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eleanore-delphinium · 4 years ago

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The Demon’s Head

Damian Al Ghul for a moment was a hero. And in that time that he was a hero, naturally he would meet other heroes.

That was how he met her.

His Raven.

He would describe her as a very graceful woman. She was quiet, kind, generous and lovely. Despite her name sounding as if it should belong to a lonely person or an unkind being, she was none of these. But her name did befit her origins. In the sense that she is the daughter of a being synonymous to satan; and of intergalactic alien origin, the conqueror of worlds. Therefore, the name Raven as ominous as it was, befit her well, and yet also-- not so well.

But that was the thing, he was only a hero for only a moment. That moment was all that mattered, since—after all, that was how he met her. As she continued on her heroic path, he returned to what he knew to be right as a child, the path of darkness.

He took upon himself, the name Al Ghul, a name synonymous to a demon, and he used it well. And thus, Damian Al Ghul was reborn anew, he became the Demon’s Head. The name became associated to a cruel, cruel man. But he changed the ways of his organization, and tread very, very strictly on a grey line. And in doing so, he keeps his Raven. And remember it well and do not forget, he only stays on that grey line to keep her by his side.

And if anything were to happen to his beloved Raven, he will cross to the darkness before one could even blink his own eyes, and will burn everything and anything in his path with his bare hands.

So, make no mistake by taking his Raven away or you will live a life even more painful than death. For Damian Al Ghul has a league of assassin as his army, who are extremely loyal to him. And him alone.

Killing for him was as easy as dropping a needle on a hay stack.

Damian Al Ghul, the leader of the league of assassins, stood inside his throne room made of beautiful marble in ivory and gold. The sun high up in the sky, its light entering the space so blindingly. The sunlight weaves through the pillars and mashrabiya* leaving beautiful intricate patterns on the marble floors. The sunlight helped give an illusion of brightness and happiness and warmth to the chamber.

Damian was facing his throne, his back against the door as he read the papers he was holding with his right hand. His left hand resting against his back, atop his green cape. He was wearing his black with gold uniform and armor with a green cape in contrast to the almost white room. And with his cold facial expression one would be reminded, that all the sunlight was giving after all, was just an illusion of warmth.

Damian Al Ghul was not kind at all. But of course, there is an exception to the rule.

The door suddenly opened with a burst and a loud bang, and Damian’s eyebrow twitched in annoyance. He had strictly told them that he shouldn’t be disturbed unless necessary. He coaxed himself thinking that it had to be an emergency. With narrowed eyes he tilts his head a bit to the left to acknowledge the presence of the intruder.

“My Lord!” A man in an all-black suit says hurriedly as he kneels on the floor with a thud. His left leg against the floor while the other propped up to let his right arm rest on top. His head bent toward the floor.

“What is it that you have to report?” His enunciation of every word unhurried and heavy. Damian could hear the gulp from his poor frightened little underling. Even if said underling was twenty meters away.

“It’s—it’s the Lady.” The poor man could barely say. And even though the sun was high up in the sky, and that it’s light shone brightly in the room, making the chamber look as if it was glittering, it became cold. So cold, that both people seemed frozen in place, but the poor underling was the one fighting his shivers.

“What about the Lady?” Damian asked a little too clearly, that the poor subordinate could only kneel on both knees, bend his body and rested his forehead against his hands that was now on the floor. At this point, Damian turned slowly, as his green eyes landed on the man in black.

“What about the Lady?” He repeated even more slowly than the last. And Damian saw his assassin shiver in fear.

“She-she has been missing for a few days, and we searched for her—but—but—she is nowhere to be found.” He reported as calmly as he could. The subordinate thought the room couldn’t possibly get any colder than it already was, but he was wrong. The moment he finished his report, he was kneeling there in pure horror, he was sure he will die today.

“It seems that my league of assassin who are supposed to be like a shadow, cannot protect their lady in the shadow.” It was spoken slowly that it was certain: that this was the calm before the storm. “It seems that my league of assassins lack training.” He concluded.

“You cannot even track down your lost lady, why do I even keep any of you!” Damian’s voice echoed through the chambers; his fury clear. And yet, anyone who knew their lord, would know that was not the full extent of his anger.

No, it really wasn’t.

“Lady Shiva!” He summoned and instantly a woman with black hair up to her neck in red appeared beside the kneeling assassin.

“It seems that you have been lax in training the league.” He tells her and as she bends her torso to bow. Before she could start with her apologies, he continued on. “Prepare the top ten men in the league, and have them follow me. We will look for the lady.” He started walking down his throne.

“No, in fact, I will be looking for her. And if you so choose to have people follow me then so be it.” He said when his eyes landed on Lady Shiva as he approached them, the assassin up on his feet, his head bent low as to be respectful to their Lord.

“When I find Raven, I hope my league’s errors would be corrected. But that would be wishful thinking, won’t it, Lady Shiva? I will personally see to their training when I return.” Lady Shiva and the assassin gave way to their Lord.

“Of course, my Lord.” She mutters as he completely disappears.

~.~.~.~.~

Damian held a woman in blood stained and dirt-filled white robes on his arms. Her face had cuts and bruises and she looked so weak and small against his shoulder. When he looks down at her injured face, there was a softness in his glance. A gentleness unbefitting of the Demon’s Head.

But as gentle as he was as he held her, the scene behind him was not. Orange flames flickered as he walks out from the heat and the building calmly.

“I want anyone who is even remotely related to this tracked down, and I want them tortured.” He said so calmly as he held the woman he loves in his arms. His gentle glance has become cold as he looks at his subordinates in front of him. The crunch of green grass under his feet as he continued on into the night that was illuminated by the orange flames behind him.

“If done well enough, then maybe I won’t be so strict when I train you all. Prove that you all aren’t so useless after all.” His tone stone cold.

The gentleness from before must have been an illusion. Because this was the Damian Al Ghul, they all love, respected and oh-so-feared.

“Of course, my Lord.” One replied with a bow.

“No.” They pause as they wait for Damian’s final instructions. “Keep the master mind alone, I would love to capture and torture them myself.” And the shadows that was surrounding him disappeared. Raven stirred in his arms, against his chest.

“Damian?” She called out weakly. And he stood frozen as he took a peek eagerly at the woman in his arms. “They didn’t know.” She mumbles and he couldn’t help but narrow his eyes on her. She means that it wasn’t the Justice League’s fault.

“They didn’t know it was going to be a trap.” She tried to keep her head a float.

“And look at the price you had to pay.” He said bitterly as he sneered a little and continued walking to the jet.

“I—” She couldn’t even say anything to defend the Justice League, because she felt the turmoil in Damian. How could she defend the Justice League knowing what he was feeling?

“I didn’t mind that you wanted to continue being a hero. I would not take that from you.” He sets her down inside the jet. “And I know that you know this to be true, I only stay in between good and bad for you. If you are taken out of the equation, I have no qualms in being the Demon’s Head, in its truest sense. But you choose to love me, despite of who I am. And I will not have any one harm you. Less others think that the Demon’s head is weak.”

“You are not a bad person, my love.” She replied, as she cups his cheek. He closes his eye and places a hand over hers. He opens his eyes and meets her violets irises.

“But I can be, if I am without you.” He whispered so gently as his forehead laid against hers. The words completely true. They stay like that for a minute in silence, and he pulls away.

“You shall stay in Nanda Parbat as you recuperate. I will inform the Justice League.” He stares at her sternly but she does not refuse him and he turns away from her.

The Justice League has been quite cautious about Raven. They knew of her relationship with the leader of the League of Assassins. And what the risk of putting her in imminent danger would mean considering Damian’s nature. Therefore, Raven was treated as if she was glass and yet, also fire.

“I begged them to give me the mission.” She said softly, she took note of Damian’s body twitching but she had to continue on. “After you left, and made a name for yourself as the new Demon’s Head, they were uncertain of where my loyalties lie.” She found it difficult to talk due to her injuries, but she had enough strength to heal herself a bit, to keep herself conscious and stop internal bleeding. And so Raven did, as she continued on.

“And then you made a point to show that you were not like your predecessor. And yet, you also made it clear you could be far worst. And I, your beloved, was someone who they could not risk in the forefront anymore.” She moved in her seat, as she felt her insides return back to how it should be. “I just wanted to do one more mission, where I wasn’t treated like a bomb, and after that, I will be done.”

He turned to look at her with a shocked expression. Her voice was calm as her face was gentle. Despite her battered appearance, she looked like a saint to him. The words he couldn’t seem to say aloud, she felt, and she responded as she closed her eyes.

“Yes, I was going to leave the Titans, and be with you. Commit fully to you.” Her voice was soft but his thoughts were a mess. And it was clear to Raven, all of his thoughts, as if they were all written on the air for her to read.

“The Justice League thought it was a harmless mission; therefore, they could let me go. It was supposed to be a reconnaissance mission, nothing more. But we were ambushed, and I was captured.” She sighs and opens her eyes to look up at Damian. The water in his eyes finally gave way as he blinked when their met, and she inhaled a breath.

“You could have died.” He said it lightly, that Raven’s heart started beating fast in her ears. His cold eyes that had never been directed at her, has finally landed on her. “You could have died, if I was just a minute too late.” And like his eyes that could no longer contain his tears. Raven could not ignore his emotions. And she broke into a sob, as she covered her lips with her fingers. He knelt beside her, as he put a hand on her cheek.

And his face was not cold nor was it warm. The eyes she had seen him use with his fellow assassins had disappeared. She didn’t expect that the day he would look at her, the way he did his subordinates, would happen.

“Are you crying for me?” He whispered and she sniffed as she looks at him. But still, even if his cold stare was frightening. She could never be afraid of Damian Al Ghul, even if he was an Al Ghul, and the current Demon’s Head.

“I’m sorry.” She tried to contain the emotions. And she could feel the apology he was about to say. And before he could, she leans her forehead against his. Places her right thumb over his lips as her palm rested on his jaw. “But I swear to you, I am done with being a hero. I want to walk that grey line with you.”

And his lips turned up into a smile. A smile that was only ever directed at her. His gentleness and kindness only exclusive to her. His warmth only reserved for her. And she could feel it all in her chest, and in her very bones.

The love he has for his beloved Raven.

And the danger, if he loses his bird.

(FIN)

��Notes:

*Mashrabiya = those wooden windows with intricate design; (wiki says: is an architectural element which is characteristic of traditional architecture in the Islamic world and is a type of projecting oriel window enclosed with carved wood latticework).

#damirae #Damian Wayne #raven #Damian al Ghul #damian x raven #damian al ghul as the anti hero demon head of the league of assassins #Robin x Raven #raven as the love of his life even if she is a hero #drabble #romance love #alternate universe #alternate reality story #alternate timeline #evil damian #teen titans justice league leaving the team kidnapped captured male lead to the rescue

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dopescotlandwarrior · 4 years ago

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Bluegrass -Chapter 24

Special thanks to @statell for all your help and encouragement

Previous chapters at AO3

Chapter Twenty-Four (NSFW)

“Oh! Dear God!” Claire landed at Jamie's side hearing him struggle to catch his breath. “Its official, this cannot be undone, the genie is out of the bottle.”

Jamie pulled her close to him and tried to make sense out of what she said. Yesterday she said she was ruined for life, today the genie is out of the bottle. He tread carefully, feeling this was big information delivered in some kind of code.

“What exactly do ye mean, mo chridhe?”

Claire opened her eyes and blushed crimson before changing the subject. “You have a few more days to rest so promise me you won’t disobey doctor’s orders not to use your arm?”

“Sassenach, remember the deal we made with Rupert and Angus? They leave for Scotland tomorrow, for two weeks. You goin back to work and me of limited use that leaves Jason to manage it all. He canna do it alone.”

Jamie started to get up when Claire reached to stop him. “What if I know someone that can jump into the job and needs no training? Do you remember Steve? He has experience with horses, and he’s bored until school starts. If you agree, I’ll call him.

That was only a small part of Claire’s anxiety at the moment. Poor planning on her part had not prepared her for the numerous calls that came in from her email about returning to her practice. Her days were filling up with appointments that she could not handle alone. Molly was no longer available at any time with her blooming romance and there wasn’t time to hire someone and train them. The butterflies of anxiety had become sharks that were consuming her stomach.

Claire stood at the sink in her scrubs and wet hair chewing toast and washing it down with juice. Her heart hurt when she looked at Jamie’s face, so sad.

“I’ve grown attached to yer company Sassenach and now I must miss ye every day.”

She kissed him so sweetly and realized that without her driving anxiety, she would feel the same sadness.

“I can’t wait to hug you tonight. I will have much to report and I will miss you every second.”

Claire gripped the steering wheel as she negotiated the merge into freeway traffic. White clammy hands and a racing heart just compounded her misery. It only took twenty minutes to get hopelessly lost forcing her off the freeway to check her obviously broken navigation system. She sat on the side of the road and saw the turn she missed five miles back. She felt defeated and just wanted to go home. She had never done her job solo and suddenly questioned if she could. How was she going to find these remote places and do a day’s work without help? It was impossible. The blinker clicked as she waited to pull onto the road.

Claire looked down at the phone in her hand and tried to calculate the improbability of her next move. When he answered she felt her eyes sting at the sound of his voice.

“Nice surprise doctor B, oh wait, doctor F, hmm, it will take some time getting used to..”

“You might have to get used to calling me Claire. Go ahead, it won’t cause permanent damage.”

“Alright, Claire, what’s up?”

“Well, I was wondering, well, hoping, actually praying that you might have some free time to help me now and then …some days of the week...not very many, maybe.”

Dustin laughed, “I happen to be unemployed now, so yes. We stayed for the first summer session so Hope could take a class she missed. Now we’re home, no one is hiring. I’m excited just thinking about it!”

Claire’s hand was cramping from holding her phone so tight and her eyes popped open. “Was that a yes?”

“Yes! I can come with you today if you want.”

“What? Really? Oh Dustin, you are a lifesaver. I am lost on the side of the rode and thirty minutes late for my first appointment. Can you guide me to where you are?”

“Let’s start with where you are, can you see a street sign?”

Fifteen minutes later, Hope pulled behind Claire’s truck and Dustin got out. Claire was in the passenger seat already, so he jumped behind the wheel as Claire waved to Hope.

They were pulling up to Claireborn Farm ten minutes later and Dustin used his excellent driving skills to back up to the large rolling doors giving them quick access to the equipment they would need. Claire’s first day back after six months and Dustin’s first day back in a year made for a timid start as they got accustomed to working together again.

Claire was a stone-celebrity at each stop and there were many of the same questions asked over and over again. Dustin would set up the treatments and the moment Claire could break away from the fanning owner she would nearly collide with the first horse. The awkwardness between Claire and Dusty could not flourish under their practiced timing and it fell away as they powered through the day.

“Jamie, could you send Rupert to pick me up please? Dustin is going to work with me for the next two months and I don’t like to drive. Thank you, sweetheart, see you soon.”

“Married life agrees with you Claire.”

“I could say the same for you young man, you look healthy and happy.”

Dustin looked straight ahead out the windshield, “Hope is great.”

Claire dug into her files and Dustin dictated the treatments done today, appointments for a recheck, what tests were being done, and special billing requirements. She heaved them off her lap and smiled at Dustin when Jamie was driving up.

“Thank you Dusty.”

He shook hands with Jamie and grimaced at his bandaged elbow before heading for home. When Hope saw the big truck still dripping from the car wash, she ran outside to embrace her husband. Claire’s energy had clung to him all the way home but when he looked into Hope’s sweet face, he was free again.

Claire was quiet on the way home, bowled over by the contrast between her old life of living alone in her little mountain cabin, spending her days with Dusty, and her current reality of world-famous jockey and wife of Jamie Fraser. The degree of change in one year was astounding and she was deep in her head about it.

Jamie looked at his wife and felt lonely for her. He steered the truck with his knee and ran his hand down her arm to get her attention.

“I'm concerned about the seat belt around ye lass. Ye see, it gets most of the wear and tear compared to the middle one. See, this one is practically new. For yer own safety, come sit here, love.”

Claire smiled and moved closer to Jamie feeling the cascade of love emotions when her thigh pressed against his.

“Claire, can I act like a fourteen-year-old with his first crush for a minute?”

“Let it rip fourteen-year-old Jamie,” was her giggled response.

“Were ye romantically involved with Dusty?”

“No, never. I worked shoulder to shoulder with him for two years and never really knew him. Molly and I drove him home the last day before he left for school. We pulled up to a house and I didn’t know if his parents lived there if they were alive, any brothers or sisters, nothing. I am very skilled at not letting people in, ever. But you changed all that, like an avalanche my life filled with people like Molly, Lulu, Michael, Jason, Rupert and Angus, and now Steve and his father. Christ my life has changed so much I can hardly believe it, and it’s all your fault.”

Jamie was listening intently. Claire didn’t talk much about who she was inside and how she got that way and he wanted to hear more.

“Why?”

“After my parents died, I didn’t seem to belong to anybody. People fed me and gave me a bed, but I didn’t belong to them. I would lay in their strange bed at night and cry for hours, watching the door for my own father to come in and rescue me. Every night I watched the door and waited for him. I felt like that little girl again when the FBI terrorized me for hours, locked me in a fifty-degree room with no chair or couch, and only the cold concrete floor to lie on. When I felt your arms slide under me and carry me out of that torturous building, it finally happened, someone came for me.”

Jamie’s heart nearly broke thinking of that tiny girl alone in the world. He leaned toward her ear, “it was two years before I saw ye again, Sassenach.”

“Well, ha, Isobel walked in on me getting out of your shower and morphed into pure evil. So I dodged your requests for a while but when you called about Runner I couldn’t stay away. It was pure luck that I checked the dam’s wing when I did and found the dead mare. As it was, we raced to beat the seconds he had left before he expired inside his mother. Since I was responsible for him being on this earth, I wanted to help him if I could.”

“Did ye know I slept with ye half the night after gettin ye from the FBI? Ye wouldn’t warm-up, it was the only way I knew.”

“I remember every conscious minute to this day, including your hand pressing into my stomach and running down my leg before you jerked awake and ran back to your room.” Claire was laughing.

“Ah, ye felt that, did ye? Sorry Sassenach.”

“Don’t be sorry, I loved it! You were my hero for what you did, and I tucked the memory in a special place in my head so I could keep it forever.”

Jaime lifted her chin to look in her eyes, “ye fascinate me, love.” He kissed her deeply before she jumped out to let him get back to work. She felt different inside. Happier, closer to Jamie and the feeling stayed with her through a hot shower and her walk to the barn. When she saw Jamie, the look in his eyes said he felt it too. Remarkable, she thought, she dropped her past like an old novel, but Jamie was hungry to hear about it. And what a lovely outcome.

Jamie handed her a lead as they approached the pasture fence and watched Runner and Porcelain gallop toward them from the other side. A safe distance from the fence Porcelain dropped to a trot and so did Runner who accepted the lead and walked like a gentleman back to his stall.

As they were leaving, Porcelain decided to make her unhappiness known by kicking at the corral gate of her stall with a lonely whiny. No consoling would help her calm down. She was done being alone.

“There you go Romeo, yer girlfriend is right beside ye now. Mind yer manners, aye?”

Jamie put his good arm around Claire and smiled to himself. “I’ve made some decisions about the rest of the day. You are to pick something on Netflix while I go pick up a large pizza and a dozen wings. Ye can eat in yer wee robe and fall asleep in my arms if ye want. How does that sound?”

Claire ran to Jamie’s truck and jumped into the passenger seat, staring at him like, hurry up!

Slow summer days stretched ahead of them. Two or three days per week Claire would tie hanging apples to the tree branches out in the pasture and leave sugar cubes on the fence in different places to keep Runner looking for treats. Steve and Jason built the breeding shed with pointers from Steve’s father now and then. A dedicated mares wing was outfitted to house the broodmares who would stay there for breeding and one stall was converted into a lab for medical equipment and on-site testing. The enormity of this undertaking was becoming clear, but time was on their side.

Jamie made improvements to the house and on one occasion demonstrated how he mounted a sixty-inch television in a newly built recess in the wall and covered it with a huge picture on side swing hinges. Claire clapped and kissed, very impressed with his ingenuity. She looked around the large room that had always felt cold and sterile to her.

“Jamie, what do you think about this furniture? Did you and Isobel pick it out together?”

Jamie chuckled, “I hate it and had no hand in choosin it. Isobel hired some decorator, and this is what they came up with. When I built the chess table, Isobel moved it to the garage. That was the first time I told her to find her own place to live. After that she allowed it in the house but always hated it.”

It became Claire’s project to order and collect all the decorating and architecture magazines they could look through for ideas. She would spread them out on the bed, and they would both make a gallant effort only to hear them crackle under the weight of two athletic bodies chasing their passion or lay sound asleep on top of them.

By mid-July, there was a new trainer in residence bringing seven two-year-olds and seven handlers with him. Boot camp for the yearling races was in full swing by August. It brought the energy of horse racing and the Road to the Kentucky Derby back to the compound, infecting the whole crew.

“I don’t think I need to eat anymore, love. I can exist on the energy and excitement alone.”

“I miss your bur and contractions sweetheart,” said as she hugged him. “Why do you try so hard to lose them?”

“That is a long and boring story for another time. I’ve come for ye to talk sense into Runner before I have to. He’s watchin the yearlings race each other and pressin his chest against the pasture fence. I have to replace a whole section, so c’mon and fix him.”

Claire laughed as Jamie pulled her outside to his truck. It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon and spending some time with Runner was an excellent idea.

Claire loved these low- key summer days but when August came to a close, she hugged Dustin and cried before doing the same to Hope. She drove herself home that day and when out of sight she pulled over and cried in earnest.

The breeding room was finished, and Steve was leaving for the academy. Jason got moody because he would be shipped back to New York until February and he didn’t want to leave Lulu. When Claire asked if he would like to stay and assist her it seemed like a reprieve to him and he was very grateful.

As with Molly, Claire bit her tongue for the first month until Jason knew the routine. He would never be as good as Dustin, no one would be that good, ever, and she wondered why. She compared Jason’s actions with Dustin’s and realized that she was Dustin’s priority, not the treatment, or the horse. It would require someone loving her to the bone to be as good as Dusty was, and she would not wish that on anyone.

The onset of fall, with cooler weather and colorful foliage was the delight of Kentucky residents and tourists alike. Dogwoods and Sumacs turned red and purple, Sugar Maples were orange and red, Poplars and Hickories added yellow and gold. The dense forests of hardwood trees and the numerous lakes provided a romantic canvas for long walks, deep talks, and Jamie’s inspiration for a different future at Highland Brothers.

“We are blessed with a miracle horse. If he is fertile it will guarantee unspeakable wealth for the two of us. I have never been comfortable with that level of wealth especially when our crew will never see such comforts. My memory fades from the early days in Ireland working at a stud farm. It’s a huge operation and we will need all of them to pull this off.” He stopped and pulled her into a hug. “Runner can change two lives or six lives. What say ye to that?”

Claire’s smile was beaming when she jumped up and wrapped her legs around Jamie’s waist, punching the air above her head yelling yes! Her generous heart was just fed a super-size of glee and she hopped along the trail until her feet became obedient again. Jamie laughed at her sparkling happiness until she pulled him to her with a very serious face.

“Jamie, I know we have much to do but I have one request. Will you dance for me tonight?”

He ran his finger over her jawline, “I will.”

For the next four weeks, they worked on the business plan almost every night. Jamie met with stud farm owners that were very generous with their time and education. He showed humility and an eagerness to learn and kept a diligent log of each meeting. Claire met with fertility vets and was treated to a cart blanch atmosphere from her peers. They shared protocols that had worked for them and Claire let her gratitude show. The first Saturday in December they hosted a workshop.

There was a full breakfast spread before starting and hot coffee that was refreshed throughout the day. Jamie started with a quick explanation of the business plan, and an overview of each person's role.

“Lulu, yer the first contact and qualifier for serious inquiries. Through phone or by mail, yer the one to decide which mares make it to my desk. Don’t be scared,” said chuckling at her white face, “we’re gonna teach ye. There will be a mountain of information arriving on each mare, Sire and Dam lines, registration copies, genetic profiles, test results, vet checks, fertile histories, racing history and foal statistics. That is yer domain and it’s essential.”

Lulu’s eyes were tearing, and she shook her head side to side, “I can’t be responsible for all that, what if I mess everything up?”

Jamie’s face softened at her fear. “I have never met a grid brain more suited to this task. What was Tacitus’s last race, how did he do?

“Aqueduct, second place.”

“How did Code of Honor do and where I wonder?”

“Breeder’s Cup, seventh place.”

“What are Tacitus’s earnings so far?”

“Six hundred thousand.”

“Who told ye to memorize those stats?”

Lulu blushed crimson and looked around defensively, “no one.”

“If ye don’t see it in yerself, lass, trust me, yer the best for this job.”

“Rupert, Angus, ye do transport, bed and breakfast ID checks, turn-outs, follow special feed instructions, and handlers in the breedin room…”

Jamie stopped while they joked about having such a hard job. “Seems easy ye say. There will be five to seven mares with us rotatin in and out for four months, some look identical, if ye return a mare to the wrong owner we sell Runner and close this operation down. Can’t recover from a mistake like that. The mares are your responsibility gentlemen if ye turn out six hormonal mares and they have a throw down out there with no one to stop it?” Jamie paused while the ramifications sunk into their brains. “I trust ye with my life, now I’m trustin ye with theirs.”

“Jason is the manager at stud so questions and concerns go to him and he will make any changes needed.”

Rupert and Angus were wondering if they could eat more, Lulu was bursting with pride over her boyfriend, and Jason’s self-esteem swelled knowing he would head up this huge endeavor.

Claire went next and gave a biology lesson in equine conception, what it meant to cover a mare, how they would use technology and medicine to bring on the mare's estrus, confirm ovulation, and then verify fertilization.

“Adding to the tasks Jamie mentioned, Rupert and Angus, you will be in the breeding room for every cover. One holds the mare, the other collects the semen that leaks out when he jumps down. I will teach you both how to do this properly.” Claire couldn’t help laughing at their green faces.

“Runner is unproven, so we take it easy this first year. The mares that are chosen to breed will arrive spaced out through March until late May. When they arrive, we run tests for health and fertile readiness. I will bring them into estrus with hormones and hope to get ovulation so they can breed. After that, we watch for fertilization using ultrasound, or breed again. The mares return to their own farms pregnant and then we get paid, not a cent before.”

When they stopped for lunch Claire ran for the doorbell. She stared at Michael who held up a hardback book with her and Runner on the cover crossing the finish line. The title read, Midnight Runner A Champion for the Ages. The tears came in sobs as she hugged him to her, and Jamie extended his hand when she finally let go. He handed the book to Claire and was led into the kitchen where the whole crew was there to greet him. He was stunned and very happy to see everyone.

Claire sat with the book on her lap while Jamie wrapped up the meeting answering questions. He could see Claire was in another world wanting to read the book more than she wanted to breathe.

“I want to wrap this up with the best part and thank ye for accepting the extra chores and responsibilities we gave ye without question. Yer good people, loyal and hard workin. This operation will flourish if ye work together as a team, help each other when needed, give support and encouragement, and do yer individual jobs like it was yer own company, yer own money on the line. Because it is. If Runner is infertile or has a poor breedin outcome, then I alone suffer the initial investment and ye get yer regular pay. I don’t think that will happen, so I’ve set my attorney to write up a profit-sharing plan. Your hard work and integrity will pay off. If the profit is there, and it will be, you get a piece of it.”

“How much of a bonus Jamie?” Rupert smiled and waited.

“As we said, the first year will be very low key while we prove Runner’s ability and we all learn the business. A conservative number…” he held up a piece of paper with $50,000.00 on it.

Angus chuckled, “not bad to start, ten grand extra each year will be nice.”

Jamie held up his hand until he had their attention. “Each. The second-year and those that follow…” he wrote numbers on another piece of paper and held it up. $200,000.00 to $300,000.00. “Each.”

There was a stunned silence as four sets of eyes stared at the paper. Each of them knew Jamie to be an honest man of integrity. Never boastful, never wrong. They filed out of the house trying to say something intelligible as they continued to process the numbers Jamie showed them.

When the meeting ended, Michael stayed and chatted while the food was put away and the house put back in order.

“What are yer plans Michael?” Jamie noticed Claire was peeking at the pages while he and Michael talked.

“I have a book signing tour for the next four months because the publisher believes it will be a best-seller. If it’s not, the tour will surely end early,” said laughing. “I would love to assess Runner tomorrow if you don’t mind. I know he is still here because I talk to the receptionist every month or so.”

“I feel great pride in ye laddie.”

“So does my father, a blessing I never expected when I started all this.”

Jamie drove Michael back to his hotel later in the day and Claire was finally alone to start reading Michael’s book. She turned the first page almost shaking with excitement.

‘Dedicated to the bravest woman I have ever known, risking life and limb through every race so Midnight Runner could be the champion he was born to be. Midnight Runner will never be forgotten, and neither will you, Claire Beauchamp.’

The book landed on the bed as Claire ran to the bathroom for tissues. She cried so hard and wrapped her arms around her middle like she would die from the emotion. Every terrified day came rushing back in her memory. The day she prepared her speech for Jamie, telling him she was done and would not race Runner. The gate crash in their first race that almost toppled Runner, to her certain death. The crippling fear being loaded into the gate at the next race, so sure she would die this time. Runner telling her she would be a winner on him, telling her when to tuck, gloating after the race, seeing no other horse in front of them when they crossed the finish line. Her deafness, hearing only Runner breathing as she stretched her arms forward with every stride.

She processed the memory of every race and realized that Runner knew he would win, always. His only weakness was the race in the rain when she took over the race and he put his faith in her to guide him. Runner knew he was a champion and he proved it at Belmont with a thirty-one- length win for the Triple Crown. All he needed was a rider to make his claim in history and he chose her.

It was the first time since winning at Belmont that she considered all the private moments, the struggle against her fear, the elation of winning, and her emergence as a jockey with a single-minded determination to win it all, even if she lost Jamie in the process.

She picked the book up again, almost fearing the emotion it would invoke and turned to chapter one. Michael wrote from his point of view, so she was reading a different story than her own. She was fascinated.

She read how Michael tried to hide his excitement in that first meeting at Aqueduct after they fired their trainer. His effort to overcome his introverted personality and accept the offer to come to Kentucky. When Claire read the details about Rupert disclosing her gift after almost strangling Michael in the middle of the night and his desperate attempt to escape what he perceived to be lunatics on a remote farm, she lost it. The book hit the floor first followed by Claire, on her hands and knees laughing until she cried and struggled to breathe.

Jamie stood in the doorway to their bedroom and watched his wife laugh until she dropped her butt on the ground and leaned back against the bed, wiping her tears.

“This is hysterical Jamie! Reading about Michael’s midnight walk to the barn in the dark, Rupert accosting him from behind, telling him I discuss the odds with Runner. He thought we were all crazy and looked for a way to escape!”

“What chapter are ye on?”

“Page two actually.”

Jamie had secretly dreaded what Michael would write. Hoping he would be kind to Claire and not write a tell-all gossip book full of half-truths.

“I have been worried he might write something unsuitable.”

“Well, I will be sure and let you know if I read anything unsuitable.”

She pulled Jamie toward the shower pulling her own clothes off so she could join him under the suds. When she covered him in soap her arousal jumped into the one-alarm fire zone which could be ignored since Jamie had some work to do before bed tonight. She put on her robe and jumped on the bed to keep reading. In ten minutes she was daydreaming and put the book away. She stretched languidly watching images of Jamie between her legs driving her crazy. It was now a two-alarm fire and her heart was racing.

Jamie was recording expenses in his ledger by the light of a single lamp on his desk. He felt it. A low-level electric current that made the hair on his arms and neck stand up. He felt her arm across his shoulders and looked up into steamy whisky colored eyes that he was powerless to disobey. She nudged his chair so he would slide it back and she pushed his work to the side sitting directly in front of him. Jamie stood up and pulled her mouth to his by his grip on her hair, tasting blood in his mouth when she bit his lip. He continued to assault her mouth letting his fingers touch her thighs and stomach lightly until she moaned in complaint. It was a blazing three-alarm fire burning her core and stealing her breath.

Jamie stopped suddenly and stood above her, watching her breasts bounce while she panted, eyes just slits looking up at him. She looked like a wild cat sizing up her pray and the electric current he felt started to buzz in his balls and up his spine. She reached for his mouth to kiss him, but he put a hand on her chest easing her down to lay across his desk. He could see the whole lower floor twenty feet below them and wrapped her hands around the wrought iron safety barrier. He pulled her knees up and pushed them apart before sitting down in his chair where he would take his time tasting and teasing her. Claire moaned with her first orgasm and, he let her slippery pulsing pull him in. He did not move until the pulsing stopped and her eyes opened.

“Turn your head to the side and look down Sassenach. You mustn’t let go.”

Claire felt her stomach do flip flops when she looked over the edge into the floor below. As Jamie’s arousal increased, his thrusting pushed her ever closer to the edge. She lost focus of the perilous drop-off and gave in to her lust, moaning loudly and watching this brute take her roughly. Jamie stepped away from her and carried her to the bed where he lit a candle. He poured a whisky for each of them and watched her.

She’s a purring wild cat now until I remind her of my power, he thought and dropped his head to her core to lick her once. Her face looked a bit shocked. He sipped his whisky and without warning dropped to her bud and sucked it into his mouth for a few seconds and then sipped his drink raking his eyes over her perfect curves. There was a third lick and a fourth, and the purring stopped. Jamie’s heart was ramming in his chest at the way she looked at him like she would sink her teeth into his neck if he didn’t ease her pain. When he did, it was forceful and commanding, followed by brutal thrusting that nearly cost him control.

He stretched his body over hers and looked at her with such love it almost stopped her heart. The wild cat gave way to an open-hearted woman who wrapped her love around his soul and kissed him softly. When he moved in her again it was softly as he told her of the most profound love and devotion and then he kissed the rolling tears from her face.

Claire snuggled into Jamie’s arms with a deep sigh. He figured she would read all night, but the book laid on her side table forgotten. He kissed her forehead and smiled in the dark.

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gizkasparadise · 5 years ago

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ship: cersei/ned (even i don’t know if it’s one-sided or not), mentions of jaime/cersei, robert/cersei, and ned/cat prompt: he’s nothing like her husband. for @asoiafrarepairs mini event! warnings: kind of dark and fucked up tbh. brief description of the canon jaime/cersei scene from episode 1

Cersei steps out of the wheelhouse and casts her eyes about Winterfell for the first time. Her first thought is that it’s dismal; the second, backwatered. She looks to the Starks with their mixed-matched hair and dark outfits and she is too well-trained to outright sneer, but she is not impressed enough to force full courtesies. Uninterested, she passively observes as Robert embraces the kneeling Ned Stark, her gaze then going to the Lady Catelyn. Boring, she thinks. And Cersei Lannister has wasted away a month of her life for it. For her brutish, whore-mongering husband to ride over a thousand miles to collect solemn, honorable Ned.

But it’s not truly Ned he’s here for, is it?

She wraps her fur around her, striding to her place at the King’s side despite his lack of invitation. Ned’s eyes rest upon her. He is as taciturn as ever, with his grey eyes and downturned mouth. As expected of her, Cersei offers her hand. His gloved one takes it, fingers pressed against her own. He bends down, and when his lips press against her skin it is quick, cold. It’s a remarkable achievement, for a man to have lips colder than the air in the North.

But in the moment, there is something about hearing him call her “my Queen” that permits a smile. It is slanted, yes. Short, yes. But there.

Then his wife bows as well. “My Queen,” she greets.

Cersei’s eyes flicker to her, lingering just so she can take in the wild red hair, the Tully features. They are stamped all over their children but for the smaller ones.

She is disgusted, but not surprised, when that is to be the end of her reception. Robert turns and demands, eager to get to where his precious she-wolf bitch lies.

“We’ve been travelling for a month, my love,” she says in the way she has practiced. The way that doesn’t cause repulsion to crawl down her spine and arms. “Surely the dead can wait.”

Robert does not acknowledge the statement. But then again, she has never truly existed for Robert when he can love and fuck ghosts.

Ned, because he is honorable, because he is so bloody noble, looks to her. When their eyes meet, Cersei remembers that this man knows her husband. Understands what it means to suffer him. And she doesn’t quite know what to do with the fact that he appears to be hesitating for her sake.

Cersei breaks the stare, looking down in dismissal. Ned Stark is a plain, boring man with a plain, boring wife in an isolated wasteland. What he decides to do with Robert’s offer means little to her, his opinion of her even less.

Still, Cersei’s eyes follow until their backs and shoulders disappear beneath the ground.

When she can no longer stand the sight of her husband, or the insufferably dull conversation from Catelyn Stark, her eyes find and follow Ned Stark at the feast. He spends most of his time talking with his brother, his sons. His eyes do not wander, nor do his hands. Everything he does is patient and measured.

Robert presses his face into some serving girl’s tits, and once again Ned sends her that cagey, sympathetic gaze from across the feasting hall. Robert has been in Winterfell for mere hours, and Ned Stark has already made himself his keeper. Apologetic for behavior that has gone on for years--decades--without his presence.

Sweet, simple Ned. Cersei raises her goblet to her lips, letting the bitter taste of Northern swill hit her lips. As Ned continues to watch, tediously chivalrous, Cersei taps one finger against the rim of her cup. Yet another silent dismissal. Another way to banish Ned Stark from her presence. Robert has had years of shaming her, this night is nothing but another in a long series.

Spitefully, Cersei thinks of what Ned would do, were his Lyanna in her place and not in the ground. How would such a man balance the loyalty to a friend and the love for a sister? Would he be so weak as to turn a blind eye?

Jaime would never, has never. But her twin is beyond the tedious things that Ned so obviously clings to. Wolves follow, after all.

Ned watches her for a moment longer, concern etched into those features she cannot find attractive, but then his head is bowed in conversation with Benjen once again and Cersei Lannister is left to the state she enjoys best: unbothered.

Her brother pounds into her, his grunts in her ear as her breath hitches and she makes her demands. Cersei is not bored. But when she’s taken from behind, it is easier for her mind to wander.

And wander it does. Back to Ned Stark.

She wants to know what sex is, for a man like Ned. Is it duty to him? Something to suffer and grunt and sweat through until he feels diligent enough to sire some pup? Has he learned to lie like a fish to appease his Tully wife? Does she rake her nails down his back like a wolf? Somehow Cersei doubts it. She doubts that anything as cold, remote, and solemn as Ned can incite passion in such a way. When she imagines Ned, she feels his lips on her skin and his eyes on her and thinks he could not be further from her dear, dear husband.

Cersei Lannister wants to know just how well Ned Stark fucks, before his son appears in a window.

“Your Grace,” he mutters, tension evident in every line of his rigid body. And yet the man finds it in him to make his courtesy. Noble noble noble Ned.

Cersei’s eyes flicker to the dead direwolf at his feet. His hand still holds the blade that slew his daughter’s beast. “It seems you are always a man of your word,” she concedes, her hands folding into her long sleeves.

The camp is dark, lit only by the orange and yellow casts of torches. The light further harshens the severity of Ned’s features--long nose and bagged eyes and thin lips.

“I’ve given no cause for you to doubt my honor,” he states, wiping away the direwolf’s blood on his leathers.

“Forgive me,” she says, wanting anything but. “A mother’s worry triumphs any other doubts.”

Ned turns to face her then, pulling his body into a slow stand. She observes the motion coolly, but softens her eyes in the way she knows men like. It, of course, does nothing to phase this particular one.

“Was it a mother’s concern, then?” His grey eyes are dark and there is something thrilling in knowing she has moved Ned Stark to anger. Something that makes her heart pound and her lips pull at the corners in victory. “That made a young girl pay such a price?”

“The price was bought with my son’s blood,” she reminds him coolly. “The blood of your future King.”

Ned watches her, and she realizes then that perhaps cold does not always mean reserved. She sees the way his anger settles upon him, it’s much like those cloaks the Northerners wear, broken in until comfort. Ned is a patient man, she realizes. He knows how to wait in a manner few men do.

“I regret the violence to your son,” he concedes. Cersei considers how his tongue shapes the words of his Northern accent, how it molds and curls around them. “Much like I hope Your Grace regrets the sorrows of my daughter.”

She tilts her head, blonde hair falling over her shoulder. “One of your daughters, yes.”

Ned cools at that, nostrils flaring slightly and fingers curled into his palm. “Arya’s young,” he defends. “She’s not yet learned to curb the wolf’s blood.”

Wolf’s blood, she thinks with a snort. Were Myrcella to have it, were her mother to be sweet, dead Lyanna, would Robert care for her then? Would he defend her in the face of another King?

No, she thinks vehemently. Her husband would not, could not, do what Ned Stark does for his children. He lacks such capacities. Cersei’s gaze crosses Ned’s face, down his chest and legs. He is not a remarkable man, not comely. He is not strong nor fierce or hot-blooded.

He is not anything Cersei knows.

“And how do you imagine she’ll learn that?”

Ned watches her for a long moment. He has never looked upon her with lust. Only pity. Only concern. Only apology.

And now, disdain.

“Forgive me, your Grace,” he says levelly. “But I am poor company in the moment and must retire.”

Ned walks past her without another word, and something in Cersei’s gut ties itself into knots.

There is something desirable, in not desiring.

That night, as Robert lays on top of her and huffs the smell of wine onto her, Cersei closes her eyes and thinks of harsh features and grey eyes. She would be better than his fish, she thinks. Because Cersei knows how to please, when it’s a man she chooses between her thighs.

She apologizes, in her way, as she walks into the rooms to the Hand of the King. Ned does not seem to find it satisfactory.

But Cersei is an adept hand. And when she mentions Sansa favorably, the brittle edge to Ned Stark falls away.

“She likes it here,” he concedes.

“She’s the only Stark who does.”

He does not deny it, but she was not expecting him to. It amuses them, as they talk and he attempts to speak the language of King’s Landing. Ned is too rough and weathered for the painted smiles it takes to survive this place.

She does not think he’ll survive this place.

Cersei’s fingers slide over the wood of his desk. He stands across, weight supported on the fists he has pressed against it.

He would never sleep with her, she knows. But were he, she thinks he would not fascinate her so.

“Are you happy in your marriage, Ned Stark?”

His lips part at the question. “Your Grace?”

Her eyes dart up, catch his. “I only imagine a man happy in his marriage should want to return to his wife.” Cersei stops her motions, eyes darting to catch his. They are almost clear in the sun. “Do you? Want to return to your Catelyn?”

“Of course.” And there it is again, that steady contrast to what Cersei knows and understands. Clear, direct, and above all honest. “Perhaps you should return to your husband, Your Grace?”

She gives a little hum of a laugh at that, turning away. “Robert would sooner notice his favorite hound gone missing.”

“You are unhappy, then?”

Simple Ned. Cersei’s brows raise, but she keeps her attention focused out the window of a far wall. “And you, Lord Stark, apparently have use of your eyes.”

“...Robert is a good man,” he says.

Cersei smiles without warmth. “Is he?”

Ned does not answer. How tiring, to spend so much time convincing oneself.

She does make an effort to tell him: that Robert ruins things, that Ned will only be there to tend to them once they’re in pieces. He does not hear it over the waters he’s submerged himself in.

Good. Let him drown.

Because she likes the thought of him gasping. Of Ned having to fight for something, to beg for something, thrills her. If she is the one who can put that upon him, so much the better. Cersei wants something from Ned. It doesn’t matter if it’s his discomfort. His anger. She wants to be the one who is able to break something apart, for a change. And noble, simple, boring, fascinating Ned is the fault line she wants exposed.

“I was trained to kill my enemies, your Grace,” he says lowly, eyes pinned on her. It does something to her, stirs something strange and necessary. Challenges.

Cersei smiles, lowers her voice in the way she would for a lover:

“So was I.”

#cersei lannister #ned stark #eddard stark #nedsei #ned x cersei #asoiafrareprompt #game of thrones #!my post #liberal interpretation of the prompt but the Spirit is there

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ongames · 8 years ago

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Dr. Mary Bassett: We Must 'Name Racism' As A Cause of Poor Health

The following is excerpted from Dr. Mary Bassett’s October 2016 acceptance speech, ‘Public Health Meets the ‘Problem of the Color Line,’ for Columbia University’s Frank A. Calderone Prize in Public Health. Bassett is the commissioner of New York City’s department of health and mental hygiene.

Before Hillary secured the nomination, before many “felt the Bern,” and indeed, even before there was change we could believe in, there was a presidential candidate of several firsts running to represent a major party ticket who broke the mold in more ways than many could comprehend, let alone support. I am speaking of Shirley Chisholm.

There’s so much to learn from, but what I want to focus on today is her bold, unapologetic, and explicit commitment to naming racism. In her memoirs, she wrote: “Racism is so universal in this country, so widespread, and deep-seated, that it is invisible because it is so normal.” If you think the conversation on race in our country is just getting legs now, can you imagine a presidential candidate saying this in 1972? And still, nearly 45 years later, her analysis stands.

Congresswoman Chisholm has us consider how we lose sight of what’s right in front of us.

This is a consideration that has woven its way throughout my working life. A little over 30 years ago, Nancy Krieger and I published an article in the Monthly Review titled “The Health of Black Folk.” In it, we wrote about the normalization of poor health among black people – how the status quo of poorer health and shorter lives comes to pass as one the “facts of being black.” The following passage begins this essay:

What is it about being black that causes such miserable odds? One answer is the patently racist view that blacks are inherently more susceptible to disease, the genetic model. In contrast, environmental models depict blacks as victims of factors ranging from poor nutrition and germs to lack of education and crowded housing. Instead of blaming the victims’ genes, both liberals and conservatives blame black lifestyle choices as the source of the racial gap in health.

The “facts of being black” are not, as these models suggest, a genetically determined shade of skin color, or individual deprived living conditions, or ill-informed lifestyle choices. The facts of being black derive from the joint social relations of race and class: racism disproportionately concentrates blacks into the lower strata of the working class and further causes blacks in all class strata to be racially oppressed.

I believe we’ve come a long way since the 1980s, but I’m not sure that our analysis of racism and health, or social justice and health, has grown more sophisticated, drawn more practitioners, or explicitly influenced much policy. I can say that because I continue to find myself explaining the very same concepts I wrote about in the 80s in 2015 and 2016, most recently in an interview with Big Think and in a piece for the New England Journal of Medicine about the importance of #BlackLivesMatter.

All of this is true even when there has never been more attention given to concepts like the social determinants of health and health equity. Representative Chisholm’s insight becomes prescient in this respect, for today our analysis of equity and social determinants is ironically myopic, a limitation that keeps us from fully realizing their potential as frameworks.

Today, we can speak of health equity without invoking race at all. Those who do speak of race seldom explicitly name racism, and even in those few forays into racism, there is hardly mention of the history and the contemporary of racial oppression, or the staying power of white supremacy. This troubles me, because it doesn’t take much for invisibility – what we don’t see – to become blindness – what we can no longer see.

My goal is to convince you all that we must explicitly and unapologetically name racism in our work to protect and promote health – this requires seeing the ideology of neutral public health science for what it is and what it does. We must deepen our analysis of racial oppression, which means remembering some uncomfortable truths about our shared history. And we must act with solidarity to heal a national pathology from which none of us – not you and not me – is immune.

There are many well-meaning and well-trained public health practitioners who disagree from the outset that we must name racism. That argument will sometimes claim that the very essence of public health is about helping people, pointing to increased lifespans and decreased infectious disease outbreaks over time. Their argument will at other times claim that we don’t want to muddy the clear waters of public health with the messy politics of race, that this sort of a topic is best left to protesters, opinion editorials and campaign stump speeches. I have also heard the claim that identifying racism opens this Pandora’s Box of problems that our modest field cannot hope to address comprehensively – that identifying racism hoists too heavy a burden. Last, there are those who say that racism is not the core issue, but instead poverty. We cannot fix racism, but we can fix poverty.

Of these, I believe the most dangerous claim is the first, that our technical expertise is enough to meet the challenges of poor health, wherever they are. This mindset presumes a neutrality of public health that has never been true – it ignores the fact that public health both operates in a political context and is itself, like any science, permeated by ideology.

Much is conflated when medicine and public health attempt to fly below the radar of politics by donning the armor of scientific objectivity – guarding the faith by positing the cold logic of the scientific method. Let me start by saying that science is not all methodology – one simply cannot judge the prudence of a whole ecology of funders, research proposals, theory-building, conferences, journals, institutes, and applications by reducing all of that to the scientific method. Each of these facets is fully penetrated by the biases of human behavior, by the ideologies of our time.

Consider two examples: funding priorities of the National Institutes of Health (NIH) and the public health, medical, and criminal justice response to the current opioid crisis.

In the case of the NIH, see its most recent 2012-2013 biennial report to Congress: as my colleague Nancy Krieger has pointed out, not only did it allocate only 9 of its 441 pages to “Minority Health and Health Disparities,” but within these 441 pages, the terms “genome,” “genomic,” “genetic,” and “gene” appeared 457 times, whereas “social determinants of health” occurred only once, “discrimination” and “poverty” twice, “socioeconomic” 12 times, and “racism” not at all.

Or, with regard to the current opioid crisis – and its appropriate reframing as a public health and not criminal justice issue – how differently it would have been had the same framing been used when Nixon declared his “War on Drugs!” But of course he did not. Today, the opioid crisis is perceived as primarily affecting white populations, people who need help. No such frame of deserving victims was used, however, by Nixon. Instead, as shown in Ava DuVernay’s extraordinary new film “13th” that was a “war” that aimed to criminalize the black population and reverse the gains of the Civil Rights Movement and the War on Poverty.

We must remember that objectivity is not a synonym for neutrality. Objectivity refers to the idea that independent researchers can independently seek to test the same hypothesis and, if the hypothesized causal processes are indeed going on, they should come up with the same results if they use the same methods. However, what researchers choose to study and how they frame hypotheses determines the context in which objectivity is deployed. I urge you to consider, for example, that a great deal of unacceptable actions have taken place when objective methodology is utilized without regard for the role of science in oppression: eugenics, forced sterilization, the Tuskegee study. Often these are dismissed as bad science, or unethical science, when they too, in fact, are science.

Knowing this, we must name racism in our research proposals, in our theories, in our oral presentations and conference tracks, and even in our hypotheses. The essence of naming racism is this – how we frame a problem is inextricable from how we solve it.

We must remember that objectivity is not a synonym for neutrality. Dr. Mary T. Bassett, NYC commissioner of health and mental hygiene

The first solution to the inadequate colonial workforce was found in Irish bond labor, and so Irishmen worked the plantations until the English desired more labor to maximize the gains of more land. This is where the Atlantic Slave Trade was born. For an early period, some workers of African descent also worked as bond laborers, freed just like the Irish following the period of their indenture.

This period came to an end when the settlers decided they were releasing too many bond servants into freedom to make full use of their land. At the same time, a growing lower class of peasants would occasionally rise up in rebellion against large plantation owners, light-skinned and dark-skinned fighting side by side against the tyrannies of the wealthy.

The elite and lawmakers in Virginia found the most effective answer to this problem, an answer that is still with us today. In the 1680s, Virginia created a new category of people: whites. White people were afforded rights that were subsequently denied to non-whites. By the 1700s, whites could not be held in slavery into perpetuity and black slaves could not gain their freedom through work. Poor whites were instructed that God made non-whites inferior, in much the same way that the propertied were superior to the poor. What’s crucial here is that poor whites were not given the right to vote, and they certainly weren’t given a way out of poverty. What they were given were financial incentives to turn on their former allies – bounties for runaway enslaved Africans and plantation jobs for policing enslaved laborers.

But superiority was enough – the Virginia solution forever created a fissure between poor whites and blacks that the wealthy and powerful have taken full advantage of ever since. The rest of the story, I think, many of you know.

Knowing the origin of whiteness, and seeing whiteness as a social construct with a particular history – these are crucial to racial justice. The creation of white peoples and the data collected since demonstrate roundly that white supremacy without a doubt privileges whites in relation to people of color, but it still limits the potential gains of our collective liberation, whites included.

One the most telling studies in this respect – I turn again to my colleague Nancy Krieger – looks at the relationship between Jim Crow laws and infant death rates. The graph she assembled compares infant mortality for whites and blacks who lived under Jim Crow to those who did not, before and after the Civil Rights Act of 1965. You might guess that the disparity between blacks living under Jim Crow and blacks not living under Jim Crow was erased. But what is striking to me is that whites living under Jim Crow had higher infant death rates before the Civil Rights Act compared to whites not living under Jim Crow. This disparity too was wiped out following the passage of civil rights legislation.

Yet, dog-whistle politics have harmed whites by racializing the safety nets of our social contract. Since the 1970s, as with Nixon’s “Southern Strategy,” conservative elites in power have linked nearly every public institution to unworthy people of color, hoping that poor whites would take the hint that they’re the better, hard-working race. By tying government institutions to an undeserving non-white underclass, we saw growing populist support to defund the War on Poverty, the Great Society, public schools, public hospitals, all while increasing penalties on drug possession and use. Today – particularly the last several years in which whites have been railing against the War on Drugs – all of these shortchanges have served to harm both non-elite whites and all blacks. The President of Demos, Heather McGhee, talks about the harms of racism on white people like this: “we prefer to drain the public swimming pool of economic opportunity rather than let people of color swim, too.”

All that said, my hope is that white supremacy does not make you anxious or uncomfortable. It should make you mad. Understand that anti-racism is not a witch hunt, but a collective healing, without which our nation will remain painfully and inequitably divided, corroding opportunity, spirits, and bodies alike.

Over time, the explicit bias of white supremacy has turned into an implicit bias, something measured deftly by the Harvard Implicit Association Test – I encourage you all to go online and take it. What it has shown is that implicit bias against blacks, as well as other identities, is pervasive, including among people of color. The socialization we all go through in this country, because it is so thoroughly imbued with anti-black messaging and imagery, creates a bias most of us most exact active effort to counterbalance. So you can see the power of explicitly naming racism and taking stock of white supremacy.

The question arises – how do we act in solidarity? What does this all mean for our practice?

Naming racism, keeping it at the forefront of our consciousness and in our dialogues, is really important. Talking about racism, I hope, will encourage you to read and study more about some of the topics I’ve discussed, and the many more that I have not. If your study leads to critical self-reflection, I say that’s a good thing if you truly believe that racism hurts everybody. I do caution you, if you are a white person, to avoid placing too much of a burden on people of color to explain their racial oppression to you.

If acknowledging racism and white supremacy is the minimum, there’s room for much more. I wrote in the New England Journal of Medicine that we must use our tools in public health to carry out more critical research on racism to help us identify and act on longstanding barriers to health equity. This is why, in part, we are emphasizing the revitalized Neighborhood Health Action Centers I described at the beginning of this talk, and are placing them in neighborhoods long deprived of societal resources that should be theirs.

Further still, we can look inward toward the makeup and conduct of our own institutions. When I started as Commissioner almost three years ago, I put resources toward a group of staff to lead what we call “internal reform” at the health department. With the goal of becoming an anti-racist institution, the agency is acting on recommendations made by staff to reform our budgeting and contracting practices, our recruitment and hiring procedures, our community engagement behaviors, our training protocols, and our communications frameworks. It takes a sustained commitment to realize the full promise of these reforms, but we are laying the groundwork with urgency.

Last, I think one of the most important things we can do to stand in solidarity is lend our voice to advocacy for racial justice, unto itself and fully cognizant of the many other struggles for justice in which the work for racial justice is entwined. Those of us who work in public health have been afforded great privileges, tremendous credibility. The best use of that is to be a voice for the voiceless – and to amplify the voices of those who are speaking up, especially those of the youth who have the energy to drive us forward.

-- This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.

Dr. Mary Bassett: We Must 'Name Racism' As A Cause of Poor Health published first on http://ift.tt/2lnpciY

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yes-dal456 · 8 years ago

Text

Dr. Mary Bassett: We Must 'Name Racism' As A Cause of Poor Health

Congresswoman Chisholm has us consider how we lose sight of what’s right in front of us.

Consider two examples: funding priorities of the National Institutes of Health (NIH) and the public health, medical, and criminal justice response to the current opioid crisis.

We must remember that objectivity is not a synonym for neutrality. Dr. Mary T. Bassett, NYC commissioner of health and mental hygiene

The question arises – how do we act in solidarity? What does this all mean for our practice?

-- This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.

from http://ift.tt/2k47gOn from Blogger http://ift.tt/2kJdksz

#http://www.topwaytohappy.tk/2017/02/dr-mary-bassett-we-must-name-racism-as.html

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imreviewblog · 8 years ago

Text

Dr. Mary Bassett: We Must 'Name Racism' As A Cause of Poor Health

Congresswoman Chisholm has us consider how we lose sight of what’s right in front of us.

Consider two examples: funding priorities of the National Institutes of Health (NIH) and the public health, medical, and criminal justice response to the current opioid crisis.

We must remember that objectivity is not a synonym for neutrality. Dr. Mary T. Bassett, NYC commissioner of health and mental hygiene

The question arises – how do we act in solidarity? What does this all mean for our practice?

-- This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.

from Healthy Living - The Huffington Post http://huff.to/2lprD4L

#Healthy Living - The Huffington Post

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