#people were enslaved

[witchbeyondthewall]

Welcome to asoiaf where imperialism is a-ok when it's done by a girl! A win for feminism!

[throwawayasoiafaccount]

btw what theon went through is what thousands upon thousands upon thousands of slaves still go through in essos. so, do you still feel pity for the slavers that were crucified? do you still pity the slavers killed when daenerys freed the unsullied?

i ask these questions, and yet i know that there are still many people who believe that the violence against the slavers wasn’t justified, or believe that it was simply “too much” or “not fair.” truly… what an insane hill to die on.

maybe these people should spare more empathy for the formerly enslaved instead of wasting time making up excuses (that are not supported by the text) for why the slave masters' deaths were somehow not justified 🫶

[hamletshoeratio]

"A strong queen is just what this country needs!"

The Irish who know the queen in question as the famine queen:

[spirit-meets-the-b0ne]

The thing that Targaryen antis either don’t or can’t understand is that in spite of all the discussions, discourse and arguments (& moral conjecture): I simply love dragons and mentally ill women with great hair sorry if you can’t relate

[itwasanangryinch]

L'odeur de la mort

He remembered the smell of death.

Not the antiseptic, clinical smell of a modern death. A body sterilized and removed of fluids. Removed of its humanity and everything that had made a person alive.

Not even the less-modern, but honest smell of a natural death. The sweetened, heady fragrance of putrefaction taking over a body as it took over the air.

As it hung in the humidified climate.

Clinging to anything it touched.

Digging into soft fabrics the longer the body was kept for viewing.

No, Louis remembered the smell of death from his youth. Before they moved into the final de Pointe du Lac family home half an hour from the Quarter, when they buried his grandfather and his father took the mantel as head of the family.

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At first, the de Pointe du Lacs decked out in their best existing black finery as an urgent correspondence was sent to a favored tailor and its twin to their favored dressmaker. The children's current clothes all fit smaller versions of them; the whole family many seasons out of style. Grace would have been… six…? to Louis' nine. It hadn't even been a quarter century since they parted, but recent proceedings made it harder than usual to focus on the particulars.

New clothes in the latest style were delivered before the death notice hit the papers. Favored servants also received updated, but less stylish additions to their wardrobes. Regardless of what went on in their personal lives, when the house was in mourning, the whole household was in mourning.

Unfavored servants though. It was unfavored servants who created the Creole smell of death.

Despite the custom for open casket viewings in an ill-suited climate, it wasn't the smell of a less-than-fresh corpse that created the smell of death in New Orleans. Instead it was the smell of the fresh dye that in the city permeated the air for blocks and for miles from the not-quite-plantation house at the edge of town. It was gag inducing and its permanence ensured their servants would be clad only in black until they could afford to replace the clothes.

Officially, they would only have to wear black as long as the lady of the house dictated, but in practice? In practice, they were worn for years after, re-dyed with each death. Re-colored with each loss. The dye as much a literal reflection of mourning as it was metaphor rubbing from the fabric and into their skin. A literal marking of the family loss imprinting semi-indelible on everything it brushed upon.

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It was that smell more than anything that Louis found himself missing those first nights at sea. The crisp, salt air seemed an affront to the unnatural death that they had witnessed in New Orleans. That they had caused in New Orleans. That they had fled in New Orleans.

His mourning clothes weren't to be black. Dingy greys, muted browns, muddy greens, earthy purples. All colors he and Claudia cloaked themselves in to hide amongst the mortals on the warfront. But not black.

Lestat had died, but in his stead there was to be no full page, black-ringed notice in the evening paper. No open house allowing loved ones and spectators one last glimpse at the carefully prepared body of the illusive, flamboyant former investor of the French Quarter. No black wreath adorning their front door marking their house as having an untraditionally sombre Lent.

All their carefully packed and coordinated accoutrements had been abandoned almost as soon as they debarked. Traded in to play-act as wartorn locals. As much a lie as the photograph of Grace they used to pretend to be a family looking for their missing member. But they knew where their missing family member lie.

Lestat was dead. What did petty trinkets matter?

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A respected family like the de Pointe du Lacs had their mausoleum well established. Long since built in anticipation of generations not only yet interred, but yet birthed. An anticipation of generations of death reunited for family members yet to come.

The last interment Louis had witnessed had been that of his father. The singular death that catapulted him from second, but capable son to patriarch and provider. His mother's man in society, his sister's caretaker until Letty proved himself worthy — if he ever proved himself worthy. Paul's alleged savior, bringing him home from hospital and back to the parish church where his delusions were indulged and not beaten. Where his standing as a stalwart local noble carried an air of deference as opposed to being seen as just another crazy negro.

Florence's mourning period for her husband was longer than it had been for the previous patriarch. She had liked her father-in-law well enough, a curt respect and show of deference to where their young family had tithed from. But where Grandfather du Lac had found himself with a lack of a wife to prolong his life much beyond what it took for the Second Line to play their last, Florence had a place in society to maintain. She loved her late husband, of course, but her mourning was as much performance and societal duty as it was grief. She counted down the days till she could reintroduce a small splash of color to her wardrobe.

And yet, when the time came to enter half mourning, she found herself reluctant to add any colors to her wardrobe. And Louis wondered if it were as much about the loss of a husband as it was finding him to be a lack of a worthy replacement.

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Claudia found Louis' rituals to be tedious. It had been hard enough to convince him to kill Lestat. To keep Louis engaged with the plan once he had given himself over to illusion and allowed himself to love Lestat without reservation. Able to tell himself that this was the illusion and not the distance he had kept between them for so many years beforehand.

She almost killed Louis herself when he suggested a final update to her much ignored doll collection. What did she care of the human custom for black dressed widow dolls? What use would she have had for a mourning trinket meant to signal the death of a loved one? Lestat wasn't her loved one so much as her captor.

"You're supposed to be a child," Louis chided as they bedded down in a makeshift shelter.

"A teenager, not a fuckin' baby," she reminded him, her sleep already soured before she made the nightly commitment to coffin.

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Before they left Rue Royal for the final time, Louis went around the house and covered the remaining mirrors. "Closin' up the house," he deflected.

"Makin' sure he won't get trapped," came the surly reply. "He was a goddamned bastard. At least if he's trapped, we know where he is."

But Lestat doesn't deserve that, Louis thought to himself. Numb in his blood soaked clothes as he draped cloth over each mirror in the residence.

The horror that had been Lestat. The husband that had been Lestat.

What was death without the trappings of mourning? Without the rituals of loss? Without the overt signals to the neighborhood that a beloved family member had shuffled off this mortal plan and to the next?

What was life without Lestat?

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Final notes: All of the cultural mourning information is based on the historical information and research of the Hermann-Grima + Gallier Historic Houses in New Orleans. Their Fall tour of the Gallier House is based on Creole practices circa 1860-1865 complete with historic ads for some of the items mentioned like the widow dolls.

While this information would be 50-80 years out of date for the show's timeline, Florence was definitely old school in the way she comported herself and Louis "clings to his Creole heritage" so it wouldn't be out of step for the characters to have an old fashioned way of doing things, especially as it would gain them respect in an increasingly hostile society.

Gallier House, of course, being notable to the narrative as the exterior model and address of 1132 Rue Royal and the basis for the interior layout as well.

[rider-of-bulls]

I know that it's fiction and fantasy and it's okay to be creative and have headcanons, but I think it's kind of weird to take what are essentially fantasy POC allegories and go "I headcanon them as way more animalistic and weird looking"

Like, oh you think the elves from dragon age should look more like deer/cats/foxes? Or that the Qunari are more animalistic in nature and have a heightened sense of smell and rely more on their base instinct and urges? Hm! Interesting!

[shitpostingfromthebarricade]

Why do you hate Alexander Hamilton so much? The guy lived and died before you were even born dude. He isn’t going to come alive and bite you XD

No, his actions just persist in the policies that my home nation was founded upon.

[philtatosbuck]

that entire group of people could die and i would never look back if i were tyler lockwood

[keeps-ache]

sigh. i think i just do not like dogs very much lol

[meyhew]

learning abt how deeply woven the Quran and muslims are in the fabric of american history….

[athenasdragon]

I knowwwww they have square dancing in Ferelden.

From Wikipedia: “Square dances contain elements from numerous traditional dances including English country dances, which were first documented in 17th-century England, and 18th-century French quadrilles and cotillions; square dancing travelled to North America with the European settlers and developed significantly there.”

Ferelden is loosely inspired by England, but its landscape, crops, and some aspects of its culture—particularly in agrarian regions—read very North American. With occupation by Orlais still recent (and Orlais inspired by 18th century France), I think one could absolutely assume that Orlesian quadrilles were adapted for folk dance contexts. We already know Ferelden has folk dances from Alistair’s allusion to the remigold in the first game.

[illegiblewords]

Honestly justice for Lahabrea getting dehumanized both in-universe and by fans on a meta level for how he emotes in response to trauma.

We know he acts weird through the game. We know he genuinely cares about others from ancient times up through the present. He isn't a sadist and he's willing to put himself through hell in order to keep others safe.

People haven't been looking at the expressions and situations when conflict happened between him and Erichthonios with a shred of empathy.

"Oh, Erichthonios was manipulated heavily by his mother. Maybe he took Lahabrea trying to give him tools to protect himself in the maximum security prison as overly critical when the guy just didn't want him to get hurt while he was there."

"Hm. The times we hear Lahabrea actually say something negative to Erichthonios in-game tend to involve Erichthonios assuming the worst of him or being reactive on very personal subjects. I wonder why he might be frustrated or upset about that. I mean he sacrificed his relationship with his son because he thought Erichthonios would be happier with the false memory of his abusive mother than his still-living father. Surely that was what he wanted. Gosh, weird how he explicitly says Hephaistos' deepest desire wasn't to raise himself high but to have his family back. I wonder what that could mean?"

Archaeotania being held at the Words of Lahabrea for study and breaking out despite Lahabrea being present trying to contain it? Couldn't have a thing to do with not wanting that near Erichthonios in Pandaemonium. All those concept statues for Zodiark and emphasis about how the place specializes in phantomology? The creation of protective entities? Just coincidence surely. The NPC outside the dungeon said it was silly to think anyone could be in trouble at Akademia Anyder because Lahabrea never needs help with anything and is infallible. That's not an insane amount of pressure to put someone under. Seeing Lahabrea unable to do something couldn't possibly have ramifications before Zodiark's summoning either. Lahabrea being known to have been self-harming throughout the Ardor with body hopping is just a weird, quirky, evil thing he did. Lahabrea was probably a complete monster and did terrible things to Thancred's body while possessing him because he is a subhuman evil baddie who just does terrible things for the sake of it. Never mind when we catch him in a moment with his guard down at The Waking Sands he's slumped over exhausted and waves you away saying he's just tired. You know in his head he was cackling evilly and taunting Thancred, who he specifically chose to possess because they shared a lot in common and it would be easier.

Lahabrea laughs at inappropriate situations sometimes and struggles to emote at other times, and you know that never happens with trauma. Couldn't be hysteria or dissociation. Couldn't be that he doesn't feel safe expressing shit around people who are looking to do him harm.

The Scions knew what they were about when they called him an 'it' and were excitedly talking about how they've learned how to murder Ascians.

Canonical tempering that we know nobody could resist? Oh no that would never be a relevant factor in any of this. It's only horrifying if it happens to a sundered person. Venat's distinct summoning method created after Zodiark doesn't temper, so that means nothing else could possibly temper anyone either. Let alone Zodiark, the first and most powerful primal ever summoned without safety rails.

:|

[tamaruaart]

I want a Nauiskaa saga

[leroibobo]

the shrine of saint sarah in the church of the saintes-maries-de-la-mer in in the camargue in france. the church itself was built in the 9th century and named for and dedicated to the three marys. a popular french legend goes that they and their maid, sarah, landed on a camargue coast.

saint sarah, or sarah-e-kali (sarah the black, “the black” is a title sometimes given to black/dark-skinned saints) in romani, is the patron saint of roma people in latin catholicism, though she isn't recognized by the catholic church. she is also revered as a protector for marginalized and poor people in general. her origins are thought to lie in a syncretization of the hindu goddess kali, the story of sarah along with the three marys, and the tradition of black madonnas. (christian roma have historically venerated other black madonnas as well.) the church is her major shrine - she's venerated here annually on the 24th of may by roma pilgrims.

[sanyu-thewitch05]

SOMEONE NEEDS TO FIND OUT WHAT TRIBE ANDRE WILKES BELONGED TO SO THEY CAN BE ADDED TO THE LIST WITH THE OTHER TRIBES THAT OWE ADOS REPARATIONS(Cherokee, Seminole, etc)

@queen-shiba

[cyarsk52-20]

You’re Loud and wrong

Love Mac and Cheese? You Can Thank the Slave of a Founding Father for It

Claire Barrett11/1/2022

You can thank Thomas Hemings, once enslaved to Thomas Jefferson, for bringing the dish to America.

If you’re an American who has ever indulged in a hot, delectable, creamy, comforting side of macaroni and cheese, you can thank the slave of a Founding Father for bringing the dish to America.

While historians cite the 13th century Italian cookbook “Liber de Coquina” as the first written and recognized macaroni and cheese recipe — a dish called de lasanis — the classic American side item arrived by way of France — courtesy of James Hemings.

Born in 1765, Hemings was the sixth child born to Elizabeth Hemings, an enslaved woman, and owner John Wayles. Wayles, the father-in-law of Thomas Jefferson, fathered six of Hemings’ children — making them half brothers and sisters of Jefferson’s wife, Martha, according toMonticello Magazine.

Upon Jefferson’s marriage to Martha, Hemings and his siblings —including Sally Hemings — became property of the Founding Father to be.

Not only could Hemings read and write — a rarity for the times — he was also an accomplished chef.

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So, when Jefferson was appointed Minister to France from 1784 to 1789, the notorious Francophile and “foodie” brought along the 19-year-old Hemings with the intention of having him train among the Parisian elite.

According to the White House Historical Association, “French chefs were very expensive to employ, and Jefferson’s costs regularly outpaced his income. While Jefferson may have been short on cash, he did have an abundant supply of readily available enslaved labor, bound to serve him for life. To save money, Jefferson employed French chefs to train several enslaved members of the Monticello community in the delicate art of French cookery.”

This included, of course, what we now consider mac and cheese.

From Italy to the rest of Western Europe, the widespread culinary exchange happening in courts throughout Europe at the time morphed the Italian dish into an altered version that made its way to England, called macrows, and France. It’s disputed whether Jefferson first discovered the creamy pasta dish in Italy or France, but what isn’t under dispute is his love for it.

In 1807, Jefferson purchased 80 pounds of parmesan cheese and 60 pounds of Naples-based macaroni. His last grocery order, placed five months before his death in 1826, included “Maccaroni 112 ¾ lb,” according to EatingWell. (Despite such large quantities of simple carbohydrates and dairy, Jefferson did not, in fact, die of a heart attack. He did, however, contract a nasty infection on his buttocks which most likely developed into septicemia, causing his death.)

As Jefferson’s primary chef, Hemings is certain to have mastered the perfect balance of butter, cheese and macaroni.

During his time in France, Hemings apprenticed with a caterer, a pastry chef and even as a chef for the prince de Conde.

“For an American to go and learn that … was pretty incredible,” food historian Paula Marcoux — who has recreated classic French dishes of the era at Monticello, using the same types of cooking tools Hemings would have used — told NPR.

In 1787, Hemings was appointed chef de cuisine at Jefferson’s home in Paris, supervising white servants in the kitchen among other duties. And, in 1789, despite finding out that under French law, he was a free man, Hemings elected to return to Virginia with Jefferson, enslaved.

“Family,” historian Annette Gordon-Reed told NPR. “There was a real dilemma for many enslaved people: Do you take your freedom and separate yourself from your family?”

Hemings continued in his position as an enslaved chef under Jefferson, moving to New York and Philadelphia with the latter as he served as the secretary of state under President George Washington.

In 1793, however, Hemings successfully bargained for his freedom — with a caveat.

“Hemings would return to Monticello to train another enslaved person in French cooking to serve as a replacement chef. Once the replacement chef was properly trained, Jefferson agreed that Hemings ‘shall be thereupon made free, and I will thereupon execute all proper instruments to make him free,’” according to the White House Historical Association.

Hemings began training his brother, Peter Hemings, but it would be three long years until Jefferson assented to James’ freedom.

In the 1796 deed of manumission, Jefferson wrote, “I Thomas Jefferson of Monticello aforesaid do emancipate, manumit and make free James Hemings, son of Betty Hemings, which said James is now of the age of thirty years so that in the future he shall be free and of free condition, and discharged of all duties and claims of servitude whatsoever, and shall have all the rights and privileges of a freedman.”

Of the 607 men and women Jefferson owned during his lifetime, according to Susan Stein, senior curator at Monticello, only two had ever negotiated for their freedom. James Hemings was one of them.

Only several years after finding his freedom, Hemings tragically died by suicide in 1801.

While he left no memoirs, he did leave his recipes. And America — although not our cholesterol levels — is better for them.

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