassuring to know that we have a powerful leader to help us recuperate,”’ Souza recalls in his publication. “The president wrote his response about the board: ‘You are in our thoughts and prayers. ”’

Beyond his work photographing some of the Obamas’ iconic and romantic moments, Souza has gained attention for his Instagram existence. He regularly posts photos from the Obama presidency with captions subtly highlighting the jarring contrast between the Obama and Trump administrations.

From 2013, when laughter was the best medication.

A post shared by Pete Souza (@petesouza) on Nov 4, 2017 at 1:30pm PDT

“It’s funny that people believe I had a grand strategy. I didn’t,” Souza said when asked about his intent supporting his posts, which have been celebrated in headlines high-fiving his “shade-throwing” and “Trump trolling.”

“I did not even understand what I was doing, to be frank with you,” Souza said. “I needed to look up what the word ‘throwing shade’ meant.”

He added: “[Today] I think that it’s better not to talk about it, to simply let it speak for it. Respectful and lively … Folks estimate it for what it is, and it is fine by me”

Obama: An Intimate Portrait is on sale now.

This article initially appeared on Folks.

from network 10 http://www.visagesphotography.co.uk/former-white-house-photographer-pete-souza-reveals-photos-of-barack-obama/

[visagesphotography]

Former White House Photographer Pete Souza Reveals Photos Of Barack Obama

Former official White House photographer Pete Souza shot close to two million photos of then-President Barack Obama during his eight years in office and they weren’t all adorable candids with children.

In his new book, , Souza reveals that one of his hardest days at the job was what he described as “the worst day” of Obama’s presidency: December 14, 2012, when 20 first-grade pupils and six team members died in the shooting massacre at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut.

“[The shooting] affected me in a deep manner that no other position in the eight decades did. I can believe that my eyes tearing up now speaking to you about it,” Souza says in an exclusive interview with PEOPLE. “It certainly affected [President Obama] … He cried on phase one time reliving that, since I believe he was responding not only as a president, however, as a parent”  

In his publication, Souza introduces four photos capturing the Obama family response to the tragedy. 1 photo shows Obama first learning about the deaths from Homeland Security Advisor John Brennan. (Souza clarified that photos that were never before released were printed with the Obamas’ permission)

“The president slumped in response against the Oval couch, clearly deflated,” Souza writes in his publication. “I’m certain he was thinking top of the parents, imagining the horror of understanding that their six-year-old kid had been shot to death by a madman and would never come home”

Opposite that snapshot, Souza introduces a never-before-seen photograph of President Obama hugging daughter Malia in the residence later that afternoon as a Michelle Obama appears. “The president hugged her for a long time,” Souza writes. In the photograph, Obama and the mom of Ben Wheeler hug.

“I really don’t think I’m the best photographer on the planet. I’m a competent photographer,” Souza said when asked how he seized such emotionally charged seconds. “However, I believe I was absolutely the perfect man to become [President Obama’s] photographer… I believe he trusted me totally… I was respectful of their privacy. I’d make a few pictures in romantic conditions and back off when I needed to.”

Barack Obama agrees.

“In addition to his outstanding eye, Pete has a remarkable talent for making himself invisible. In I think, is something more than simply his capacity. It’s his ability to capture the mood, the atmosphere, and the significance of the moment,” Obama writes in the book’s foreword.

He also describes Souza as “a friend, a confidant, and a brother,” adding that the photographer and his wife, Patti, are part of the Obama family that their wedding was held in the White House Rose Garden.

Two days Souza joined the president in Newtown for the memorial ceremony. However, not before catching Obama’s daughter Sasha’s dress rehearsal for her dance recital.

“The president needed to miss Sasha’s dance recital to attend, so that he saw that the dress rehearsal before boarding the plane to Connecticut. The auditorium was mostly empty, and at one point, I jumped down to the front chairs to take a few pictures of Sasha dancing,” Souza writes. “Shortly afterwards, about 25 young performers registered out of backstage and sat down next to me. A lump filled my throat. ‘are you ? ” I asked one girl. ” she replied. I looked at that row of children seated in the auditorium and began to shout”

Souza claims that his remarks were prepared by Obama before the memorial ceremony.

“Two teachers had written on the whiteboard: ‘Dear President Obama, the Newtown community is so grateful that you’re coming to help us heal. In times of adversity it is reassuring to know that we have a powerful leader to help us recuperate,”’ Souza recalls in his publication. “The president wrote his response about the board: ‘You are in our thoughts and prayers. ”’

Beyond his work photographing some of the Obamas’ iconic and romantic moments, Souza has gained attention for his Instagram existence. He regularly posts photos from the Obama presidency with captions subtly highlighting the jarring contrast between the Obama and Trump administrations.

From 2013, when laughter was the best medication.

A post shared by Pete Souza (@petesouza) on Nov 4, 2017 at 1:30pm PDT

“It’s funny that people believe I had a grand strategy. I didn’t,” Souza said when asked about his intent supporting his posts, which have been celebrated in headlines high-fiving his “shade-throwing” and “Trump trolling.”

“I did not even understand what I was doing, to be frank with you,” Souza said. “I needed to look up what the word ‘throwing shade’ meant.”

He added: “[Today] I think that it’s better not to talk about it, to simply let it speak for it. Respectful and lively … Folks estimate it for what it is, and it is fine by me”

Obama: An Intimate Portrait is on sale now.

This article initially appeared on Folks.

from visagesphotography.co.uk fat burners for women that work http://www.visagesphotography.co.uk/former-white-house-photographer-pete-souza-reveals-photos-of-barack-obama/

[loveletterstodonald]

July 30, 2017

My Dear Friend and President Donald,

Do you have plans for the total solar eclipse on August 21? Maybe you have been too busy with other things to think about that, but it's time to get a plan. You have the luxury to be able to go anywhere in the country at a moment's notice so you could check the weather and then head to a spot where it will be clear. Then you can spend 2 and a half minutes being awed by the enormity of our universe. Check out the NASA website to see how cool it's going to be.

You could join me in Nebraska. They love you there so you could have a short rally right before the moon's shadow comes over Alliance. Just land Airforce 1 at the airport. You could give Senator Deb Fischer a ride, and she could share her ideas about equal pay for women and paid maternity leave. She voted yes on all of the healthcare votes so a trip on Airforce 1 would be a nice reward for that.

Some prayer today would help soothe your soul. It has to be battered after this week which the NYT called, "the worst week that any modern occupant of the Oval Office has experienced in his inaugural year." You have a lot to process and I suggest that church over the golf course as a superior place for restoration because it helps lower the levels of that nasty testosterone that makes you so aggressive. If you aren't comfortable in church then try yoga.

 Namaste,

Rebecca Ambrose