#she teached me how to do the chains years ago while i was selling painted rocks to tourists outside the church while she was selling her

[sugaroto]

LOOK WHAT I FINALLY FIGURED OUT HOW TO DO

[bookandcranny]

Beatrice - Chapter Two

“We parted on difficult terms. He had some ideas that… challenged my sense of professional integrity. I told him I was out and, well, men like that don't tend to handle rejection too gracefully.

All I know of him after that point is that he ran into some health problems and was forced to step down from his position. It may seem cruel but I think the world is better off for it. Rappaccini is no more qualified to treat the human body than I am to teach a dance class.”

Students filed into the corridor, too busy rushing to their next destination to take note of the visitor as she slipped into the lecture hall. Branching off from the main room itself was a small office, and inside, a lone professor plugging attendance data and homework grades into a blocky desktop computer. Gianna waited until the last lingering students dispersed before announcing herself with a knock on the doorframe.

The professor looked up. “Well look who it is.” She adjusted her glasses and squinted at the figure before her, taking all of her in from the spots of dribbled varnish on her shoes upward. “And who is it who stands before me? Not Virgil’s little girl.”

“I actually go by Gianna these days. Or Ms Alexander if you’re feeling formal,” she said wryly, though not without affection. 

Her face broke out in a grin that deepened the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. She unhooked her cane from the arm of her chair and stood. “The last time I saw you, Gianna, you were half-- no, a quarter of your height and missing your front teeth. Time is a funny thing, isn’t it.”

“You’re telling me, Dr Bagnol.”

“Call me Petra. Or Professor if you’re feeling formal.” She winked and patted her arm. “We are colleagues of a kind now, aren’t we? I think you’ve earned the privilege.”

“I don’t know about that. You’re a biochemistry teacher and I fuss around with cotton swabs.”

“Technicalities! Don’t sell yourself short. You know, your father called just recently and when he told me you were going to be working here, I thought he was going to burst a lung the way he wouldn’t stop singing your praises.”

Gianna blushed at that.

“Frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t set your sights higher than our humble university. I heard you were studying in Naples for a while.”

“I guess I was feeling homesick. Then I moved back in with my parents for a while and soon it was the opposite feeling.”

“Sick of home,” she supplied. “I know the feeling. I remember being your age, never wanting to be still for a moment. I was only surprised to hear you weren’t seduced away by foreign shores.”

She shrugged. “It was never about distance, I just needed to find a place where I felt like my life could really begin. And for right now I think that’s here.” Wanting to move the subject away from herself she added, “Dad says hi, by the way. He also says you need to start answering your email more than once a year.”

“Email. A man of literature like your father should give more respect to the written word. You tell him I won’t settle for less than a hand-scribed letter, like they did in the old days. I want to smell that clean valley air he goes on about etched into the paper.”

Gianna laughed. It was reassuring to find some things never changed. Although the silver in her hair had grown more prominent, Dr Bagnol was in many ways just the same as she remembered her. She never knew exactly how she and her father had met, only that it was while they were both still students, and that Petra had been a firecracker from the start, determined to surpass the role that had been imposed on her as a disabled woman in a field that was often unwelcoming to her. Though Gianna couldn’t say she knew her very well personally, the mythos that had been handed down to her had definitely played a part in her decision to become more independent. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Petra said. “Virgil dropped some hints that I should track you down once you started working here but I told him I wouldn’t have that kind of attitude. You’re a grown woman and you don’t need nannying. However,” She picked up a tote from her desk and slung it around her shoulder. “Since you came to me, I’m free to invite you to lunch.”

“Dad wanted you to check up on me?”

“Don’t take it for a lack of faith in you. Parents worry. It’s what they do. I’m sure he just wanted you to have a familiar face to turn to, should you need it. Come to lunch with me, Gianna. We’ll catch up.”

“Oh, that’s okay. You don’t have to--”

“I’m just going to keep asking until you give in. You know that, right?”

She felt herself soften under her insistence. It wasn’t as if she had other plans anyway. “Yeah, alright. That sounds nice.”

Petra led the way to a little sandwich shop not far off campus and, despite Gianna’s protests, insisted on treating her. The weather was kind to them that day so they took their lunch on the patio watching the cars crawl by to the rhythm of the neverending traffic. They sat and ate and spoke of nothing in particular until, without warning, Dr Bagnol’s gaze caught on something in the distance that put a troubled frown on her face.

“What is it?” She started to turn in her seat.

“Nothing,” she said quickly. Too quickly. Her voice had taken on a sharp quality that startled the young woman, but she caught herself and when she spoke again her voice was even and deliberate. “I thought I saw someone I knew. That’s all.”

Not satisfied with her answer, Gianna glanced over her shoulder. Across the street, standing motionless in front of the crosswalk, was the withered old man she had seen in the garden that first day: Beatrice’s father.

Ever since she had met her that one evening on the fire escape, Gianna had come into the habit of chatting with her almost every day. She couldn’t always guarantee she’d be home from work when Beatrice went out to tend the garden, but on the days she spied her from her window she never hesitated to climb down and visit. 

Their chats together weren’t anything especially profound; she got the impression Beatrice really just wanted a friend to keep her company while she worked and Gianna was happy to provide. Often they kept the conversation light and simple. One would ask about the other’s day, or an interesting book they read, or something they heard in the news. Then Beatrice would eventually be summoned by her father or the memory of some other chore she had to attend to inside, and they would part ways.

On the occasions Beatrice wasn’t in such a pleasant mood however, no matter the initial topic the conversation would eventually find its way back to her father. Apparently he was, as Gianna had predicted, in a bad state and sick more often than not, and while Beatrice wasn’t his sole caretaker he trusted her more than the average nurse. The old man had been a doctor before being reduced to the role of patient, and a somewhat renowned one at that. He had homeschooled his daughter and taught her everything he knew. Now she was expected to apply that knowledge by taking on the bulk of responsibility for his care.

He was frail, she said, and the state of his health could be unpredictable, so she was on constant vigil. The only time she really had to herself was when he was asleep or on a rare errand, and she spent that time for the most part in the garden, the place that gave her the greatest sense of peace. It must have been hard on her, Gianna often thought, to be in the prime of her life and chained to his bedside. She understood though. If it had been either of her parents she was sure she would have done the same. 

Knowing this also gave her some more sympathy for the old man. It painted him in a more human light, and she berated herself for ever being afraid of him in the first place. But seeing him here now, staring at her again with those scrutinous sunken eyes, resurfaced some of that initial dread. Dr Bagnol seemed to sense it too.

At the moment Beatrice’s father was wearing an unseasonal gray overcoat and carrying an old-fashioned black carpet bag. He lifted his free hand and slowly waved at Gianna, his stony features cracking with the barest attempt at a smile, which did nothing to soften his appearance. In fact, the more she looked at him the more leering the grin appeared to be.

“Don’t acknowledge him, Gianna,” said Dr Bagnol coldly.

“No, no, it’s fine. That’s just my neighbor.” She forced herself to give a friendly wave in return. 

Petra reached across the table and grabbed her hand back. “What do you mean he’s your neighbor?”

“His building is next to mine. Why?” 

She sighed shakily and gave another glance across the street. The man was beginning to shuffle away now, the retreating shape of him becoming swallowed up by the crowd of fellow pedestrians. Petra released her hand and drew in a tense breath. She steepled her fingers together over the table.

“His name is Giacoma Rappaccini. He was… I knew him, for a time. Not well. He came to me for some insight on a project of his years ago.”

“I heard he was a doctor,” Gianna offered. “You worked together?”

The professor chose her next words carefully. “Officially, he was a 'doctor of holistic and alternative medicines', before he retired that is. But he liked to dabble. Botany, chemistry, anthropology, philosophy. I knew when I met him that he was the sort of man who could spend a hundred years studying and still feel he hadn't learned enough.” She smiled ruefully. “It was a quality we shared, so I agreed to assist him.”

“Doesn't seem like you like the guy much.”

“We parted on difficult terms. He had some ideas that… challenged my sense of professional integrity. I told him I was out and, well, men like that don't tend to handle rejection too gracefully. All I know of him after that point is that he ran into some health problems and was forced to step down from his position. It may seem cruel but I think the world is better off for it. Rappaccini is no more qualified to treat the human body than I am to teach a dance class. 

"He's a brilliant intellectual, sure, but he lacks any compassion, any consideration for the value of human life outside of points of data on a chart. He never cared about helping people with his medicine; he only ever cared about pushing his own limits. I think, in the end, he must have pushed himself too far."

Gianna sat and processed that. The man did give her the creeps but in the scant few times she’d witnessed him he’d never come across as malevolent, and Beatrice clearly loved him. Even on the bad days, she only ever spoke well of him, and it was hard to believe a girl like Beatrice could exist without having had a loving upbringing. Whoever her mother was or had been surely was loved by him as well. That was enough evidence for Gianna that he couldn’t be everything Petra claimed him to be.

“You said he’s your neighbor. Has he ever spoken to you? Invited you over?”

She shook her head. “Rumor has it he’s a pretty private person, and I’m not exactly going over to borrow a cup of sugar or anything.”

Gianna opted not to mention her afternoons with his daughter.

She relaxed at that reassurance. ��Good. Take my advice and stay far away from Rappaccini. Nothing good ever came from getting too chummy with that man. Now, where were we?”

They changed topics and the conversation gradually returned to safer, more pleasant territory, but Gianna couldn't stop thinking about what she had said, about the old man and about the sweet but melancholy girl who was left alone with him.

-----

Against the professor’s advice, Gianna did continue meeting with Beatrice. It hadn’t even been a question in her mind whether she would. If anything, knowing about Petra’s history with Dr Rappaccini made her all the more curious about the young woman. 

She reasoned that she was still technically acting in line with Dr Bagnol’s wishes; she hadn’t so much as glimpsed the shadow of the man since their lunch outing, and the more she spoke with Beatrice the more certain she felt that the daughter was nothing like the boogieman father Petra had described to her, however much of her telling was even accurate.

Beatrice was a sweetheart, bookish and reserved. She smothered laughs behind her hand and averted her eyes when she found herself caught in Gianna’s warm gaze. She was smart, happily listing off the latin genuses of her favorite plants and reciting lessons on phytochemicals she suddenly remembered (she might as well have been speaking latin here too, for as much as Gianna understood her) but at the same time strangely naive. 

She had a boundless love for the world, yet Gianna got the impression she’d seen very little of it. Her eyes always went wide with interest when Gianna spoke of the traveling she’d done. Gianna never thought it was all that impressive but she would gladly talk about it, would say just about anything in fact, if it would get her to pay more attention to her than her flowers for a moment. 

One time, Gianna playfully inserted a flirtatious Italian phrase into their conversation and was flustered to find Beatrice spoke it near fluently, as well as Spanish, Portuguese, Romanian…

“How many languages do you know?” she asked, stunned.

“Six,” she replied. “Not counting English. I’m thinking about trying Mandarin next, and I can read Arabic but can’t speak it. Honestly, I’m not great with the conversational stuff. I’m just good at memorizing new vocabulary and being able to understand multiple languages gives me a much wider variety of reading material.”

She spoke about her talent with words like it was a card trick she’d picked up in her spare time.

“What do you like to read about?”

That got her excited. When Beatrice got excited she found it harder to play coy or smother her emotions under a layer of cool composure, so of course Gianna tried to get her excited as often as possible.

“Everything. Anything. Father’s library is huge but it’s mostly textbooks and old scientific journals and stuff like that. Which is fine,” she added hurriedly. “I like to read those too, but what I really like to read is… romance novels.”

She confessed it like it was some deep dark secret, grinning and turning berry red beneath the brown of her skin. It occurred to Gianna quite suddenly that she was falling in love with her. 

The panic set in right away. She had been happy to have Beatrice as a friend, tamping down her attraction in order to keep spending time with her, but now it was becoming clear that the dam wouldn’t hold forever. She needed to say something, if only to keep from leading her on, if only to keep her from getting the wrong idea or, heaven forbid, the right one. 

What if she was straight? Did gay girls read romance too? Did gay girls wear their dresses long and their hair short like her? Gianna had crushed on butches, on femmes, on lipstick, chapstick, snapback, every kind of sapphic on the vast spectrum of preference and presentation, and she still couldn’t get a read on her. Beatrice seemed to be from another world, another time, somehow out of step with the rest of humanity. If she started dropping hints, she couldn’t predict if she would follow her lead or recoil in disgust and never speak to her again.

That night, Gianna had a strange dream. She might have expected she would, given how wound up she’d felt since their last discussion. The ghost of her had followed her up, back through the window of her apartment, and as she tossed and turned in bed that night she was dizzy with it.

In her dream, she found herself walking in a cathedral. As was the way with dreams, her sight was blurry and visions danced and flickered in front of her eyes before vanishing in the same instant. However even as the edges of her surroundings blurred like a bad photograph, she heard the echoing of her footsteps clearly, and felt the largeness of the air around her. There wasn’t another way to describe it, she thought, just a strange sensation of vast emptiness surrounding her, rendering her infinitely smaller by comparison. 

She was a child now, and she was at a wedding. Or could it have been a funeral? There were flowers everywhere, but dark ones with big thorns and a smell that clung to the back of her throat and watered her eyes. She reached out to touch one and.

--

next chapter

[tsthrace]

clexa + jail + college + activism

Thought I’d repost the whole story here for those of you that don’t do ao3.

9,500-word one shot No content warnings Enemies to lovers Break up/Make up (sort of)

Sneak peek: “Why do you even care anyways?” Lexa shook her head. “You’re almost out of here. Aren’t you going to Ireland or something.”

“I don’t care.” Clarke’s voice returned to its sophomore octave.

“Well, you certainly like to spend a lot of big feelings on something you don’t care about.”

“Someone.” Clarke swallowed. Her head was tilted down but her eyes drifted up to Lexa’s, the blue endless like the middle of the ocean.

Lexa bit her lip. “Clarke…” The softness in her voice was no longer commanding.

Clarke felt a jump in her chest.

Madness

She had been stripped. She had been probed and prodded in places even lovers had never gone. She had been assigned a number by a male officer who referred to her only as “inmate” and refused to look her in the eye. She had been given a sandwich of dry bologna and moldy bread and a styrofoam cup of yellow-tinted water.

But none of that was worse than the manic smile on Clarke’s face.

“Can you calm her the fuck down?” The woman who asked had a tangle of long brown hair and dark circles under her eyes. She couldn’t stop her fingers from fidgeting, and her eyes scuttled from side to side like she was watching a tennis match on fast forward.

Lexa rolled her eyes. Kettle meet pot.

“She’s not with me.” Lexa threw a sideways glance at Clarke who paced the wall of bars in the holding cell. Lexa kept her face flat, but she felt her heart pounding. 

“What the fuck, Lexa!” Clarke's sharp voice rang off the cinder block walls. She didn’t stop pacing, that empty, wild smile still spread across her face.

The fidgety woman let her eyes rest on Lexa for a split second. “She seems to know who you are, sweetie.” Her eyes took off again.

Lexa rubbed her eyes hard. What was left of her eyeliner smudged across her fingertips. This wasn’t how this day was supposed to go. She was supposed to give an inspiring speech to tens of thousands of people in green shirts, rousing them to a roar no one in Exxon Mobil’s Houston compound could ignore. Drone shots would capture the magnitude of the gathering packing Springwoods Village Parkway so that every road into the campus was blocked—no one would get in and no one would get out while they were there. They had been planning it for months. Every move was choreographed. The timeline was carefully managed so as to be inconvenient but not unsafe for the people inside. But then Clarke’s Extinction Rebellion infiltrated. They brought superglue, chains, locks, signs, and 400 of their own people who were also highly choreographed, though their timeline was, well, flexible. Indefinite.

“We can spin it,” The words tumbled out of Clarke’s mouth like rocks in a landslide. “This is a win, Lexa. It’s a win. They’re already working on it. It’s already on the news.” Her eyes looked nowhere and everywhere, alive and wired to the point of vacancy.

“Seriously, what’s wrong with her?” The woman’s glance bounced back and forth off of Clarke.

Lexa didn’t know. A battle was waging inside her. Clarke had sabotaged the biggest day of Lexa’s career. She had commandeered her protest, her cause, undermining its legitimacy and stealing its power. Lexa was angry. But she was also worried. In all the years she had known Clarke, she’d never seen her like this. 

---

They met at UVA in their Approaches to Environmental Politics course. Clarke, a sophomore who had no business being in the upper-level class, was paired for the final project with Lexa, a senior who was just trying to get through her final semester. The project was broad and ambitious: plan one action that would have a meaningful impact on the growing climate crisis in the United States. It could be anything: legislation, corporate policy, activism. Break the action down into manageable parts. Be detailed. Account for opposing factors.

Lexa’s concentration was Environmental Policy, but she was tired. She wanted to find the plan with the fewest variables, the least amount of pushback. A major corporation like Walmart calling for biodegradable packaging in all their stores. Google switching exclusively to sustainable energy for their data center operations. Lexa hated capitalism. She faulted the constant profit and growth it demanded for getting the world into the climate crisis in the first place. But she knew, for the purposes of this project, that working within capitalism would be easiest. Being “green” was in; big moves in sustainability would be a PR dream for these corporations. And it wouldn’t disrupt the lives of the general public.

Significant change with little pushback except from the most radical in the movement. And then Lexa could graduate.

“We block railroad tracks all over the country, so that coal trains can’t get where they need to go.” This was Clarke’s idea. “We chain up to each other as blockades on the tracks. We set up camps around those blockades as a system of support and to control the narrative when the media arrives.”

It turned out that Clarke was one of the radicals. She had a dozen ideas and a hundred unconventional approaches to each of those ideas, and they all boiled down to massive disruption for the sake of an ultimate good. 

“If this plays out and all your dreams come true, millions of people will be without electricity.” Lexa rolled her eyes. “All you’ll have is a bunch of people resentful of your movement. That’s gonna be the narrative.”

“So you just want to sell out?” Clarke returned the eye roll. Her face still had the soft roundness of a girl still trying to become a woman. Her voice seemed an octave too high. “You want to work with the people who created the mess in the first place?”

“It’s not selling out, it’s being realistic.” Lexa wondered if she had been so naive when she was a spry underclasswomen. “Besides, do you know how many contingencies we’ll have to plan for? National guard. Fox News painting us as lunatics. Working class railroad workers pissed that they can’t do their jobs. Do you think they’re gonna get paid when the trains aren’t moving?”

“This isn’t the time for incremental change, Lexa.” Clarke’s eyes darkened in a way that startled Lexa. “This is a crisis. We could be at the point of no return in a decade. People need to make sacrifices”

“This is a final project for a college class, Clarke,” Every word came out slowly, deliberately, quietly. Clarke didn’t know her well enough yet to know that Lexa getting quiet should set off alarms. “I just want to get an A and be done. You can save the world after I graduate.”

“You don’t even care, do you?” Clarke’s face looked more sad than angry.

“I do care, Clarke.” Lexa sighed. Clarke’s words stung, and it surprised her. “And I plan on doing the actual work when I get out of here. So can we please just make it easy on ourselves for now?”

“If you cared, you’d take every opportunity you get to make a difference.”

The next six weeks were a string of arguments, eye rolls, and unsatisfying compromises. Their final product earned them a B-minus. On the last day of class, Lexa strode out the door without even a glance in Clarke’s direction. 

But then UVA gave her the best package for grad school, and she found herself on campus for another two years. Her first year of classes kept her far away from the undergrads. She’d seen Clarke a few times in the coffee shops on the edge of campus and once at the library, but had always managed to keep her distance. For some reason, the sight of Clarke gave her a vague sense of guilt. It picked at her like a vulture picks at roadkill. 

But Lexa’s fellowship required her to TA her second year. The thought of teaching Intro to Poli-Sci made her want to claw her eyes out, but Lexa made sure it didn’t come to that. She engaged in a quiet networking campaign in which she happened to be at the same bar as the dean and then somehow got herself invited to dinner at Dr. Gudmundsson’s house. The professor’s children were delighted by her explanation of why rain happens. The following week she was assigned to assist in the professor’s Sustainability and Adaptive Infrastructure course, a high-level class that required more support of student research than actual teaching. 

Adaptive infrastructure had become Lexa’s speciality during her grad studies. Intentionally building entire cities from their sewage systems to the top of their skyscrapers in the image of its people’s shared values would require not only intellect but power, and Lexa was both smart and ambitious. 

She almost didn’t recognize Clarke in the second row of desks on the first day of class. She looked different. Her face curved more sharply towards her chin, her jaw line harder. Her blonde hair had been long two years ago, but now it barely reached past her ears in a scrappy bob. There was a steadiness in her eyes balanced by a glimmering intensity. She hadn’t become a woman so much as she had become so much more herself. 

Clarke noticed her, though, and threw a dismissive smirk at Lexa before she turned to square her shoulders to the front of the room.

A wave of irritation rolled through Lexa when she realized she was biting her lip. She sighed. At least they wouldn’t be assigned any final projects together. Besides, maybe Clarke’s approaches had gotten more sophisticated. Maybe she had grown up since the baby curves on her face had melted away. 

The first assignment proved otherwise. Lexa graded all the weekly assignments, and Clarke was furious with her six out of ten points. 

“Is this some kind of long-awaited vengeance?” Clarke had stormed into Lexa’s tiny office during office hours.

Lexa barely looked up from the email she was reading. “Are you serious?”

“I followed the assignment. I hit all the requirements.” Clarke pointed at her phone where, presumably, a copy of her graded assignment was on the screen. 

Lexa couldn’t see it in the glare of the office light, but she remembered it. It was creative, clever, but not what she was supposed to do. Her head didn’t move, but her eyes shot up to meet Clarke’s.

“You didn’t even try to hide the fact that you’re only studying Chicago’s bus system in order to disrupt it.” She let out a deep breath. “And you did a great job finding the limitations in routes and efficiency. I can tell you understood the study, which is why you got six points.”

“But I followed the assignment.” Both of Clarke’s hands were now on the edge of the desk as she leaned in.

“No.” Lexa sat back and closed her laptop. “You didn’t. And you know you didn’t. Maybe you can get away with that in other classes, but we need you to follow instructions. You can get creative with your final project.”

“Will you be grading that, too?”

“Part of it, probably.”

“Then I doubt I’ll be able to get too creative.” Clarke huffed and slung her backpack over her shoulder as she turned to leave.

The rest of Clarke’s assignments were flawless, though her analysis had a spiteful flourish to them. Each time, she found the most obvious conclusions and spent far more words than necessary coming to them. After four weeks, Lexa could only laugh. She had to hand it to her: even as she colored within the lines, Clarke managed to protest. It was artful.

They didn’t acknowledge each other in class. Most of the other students held Lexa with an earnest and completely unearned reverence. She had a presence, a silence that made her intriguing. The boys gave her shy smiles when she walked in, and she’d acknowledge them with a curt nod—which only drew them in more.

Halfway through the semester, Lexa noticed Clarke lingering in her office doorway. She could tell from her body language that she did not want to come in.

Lexa rolled her eyes. “Ms. Griffin, can I do something for you?”

Clarke looked up. “Can I come in?”

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

Clarke walked in and looked back. “Can I shut the door?”

Lexa was intrigued. “Uh, sure.” She smirked. “You’re not here to yell at me, are you? Your work has been more than acceptable.”

“No, it’s not that.” Clarke sat down in the chair uninvited. “I...uh...I need a recommendation. From Dr. Gudmundsson. But she told me I had to go through you.”

“You could have emailed me.”

“That felt...cowardly.”

Lexa’s forehead creased. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I mean, given our history.”

“Clarke, it’s not like I have any say in your recommendation.” Lexa sighed. “It’s just a form that I need to fill out. Or you fill out, ideally, and give it back to me. Dr. Gudmundsson glances at it, I draft a letter, and she signs it. I’m sorry if that’s disappointing for you, but maybe it’ll feel less disappointing to know that I’m basically her administrative assistant. For this kind of stuff, at least.”

“It’s…” Clarke paused and took a deep breath. Streaks of sunlight streamed through the branches of a tree and broke across her. “Look, I know how this works.”

“Good.” Lexa shrugged. “I’ll email you the form.”

“Can we just do it now?” Clarke was chewing on her lip, her finger tapping on the arm of the chair.

“Uh, sure.” This wasn’t how Lexa wanted to spend her office hours. “Let me just pull it up.” Her eyes darted around the screen. “Okay.” She asked some logistical questions about Clarke’s major and concentration, electives she’s taken, and planned graduation date. Then she went to the next part of the form.

“Okay, so who are we sending this recommendation to?” 

Clarke smiled and looked down. “Friends of the Earth in Ireland.”

Lexa typed. “Okay, for what, though?”

“Their Extinction Rebellion training program. It’s kind of like a fellowship.”

Lexa stopped typing. “Aren’t those the people who superglued themselves to the gates of, like, a hundred coal mines last July?”

Suddenly, Clarke was looking her straight in the eyes. “Yes.” 

Lexa felt that strange guilt wash over her. She sucked in her lips and decided not to comment. She looked down at the screen. “So what do you think your intellectual strengths are?”

That night, Lexa was having a drink with some of the other TAs when she noticed Clarke across the bar. She was with a group, sitting next to a completely unremarkable young man whose face was giving her his complete and devoted attention as she talked. It wasn’t clear if Clarke knew he was there. 

Lexa smiled. Boys are so ridiculous.

She sipped at her beer and silently nodded through the TAs’ complaints about work conditions and bad pay. It’s not that she didn’t agree with them, but it was all they had been talking about for the last thirty minutes, the last thirty days. And she only had one semester to go. By the time it was actually resolved, she’d probably be gone.

She scooted her chair out and left her ranting colleagues to find the bathroom. Two gender neutral bathrooms lined a narrow hallway, and both doors were locked. As she waited, wondering if the narrow hallway was ADA compliant, one of the doorknobs rattled and Clarke emerged.

“Oh, hey.” Clarke looked past Lexa, almost like she was embarrassed.

“Hey.” Lexa studied Clarke’s face. It was strange to see her looking unsure. She waited for Clarke to move so she could get into the bathroom. She didn’t move. Instead, she leaned against the door frame.

“Can you believe this virus thing?” she asked.

“What?” Lexa squinted. 

“The virus, the Coronavirus that’s going around in China. Seems like a pretty big deal.” Clarke finally looked at Lexa. “I’ve heard there are some cases in Italy, too.”

Lexa remembered seeing something on Twitter but hadn’t paid much attention. “I haven’t heard much.”

“I just wonder if we should be nervous.” Clarke’s confidence seemed to return. “I don’t think this country is prepared for anything like that.” She scoffed. “I mean, I don’t think this administration is prepared for much of anything.”

Lexa tilted her head. She didn’t know why Clarke was suddenly bantering with her about viruses. “Can I…?” She looked behind Clarke, nodding towards the bathroom.

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry” The hallway wasn’t so narrow that they couldn’t get past each other, but their arms brushed against each other in a way that made Clarke look back when she got to the end of the brief corridor. Lexa was already closing the door behind her. Clarke bit her lip and went back to her table.

At the start of their next class, Lexa noticed that Clarke looked up when she walked in, though she looked away quickly.

It was Lexa’s task that day to explain the students’ final project. It was relatively straightforward:  choose one infrastructural element in your hometown, assess its current efficiency in terms of sustainability, and design three ways to improve that efficiency—two of which were realistic given financial, social, and political limitations, and one pie-in-the-sky, no holds barred approach.

Lexa had a feeling which one Clarke would devote most of her time to.

To her surprise, Clarke dropped in during her office hours again a week later. She didn’t linger outside the door this time, she just walked right in. Even more surprising, it was to ask about writing policy and navigating local government legislation. 

“I mean, tax breaks created a society of stand-alone homeowners, right? So why can’t tax breaks encourage high-density living and co-housing?” Clarke spoke breathlessly. When she committed to something, she threw herself in, even if it was housing policy.

“Aren’t we talking about Bangor, Maine?” Lexa asked. “Isn’t that a small town?”

“Not tiny.” Clarke squinted, annoyed. “And besides, high-density housing isn’t just for big cities. It’s not just good for sustainability. It helps build community. When people encounter each other everyday, they start to care about each other. People are super isolated in Bangor.”

Lexa nodded. “Okay.” She didn’t need to know the particulars. She was just glad Clarke was finally recognizing how long-term change realistically happened. “So what are your other two approaches?”

Clarke pulled out what appeared to be a folded engineering map of a Bangor neighborhood. “Do you mind?” She nodded at the blank space on Lexa’s desk.

“Sure.”

They both leaned over the map as Clarke pointed out potential locations for rainwater collection tanks. 

“This is pretty ambitious,” Lexa said, her eyebrows raised. She looked down again, her hands gripping the edge of the desk, her long hair tumbling towards the map and hiding her face. 

Before she could stop herself, Clarke reached up and slid the loose hair behind Lexa’s ear. They both froze. Lexa felt goosebumps shoot up her arms. Clarke bit her lip in a dare. She didn’t mean for this to happen, but maybe...she did?

Lexa eyes shot to the map. She felt Clarke’s hand slide over hers. She glanced over and saw the line of Clarke’s neck curving delicately as her head tilted in her direction. She suddenly loved that line, wanted to run her finger over it. 

She swallowed hard and pulled away.

“We...this…” She fumbled her words. “We can’t do this.” She looked up at Clarke with stony eyes, though uncertainty lingered at their edges.

“Oh, right.” Clarke grabbed at the corner of the map, sweeping it in a wave off the desk. She didn’t bother to fold it as she gathered her backpack with her other hand. She turned towards the door without looking back. 

At that moment, both of their cell phones buzzed. Clarke stopped and looked at Lexa who was already looking at the text. 

Attention. There has been an emergency on the UVA Charlottesville campus. Health services has identified 23 cases of the Novel Coronavirus today. This virus is extremely contagious. To limit the spread, you are instructed to shelter in place. Please do not move from your current location until directed by authorities. If you are indoors, close internal doors and open external doors and windows. If you are outdoors, remain outdoors.

A tinny female voice repeated the message from a public address system in the hallway.

Clarke let the map flutter to the floor. “Shit.” She closed the office door.

Lexa let something that was half a sigh, half a laugh escape from her mouth. She went to the window to push it open.

“This isn’t funny,” Clarke said quickly, her eyes wide. “This could be really bad. I read that this virus can be airborne for a long time. They don’t even know what the incubation period is.” She turned her wide eyes on Lexa, suddenly worried. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I feel fine,” Lexa said, throwing up her hands. “Except I didn’t eat lunch. So there’s that.”

“This is serious, Lexa.” Clarke’s words were quick and clipped. “People have died in China, and it’s getting worse in Europe.”

“Are you feeling sick?”

“No, but—”

“Then let’s just deal with what’s happening right now.” Lexa’s voice was calm, almost soothing.

Clarke sighed loudly and collapsed into the chair. “You mean the fact that I’m now stuck here with you?”

Lexa bit her lip. “You didn’t seem to mind a minute ago.”

Clarke looked out the window. “Let’s...just forget…”

“Clarke…” Lexa leaned back in her chair. “It’s not that—”

“What is your deal, Lexa?” Clarke stood up, suddenly angry. “It’s like you’ve had it out for me from the second we met.”

“I just don’t think changing the world requires breaking everything, Clarke,” Lexa said quietly. “It’s nothing personal.”

It only made Clarke get louder. “No big change has ever happened because people were following the rules.” Her face went red. “You’re smart, Lexa. I know you are. And you care. You just don’t care enough.”

Lexa felt her heart pounding, but she didn’t respond. She didn’t move. She had been accused of not caring her whole life, people mistaking her calm for distance, her quiet for heartlessness. Even as she spent three years of undergrad building the network and support to change the university’s HVAC system from fossil-fuel based to an electric heat recovery model. It wasn’t glamorous, but it reduced the school’s emissions by almost 50%. Even as she slowly persuaded Dr. Gudmundsson to support the TA’s cause, one small conversation in passing at a time. Even though she’d never see the fruits of that labor.

She looked out the open window. “You don’t know me.” Her voice was soft and even yet somehow completely commanding.

“You’re right.” Clarke took a deep breath and sat back down. She looked down at her hands. “I’m sorry.”

“Why do you even care anyways?” Lexa shook her head. “You’re almost out of here. Aren’t you going to Ireland or something.”

“I don’t care.” Clarke’s voice returned to its sophomore octave.

“Well, you certainly like to spend a lot of big feelings on something you don’t care about.” 

“Someone.” Clarke swallowed. Her head was tilted down but her eyes drifted up to Lexa’s, the blue endless like the middle of the ocean.

Lexa bit her lip. “Clarke…” The softness in her voice was no longer commanding.

Clarke felt a jump in her chest. 

A door in the hallway crashed open, and heavy feet marched down the hallway pausing until a muffled voice shouted, “Clear!” Then the steps continued, then paused. “Clear!” Again and again. 

Clarke looked out the window of Lexa’s office door and saw two people in hazmat suits scanning every office down the hallway. She watched until they finally made their way to her. 

“We got two!” a man yelled through his plastic mask.

“What’s going on?” Clarke asked through the window.

“That virus,” the man said as he tapped on the phone he was holding. His face was sweating. “The one on the news. There’s been an outbreak on campus. We don’t know much about it, but it’s supposed to be super contagious. We’re just being cautious.” 

“I can go straight home,” Clarke said, her voice on the edge of frantic. “I only live two blocks from here. I’ll stay far away from people.”

“No,” the muffled voice replied. “You have to shelter in place until we can test you. The tests are on the way. Should only be an hour or two.”

“Do you see the size of this office?” She looked back and saw Lexa looking up at her with smug but amused eyes, which only irritated her more. “Half of it is taken up by a desk. There’s no food.”

“I have a protein bar,” Lexa said, shrugging.

Clarke rolled her eyes.

“It’ll only be a few hours,” the man repeated. “You’re big girls.”

“What did you say?” Clarke squinted at him with sharp eyes. Her hand reached for the doorknob.

“Clarke.” Lexa said, quiet but unassailable.

Clarke’s hand dropped.

The man either didn’t see or acted like he didn’t see. “I need to get contact info from both of you. Names, numbers, and emails.”

“Why?” Clarke crossed her hands in front of her. 

She didn’t see Lexa rolling her eyes behind her. “I don’t know, Clarke,” Lexa said. “Maybe so they can get in touch with us while we’re trapped in this room and let us know what’s going on.”

Clarke sighed and sat down in the chair across from Lexa. “Fine.” 

They both gave their information, and the two hazmats suits continued on their search. “Someone will be here in a couple hours.” The man called back as he walked off.

“I don’t trust them.” Clarke sunk into the chair.

“Seems to be a theme.” Lexa gathered her hair with both hands and pulled it back into a bun. She sat back. “You could obviously handle a campus outbreak much more competently.”

Clarke opened her mouth then realized that Lexa was suddenly leaning forward, waiting for a response. Her eyes were shining. Clarke bit her lip and sat down. She looked down at her hands. A thick silence filled the tiny office. A cool breeze circled the office, rustling her hair. She pulled her jacket closed around her, and turned to look out the window. 

Lexa sat back and noticed that curve in Clarke’s neck again. Somehow soft and sharp at the same time. She felt one corner of her mouth curve up and shook her head. She shivered. Clarke noticed.

“Should we shut the window?”

Lexa had a quip ready about Clarke being the epidemic expert, but she sucked in her lips instead. “Do you think it’s safe?”

A tired smile crawled across Clarke’s lips. “I don’t know. But I’m cold.”

Lexa stood up to close the window.

Clarke took in a breath and held it for a moment. “I didn’t mean…” She said, letting the breath out. “I didn’t mean to step over a line. I just figured...I mean, you’re only two years older than me, and I know you’re a TA, but…”

The corner of Lexa’s lip creeped up again in a sad but kind way. “It’s not that, Clarke.” She looked up. “I mean it is. Professors discourage it, but it’s not forbidden. But…” The sadness melted off her smile as it widened. “You’re kind of a pain in the ass.”

Clarke laughed. “Yeah, I know.”

“And you kind of drive me crazy.” Lexa bit her lip.

Clarke tilted head. “Crazy how?” A light shone in her eyes. She stood up.

Lexa watched her as she circled the desk, that curve of her neck running smooth. 

“Like crazy in a bad way?” Clarke stopped just in front of Lexa and leaned against the desk.

“Definitely,” Lexa responded, her eyes shining. She leaned back. An invitation.

Clarke bent down and put her hand on Lexa’s cheek. Then she leaned in.

Lexa jerked her head back quickly, though mischief danced in her eyes. “You sure you want to do that? I could get you sick.”

“I don’t care,” Clarke replied just before her lips reached Lexa’s.

---

When they went home that day, they didn’t know that, though they lived less than half a mile from one another, they wouldn’t see each other again for three months. They didn’t know they wouldn’t be allowed to leave their homes except to buy groceries. They didn’t know that classes would be moved online for the rest of the year. They didn’t know that the only fanfare there’d be for graduation was receiving a piece of fancy paper in the mail in July. 

They didn’t know that it would be a terrible time to fall in love. But they did it anyway. They sat on Google Hangouts while they studied together. They sent Spotify playlists that they carefully curated for each other. Clarke mailed Lexa sketches she made of Lexa’s face from classes on Zoom. Lexa sent Clarke seductive texts during those classes and smirked as her face went red. Late at night, they touched themselves together on speakerphone, hoping their roommates wouldn’t hear.

When the quarantine finally lifted in early July, their reunion was marked only by their roommates who occasionally caught them in the kitchen grabbing food or walking from the bathroom back to the bedroom. 

When Lexa landed a prestigious internship at the World Resources Institute, she convinced Clarke to move to Washington DC with her. Clarke’s Friends of the Earth training had been moved from Ireland to online, and DC wasn’t a bad place to find activist friends. 

They found a tiny studio in Southeast. Lexa took the green line to H Street every day. Her work took her to Capitol Hill where she sat silently in meetings and took in the careful dance between her supervisors and congressional leaders. It was a game of give and take, sometimes infuriatingly slow and steady—too much given, not enough won.

“By the time you make any change, the planet will already be burning.” Clarke was stirring a pot of jarred pasta sauce. Neither of them had ever been very interested in cooking. “It already is.”

Lexa sighed. This was a variation on a nightly conversation. She moved in behind Clarke, wrapping her arms around her and resting her head on her shoulder. Her blonde hair smelled like summer. “Not tonight, okay?”

The scent of mediocre tomato sauce filled the room. Lexa sat down. “Anyways, how was your day?”

Clarke looked back with a hint of trouble in her eyes. “We talked about how to, uh, accelerate government action.” She smiled that smile that both drew Lexa in and infuriated her.

“Maybe we shouldn’t talk.” Lexa rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t stifle the grin.

Clarke set the wooden spoon down. She strode across their tiny kitchen and straddled Lexa, sliding her fingers up Lexa’s neck and through her hair. She smiled that smile and bit her lip. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t.”

---

After three years, Clarke had turned their tiny apartment into the neighborhood headquarters for climate justice. Flyers about pollution in Congress Heights covered their kitchen table. Posters illustrating rising sea levels along the Anacostia River were stacked on a chair in the living room. Every Tuesday night, she gathered a small group of activists to brainstorm projects and actions.  

Lexa complained whenever she was home, which was rare. She had been promoted to project manager and was gone for days or weeks at a time at meetings in The Hague or conferences in South Korea.

“Do you know how much fossil fuel those trips put into the atmosphere?” Clarke had a hard time understanding how the good Lexa was doing at these meetings outweighed their carbon footprint.

“I’m sure you can tell me the exact amount,” Lexa snapped. She had just gotten home from the Netherlands and was not in the mood for Clarke’s preaching. She looked from the pile of flyers on the table to the bed which was a messy heap of blankets to the stack of dishes in the sink. 

“What do you even do when I’m gone?”

Clarke lowered her head, and her eyes narrowed. She took in a long breath as her jaw clenched. 

“You don’t get to do that,” she said in a low voice. “You don’t get to come back and act like you’re the only one doing ‘real’ work.” Her air quotes were comically exaggerated. “Just because I’m not on Capitol Hill or at the fucking Hague doesn’t mean I’m not doing real work. I’m not your housewife, Lexa.” 

In three years, Clarke had learned that Lexa heard her whispers better than her shouts. She had learned that her anger distilled and harnessed got her much further than her anger exploded and dispersed. She didn’t realize in the moment that she had learned those things from Lexa.

Lexa clenched her fists and took a breath. She let her fingers relax. “I don’t want to do this tonight.”

Clarke looked down. “I don’t know if we should be doing this at all.”

---

Clarke moved into a giant, run-down house on the edge of the city with some activist friends. Lexa found a studio in Logan Circle. 

“This isn’t what I wanted.” Clarke turned the key to their apartment over and over in her hand.

Lexa looked up from the box she was taping up. Her green eyes were heavy. “It’s not what I wanted either, Clarke.”

Clarke looked slowly around the mostly empty apartment. It made her smile, and it made her tired. So many memories. Lexa stood up. Her face was streaked with dust and sweat, but her shoulders were pulled back. She stood up straight, unshakeable.

If things were different, Clarke would have hugged her until her body went soft. Instead, she set the key on the kitchen counter. She looked up. “I love you, Lex.”

Lexa nodded slowly and sucked in her lips. She closed her eyes for a moment then looked into Clarke’s eyes. “I love you, too.”

Clarke turned and walked out, closing the door quietly behind her.

---

Their paths crossed only a few times in the following years—at coffee shops in Capitol Hill and once at a bar in Southeast. Lexa texted Clarke on her birthday. Clarke texted Lexa when she found out Lexa had been hired as the Executive Director of Organizing for Climate Action, or OCA. 

Can’t wait to see all the “incremental change” you make, Clarke’s text read after the initial congratulations. She couldn’t resist. Lexa didn’t respond.

Clarke never told her that she kept a binder full of Lexa’s white papers. She didn’t tell her that she sometimes googled Lexa’s name and watched her interviews from local news shows on YouTube. OCA was steadily and methodically taking on the fossil fuel industry, coordinating deep investigation with targeted peaceful protest to force oil companies into altering their practices, and Lexa was quietly becoming a driver of the movement. Clarke, despite her irritation, couldn’t help but be proud.

What Lexa was gaining in influence Clarke was gaining in notoriety. Her first action was a die-in at Union Station 300 people covered in fake blood laid down across the public transit hub, stifling the morning commute. They demanded that Congress and the President declare a climate emergency. Clarke had coordinated logistics and wrote the demands. A few months later, she traveled south where she and 500 others covered in blue paint chained themselves to each other in a rough line across downtown Miami where the sea was predicted to rise in 50 years. This time, she was the one with the loudspeaker. She talked to the media, declaring their demands.

Lexa rolled her eyes when she saw a very blue Clarke on CNN calling for legislative and economic climate action. But she also couldn’t help but smile. This was always who Clarke was going to become.

But their worlds didn’t come together in a meaningful way for six years—when they locked eyes across a sea of people in Houston, Texas.

---

“I’m going to fucking kill her,” Lexa said under her breath as she watched her carefully orchestrated protest disintegrate. Her green-shirted supporters looked around in confusion as the Extinction Rebellion chained themselves to gates and trees and then to each other in lines across the roads that led in and out of Exxon Mobil’s facilities. 

“Lexa!” a muffled voice called through the walkie-talkie. “What do we do?”

“Just keep everyone calm.” Her voice was low, barely containing her anger. 

The news crews that had been gathered at OCA’s speaker podium started migrating towards the sudden action at the gates and intersections. Some of the green shirts were joining the human chain. 

“For decades, Exxon Mobil has been a leader.” She heard Clarke’s voice ringing out over the crowd. Clarke was standing in the bed of a truck where a makeshift PA system had been set up. “A leader in pumping carbon into our atmosphere. A leader in pushing for deregulation of laws that protect our earth. A leader in covering up fossil fuel’s impact on our environment. They knew. Oh, yes, they knew. And now they’re not going anywhere until they listen to what we have to say!”

A massive cheer went up. The crowd, including Lexa’s green shirts, raised their fists and phones.

“We will be heard! We will be heard! We will be heard!” Clarke started chanting, and Lexa’s green sea followed her, their voices echoing down the long parkway.

“Lexa!” the voice called through the walkie talkie. “You’re losing them. You have to do something!”

Fuck you, Clarke, was the chant repeating through Lexa’s thoughts as she swam through the crowd towards her. She was at least 100 yards away, and the crowd was thick.

The people went silent as Clarke climbed onto the roof of the truck with her mic. “They will continue to profit on the destruction of our planet, of our home, as long as we let them.” Her voice swelled. “We must stop them.”

“We must stop them! We must stop them!” The crowd took up her words again.

Lexa finally made her way to the truck and looked up at Clarke. What the fuck are you doing? Her eyes said what she couldn’t say out loud. Clarke smiled and jumped into the bed of the truck again. 

“Does OCA stand with us?” Clarke asked into the mic. She looked across at the mass of green shirts around her before her eyes settled on Lexa. She held her hand out to Lexa, inviting her up into the truck bed.

Lexa felt hot anger pulsing through her veins. Anger that Clarke stole her moment. Anger that all the details she had so carefully plotted were now falling to the ground like broken glass. Anger that she didn’t have a choice. She couldn’t refuse Clarke, not now. She grabbed her hand and climbed into the truck, and Clarke immediately jumped onto the roof and waited for Lexa to follow. 

Lexa swallowed hard, letting go of her plans, her pride, her power. She grabbed the mic from Clarke’s hand.

“We stand together to call Exxon Mobil to accountability!”

The crowd roared, and she felt it wash across her like a wave. This was power, but not the power she was used to. This was raw and untamed. Clarke took her hand and they turned to face each other. The blue in her eyes flashed, and the power danced between them.

The energy suddenly changed. Shouts went up together with bursts of smoke. Tear gas. The crowd jolted, looking for an escape all at once. The people chained together cried out, unable to bring their hands locked in tubes to their faces. The edges of the sea spilled out across the parkway.

“Don’t run, Lexa.” Clarke’s voice was calm, but something wild lingered at the edge of her words. “They can’t see you run.” She gripped her hand hard. “Stay with me.”

Lexa saw black spots pushing through the crowd towards them. 

“Those aren’t cops, Lexa.” Clarke’s chest rose and fell quickly. “They’re private security. We’re on a public road. They shouldn’t be touching us. Stand your ground.”

“How can you tell?” Lexa hated how her voice was shaking.

Clarke’s jaw clenched. “You always thought my training was ridiculous…”

Six black spots surrounded the truck, men covered in riot gear. “Security! You need to come down.”

“No, we don’t,” Clarke said with her wild calm. 

“Come down or we will bring you down.” The man sounded like he was enjoying himself.

“Go ahead.” Clarke shrugged. “We’ll bring a lawsuit.”

The speed of their violence startled Lexa. They leapt into the bed of the truck and grabbed Clarke’s legs, pulling them out from under her. Clarke grunted as her back caught the edge of the roof. She went silent when the back of her head slammed into the bed of the truck. 

“Clarke!” Lexa shouted as she dropped to her knees and held up her hands. The riot men grasped at her. “If you fucking touch me…” She drew her shoulders back and glared as she started to climb down. The men let her climb down.

As she dropped into the bed of the truck, she saw the men pulling Clarke’s limp arms behind her to cable-tie her wrists. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Lexa rushed to her body. She glanced at the dozens of green shirts that had gathered around the truck holding up cell phones. “You sure you want to do that? She’s not even conscious.” 

The men backed off.

Lexa folded herself over Clarke. “Clarke,” she whispered frantically. “Are you okay? Wake up.” She swallowed. “Please.”

Clarke stirred. 

“Oh my God.” Lexa gathered her into her arms. “Are you okay?”

Clarke slowly turned and looked up at Lexa with drowsy eyes. “I can’t believe you’re with me right now.”

Lexa felt tears prick at her eyes. “I’m so fucking mad at you.” She smiled.

Sirens rang out in the distance.

Clarke closed her eyes and smiled. “It was an opportunity we couldn’t pass up. You organized it so well.”

“Fuck you, Clarke.” Lexa leaned over and kissed her forehead. 

When the police arrived, Clarke was sitting up, rubbing her eyes. 

“These are the leaders?” they asked the private security men.

“Yeah,” said the man who had pulled Clarke down. “They incited this whole thing.”

“This was a legal gathering,” Lexa said. “I have permits.”

“It stopped being legal when the chains came out,” one of the cops said. “You’re both under arrest.”

Clarke remained conspicuously silent as they were read their rights. Fury wrestled with concern inside Lexa. She was worried about Clarke, but she was also being arrested because of her. When Clarke stood up and swayed, losing her footing for a moment, the concern made a comeback.

“Shouldn’t she see a doctor or something?” 

“She seems fine to me,” a policewoman said as she led Clarke away towards a separate car. Clarke looked back at Lexa with sleepy eyes.

“Do you want to make a call?” Lexa heard a man’s voice ask distantly.

“What?” She turned. The man arresting her had soft eyes.

“I’m about to take your cell phone,” he said. “Do you want to make a call before I do?”

“Is that allowed?”

“It’s at our discretion.” 

“Did she get a call?” Lexa nodded in the direction of Clarke.

“I don’t know. I didn’t arrest her.” His soft eyes became impatient. “I’m not going to offer again.” 

Lexa sighed and pulled out her phone. She found Eleanor, the chairwoman of OCA’s board of directors, in her contacts.

“Lexa!” Eleanor’s voice was frantic. “Are you okay? I saw the video.”

“Already?”

“Yeah, it’s all over Twitter. Who was the other woman? The blonde. Is she alright?”

“That’s the woman from Extinction Rebellion.” Lexa felt the fury crest as she refused to say Clarke’s name. “Listen, I’m being arrested.”

“What? Why?”

“They think I was part of—”

“Thirty seconds,” the cop interrupted.

“Listen, Eleanor,” Lexa took a deep breath and drew her shoulders back. “I need you to figure this out. Bail me out or whatever...I’ve never done this before.” 

“We’re already in touch with the lawyers,” Eleanor said. “Just hold tight.”

“End it now,” the cop reached for her phone.

Lexa clenched her jaw as she ended the call and handed him her phone.

---

Clarke’s pacing had grown frantic.

“Calling into the water,” Her words came out louder and more senseless with every passing minute. “He just doesn’t know it yet.” Her frenzy filled the small holding cell. 

Their tangled-haired cellmate’s eyes followed her back and forth. Her face had grown pale, and her finger-fidgeting sped to a wild pace. She looked like she was going to be sick—or start a fight.

Lexa glanced between the two of them, feeling the tension push at the edges of the small space, the bars of the cells trapping everything. Her rage had carried her through the first hour. She had ignored Clarke, hoping she’d calm down so she could be properly angry with her. But Clarke hadn’t calmed down. Her eyes grew more vacant with every passing hour, her pacing quicker and more rickety. 

“Facing the springs,” she mumbled, stumbling a moment before her hand caught a bar to steady herself. 

“You need to do something.” The fidgety woman’s shaky eyes landed on Lexa. Her shifty fingers were now balled into tight fist. “Or I will.”

Lexa’s muscled stiffened. She felt her heart beating evenly, solidly throughout her body, and time seemed to slow. Her anger at Clarke had been boiling at the surface, but it seemed to melt, rolling off her skin, as something spread through her from her very core, taking control. She turned her whole body towards the woman and tilted her head down while shifting her eyes up.

“Just try,” she said, her voice low and quiet.

The woman wrapped her arms around herself and pushed herself against the wall. “Just…” Her eyes shot upwards, glancing everywhere except in Lexa’s direction.  “I didn’t mean anything…” She let out a sigh, and her body seemed to go limp like an opossum playing dead.

Lexa exhaled. “Right.” She turned her head towards Clarke’s quick, hollow voice.

“Can’t climb the clock,” Clarke was saying. She was panting and sweat trickled down the side of her face. “Can’t climb it.”

Fear started to creep through Lexa. Clarke had always been intense, always danced at the edge of wild, but she was also calculated. She never lost control. She managed madness like an ER doctor, knowing which screams mattered and which could wait. At least that was the Clarke Lexa had known. But now the madness was taking over. She swayed with the nonsense of her words, even as her feet kept carrying her back and forth, back and forth. They wouldn’t keep her up much longer.

Lexa swallowed, longing for the anger that had now fallen away. It had anchored her. It had made being in jail tolerable. It had given this terrible day meaning. It had made looking at Clarke tolerable. She was familiar with anger—knew how to stoke it like a well-tended fire that would burn hot but not too big.

A fire she could manage. She didn’t know what to do with fear. And Clarke was scaring her. 

Clarke’s legs finally gave out. She fell hard, her knees crunching onto the cement floor. 

Instinctively, Lexa darted to the floor beside her. She gathered Clarke in her arms. She was burning up. At first, she was dead weight against her, but she slowly lifted herself up as if waking up.

“Clarke?” Lexa whispered.

“Lexa?” It took a few moments for some life to come back into her blue eyes. They steadied, tired but focused. “What are you doing here?”

“Inmate 67348!” A man’s voice echoed through the cell. 

Lexa looked down at the stick-on badge they had given her. 67360. Not her. She looked down at Clarke’s. Not her either.

The fidgety woman seemed to be asleep in the corner. 

The guard shouted this time. “Inmate 67348!”

The fidgety woman shuddered and blinked her eyes open.

“Do you want out of here or what?” The guard didn’t lower the volume. “You made bail. Let’s go.”

The woman looked so pale that Lexa was almost worried about her. But she wasn’t her problem anymore. She shuffled out of the cell, and the cell door slid closed with a crash. 

It was just the two of them now.

“Lexa,” Clarke’s eyes drooped. “Where are we?”

Lexa squinted at her. “Do you not remember?”

“Remember what?”

Lexa let out a long breath as she finally realized what was happening. Memory loss. Fever. She swallowed.

“We’re in jail, Clarke.”

“What? Why?” Clarke’s eyes closed and her head tilted against Lexa.

“No, no, no, Clarke.” Lexa shook her. “Wake up. You need to stay awake.”

Clarke lifted her head, blinking her eyes like she’d had a little too much tequila. 

“Let’s go sit on the cot.” Lexa stood and helped Clarke to her feet. They shuffled to the cot. Lexa rested her back against the wall and propped Clarke into a sitting position. 

“Why are we in jail, Lexa?” Clarke’s voice was quiet like a child’s.

“We were at a protest.”

“You got arrested with me?” Clarke's smile was drunken, gleeful, and exhausted. For a moment, Lexa saw what she must have looked like as a child when she was begging to stay up with her parents even as she was asleep on her feet.

“Sort of.” Lexa sighed. It wasn’t worth getting into.

“I’m glad you’re here.” Clarke rested her head on Lexa’s shoulder. “I thought you didn’t like me anymore.” Her eyelids fell again.

“Stay with me, Clarke.” 

“I’m here.” Clarke’s voice was sweet and quiet. “I still like you, you know. I mean, love you. Always have. There’ve been others since, obviously, but...not like you.” Clarke fell quiet for a long time. 

Lexa swallowed and closed her eyes for a few moments. Her heart started pounding in her chest. She felt like she was hearing a secret she shouldn’t be hearing, but she wanted to hear more. She took a few deep breaths, bit her lip, then finally shook her head.

“Clarke, wake up.” She put her arm around Clarke’s shoulders and pulled her towards her. “Tell me the last thing you remember.”

Lexa spent the next two hours nudging Clarke awake when she faded and asking her things. Recent things. Factual things. When Clarke hazily asked her if she remembered that day in her office when the coronavirus hit, Lexa steered her back towards the details of her activist training. 

Eventually, after several deflections, Clarke lifted her head like it weighed a hundred pounds so she could look at Lexa. “Why won’t you talk about us?”

“Because it’s not the right time.”

“Do you still love me?” She cut to the center of it, never one to give up. Her voice was quiet but clearer than it had been.

Lexa took a few breaths before turning her head and looking into Clarke’s eyes. “It’s impossible not to love you.”

“Inmate 67360!” The guard's voice rang. He looked into the cell. “You made bail. Unless you want to keep cuddling with your girlfriend.”

“She’s hurt,” Lexa said as she stood. “She needs to go to the hospital.”

“She hasn’t made bail.”

“She might have a head injury.” She narrowed her eyes at the guard.

“She hasn’t made bail,” he repeated without an ounce of feeling. “Do you want to leave?” He looked up. There was a bit of feeling in his eyes. “You can probably help her more out there.”

Lexa nodded slowly and looked back at Clarke. “Are you okay?”

Clarke’s eyes were glassy, but a tired, wistful smile crossed her face. “I think so.” Her eyes drooped again. “Lex, how’d we get here?”

Lexa sucked in her lips. She hated to leave but the guard was right. She walked to the bed and bent down so that her face was even with Clarke’s. She brushed her fingers down her cheek. 

“I have to go, Clarke.”

Clarke nodded as her eyes slowly closed.

“Clarke! You need to stay awake.” Lexa shook her shoulders. “Hey.” She put her cheek against Clarke’s and whispered into her ear. “Just for a little longer.”

“I’ll try.” Clarke raised her hand to Lexa’s face.

---

It was late into the night when Lexa was released. Eleanor was waiting in the lobby for her. She was an older woman who had made the most of a marriage into money, smart enough to wield it to her will but smooth enough that people still liked her when she did. A natural-born chairwoman of a national organization’s board. Lexa was less charming and more aggressively direct, which made them a good team.

Lexa was surprised first by how sharp the older woman looked for the end of a disastrous day and then by the positively giddy smile on her face. Eleanor seemed to notice and evened out her features.

“Are you okay?” she asked like she was supposed to.

“What is going on?” Lexa was more interested in why Eleanor was so being so weird.

The smile splashed across Eleanor’s face again. “Everyone has seen the video, Lexa. It caught fire on twitter and then CNN picked it up and then all the rest. I’ve been fielding interviews all night.”

“What video?”

“Videos, actually. Dozens of them. From the protest. Everyone saw those goons take down that blonde woman.” Eleanor led her outside towards a waiting car. “It looked bad. Do you think that woman is alright? I mean, she shouldn’t have been there in the first place, but….Don’t you know her?”

Lexa bit her lip. “Yeah.”

Eleanor gushed past her. “Lexa, they want to talk to us.”

“Who?”

“Exxon Mobil’s people.”

“Why?”

“I don’t think you understand how bad the videos look.”

“Of Clarke getting hurt?”

“Is that her name?”

“Why do they want to talk to us? It was Clarke who...” Lexa trailed off.

Eleanor shook her head as she opened the car door. “It was their people who threw the teargas into the crowd, too. They were off their property. They shouldn’t have been there. They need to clean this up. And there’s no way they’re going to work with that group of radicals.” Eleanor spit the word out like it tasted bad. “We’re the real players here, Lexa. They want to set up a meeting tomorrow. And the senators said they would reschedule for tomorrow or the next day, so that’s still on the table—”

“But what about Clarke?” Lexa rubbed her eyes. She was exhausted.

“I’m sure her people are taking care of her.”

“But you don’t know?” Lexa looked back towards the station. “You haven’t talked to them?”

“Why would I call them?” Eleanor’s eyes were angry. “They ruined everything today with their ridiculous chains and human barriers.”

“That’s not what you just told me.” Lexa tilted her head.

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t think I do, Eleanor.” Lexa’s voice was sharper than it should have been with her chairwoman. “Because if I recall, Exxon Mobil’s people had no interest in talking to us before all this. It seems to me that if Clarke hadn’t been attacked—”

“—To be fair, Extinction Rebellion was asking for it—”

“—If she hadn’t been attacked,” Lexa interrupted the interruption, “there would be no seat for us at their table. Is that true?”

Eleanor sighed.

“Listen, Eleanor.” Lexa took a deep breath. “We’ll take the meetings, okay? I promise. But we need to take care of Clarke. She was in that cell with me, and she’s not okay. It’s the right thing to do. Even if you disagree, it would still be good optics. OCA taking care of the environmentalist who was attacked.” She looked up at her with tired, soft eyes. “We need to be on the same side.”

Eleanor studied Lexa for a long moment. Finally, she nodded, a small, curious smile tugging gently at the corner of her lips. “I’ll call the lawyer.”

---

When Clarke was released, she came out hanging onto a guard’s arm. She could barely stay on her feet. Her face was pale and shimmering. Lexa rushed over and propped her up, guiding her slowly out of the building to the car where Eleanor was waiting in the front seat.

“Oh my God.” She brought her hand to her mouth when she saw Clarke’s dazed face. 

“We need to get her to the hospital.” Lexa strapped Clarke in and slid into the backseat next to her. “You still with us, Clarke?”

Clarke nodded distantly.

“Just a little longer,” Lexa whispered, her voice no longer able to hide her deep worry.

Eleanor’s head swivelled at Lexa’s tone. She saw Lexa wrap her arm around Clarke, pulling her towards her. She saw Clarke rest her head on Lexa’s shoulder and Lexa close her eyes as she reached for Clarke’s hand. She had never seen her this soft.

Eleanor smiled quietly to herself and turned her eyes back to the front.

“Hey,” Lexa whispered again. “Stay awake. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

“I know.” Clarke’s voice was so faint. She fell silent for a few long moments. “Hey, Lex?” she finally asked.

“Yeah?”

“Maybe we can try again.”

Clarke didn’t see the tiny smile creep across Lexa’s face, but she heard it in her voice. 

“We’ll see.”

[manggojooz]

Pick A Side (Part 4)

pairing: Taehyung x reader

word count: 2,050 approx

genre: university!au; angst; romance; slice of life stuff

warnings: none

previous part: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

comment: sorry this took long, I hope it’s not too shabby.. sending thanks to every one who gave me support for this series! 

taglist:  @destiel1597 @mila271 @hopetookmysoul @ximaginx @honeyursosweet 

You had swapped your photograph on the photo wall to a new one – a shattered window in the night, the street lights filtering through in wildly refracted ways. In fact, it was just one of the broken windows on the first floor of the school dorms, but through the viewfinder, it looked wry and distorted. An entire week passed, and then there was a post-it stuck to the corner of your photograph again:  

“A sound of something breaking I awake from sleep A sound full of unfamiliarity Try to cover my ears but can’t go to sleep”

The words dug deep into you, especially after what happened a few days ago.  

---

That lesson came and went again. The professor had instructed Hyesoo to split the class into groups for the next assignment. At the end of the class, you waited for Haejoong to submit the assignment to Hyesoo together; it was a convenient enough excuse to not face her alone. The two of you were one of the last to go to her.  

“Haejoong, seems like you are close to Y/N in class, I’ll put you in the same group as her then”, Hyesoo smiled charismatically at him, as she took in Haejoong’s report.  

“And Y/N...”, she smirks again, “I think you will enjoy your project very much, you should really thank me for grouping the both of you together with Taehyung and Jihyun, since you guys hang out all the time.”  

It was not surprising but still irritating that she would abuse her power as the teaching assistant in this way and your expression must have been a tad too obvious.  

“What’s with the face? Didn’t you always like being in the same group as Taehyung. I was still hoping to receive a ‘thank you’ for helping you with this”, she scorned.  

You knew what she was hinting at, and you couldn’t believe her childishness for being still hung up over something that happened more than a year ago. This is a fight you can never win. But the considerate guy standing next to you was not prepared to let it slide. “Do you want to swap with someone?”, Haejoong asked you, while Hyesoo side-eyed him in anticipation, waiting for him to challenge her directly.  

“Y/N...”, Jihyun’s voice came out of nowhere. She walked over, Taehyung trailing behind her, “... don’t ask to swap groups please.”  

There was a serious urge to roll your eyes at her feeble demand but Jihyun continued talking, “You don’t want to hear our explanations, that’s fine, we won’t force you to. But you just stopped talking to us, left the painting club and now you want to swap out of the project group because of us? I don’t want people to think that we are...  

“That you are what?”, you squinted a little, taunting her to complete her statement.

“That you know... we are...”, Jihyun was dragging out her words, perhaps reluctant to say it herself.  

“Why do you keep saying ‘we’? Does Taehyung share the same sentiments?”, it was even refreshing to yourself, that you were able to say such things now that you were no longer afraid of being branded as the petty other half.  

Jihyun could only wonder why Taehyung had no response, did he not hear you, did he not want to support her? She always thought that Taehyung will take her side but what’s with him now?  

There probably isn’t another situation more complicated and full-circle than this.  

Haejoong glared at Hyesoo, annoyed that she is taking advantage of her position as the TA; Hyesoo sneers at you, just because she never liked you in the first place; you looked at Jihyun in confusion, wondering if there was a sliver of yourself that you saw in her, now that she is assuming the role of the ‘petty’ girlfriend; Jihyun in turn glowers at Taehyung, finding it increasingly difficult to swallow his lack of support for her yet again; and Taehyung, just trying his best to pierce Haejoong’s face with his stare, bothered by his constant presence next to you.  

---

Jihyun stormed down the sidewalk leading to the hostels, Taehyung followed half-heartedly behind her.  

“Kim Taehyung!”, she suddenly stopped and spun around, shouting at him. “Why are we even together when you keep doing this?”  

“Doing what?”, he raised his voice a bit too.  

“Why do you always just say nothing when I... You know what? I'm just gonna get straight to the point, if we are together, you should be siding with me! Stop acting like a freaking diplomat. Yes I know you are a very social person and you don’t like to offend anybody but you can’t keep doing this!”, she lamented.  

“I have always been like this, you know I hate picking sides! You were fine with it before. Why are you so worked up about it now?”, this just felt somewhat of a déjà vu to Taehyung.  

“I was fine with it because I wasn’t your girlfriend at that time!”, Jihyun spat.  

He was suddenly floored and had no words as he processed hers. He has to admit, when you blew up a fuss about him not taking your side, he thought you were just being petty. After you broke up with him over it, he thought the rumours held water and that you were jealous of Jihyun. But... what’s with Jihyun now... why is she acting this way too?

“Taehyung-ah, you had difficulty siding your girlfriend against me, your best friend, that’s normal... but now I’m your girlfriend, she’s your ex... what is so difficult? Why can’t you just take my side?”, she was almost pleading at this point.  

Yes. Why couldn’t he? Wasn’t that the plan?

---

In the days after you broke up with him, Taehyung had been somewhat lost. The two of you hadn’t been dating for that long and he wasn’t one to pine over a lost relationship, but there was just a dent left in him. Something was just not right.  

Was it the abruptness of it all? Or perhaps, the lack of a reasonable explanation as to why it had to be this way? His mind was in such a mess. He wanted to call you, but no he shouldn’t, because he never u-turns in relationships, but he really wants to talk to you. And there it was again, that indecipherable noise in his head, was it even a sound?

Someone near him must have been talking to him this whole time but all he heard was just vague mumbling, until he suddenly snapped out of his daze when he felt a sharp pain on his right arm.

“Were you even listening to me?”, an exasperated Jihyun exclaimed, right after she had pinched him hard since her attempts at using words were not working.  

“Huh?”, Taehyung obviously did not catch anything she had said.  

The two of them were the only ones left sitting in the empty cinema. Jihyun had asked him to watch this movie with her, thinking it would help to lift his mood, after all it was a comedy.  

“I asked if you are hungry...”, Jihyun repeated, leaving out the bulk of the conversation that she knew he did not hear.  

“Yeah, sure”, he replied soullessly.  

“Yeah sure?”, she turns to look at him in disbelief, what kind of response was that?  

“Eo?”, he was still not fully there with her. It made her even more exasperated, she has never seen him so affected by anyone.  

“Kim Taehyung, get over it. It's just another break up...”, she suddenly asserted.

“What?”, Taehyung turns sharply to look at her, but she was staring ahead at the blank screen.  

“I said get over it... it’s just another break up...”, how many times exactly does she have to repeat everything she said for him to register it?  

“I’m trying, if you can’t tell... I'm trying to but -”, his words were fragmented, just like his thoughts.  

She exhaled a tiny puff of air, resolving that this is probably time for her to take that step she always contemplated, “If you need a distraction, or I guess, if you need a rebound, I’ll do it...”

His dazed eyes started coming back into focus, as he observes her side profile, slowly taking in what she was suggesting.  

She squeezes her eyes shut for a few seconds, then turns to look him at him with some form conviction, leaning in to kiss him lightly on his lips. There was a weird situation where a thousand things went through his mind yet there was no one thought that could actually be crystallised. His best friend just kissed him – that is a line either you choose to cross or choose to walk away from forever.  

He did nothing as he waited for the confusion to wear out, the two of them just looking at each other, inches apart, waiting for the other to make the next move. If that was the game, Jihyun must have lost. She could not outlast the indecisive idiot who always made her impatient.  

“Since you can’t decide, I'll make the call. Let's try it... this dating thing. Don’t they always say that it is a blessing if your significant other is also your best friend? We are already best friends, so let’s try this significant other thing then. I’ve always wondered what it will be like if we dated each other.”

That was one way to sell it. And it was probably the easiest way for Taehyung to buy it. Right, if his best friend was also his girlfriend then it should solve the problem. There would only be one side to take, right?  

---

Perception is often relative to position; just like how the angle of a camera can change how a subject appears in the photograph.  

“Why can’t you just take my side?”, Jihyun’s words were as piercing as her voice. “I am now your girlfriend, what do you think the other people will think if you remained neutral like that?”, Jihyun demanded a response from him again, as they stood on the gravel pavement.

“What would the other people think? Shouldn’t everyone just come to their own conclusions anyway?”, Taehyung retorted.  

“No! They will take it that I have lost... do you not see it?”, she was exasperated by now.  

A frown appears across his face. 

“So you are saying that... if I didn’t take your side... then you have lost... because we are together?”, he was trying to keep up with the logical chain. “Wait, was that what you thought all the while... when I was together with Y/N? When... when I didn’t take her side against you? Did you think that you... won?”, Taehyung’s mind was quivering to wrap around the revelation.  

“Wasn’t that the case?”, she was shocked that he never knew the kind of signals he was sending.

Only Jihyun could have made him see it. Because she reveled in victory while he took the middle high ground when she was his best friend, yet now, in this moment, she is defeated, because she couldn’t get from Taehyung the same thing that you had always yearned from him. What changed? The only difference is her position – she is now his girlfriend.

Your words came into his mind. “But sometimes, when you choose not to pick a side, you have essentially picked a side.”

It gradually shattered; the belief that if he picked no side, he will hurt no one. It was foreign to him; the recognition that he must have hurt you with what he did, or more accurately, didn’t do. He finally deciphers those unsettling noises he senses every now and then; it was his heart quibbling that something went wrong between him and you, and it was the voices of regret within him. 

“Jihyun, I’m sorry... I think... I think I must have made a mistake...”, he mutters, his voice husky and low in its usual way but with more resemblance to his mood.

“About what?”, she was the one frowning now.  

He looked straight into her resentful eyes. He was sorry to her, this was his fault. But this time he knew, he was going to hurt her, and it will be his choice to bear.

“About us”, he whispered, forlornly, finally. 

[tipsycad147]

Ancient Ancestry: 7 Clan Mothers of Europe, Tara, & Mitochondrial DNA

Our ancestors have a wealth of knowledge to teach us, if we only listen. In modern times, many people have no idea who their immediate ancestors were much less a whisper of their ancient ancestry. But technology has provided us with some very useful tools to dig into our ancestral past – DNA kits and family trees. In this article, I specifically talk about maternal haplogroups and mitochondria, the maternal haplogroup T (the clan of Tara), the Seven Daughters of Eve (Clan Mothers) and how to call upon our ancient maternal ancestors.

DISCLOSURE: I may earn a small commission for my endorsement, recommendation, testimonial, and/or link to any products or services from this website. Your purchase helps support my work in bringing you information about the paranormal and paganism.

What is a Maternal Haplogroup?

DNA can be rather confusing when you really start digging into it. Trust me. I know from experience. However, a recent book has helped me understand genetics a bit further (though I am still no expert). So what is a maternal haplogroup? A maternal haplogroup is a specific gene found in the mitochondria of your cells. Mitochondria are small particles swimming around in your cell outside of the nucleus that is only passed to you through your mother. Your mother’s mother passed it to her, and her mother’s mother’s mother, and so on. It can only be passed through women to their children. So, over thousands of years, mitochondrial DNA has been passed through maternal lines and still exist in us today. With new technology and extensive research done by Brian Sykes, Professor of Human Genetics of the University of Oxford, seven European maternal haplogroup DNA chains have been developed that connect us to our ancient clan mothers from Europe.

The Seven Daughters of Eve & European Ancient Ancestry

Recently I read an article written by Becca Piastrelli about how she found her 20,000 year old grandmother. It inspired me to look into my ancient ancestry and to read Brian Sykes’ work. Brian Sykes has traveled the world taking samples from live human beings and comparing to the dead for decades. His research is extensive and can be read in detail in his book The Seven Daughters of Eve: The Science that Reveals Our Genetic Ancestry. Let’s further expand on the 7 ancient European clans from Europe. Sykes has traced modern day European descendants via their mitochondrial DNA back to 7 women who lived in Europe circa ten thousand to forty five thousand years ago. Sykes based his “clan mother” names on the DNA Haplogroup letters, as well as the potential origins and region of each clan mother.

From Becca’s blog post: “Here’s a cool fact: Your mtDNA assists your cells in using oxygen. So every time you breathe, you are using the mtDNA of your clan mother.” WOW! Let that sink in.

The Seven Clan Mothers of Europe are:

Helena (Haplogroup H), Jasmine (J), Katrine (K), Tara (T), Ursula (U), Velda (V), and Xenia (X)

In his book, Sykes describes the settings and briefly develops the characters of each clan mother. This portion of his scholarly work was met with resistance, but in my opinion helped me to envision what my clan mother Tara might have actually looked like and how she experienced life in prehistoric times. It can do the same for you.

How to Find Out Your Maternal Haplogroup

To find out what maternal haplogroup you hail from, you have to do a DNA test. I know there’s a lot of controversy surrounding DNA tests and DNA overall, and I don’t know how to completely ease your fears because I am confused too. Some people say the DNA companies use your DNA to sell to medical insurance groups. I don’t know this to be true. I cannot find any real sources to confirm this. That being said, when I did my DNA through 23andMe, I opted out of the health DNA analysis. Choose whatever you’d like, but the ONLY DNA test revealing your maternal haplogroup (besides Oxford University) is 23andMe. I recommend getting your DNA done through 23andMe to determine your maternal haplogroup and therefore determining your “clan mother” from Europe. Once you’ve found your maternal haplogroup letter (H, J, K, etc), re-visit this article to compare your results to the the Seven Daughters of Eve (European clan mothers) to determine who your clan mother is.

Clan Mother Tara’s Widespread Children (AKA Maternal Haplogroup T)

I discovered through my 23andMe DNA test that I am maternal haplogroup T, which means my clan mother (according to Sykes) was Tara. Tara is thought to have lived in the prehistoric area of Northern Italy, at the end of the last Ice Age. Sykes paints a picture of clan mother Tara and her tribe being close to the coastline, fishing and eating marine animals, as well as living in the evergreen forests which most likely covered the land during this period of time. She and her tribe hunted game and fish and gathered herbs and fruits to survive. Eventually, the Clan of Tara migrated along the southern coastline of Europe up along the western coastline and made their way to the British Isles. Sykes named the mother of maternal haplogroup T – Tara, which is Gaelic for “Hill”. The Celts were known for their red-haired people, of which is a proven trait of the maternal haplogroup T descendants. I am inclined to assume many of the ancient Celts carried Tara’s genes.

Further East from the British Isles, the Udmurt people in Russia are commonly known for their red hair and freckles and have one of the highest percentages of haplogroup T in the world. There’s also a large percentage of T in Egypt and Eastern Europe (in addition to the British Isles). In my humble opinion, this is all evidence to support the fact that ancient peoples travelled quite a bit. They moved from one place to another, settling at different spots along the way. While maternal haplogroup T only makes up about ten percent of the total European descendant population, it is widespread throughout the world, including in some Native Americans today. Probably the most famous of people in the maternal haplogroup T is Nicholas II, Last Czar of Russia. If you are in the maternal haplogroup T, he would have been a far cousin of yours and mine!

Calling on Ancient Ancestors & Clan Mothers

In an upcoming post, I will lay out an entire ancient ancestry ritual to call upon your clan mother under the full moon. But for now – how do we call on ancient ancestors? How do we call upon our clan mothers of ancient times? I recommend lighting a red candle (red for bloodline – you have your clan mother’s blood in your veins), lighting some incense, and saying a simple prayer to your clan mother. Talk to her like she’s a real person, because she was a real person once. And she’s still alive in you. Let her know you come to her as her child and ask for her maternal protection and love. Come walk this path of ancient ancestry with me!

otherworldlyoracle.com/ancient-ancestry-maternal-haplogroups-clan-mothers/

[its-lifestyle]

Teenager Anis Humairah Riduwan left school when she was 15, but she has not stopped learning.

From her home in Lubok Merbau, a village not far from Kuala Kangsar, Perak, the 18-year-old has become the face of her family’s business on social media.

Anis helps to market the telekung (prayer shawls) that she and her mother sew, on Facebook and Instagram by posting their new products and engaging with their audience.

But Anis’ mother, Roziah Mohd Raziki, is most proud that her daughter is also a skilled tailor – she can measure, cut and sew baju kurung, telekung and skirts. Anis is also good at needlework, especially in embroidery, applique and knitting.

She has certainly come a long way since being diagnosed with learning and hearing disabilities at the age of 10. Until then, Roziah had assumed her daughter didn’t do well in school because she was a daydreamer and a late bloomer.

Anis’ diagnosis galvanised Roziah into taking a different approach in bringing her up. She took her daughter’s challenges in her stride, and decided to make the most of the resources available to her family.

When Anis was 13, Roziah – who is a tailor – decided she would teach her daughter how to sew because it’s what she knows best.

“Anis needs an essential skill set that can help her earn a living. I am a seamstress so I felt it was a good idea to pass down this skill to my special needs child,” says 43-year-old Roziah who encouraged her daughter to complete a two-year creative sewing certification course at SM Pendidikan Khas Vokasional Merbok in Bedong, Kedah, after Form Three.

Also read: 4 organisations that offer job opportunities for the disabled

Roziah (right) has been a pillar of strength for Anis, who has hearing and learning disabiltiies

The path that Roziah helped to chart for Anis has led her to discover and develop her aptitude for needlework.

Anis’ talent was recognised when she won in the embroidery category at the Abilympics Malaysia competition this year, and she will represent the country at the International Abilympics competition in Moscow next year. It is an international skills-based competition for Persons with Disabilities (PWDs). She is among 15 people with disabilities from Malaysia vying for gold at the the event, in 15 of the 30 categories, including floral arrangement, painting, embroidery, cooking and photography.

“Words cannot describe how happy I am. I never dreamed of representing Malaysia in any competition, especially with my disabilities. I thank my parents for all their support,” says Anis, who uses a hearing device but has no speech issues. She is articulate although a little shy.

To win the embroidery competition, Anis will have to beat the others in terms of speed, creativity and technical knowledge.

Anis will be representing the country at the International Abilympics competition in Moscow next year.

Anis is working hard to prepare for the competition, travelling to KL regularly for week-long embroidery training with UiTM fashion lecturer Dr Rose Dahlina Rusli since early this year. She is teaching Anis various embroidery techniques including chain stitch, satin stitch, French knot and Lazy Daisy. Dr Rose hopes to improve her speed and give her a bigger repertoire of skills.

“She’s a fast learner. She’s very capable and talented. Her skills are really good. It proves that a person’s disability should never be viewed as an obstacle to strive for greater things,” says Rose.

Anis was diagnosed as a slow learner and had never done well academically, but she has persevered and done well in needlework.

Roziah accompanies her daughter when she goes for her training as Anis is still not fully independent yet.

Building a future Training for a gold Abilympic medal is important, but her mother has a bigger dream for her. Ultimately Roziah wants Anis to be able to use her sewing skills to attain self-reliance, and that means being able to earn her own income.

“My aim is to equip Anis with a skill to be independent and take care of herself when my husband and I are older,” says Roziah, whose biggest worry about her special needs child is her future. She has three other children.

There are many programmes for children with special needs but there is a gap in job training for disabled young adults. Those living in bigger cities might have the opportunity to undergo vocational training or participate in job programmes. But opportunities like these are few and far between in rural areas.

“Anis is a fast learner. Even though Anis is a disabled person, her skills are really good,” says Dr Rose (right).

Instead of despairing, Roziah did not only start teaching Anis sewing but she is now actively involving her daughter in her home-based telekung business, which she set up seven years ago.

The business is called Telekung Hannani, named after Roziah’s fifth child who died in 2012 due to heart complications.

“I’ve always liked to sew. From young, I used to help Ibu thread the needle and sew buttons. I’m happy Ibu has given me the opportunity to help out with the business,” says Anis, who appreciates her far-sighted mother’s faith in her.

“I am thankful for Ibu’s guidance. Because I can sew, I can eventually get a job doing beadwork at a bridal shop in Kuala Kangsar,” adds Anis, who of course harbours dreams of being independent.

Anis is happy to model her telekung creations on facebook and instagram.

However, Anis is happy to model her telekung creations on facebook and instagram.her mother has reservations because she is all too aware of Anis’ vulnerability.

“Even if Anis gets a job, she can’t earn much. I’m afraid she might be bullied and have to work long hours. She has problems with balance too. What if she tripped and lost consciousness on the streets of Kuala Kangsar? For now, I can’t allow her to work anywhere far from home.”

For now, Roziah believes it is best and safest for Anis to work with her at home.

“At home, I can look after Anis and provide her with a job. Anis needs to learn that running any business isn’t easy. Thankfully, she’s a good student. She never complains and is always willing to learn, despite my constant nagging and fussing,” says the businesswoman who makes and sells cotton and polyester telekung.

The 4m prayer pieces come in four designs: classic, with lace trimmings, mini (for children) and with zippered pockets. Items are priced between RM68 and RM95.

On average, they sell anything from 40 to 60 telekung a month. Business is brisk, with high demand especially for their telekung with zipped pockets to keep mobile phones and other small items. Mother and daughter work seven days a week, between eight and 12 hours a day, depending on the amount of orders for their products.

“Sure, we enjoy our work but the hours can be long and tiring. Ibu and I joke and share stories while completing orders. I accept whatever Ibu pays me, which is about RM1,000 a month, that I keep in my savings account,” says Anis, who is also happy to be the face of their telekung business.

“These are our creations, so I am proud to wear them. So far, our telekung pieces are purchased by women who are going to perform their umrah or hajj. Hopefully, we can reach a bigger target audience via online sales,” Anis explains.

People with disabilities can be trained to hone their skills in areas such as embroidery and sewing.

Roziah is pleased with Anis’ dedication and determination.

With a grin, Anis says: “Ibu is a strict teacher. Even though she scolds me, I know it’s for my own good.”

Roziah has noticed that her daughter’s confidence has grown in leaps and bounds as she becomes more involved in running their business.

“She is very committed and hardworking. These days, she isn’t shy to interact with customers and promote our telekung at bazaars,” says Roziah proudly.

Anis recognises that she is doing well because her mother believes in her and refuses to give up on her even though she was diagnosed as disabled.

“I wouldn’t be where I am without my mother’s support. My parents have always been my pillar of strength. They have encouraged me to be the best in everything. My advice to other disabled people is to never feel shy about your limitations. Strive for greater things in life,” concludes Anis.

from Family – Star2.com https://ift.tt/2IlfoEg

[itsworn]

The Time is NOW to Get Kids Into Cars!

In the January 2018 issue, the editor’s column and a story inside the magazine introduced readers to young Frankie Waters and her passion for her 1967 Mustang fastback project. That story and column elicited more comments than we’ve gotten in quite some time, showing that it hit a real nerve about saving our automotive hobby and industry by getting young people off their cell phones, out in the garage, and interested in cars and, hopefully, Mustangs.

This month’s cover story is on the Rebuilding Generations program that does just that—gets kids working with adults to build cars while teaching the generations about each other. Kids and adults alike learn new things through the program under the guise of mentorship, and great cars come out of it as well. It’s a real win-win. This story is meant to show more real-world examples of young people and their passion for Mustangs using their own words and pictures. We started it off with the story of Timothy Baba and his two daughters as they restored a Mach 1 (which you may have seen on Mustang-360.com back in December).

Papa’s Race Car J.M. McLain, from Lake Elsinore, California, wrote in to tell us about his grandson, who already has the Mustang bug. He said, “Our grandson, Jacob, has been a Mustang enthusiast since he was a toddler. He would go out to the garage with Papa and work on Papa’s ‘race car.’ The ‘race car’ is really a 1965 fastback that has been on the project list for over 20 years after the framerail ended up in the trunk compartment. It’s a work in progress but holds a special place in our grandson’s heart and mind.”

Jacob doesn’t live very close to his grandparents anymore, but his grandfather said, “He still remembers working on ‘Papa’s race car.’ He visited us a few months ago and he was out in the garage ready to work on the Mustang with his grandpa. He is eight years old now and is anxious to learn more about Mustangs and cars in general. He and grandpa decided it would be cool to get the car running so they could hear it rumble. Jacob was grinning from ear to ear. Because of his great love of Mustangs, we ordered him his very own subscription to Mustang Monthly so he and grandpa can look at it together across the physical miles that separate them now. He also learned how to change a tire. Grandpa taught him how to remove the lug nuts, jack the car up, use jackstands and place the tire under the car for safety, rotate the tires properly, and tighten the lug nuts in the star pattern. It gives his grandpa great pleasure that the disappearing desire for working on muscle cars is still strong in Jacob.”

Making Memories Together Joey Burkman read the Hoofbeats column on HotRod.com and wrote to say, “It had me reflecting back on so many memories from my youth, building cars and friendships. Late nights in the garage with buddies firing up the latest engine build at 2:00 in the morning to break in the engine…no, the neighbors weren’t very appreciative of that, to say the least.

“The reason for my email is to talk about my son Logan who turned 16 this past June. He currently has his learner’s permit and he is very enthusiastic about cars. He purchased his first car over this past summer from the money he saved from his part-time job, a 1991 Mustang GT. We’re no strangers to Mustangs here as I’ve owned several over the years. He currently has it in the garage ready to pull the engine to deal with the oil leaks, and the plan is to swap out the AOD for a manual. While it’s up we’ll also address the almost 30-year-old suspension. The car sat for a number of years, the paint is faded—quite badly actually—but the interior is very clean and the ashtray door works! It’s hard to believe looking at it from the outside that it only has 86,000 miles on it. We continue to source parts for it and have hit a few swap meets, which has been a huge help. The memories we’re making and the time we’re spending together on his car are priceless. I hope that one day when he has his own son he’ll look back and remember all the great times we’ve shared.”

Mechanically Inclined Kids Are Still Around, and I’m the Proud Parent of One! Linda Cocce of Wayland, Massachusetts, says:

“My son John became fascinated with my ’64½ Mustang at a young age. He would have slept in it if allowed. To keep him happy I made him a Mustang bedroom with a custom rug, comforter, curtains with radio knob ties, and later he added Chip Foose signed Mustang emblems to the wall. He read everything he could about Mustangs, especially Mustang Monthly.

“If the Mustang was going in for service he was there trying to help. He was like a sponge—he wanted to know how everything worked; luckily, we had a very patient mechanic who would take the time to explain things to him. This just piqued his interest even more.

“He never had an X-box, computer games, or was allowed to watch TV during the day, so for fun he played outside with friends or used his tools to fix something. His fascination with motors continued, and soon other people’s discarded machines filled the garage. He would take them apart to see how they worked and make a new contraption out of the parts. By age 15 he started his own lawn care business. When his machines broke down, he’d fix them himself. This led to John repairing broken go-karts, mowers, chain saws, etc. for people in our town.

“He is 21 now, studying to be a mechanical engineer. During his summers, he works in his landscape business, fixes machines, and works as a mechanic in a garage. The first thing he packs when heading off to college in the fall are his tools!”

Johnny and the “very patient” mechanic Tom Morrell (from Butch & Son Automotive in Sudbury, MA) in the garage.

Installing carpet at a young age.

Helping a friend work on their car.

How cool would it be to wear a Mustang shirt in a Ferrari museum?

A Ford Family Through and Through The Hamilton Family lives in Eastern Oregon and are dyed-in-the-wool Ford people, with all the kids into building their own Fords, including a few Mustangs and Mavericks. The family patriarch Marvin wrote, “I was glad to see other families doing what we have been doing for years. I have five children (four daughters and one son) and all have received an old Ford at the age of 13 and began the process of tearing down and rebuilding on their own car. We have three Mustangs (a ’67, ’72 and ’73), two Mavericks (’75 and ’72 Grabber), and a 1967 F100 Stepside truck. My son Marvin is the second to oldest and he has been there for every car from day one. He has an amazing thirst for knowledge and a big heart. My daughters Cassie, Neali’i, Nive, Teelay, and Lani have also had the thrill of their first car and the pain of busting their knuckles on a flywheel (that is how you learn). I have been blessed to see how they have taken what they have been taught and use it to diagnose and repair an engine problem. I have also gotten my wife, Tile (pronounced “TEE lay”), into the game. The kids and I pulled together and built her a beautiful 1997 convertible with three-stage paint, and I had her in the 100-plus summer heat swapping out the top.”

“We are Hawaiian and Samoan; we do great BBQ and have fun with cars. We attend an awesome church where there are members with more Ford parts stored in their houses and out buildings than in Detroit, and our pastor always works his ’65 Mustang into the sermon one way or another. We are all about trade at the church and I have traded paintwork, beef jerky, BBQ (I make the best), and child labor for parts. If my kids need a part or something they want but don’t have they look to them for trade and go work for the part or the help fixing it. Not only do they learn the love of cars they learn community and the value of ‘trade’ (trade is a lost art). So many memories to share with my wife and kids and their cars.”

The Hamilton Family

The oldest daughter Cassie found her 1973 Mustang on a Facebook posting. Her dad said, “She sold her VW bug (that we built together) in a week and prayed the car was still for sale. We got it home and cleaned up and color-matched the copper to the repaired fenders. Then on her graduation day my son smashed into her car with his Maverick and mashed the passenger door and fender. My daughter went on a mission to Samoa after graduation and my son promised to have the repairs done before she came back. While pulling the fender and doing repairs my son asked, ‘Do we have the stuff to paint the whole car? We can do a full color change!’ That boy spent the next week and a half in 100-plus degree temps sanding and pulling dents and fixing old problems along the way. One picture you see him throwing down the black 2K. We shot the car in the garage and you can see it and my ’72 in gray. She is 22 now and has an Explorer after selling her ’73, which she totally regrets now.”

The kids and their Mavericks. The Hamilton’s house has “been the demise of many Granadas, Monarchs, and four-door Mavericks” used as parts cars. All cars have had Granada disc brake upgrades and were converted from a four-bolt lug drum to a five-bolt disc and matching rearend.

Keali’i is now 16 but got her car at 13. Her proud papa said, “She loves rolling up at her high school with that orange one-of-a-kind ’72 Grabber that she put a lot of blood, sweat, and tears into (she is an Oregon Beavers fan, so now you get the colors).

Nive (age 14) is in the initial stages of her 1967 F100 build (she had to be different). She has the bed off of it and is using the garage and winter to set herself up great for spring. Dad said, “We have a set of old school turbines that are going to be powdercoated crimson red and it will be a flat black with crimson red scallops. She made that call and I am all good with it.”

Lastly you see a 1987 GT and a 1967 hardtop. Dad said, “My children and I spent several years building that ’87 for the wife and gave it to her on her birthday. She drove it a year, then one day at church one of our church members showed up in a ’66 coupe and that was it. She wanted a classic. Now I am about to start with her car.”

The Longest Summer of All Time Tommy Ratatsidis has been into cars his entire life, saying it started when he was a toddler, “My friends call me obsessed. I think it’s in my blood. My mom and dad bought a brand-new 1988 LX hatch when they got married, and when I was 3-4 years old my dad would street race his 1978 Cobra and my mom would take me to watch him race his LX. My dad always had Mustangs growing up.”

Dad’s stable included the ’78 Cobra, as well as a 1971 Boss 351 clone, a ’78 King Cobra, a ’73 Mach 1, an ’88 coupe, “and many in between.” When Tommy was 15, he worked at a car wash for the summer and saved everything he could to find a project car. He said, “I had my heart set on a 1969 SportsRoof. I would have settled for a shell, then work from there. Every week the Auto Trader would come to the shop and I would go through it on my break and the prices for first-generation Mustangs were starting to climb and climb and the cars were junk—rotten garbage cars for too much money. Then one day I was skimming through the pages and found an ad for an original-owner 1978 that ‘had to be seen’ according to the ad. I got home that day and told my dad, ‘You need to drive me to see a car!’”

With a mere $500 in his pocket and expecting to find a basket case, the car turned out to be clean and spotless with no filler and Tommy asked his dad what he thought. “He turned to me and said, ‘This is your car and your money, go make a deal.’ So [the owner and I] went to the backyard patio table and I told him I only had $500. He gave a look that said, ‘Do you know how much the car is worth?’ I told him I’d work all summer and could make $1,500 to $1,700 maximum, and he said $1,500 was enough. I offered to give him the $500 as a deposit and he said, ‘No, the car will go back in the garage with your name on it.’ We shook hands and went on our way. It was the longest summer of all time. I worked and made money and phoned him every two weeks to update him on how much more money I had. Finally at the end of August I got to go pick up the car. I couldn’t drive of course, so my dad drove it home but I couldn’t have been happier. Right away I yanked the four-cylinder drivetrain out to make room for a 351 Cleveland and automatic.”

Tommy later swapped the gas-guzzling Cleveland for a 302 and five-speed combo that he blew up street racing, so now the car has a 5.0 EFI engine from a 1989 Mustang GT and a Vortech blower. He also just added a 1978 Cobra to the stable, saying, “Now I have a newborn and wanted a project for her when she’s older, so we picked up a clean ’78 Cobra originally from Texas that had been sitting in a garage since 1983. My brother followed my footsteps and bought his first car when he was 15, a 1974 Mach 1. He’s 17 now and works incredibly hard and has a 1991 Fox coupe and a 1987 Bronco. We love our Fords; it’s in our blood.”

Tommy Ratatsidis at 17 with his first Mustang, a 1978 coupe.

The green coupe has had pretty much everything done to it and sees occasional dragstrip duty with an ’89 5.0 and a Vortech supercharger.

The Ratatsidis family. This baby girl probably already has Ford-blue blood in her!

Tommy’s brother and his LX coupe in the summer of 2017.

The Top of His Class Don Cort wrote to tell us, “My wife and I recently purchased a Mustang for our son, Donny. He then taught himself, with my help, and worked through to complete a ground-up restoration of this 1966 Mustang GT hardtop. He stripped and restored the entire car by himself. He rebuilt the 289 engine and four-speed transmission, completely stripped the body, straightened it, then painted it and then reassembled the entire car with a full detailed nut-and-bolt restoration. He worked through the entire interior (bench seat car), wiring, and suspension as well. Essentially, the 15 year-old completed the entire project himself with some guidance in a year and learned incredible skill along the way, which put him at the top of his entire school’s automotive class as a freshman/sophomore. I offer this as an example of what is possible with our younger generation if opportunities are available. The pride, knowledge, and skills he gained were incredible and I could only hope you may find it in your best interest to reflect this in your fine magazine so others may see the light and opportunities available to the younger generation which may occupy their minds with something other than a video game, a cell phone, and the rest of time-wasting devices which so many are lost in.”

Absolutely Mr. Cort!

The post The Time is NOW to Get Kids Into Cars! appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

from Hot Rod Network http://www.hotrod.com/articles/time-now-get-kids-cars/ via IFTTT

[newstfionline]

A former exec at Trader Joe’s grows another kind of grocery store

Kathy Shiels Tully, CS Monitor, June 23, 2017

BOSTON--Anyone else in his position would be sitting on a tropical beach wearing a flowery Hawaiian shirt, his toes curled in the sand. But not Doug Rauch.

Mr. Rauch worked for 31 years at Trader Joe’s, the last 14 as a president. He helped grow the small retail chain in California into a grocery store with a national presence. He retired in 2008.

But Rauch wasn’t really ready to call it quits. It took a few tries, but after a while, he started growing another food store--Daily Table, located in a low-income neighborhood of Boston.

“I failed retirement,” says Rauch, his eyes crinkling when he smiles.

Since it opened two years ago, Daily Table has been a pioneer in its approach to food waste, food deserts, hunger, and obesity. It’s a nonprofit grocery store, selling healthy food at bargain prices.

The food that Daily Table sells is excess food--either donated by various organizations or bought at steep discounts from big-name companies looking to unload items that are close to their expiration dates. The items are resold at a fraction of retail prices--and yes, they still haven’t reached their expiration dates.

Rauch came up with this model, which has been received enthusiastically by customers, after a stint as a fellow at Harvard University and through collaborations with others in the Boston area working on food issues.

“I love what Doug is doing,” says Sasha Purpura, executive director of Food for Free, a nonprofit in Cambridge, Mass., that rescues excess produce from local farmers markets and distributes it to local food pantries, as well as Daily Table.

“Here’s somebody who’s coming out of a senior role in the corporate food world with a tremendous amount of experience, connections, and intelligence,” Ms. Purpura adds, “and he’s bringing that into the nonprofit world and doing it in such a collaborative, genuine way.”

Daily Table is located on a busy corner in Dorchester, the diverse Boston neighborhood where the actors-musicians Mark and Donnie Wahlberg grew up, as well as the Queen of Disco, Donna Summer. As of a 2007-11 estimate for the Census Bureau’s American Community Survey, more than 45 percent of households in Dorchester had incomes of less than $40,000.

Daily Table looks like a Trader Joe’s. Blackboards display welcoming messages in colorful chalk, and some walls are painted in eye-popping orange and green-apple colors. Bouncy music--such as “We Are Family”--plays while shoppers stop to chat with friends.

And there’s the food--stacks of organic cereal, produce piled high on display tables, and in a refrigerated section, precooked meals and fresh salads made on-site. There are almost 60 suppliers to Daily Table, a mix of nonprofits like Food for Free and major companies that include Newman’s Own, Cedar’s Mediterranean Foods, Wegmans, and Whole Foods.

“Quality equals dignity,” Rauch says.

Daily Table accepts only food that meets its strict nutritional guidelines, particularly regarding sugar and sodium. This is the reason the store does not sell orange juice.

“You won’t find anything here that won’t move you forward,” says Rauch, adding that one woman told him she’d lost 15 pounds after shopping regularly at Daily Table.

His manager, George Chakoutis, says he and Rauch “get into it” over the self-imposed limitations every so often. “We could have so much more,” Mr. Chakoutis says. But Rauch won’t budge.

Still, each week brings new and different shipments. “Shopping here is like a treasure hunt,” Chakoutis says as a pallet stacked with 60 donated cases of celery hearts rolls into the storage room.

In its first 20 months, Daily Table enrolled 11,000 members; 450 to 500 customers are served daily. Chakoutis says that the average size of the shopping basket--that is, what people buy--has doubled, as has the number of items the store carries. “We’re a larger part of their diet,” Rauch says.

All that’s required to join is a phone number and a ZIP Code to ensure that the majority of Daily Table customers are people who live nearby. However, people from any ZIP Code--and of any income level--are welcome, Rauch says: “If Warren Buffett walked in, he’s welcome.”

Kim Chan-Hernandez, a home health aide and mother of three who lives and works in the area, often picks up some lunch from the store.

“I like it for the prices. Look at that--49 cents for 12-ounce cans of Polar flavored seltzer. How can you beat it? I’ll grab something, quick and easy,” she says, scanning the refrigerated shelves.

Daily Table may be operating smoothly now, but the path to developing it wasn’t so simple. After retiring, Rauch figured he would sit on some boards. But then he realized that most of his time would be spent fundraising. “One, I’m not a fundraiser, and two, why not get money by delivering on the business?” he says.

But the question was, what business? He began to shape his ideas during his fellowship at Harvard’s Advanced Leadership Initiative, where he studied food waste and food deserts.

Catherine D’Amato, president of the Greater Boston Food Bank and one of Daily Table’s suppliers, says Rauch met with her to discuss one of his early ideas.

“He was going to collect all this bread because there was so much of it, and give it to us,” she says. “I told him, ‘That’s thoughtful, but nobody wants it.’ His idea wasn’t big enough. It wasn’t the right idea.”

So Rauch returned to Harvard to retool his plans. And there, he had a number of “awakenings.” One was understanding that “hunger isn’t a shortage of calories; it’s a shortage of nutrients.” Second was that “the model for tackling hunger is outdated, designed around people getting food to eat versus getting good food to eat.”

As many as 49 million Americans are food insecure, says Rauch, citing a common statistic. The data have frustrated him.

“We’re one of the richest nations in the history of food production,” he says. “We have far more food than we need as a society. It just seemed so incongruous to me.”

Championing changes to the tax code was another idea Rauch bounced around. He figured better incentives might lead corporations to make larger donations of healthier food. But he recounts that Ray Goldberg, one of his Harvard professors, warned him not to waste years “wrestling with the IRS.” Dr. Goldberg, who along with John H. Davis developed the Agribusiness Program at Harvard Business School in 1955, persuaded Rauch to work in an area he knew well--retail. “His comments transformed my thinking,” Rauch says.

To get excess healthy food into the hands of those in need, Rauch searched for “inefficiencies in the system.” He found them and channeled what he learned into Daily Table.

Although there are about six to eight other nonprofit grocery stores in the United States, such as Fare & Square in Chester, Pa., “Daily Table’s commitment to health and healthy foods is unique,” Ms. D’Amato says.

In April, Daily Table began offering free cooking classes for all ages. “Doug has grabbed the bull by the horns,” writes Anthony Stankiewicz, chief of staff for the Codman Square Health Center, in an email. The health center, also located in Dorchester, is a Daily Table partner and was instrumental in the store’s launch. It built the teaching kitchen.

Rauch says he failed at retirement, but a lot of people may be grateful he did.

[upwardboundcreativewriting-blog]

“The Life of The Mafia”

By Lamont Hill

Ok let’s just get into it. The names Richard Belfonte. Weird name I know, but I swear to God if you make fun of it my fist to your eye socket will be the last thing you see. If you can’t tell I’m not a nice person. If you even look at me funny, let’s just leave that there. Trust me, you don't wanna know. I run some serious local and private businesses. It ain’t pretty trust me, it’s a lot of hands-on labor work. My old man told me that if you can’t find good goons, just paint the town red yourself.

Now my ma, wonderful lady but very, very naggy. She was very quiet on her last days. She smiled so much when she heard how I scored my first bank heist. My close friend, my amigo, my brother Tony, three words for ya: loyal, quiet, and stupid. Just the way I like ‘em. It ain’t easy being a crime boss unless you’re me. Look, five years ago I was arrested for selling the best stuff. I won’t say what it was because the fuzz is listening.

Ever since the arrest, my life in prison is wonderful. The lunch, if you wanna call it that, tastes like eating slime off a bum’s butt while back at home my poor sweet mama would make the most wonderful lasagna. It was a mixture of love, life, and made you relax. I’d kill to have that back. Probably end up in the joint again. You see, life doesn’t care for the Mafia. The cops don’t understand us, but the people fear us. They know who the best is: Me.

But even I get into a little trouble myself. You ever been jumped by ten people with knuckle dusters? I think I was in that cheap hospital for six months, but hey them’s the breaks. As my grandpappy once said, “Dogs run when you got a bone to pick with them.” Crazy old bastard got shot the next day, but advice is advice. So I call my boys over to get some sweet ol’ revenge, tell me why they were already a step ahead of me. Those inmates were never heard from again, trust me.

My buddy Rico comes by for a visit, the idiot hands me a cake, a freaking cake. Hey don’t judge me, I knew there was a file in there so I took it anyway. Turns out when I’m done finishing the cake, out pops a 9 mm pistol. Wow, security really must suck here. A week later after getting some “equipment,” the ol’ boys and I load a couple of caps into some security around the premises. By midnight the whole prison was ours. Well, until Tony grew a pair and shot me in the back. Big idiot can’t run nothing without me. So as I’m holding on for dear life. Tony had the audacity to even say, “Now I’m on top of the food chain.”

Alright this part of the little episode I don’t know because I passed out, so bear with me. Nine hours later Tony gets shot in the head by Betty, my ex-wife. Good kid but a lousy cook. Now knowing me I woke up like a chicken with his head cut off and a bullet in my shoulder.

“Hey Betty when did you get so pretty.” Oh my God I’m an idiot. Betty picks up the spatula she uses to make the worst burgers ever and smacks me with it. God that hurts. So pissed off I was, I reached for my beautiful glock, but Greg my old running partner stopped me.

“Great I can’t get a fucking break!” So my in-pain self looks at Betty, then Greg, then back at Betty, then at Greg again. I said “To hell with all of you!” and I shot Tony’s dead body. It was to show I wasn’t playing anymore. I’d never felt like this much of bird crap. I stormed out the house, stole a car, went to the liquor store and bought their best Chardonnay. I opened it put cloth in the tip of the bottle and I lit that puppy on fire.

A few minutes later I catch my ex outside, smacking dentures with Greg. I yelled out, “Hey bitch you forgot something!” I tossed that bad boy like I was back in college playing football again, right on her face. All I heard was a dying wail. I looked back and saw Greg was gone. Turns out he was on the bottom of my car. I started to laugh my ass off. I was planning on doing that anyways. Smacking with my ex will teach you a thing or two. Good riddance the both of yous. I went back home to my mom’s. I know it doesn’t belong to her anymore, God bless her soul! I turned on her old TV to find my favorite show. It was cancelled. Damn it. Five hours passed and I already cleared out my old man’s vodka collection. I stared at my gun, the same gun Betty used on my bro. I pointed the gun to my head. I fired a second later. Nothing. It seems Betty was smarter than she looked. Shit, don’t I have kids? Ever since those events, all I say now is “Fuck My Life.”