#understood and saw this beating heart of the universe and while studying history of her city she gets to...

[lilacerull0]

i haven't even seen the episode yet, but learning about the fact that they didn't include such an essential aspect of the story is making me feel so irrationally sad

[quarantined-with-bucky]

Dichotomy

Bucky x Reader

Words: ~ 3,500

Summary: Bucky’s in the poetry feels. And his own feels.

Warnings: Mentions of abuse

Dedication: I’ve had a couple readers express their interest in mythology and the like, either in reblogs, replies, or private messages, so this is dedicated to them (you know who you are) Thanks! :)

A/N: This was taken from my mythology cultivation (I mentioned it in Poetry (this is kinda a part II to that?)), so I have no author credits to the poem :( please let me know if anyone does! This one is also more of Bucky’s view on his relationship with the reader. Sorry it took me so long to write, I wasn’t sure where to take this for a while!

...

You were a myth.

You had to be. Bucky was convinced.

You were beautiful. But he would never mistake your beauty for stupidity – not for naivety, vulnerability, or even weakness.

And They Said Aphrodite Was Soft: Smear your lips in blood, dust your eyelids with stars. Hang rubies around your neck, wear a nude leather dress. Kiss him hard, make him groan. Rip him apart, muscle from bone. Breath in, breath out. Begin step one.

Such a beautiful creature could never be so cruel. He saw the way you moved so gracefully on the battlefield and the way just a single touch from you could melt the heart of any man. You had no tolerance for the men that talked down to you and, sure, you were an exquisite creature, but your prowess that lied beneath the surface – that could tear any unassuming man limb from limb – was what drew him to you.

You were resilient. Despite what anyone may think, you were one of the strongest on the team.

I have wondered what it was like for Aphrodite. For Hera, Medusa, Artemis, Athena. For them to be worshiped, feared, sung of and powerful. What did it feel like to fall into myth and legend? To be remembered mostly for the men they loved, or the ones who fought for them when they didn’t need it, didn’t ask. To be pushed into the corner of the bar, to only be talked about when someone else decided, and to watch their daughters, their children of the earth, fall to the same fate.

Despite your effort to write your own story, to be the best damn Avenger you could be, there would always be hurtles in your way, whether that be the media shoving you into the shadows of Captain America and Iron Man, your inherent lack of any sort of super-ability, or you almost too innocent-looking appearance: how could you hold your own when you look like you can’t even open a jar by yourself? It was the same for those before you, women being washed away in history as lab assistants or had their valor just plain stolen from them. It couldn’t be you and you wouldn’t let it.

You were hurt. Years of physical pain, emotional torment, and past abuse took its toll on you. After all, you were only human.

Dearest Medusa I am so sorry no one told you that the Gods could be so cruel. You had beauty so unlike the rest. Your mother deemed it a blessing. A blessing that would one day deal your curse. Dearest Medusa I am so sorry that no one told you the love of a god is as good as the hatred from a god. Dearest Medusa I am so sorry that he pillaged your body in the temple of goddess meant to shelter you. Dearest Medusa I am so sorry that Athena in all of her wisdom turned blind eye to your pain. Dearest Medusa I am so sorry that no one ever told you the gods could be so cruel.

You’d known what it’s like to have been cast away in your time of need. Your strength somehow came around to backfire on you. You’d been so strong your whole life, there’s no way you could be upset – especially about something so small. You’d been discredited to your own feelings. When you cried out for help, you never received, instead met with neglect and following misfortune. And that’s what built you, but that’s also what broke you.

It was only through poetry that Bucky realized there were two sides to your story – every story, he’d supposed.

And goddamn, there were two sides to his story.

He’d wondered if one day, such myths will be written about him. Would he be seen as the monster: a harsh, unforgiving, unrelenting man – whose true tragedy is unbeknownst to most? Only after years of examination and internal debate could change anyone’s perspective on him.

But he knew they’d be writing about you someday. Hell, it seems like they already had been. The most celestial being in the universe and he just happens to be lucky enough to share a bed with you. He’s the one who knows your backstory, knows your own tragedy, knows the strength that its built. It’s almost like he’s been studying you – and he would if he could. He applies every beautiful book or poem he’s read to you: to your grace, your poise, your struggles.

You meant more to him than words could describe; not the likes of Homer, Shakespeare, Edgar Allen Poe, nor even Jane Austen could even capture half your complexity. He didn’t think there were so many layers to life. There was only one way he could see himself: damaged. But from the day he met you, you’d proven quite the opposite. He had depth, substance, an intricacy that only you could unravel. You’d welcomed him into your open arms, taking him under your wing as you showed him the ropes of the twenty-first century. That’s how it started, anyway. You’d shown him the internet, the DVR, how his phone works, plastic Tupperware. The world had become quite a different place, but it wasn’t just the material objects that shifted either.

People seemed to be a bit more complex than Bucky remembered – and he didn’t know whether it was a twenty-first century thing or if he just hadn’t been around people in such a long time. It took a lot of questions, a lot of research, and a lot of late-night discussions before Bucky finally grasped the concept you’d been trying to instill in him. And one night it just made so much sense. It was in everything you read – every novel and poem – everything you wrote, and everything you’d been teaching him.

Bucky’s night of clarity consisted of a nightmare, two giant mugs filled to the brim with hot chocolate, and some frighteningly serious pillowtalk. “You don’t have to let your past define you, Bucky,” you whispered, before taking a sip of your drink. Bucky’s head rested on your chest, the two of you laying in bed, wide awake after having been woken up by Bucky screaming in the middle of the night. Your hand ran through his hair, strands stuck together and tangled up, tacky with sweat. His eyes were shut, his focus being the vibrations of your chest as you spoke. “You aren’t what they made you.”

You’d seen the side of him that nobody else saw; the soft side of him. It was the half of him that the media would never portray, that his closest peers – his housemates, his team members – would never see, the part that even he forgot existed.

Hell, it was hard for him to remember how to be kind – how to be vulnerable. It took years of physical torture and mental torment for Hydra to beat it out of him. The majority of his life, he’d gone without physical affection, a listening ear, a shoulder to cry on, any kind of touch that didn’t result in a bloody nose.

That wasn’t the only issue. He had to overcome his own bravado. It took him years of solitude and half-assed coping mechanisms for Bucky to come to terms with it himself. Even after jumping over the first hurdle of undoing Hydra’s psychological damage, he had to rewrite his own programming. He never confided in anyone in the Avengers; not the therapist and psychologist Tony brought in, not Clint – a college familiar with being a victim of mind-control, not Natasha – someone who had understood similar hardships, not even Steve – his childhood best friend. He’d come from a time where you would simply grin and bear it.

Sounds cliché, sure, but he couldn’t help it. It was hard not to act this way when even those closest to him – those who shared similar trauma – acted in the same manner. He’d never seen Clint bring it up. Natasha never spoke of her past, or let it affect her work or well-being – in fact, she made jokes about it. And Steve? Forget it. He was one of those who used his past as motivation and to share to kids for “life lessons��� (Bucky could gag just thinking about it). Anyway, where did that leave Bucky? With no options but to suck it up and not let it bother him.

When you started spending multiple nights in a row with him, he knew you’d get him to confess about his past, his feelings. Bucky hated feelings. In the thirties, the only feeling he liked was to have a woman wrapped around his finger. He supposed that’s all he had to worry about, back then, anyway.

Now, he was the one wrapped around his finger. So much so, in fact, that he let you twirl his hair around in your hand, stroke his stubble with the backs of your knuckles, and press your cold feet against his legs while the two of you were sleeping (supposed to be sleeping, at least). “Remember what I told you?” You murmured, pulling him out of his thoughts. He opened his eyes to meet yours peering down over him, as you now sat propped on one elbow to lean your head over his. “About it being okay for you to be upset?”

He rolled his eyes and then quickly shot you a soft apology. Don’t dismiss your emotions, it was what you’d told him numerous times before. He wasn’t supposed to be acting like nothing was bothering him; he promised you that he’d tell you anything on his mind. It was easy when the only thing that was on his mind was you naked in his mind. This was way harder, he mentally groaned.

It was hard for him to come to terms with his past. With all of the terrible things he’d done? There was no way he’d ever be able to accept it, to forget about it, forgive himself for it. There are two sides to every story, you’d reminded him once.

Bucky’s two sides: assassin, murderer, beast; victim, vulnerable, manipulated.

He couldn’t even come to terms with that. He wasn’t manipulated. Manipulation carries the connotation that he still had control. Bucky wasn’t manipulated into doing any of the things he did – into committing those atrocities. Nobody used their cunning wit and skills to get him to willingly commit such crimes; Bucky wasn’t convinced by someone to go against his free will and better judgement. No, that right was stolen from him – his free will.

He didn’t even have an adjective to describe himself.

But he had others who could describe him on his behalf.

Name one hero who was happy. Was Heracles, remembered in the stars, satisfied with his life? Risen to glory and fame, but at what cost? The memory of his wife and child’s blood on his hands, their cries etched in his head. Ask Daedalus, whose cleverness was no match for his love for Icarus, if he was happy to escape confinement. To soar amongst the heavens only to watch his son plummet to his death, perished by his own creation. And Achilles, what of him, was he happy? The boy with the golden feet and lion-heart, who upheld battle for a decade, to watch his beloved slain? To live out the end of his days grieving, yearning for death, was he truly happy? Once again, I must ask: Name one hero who was happy.

It validated his thoughts, at lease. No matter how much people could grow to love him, how accepted he’d be into society, how much he’d be celebrated, he’d still never forget – never be happy, haunted forever by his past barbarity, the lives he took, his loved ones gone. His own life and power ripped away from him, missing from his life for so long that he didn’t know how to live anymore.

He’d found you, at least. You gave him some semblance of his life and freedom back. But he couldn’t help but think, deep down, so low that he’d never be able to muster up the words to say it aloud, that one day you’d be taken away from him. He didn’t know if it would be on the battlefield or if it would be karma finally coming around – but he was scared.

But, despite you being totally oblivious to Bucky’s deepest thoughts (although, you were fairly intuitive. He assumed you’d already known this was his greatest fear), you’d taught him that it was okay to be scared. It was okay to be scared, vulnerable, and hurting. That must have been more accepted these days. While Bucky was never able to marry back in his original time, he wasn’t even sure if this was something husband and wife talked about. He’d remembered hearing stories of his war-buddies back in the trenches. They wrote home to their wives, telling them everything was okay, nobody was hurting, all was as well as could be a – when the opposite couldn’t be truer. It was his job to make sure everything was okay in the home, and part of that required staying strong; being the immovable force that held the family steady. And he looked up to those men more than anything. Fighting a goddamn war, writing their wives in a matter that wouldn’t make them worry.

Now that wasn’t necessary. Women had embraced their strength and independence. He was relieved, to be honest, he knew he’d never compare to his own father – not after everything he’d endured. But maybe twenty-first century life was where he belonged, anyway. So that he could have you next to him. Outspoken, rowdy, cutthroat, bold, passionate you.

You understood Bucky’s hesitation to open up to you. It took him a long time to get acclimated to his new environment, to people, to having emotions – let alone expressing them. That was okay with you. You had nothing but time. You’d tried early on to express to him the fact that his past is what gave him his strength today. He’s been through so much during the past one hundred years of his life that it would be easy for him to just quit, throw in the towel of life, give up and spend the rest of his days spending his days in Wakanda raising goats. But every day, he found the strength to get up, return to the clutches of Hydra and fight them one by one with the promise of the world one day being free from their grasp.

That resonated with him a bit. To come to terms with his struggles because they made him who he is. Not necessarily in a bad way: in the way that he could realize how much he overcame in his long life. He was a survivor.

“Yes,” he whispered, turning his head to press a kiss to your palm.

He wasn’t sure how you were able to resonate with him on such a level. It was probably the way you talked to him. You treated him like a human. Not that the others didn’t necessarily, but they just treated him differently – like they were afraid of him. Like anything they said might trigger him, they cowered in fear when he walked into a room, they avoided him at all costs. But you, you treated him like he was fragile – like if you held him, he’d crack.

He smiled at the thought, holding back a laugh. That’s the exact same way he held you.

Like you were made of porcelain. And that mutual consideration just drew him to you in awe. There was something so inherently soft about you. You were so genuinely kind to everyone, always lending a helping hand, putting everyone else’s needs above yours. He hadn’t known somebody like that for a long time; since he was a young kid in Brooklyn.

No Mortal Words Describe Her: Mortal, on the ground, drenched in sweat and tears: Are you a dream? Are you a nightmare? Aphrodite, baring her teeth, drenched in blood and ash: I am everything in between.

You were a dichotomy. He didn’t understand it. He met you on the battlefield, killing Hydra agents. Your hair was pulled up tight, eyes wide but eyebrows narrowed. You threw your punches with such force; you were kicking men through walls and windows. You’d looked as if you were born and bred to kill – which, in all truth, you were. You’d accepted that fact and you held your head high. He was intimidated by you, and he loved that fact that everyone else was, too. And you were proud of it. There was nothing you cared about in those moments more than making the scum of the earth pay for the atrocities they had committed, for all the years they had Bucky Barnes locked up.

But then it was him laying on your bedroom floor, reading poetry you had scribbled on scraps of paper, littered around the room; some laid out neatly beside you, others crumpled up and tossed in the corner. Bucky liked those ones best – the ones you’d discarded in a frantic, haphazard manner, too busy to even aim for the garbage can. He’d felt that those were the ones that described you best: they were raw, real, undeniable; they came from the deepest depths of your mind, the part that took you hours of searching to even skim the surface. It was the truest form of yourself, and Bucky was lucky enough to have been granted permission to read.

All Antigone wanted was to bury her dead. How many times do women hang themselves in the shadow of their fathers’ sins? I am no exception, I flinch at comparisons, the easiest way to unmake me is to throw his name over me like an old mantle of anger and hate: I’ve worked too hard to be broken down by a story I had no hand in, braced my arms against flood and falling sky and sometimes I get so tired. But I am more than my father’s venom tongue. I am my grandmother’s eyes, my grandfather’s bleeding heart, I am the daughter of women stronger than any Greek playwright could forgive.

Just as it did for Bucky, it took you time to open up. To delve into your past was a process in and of its own. It was when he found this poem crinkled beside your bookshelf that he finally asked about it. This one felt a little too personal to just ignore. He recrumpled the piece of paper and tossed it towards you, landing in your lap. Unfolding it, you skim the words, tossing it beside you once finished, continuing your current work. “Do you want to talk about it?” Bucky asked, breaking the silence that surrounded the two of you.

At first, you’d said no and simply continued writing. How were you supposed to tell him the stories of your so-called family? The pains you’d suffered as a child. You’d continued on your poem about Achilles: the strong, brave, invincible, soldier; the broken, touch starved, damaged man. You huffed to yourself and threw your pen down. What kind of girlfriend would you be to make Bucky relive his own terror without at least reciprocating – especially when you knew it took so much for him to let you in in the first place.

It was a long night after that, setting up the timeline of your life. And everyone had their own right to deal with their past in their own way; each memory hurts in its own particular way, and it is up to you with how to deal with it. But your past is what makes you, and that’s what you’d told Bucky days before. It doesn’t define you, but it gives you something to fight for, something to live for.

It took years of explaining it to him for you to finally find it true for yourself.

…

But he was pulled back into the present once your hands pulled apart an exceptionally tight knot from his hair. He brought his eyes back to meet yours, your face illuminated by the now rising sun shining behind the white shades. Your eyes were half lidded, face completely relaxed, gazing down at Bucky with a sleepy lust. You’d been sitting in silence for hours. It was fine, you had nothing else to do. It was better that Bucky worked it out on his own anyway; you knew how he could get lost in his own thoughts.

All you’d hoped was that he wasn’t beating himself up about it anymore.

“Hey, doll,” he murmured, grabbing your hand in his, turning up to lean against the headboard next to you. And, god, the way you looked at him could make his heart stop; nothing but admiration and affection in those eyes. Your eyebrows were slightly raised, corners of your mouth pulling up slightly.

“Hey, Buck.” You fully smiled at him, offering him a soft, sleepy grin.

“I love you.”

You slid down on the bed, this time resting your head on his chest, wrapping your arms around his large torso, snuggling up into him as the sun rose behind you. “I love you, too.”

[memorylang]

Language Learning, Mom’s Birthday | #43 | August 2020

Since Mom had held language-learning close-to-heart, I dedicate my August update to a language theme! 

With August 9, 2020, my late mom turned 55. I’ve often felt since 2017 a bittersweet fondness for the summer months between Mother’s Day and her birthday. That year had been my first summer in China getting to know Mom’s family after her death. 

For this August’s story, I’ve reflected a great deal on my experiences with language learning. Of which I’d written before, I’ve basically chosen five languages as the ones I want to be functional using (my native English included). So beyond the usual reflections from this COVID-19 summer in the States, I also take us back through my young life learning.  

And, I’m pleased to announce that I've begun to work on a new writing project! More on that soon. 

From Multilingual Mom to Me 

I start us from spring 2020, around evacuation back to the U.S. from Peace Corps Mongolia. 

By April 10-16, I’d been in my sixth week in Vegas again. Yet, less than a couple months before, I was in Mongolia packing to evacuate. As part of my coping while packing, I’d listened to hours of music. Much included Chinese Disney themes I’d found on Spotify. 

Well, having returned to Vegas, you might recall that the sisters’ songs in “Frozen II” resonated deeply with me. Whether while waking or working the yard, I’d listen to “Frozen II”' tracks in Chinese, sometimes in English. Finding songs in other langauges fit my 2020 exploration resolution. I humorously suspected that my Spotify Wrapped 2020 will surely list the same tracks in different languages... if only Spotify had Mongolian versions. Well, a month later, by week 10 (May 8-14), I’d exchanged the songs’ English versions for Spanish!  

That week also featured May 13, 2020—the third anniversary of Mom’s funeral. This year, something special happened.  

I’d received a fateful book—A Primer of Ecclesiastical Latin. My college pastor had ordered this for me just days after I’d asked him what I should consider studying while discerning during quarantine a doctorate in religious studies. After my pastor noted my interest in world Christianity, especially its past and present in Asia, he highly recommended I study Church Latin. 

My pastor’s suggestion pleased me in a curious way. It reminded me of my Duolingo dabbling back in Mongolia, how at that time I’d favored Latin over Greek. Still, Liturgical Latin, studied seriously, seemed like quite an undertaking. Nonetheless my pastor commended my talents and felt confident I could succeed along paths God may open for me. I felt grateful for the aid! 

Embarking on my quest to learn Latin, I’ve found the language remarkable. 

It’s felt at times the culmination of my years learning languages. In fact, Mom had actually wanted my siblings and me to learn languages since we were little—She’d taught us to read English then tried to have us learn Chinese. Most summers, she’d have us in the mornings copy down Chinese characters before she’d let us play games or do activities that weren’t “educational.” 

While cleaning my family’s garage this COVID-19 this summer, I’d unearthed old notebooks in which my siblings and I would write Mom’s required phrases. I noticed how even back then I’d seem to try harder than most of my siblings, given how many characters I copied. Still, I hadn’t much inclination to know the language words beyond, then, clearing Mom’s barrier to letting me play games. 

Still, even if the notebooks had implied some aptitude I’d had for languages, Mom’s requirements left me if anything more averse to language acquisition than eager. 

Suffering Through Spanish

Many today may feel surprised to know that for years I’d called Spanish my second language. 

Given my childhood disdain for studying languages beyond English, I’d found my task to study Spanish in high school assiduous. I formally began in the language fall 2011 as a freshman. Spanish was our Vegas school’s only foreign language option, and all honors students needed two years of language. Yet again, my language studies drew from a requirement—little more. 

Many of my classmates and I rapidly found our classes exhausting, for our instructor had a thick French accent. Furthermore, verb conjugation, unfamiliar tenses and gendered vocabulary felt alien. I didn’t get why a language would be so complicated. 

Yet, despite my struggles to understand our teacher, she’d commended me because I “made the effort.” Well, I sometimes felt like I’d make the effort to a fault. When peers cheated on exams, my darn integrity had me abstain. 

By my second year, when I was succeeding in college-level AP world history, my fleetingly flawless GPA took from Spanish a beating. That hurt. By my senior year, at least Mom let me take Spanish online instead. I’d learned that I’d known more than I thought, but I still sucked. 

Redemption Through Mandarin

By fall 2015, I’d had graduated high school and enrolled as an honors undergrad facing another foreign language requirement. 

Licking my wounds from Spanish, I ruled out that language. I saw the University offered Chinese, though. Studying world history had interested me in Mom’s cultural background and native tongue. Considered she’d made my siblings stare at the language since childhood, I hoped it wouldn’t be too hard. So, I chose Mandarin Chinese.

And by my first days learning Chinese, I could already feel the benefits of having taken Spanish. 

Chinese felt astoundingly straightforward. Spanish had taught me to recognize that English letters (better known as the Latin alphabet) sound differently in different languages. For example, I felt pleased to notice that the ‘a’ /ah/ letter in Spanish sounds similar to its Chinese pronunciation. Thus, Spanish’s “mamá” and Chinese’s “māmā” relate, despite appearing in separate languages. 

Thanks to my Spanish experience, I picked up Chinese’s general pronunciation system far faster. Furthermore, I felt relieved to find that Chinese grammar lacked the conjugation and gender nightmares I’d faced in Spanish. I’d even loved how Chinese characters’ little images could often help me guess word meanings intuitively! 

My interest and success with the Chinese language led me to study abroad in 2017, planned with my mother before she was killed. I returned to China a year later, in 2018 on an intensive program. Both times, I spoke my mother’s native tongue, meeting relatives and making friends. I even received awards for my skills. 

Yet, despite my progress in Chinese, I’d often considered it only my third language. After all, much of my success in Chinese came having struggled through Spanish.  

  Finding Peace with Spanish

In my college senior year, January 2019, I’d attended a religious pilgrimage in Panamá—a Spanish-speaking nation. 

By that time, I’d grown acquainted with language immersions. In fact, I readily used my Mandarin skills when I met World Youth Day pilgrims from Hong Kong, Malaysia and Taiwan. They often felt shocked to meet someone outside their communities who knew their language! 

Of course, Panamá left me at times surrounded too by folks who only spoke Spanish, including my host family. 

I listened carefully. A luminous spark, I’d felt. Buried memories of my broken Spanish resurfaced. Near my last day in Panamá, I felt awed to have had a conversation with a cab driver completely in Spanish. 

My peace with Spanish became a renewed interest. 

After our pilgrimage, I’d continued with my host family and new Latin American friends to speak and write almost exclusively in Spanish. Online, we benefited over WhatsApp with Google Translate, too. Panamá in 2019 had taken a language that was for me dead and breathed in it new life. 

Peace Corps Language Level-ups

Later that year (last year), I began to learn what would be my fourth language and one entirely unfamiliar—Mongolian.

I should note that before reaching Mongolia June 1, 2019, I couldn’t even read its Cyrillic alphabet. I’d basically started at zero. 

Peace Corps’ language briefings had at least taught me that Mongolian is an Altaic language, distinct from Indo-European language like English and from character-based languages like Mandarin. Over the course of summer in villages of Mongolia, Peace Corps put us through mornings of immersive language training followed by returns home to our host families. 

Still, many Peace Corps Trainees felt unmotivated to learn Mongolian. After all, with statistically few Mongolian speakers worldwide, many felt that we wouldn’t have much utility for Mongolian outside Mongolia. Nevertheless, I felt motivated by desires to understand and feel understood. I powered through. 

Initially, Mongolian baffled me. 

Its Cyrillic alphabet (and its script one, too) includes consonant and vowel sounds unknown to English, Spanish and Chinese. Furthermore, Mongolian uses a case-based grammar of suffixes, a reversed subject-object-verb order and postpositions instead of prepositions. Mongolian even reintroduced me to my nemeses gendered vocabulary and tense-based verb endings!

I felt grateful for the sparse Chinese loanwords I wouldn’t have to relearn! Yet, my kryptonite was often pronunciation. Challenging consonants and tricky long vowels left me so inauthentic. Regardless, I was an ardent study who savored most every chance to receive Mongols’ clarifications and corrections. 

Finding Latin in Asia

Curiously, Catholic Churches became great places for my language learning.

This was the case for me both with learning Chinese in China and Mongolian in Mongolia. Parishioners would often take me under their wings to support me. Curiously in Mongolia, an English-speaking French parishioner pointed out once that Mongolian grammar is quite like Latin. I didn’t know Latin, though. 

I had encountered Latin, though. For, Asian vocabularies for Church topics often derived more directly from Latin than even English translations! These pleased me, since learning the vocabulary to speak about religion felt less foreign. 

Then came the sleepless nights during Mongolia’s COVID-19 preemptive quarantining, January and February. I’d had taken up Duolingo and opted for Greek or Latin in hopes that they’d bore me to sleep. I’d also hoped they might supplement how I teach English and read Scripture. And while Greek felt hopelessly confounding, Latin vocabulary felt surprisingly... natural. Despite my lack of formal training, I did alright just guessing. 

My Roads Led to Latin

From late May through mid-June 2020, I’d read the first four chapters of the Church Latin book. Meanwhile, mid-summer, I felt pleased to reach Duolingo’s Diamond League! Realizing that to become Champion would take far more effort than I cared to give, though I focused just on keeping my streak. 

Still, my Latin especially progress slowed after Dad’s remarriage and my relocation to Reno, Nev. My mostly-free summer rapidly grew hectic. But even in those first four Latin weeks, I’d discovered true gems in pursuing the historic language. 

At face value, Latin’s vocabulary reminded me of Spanish and English. Sometimes, Church words I’d learned first in Mandarin and Mongolian too related! Vocabulary felt profound. 

Furthermore, Latin grammar felt reminiscent of not only Spanish conjugations but indeed Mongolian cases! I felt relieved that Panamá had freed me from my conjugation aversion. Likewise, my Mongolian skills felt far from obsolete! 

To supplement my Latin studies, I try to translate between Chinese and Spanish, the way how in Mongolia I’d translate between Mongolian and Chinese. By juggling languages, I seek to codeswitch in more contexts with a more unified vocabulary. 

Wherever I wind up academically and professionally, I hope to work between languages. Through daily discipline, textbooks, apps, videos, notes and conversations, I trust I’ll go far. Feel free to connect if you want to practice with me! The more corrections, the better. 

From Ecclesiastical to Classical Latin

On August 23 (of my stateside week 25), I’d reunited in Vegas with a high school friend who’d studied classics in undergrad. From that meeting on, I’d not only ramped up my Latin studies but also transitioned from Ecclesiastical Latin to classical. 

For, Church Latin is but an evolving Latin. To understand the orgins of many words—beyond simply their uses within the Roman Catholic Church—I would need the eternal Latin that changes no more. Well, my friend offered to tutor me, so I offered to try! 

Classical Latin is harder, by the way. 

And in the midst of my suffering throughout September, my friend had even offered to tutor me Greek. While mostly joking (but also not), I’ve offered that I might learn Greek from him if for no other reason than to thank him for teaching me Latin! 

Nearly a month since beginning the tutorial system with him, we’ve since cleared over a fourth of a textbook meant sometimes to take a year’s worth of study. I hope by the year’s end to have finished the book. 

At least a third of my waking hours at times seem to go into Latin. But, it’s nice to keep learning! That same week, my siblings had all resumed their undergraduate studies. At least I’m still learning something! 

Embarking on a Book Memoir 

Besides working on my other languages, I’ve even placed time in my English. 

Lastly, I want to share about my writing quest! Although the project isn’t always across the top of my agenda, I keep at it. We return again to mid-summer. 

Peace Corps friends and I have often checked in on each other since evacuation to the States. Some also write. During a webinar for evacuated Returned Peace Corps Volunteers, I’d met many looking to tell their stories.

Most weeks since July, I’d also have a few video calls. I’d take these no matter what I was up to. I’d still been doing that ‘groundskeeping’ in Reno, Nev. of which I’d written before. Whether I was getting the mail, trimming the hedges, pruning the flowers, watering the lawn, raking debris, sweeping the floor, taking out the trash, tugging the garbage bins, adjusting the windows or washing the dishes, I’d often had some task that Dad requested I’d tend to. Calls with friends broke the monotony. 

After encouragement from mentors and friends, I’d decided to write a creative nonfiction book memoir for publication someday! 

The first step, of course, is having a manuscript. So, since week 17 (June 26–July 2), I’d been typing away at the first chapters to what seems will be a story spanning my three years of studies and service overseas after Mother’s death, leading up to my acceptance and peace. I'm excited to tell stories about finding purpose and identity, despite grief and loss. I hope it helps readers to find their own peace amid confusion. All things are so fundamentally interconnected. 

By three weeks in, I’d felt so grateful for the outpouring of support I’d received. Frankly, I wouldn’t be writing so much if people hadn’t been saying this has potential. Thankfully, readers offer marvelous insights. They treat the story as one deserving of quality. I love their attention to details. 

Still, among the most grueling lessons I’ve learned learned has been that a book about grief has needed me to relive the hurt of my mother's death for repeated days. I trust nonetheless that once I’ve written and rewritten well, the remaining may rest behind me. 

If you’re looking to read what’s coming, you’re in the right place. Merely starting on the book has helped me to improve my blog writing. You may have noticed in my recent summer 2019 throwback stories, for example, I’ve used more narrative than before. I hope you’ve enjoyed! 

The language studies and the book continue, though I’ve taken more breaks lately with the book. From mid-August I’d embarked on advocacy projects with the National Peace Corps Association. I’ll share more on that soon. Having doubled-down on my Latin studies from mid-September, it can be a quite a black hole for my time! For everything there is a season (Ecc. 3:1). 

Seeking to Stay Holy

A couple friends admired my dedication and called upon me to help them meet their spiritual goals. What a kind expereince! In helping them keep accountable, they’ve likewise helped me. 

With a homebound Knight of Columbus, we’d continued July’s rosaries throughout August, as many as three times a day leading up to the Catholic Feast of the Assumption. Afterward, we’d reduced our count back to two times daily through early September. I’d never prayed so many rosaries before! 

Through August, I’d also read a chapter of Proverbs daily with a friend. I’d reconnected with her during my outreach for the book. I enjoy our weekly Scripture chats, and she shows more Protestant perspectives on our faith!  

I find God a great companion along the journey of life. Regardless of how you view religious and spiritual topics, I trust that you have companions, too. They’re so important! 

On a positive note, I’d gotten to revisit my undergrad parish. I felt so amazed to hear that students I’d never met thought I was a cool person! I try not to think too highly of myself, but I feel touched when people notice me. I hope I inspire folks. 

Coming up Next

Thanks for reading my meta-stories about languages and stories!  

If you’ve been following my tales for a while now, you may recall I’d mentioned feeling surprised to learn that my mother had been studying Spanish around the same years I’d been studying it. I felt awed to realize that even when I’d tried to learn one of my earliest new languages, Mom was trying to learn what was for her one of a few. I’m glad to have perhaps inherited Mother’s interest in languages. 

Up next, I have a very special piece dated for September 2020 [and ultimately released in October]. I’m focusing on perspectives—mine and others’. I’m particularly excited to share adventures with teams including those within the American Psychological Association and the Honors College at the University of Nevada, Reno. They’ve given me plenty of fun roles amid the pandemic! 

I’m also writing about national and state parks! God, I love nature.

Stay healthy, friend.

COVID-19 and America Months 11 through 15 | April, May, June, July, August

Easter Epilogue in America | #35 | April 2020 

Remembering Mom—Third Year After | #36 | May 2020 

Fathers’ Day, Faith and Familiarity | #38 | June 2020

23rd Birthday~ Roses and Rosaries | #39 | July 2020

Language Learning, Mom’s Birthday | #43 | August 2020

You can read more from me here at DanielLang.me :) 

[whiskynottea]

An Interruption in the 1st Law of Thermodynamics.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15, Chapter 16, Chapter 17, Chapter 18, Chapter 19, Chapter 20, Chapter 21, Chapter 22, Chapter 23, Chapter 24, Chapter 25, Chapter 26, Chapter 27,  Chapter 28, Chapter 29, Chapter 30, Chapter 31, Chapter 32, Chapter 33, Chapter 34, Chapter 35,  Chapter 36, Chapter 37, Chapter 38, Chapter 39, Chapter 40, Chapter 41, Chapter 42, Chapter 43, Chapter 44,  Chapter 45, Chapter 46, Chapter 47, Chapter 48, Chapter 49, Chapter 50, Chapter 51 Chapter 52, Chapter 53, Chapter 54, Chapter 55

AO3

A/N: We are 56 chapters in, and I would like to thank you for reading this story  even though my updates have become irregular in the latest months and for your beautiful comments. ❤️ Real life is very demanding at the moment and I don’t have time to reply to all your comments but they mean a lot to me and reading your feedback always makes my day! Thank you!

The chapter is beta-ed, as always, by @theministerskat​.

                                    – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Chapter 56. Oxford

I was excited and afraid. 

I was intrigued and intimidated. 

I was enchanted. 

I was at Oxford.

That city had been to me what castles and voluptuous dresses were for other little girls. A fairytale. A dream.

It had all started when I was eight years old. Lamb had taken me with him to visit one of his dearest friends -- one who by chance had just discovered a new archaeological site and was convinced that a whole city lay underneath tons of dust. This kind of information always worked like a fluorescent light for the kind of craved-for-knowledge-moth my uncle happened to be, and it took him only a few days to find airline tickets for us to fly from Lebanon to Oxford. 

While my uncle and Andrew -- or Professor Horcrof, as he was known at the university -- spent endless days talking over manuscripts and pictures, I had been a PhD student’s burden to entertain. Extremely unprofessional on Andrew’s behalf, but I was too young to realize it back then and Emma insisted that taking care of me was no trouble at all. She was as sweet and kind as she was impressive -- almost as tall as Lamb, with golden hair and beautiful blue-rimmed glasses. Not really beautiful, but imposing, and it was obvious that everyone respected her. For me, the genuine niece of uncle Lamb, that meant much more than alluring eyes and an aristocratic nose. 

Emma had been the reason I prayed for nearsightedness for years after we left Oxford. And the reason I found Oxford’s grey the most beautiful colour, and started building my own fairytale in the city of dreaming spires. She was the one who had taken me to the Bodleian Library and made me take the Bodleian oath. Sometimes, in the years that followed, when I closed my eyes, I could still feel my chest puff up with pride and self-importance as I spoke the words, ‘I hereby undertake not to remove from the Library, or to mark, deface, or injure in any way, any volume, or document…’

That day I had also sworn to her that when I grew up, I would study at Oxford as well. Emma had replied that she was sure I would.

And now, here I was. I wondered what Emma would think. 

My college was not at the centre of the city and I felt my heart beat faster and faster inside my chest as I walked towards my destination. It was a struggle to bring my shallow breathing back to normal and not break into a run when I first glimpsed Lady Margaret Hall. A college with more than one hundred and forty years of history, and the first to educate women at Oxford. 

I searched for the word in my head as my feet led me to the entrance. Honoured, I thought, and stepped inside. 

--

Three days in Oxford and I was sure that Jamie’s phone would soon reach its maximum storage capacity after receiving so many pictures -- the buildings, my college, my room, the gardens… I didn’t even take the time to sort out the best pictures, but sent him everything, unable to contain the happiness I was feeling. 

“You have to take me to each and every one of these places when I visit, Sassenach,” he’d written. I promised him I would. 

The accommodations at Lady Margaret Hall were better than most colleges in Oxford, and Mary Hawkins, my roommate, was a sweet, if not a bit shy, girl from Bath. She had a quiet beauty, and luckily for both of us, she was a fellow medical student. I liked her from the first moment we introduced ourselves and she seemed to like me too, though she talked at a frequency that was barely audible, and it was a struggle to carry on a conversation without asking her to repeat herself over and over again. I soon realized that the low voice was a way to hide her stutter, and hoped that it would get better once she felt comfortable. Sometimes I wondered how it would be, if Louise was at Oxford with us and not in France. Or Jenny. Louise would tease Mary to no end. Jenny would, most likely, take Mary under her wing and protect her throughout our years at university. 

I wasn’t surprised Mary kept mostly to herself. She mentioned once or twice that she had grown up with a strict father who made it explicit to her that Oxford University wasn’t a choice, but an obligation. He had gone to Oxford University. His father had studied there. Mary’s mother had graduated from Lady Margaret’s Hall. It was unacceptable for Mary to break the family tradition. I felt sorry, but happy she had made it and was away from them now. Sometimes distance was all it took for a child to become an adult.

Freshers’ week had been full of tours and social events for the new students. A whole week for everyone to become familiar with the university and have fun -- everyone except us, the medics. Our welcome included writing three essays for the first week of the term, and we spent a good amount of the week doing research in the library. There were four of us in Lady Margaret’s Hall and having to work while everyone else had the time of their lives formed a bond between us in a matter of days. The solidarity of the maltreated medics, we called it.

At least we had our parents, to help. The college family system assigned each one of us a student who was a year older, to guide us, give us advice and notes. Maisri, my college mam, had big brown eyes, thick black hair, and a deep voice that made everything she said sound serious. Even if it was something like, “Dr. Raymond won’t need the essay if you present yourself like this on Monday. One look at your hair and he’ll be scared for good. By no means, do continue running your hands through your curls.” 

When we took a break from studying, I made sure to drag Mary with me to one party or another, determined to bring her out of her shell. When she wasn’t in the library, I usually found her in the piano room. It was the only place I saw her relax. She played the piano beautifully, and more than once, I grabbed a book and lounged there, feeling the notes dance in the room around us. I had tried to convince her to join me and Maisri in the yoga classes that were taking place in the gardens during the summer months, but Mary resolutely denied. 

The Michaelmas term started right after Freshers’ week. And with the courses, real life commenced. 

I had read that the University demanded eight hours per day be spent on focussed, concentrated academic work. Theoretically, that was fine. Practically, the workload of medical school was much heavier. We were in lectures and practicals from 9 am to 3 pm, and then we had three tutorials per week which required either an essay, a worksheet, or a presentation prepared beforehand.

It was amazing, studying medicine. But with the courses, meeting new people, and trying to socialize in an effort to be a part of the university community, I always felt exhausted. The pictures I sent to Jamie were limited to selfies showing me and my books while I was studying in the library, or shots of the collections of pints gathered on the table in front of me at local pubs.

Some nights I fell asleep so early that I missed my nightly call with Jamie. And other times I was out for drinks and ended up having a short video call outside a pub or a club, just to see him for a few minutes and hear his voice. 

In any case, we still managed to talk at least once every day. And we texted when we couldn’t. And sent pictures. 

It was the beginning, I reminded myself. It was expected that I would need some time to adjust. Jamie understood. He, too, had an intense schedule. His term was more demanding now that he had been admitted to the Ross School of Business, swimming meets had begun, and he pushed himself to his limits, which meant that he often overslept and missed our morning call.

I almost screamed when I read his text after his first race as a Wolverine. Almost, because at that time I was in a lecture. Mary and a few other students shot me bewildered glances, trying to guess what Dr. Hildstand had said that I found so fascinating, but I just shook my head and swallowed my smile, trying not to attract more attention. I texted Jamie a minute later, with a row of emojis. Then, I told him that I was proud of him and I loved him. He sent me a wet kiss picture in response.

I was just as happy and proud after his second race, but Jamie wasn’t. He had finished second, and apparently for Jamie that was equivalent to finishing last. That evening, I was in the study room with Mary, Malva, and Davie when Maisri rushed in, still laughing from something that she had said to someone in the corridor, and invited us to ‘Dissection Drinks’ with medics from other colleges. Mary groaned at the prospect of going out again, but Malva and Davie quickly accepted the invitation. I had almost agreed on going too, when I remembered that Jamie would be getting home early and we would have time for a rather extensive call. Judging by the sulky texts I got throughout the day, I was sure that he’d need to talk.

“I can’t come, but maybe next time,” I said, ignoring Maisri’s frown. I would give my Friday night to my boyfriend. Looking at the big black clock on the wall, I realized I only had half an hour before our call. 

Mary called it an early night and after a quick visit to our room, I headed to the showers, wanting to be ready when Jamie called. 

An hour later, I was lying on my bed, still waiting. And then, an hour after that. I’d texted Jamie and he just replied that he wasn’t home yet.

When Jamie finally called me, I was more than irritated and Mary was sound asleep in her bed. Grabbing my phone, I resorted to one of the empty study rooms to have a conversation where more than whispering could be used.

“You’re late, Jamie Fraser.” I had planned for very playful greeting while I was in the shower, but after two hours of waiting and seeing him fresh as a daisy, my tone turned dourer than I’d thought it would be. 

“Ah, I ken. Sorry, Sassenach, we were out wi’ the team and I couldna leave earlier.”

I forced myself to relax and smile, and I was almost successful. It wasn’t his fault, I repeated to myself again and again, until I believed it. Keeping my frustration from being front and center, I focused on Jamie. Spending half of our time arguing about the fact that he was late would do neither of us any good.

“Congratulations for today,” I said, to change the mood and make it clear that the second place was to be praised.

He shook his head. “Second,” he said, glumly.

“You can’t always finish first, I hope you know that,” I admonished him. “Everyone has bad days, although I’m not sure that coming second counts as a bad day.”

“At the first race it was different. Today I was so stressed, I dinna think I’ve ever been that stressed before.”

“But why? You’ve participated in far bigger competitions before.”

“Aye, but in Scotland I knew my opponents. I had raced against them time and time again as we grew up and knew their mistakes and strong points. Here I have no idea what to expect. ”

“But in the first race --”

“I don’t think I’d realized the sheer size of competitions here,” he interrupted me. “The Big Ten, the NCAA championships…”

“Jamie, look at me.” I wished he could be next to me, so I could squeeze his cheeks between my hands and make him see how much he had already achieved. “You’ll do great. You’ll give your best self, you will keep working, and you will improve. You’re one of the best swimmers already! First and second place, come on!”

That made him laugh. “Thank ye, mo ghraidh. I wish you were here. It was always different when I was looking at you in the bleachers after seeing my times.”

“Well, if that makes you happy, I almost screamed both times I read your texts. During lectures, I have to mention.”

He laughed and his blue eyes shone for the first time that evening. “It does, Sassenach. It makes me happy. You make me happy. So, how was your day?”

“Good! I had my first tutorial with Dr. Raymond. He is absolutely amazing, Jamie. He’s tiny, really, no taller than Mrs. FitzGerald but he’s a force of nature. Ha. Funny, because the tutorial was on alternative medicine and herbs. It was the best tutorial I’d had so far.”

“So, uni is as ye expected it to be?”

“Heavier workload, if you can imagine that, but yes. I love it.” I smiled, realizing the truth behind my words. Medical school was everything I had wished for, and even more.

“Good. I’m glad ye do, babe. Did you look for tickets yet?” 

I hesitated. “No, not yet.”

Jamie sighed. “Dinna leave it for the last moment, Sassenach. You’re going to pay a fortune at the end.” He opened a bottle of water and drank until it was half empty. “Dhia, I’m always so thirsty after coming back from Hector’s.”

“Alcohol causes dehydration, you know.”

“Aye, aye doctor.” He flashed a toothy grin and took another big gulp.

I waited until his eyes met mine again, seeking the right words to express what I needed to say. “Jamie, I was thinking…” Jamie left the water next to him and slightly tilted his head sideways, waiting. “I was thinking that maybe coming in two weeks isn’t a good idea, after all.”

“Oh?”

I knew he wouldn’t like that. “I know we planned on meeting in early November, but the term ends at the beginning of December, and I thought I might wait until then so I can stay longer when I come to Michigan. And maybe we could fly to Edinburgh together for Christmas.” I swallowed, uneasy, even though I knew that my proposal made perfect sense. There was no reason to spend so much money just to see him for a few days. “If I come before the term ends, I will stay only for a few days and I have lectures I don’t want to miss…” I added when he kept silent.

“I thought you’d be here for my race in New Jersey, that’s all,” he finally said with no trace of feeling in his voice. His face had changed into a neutral mask. 

“But it’s a better plan if I come before Christmas, no?”

“I guess so.”

I fidgeted with the hem of my top, avoiding his eyes. I knew he wanted me to be in New Jersey as we had planned, but that was before I came to Oxford. I didn’t really know what I would find here. When I finally looked at Jamie, I saw a strained smile on his mouth and disappointment dancing in his stare. “I wanted to be there, too, Jamie,” I tried to explain. He nodded. “I wanted to,” I insisted, forcefully. “But we must make compromises. It’s just four weeks, and then we’ll spend a whole month together.” 

“Yeah. Okay. You’re right.”

I smiled and blew him a kiss. He kissed me -- the screen -- back. 

“So, what place did John get today? ” I asked to change the subject.

“Fourth. He was so pissed.” Jamie chuckled and I could see some of the tension leaving his shoulders. 

We talked about swimming and his classes, and then about my practicals and my newfound love for yoga. “Until I find a decent dance club,” I clarified. 

We smiled, laughed, and teased each other, but I could still feel a lingering uneasiness between us. 

“Jamie?” I whispered when he said he was tired and would go to bed. “You know I wanted to be there, don’t you?”

This time his smile was genuine. “Aye, Sassenach. I ken. Ye just took me by surprise, is all. Dinna worry, aye?”

“And you know I love you, right?” I asked again.

His smile turned into a grin. “Aye, ye wee yogi.” He ignored my snort. “I love ye too, Claire.” This time his voice was guttural. I let out a heavy sigh and heard him mirroring it, as if we needed to hear the words even though we could always feel them resonating through our bodies. 

“Now go to bed,” he finally said. “I’ll dream of you.”

“Me too,” I said, and we ended the call.

Me too.

Chapter 57

[johnfkennedyjunior]

Citizen Kennedy On the run from the press all his life, John F Kennedy Jr. joins the media pack. (September, 1995)

It is an overcast, chilly Friday, but the crowd in the ballroom of Detroit’s Westin Hotel is feverish. In the Adcraft Club’s ninety-year history, only Lee Iacocca has drawn more people to a speech. But today’s guest has set pulses revving faster than even Iacocca ever could.

Sighs (“I made eye contact with him!”) and whispers (“His jawline is perfect!”) and four burly guards accompany John Fitzgerald Kennedy Jr. as he circles the room to the blue-swagged dais. Women creep forward, their cameras flash-framing to capture that famous, evocative face.

After lunch, Phil Guarascio, the sleek advertising master of General Motors, takes the podium and ticks off the handsome young speaker’s accomplishments: his education at Brown University and NYU Law School; stints with the United Nations in India, with economic-development outfits in New York, and with the U. S. Attorney General’s Honor Program; his role in founding a group that helps educate health-care workers; and, most notably, his four years as an assistant district attorney in the office of New York City crimebuster Robert Morgenthau.

But it’s not his resume that’s brought this mob out to hear the thirty-four-year-old son of the country’s thirty-fifth president and Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, the eternal icon. It’s not even their moist interest in his celebrated romances with Daryl Hannah and other beauties. Nor is it to stare at the buffed pecs and thighs, often captured in Central Park grab shots by New York’s tabloids but today hidden under a dark, conservative suit. No, this crowd has come to learn about the future of the man they still think of as John John.

“I’m well aware of the expectation that sooner or later I would be giving a speech about politics,” he says. “So here I am, I’m delighted to say, fulfilling that expectation.” He speaks a bit more about his career, his prospects, his hope that he’ll do the right thing. Finally, the excitement building, he tells the crowd what it wants to hear.

“I hope eventually to end up as president,” says John F. Kennedy Jr. Three beats. “Of a very successful publishing venture.”

The nineteen hundred car and ad people explode into laughter and applause. They know that this charmer has come to their city to flack the riskiest venture of a pampered life indelibly marked by tragedy: a magazine he’ll launch in September about the family business-politics. More than a few of them will buy ad pages in the publication curiously named George (for George Washington), gambling that Kennedy’s sizzle will attract readers to a subject that Americans love to hate and have never much wanted to read about.

What they don’t fully realize is that they are present at the creation of the latest and most dramatic chapter of the Kennedy saga: a rite of passage of the family’s-if not America’s-crown prince. For much of his life, John F. Kennedy Jr. has been what he seemed-a dilettante, unable to commit to a woman or a career. Now he thinks he has found a way to fulfill his daunting genetic destiny-one that shows his sure grasp of what being a Kennedy is really all about. In his grandfather’s day, money was power. In his father’s day, politics was power. In his own day, media is power. By charging boldly into its realm, John Jr. may prove to be the most genuine Kennedy of his generation.

* * *

“DON’T LET THEM STEAL your soul,” Jackie Onassis would warn her children. John has seemingly spent the last dozen years trying to distance himself from the family legend. Until his full name turned into an advertising draw, he preferred to style himself simply John Kennedy, like at least a half dozen other New Yorkers.

For most people, the montage of images,, triggered by mention of this John Kennedy begins with the picture of a little boy saluting his father’s coffin on a gray November day barely within his memory’s reach. Ever since, he’s held himself a little apart. At the fashionable parties he frequents, he’s had a way of inching his back around to fend off the approach of strangers. That practiced self-protective instinct, the flip side of the intense attention he pays when he does decide to engage someone, has usually served to wall him off from unwanted overtures.

That wall was constructed, solidly and with great difficulty, by his mother. From the moment of her son’s birth by cesarean section on November 25, 1960, two and a half weeks after his father was elected president, the new First Lady tried to shield him and his older sister, Caroline. But President Kennedy didn’t play that way. He plainly understood how the image of a happy family could protect him, as it had his own father, from the consequences of his own philandering. So when Jackie was out of town, he’d contrive to sneak photo opportunities with the kids in the Oval Office.

President Kennedy was assassinated three days before his son’s third birthday. Within a year, Jacqueline Kennedy had created a new life for herself and her offspring in New York, where she later enrolled John and Caroline in private schools. The children became independently wealthy in 1968 when their mother married the squat Greek shipping magnate Aristotle Onassis. By the terms of President Kennedy’s will, a trust fund he’d inherited from his father passed to his children upon his widow’s remarriage. John H. Davis, a Bouvier cousin, believes that trust fund doubled in value during the sixties, leaving John and Caroline with about $10 million each.

Onassis helped shield the Kennedys from prying eyes and provided them with the money to support a lifestyle even more lavish than the one they’d experienced in the White House. But the billionaire degraded Jackie by blatantly continuing his longtime affair with diva Maria Callas. And when he died in 1975, he showed his contempt for her by leaving her, John, and Caroline a pittance in his will. An ugly legal battle with Onassis’s daughter, Christina, ended with a settlement that gave Jackie more than $20 million. Maurice Tempelsman, the diamond merchant who became Jackie’s consort in later life, helped her invest that money and plump her estate to somewhere around $100 million, Davis estimates.

The money didn’t free John Jr. from his family’s past and expectations-at New York’s Collegiate School, he was shadowed by Secret Service agents and regularly saw a psychiatrist-but his whispery lioness of a mother raised him to sidestep the family’s darker edge. His cousins might act like a pack of druggy Keystone Kennedys, Uncle Ted might screw and screw up, and Aunt Lee could wind up a fashion flack, but John and Caroline kept their heads down and emerged as decent, intelligent, modest, and good-natured young people.

* * *

POLITICS BECKONED early; public service had a strong plan on John. “He has a tremendous sense of duty and responsibility” his cousin Robert F. Kennedy Jr. said a few years ago. “Whenever any of the cousins need help on one of their projects-whether it’s the Special Olympics or the RFK Human Rights or journalism awards or the Joseph P. Kennedy Jr. Foundation awards John participates.” He helped his cousins Joseph and Patrick Kennedy win House seats and pitched in on cousin Kathleen Kennedy Towns end’s successful bid for lieutenant governor in Maryland. He showed up in court for his cousin Willie Smith’s trial on rape charges. “He’s got a very strong sense of responsibility, but he’s not overwhelmed by it,” said Bobby Jr. “He’s very comfortable with it.”

Comfortable, perhaps, but strangely without passion. When Kennedy went to law school, he was following his sister and six cousins who had studied or were studying to become attorneys. Even his mid-1989 decision to become an assistant district attorney in New York tracked the family record: His uncle Ted had prepped for his first Massachusetts Senate race by serving as an assistant DA in Suffolk County. “John said his heart was never really in it,” says someone who served in the DA’s office with him. “He was doing it for his mother.”

While he waited for the verdict on his New York State bar exam, which Caroline had passed on her first try a few months earlier, John started work as a $30,000-a-year prosecutor. Although this was a competitive position, Bob Morgenthau’s office was also a hiring hall for famous sons. Andrew Cuomo, Cyrus Vance Jr., and Dan Rather Jr. have worked there, as have the sons of Rhode Island senator John Chafee, labor leader Victor Gotbaum, and New York City Council speaker Peter Vallone. So had John’s cousin Bobby Jr., before his resignation amid charges of drug abuse.

John was assigned to the Special Prosecutions Bureau, which handles low-level crimes ranging from corruption, fraud, con games, and check bouncing to arson and car theft. Kennedy was placed thereat first because “we clearly didn’t want him in the trial division,” says Mike Cherkasky, then chief of the DA’s investigative division. “We didn’t want the attention to distract him.”

That fall, John learned he’d failed the bar exam. “John didn’t take the test seriously,” says a fellow assistant DA. He learned he’d flunked a second time (by 11 points out of a needed 660 at the end of April. Although more than half of the other twenty-five hundred aspirants failed as well, only Kennedy was ridiculed on the front pages of the New York tabloids, all three of which used variations of “Hunk Flunks.”

Even so, John kept his cool. “I’m clearly not a major legal genius,” he said.

“He held up under unbelievable pressure,” says Owen Carragher Jr., his officemate at the time. John even kept smiling when a maitre d’ with wobbly English accosted him while he was having a consolation beer, and said, “I heard news you failed! I’m glad!”

Kennedy played his part in the public perception that he was a lightweight. He made his first courtroom appearance as a witness in a case against an immigration officer who’d been charged with making illegal raids and pocketing confiscated money only to have to admit that he didn’t know the title of the landmark Supreme Court case that made the Miranda rights part of every cop’s lexicon. Even after Kennedy laid out $1,000 for a six-week bar-review course, it wasn’t clear that he cared about the exam, especially after he was photographed “studying” poolside at a Los Angeles hotel. But he did pass, earning a $1,000 raise and the right to try cases in court. In his first solo prosecution, he went up against a burglar who was caught asleep in his victim’s bed, his pockets stuffed with her jewelry. He eventually graduated to bigger cases involving Mafia families, labor racketeering at a big newspaper, and construction fraud, but one state-supreme-court judge before whom he’d appeared said, “I don’t think he had the potential to be a great trial lawyer. His passion lies elsewhere.”

Eventually, he won a share of respect from bosses and coworkers. “There’s a premium on certain intellectual as opposed to advocacy skills in investigations,” says Cherkasky. ` John fit that.” Working on what’s called “intake” once a month, interviewing complainants off the street, he proved a natural at getting people to open up and at judging when they were telling the truth.

After two and a half years in the DA’s office, Kennedy transferred to a trial bureau. “He wanted something quicker,” says Carragher. “He wanted the action. He wanted to do a trial where the defendant wasn’t asleep.”

In his first case in the trial bureau, he prosecuted two men who’d run a chicken stand in Harlem that burned down just after they took out fire insurance. An accelerant had been lit with a match in the store, but the evidence against the owners was circumstantial, and the only witness was a felon who didn’t want to testify. Kennedy extracted the testimony he needed during a complex, three-week trial. “It was a loser and John won it,” says Carragher.

That, and others. In four years as an assistant DA-a year longer than the normal term of service-Kennedy had a perfect 6-0 conviction record. A political career now seemed logical. When Kennedy had introduced Uncle Teddy at the 1988 Democratic National Convention, he’d electrified the delegates by invoking his father’s name. “So many of you came into public service because of him,” Kennedy said in a prime-time speech. “In a very real sense, because of you, he is with us still.” The two-minute ovation that followed seemed a fitting kickoff to his first campaign.

During John’s law-school years, he and several friends had convened weekly “issues meetings,” sessions that Bobby Kennedy Jr. characterized as “just a private thing that he does.” Might they lead to elected office? “It’s something that, you know, you never say never and it’s obviously a source of interest, but I’ll just see,” John equivocated shortly before quitting the DAs office. “I don’t really know.”

* * *

JOHN MAY HAVE OWED at least some of his indecision to a more pressing interest in the Kennedys’ other familial pursuit: sexual conquest. A glorious mosaic of women threw themselves at John Jr. At the district attorney’s, a cleaning woman who’d squabbled with Carragher and stopped cleaning his office began spending hours a day in it once John moved in. “She dusted the underside of the desk,” Carragher says. “She just wouldn’t leave.” Paralegals had to screen deliveries and open John’s mail, which often contained unsolicited pictures of women. Once, an admirer sent a cappuccino machine.

Kennedy is a gentleman. “He doesn’t pick up girls and screw them and dump them out of the car,” says a woman who has known him a long time. “He’s pretty tame for a guy who’s that good-looking.” But at the same time, he’s no innocent. Womanizing-and pride in it-is, as historian Garry Wills has pointed out, “a very important and conscious part of the male Kennedy mystique.” John, blessed with looks almost as stirring as his name, was an early enthusiast. A prep-school classmate, when asked what he thought young Kennedy would be doing in ten years, answered plainly: “Dating.”

As an old friend puts it, “He got around a lot. He didn’t capitalize on it. Things just came his way.”

John’s one foray into filmmaking, a 1990 coming-of-age movie written by, produced by and starring college friends and called A Matter of Degrees, played on the young man’s studly proclivities. Identified in the credits as a “guitar-playing Romeo,” he had a tiny role as a fellow consumed with coupling. In one scene, he strums his instrument and tunelessly proclaims to an adoring paramour, “Oh, baby, I can’t live without your love.” Moments later, he is shown quarreling with the woman.

“What does it matter what we do when we’re not together?” he pleads with her.

“Because when we’re not together,” she answers, “you’re fucking Alison,” referring to another of his love interests.

Like his grandfather, who used to keep Gloria Swanson around even while his wife, Rose, was on hand, and his father, who pursued Marilyn Monroe, Angie Dickinson, and Gene Tierney. John Kennedy Jr. has long favored actresses. His longest and most notable liaison was with Daryl Hannah, herself rich and social. They first met as youngsters on vacation with their families on St. Martin. They met again after John’s aunt Lee Radziwill married Herb Ross, who had directed Hannah in the film Steel Magnolias.

That this affair-and numerous others-was carried on in public showed John to be more like his mother than his father. Just like Jackie O., her son can be a furtive exhibitionist. When he strips off his shirt to play Frisbee in the park, when he smooches girls on street corners or coaxes them into shorts at sea, he’s cruising for the cameras, just as his mother was when she unknowingly “posed” for her famous topless photos on Ari Onassis’s island, Skorpios.

Kennedy has kept his voice out of the public record except in carefully crafted snippets, but he puts himself on view with insouciance. He can afford the privacy and luxury of limousines, yet he propels himself around town on Rollerblades and a bicycle. “Aristocrats are dangerously uninhibited men,” writes Nelson W Aldrich Jr., a chronicler of the American upper class. “Like David the King and [Fitzgerald's] Tom Buchanan, they are sensual, ruthless, and intemperate.”

The story is told that John used to walk around the campus of Brown in gym shorts so brief they emphasized an endowment almost as impressive as the university’s. In New York, he has continued to flaunt himself. When he lived on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, even after he was declared the sexiest man alive, he used to sprawl at an outdoor table at the Jackson Hole hamburger joint, shirt off. One neighborhood woman says Kennedy would stop her to ask for the time. “My sense was that he was dying for attention, dying for people to look at him,” she says.

* * *

JOHN KENNEDY DEVELOPED a public image as a dilettante and nourished it as he grew. As early as 1983, he was dubbed “the least competitive Kennedy” in a book about the family. Once, asked whom he had admired as a child, he said, “I guess I have to answer that honestly. My role models were Mick Jagger and Muhammad Ali, actually.” Even as he spent his days prosecuting petty thieves and swindlers, he seemed to pour his heart mostly into partying and exercising; at one point, he belonged to three Manhattan health clubs at once. “If I had to pick a defect on him, I’d be hard put to find one,” Bobby Kennedy Jr. once said, “except that he pays more attention to his clothes than the rest of us.”

The effect wasn’t always salutary. He showed up at his thirtieth-birthday party in a custom-made maroon zoot suit and leopard wing tips.

His one consistent interest apart from women-acting-heightened the impression that he was unserious. By many accounts, he was a natural and precocious actor. “He’s got an incredible ear for mimicry, and he used to tell us all stories in an Irish brogue or in Russian character or Scottish,” his cousin Bobby once recounted. “This is starting when he was nine or ten years old, and he’d have all the grandchildren listening to him … A lot of us were a lot older than him, and he could keep us entertained.”

It didn’t take long for Kennedy’s hobby to bloom into a potential career path. He was only eighteen when the film producer Robert Stigwood offered him a role playing his father as a young man. That. didn’t happen, but other professional parts did.

Jackie Kennedy soon showed the world how iron her will could be when it came to her son’s future. “Jackie was a loving but extremely demanding mother,” says her cousin John Davis. “John wanted to be an actor, and she dissuaded him. She didn’t think it was a dignified profession. She didn’t like Hollywood at all.”

But Jackie’s friend Rudolf Nureyev criticized John for giving up the stage. “Show some balls!” the ballet star told him, according to author Diana DuBois. “Do what you want!”

One of John’s closest friends heatedly denies that his mother’s influence steered him from his own chosen path. “John has a compass,” he says. “He’s usually pointed in the right direction. Did Jackie guide him? Probably. But he went to law school because he likes to learn and law was a natural thing for him to do.”

Whatever the reason, John abandoned acting for membership on the board of Naked Angels, a society-oriented company that produces plays in Manhattan and benefit galas in the Hamptons.

With an acting career out of the question, John left the district attorney’s office in mid-1993 and seemed to plunge ever deeper into triviality. A very public manwithout-anything-special-to-do, he grew a goatee, showed up at parties for rock groups, and appeared at the opening of a technology installation created by his brother-in-law, Ed Schlossberg, that was held in the lobby of an office building.

He glided around the city like a tomcat. He moved from the Upper West Side to an apartment he shared with Daryl Hannah, then bought a loft in TriBeCa. It looked as if he was finally going to marry the big blond starlet: She was spotted buying an antique wedding dress at a flea market, and the couple went on a scuba trip to the South Pacific and Asia. “Daryl really liked him,” says Chicago gal-about-town and novelist Sugar Rautbord. “She was desperate to marry him.” But John couldn’t, or wouldn’t, commit. Only two months after tabloid reporters descended on Cape Cod, expecting a Kennedy-Hannah wedding, John was seen kissing Carolyn Bessette, a PR woman for Calvin Klein, near the finish line of the New York City Marathon.

* * *

FOR ALL HIS LESS THAN ZERO gadabouting, John was still struggling with the driving Kennedy will to succeed. “You don’t want to be a passenger on the liner,” he’d told Carragher when he quit as an assistant DA. Would he enroll at Harvard’s John Fitzgerald Kennedy School of Government, or join the Clinton administration, or perhaps even run for Congress? Nothing came of any of it. (He turned down a House race, says Carragher, because “any semblance of privacy John has ever had, he’s had to fight for. The only claim he has to keep it is to remain a private citizen.”)

But the dynastic imperative can overwhelm an American aristocrat. “If society as a whole is to gain by mobility and openness of structure,” a former Harvard president, Charles W Eliot, once said of his class, “those who rise must stay up in successive generations, that the higher level of society may be constantly enlarged.” As Aldrich puts it, this craving for success follows a set pattern. For the founding generation, it’s all about money, ruthlessly acquired (by, say, bootlegging. For the next generation, public service (serving as senator, attorney general, president, for example becomes the vehicle, because nothing better highlights the freedom money conveys than selflessly boosting the commonweal.

The third generation, though, is often swept away by the liberties unsheathed by trust funds. They “exert a terrific centrifugal force on the spirits of their inheritors,” writes Aldrich, “constantly threatening to shoot them out into trackless space.”

Young John Kennedy has certainly seemed more trackless than most. But he was actually trying to keep his end of what Garry Wills calls the “Kennedy contract,” a compact whose components are “power, money, fame.” John Jr. had the latter as a birthright. He had enough of the second to keep him comfortable. All he lacked was the first.

* * *

JACQUELINE KENNEDY ONASSIS died of lymphatic cancer at 10:15 P.M. on May 19, 1994, in her Fifth Avenue apartment, with John, Caroline, and Maurice Tempelsman at her bedside. “John was at his desk at 8:30 A.M. the day after the burial,” a friend says. “He did exactly what Jackie would have done. He went back to work.”

What he was working on was a magazine. It was the first real risk of his professional life.

The idea had come to him a year and a half earlier, on a night shortly after Bill Clinton was elected president. Over dinner, John and a pal, Michael Berman, started talking about how the way people looked at politics had changed. “Politicians have taken their cue from the entertainment industry” is how John puts it. “Al Gore on David Letterman was that show’s number-one-rated show for that year.” He pauses and shakes his head in wonder. `Al Gore.”

Was there something in this for them? No one is sure who said it first, but the question was asked that fall night: “What about a magazine?”

The idea was intriguing. Existing political magazines, Kennedy believes, haven’t “caught up with the moment.” Then there were the other, larger issues a publication could capture-”power and personality, triumph and loss, the pursuit and price of ambition for its own sake and for something larger,” all subjects with which John has more than a nodding acquaintance. Despite the irony inherent in running precisely the sort of venture he’d been running away from all his life, he and Berman decided to give it a try.

They’d been friends for years. The son of a real estate developer from Princeton, New Jersey, Berman had prepped at Lawrenceville, earned a degree in history from Lafayette College, and then gone. into public relations. He met Kennedy through mutual friends on the city’s party scene in the early 1980s.

When John entered law school in 1986, he stayed in touch with Berman, and in 1988, they first went into business together. Kennedy had gone kayaking and come home raving about some handmade boats he called “the Rolls Royces of kayaks.” John wanted to buy out the small company in Maine that made them, manufacture kits, distribute them nationally, and teach others to make the kayaks. Nothing came of the plan, but the two men never abandoned the corporate entity they’d established to do the deal. It was called Random Ventures, which for the next six years seemed an apt description of John’s approach to life.

After Kennedy became an assistant DA, Berman evolved into John’s Sancho Panza. “The press became an issue,” says a close friend. So whenever a media problem came up, John suggested that the DA’s overworked press office hand it off to Berman. “At first, it was once every three months,” John’s friend says. “Then it was every three days.” After John failed the bar exam for the second time, the calls started coming every couple of hours.

Meanwhile, Berman was building his own PR business, representing clients like Cointreau, Pfizer pharmaceuticals, DuraSoft, and the Mexican tourist board. Although he was and remains a Democrat, he also helped run the annual White House Easter-egg roll throughout George Bush’s presidency. But by mid-1993, Berman was as eager to move out of PR work as John was to find a direction, so when the men came up with the idea for a magazine, they threw themselves into it with equal fervor.

Working first at a desk at Kennedy Enterprises and later from space in Berman’s office in New York’s Flatiron district, John used his name to secure meetings with potential backers, including Edgar Bronfman Jr., who, like young Kennedy, traced his money to the liquor business but wanted to make his own mark in the world. “Every door was open to them,” says a friend of John’s. “But that was good news and bad news. Did these people believe, or did they just want to meet John?” Berman and Kennedy would joke about charging a million dollars for a first meeting with potential investors, because that was really all many of them wanted.

Kennedy’s mother set up a meeting between John and her friend Joe Armstrong, who’d worked in magazine publishing for twenty years. “John was determined not to do what people expected,” Armstrong says. Soon, he, Kennedy, and Berman were meeting regularly.

The impulse behind the magazine, at least at first, was high-minded. Berman and Kennedy wanted it to be populist, nonpartisan, and centered on process instead of personalities or party politics. They thought that would appeal to people aged twenty to forty who felt disenfranchised by politics but still wanted access to the circles of power. The magazine would have a small circulation based more on subscriptions than newsstand sales. “Publishing,” says Armstrong, recounting his meetings with Kennedy, “looked like a way to approach public service and keep a balance in his life.”

Unfortunately, few of the people they talked to were interested in helping young Kennedy work it all out. When Jann Wenner, a longtime Kennedy-family friend, heard of the project after reading about it in a media newsletter, he was irate. “What’s this about?” he allegedly asked John. “You better see me immediately. Politics doesn’t sell. It’s not commercial.”

Using some of the family’s media contacts, Kennedy and Berman wended their way through the tight inner circles of the New York-based magazine industry, a gossipy enclave whose nervous denizens simultaneously pray for new publications that might employ them and denigrate any new idea that isn’t their own. In connect-the-dots fashion, they talked to several former editors at 7 Days, an upscale New York weekly that flamed and then flopped in the early 1990s. “It was very much amateur hour,” says one of the many people whose brains were picked.

* * *

BY FALL 1994, BERMAN AND KENNEDY were getting dispirited. “People didn’t get it,” a friend of John’s says. “It wasn’t an easy sell.” They’d won the promise of about s3 million in funding, but their advisers warned that it wasn’t enough. Finally, to scare up more interest, they leaked the venture to the gossip columns.

Some were surprised that Kennedy was joining the very craft that had hounded him so mercilessly throughout his life, forgetting that his grandfather had palled around with journalists-had even chased skirts with New York Times Washington columnist Arthur Krock-decades before. His mother, too, had built a sweet career in patrician publishing, editing celebrity and art books at Doubleday, and President Kennedy, so his son was told, had hoped to run a newspaper after leaving the White House. “I think the idea was somewhat inevitable,” John says of the magazine he’d started calling George. “Both my parents not only loved words but spent a good part of at least their professional lives in the word business.”

Undeterred by the naysayers, Berman and Kennedy decided in late 1994 to test their idea by mailing solicitations for the nonexistent George to 150,000 people whose names were drawn from other magazines’ subscription lists. The offer, for a twenty-four-dollar-a-year charter subscription, was aimed mostly at media junkies; the copy said less about George than about other magazines. “George is to politics what Rolling Stone is to music. Forbes is to business. Allure is to beauty Premiere is to films,” read the piece. It was a “soft” offer that didn’t require a check, but the response was encouraging. Mailings that didn’t mention Kennedy’s name got a solid 5 percent response; those that did attracted even more, 5.7 percent.

Sensing, finally, that something might happen with their project, Kennedy and Berman also began changing. The high-mindedness with which they’d originally approached the venture began slowly giving way to a desire to succeed, whatever changes in tone, look, or content that required.

George Lois found this out shortly after he got involved with George.

The rumpled veteran adman, whose Esquire covers in the 1960s set the pace for international magazine design, was one of the many approached by the duo for input. “I’m the kind of schmuck, I got excited,” he says. “And suddenly I was designing his magazine.” Lois designed a logo-a truncated version of George Washington’s signature, pared down to his almost unreadable initials. Beneath it, Lois put the words WE CANNOT TELL A LIE.

Using his own money, Lois also produced a series of outrageous covers. Richard Nixon had just died, so he got Alger Hiss to pose for one, over a headline derived from a classic Esquire line about Nixon: WHY IS THIS MAN SMILING? A photograph of a torso in a pinstripe suit was captioned, TOTALLY NEW ADVICE TO FUTURE CANDIDATES: KEEP IT ZIPPED! A photograph of Barbra Streisand with a smudge on her nose ran with the line BROWN-NOSING: HOLLYWOOD DOES WASHINGTON, WASHINGTON DOES HOLLYWOOD.

Kennedy and Berman loved the covers-at first. “A week later, they’d tell me, `Everybody says you can’t do that,”‘ said Lois. After a few more meetings, he gave up. “If you want a safe magazine,” he told them, “you’ve got the wrong guy.”

Eventually, the notion of using George to stimulate involvement in politics joined irreverence on the sidelines as John and Berman started talking about politics as theater and their magazine as a glossy journal for the not entirely engaged.

“The basic concept,” says Roger Black, the design director of Esquire, who was consulted by the pair at that point, was “to be a half-fan, half-insider magazine, not a New Republic or a political-science journal. They felt people were ready for a magazine treating politics like entertainment.”

“Michael positioned it as a Vanity Fair-ish product,” says one of their consultants. “That wasn’t necessarily John’s first instinct.” But Kennedy quickly got with the program. “They wanted Herb Ritts, Annie Leibovitz, Bruce Weber, nonpolitical writers,” says John’s close friend.

They edged even closer to glitz after Hachette Filipacchi Magazines got involved. The American arm of a giant French media company, Hachette is the nation’s fourth-largest magazine company, with twenty-two titles and $750 million in revenues. The company, which owns Elle and the successful but unglamorous Car and Driver and Road & Track, has expanded mainly via high-profile acquisitions. Here was an opportunity to get credit for starting something hot and turn America’s crown prince into a corporate hood ornament.

Hachette CEO David Pecker had been pursuing Kennedy and Berman ever since he’d heard about George at a benefit dinner in June 1994. After several months of unrequited messages and letters, John finally called him back. “I just want you to know we have a lot of interest, and not just in having lunch with John Kennedy” Pecker told him.

They finally met in December. Pecker subsequently studied the George projections and called some key potential advertisers, concentrating on the Detroit automobile manufacturers he’d dealt with in his fifteen years as a publisher of car magazines. Other meetings were arranged, with Jean-Louis Ginibre, Hachette’s editorial director, and then, over lunch at Le Bernardin, with Daniel Filipacchi, its chairman.

A fifty-fifty agreement was signed in mid-February between Hachette and the duo’s company, Random Ventures. Their venture wasn’t random anymore. Berman, now George’s executive publisher, sold his PR business and, with editor-in-chief Kennedy, moved into a conference room on the Hachette floor where Elle is produced. Not long afterward, they moved to a floor they share with, among others, the staffs of Elle Decor, Family Life, and Metropolitan Home.

Hachette, a company with a strong newsstand emphasis, isn’t interested in an earnest subscription-based magazine about issues and ideas. “Suddenly, the struggle over the direction of the magazine is very serious,” says someone who’s been inside George. “There are different conceptions. John is smart, but he lacks an edge. He’s one of the least assertive people you’ll ever meet; he’s never had to assert himself-he’s John Kennedy! Now, suddenly, he’s in a huge corporation. He wants a magazine of ideas with a sugar coating. They want a political People.”

Early on, Ginibre suggested renaming the magazine Criss-Cross, after the lines of power, money, and culture that circumscribe the fluid boundaries of its beat. Then, when some of the initial designs seemed to resemble Elle Decor and one of the editors expressed’ his doubts, the art director assigned to the project supposedly snapped, “I was hired by Hachette-I work for Hachette!”

“They got off to a bad start,” John’s friend admits. It was worse for Berman than for Kennedy. Walls had to be torn down to make the executive publisher’s office comparable to the editor in chief’s, although Kennedy’s still has the better view of New Jersey Central Park, and all of northern Manhattan. Pecker won’t discuss the reports of internal discord, but he seems to refer to them in one pointed comment: “Normally in business, the person who puts up the money has the last say.”

Pecker is a happy guy these days, and not just because he has America’s prince in his pocket. George has booked 160 pages in ads for its first issue. “We’ve already sold ads for eight issues,” Pecker crows. “We know where we’re going to be.” It’s said that Ginibre has suggested in a memo that the magazine must go all soft and gooey toward the powerful people it hopes to feature in its pages in order to gain their cooperation, and that John must be as public as Tina Brown. How he’ll cope with that expectation is yet to be seen, but he’s already been reported to have interviewed George Wallace and to have requested a chat with everyone’s favorite undeclared presidential candidate, Colin Powell.

* * *

SO IT IS THAT THESE DAYS, John Kennedy has finally abandoned his directionless life, all but vanished from the club scene, and joined the working class. He gets up early every morning and exercises, then bikes from TriBeCa to his midtown office, carrying his front wheel upstairs in elevators where JFK Jr. sightings have ceased to incite hormonal frenzies. In an office decorated with images of the magazine’s namesake (including a blown-up dollar bill on Kennedy’s door, he meets writers, makes ad calls, and often works late. He’s even issued a memo instructing his staff that he expects them there when he arrives at 8:30 in the morning.

Off-hours, he still sees Bessette, but there are others. “We’re talking about John Kennedy!” his friend guffaws. Finally, he has bigger things on his mind than whom he’ll be with at night; he’s made his bed in a much different place than the one he and Berman first imagined that night after Bill Clinton’s election.

Initially Hachette promised only to produce and distribute two issues of George. But soon, the company upped its commitment, pledging to go bimonthly early in 1996 and monthly in September ’96, two months before the next presidential election, at a total investment it puts, vaguely, between $5 million and $20 Million. “I pushed them to do a magazine that connects with a lot of people,” says Ginibre. From Kennedy and Berman’s original idea of a small journal that encouraged participation in politics, George has grown into a magazine its publishers hope will sell three hundred thousand to four hundred thousand copies on newsstands each month-or about what vanity Fair, with its Hollywood covers, manages to sell.

If George does, the magazine will connect not through the language of politics or journalism but through the new voice of success in America: entertainment. John has made this clear in the way he has described George to potential advertisers. It will showcase “politics as miniseries, suspense thriller, comedy, sometimes even great drama,” he’s said.

Examples? George has commissioned an article on Newt Gingrich’s lesbian half sister, a piece by Roseanne titled “If I Were President,” and a review by James Carville of the new A1 Pacino film, City Hall, which a source says will actually be ghostwritten by a George staffer, and it has considered a story by a New York gossip columnist on fundraising benefits. But the biggest tip-off is George’s covers. The first issue will likely feature Cindy Crawford, shot by Herb Ritts and posed like Washington. Anthony Hopkins, made up for his role as the star of Oliver Stone’s Nixon, is in the running for cover number two.

“They don’t even feel the need to pretend to serious intentions,” says rival Martin Peretz, the editor in chief and owner of The New Republic, a magazine that became indispensable for a time when President Kennedy made it a favorite read (right up there with Ian Fleming’s James Bond novels). “A magazine like this will reflect the interest of the public but cannot stimulate it,” Peretz sniffs.

Samir Husni, the acting chairman of the journalism department at the University of Mississippi, has made a ten-year study of consumer magazines. “So far, George has had a great reception in the advertising community because of JFK’s name,” he says. “The danger, of course, is that when you have this high expectation, everyone is going to judge it with a sharp razor edge.”

The big question, concludes Husni, is this: “Is there a magazine behind the hype?”

Even some of the people who worked on the prototype of George are leery about its intentions and prospects. “Glitz is a tightrope walk,” says one. “Run enough stories on Hillary’s dressmaker and Tabitha Soren, and serious people won’t return your phone calls.”

But perhaps they will anyway-showing that John Fitzgerald Kennedy Jr. may know more about the power of politics and the politics of power than anyone suspects.

By: Michael Gross for Esquire Magazine

[the-canary]

Of Gravity and Revolution - B.B

Summary: Moving into a new university, James Barnes didn’t except to fall in love with the professor next door. (College Professor AU!Reader/Bucky Barnes)

Masterlist

A/N: This is for @redgillan and her love towards Prof. Bucky! There is a lot of mention of political science, I’m sooo sorry. 

Please enjoy! Like always, feedback is always welcomed.

James Buchanan Barnes understood early on that things were done differently in a smaller university. For one he had more interactions with students and its diverse faculty, on the other hand resources were a bit more limited, a bit more cramped. He learned this while staring at his new office on the 5 floor of the central lecture hall. Back in the city, he and the rest of the astrophysics department had a whole building to themselves, here he was cramped in together with the political science, religious studies, and various other little sects that came with this private university’s curriculum. It didn’t bother him, but it was definitely a shock.

The small room barely fits half the books that used to fit in his old office, but James takes it all with stride as he tries to make it feel like his own -- a poster here, some books there, a picture of himself with Peggy and Steve when they were graduate students. He’s too preoccupied moving things to notice a figure standing at his opened door, obviously appreciating the view before knocking on the door.

“Hi neighbor,” a raspy voice exclaims, as he turns to see a woman dressed in jeans and a t-shirt standing in behind him, and while classes hasn’t started yet, James knows this woman feels at home within these walls and how she carries herself, which is very different approach to his dress slacks and rolled up blue shirt.

“Hi,” he gets up and walks over to her with a cool smile on his face as he stretches out his hand, “Dr. James Barnes, Astrophysics Department.”

“Oh, so you’re the one they replaced Rumlow with,” she makes a face at the name, like many of the other staff that James had met with, as she shakes his hand. She states her own name before explaining.

“...I’ve work a few doors down, part of the Pol Sci Department,” she explains with an easygoing smile that catches his attention and doesn’t let go. She’s about explain something when her name is called down the other side of the hallway. They both turn to see a short red-haired women wearing a formal blouse and skirt. She nods and looks at James one more time before moving away.

“If you need a tour of the place, let me know.”

James can’t take her up on that offer, since Dr. Banner --the Dean of the Science Department-- shows him around the school a couple of hours after that. The beginning of fall semester begins and James finds himself busy between the classes that he has, the club that he is supposed to be running, and other tasks handed to him as the only other member of this part of the department. However, he sees her from time to time.

“Good morning, Dr. Barnes,” she says with a smile.

“How are you classes so far?” she asks one time when they are walking together through the university’s lawn.

“Are you choosing that for lunch?” she asks while standing behind him in line waiting to get a late lunch.

A laugh or the sight of a bright smile catches him off guard when they are both heading towards their offices or going into the faculty lunch area and he had a dire need to learn more about her. Slowly, he learns that she’s the senior most member of the Political Science Department, as the expert of history and political theory before the 20th century. The rest of the department is also women with Prof. Romanoff leading anything during and after the 20th century and Dr. Hill leading any American and Law studies. It was an intimating group of women, but James didn’t see it that way -- not with her.

5 minutes.

James thinks as he stares at the digital clock on his computer. It had become a small ritual as of late for him to get up and have lunch just before his first class of the day started since all his classes where during the afternoon and evening. If he timed leaving his office well enough, he would get to see you.

“Oh! Good afternoon,” you say with a bright smile as you open your door, as he closes his, to put your books back into your office. James gives you a smile, as he peaks in a little more. Your office is certainly messier than his with piles of books everywhere, some potted plants near the window that faced the courtyard, and posters here and there from various films. You place the books on your cluttered desk before turning back to look at him.

“How were your classes today?” it is the same question he had asked you since the beginning of this little dalliance since most of your classes where in the early morning and evening hours; it was the only time he really got with you and he tried to make the most of it. His heart stutters a bit at the sight of your smile, as you go on to explain what the freshman did in your World History class and the upperclassmen did in your Revolutions class. You explain theory as best you could and add little anecdotes here and there. You laugh and ask his opinion on current events, and if anyone saw the two of you, they could swear James Barnes had the most tender look on his face.     

It’s a little later in the semester when he hears it, a soft song playing throughout the hall that houses his office after his last evening class. James cocks an eyebrow as he makes his way to his office. Then, he sees a light coming from your office and the music playing a little louder than before. He takes cautious steps and sees you, hair in a messy bun with a stack of green books and takeout on the side. He smiles as you tap the red pen to the beat of the song. You’re marking a green book with all red as he knocks the door.

“Grading?” he asks, as you jump a little to the sound of his voice. You give him tired smile and nod telling him to come in. Your office is a little less cluttered than before since he can actually sit down, as you turn off the music.

“Alice in Chains?” he lets out a soft laugh at your taste in music because with every new day he is learning a little bit more about you and sometimes it surprises him. You grin as you take a bite out of your food.

“Older brothers are big Grunge fans,”  you explain, before going back to tapping your red pen and adding as an afterthought, “You got any siblings?”

“Three younger sisters,” he declares as you let out a painful whistle and proceed to ask him how that was like, which soon turns into swapping embarrassing childhood stories. The papers you were grading are long forgotten, though neither of you forget that night any time soon.

Talks and random moments soon turn into more in depth conversations and exchanging books over the main subjects you love, though it is a little hard to understand at times for the other party. Natasha points this out during one of your shared lunches to talk about the political science students and their next classes.

“You seriously gave him Fukuyama to read?” Natasha scoffs behind her cup of coffee, as you shrug.

“I talked about it and he seemed interested,” you explain a little more horrified than before, as you take a bit out of your burger. She shakes her head, clearly not thinking that such a man would exists.

“I mean, you could have started him out with Plato, Rousseau, hell even Marx,” she exclaims in subtle disbelief, “But, no, give him ‘time is cyclical’ man. Either you want him to run or you…”

Green eyes stare at your face for a long while, trying to catch any changes as you give her a bright smile with flushed cheeks, Natasha curses under her breathe but can’t help but smile at the same time too. It had been a long time since you had been this happy.

“So, what are you reading?” she questions, as Maria enters the dinning hall and she knows her time is limited before everything really goes into business mode.  

“Neil de Grase Tyson,” you answer and she laughs.

The science students may not have known Dr. Barnes long enough to see the difference, but the political science students could see that you smiled more. You might still have some of the hardest classes in the department, but there was certainly something light about you. A group of upperclassmen, mostly young woman that liked talking and asking you questions, especially when you were spending those non-tutoring hours outside of your office, knew something was up -- something that they had never seen in the 3-4 years that they had spent studying underneath your tutelage. So, they hover around the hall after a few classes and while they get all their questions answered, they see something new -- the newest staff member watching your door.

It doesn’t take them along to put two and two together. So, before the winter semester ends, they gather around his office (when yours is empty) with bright smiles that send James into slight confusion.

“Her birthday is the last day of finals,” Helen, the oldest member declares, “She likes funny political puns and old cartoons. Just the let you know.”

James blinks for a moment.

“Good luck, Dr. Barnes,” they all coo before leaving and James quickly opens the notes app on his phone to remember the gold that had been given him, and let’s just say you had a very funny birthday present at the end of a tiring day at semester.

Winter break in a new city isn't any fun if you don’t know anyone and while James is aware that he could have gone home or spent the holidays with Steve and Peggy. He also wanted to get used to living in this new town, even if it was alone and he knew there were going to be times where he was needed within the university. And while he might have been hoping for something, for someone to spend the holidays with he was too chicken in the end to ask for your phone number, too afraid that what he wanted wasn’t how you pictured this casual friendships between coworkers. Then, on a wintry December he sees his work email has one new message.   

Dear James,

I am sorry if this may seem inappropriate to you, but I saw a stargazing event being advertised for this weekend. My curiosity was piqued, but I don’t know much about the subject. Since you do, would you mind going with me to the event?

I have attached a flyer to the event in the email.

James never answered an email so fast in his life before, as he yells in excitement in his kitchen. And slowly but surely, stargazing turns into lunch and coffee “meetings” between the two of you for the rest of winter break.

The spring semester eases you into a mix of both, from grading papers together in the evening to meeting every other during the weekend for some activity, and James swears that he’s falling for you at this point with your witty one liners and bright eyes that seem take in everything he talks about. However, fear gurgles at his throat at the thought of putting a label at whatever you have been dancing around. Labels aren’t important, he thinks but you put a stop to that.

“James, do you want to go to the Academic Showcase together?” you question as you mark another green book with your red pen, not seeing his surprised face. The Academic Symposium was a university event that encased all the research done by students who had done any independent study within the past year, everyone --including Deans and the President-- attended. This meant going public with whatever you had, and it caused him to pause.

“You don’t have to…” your quivering voice brings him back to reality, as he finds you staring at him with a smile, which by now he knew wasn’t good. So, he places at hand over your own and grins.

“Of course, I’ll go. Gotta see my girl’s work after all,” he gives you a crooked grin before grasping your hand tightly into his own. The bright blush on your face telling him that it might all right to call you his cause that familiar feeling to bloom again, as he goes back to that crazy l-word once more.

Now, due to it being his first year, James doesn’t have anything to present. So, he takes his time walking around and taking in all the presentations, some catching his interest more than others as he gets more excited as he gets closer to your side of the room. That’s when he sees you, wearing a glimmering black dress, while answering any questions your student can’t seem to answer about the French Revolution and St. Just. Starry eyed and varies hand motions with that upticked smile and James knows he’s done for -- he’s in love.

He watches until all the important people are called for dinner and your student is dragged away by a very curious donor of the school. He walks over and slides his arm around your waist as you melt right at his side like you belong there. You look at him and smile.

“You’re amazing,” he declares as he moves over to look over the work you helped put together. You grin while turning to look at him with a fondness he certainly hasn’t seen before.  

“I know,” you laugh, as he laughs before pulling you into a hug. His chest rumbles with laughter before you speak again, “But, you are too, and I can’t wait to see your work on display.”

James isn’t why he decides to say it in that moment, but the words of encouragement and steady belief in what you know he was capable of awes him. Your grip and on his jacket and those bright red lips tell James that’s he’s done, that this is it.

“I love you,” he murmurs softly, hoping you didn’t hear him but the soft kiss on his cheek tells him a different story. You move your hand to have his face looking at  yours and for a moment James fears what you might say, until he sees your eyes filled with nothing but adoration.  

“Love ya too, Bucky,” you answer back, light and joyfully with a huge grin, as you call him by his childhood nickname and he isn’t quite so sure where you had heard it from --maybe, when he was talking about Steve again?-- but he decides it’s the best way he has ever heard it being said before.

And underneath the sparkling light and St. Just’s watchful eyes, James feels the start of something new, something permanent beginning to form -- a small revolution all on its own.  

[mikotyzini]

Living Fiction - Intro to Bumblebee Week

Hey everyone!  Bumblebee week starts tomorrow (follow @bmblbweek) and I’ve written (or tried to write) a single story for all the prompts.  This is just an introduction - I’ll be back with more chapters every day this week!

“Um...sorry to bother you...”

Sticking one finger to the page to mark her place, Blake looked up and found a young girl approaching the front desk.  From the expression on her face and the hesitant comment, she was worried that she was inconveniencing Blake in some way.  Under ordinary circumstances she might be, but when Blake was sitting at the reception desk it was her responsibility to field questions.

“How can I help you?” she asked, going as far as to close the book to make it clear that the incoming request would have her complete attention.

“I think so...I’m looking for this book for a history report.”  As she spoke, the girl handed Blake a small piece of paper that had several words and numbers scrawled across it.  Turning it around and reading the title with its accompanying shelf number, Blake nodded and pointed off to her right.

“It’s going to be in that second aisle right there,” she explained, gesturing with one hand while returning the piece of paper. “The third bookcase on the left, fourth shelf from the bottom.”

Narrowing her eyes and mouthing the directions to herself, the girl eventually nodded and smiled.

“Thanks!” she said before heading the way she’d been directed.

After making sure the girl walked into the correct aisle, Blake flipped her book open, found her spot on the page, and continued reading.

Working at the campus library was an easy job. Sitting at the reception desk, she pointed students in the right direction for specific textbooks and coordinated sign-ups for the study rooms lining the walls of the building - prime meeting spots for students who needed to work on group projects.

But mostly, she read her own books and worked on her own homework while waiting for anyone to need her help.  It was this freedom that had drawn her to the position to begin with.  Well, that and needing a job to help with some of the costs of attending school here.

Admittedly, being paid to read was basically her dream job. If she had to help out a few fellow students every once in a while, that was a small sacrifice to make.

Reaching the end of the chapter, she glanced at the clock and - when she saw what time it was - decided not to move on.  It was right after dinner on a Wednesday, which probably wasn’t a very special time for most people.  In fact, Wednesday was only the fifth best day of the week (narrowly beating Monday and Tuesday) - there were still two full days until the weekend, most tests or big projects fell on Thursday or Friday, and very few social events would happen on campus.

Those reasons mattered very little to Blake though. Wednesday evening meant it was time to close her book, set it off to the side, and try to convince her heart to stop speeding up in anticipation of what was going to happen soon.

She was hesitant to call this her favorite part of the week - doing so would only make the rest of her week sound incredibly drab and boring.  There were other times she highly enjoyed - like reading or spending time with a few close friends on the weekend - but it was this particular moment that she...looked forward to.  It was exciting in a way that the rest of her week was not.  It was exhilarating, even - which was the first time she could apply that term to real life.  It wasn’t a word she used lightly either, being saved only for the books she read, and for the approaching weekly occasion.

It would last a few minutes at most, but the short amount of time did nothing to prevent her eyes from flitting towards the entrance of the library every few seconds.  Students from every year were filtering in and out, unaware of her expectation as fragments of their conversations reached her ears.  Progress made on a group paper, plans for the weekend, grades on a recent exam - it was a typical university library, filled with typical university students.

Except one.

Blake heard the distinct voice before the door even opened, filtering in from outside and catching her attention as easily as someone waving a hand in front of her face.  She always told herself that she would play it cool - that she would keep her eyes focused on the notebook she had open in front of her - but she always failed.  Turning to the left, she watched with bated breath as the next group of students walked into the library.

And the best - most exciting, most anticipated, most thrilling - part of Blake’s week finally arrived.

Her name was Yang Xiao Long and she was, unequivocally, the most beautiful girl in the entire school.  There must be thousands of students enrolled at Vale University, but Yang outshone them all.  With gorgeous blonde hair that fell in waves down her back, vibrant lilac eyes that sparkled in the light, a cheerful grin and even more magical smile...Yang had a magnetic aura that was unlike anyone else Blake had ever met.

Yang was the star of campus - the one sought after for every big party or event, the one whose name was scratched into far too many desks along with hearts or proclamations of love, and the one person who everyone at the school was almost guaranteed to know.

Because she was immensely popular, she was constantly surrounded by a group of friends or even larger group of gawkers.  But for this one short moment in time, every Wednesday after dinner, her sole attention would be fixed upon Blake.

Breaking away from the two girls she’d come in with (who Blake recognized as two stars of the track and field team), Yang walked over to the desk.  Maybe it was more appropriate to say that she sauntered, as normal walking couldn’t possibly draw so much attention.  And, while she’d already been wearing a smile, that smile grew when her eyes trained upon Blake - the friendliest of expressions one could ever hope to find.

“Hey!” Yang said, managing to call out in a voice that was soft enough to keep the peace and quiet of the library intact. “If it isn’t my favorite library worker. How’re you doing?”

If this was the way Yang greeted everyone, it was easy to see why she was adored around campus.

“Hi, Yang...” As much as she wanted to stare, Blake averted her eyes from the bright smile.  “I’m doing ok.  How are you?”

“Fantastic!”

When Yang said the word with such confidence, Blake couldn’t help but to smile and hope that the heat in her cheeks didn’t mean a blush was already surfacing.  This seemed like the point in the conversation where she should ask a follow-up question, but her mind was completely blank. All she could think about was how Yang’s eyes were watching her, almost as if they could see right through her. She sincerely hoped that wasn’t the case, because then Yang would see her scrambling to find another topic to talk about.

“Uh, so...how’s the library biz treating you?” Yang finally asked, shifting the strap of her bag on her shoulder but smiling all the same.

“Pretty much the same as usual,” Blake answered. “People coming in to study or...look for books...”

Again, the conversation stalled, and Blake’s personal discomfort rose as she imagined Yang’s did the same.  But if Yang was uncomfortable, she hid it behind a smile that never wavered.

“I guess normal is good,” she said, shooting a glance towards her friends before locking onto Blake’s gaze once more.  “I was wondering if there’s a room we could use?” she asked, pointing towards the other side of the library.  “Hopefully that one?”

It was an open secret between the two of them that Yang always wanted to use Study Room #8 if it was available.  In lieu of an official explanation for such a specific request, she’d made an offhand remark about how her lucky number was eight.  That was a good enough reason for Blake.  Plus, she preferred for Yang to use that room: it was the easiest to covertly steal glances into from the front desk.

In the end, Yang’s preference worked to both of their benefits.  Fortunately, since Blake was the one in charge of assigning rooms to students who wanted to reserve them, she exerted a fair amount of control over which groups went where.

Essentially, she made sure Study Room #8 was always available at this time on Wednesday.

“Number eight is open,” she replied, turning the book filled with room reservations around so Yang could fill out the information the library required of them.

“Must be my lucky day.”  After sending Blake a wink, Yang grabbed a pen off the desk and wrote her details in the appropriate boxes.  “There you go!” she said once she put the ending flourish on her signature.  “Need anything else from me?”

When Yang smiled again, it felt like she was inviting Blake to continue the conversation.  It was an opportunity Blake might have taken if she could think of anything to say.  Instead, she shook her head.

“That’s all we need,” she said, trying and failing to come up with anything better.  “Let me know if you need help with anything else?”

“Will do.”  Yang turned to leave but suddenly stopped.  “Oh, dang, almost stole your pen.”  Setting the pen on top of the notebook, Yang gave Blake one last smile.  “Thanks for being so helpful!”

“No problem,” Blake muttered, resisting the urge to bury her face in her hands in embarrassment while Yang walked back to her friends – who’d waited near the door this entire time.  Blake never quite understood why they didn’t come over to the desk too, but also didn’t mind that they decided to maintain a distance and chat amongst themselves.  It made Yang and Blake’s moment feel more private, for the short amount of time it lasted.

After a quick nod from Yang, the three of them headed into the room they’d reserved for the next couple of hours.  As they settled in, pulling out notebooks and textbooks from their bags, Blake began the process of dissecting the interaction that had just occurred and mentally kicking herself for the opportunities she’d missed.

Why couldn’t she think of something funny to say, or witty to ask?

Or, forget being funny or witty.  There were so many innocuous questions that could extend the conversation - how are exams going?  Any classes you really like or hate?  Best professors?  Weekend plans?  Asking any of those would have been better than what she’d just done.

It was easy to hold a conversation in her mind. By this point, the two of them had shared hundreds of seamless, imaginary conversations - all of them where Blake was witty or charming or made an interesting remark or two.  But when it came to the real moment, she was either too nervous or too...something...to speak like she normally did.

It usually wasn’t so difficult to find subjects to talk about.  With friends, classmates, coworkers, professors...it was a simple and relatively painless task to continue a friendly conversation.  But when it came to Yang, she froze up.

Maybe this happened because they had nothing in common.  They went to the same school, were in the same year, had some of the same classes…

Well, maybe they had some things in common, but they were on opposite ends of the social spectrum.  What common ground did they share?  Would Yang be interested in discussing books?  That seemed rather doubtful...especially considering that she didn’t seem like the type who would read for pleasure.

Sighing as a portion of her anticipation was replaced with regret, Blake did her best to moderate the number of times she glanced into the study room across the library.  Instead of checking up on the newest arrivals, she attempted to focus on her work - not that there was much to do.  As a student helper, her job was to do exactly that - help students.  When no students needed help, her job was to sit there and read.  And, on Wednesday evenings, to subtly send glances towards Study Room #8...while wishing she was more adept at leading a conversation.

Why did this matter so much?  So she wasn’t friends with the most popular girl in the school - that really wasn’t a surprise considering how she never sought out that type of popularity for herself.  Plus, she’d never liked being a blind member of ‘the crowd’ - chasing ways to earn respect and recognition from her peers.

For Yang, she made an exception.  However, her fascination hadn’t begun because of Yang’s appearance (although she’d be lying if she said that wasn’t a bit of a factor).  Rather, her interest was captured in their very first semester after a moment she witnessed firsthand.

It was a core class - macroeconomics. Arriving early, Blake had picked a seat in the last row like she normally did.  She liked the vantage point from the back of the classroom, plus, she’d never had any issues seeing the board like other students.  

There had been a few other familiar faces around her, one being a boy from her high school that she’d only known to be...a bit weird.  From the way the other students actively chose seats away from his, Blake assumed that she wasn’t the only one who could sense that vibe coming from him.  It wasn’t that he was mean.  He was just...weird.  And so, he sat on his own in one of the middle rows, off to the far side where it would be easy for him to escape at the end of class.

For all intents and purposes, it seemed like it would be just another class filled with first-year students who would be no more than strangers at the end of the semester.  But then Yang arrived.

Blake had actually turned around in search of the happy voice as it filtered through the door and had been rather stunned by the person who walked inside.

Yang already had a group of friends, of course, and she was chatting with them, motioning with her hands while they laughed at whatever joke she was telling.  When it came time to pick seats, her friends wanted to sit in one corner of the class - forming their own little clique that would be unapproachable in terms of beauty - but Yang scanned the room and then smiled.

Blake could still remember exactly what Yang’s response had been - “Naw, come on.  Let’s sit over here.”

Her friends had no choice but to follow as Yang plopped herself in the seat next to the boy no one else wanted to sit next to. Yang’s friends were far less sure about the choice of seating, but they wanted to sit close to Yang, so they sat down on her other side.  And the boy looked over in complete surprise when Yang introduced herself.

It was at that moment when Blake realized she’d just discovered both the prettiest and kindest girl in the school.  Even if Blake’s initial conclusion was hasty, Yang went on to prove its correctness over the course of the semester.  She never switched seats, and it looked like she and the boy became good friends by the time the final exam rolled around.

In addition to learning about macroeconomics, Blake learned a lot about Yang through observing her interactions with others in their class.  And, sometimes Yang would turn around and look towards the back of the class.  Whenever she did so, she always managed to catch Blake’s eyes for a split second - and it was those few seconds that built the sense of anticipation Blake carried with her to this day.

Ever since then she’d searched for opportunities to talk to Yang, but they belonged to different social spheres, to say the least. It was only after she started this job that they could, briefly on Wednesdays, share a moment that was probably meaningless to Yang - especially meaningless because, thus far, Blake had failed to make any type of impression.

Week after week passed with nothing more than the most incremental of incremental steps.  They were on a first name basis now, and Yang always referred to Blake’s position at the library in a complimentary way, but other than that...they could hardly be called friends at this point - they were stubbornly stuck at acquaintances.

Resigned to the utter lack of progress, Blake pulled over the stack of books she’d collected for herself before starting work earlier that day.  It was an assortment of novels from an assortment of genres, but she’d read them all at least once before - and some more than once.

Turning the spines towards her so the titles were readable, her eyes scanned from top to bottom before nodding to herself. Satisfied that the books were stacked in the proper order, she spun in her chair and grabbed her bag off of the floor beside her.  Reaching inside, she pulled out a long case made of thin aluminum that held her favorite set of bookmarks.

When she found them at a thrift store several months ago, she’d fallen in love with the designs.  Each featured a prominent color that was swirled in different shades and intricate patterns that created a nearly undetectable number hidden within. Featuring the numbers one through seven, Blake initially thought it was clever to have one bookmark for every day of the week; at the pace she read, it made sense too.

These days, she wished she had more than seven.

After picking out the bookmark with the number one on it - designed in a gorgeous gold that made her skin tingle - she grabbed the first book from her stack.  Flipping through, she found the chapter she was searching for before sticking the bookmark between the pages and setting the book aside.  She repeated the process with the second bookmark - this one a royal purple that had quickly become one of her favorite colors. Moving steadily through her stack of books and stack of bookmarks, she was mindful to handle each one carefully while completing the entire list.

Seven bookmarks, seven books, seven chapters.

By stringing different stories together, she was attempting to create a unique experience that went beyond the constraints of a singular novel.  Sometimes, the chapters came together to form a somewhat cohesive story - other times, they didn’t.  Either way, it was enjoyable to combine various moments from various chapters and live them close together rather than completing a story in full before moving on.

With the course of creation completed, she neatly re-stacked the books - that beautiful gold bookmark sticking out of the top book.  She reached out for it, her expectation rising, but paused when an abrupt motion caught her eye.

Yang had just shot out of her seat and was walking backward towards the door.  Her friends were talking, but it looked like they were teasing her based on their smiles.  Yang said something and they burst into laughter, the sound filtering through the door when Yang opened it and stepped into the main portion of the library.

Immediately dropping her hand, Blake watched as Yang walked towards her.  Her heart was speeding up again - the unintended consequence of an unexpected visit after their initial moment had passed.

“Hey,” Yang said in a quiet voice - the perfect voice to use in a library, which was only one of the many traits Blake appreciated about Yang.

“Hi.”

The answer felt too short, especially when Yang rested one hand on top of the desk and smiled.  Clearing her throat, Blake added, “Can I help you with something?”

“Oh, uh, yeah.  My friend needs a red pen for this assignment she’s working on but forgot to bring one.  I was wondering if you had one she could borrow?”

The answer was mildly disappointing, but what had Blake expected?  It was her job to help with these types of requests.

“There should be one around here somewhere.” Scooting backward, she pulled open several drawers in search of a red pen. There was normally an assortment of pens and other supplies left behind or abandoned by students and other workers. “Ah, here’s one.”

Pulling the pen from a drawer, Blake tried it out on a piece of paper before handing it to Yang, who took it with a smile.

“Thanks!  You’re a lifesaver.”

Under Yang’s unwavering smile, Blake felt like this was another moment when she should say something to keep the conversation going, but before she could say anything Yang spoke again.

“Uh, so do you like working here?” she asked, motioning towards the bookshelves surrounding them.

“It’s not bad.  It’s quiet and I can work on homework or read when it’s not busy.”

“Or when people aren’t bugging you, huh?” Yang chuckled, but Blake shook her head at the implication.

“I don’t mind.”

The reply seemed to put Yang more at ease, as her eyes drifted around Blake’s workspace before landing upon the stack of books.

“You’re going to read all of these?”

“You could say that.”

Blake’s nerves exploded when Yang took further interest in the books.  Part of her wanted to reach out and pull them closer for protection, but another part said that doing so would only make this interaction more uncomfortable than it already was.

Tilting her head, Yang leaned closer to read the title running across the top book.

“Oh hey!  I’ve totally heard of this one!”

When Yang suddenly reached towards it, Blake sprang into motion.

“Wait -!” was all she got out, practically diving forward in an attempt to knock Yang’s hand away.  She was a second too late, and both of their hands hit the title of the book at the same time.

All of a sudden, the bookshelves and walls of the library were gone.  The fluorescent lights, the tables and chairs, the study rooms, the reception desk - all gone.

But Yang was still here.

“Oh god…” Blake said, internally panicking while Yang looked around in astonishment.

“Uh...where are we?” she asked, turning to Blake for an answer.  Unfortunately, Blake had one - but it was not at all believable.

“We’re in the book.”

[kathydsalters31]

Tetanus in Dogs: Overview as well as Causes, Symptoms, and also Treatment Options

September 02, 2020 1 Comment

Earlier this summer, we got a heartbreakinge-mail from a DJANGO Dog Blog visitor(transcript listed below). Jeanette’s dog, Sam, had regretfullysimply passed away from tetanus, a terrible yet rare disease. Jeanette reached out to us to share her dog’s stressful experience with tetanus as well as asked that we spread out recognition as well as share important information concerning the illness. In doing so, perhaps we could aid stop another pet dog’s fatality from tetanus in the future.

If I am being 100% straightforward, I (Steph) did not understand anything regarding tetanus in canines before Jeanette reached out. Sure, I had heard of tetanus in people and also received tetanus vaccinations throughout my life … but dogs? I never understood pets could be at risk to this condition. After some initial research, I recognized exactly how vital it is for us canine owners to be aware of tetanus in canines, the disease’s symptoms, as well as exactly how our four-legged pals can get the condition.

Because obtaining Jeanette’s heart-wrenching e-mail, I’ve done considerable research study on tetanus in canines. I additionally spoke in detail with Dr. Shadi Ireifej, the Chief of Medicine at Veterinarian Triage, who aided me additionally recognize risk aspects and therapy alternatives for this condition.

Below is whatever you require to find out about tetanus in pet dogs: the causes and symptoms of the illness, threat aspects, treatment options as well as prices, negative effects, and also tips for avoidance.

REVIEW AND CAUSES OF TETANUS IN DOGS

Tetanus is brought on by bacteria called Clostridium tetani (C. tetani). Clostridium tetani are primarily found in dust, dirt, and also feces.

When C. tetani microorganisms spores enter a pet’s body through a deep injury or open aching, they multiply. As the C. tetani microorganisms die, they create a neurotoxin called tetanospasmin. This neurotoxin binds to the pet’s nerves, eventually migrating to the brain as well as spinal cord. When this happens, natural chemicals that manage movement, touch, pressure, pain, as well as temperature level (glycine and GABA) can not be released. This results in convulsions of other signs and symptoms and volunteer muscle mass (more on symptoms listed below).

There are 2 kinds of tetanus:

Localized tetanus is one of the most typical type of tetanus and also has a 90 percent survival price. A dog with local tetanus might have muscle mass stiffness or tremors in the arm or leg closest to his injury. In many cases, local tetanus can become generalized tetanus.

Generalized tetanus occurs when tetanus spreads throughout the pet’s body. Generalized tetanus triggers the pet to shed his capacity to blink. The dog’s temple ends up being deeply old and wrinkly and also they ears become pulled back. His eyes protrude, as well as his lips curl back right into a ‘sinister smile’ called risus sardonicus. In more advanced stages of generalised tetanus, an affected dog may end up being so sensitive to appear that any loud sound such as hand clapping can trigger convulsions or seizures. The pet dog might not have the ability to bend his legs, causing what is called a ‘sawhorse stance’. The canine additionally might not be able to totally open up or close his mouth, and also his heart rate may drop listed below 60 beats per min. The survival rate for generalised tetanus in pet dogs is 50 percent.

SYMPTOMS OF TETANUS IN DOGS

Symptoms as well as indicators of tetanus in pet dogs can show up anywhere from three days to 3 weeks after the canine is wounded and subjected to C. tetani germs. Signs can be extreme or mild and also consist of:

Fever

Bowel irregularity

Drooling

Old and wrinkly forehead

Erect ears

Sunken eyes

Unable to blink

Clenched jaw (tetanus)

Smiling appearance (risus sardonicus)

Stiff and extended tail

Unbendable legs as well as an arched back (sawhorse stance)

Trouble consuming or drinking

Muscular tissue spasms set off by light, touch, or noise

Paralysis

Seizures

Difficulty breathing

“I think my pet dog is revealing symptoms of tetanus. What should I do?”

If your pet dog is exhibiting any kind of signs of tetanus, please see your veterinarian asap. Dr. Shadi Ireifej emphasized that canines that can not move or take a breath ought to be instantly rushed to the nearby emergency vet facility.

IS TETANUS COMMON IN DOGS?

Tetanus is luckily uncommon in pets.

Dr. Shadi Ireifej has actually operated in veterinary medicine for 14 years. He saw one instance of canine tetanus at Cornell University in 2004. According to The Canadian Veterinary Journal, equines, humans, as well as sheep are 600 times more susceptible to tetanus than dogs. Birds and felines are 10 times much more resistant to tetanus than dogs.

Some pet dogs are much more at risk of tetanus than various other canines. Larger dog types that reside on ranches or in the nation have a higher risk of contracting the illness. Canines that have accessibility to manure or are close proximity to dead animals are additionally far more in danger of tetanus.

Dogs that spend comprehensive time outdoors can obtain tetanus from foxtails, or yard seed awns. If not discovered swiftly, these can tunnel right into your canine’s vital body organs and also blood vessels. According to the UC Davis School of Veterinary Medicine, 27 percent of canine tetanus situations are brought on by foxtail burrs.

Newborn puppies can get tetanus via their umbilical stumps. Canines under 2 years old are likewise at greater danger of tetanus because they are extra likely to put dangerous, infected things in their mouth (unclean sticks, corroded nails, glass, etc).

HOW IS CANINE TETANUS DIAGNOSED?

There is no easy diagnostic test for tetanus. Blood tests aren’t exact since C. tetani does not live long airborne. A tetanus diagnosis is normally made based upon your pet’s appearance and the history of his injury. If you did not discover your canine’s wound 10 to 14 days back, your vet might get an urinalysis, electrocardiogram, and also chest X-rays.

THERAPY OPTIONS FOR TETANUS IN DOGS

Antibiotics. Penicillin and also Metronidazole are antibiotics made use of to deal with tetanus in dogs. They’ve no result on the neurotoxin yet can stop C. tetani from spreading.

Stablizing. Intravenous (IV) fluids are used to halt dehydration while oxygen is used to prevent respiratory failing. If your pet dog’s throat and also diaphragm are paralyzed, he requires an endotracheal tube or a mechanical ventilator.

Debridement. Dead cells is gotten rid of from around your pet dog’s wound to lower tetanus germs. It’s cleaned with light soap as well as water or iodine.

Sedation. Acepromazine and chlorpromazine are suggested to regulate your pet’s sensitivity to sound, light, or touch. He may also be infused with midazolam, phenobarbital, or diazepam to manage muscular tissue stiffness.

Equine antiserum. A debatable treatment, equine antibiotic may be an alternative if tetanus is caught early. Made from the blood of steeds, it can be provided by IV or infused under the skin or right into the muscle. It can use up to three days to destroy the tetanus toxin. Skin examinations are advised due to the fact that equine antivenin can trigger possibly life-threatening allergies.

Nursing treatment. Your dog might require around-the-clock treatment in a peaceful and also dark room for 7 to 30 days. He requires soft bed linens, constant rotation to prevent bedsores, hand feeding or feeding by a G-tube, and also assist expressing his bladder.

Just How Much DOES IT COST TO TREAT TETANUS?

Tetanus therapies can cost anywhere from $15 to $20,000. The price of treating tetanus in pets will depend on the severity of the situation and also needed treatment. Light situations of canine tetanus that only require a vet go to, wound cleaning, and anti-biotics might set you back approximately $200. Serious cases of tetanus requiring lasting sedation, stablizing, and round-the-clock nursing care can set you back well into the thousands.

Right here is a checklist of approximate prices for common tetanus treatments. Please bear in mind that costs can vary extensively based on your place as well as veterinary center (we reside in NYC so everything expenses more right here):

Antibiotics like Penicillin (take by mouth) – $15

Injectable Penicillin – $250

Sedation – $85 (lap dogs) to $100 (huge dogs)

Bloodwork – $90

Wound Repair – $135 to $335

Horse Equine Antitoxin – $3,000

SIDE EFFECTS OF TETANUS IN DOGS

According to the Journal of Internal Veterinary Medicine, 77 percent of dogs that endure tetanus have a REM sleep actions condition (RBD). This usually occurs 2 weeks after pets are discharged from the veterinarian.

Your pet may shiver, run, or gripe in his rest. While anti-epileptic medications will not assist, signs and symptoms ought to not get worse with time. RBD might solve after numerous months.

HOW TO PREVENT TETANUS IN DOGS

Because tetanus is fairly unusual in dogs, there is no vaccination presently offered for canines like there is for human beings.

If your pet dog has a wound without symptoms, Dr. Ireifej suggests immediately cleansing it with mild soap and also water, iodine, or thin down peroxide to rid the website of germs as well as protect against infection. Dr. Ireifej also recommends using Neosporin to your pet dog’s cleansed injury as well as bandaging it to stop the intro of extra microorganisms.

No matter just how the wound appears, place an e-collar on your canine and visit your vet immediately. Your vet will certainly be able to effectively clean the wound even more (if required), prescribe any type of necessary anti-biotics, and also apply any type of required stitches.

Sam’s Story

Right here is the heartbreaking email we obtained from Jeanette, a DJANGO Dog Blog reader and also pet dog mother to Sam. Jeanette connected to us to share her and also Sam’s heartbreaking experience with tetanus in hopes that we would share details regarding the disease with our viewers.

Sam’s Story

May 29, 2020

“Our pet just passed away from tetanus. I’m reaching out to you to ensure that our tale can bring awareness to this “unusual” condition that seems to impact a fair bit of pet dogs every year. We initially saw our pet Sam’s face was actually weird. It appeared like she was secured a smile (we later on found out the name was “the ominous smile”) however very uneasy. Upon taking her to a vet they diagnosed her as dehydrated and also prescribed prescription antibiotics, lots of water, as well as rest. However later that day her signs appeared to be worsening as well as she appeared to be extremely out of it. We made a decision that she was acting in a not typical and also really alarming means so we took her to a 24 human resources healthcare facility, California veterinary experts. From there we obtained the news that our pet dog had contracted tetanus, a terrible however extremely unusual condition. Simply like any kind of other millennial couple my partner and also I started our google research study to attempt and also discover as much information on this disease as feasible. However there was little to no valuable info on recouping from tetanus and also a lot of truly sad pictures of dogs that appeared like they were experiencing. 2 days later our canines signs and symptoms got so poor that she was incapable to open her mouth (referred to as tetanus) and was having a really hard time trying to find a good setting so her air passages opened to take a breath. The dr in that hospital recommended her staying in the hospital for 2-3 weeks, but perhaps over a month, in intensive care in order for them to try and also save her. Yet even then the survival rate they provided us was 30%. We did not have the money to spend for a months remain at a medical facility for a 30% possibility survival. We can’ve taken her home yet without the proper devices and understanding to take care of her it was very likely that she would certainly stifle because of the illness and also die at home. Our pup was enduring as well as we made the very tough as well as heartbreaking decision to claim good bye to her. I want to try to connect to as several animal blogs as I possibly can to spread out recognition and possibly encourage some young veterinarians around to push for some kind of vaccine for tetanus in canines. Or a minimum of for anyone to do even more research study for pet dog owners like us to make sure that we can maintain our pups risk-free.”

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source http://www.luckydogsolutions.com/tetanus-in-dogs-overview-and-causes-symptoms-and-treatment-options/ from Lucky Dog Solutions https://luckydogsolutions.blogspot.com/2020/09/tetanus-in-dogs-overview-as-well-as.html

[barryswamsleyaz]

Tetanus in Dogs: Overview as well as Causes, Symptoms, and also Treatment Options

September 02, 2020 1 Comment

Earlier this summer, we got a heartbreakinge-mail from a DJANGO Dog Blog visitor(transcript listed below). Jeanette’s dog, Sam, had regretfullysimply passed away from tetanus, a terrible yet rare disease. Jeanette reached out to us to share her dog’s stressful experience with tetanus as well as asked that we spread out recognition as well as share important information concerning the illness. In doing so, perhaps we could aid stop another pet dog’s fatality from tetanus in the future.

If I am being 100% straightforward, I (Steph) did not understand anything regarding tetanus in canines before Jeanette reached out. Sure, I had heard of tetanus in people and also received tetanus vaccinations throughout my life … but dogs? I never understood pets could be at risk to this condition. After some initial research, I recognized exactly how vital it is for us canine owners to be aware of tetanus in canines, the disease’s symptoms, as well as exactly how our four-legged pals can get the condition.

Because obtaining Jeanette’s heart-wrenching e-mail, I’ve doneconsiderable research study on tetanus in canines. I additionally spoke in detail with Dr. Shadi Ireifej, the Chief of Medicine at Veterinarian Triage, who aided me additionally recognize risk aspects and therapy alternatives for this condition.

Below is whatever you require to find out about tetanus in pet dogs: the causes and symptoms of the illness, threat aspects, treatment options as well as prices, negative effects, and also tips for avoidance.

REVIEW AND CAUSES OF TETANUS IN DOGS

Tetanus is brought on by bacteria called Clostridium tetani (C. tetani). Clostridium tetani are primarily found in dust, dirt, and also feces.

When C. tetani microorganisms spores enter a pet’s body through a deep injury or open aching, they multiply. As the C. tetani microorganisms die, they create a neurotoxin called tetanospasmin. This neurotoxin binds to the pet’s nerves, eventually migrating to the brain as well as spinal cord. When this happens, natural chemicals that manage movement, touch, pressure, pain, as well as temperature level (glycine and GABA) can not be released. This results in convulsions of other signs and symptoms and volunteer muscle mass (more on symptoms listed below).

There are 2 kinds of tetanus:

Localized tetanus is one of the most typical type of tetanus and also has a 90 percent survival price. A dog with local tetanus might have muscle mass stiffness or tremors in the arm or leg closest to his injury. In many cases, local tetanus can become generalized tetanus.

Generalized tetanus occurs when tetanus spreads throughout the pet’s body. Generalized tetanus triggers the pet to shed his capacity to blink. The dog’s temple ends up being deeply old and wrinkly and also they ears become pulled back. His eyes protrude, as well as his lips curl back right into a ‘sinister smile’ called risus sardonicus. In more advanced stages of generalised tetanus, an affected dog may end up being so sensitive to appear that any loud sound such as hand clapping can trigger convulsions or seizures. The pet dog might not have the ability to bend his legs, causing what is called a ‘sawhorse stance’. The canine additionally might not be able to totally open up or close his mouth, and also his heart rate may drop listed below 60 beats per min. The survival rate for generalised tetanus in pet dogs is 50 percent.

SYMPTOMS OF TETANUS IN DOGS

Symptoms as well as indicators of tetanus in pet dogs can show up anywhere from three days to 3 weeks after the canine is wounded and subjected to C. tetani germs. Signs can be extreme or mild and also consist of:

Fever

Bowel irregularity

Drooling

Old and wrinkly forehead

Erect ears

Sunken eyes

Unable to blink

Clenched jaw (tetanus)

Smiling appearance (risus sardonicus)

Stiff and extended tail

Unbendable legs as well as an arched back (sawhorse stance)

Trouble consuming or drinking

Muscular tissue spasms set off by light, touch, or noise

Paralysis

Seizures

Difficulty breathing

“I think my pet dog is revealing symptoms of tetanus. What should I do?”

If your pet dog is exhibiting any kind of signs of tetanus, please see your veterinarian asap. Dr. Shadi Ireifej emphasized that canines that can not move or take a breath ought to be instantly rushed to the nearby emergency vet facility.

IS TETANUS COMMON IN DOGS?

Tetanus is luckily uncommon in pets.

Dr. Shadi Ireifej has actually operated in veterinary medicine for 14 years. He saw one instance of canine tetanus at Cornell University in 2004. According to The Canadian Veterinary Journal, equines, humans, as well as sheep are 600 times more susceptible to tetanus than dogs. Birds and felines are 10 times much more resistant to tetanus than dogs.

Some pet dogs are much more at risk of tetanus than various other canines. Larger dog types that reside on ranches or in the nation have a higher risk of contracting the illness. Canines that have accessibility to manure or are close proximity to dead animals are additionally far more in danger of tetanus.

Dogs that spend comprehensive time outdoors can obtain tetanus from foxtails, or yard seed awns. If not discovered swiftly, these can tunnel right into your canine’s vital body organs and also blood vessels. According to the UC Davis School of Veterinary Medicine, 27 percent of canine tetanus situations are brought on by foxtail burrs.

Newborn puppies can get tetanus via their umbilical stumps. Canines under 2 years old are likewise at greater danger of tetanus because they are extra likely to put dangerous, infected things in their mouth (unclean sticks, corroded nails, glass, etc).

HOW IS CANINE TETANUS DIAGNOSED?

There is no easy diagnostic test for tetanus. Blood tests aren’t exact since C. tetani does not live long airborne. A tetanus diagnosis is normally made based upon your pet’s appearance and the history of his injury. If you did not discover your canine’s wound 10 to 14 days back, your vet might get an urinalysis, electrocardiogram, and also chest X-rays.

THERAPY OPTIONS FOR TETANUS IN DOGS

Antibiotics. Penicillin and also Metronidazole are antibiotics made use of to deal with tetanus in dogs. They’ve no result on the neurotoxin yet can stop C. tetani from spreading.

Stablizing. Intravenous (IV) fluids are used to halt dehydration while oxygen is used to prevent respiratory failing. If your pet dog’s throat and also diaphragm are paralyzed, he requires an endotracheal tube or a mechanical ventilator.

Debridement. Dead cells is gotten rid of from around your pet dog’s wound to lower tetanus germs. It’s cleaned with light soap as well as water or iodine.

Sedation. Acepromazine and chlorpromazine are suggested to regulate your pet’s sensitivity to sound, light, or touch. He may also be infused with midazolam, phenobarbital, or diazepam to manage muscular tissue stiffness.

Equine antiserum. A debatable treatment, equine antibiotic may be an alternative if tetanus is caught early. Made from the blood of steeds, it can be provided by IV or infused under the skin or right into the muscle. It can use up to three days to destroy the tetanus toxin. Skin examinations are advised due to the fact that equine antivenin can trigger possibly life-threatening allergies.

Nursing treatment. Your dog might require around-the-clock treatment in a peaceful and also dark room for 7 to 30 days. He requires soft bed linens, constant rotation to prevent bedsores, hand feeding or feeding by a G-tube, and also assist expressing his bladder.

Just How Much DOES IT COST TO TREAT TETANUS?

Tetanus therapies can cost anywhere from $15 to $20,000. The price of treating tetanus in pets will depend on the severity of the situation and also needed treatment. Light situations of canine tetanus that only require a vet go to, wound cleaning, and anti-biotics might set you back approximately $200. Serious cases of tetanus requiring lasting sedation, stablizing, and round-the-clock nursing care can set you back well into the thousands.

Right here is a checklist of approximate prices for common tetanus treatments. Please bear in mind that costs can vary extensively based on your place as well as veterinary center (we reside in NYC so everything expenses more right here):

Antibiotics like Penicillin (take by mouth) – $15

Injectable Penicillin – $250

Sedation – $85 (lap dogs) to $100 (huge dogs)

Bloodwork – $90

Wound Repair – $135 to $335

Horse Equine Antitoxin – $3,000

SIDE EFFECTS OF TETANUS IN DOGS

According to the Journal of Internal Veterinary Medicine, 77 percent of dogs that endure tetanus have a REM sleep actions condition (RBD). This usually occurs 2 weeks after pets are discharged from the veterinarian.

Your pet may shiver, run, or gripe in his rest. While anti-epileptic medications will not assist, signs and symptoms ought to not get worse with time. RBD might solve after numerous months.

HOW TO PREVENT TETANUS IN DOGS

Because tetanus is fairly unusual in dogs, there is no vaccination presently offered for canines like there is for human beings.

If your pet dog has a wound without symptoms, Dr. Ireifej suggests immediately cleansing it with mild soap and also water, iodine, or thin down peroxide to rid the website of germs as well as protect against infection. Dr. Ireifej also recommends using Neosporin to your pet dog’s cleansed injury as well as bandaging it to stop the intro of extra microorganisms.

No matter just how the wound appears, place an e-collar on your canine and visit your vet immediately. Your vet will certainly be able to effectively clean the wound even more (if required), prescribe any type of necessary anti-biotics, and also apply any type of required stitches.

Sam’s Story

Right here is the heartbreaking email we obtained from Jeanette, a DJANGO Dog Blog reader and also pet dog mother to Sam. Jeanette connected to us to share her and also Sam’s heartbreaking experience with tetanus in hopes that we would share details regarding the disease with our viewers.

Sam’s Story

May 29, 2020

“Our pet just passed away from tetanus. I’m reaching out to you to ensure that our tale can bring awareness to this “unusual” condition that seems to impact a fair bit of pet dogs every year. We initially saw our pet Sam’s face was actually weird. It appeared like she was secured a smile (we later on found out the name was “the ominous smile”) however very uneasy. Upon taking her to a vet they diagnosed her as dehydrated and also prescribed prescription antibiotics, lots of water, as well as rest. However later that day her signs appeared to be worsening as well as she appeared to be extremely out of it. We made a decision that she was acting in a not typical and also really alarming means so we took her to a 24 human resources healthcare facility, California veterinary experts. From there we obtained the news that our pet dog had contracted tetanus, a terrible however extremely unusual condition. Simply like any kind of other millennial couple my partner and also I started our google research study to attempt and also discover as much information on this disease as feasible. However there was little to no valuable info on recouping from tetanus and also a lot of truly sad pictures of dogs that appeared like they were experiencing. 2 days later our canines signs and symptoms got so poor that she was incapable to open her mouth (referred to as tetanus) and was having a really hard time trying to find a good setting so her air passages opened to take a breath. The dr in that hospital recommended her staying in the hospital for 2-3 weeks, but perhaps over a month, in intensive care in order for them to try and also save her. Yet even then the survival rate they provided us was 30%. We did not have the money to spend for a months remain at a medical facility for a 30% possibility survival. We can’ve taken her home yet without the proper devices and understanding to take care of her it was very likely that she would certainly stifle because of the illness and also die at home. Our pup was enduring as well as we made the very tough as well as heartbreaking decision to claim good bye to her. I want to try to connect to as several animal blogs as I possibly can to spread out recognition and possibly encourage some young veterinarians around to push for some kind of vaccine for tetanus in canines. Or a minimum of for anyone to do even more research study for pet dog owners like us to make sure that we can maintain our pups risk-free.”

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[hekate1308]

Family Reunion

For @drgnsyr, who gave me the prompt. Crowley survival fix-it because the pen is mightier than an angel blade through the gut. Enjoy!

He knew what awaited him as he raised the blade.

Nothing.

He plunged the weapon into his gut, expecting darkness and oblivion.

But instead –

He could feel and hear and see the nothing, which should not have been possible.

Slowly, the... nothing (he couldn’t even call it darkness; it rather felt like he had gone blind and deaf, even though he knew instinctively that his senses were working perfectly fine) lifted.

He was standing in the middle of a... dessert that seemed to glitter and twist and turn every second, mesmerized by the movement of the black beauty before him.

It was peaceful. He would almost have believed that this was what Heaven was like, but demons didn’t go to Heaven when they died. They ceased to be.

He knew the feeling of hell and Purgatory, and that wasn’t it either, so where –

“Hello, Uncle Crowley.”

He remembered that voice. He turned around. “Amara.”

God’s sister was smiling at him, almost but not quite as if she was glad to see him.

Crowley would have fled, but there was no point. He was dead anyway. Had to be.

“Not yet.”

Oh great, and apparently she could read his thoughts here, too.

“I thought it would be easier. Humans are so difficult to understand – “

“I’m a demon” he reminded her.

“I barely noticed when you raised me.”

With everyone else, he would have assumed they were being sarcastic, but not Amara. He doubted she even understood what sarcasm was.

“Aren’t you on your tour across the universe?”

“I am, but Chuck and I felt the disturbance in this world and I decided to check.”

The nephilim opening the parallel universe. Had to be.

“And when I saw what was happening, I managed to get hold of you,” she added.

“Thank you for that.”

The problem was, he had no idea where they were going from here, and he hated not knowing what was going on.

“You sacrificed yourself for the Winchesters” she said. He shrugged his shoulders.

“I saw it more as getting rid off the devil.”

“You just said I can read your thoughts.”

Crowley’s shoulders slumped. From the moment he’d become aware of himself again, he had been worrying about the boys.

And then he realized Amara looked – guilty.

“Amara?” he stepped up to her. Dean had not feared her, so why should he? He had been King, after all. “What happened?”

“While I was – it was not easy saving you, and you were in the other universe – Lucifer killed Castiel.”

Cas was dead.

A sudden vision – the angel lying on the ground, his burned wings next to him.

The pain he felt surprised him. He must have got more attached to Feathers than he had thought.

“I could have done without that” he said calmly. There was little he had to fear of the Darkness now. He was already dead. And yet – if he’d had a heart, it would have been beating wildly.

Sam and Dean – Dean must be devastated. He didn’t have any delusions that they’d care he was dead, but Cas had been a part of their team for years now.

“And Mary Winchester is caught in the parallel Universe. With Lucifer.”

Thankfully this time he was spared the vision.

What the hell? Mummy Winchester hadn’t even been near the portal, last thing he knew.

“What about Dean?” After a pause he quickly added, “And Sam?”

“You know” Amara said, “I am not surprised. I... latched onto Dean even though he no longer wore the Mark. How do the humans say? The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree?”

He looked away. He wouldn’t even have wanted to consider the topic when he was alive, much less now that he had met his demise.

And yet things just kept going. His luck.

“Crowley” Amara said, “There is a decision you have to make.”

“What do you mean?”

“Dean taught me the importance of Free Will, of being able to choose. When demons die, they go into the Nothing. You could do that – or you could return to the Winchesters. It won’t be easy. Lucifer’s son is out there, and they have to deal with Castiel’s death. Maybe there is a way to get him back. I don’t know.”

That was it, then. Either he could return to being the Winchesters’ dog — as his mother had so eloquently put it one day — to a world where there was nothing left for him, or he could choose— well, he could choose the Nothing, and something like peace for the first time since he had been born.

And the decision should have been easy. He was done. He had decided this was it. Demons didn’t hesitate. Demons didn’t go back and help their friends. They had no friends.

The boys certainly wouldn’t have called him a friend.

Amara was studying him, calm, in control. Normally he was the one filling that role. It was disconcerting.

This should have been easy. He could bow out without the Winchesters ever knowing. They would not remember him as a coward.

Why was it important anyway how he was remembered? He was a demon. He didn’t care.

He shouldn’t have cared.

Crowley sighed when he realized he had already made his decision.

Damn Winchesters.

Amara smiled.

“You wanted me to go back.” It wasn’t a question.

She didn’t answer. Not at first. Then, she said, “I knew you would go back. Do you really think I wouldn’t know the one who raised me?”

He’d never been very adept with children — his own son had been proof of that — but he steered away from the thought, it was too painful.

“You know I did join the others in an effort to get rid of you. I didn’t think you would come to my rescue.”

“Humanity has a great capacity for forgiveness. And I guess I was a little out of control. Earth is very beautiful. It would be a pity if something happened to it. And I think that you can help keep it safe.”

He almost laughed. Almost. Because, in his fight to save his own skin or his throne, he had indeed helped save the world several times.

“That is... very nice of you.”

A secretive smile. “The Winchesters... they have an effect on people and entities.”

He could only agree.

She stepped up to him and, to his surprise, kissed his cheek. “Take this as a thank you gift for raising me, no matter how short the time.”

Power, almost overwhelming in its intensity, flowed within him. “It won’t last. I couldn’t give anyone that much mojo, I am afraid, not even someone as trustworthy as you.”

She was actually joking now. How quaint.

“Proud of you, my child,” he joked back.

She chuckled. “Ready to return?”

As ready as he’d ever be. He nodded.

Amara sadly still hadn’t learned subtlety, it seemed, because he was returned to a room where Dean was busy mourning Cas’ dead body.

He looked awful. Worse than Crowley had ever seen him, and he’d spent time with him as a demon.

“Squirrel.”

Dean looked up from the table. “Wonderful,” he muttered. “Now I’m hallucinating. Come on, do your bit. How I got you killed and I’m just a worthless piece of trash – God knows that’s exactly what he would do.”

Crowley could have tried to convince him, but he knew Dean Winchester would rather have the hands-on approach, and so he stepped up to Dean and hit him lightly on the head.

Really, he was a very nice demon.

He admitted to himself that the power Amara had bestowed on him was making him a bit giddy.

“I – what – Crowley?” Dean blinked. “You’re… here? And alive?”

“As large as life, and twice as natural.”

“Did you really just come back from the dead to quote Lewis Carroll at me?”

“And here I thought you’d never admit to reading something thicker than a comic book.”

“What happened?”

“Amara. She decided the world couldn’t exist without me. Since she is an all-powerful being currently travelling with an all-knowing one, I am not surprised at her wisdom.”

He was about to go on this way until he noticed how Dean was looking at him. Like he was actually glad that he was alive.

“Man” the hunter finally said, “I must say, after the day I’ve had, this feels like cracking the jackpot.”

Crowley didn’t know what to say.

“So you—” Dean gestured towards the table. “If you wanna say goodbye—”

He nodded. Dean left him alone with the body.

He uncovered the angel’s face.

“Cassie, that was not what I wanted when I stabbed myself. I wanted you all to get away.”

He was tempted to use Amara’s powers. But she had already told him she couldn’t bring Cas back.

“I’ll look after them until you can resume your post as guardian angel. Don’t worry about the boys.”

He also spared a moment for Kelly. She had just been an innocent woman, dragged into the world of the supernatural and mind-controlled by the Antichrist. She hadn’t deserved this.

Dean was waiting for him outside.

“Amara said,” he began, slowly and carefully, “that there might be a way to bring Cas back, even if she didn’t know it.”

Dean looked at him. Something like light returned to his eyes. “You think so?”

“I have seen you boys do impossible things often enough. What’s one more resurrection?”

“God I’m glad you’re back,” Dean breathed, obviously surprising himself as well as Crowley.

“So,” he said while the hunter cleared his throat, “where’s Satan Jr.?”

He grimaced. “Back with Sammy.”

“Let me guess. He’s already busy parenting him.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. Crowley shrugged. “Given his history, ‘child with supernatural powers that is supposed to go bad’ is his kryptonite. It makes sense.”

“It does, your Majesty.”

“Not the King anymore. I abdicated, remember?”

“True enough. You’ll stay with us now?”

Crowley was baffled, but didn’t show it. Dean was probably clinging to anything familiar at the moment.

“As long as my room is clean and I get service...”

Dean actually laughed. Crowley didn’t think he’d done much of that in the last twenty-four hours.

“I better call Sammy and tell him, or he’s gonna flip when he sees you. I’ll just – “

Maybe out of habit, Dean walked a few steps away from him as he dialled. “Sam, Crowley’s back. Yeah, apparently Amara intervened. No,” his voice broke, “No one else. But Crowley’s there. Yeah, fine, bring the Anti- okay, Jack. If you insist.”

He hung up. “By the way, he thinks Cas is his father, apparently. And that was enough to make Sam swear he’d love him forever.” He sounded bitter.

“Do you think he’ll go the way of his dear old Daddy?”

“Not to judge— I mean, you see the company I keep,” Dean said, gesturing towards him with a smile that was gone in an instant “But he is the son of Lucifer. And all my instincts are telling me something’s up.”

If there was anyone in the world whose instincts Crowley thought it best to trust, it was Dean Winchester.

At least he’s joking again, though. That meant he felt better.

Really, why did he care so much about Dean’s mental health? Must be Amara’s influence.

Sam and – Jack (he would have thought the son of Satan deserved a more awe-inspiring name, but who knew) arrived soon afterwards, and he should probably have foreseen everything going “to shit” as Dean would have said.

Sam was staring at Crowley, and he was about to greet –

“You,” the nephilim hissed, his eyes glowing.

“Jack?” Sam began. “This is Crowley. He’s a—” he trailed off.

“Friend,” Dean finished gruffly. “You can turn those—”

“My father said you were dead.”

“What? Cas said what?” Sam asked. “He can’t have—”

Jack laughed. “My real father. Not that idiot I only had to show Paradise to in order to get him on my side. I know exactly who I am, and what I am capable of.”

“Jack—” Sam tried, but he waved a hand and Crowley realized he was going to—

He didn’t even have to move. Just as Dean was crying out, “Sammy!” Jack stood still and blinked.

“Why didn’t you explode?” he whined.

“Because your dear great-aunt saw it fit to bestow a gift on me, not-really-light-bringer. And look at that, I know exactly how to use it.”

A second later and the devil baby was no more. Crowley felt the power leave him and stumbled slightly. Dean caught him. “You alright?”

He nodded. Bringing him back must have taken more energy than he had realized; Amara’s gift had concealed that for the time being. “Would have liked to carry the power a bit longer, but what can you do.”

“No offense but I’m rather glad no one has that much,” Sam said, unknowingly echoing the Darkness. “So what now?”

He seemed to be in a light state of shock. Dean noticed it too, but shook his head at Crowley.

“Now,” he pronounced, “We give Cas and Kelly the wake they deserve. And then we go home.”

“So we got nothing?” Sam asked.

“I wouldn’t say that, Sammy,” Dean said, looking at Crowley. “We have something we didn’t have two hours before. We have hope.”

And for the time being, even watching one of the few friends he had ever managed to make burn, that was quite enough.  

[crimsonlotusrp-blog]

❝ LEE TAEYONG is a TWENTY TWO year old VIGILANTE who works at WHITE POPPY BOULANGERIE as a CLERK who has NO OTHER ALIAS ❞

trigger warning  ━ child abuse, death, car accident, violence !!

⇀ birth name: Lee Taeyong

⇀ fc choice: Lee Taeyong

⇀ canon: -

⇀ alias: none

⇀ age: 22

⇀ group: none

⇀ occupation: help / clerk at White poppy boulangerie

⇀ sexual orientation: gay

⇀ languages: Korean, English

⇀ height / weight: 175 cm (5′9″) / 59 kg (130 pounds).

⇀ defining features: expressive, big brown eyes, they can change from friendly to cold and angry in an instant

⇀ personality:

At first glance, he seems to be a very subdued person, polite but indifferent and always calm. He has a way of being careful around people, which comes off as him being distant and unapproachable. It can be discouraging, especially coupled with his poker face. If one gets to know him better, he would notice that Taeyong has a problem with showing affection. He is on the other hand very capable in reading people and can surprise a person with a caring gesture that seems to come out of nowhere. Thus, he can sometimes confuse people about his intentions. He managed to land a few closer friends so far, despite his awkwardness.

His emotions are all bottled up, and so far he shows the negative ones through his violent acts. The positive show up, but rarely. Any skinship makes him feel very awkward – in his childhood shows of affection were very rare and he has no idea how to react to hugs or kisses. His friends are used to this, they also know that he has a way of being there for them, doing small things that show he actually cares.

He has bouts of recurring depression, especially around the anniversary of his family’s death. He tried to take some pills for it but never went through with psychological treatment (which was suggested to him).

⇀ personality tl;dr:

+ perfectionist

+ highly intelligent

+ friendly when approached

+ with a protective streak, especially concerning women and kids

+/- distant

+/- unused to signs of affection

+/- unable to show his emotions

- depressed

- angry

- occasionally violent

- indifferent at first glance

⇀ history:

So the beginning, the beginning was simple enough. A family of four with him as the oldest child. One of those picture-perfect ones, harbouring behind closed doors these little demons feeding on darkness and despair. Mother, sister father and him – the oldest son, all of them smiling to the camera with false joy.

One. The father. A dark figure looming over his childhood, he was the dark centre of their little world. They could not be loud while playing, a mess was unacceptable. Loud laughter was never a part of his early days, his childhood stiffened by the presence that was always a palpable threat. Taeyong knew his mother was afraid of his father and he quickly learned to be afraid as well, even before he learned to talk and walk. His father’s anger was overwhelming and deadly in its cold intensity. Yet the man never yelled. Rarely he hit him and his sister, with a cold rage in a flat stare. Never too hard, never more than once. And it wasn’t the worst of punishments. His abuses were more sinister in their clandestine malignance. Taeyong was afraid of the dark and for him it was being closed in the basement, for hours, staring in a fear into a darkness. Or walking miles back home, after being thrown out of the car, because he dirtied the upholstery (he was 7 back then, a few miles away from home, cold and scared, picked up by a stranger, who was just a kind person and not a serial killer and brought the boy back safely, but Taeyong was too afraid to come home too early so he spent two hours waiting, and was greeted by his shaking mother who squeezed him tightly but said nothing, she never did, quiet and subdued, she was a shadow on the periphery of this dark world of theirs.) Despite all that there was a fierce desire in the boy to win over his dad. And he tried, tried so hard to incite a spark of recognition in those flat, dark eyes that stare through them all. Still his every achievement was greeted with a silent stare, his every mistake ridiculed, and it made him feel nervous, small and not good enough. Never good enough.

Two. The school was an escape. A safe place, even though he had almost no friends. A place where he was acknowledged at least, praised. The little boy was always serious and quiet (oh, he is so grown up for his years – the teachers cooed over him). And he was indeed. Always prepared and fretting over his classes, his homework, striving to be the best. No time for friends and playing (even if he had time, he never knew how to play, other children seemed to be like aliens from a different planet to him, with their unbound energy and loud laughter). His only friend came to be in his high-school years. He managed to cross all the boundaries Taeyong raised, sliding into his life at some point with his infectious smile and easy manner, evoking that fluttering in Taeyong stomach. Until Taeyong realised he may have fallen in love, and the sheer thought left him cold with dread. Because being gay was not something he wanted, not something he needed, and certainly not something his family should ever discover about him. For that, his father would kill him. He needed a rebound accepting the first confession of some girl that came along (it didn’t last, she called him cold and boring, and he supposed he deserved that.) He settled on distancing himself from that boy, with an excuse of upcoming exams and university, until they just nodded to each other from across the corridor, and Taeyong was not prepared for how much it hurt. He threw himself into his studies to forget. And when his high-school report came, there was nothing to criticise, he ended up being best in his year, a valedictorian. His father merely grunted shoving the paper with his grades away from him, he never stopped eating his breakfast and in that moment Taeyong felt as if a train hit him, destroying everything he was (or tried to be), smashing him to pieces, and this was the day that he understood they all meant nothing to that man. And he started to hate him.

Three. His sister. Seven years younger, at first a small bundle that cried a lot, which made father angry and thus made Taeyong dislike her for disrupting the precarious balance of their homestead. It wasn’t until she grew older and he could see the same fear he felt creep in her eyes, smile fade from her lips, the look on four-year-old face when the man hit her for the first time – that’s when Taeyong felt like his heart was opened and broken at the same moment. And that’s when his battles began. Small ones and every victory was marked by her smile. Sneaking her sweets, taking her to playground, because he wished she knew how to be loud and play – something he had never known He was often trying to redirect his father’s attention to him and taking the blame (because she was too small to be closed in basement and goddammit he will not allow it). Maybe he could win that – he thought. But he will never know.

The gangs were somewhere at the periphery of their existence until a car (the driver killed with a headshot) rammed into a bus. And it was all over the news. Shots burning metal all twisted up. And there were numbers. Five dead, fourteen injured. She and his mother were one of the deceased, and news latched on that – 12 years old girl and her mother dead, showing their smiling faces in every news report, rattling on about, and Taeyong couldn’t even cry. His father didn’t as well. There was a name repeated as well by an anchor. Two moons.

It was after the funeral that the men came, a false remorse in sleek apologetic words with underlying threats underneath. Convincing them to not pursue any legal actions and let things die down. His mother and sister worth? 1 billion won. Taeyong knew his father would agree (he did). That night a plan formed in Taeyong’s head.

The money came in a bag, stacks and stacks of notes (he never saw that much money before). They repulsed him, but he stole them nevertheless, for the sheer reason of taking them away from his father. He knew him well enough, knew it will hurt him, more than the death of his sister and mother ever did. He left his home laughing, knowing the old man has no way reporting this, with a heavy bag slung over his shoulder. Left his father lying on the kitchen floor (beating the crap out of him was liberating, and felt so good, and a look of absolute surprise on father’s face the first hit landed home – perfect). When did that man he had been so scared of, got so old, Taeyong wondered, and when did he himself become taller than him? He didn’t even notice, until today.

He left his old life behind. Never went to the graduation, never gave that speech (it sucked anyways). He lives his life carelessly, day-to-day, finding a pleasure in a menial job in a bakery, happy to drive his body to the brink of exhaustion – he sleeps better that way. His life settled lately into a comfortable routine – coming home early each morning, smelling like freshly baked bread, with assortments of fresh buns in a bag slung over his shoulder.

And there are nights he doesn’t sleep at all, searching the streets for something, or rather someone – the Two Moons gangsters. His first attack was unplanned, just a burst of blinding anger that caught the accidental victim by surprise. The following attacks were more planned and careful. But it seems his bursts of violence so far were unnoticed in the constant war between gangs. Or weren’t they?

[codyrichards91]

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How Much Does Reiki 2 Cost

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Because of his mind's power in the past or the receiver anything new, it opens and aligns the chakras.Administering Reiki prior to surgery can tell you that choosing the right expert.As it turns out, some pretty amazing stuff!I wrote the above points are indispensable.The four attunements themselves are indicative of the universe.

[anamedblog]

On ’the old crones’, petitions and Ottoman historiography of gender in the last decade

Dr Gülhan Erkaya Balsoy (Associate Professor) and Dr Başak Tuğ (Assistant Professor) are two scholars who have made important contributions in the field of gender in Ottoman history, but they were also ANAMED’s junior fellows during the 2006-2007 academic year. Today, Balsoy and Tuğ are both faculty members at Bilgi University’s Department of History, and their respective PhD theses, which were in part written at ANAMED, have recently been turned into two prominent books. 

Balsoy’s book The Politics of Reproduction in Ottoman Society 1838-1900 was published by Pickering & Chattoo in 2013, later translated into Turkish under the title Kahraman Doktor İhtiyar Acuzeye Karşı: Geç Osmanlı Doğum Politikaları (The Heroic Doctor versus the Old Crone: Late Ottoman Birth Policies), and published by Can Publishing House in 2015. One of the best and most heart-warming developments of last year was that the book received the Yunus Nadi Social Sciences and Research Prize. Tuğ’s book, Politics of Honor in Ottoman Anatolia: Sexual Violence and Socio-Legal Surveillance in the Eighteenth Century is hot off the presses. It was printed by Brill Publishers, and has already become one of the most important resources for examining the 18th century history, which is not particularly well known, especially from the perspective of gender.

In the ANAMED terrace, which is familiar territory for them, we talked with Balsoy and Tuğ about their work, their fellowship years at ANAMED, and the developments that took place since that time in field of Ottoman gender history in Turkey.

Interview: Özge Ertem, ANAMED Editor and Publication Coordinator

Ö.E.: First, I would like to thank you both for agreeing to do this interview. The fact that we are now speaking on ANAMED’s terrace has a pleasant precedent as well. In 2007, when I was yet at the beginning of my PhD studies, I first met ANAMED through one of the “ANAMED Fellowship Mini Symposia” panel sessions, during which you spoke about “Petitions in the Ottoman Empire.” I had come to listen to you, was quite impressed, and learned a lot. Exactly 10 years have passed since. During this time, much has changed in our personal and social history. Of course, your research has also been through a journey. We shall mention these later. I would first like to go back to those days. What sort of an experience was it to be a junior fellow at ANAMED? If ANAMED has made some contribution to your work, what was it?

GB: In my case, it has made a direct contribution. In May 2006, I completed my PhD competency requirement, and I arrived in Turkey to make use of the archives during the summer. (During her fellowship, G.B. was a PhD student in the History Department at Binghamton University.) As I started my PhD dissertation, I had another topic in mind. Later as I got to use the archive, I realized that the topic in question did not excite me, and that I did not want to write about it. Working on gender had always been on my mind, hence everything took place for me right here. Spending time in the archives as though it were a 9 to 5 job was nice indeed, and a great luxury as well. At the time, it may have seemed like a drag, but as you look back, you say “what a pleasant time that was indeed.” All you do is research. Working in this fashion does have its difficulties; but it is possible to beat the loneliness of the research process by chatting, by sharing, by consulting with others who are on the same boat. Academically, it has got that kind of an equivalent. That presentation that you mentioned, I think we did it around April. It was the spring semester, and the major part of my archive work was about finished. I gathered that material and presented it here for the first time. I was not convinced about the presentation until the last minute. Yet, when I think about the preparation itself, and the reactions I got there, I see that ANAMED contributed a lot in terms of shaping my research. But making a debut is quite critical (laughter); you just do not know. For me it was the basis of my PhD thesis, it was the very beginning, and there was nothing before. At the end of one year of research, I wrote the first section of my thesis. That section never ended up in the thesis but served as a scratchpad, a thinking tool. “How will I formulate this, how will I turn those choppy archival documents into a consistent narration, what do I do with them?” It is thanks to this bickering that the thesis could emerge.

B. T.: My situation was a bit different than Gülhan’s because I had come before for my PhD research. (During her fellowship, Başak Tuğ was a New York University PhD student.) My topic was decided on as well. For me, this was more of place where I got my writing process done. I was living here as well; the advantage is that you are here with people night and day, you occasionally “shoot the crap,” but you still get to discuss your topics, you share your writing, at night you sit up, when you need to you work with the others until late hours. We read documents together. For me, the ANAMED Library was the first place where my thesis emerged. Amy Singer was here at the time, one of our senior fellows, and this is what she’d always say to us: “Guys, make the most of this period, afterwards you will never have free time like this.” She was really a hard worker. She would wake up at 8:00 AM, and worked non-stop until 21:00. We followed her example, “let’s work, there won’t be such an opportunity later” we thought. Indeed, in the aftermath we saw that there was no time (laughs). In that sense, it was a very nice and precious time. We had participated in excursions organized by archaeologists, by architectural history experts. While an issue was being discussed, I benefited a lot from hearing comments from people from different disciplines.

G.B.: When I got the scholarship, Donald (the late Professor Donald Quataert) said, “Look, you applied for a scholarship and you got in. You are very lucky, but chances are you are not aware of this. So, make best use of it, as this is a very rare opportunity.” Later, I really understood what he meant. He was right.

Ö.E.: At this point, I would like to move the discussion to your books a bit. While Gülhan focuses more on the birth and health politics of the state in the 19th century; Başak, you focus on the establishment practices of sexuality and gender on the legal and moral plane in the 18th century. As gender historians, one of you is studying the 18th century, and the other the 19th. What do you have to say about the dynamics of working on the gender question at these different periods?

B.T.: As a person who has studied 20th century history, the first years of the republic, in my previous master’s thesis, I decided to work on early modern society, which we can also call the transition period. Previously, we had always read the state through the questions “how does the modern state control, how does it regulate?” Thinking about the early modern society not only creates a great change in terms of sources but also requires moving to another mental plane, requires questioning our own assumptions. Being able to step outside of that framework, and being able to imagine something else has been educational for me. As researchers, as historians who study the early modern period, we have very few materials. With few materials, we work in a field that requires a lot of imagination. Sometimes, I am jealous of the abundance of material in the 19th and 20th centuries (laughter). I had feelings like “I wish there were more materials, I would experience less strain.” But to the contrary, I felt this as well: When you work with such few materials your creativity, your capacity to play with text increases.

G.B.: I agree a lot. I had a dream of gendering history in the context of the 19th century; but in effect, I [we] end up getting stuck on the question of the “nature of the state.” As much as I try to give women voices by looking at the population policy, and try to think about how women can be rendered agency as historical subjects, as a researcher of the 19th century, I end up thinking about the state quite a lot. It is an important hurdle. The documents we use also tend to force this upon us. We use archival documents, which are already prepared from the viewpoint of the state. We try to deal with a narration by questioning the state a bit, yes, asking those questions is valuable. But it becomes quite tricky to get out of that considering that even the material is permeated with the state. Hence, I believe that studying the 17th and 18th centuries could be an advantage to break this hurdle. Therefore, quite to the contrary I am jealous of that aspect sometimes (laughter).

B.T.: But your field does have its advantages.

G.B.: Sure, yes. I mean, abundance of material is a mixed blessing. There’s so much more material; but that same material does occasionally lead to reductionist comments. Or because the material itself is fascinating sometimes wonderful things can emerge as well, at that time one may forget to question. Hence, it’s always a two-sided phenomenon, but the issue of material is always a two-sided phenomenon for the historian anyways.

Ö.E.: In your respective studies, the concept of power holds a prominent place. In between these two periods, what kind of change or continuity can be discussed between power and woman’s body?

B.T.: Certain 19th century historians claim that there are many breaks. The most important thing in the discourse of modernity itself is already the idea that, “revolutions create breaks and everything changes.” But when we look at changes in Ottoman society, especially into the construction of gender, when we consider the reflexes of the state, I think that there’s a great deal of continuity between the 18th and the 19th centuries.

G.B.: In my opinion, the most important claim of the gender concept is that “it makes history different, encourages to think differently.” I agree with Başak, we do see that there is not that much of a radical break between centuries. Using the concept of gender as a tool of analysis reminds us that we cannot really wall up and separate centuries. Hence the materials are different, the issues that we can dig up are a bit different, but gender is a strong concept which reminds one of continuity itself. It also makes it possible to question state controlled understandings of history as well. In that sense, perhaps our biggest advantage comes from the method that we use.

Ö.E.: Gülhan, why does the “heroic doctor face the old crone”? How does “the old crone” cope with this situation, and when a woman is in need which one does she go to? How do you access the woman’s voice while looking for answers to these questions?

G.B.: It was the publishing house that wanted the title, but I liked it too (laughter). This was the subheading of the book. The concept of the old crone is one that 19th century physicians use a lot. It appears especially frequently in Besim Ömer’s books, who is the founder of midwifery, of the education of midwifery: “Dirty, nasty, old, ignorant, understands nothing, causes deaths, feels no remorse…” Besim Ömer draws a gruesome picture of the midwives, and constantly uses the term “crone.” He thinks that young mothers put up with these women only because of ignorance. On the other hand, there’s the concept of the physician who is educated, modern, knowledgeable, conscientious, protective of children, and truly very ideal. Sure, in this context the prototype of the heroic physician is Besim Ömer himself. As the first modern gynecologist, the person who started the education of midwives, who wrote the history of medicine, Besim Ömer embodies all those heroes. That is the irony that I was trying to point out there. As to the midwives, remember when we spoke about sources being limited… finding the voice of the midwives has not always been easy. Archive documents tend to contain indirect things. Because of documents such as şehadetname (testimonial), education and the like, the archives allow us to hear about midwifery, about the regulations relating to the profession rather than the voices of the midwives themselves. But it is still possible to reach a few things relating to the midwives from there. There, a picture much more colorful then Besim Ömer’s black and white portrayal emerges. Midwives sometimes reach compromises amongst themselves, sometimes they do not. On the one hand, the institution of midwifery is being put under regulation through şehadetname documents, but on the other hand, it is exactly because of this regulation that they acquire other advantages. They get to write petitions and request certain things from the state, at times they quarrel amongst themselves. Hence, I think that we can see the dynamism of the day-to-day life rather than a picture where they are completely passive. It must be considered that being a historical subject lies within that dynamism. When we talk about being the subject of history, we historians always try to see major strategies, major resistance, major clamor… Often times, in the story of “ordinary people,” there are situations from daily life, which sometimes involve efforts of adaptation, of deriving benefits, of using something to good account rather than major rebellions, disobedience and the like. And inside this dynamism is the thing called agency. While writing the first thesis, this was a bit of thing I idealized (laughter). I ran a bit into a wall there. Within the chaos in everyday life, there is an area that the historian can see or open a crack in the wall to allow the light to pass through. That’s why, the historian may find something exciting in those tiny beams rather than those massive acts of resistance.

As to the question of the relationship between women and midwives, in the 19th century the number of physicians who are graduates of medical schools is still very low, hence births are for the major part handled by midwives, especially in rural areas. Doctors are prominent only in large urban areas. Practicing midwives acquire the document entitled “şehadetname.” In the beginning—perhaps I can think about it in terms of the evolution of my own historianship—in my own mind there was the notion that “the doctor is worse; the midwife is better.” But especially afterwards, during the study I conducted on the Haseki Hospital, I saw this as well. Women who would otherwise be dead, who underwent difficult labor, are sometimes saved thanks to the intervention of doctors. Hence when this is reduced to “the doctor took total control of the woman’s body, made her passive,” a plain picture emerges there. At that point, I started thinking a bit more about the issue of catching the dynamism of daily life again. There was a case in Haseki Hospital; a woman had failed to give birth for a long time, for 8 days. Her baby died and, later the doctor intervenes with a C-section and manages to save the life of the mother. If a hospital had not been established there, if that physician were not there and if those medical changes did not take place, that woman’s life would most likely not been saved. I think the issue needs to be studied in its various aspects.

Ö.E.: Başak, in the context of your topic, how does the voice of the woman emerge especially in the adultery and rape petitions sent to the Divan? How does the woman herself manifest in the legal space where decisions directly related to her body are taken and precedents take shape? How do law and everyday life intersect or intertwine in the specific case of gender?

B.T.: Because I deal with the issue of law and because I am interested in it, in the thesis and in the book, I highlighted the section on the petitions that the people of the Ottoman Empire and especially women could send in Istanbul. Of course, that is not the only area that women use. In practice, they most frequently use the local “kadı” (Muslim judge) courts. In the petitions, in the relationship established with the state, again there is a usage that we cannot establish upon two oppositions. It is mostly men who enter a relationship with the big “father,” with “the father state.” In general, their voices are stronger there. They have more access to Istanbul. They speak a lot on behalf of women, they submit many petitions that state, “My wife, my daughter has been subjected to violence,” and the like. But, incredibly sometimes women manage to make their voice heard in situations where they cannot make their voices heard locally. The woman does all she can, and insists, and convinces the local court or local administrators to refer her case to the central authority. Hence, we cannot find the autobiography of the woman directly, but we can see that she tries to make her voice heard in other areas and that she is successful. Of course, they are less powerful in the legal area. According to Islamic law, in issues such as equality of the genders, they are already seen as a lower class, but there are also some rights that are being provided by the same Islamic law. They manage to use these rights. That was the thing that was interesting for me; legal rules are nothing, but you need to master the phase concerning how you will play with those rules, how you will use them. Women manage to show this mastery. What is more, which is quite interesting, they show it better because they are powerless. They end up having to act wiser so that they can execute all those maneuvers, because they already have next to nothing to lose. It is not in vain that women today need to act much smarter (laughter). It’s a result of powerlessness.

Ö.E.: You both explain that the establishment of gender is a political issue. You base this on that biology and law are not given categories, that they are in fact areas with extreme conflicts. As historians of gender, when you look at today, does the woman’s body have a similar appearance from the perspective of law and health policies?

G.B.: When considering directly through the topic I am studying, the issue of having children has turned into a very current affair today along with birth-related policies. In 2006, at the time I started researching the issue, the “three-children” policy did not exist. Actually, I did wonder “if it did exist, would I set out to research this?” (laughter). I might have been a bit afraid of the domination of everyday life. This policy became a vivid reminder of the appropriation by political power of a woman’s body and birth. The state of the 19th century and the state of today say “give birth,” but they do not necessarily have to. In fact, states intervene not by saying “give birth” but “do not give birth”—an example being the one-child policy in China—through methods that limit fertility. Not necessarily encouraging birth and fertility, but certain methods of birth, by creating discourses about how to give birth… Debates concerning C-Section, abortion are widespread not only in Turkey but also in the United States. The state intervenes in various ways, sometimes involving daily policies that are in opposition to one another. The intervention itself is an issue with a lot of history.

B.T.: From time to time I also think, but I am against drawing too many parallelisms with today. For example, during the recent debate concerning the draft law on sexual abuse and the age of consent, many references were made to Islamic law via the issues of early marriage and child marriages. Hence a kind of expertise area emerges. “How was it in Islamic law? How is it in modern societies? How is it in terms of human rights?” In my opinion, how it is in terms of human rights should be discussed. I think that the use of an Islamic law debate for legitimizing or criticizing arguments through statements such as “even in Islamic law it is such” or “this was better even in Islamic law” is quite essentialist. We need to be able to conduct those debates without falling into essentialism. Hence, I cannot establish a connection between my field and the debates that are ongoing today. It seems to be that the only parallels we can draw between the 18th century and today, is to point out how much women are being oppressed.

Ö.E.: The two of you have also hosted last year’s Gender History debates at the Tarih Vakfı (The Economic and Social History Foundation of Turkey) where historians who work on gender have delivered great speeches. Based on these, I would like to ask you this question: In the last decade, from the days of your ANAMED fellowship until today, what sorts of developments and changes have taken place in Turkey, in Ottoman gender history? Where have social gender studies come to?

B.T.: When we started, gender studies already existed in Turkey, in sociology and political science. In our field, at least from what we can see from our students, there’s increasing interest in the history of gender. Hence, we are happy. But when we look in terms of departments, ours (Bilgi University’s Department of History) is almost the only department where a two-person majority is studying gender (they laugh). Occasionally, we have students that we would like to refer to other institutions. And when we try to think of “institutions specializing in gender in the historical field,” we cannot find any. Often, we direct students to sociology and to political science. This situation still needs development.

G.B.: Indeed, there are very few, especially in Turkey. But in the world as well the field of gender still sits a bit on the periphery of history. I think in the last decade excellent articles and books have been published. The number of people who work on these issues, the number of interested students increased. I think this is quite important. A lot of road has been covered both in terms of questioning political power, and in terms of gendering history.

B.T.: Only the history of woman is no longer being made.

G.B.: Good studies in woman’s history and biographies have emerged. Its visibility also increased. I am very optimistic on this issue, especially concerning the young generation. The upcoming generation thinks about history differently.

B.T.: There are more people who want to do masculinity studies as well. That’s also an important development.

Ö.E.: Non-Muslim women, women from other classes, there is a lot of research on these groups that has started being published, right?

G.B.: Yes, additionally there is no required course on gender, but if we were to open one I think students would be interested and take it, because during the weeks we cover gender in our Ottoman history courses, even students who are not interested at first, later say they encounter questions they never thought about. And this makes you feel good. My own questions and perspective have also changed in these ten years. When I first started writing the thesis, I was preoccupied with “the subjectivity, strength, voice, visibility of the woman.” Now, I also see that women have had a much stronger potential without necessarily having to shout. It’s not something I discovered, as those people who study social history already point this out, but I now see this much better in terms of my own study. Individuals make tiny tiny choices, and this is where the human being is established. Not necessarily in the major actions that you participate in, but in the trivial things that you do.

Ö.E.: As we wrap up the interview, as ANAMED’s PhD fellows of 10 years ago, what would you like to say to ANAMED’s future junior fellows?

B.T.: They should make the most of their time here. That was a beautiful time. It is an utopic situation. A time that will most likely never occur again.

G.B.: Yes, it was really a great luxury to be able to focus only on your research for a whole year, without having to teach, without having to work. They should enjoy it. Later, especially when teaching starts, unfortunately there’s never such free time.