#what makes this worse is that since so many people are participating in the superstition some will get what they want

[iris-drawing-stuff]

Honestly, with the current Milgram voting drama, I quite glad that Mikoto's MV is coming out in more than a month. It will give the non-Milgram fans time to get bored and do something else with their life.

It does make me really worried for Amane. She, out of everyone, needs nuanced discussion. Although, the religious character getting screwed over by a superstition is a little funny. But not funny enough to deserves her voting get ruined.

But don't lose hope guys! Please...

They'll get bored eventually.

[aria-i-adagio]

Ch. 20: Drill a Tiny Hole Into Your Head

Fandom: The Arcana

Chapter Rating: PG-13, with caveats

Wordcount: 6200

Trigger warning: The marked coda continues a mention of self harm and a suicide reference.  There is a non detailed summary of the coda at the end in italics.

Masterpost   Previous Chapter  Next Chapter

A/N: Many thanks to @ilyarium​ for co-writing the scene with Nadia and part of the court.

Portia returns shortly and shoves a pile of clothing into Asra’s arms as she kicks the door shut behind her.  “Whew!  You showed up at just the right time.  Asra, is it?  I’ve heard about you.  Next room, through that door, get changed.”  She gives him a little shove to the door that connects the room, and with another charismatic grin, Asra complies with the force of nature than is Portia.  

With a sigh, she turns back to me and bustles across the room to the wardrobe.  “I thought we were done for.  Good thing your friend showed up.”  She holds up a dress, considers it for a moment, then puts it away, before choosing another.  I spare a moment to wonder exactly when the wardrobe got stocked with clothing in my size.  “Dema, you’re right, by the way, he’s prettier than anyone has any right to be.”

“I told Julian to go to your cottage.”

“I hope he remembers the directions.  And he’s sneaky as anything, but if he runs into guards . . . well.”  Portia bites her lip, looking worried.  “I suppose I’ll hear about it if he does.  Your friend, Asra, is he an ally?”

I glance away, then look back to her.  “Close enough.  He wouldn’t turn Julian in, but there was something between them and that something went sideways.”  I start undoing the fastening of the outfit I’m currently wearing.  

“Can't imagine my brother being involved in something that went sideways.”  Portia picks out a third dress, pale blue with green embroidery and decorative lacing.  “Well, this will do.  Bring out your eyes.”  She tosses the dress over my head.

There’s a knock on the door connecting the rooms.  Asra.  I yell back permission for him to come in.  Portia arches her eyebrows at me and begins tightening the ribbons that lace up the front of the bodice.  I glance over at Asra, he’s wearing loose cream pants and a violet tunic.  How Portia found one that matches his eyes perfectly in under fifteen minutes is well beyond my powers of comprehension.

His eyes run up and down my body, and he smiles.  “You look nice in that.  Different.  But nice.” 

“You too.  Your clothes match for once.”

He laughs.  “Yes, Nadia always puts together my best looks.”

Portia coughs.  “Yeah, about that.”  She finishes with the laces on my dress and pushes my hair out of my face.  “I think I’m just going to brush out your hair and leave it down tonight.  Pretty that way.”

“I think Portia picked that out for you.”

“Ah, well.”  He has the grace to blush.  “Nadia has competition then.  Thank you, Portia.”

“You’re welcome.”  She starts working a brush through my hair from the ends up then pins it back from her face.  “I’ve learned a few things from Milady.”  She steps back and looks at my face carefully before pulling a lock of my hair loose from the pins.  “Perfect.  You know your way to the dining room by now?  I need to go check in on my grannie.”  She winks at me.”

“Yeah, I understand.  Thanks, Portia.” 

 ***

I expect another dinner where Nadia is the only member of the court in attendance, but when Asra and I enter the table is set for five.  It’s as elaborate as ever with the multiple stemmed glasses and the myriad of utensils that I’m still not sure how to use.  Worse than any potential specter of a faux pas with the silverware, Valdemar haunts the table, standing perfectly still behind one of the chairs, with their eyes closed in what might be meditation.  Or could be meditation if I thought I could ascribe anything so benign to them.  Why are they here?  Do they even eat?  

Asra stops short when he sees them and tightens his hand in mine before recovering himself.  He leans close to my ear, whispering.  “Nadia hasn’t gotten rid of them yet?”

“It’s complicated.  You know them?”

“Ah, witch, it seems we meet again.”  

I sigh in relief when I hear Valerius’s voice.  He’s standing near the sideboard helping himself to a glass of wine.  An ally, at least, I think he’s an ally even if his face is schooled into his usual expression of haughty disdain.  “Or, I suppose, witches, since there are two of you now.”

“Consul.”  Asra’s voice is cool.  Valerius must not rank particularly high on his list of preferred people.  Presumably though, he rates a bit higher than Valdemar.   

"Asra, was it?"  The way Valerius pronounces the name is off, long and short vowels confused, like there are some more h's hidden in there, and I wonder just how much of a kick he gets from teasing without making it obvious.  Quite a bit of a thrill, if I had to guess.

Eyes rolling, Asra corrects him, changing the vowels back to what they should be, redoubling my sense that this is some sort of long running game between them that only Valerius enjoys.

"Would you like some wine, witches?"  Judging by Asra’s irritated exhale, this is not how it usually goes.

I wonder what ritualized little jab Asra didn't get to insert into the conversation.  My eyes dart back to the table where the Quaestor is still posed, then nod to Valerius.  Wine would help.  "Yes, I would."  There's another irritated noise from Asra, as Valerius overfills a glass and puts it in my hand.

Then, he looks at me again, a raised brow that tells me politely that he is slightly amused about the people I choose to spend my time with, and then he pours another glass and offers it to Asra with a minute change to his expression.  No smile, but not a scowl either.  Amusement, but not true disdain.  "They are easier to bear with this."  He’s probably talking about the Quaestor, or is he?

Asra takes the glass, still scowling, but at least he isn’t placing some sort of hex on Valerius's wine.  He glances over at the Quaestor.  "Why are they here?”

"Maybe the Countess invited them.  Who am I to doubt her ways?  Or maybe they simply decided to hibernate here and the staff set a place for them?  Would you want to be the one to try to get them to leave?”  The slightest shrug.  “When I arrived, they already were like that, and did not react to my greeting."  Perhaps we can hope Valdemar might just stay this way - unmoving, silent, and dead to the world.  Awkward enough, but probably less of a damper on the conversation than their participation would be.

"Valerius, I need to ask you something?”

"Another question, little witch?”  If he's intending to maintain an air of scorn for me, it isn't going too well.  He says witch with a noticeable touch of a smile, like it's a friendly nickname, not an insult.  I’m willing to accept it as such.  Beside me, Asra raises his eyebrows at the hint of familiarity.

"Have you heard anything about Lucio haunting the palace?”  I want to ask him if he's dreamed of Lucio along with the nocturnal visitations from the Hierophant that he won’t openly admit to, but I know that there's no way he'd even acknowledge that question, not in front of Asra, or anyone.

He arches an eyebrow at me, then readjusts his expression to its usual slightly pissed state.  "Of course, I've heard things about hauntings.  The servants also claim that a headless woman walks the halls at midnight."  He hesitates for a moment.  "Superstition.  No more."

Two guards open the doors and Nadia enters.  She seems surprised for a moment when she sees Valdemar frozen by a chair but recovers quickly, and lets her gaze pass over him to Valerius.  "Ah, Consul, I see you found the aperitifs.  I had the kitchen build the menu around the wine list, instead of the reverse."  A small smile graces her face.  A jest rather than an insult then?  Or at least intended to be such.

"You spoil us, Countess."  He bows courteously to the Countess, form perfect.  "It's very commendable you decided to make this a working dinner instead of a simple meeting."

"Yes, yes.  Far more pleasant, even if I far the topic at hand is less than merry."  A servant pulls out her chair for her and gestures for us to join her at the table. Asra shooes me away from the seat across Valdemar, taking it himself and leaving me at Nadia's right hand and across from Valerius.  I catch him making gestures to ward off the evil eye under the table.

Valdemar appears to go from standing to sitting, perfectly poised, without moving at all.  "Ah, the guests have arrived.  Countess.  It is a pleasure, as it always is.  Consul."  The thinnest smile, a sickle in a sickly face.  They look like a corpse fished out one of the canals.  "You have found the wine, Consul.  Of course you have.  Have I not told you what it does to your system?"

"You have, Quaestor, in greatest and unappetizing detail, thank you."  Valerius takes a sip just to make a point about the value he ascribes to their opinion.

"It's an excellent choice to speak over dinner, Nadia.  Thank you."  I feel the need to establish myself as allied with Valerius; although, I suspect that is a flimsy shield indeed.

"It’s my pleasure."  She gestures to servants to place the first course on the table.  "I am also pleased that you have returned to us after your absence.  I'll confess to fearing that you might have abandoned the investigation.  But instead -"  She inclines her head to Asra.  "You seem to have brought reinforcements."

"I wonder if that will lead to more success than the disappointments she has managed thus far.” Valdemar steeples their fingers in front of them, ignoring the food on the table.  “Speaking of such: you were the cause of the horrible mess in the late count's quarters?"  Still the sharp smile on their harshly angled face.

Nadia arches an eyebrow at me.  I wish I knew exactly what Portia had told her about our adventure yesterday.  Or had Valdemar discovered the broken statue and mirror on their own?  That would raise some questions.  Why were they in the Count’s wing?  

"I have been asked to look into the Count's murder.  Observing the scene of the crime might seem to be necessary for that work."

"Just observing?"  A dry chuckle, and they hold a still gloved hand in front of their mouth politely.  Valerius shoots me a questioning glance.

Asra's hand on my knee suggests that he's giving me much the same look as Valerius.  "Yes, I observed a couple of hounds who have been neglected for far too long.  They're a bit unruly."  It was a true statement.  Something makes me think that the Quaestor is the kind of fey creature that can smell a lie.  But maybe not a half truth.

"I am sure you gave them a good, ehem, petting.  Perhaps a game of tug of war?"

"Quaestor, this is not very constructive, and certainly not what Her Excellency intended." Valerius manages to sound bored by their implications about what I might have been up to Lucio’s chambers.  “Please focus on your findings.”

Nadia clears her throat.  "I've decided that Lucio's wing has been in a state of disrepair for quite long enough, but it seemed prudent to have the Quaestor go through it one last time for any physical evidence.  Which they did this morning."

I suppress the part of me that wants to ask Nadia just why she considered Valdemar to be trustworthy by stabbing at the stuffed pasta dish in front of me.  While the wing certainly was a mess, how did they know that the damage was recent, much less had anything to do with me?  Unless . . . Had Lucio’s ghost told them?

We - or rather four of us - eat in silence while Valdemar explains their findings: shattered mirrors and the remnants of some design drawn in blood, ashes strewn across the floor, a mess on the bed, and three sets of footprints.  As they do, they continue to shoot me oh so very innocent looks.  I want to keep my eyes on my plate, but I suspect that’s a bad idea.  Nadia might catch on that I’m hiding something.

Asra is getting more agitated by the minute, and I know I'm going to hear about this later.  Especially after Valdemar mentioned blood.  Valerius keeps glancing at me from across the table, and I wonder for a moment if he's confused card reader with psychic and expects me to somehow communicate with him wordlessly.  The servants pick up the plates, including the one that Valdemar hasn't touched, and Nadia leans forward with the deadly simple question I had hoped she wouldn't ask.  "I know Portia and Dema went Lucio’s chambers.  Who was the third?"

The Consul leans back in his chair and folds his hands in front of him.  There's the slightest of nods in my direction - he knows who the third set of prints being to - before he says one word.

"Me."

"You?" I never would have expected to hear Nadia, Asra and Valdemar speak in unison.

"The witch asked me to come along and witness to her shenanigans.  I told her pointedly I'd rather not, but she convincingly mentioned my assistance would be the will of Her Excellency as soon as she was informed, and it would be less trouble for both of us if I just came along."

I shrug and do my best to smile innocently.  "It really would have wasted time if Portia or I had needed to come find you, my lady."  I'm not sure how I'm ever going to afford an adequate bottle of wine to repay the Consul, but that's a problem for later.

"Forgive me for not mentioning it, Your Excellency.  I found it shameful enough as it was and would gladly never have entered those rooms again, even if I have to admit it was quite the experience.  I do hope, my esteemed Quaestor, that you will not try to accuse me of taking active part in any occult silliness, will you?"

"Oh, dearest Consul, I would never.  Your blood is far too thin to be of any use in things like that."  Horribly pointy teeth gleam in the candlelight.

"It's hardly silly if blood is involved," Asra mutters.

I kick him under the table and hope that no one notices.  Now’s not the time.  That conversation is coming.  It’s just one I want to have in private.

"But to the point, Quaestor, did you find anything that might lead us to an understanding of the events surrounding my husband's murder?”

"I might have, Your Excellency, if your guest would not have done her utmost to disturb the crime scene.  I honestly wonder why the Consul did not stop her from destroying evidence."

"Oh, my esteemed colleague, the answer is a rather simple one.  It has been three years, and, in all that time, none of your efforts have come to fruition.  I highly doubted trying a less . . . well-trodden path could lead to even fewer results."

Valerius gulps down a significant portion of his wine, forgetting in his irritation to be pretentious.  The Quaestor simply smiles at me, teeth clicking together.  "Perhaps I could interview the witch about the state of the wing prior to her . . . escapades.  Yes, that might be most informative.  Investigate the investigator."

Asra twirls a table knife between his fingers, and I wonder just how sharp an edge he's magicked it into.  "That doesn't seem necessary."

"Oh, I do think it highly necessary.  Who really knows what her intentions are?"  They smile at me, all sharp teeth and malice, while Valerius raises his chin in disgust and takes another pointed sip of his wine as if to reiterate just how little he cares for Valdemar’s opinion.

"Do you doubt, Valdemar, that Her Excellency chose the most apt person for the job?"  His anger is still well subdued, but he lets it shine through enough that we all notice it. Valdemar seems delighted to get a rise out of him.

They titter and lean over the table toward me, chin resting on their folded hands.  "Oh, I trust that the Countess has chosen a most remarkable person for the job."  I feel their gaze creeping over my skin, and shiver, grabbing under the table for Asra's hand and whatever reassurance is there.  "You're a fascinating little manikin, witch.  Almost perfect.  What I'd give to examine you more closely."

"Are you trying to find out if she's got plans for the night, Quaestor, or are you here to listen to her findings up in the rooms?"  The Consul’s voice is stern.  He’s entirely fed up with them and has been for no small amount of time.

Beside me Asra has gone from spinning the knife to holding it like a bar room scrapper, and I think I can see frost forming along the edge.  If I don't do something to stop this, I'm afraid he will.  And something tells me that attacking Valdemar will not end well for any of us.  "Countess, I would be happy to speak with you regarding the state of the Count's rooms, but I won't be subjected to this."

“Your behavior is entirely unbecoming to a member of the court, Quaestor.  I do not appreciate my guests being treated like this.”

"I concur."  Valerius fingers his wine and stands.  "Your Excellency, if you agree, I will see the Quaestor to their lab.  I'm sure you will inform them about any information you deem necessary for them to know."

"You will not finish eating with us?"

"My compliments to the kitchen, but I don't quite have the right appetite for such a scrumptious meal at this time of day.  Should anything remain, please have the staff bring it to my rooms."  Valerius waits two heartbeats more to give her time to refuse his offer, then rises to make his exit.

"Yes, Consul, please see the Quaestor back to their lab."  Nadia narrows her eyes at the second courtier and lowers her tone to one that sounds dangerous.  "Valdemar, you are dismissed."

They rise from their chair with a single fluid movement and smile at me again before pointedly walking past Valerius and out of the dining room.  Valerius nods at me and then follows them out.  Asra sets down his knife, visibly relaxed now than Valerius and Valdemar have disappeared, and the Countess covers her face with hand.

"Truly, Dema, I apologise for their behavior."

"It was their behavior, not yours."

"Still, they work in my name.  It is not acceptable, not anymore.  If my late husband found that appropriate - well, good on him, but I don't."

I wish those are not just empty words.

"So, what did the three of you find?  Or shall I call for Portia too, to get more honest answers?"  She smiles as she looks up again, her eyes softer than they were a moment before.

"It's, um, true that we did rather make a mess of things.  Or rather . . ."  I'm not entirely sure what to tell her, and I haven't had a chance to discuss it with Asra - or Portia, and . . . I grab my glass and take a deep drink of the wine.  "Have you heard the servants speak of that wing being haunted?"

She nods.  "Oh, of course they do.  I've taken it as a given they would, given the nature of the Count’s death."

"It's not superstition in this case."  I catch myself rubbing my shoulder, the one Lucio's cold hand rested on.  "The Count's ghost is very much haunting that wing."

"So he can't even die right."  Her crimson eyes roll.  "As useless at being dead as he was at being alive."

"Perhaps not.  We, um, Portia and I thought he might remember the circumstances of his death."  I'm almost stammering as badly as Julian.  Without knowing what Portia had already told her, and I don't doubt it's something, it's hard to know what to say.  "So that was the purpose of going into the Count's wing."

"But he was too drunk or high or sick to remember?"  There's a tone in her voice that makes me almost feel sorry for the dead man.  Not much love lost there.  It must have been a miserable marriage.

"I'm not sure.  I didn't get a final answer.  He got a bit . . . distracted."  

"Sounds about right for him," Asra comments.  "How strong is he?  Can he manifest in his own?”

"I used a spell, but he was strong enough to shatter a mirror after, and a statue."

Asra's eyebrows knit together in concern at the mention of a summoning spell, and I suspect he's putting that information together with Valdemar's mention of blood.  He doesn’t seem so much unhappy with or disappointed in me, as he is worried.  I slid my hand into his above the table this time, with only Nadia here, I feel no need to hide the gesture.

She notices and smiles.  "And may I ask why you decided to take along Valerius?  Of all people?  He never struck me as particularly receptive to spirits that aren't liquid."  She allows herself a short chuckle, and Asra joins in.  I repress a stab of irritation at the both of them, other than Portia, Valerius has been the most willing to help me.  But at least, the Countess found it credible, if laughable, that I took him along, which is more than expected.

"Precisely for that reason.  Who better for a witness than a known skeptic?”  It seemed a reasonable enough explanation.  

"Would it be possible to rouse Lucio again?”

Asra breaks in.  "I suspect the spell Dema used isn't one that should be repeated."

"Do you have a better one, dear Asra?"

"I have an idea."  His hand tightens around mine as if to reassure me that he isn't angry.  "Strong emotions can cause a spirit to manifest.  And Lucio was also temperamental.  So, perhaps, we can provoke him."

"And then?  What do you intend to do then?"

"I still think he may know more than he told me."  I'm not sure I particularly relish the notion of provoking Lucio's spirit, much less rousing him.  But Asra was correct that using blood again would be a bad idea, especially mine.  The chance of Lucio developing a connection to a specific person was high.

"Do you really think this is a good idea?  Lucio was . . . not especially kind when he was angry.  Everything but that, really."  Nadia doesn't look too happy with the prospect.

Asra shrugs.  "It might also provide an opportunity to banish him, if he's still lingering once you've finished cleaning and renovating."

"I . . .  I need to think about it."  For the first time, the usually proud woman seems to be hesitant.  Is Lucio that much of a threat when he's really angry?  He did threaten to rip Portia's head off, and Julian's reaction suggested that it wasn't an idle threat.  Besides, simply mentioning Asra's name had caused him to shatter a mirror, and there was still the question of Asra and his dead lover.  Even if Julian wasn't implicated in the events of three years ago, we might not like what we find out from him.

"It is entirely your decision, Nadia, and we will not try to convince you of anything you are not sure about."  Asra's voice is calm, and I briefly think of him explaining difficult facts to children, which doesn’t seem quite right as regards the Countess.  "There's a certain risk, but I think I’m able to handle whatever he can throw at us."

The Countess sighs.  "Let's see what happens when I send in servants to clear the area.  For now, go rest.  You must have a lot to catch each other up on."

***

When we get back to the room, there’s a bottle of liquor enticing me from the corner table.  Extra tantalizing after dealing with Valdemar.  I pour a drink for myself and offer the bottle to Asra who shakes his head.  I shrug and splash another finger of liquid into the glass before tossing it back.  It burns my throat.  It’s something that I understand.     

Asra wraps his arms around me from behind.  I sink back against him, letting him tuck my head under his chin.  Enigmatic as he is, he’s still the only constant in my fractured mind.  Faust coils herself around both of us, radiating contentment.  “This isn't exactly what I had in mind when I said try to stay out of trouble.”

“Which part of this?”  The past few days and nights have been a whirlwind of trouble, and I know it.

“Any of it.  Getting involved with Nadia - with Ilya.  Did both of you just impulsively decide that you’re back together again?”

His concerns are the exact opposite of mine.  He seems to trust Nadia - far more than I do.  And Julian, or Ilya, is some sort of threat, either to me, or what Asra wants from me, or to both.  At least, insofar as Asra understands the situation.

“Asra, I trust him.  I know it doesn't make sense, but I feel like I've known him longer than a few days.  Longer than I have memories for.”   

“That's just the kind of drama he loves: tempestuous parting and a picturesque reunion.”

I huff in irritation and shrug out of his arms.  Faust comes with me, curling around my neck and bumping her head against my chin.  “And what about the two of you?  He thinks you cursed you?”

“Cursed him?  Do you really think I would put a curse on someone?”

“No.”  Well, maybe.  I’m not entirely sure what Asra actually is capable of doing.  “What did happen between the two of you?”

“We were together for a bit.  While you -”

“While me what?”

A long pause and yet another deflection.  “I couldn't actually give him what he wanted.”

“So it was just sex for you?”

“Not qui- dammit - yes.  I'm sure he does care for you, but he couldn't - he can't take care of you.”

“What do you mean by couldn't?”

“He let you -”  Asra bites of his words and turns away from me, pressing his fingers to the window.  “He didn't keep you safe.”  I want to ask what he didn't keep me safe from, but I know I won't get an answer.  Probably only more questions.  

“Maybe I don't need someone to take care of me.”  It's neither a lie nor quite the truth.  I can keep myself fed, clothed, and so on and so forth, but I also can pace the streets for days at a time, an inner monologue breaking through as nearly incoherent mumbles, until Asra finds me, pulls me home and holds me until I sleep.   “I'm not a child, Asra!”

“That's not . . . That's not what I meant.”

“Asra?”  

“What?”  

“Why do you take care of me?”  The first few months I remember are broken and foggy, but I know I wasn’t well.  Not quite helpless, but there would have been no way that I could have fended for myself.  And the times I've been . . . ill since then.

“Because I’m the one who got you into this, this . . .”  His voice trails off when he can’t find the word he wants.  “And I can’t figure out how to get you out of it.”

A long pause.  I want another drink.  I want to know just what ‘this’ is that he can’t get me out of.  I want him to answer a goddamn question.  I touch a hand to his shoulder instead of pouring another shot.  Better tactic.  Perhaps.

“Asra, you said we were lovers.  What did lovers mean?”

“It meant -”  He turns around, he hands are shaking.  “It meant that we always came home to each other.  Dema -”

Do you still love me?  I feel the words on my lips.  I cut him off, cut myself off before I can ask that question.  “I need to sleep.”  Faust slides down my arm.  I hold out my hand.  Asra’s fingers touch mine as she crawls across to him.

“Do you want me to stay with you?”

I bite my lip, torn between wanting his familiar presence and overwhelming irritation with him.  But I’ve slept well enough alone, curled around a pillow instead of him during the many, many times he’s left me alone.  “No.  Not right now.”

Later, when my thoughts won’t stop chasing their own tails in my skull, I push open the door between our rooms and pad softly across the carpeted floor to where Asra is sprawled across the bed.  When I slide in next to him, he rolls onto his side and wraps an arm around me, mumbling groggily.  “Can’t sleep?”

I shake my head.  “Too many thoughts.”

“What are you thinking?”

“All of this, this . . . it has something to do with me.  My past.  Doesn’t it?”

Silence.  Not sure what else I expected.  Asra pulls me closer to him.  His lips press against the top of my head.  “In a way.  At least . . .”  He’s quiet again, gathering his own thoughts or perhaps trying to figure out how to phrase them, then he repeats himself.  “In a way.”

“Yesterday.  In Lucio’s rooms, I had a headache, one that knocked me flat.”   He doesn’t say anything in response, but he shifts his hand and runs his fingers over my hair.  “But, I got through it, so -”  I sit up and pause, looking down at Asra.  “Why are you the only one who isn’t missing anything?”

“Missing?” Asra is trying and failing to keep the pain in his eyes from reaching his voice.  His hand hovers over his chest and clutched at the fabric of his shirt before he manages to will it back to his side.  He looks away from me, off into the darkness of the room.  “We're all missing something, Dema.”

What happened that they've paid so dearly for it?  I would ask Asra, but there are already pricks behind my eyes, warning of the headache to come if I do.

“Asra, am I the same person I was?”

His wide, startled eyes dart back to my face.  “Are you the same person? Yes . . .”  His chin tilts down.  “. . . and no.”  He folds his hands over mine.  “You have the same humor and compassion.  You sing the same nonsense songs to yourself.  You even use the same obscure vocabulary that I know I didn't teach you.  But there's an edge to you that wasn't there before, a sort of anger and cynicism.  Not that I blame you.”

“Why didn't you tell me we were lovers?”

“I . . .”  He drops my hands.  “I didn't want to force some kind of expectation on you.  You were so vulnerable at first, and I hoped the memories would come back, like your smile and your songs did eventually.”

Everything about him - his posture, the expression on his face - is a study in misery.  I lean down and rest my head against his shoulder.  We lay in silence for a moment.

“While I’m being honest, I don't know why you're helping Ilya.  He’s not a perfect man.  Then again, I suppose no one really is.  Are you...that determined to uncover the truth?”

“I am.”

He sighs heavily and runs his hands over my back.  “We’ll find him tomorrow then, and we need to go meet a friend of mine.”

(STOP! DID YOU READ THE TRIGGER WARNING.  THE NEXT SECTION CONTAINS MENTIONS OF SELF HARM AND SUICIDE.  Scroll to the end for a non detailed summary.)

Coda: A Punk Who Rarely Ever Took Advice

Five years ago.  Dema.

There wasn’t much left in the market anymore.  The city’s stockpile of grain hadn’t run out yet, so the baker was still producing bread, but simple utilitarian loaves.  No decadent pastries or pumpkin bread rich and warm with spice though.  I had been able to trade a basket of eggs from my chickens for a few days worth of tea, which was rapidly becoming scarce now that the harbor had closed.  Beyond the bread, Asra and I had been largely eating from my neglected vegetable garden, but he was good at making something out of nothing.

I climbed the stairs to the kitchen above the shop and found Asra hovering over the kitchen table, arranging items on a multi-colored shawl.  Packets of herbs, various charms, an assortment of coins - his tarot deck.

“You’re leaving me again?”

“What?  No.”  He looked up from the bundle.  “You’re coming with me.”

“Asra, I can’t leave.”  A steady stream of people continued to come to the shop, even - even after Anna died.  I could give them blends to ease fevers and coughs.  Charms that would soothe aching bodies.  All just symptom management, but it was something.  Something that I could do.  I placed the loaf of bread on the counter and tucked my small packet of tea safely into the cabinet.  “Besides, the entire city is closed off.”

“I know ways out of the city that the guards don’t.”  Asra took the bread from the counter and added it to his bundle.  I snatched it out and returned it to the counter.  Faust lifted her head from her basket in the south window, tongue flicking, attention shifting between the two of us.  “I did a reading.  It's only going to get worse.  If we leave now -”

“Asra, the cards are only a 'might' you know that.”

“Can't take that risk.  Not with you.”

“There are people still asking me to help them.  I can’t just abandon them.”

“I don’t care about them, Dema.  I care about you.  We need to go somewhere safe.”  He took my hands in his, lifting them and pressing his lips to my fingers.  “Anywhere but here.”

“I’m not leaving, Asra.  I finally feel like I’m doing something useful.  Not just taking up space.”

“Don’t you understand?  If we stay here, we will die.  You said yourself that there's no cure.”

“I’d rather die doing the right thing.  Anna -”

“Is dead!  She’s dead, and I can’t lose you too.  I just can’t.”  He held my hand as tightly as his gaze holds my eyes.  “Please, just let me make this decision.  Dema, you aren’t thinking straight.”

“What do you mean?”

He turns my left arm over, running his thumb down the scarred skin to where I have a bandage tied loosely over three new, evenly, precisely spaced burns from when I had found a handwritten note listing her modifications to a recipe, and I needed - I swear - to interrupt the emotions that started to swirl like smoke creeping beneath a door, to wrap around my limbs pulling, tugging me back to listlessness.  

I jerk my arm out of his grasp.  “Fuck you.  That’s not fair.”

“Dema.”  He reaches for me again, and I step back, just out of his reach.  “I have to keep you safe.  I’ve lost too many people.  Just this once, let me decide.”

“Mad or not, I still get to make my own decisions.  You don’t get to take that from me.”

He stood quietly, trembling.  When he spoke, his voice was soft.  “I didn’t say you were mad.”

“What did you say then?”

“Dema.  I love you.  I can’t watch you die.”

“Then don’t.”  I wrapped my arms close around my chest, shoulders hunching forward.  “Leave.  I won’t stop you.  You’re always gone anyway.”

“You don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand?  That you’re running away?  That you think I’ve lost my mind?  That I can’t make decisions for myself?”

“If I you tried to hang yourself, should I just let you?”

“How fucking dare you, Asra.  This isn’t the same at all.”

“How? You’re dead at the end of either scenario!”

A deep breath.  Count to ten.  Don’t overreact.  “Get out, Asra.”  It wasn’t an overreaction.  Not at all.

Asra stared at me, silent, every muscle in his body taut.  “Fine,” he said finally.  He gathered up his half packed bundle, took his flamboyantly feathered hat and iridescent scarf down from the wall, and lifted Faust from her basket and curled her around his shoulders.  As he stomped down the stairs, she looked back over his shoulder at me, eyes blinking in confusion.  

I told myself he’d be back.  Probably before the sun set.

He wasn’t back that night.  Or the next day.  I stayed busy during the day in the the still room, preparing tinctures, pre-mixing teas, and carefully melting down some of the precious little sugar I had left into syrups that I was strongly encouraging people to only buy for children.  Easier for adults to tolerate a bitter tea.

When he wasn't back at sunset, I toasted a slice of bread, fried an egg to go on it, and settled in with a book of philosophy, because I needed something that would take up most of my mental energy, and a novel wasn't going to suffice.

He didn't come back at midnight.

The scrap of paper with the address of Julian's clinic was tucked into the back my book.

The second morning, I knocked on the clinic door.

Summary of Coda: During the plague, following her aunt's death, Dema comes back to the shop to find Asra packing to leave. Dema insists on staying, because she feels like she's doing something helpful for the city. He tries to make her come with, referencing that her mental illness is acting up and that she isn't in a good state of mind to make decisions. They argue and Dema throws Asra out. When he doesn't come back, she goes to work for Julian.

Next Chapter

A/N: Chapter title from Andrew Bird, “Fake Palindromes” and the coda title is from The Verve Pipe, “Freshmen.”

[tipsycad147]

Psychic Curses and Spells that Work

Article about removing curses by Craig Hamilton-Parker.

Since earliest times, people have used ritual and magic to influence the world. The bison drawings from the prehistoric Altamira cave paintings in Spain, dating from 15,000 BC, may have been used in ritual magic to make sure a successful hunt. The principle is that similar things create similar effects–like produces like, or an effect resembles its cause. For example, in black magic, a human being could be cursed to death by spearing a skull with a metal point bearing the name of the intended victim.

This imitation of effects to influence events is called sympathetic magic. Magic also holds that things that have once been in contact with each other continue to act on each other at a distance after the physical contact has been severed. Many magic love spells, for example, require that the magician procure samples of the intended’s hair or fingernails to be used in the ritual or potion. The former principle is called the Law of Similarity, while the latter is the Law of Contagion or Contact.

Burning Effigies

I am writing this particular chapter on November 5, when we in the UK celebrate the ending of the first terrorist attack. Guy Fawkes was a co-conspirator in the “Gunpowder Plot” of 1605 in England. He and his cohorts decided to blow up the Houses of Parliament in London and succeeded in smuggling several barrels of gunpowder into the basement. The plot was thwarted and to this day we celebrate the occasion by setting off fireworks and burning effigies of Guy Fawkes.

This is, in fact, a form of sympathetic magic. Burning an effigy helps people to vent their hatred for their enemies in public, but the magician’s “law of similarity” also believes that burning the effigy will bring harm to the person whose image is being burnt. (A few years ago, my sister insisted that we burn an effigy of her ex-partner in place of the “Guy”)

The ritual of effigy-burning has been found in many ancient cultures including that of India, Babylon, Egypt, Greece, and Rome. The Ojibway of the American West would fashion little wooden images of an enemy and burn them while chanting magic spells. Called “the burning of the soul,” this ritual was believed to bring about the enemy’s death.

Then, of course, we have all heard of the voodoo doll, into which pins would be inserted to cause an enemy harm. Voodoo is still largely practised in Haiti; while in New Orleans, rooted in its large slave population mixed with Catholicism, you will find altars set up to protect against hoodoo magic (like voodoo a primarily healing-based practice based on sympathetic magic).

Sympathetic Magic

Sympathetic magic is still with us today in our superstitions and beliefs. How often do we see the American flag or effigies of Uncle Sam being burnt in protests? Burning an effigy is pure sympathetic magic: just as the image suffers, so does the man or nation.

“Holy Trinity, punish him who has done this evil and take him from us by thy great justice, that the sorcerer/sorceress may be anathema and we may be safe. Amen.” Popular Hoodoo Spell to remove a curse (To be spoken while throwing angelica in a southern direction)

Sympathetic magic is not necessarily evil in its intent. For example, voodoo (or more properly “Vodu”) is a religion that is characterised by ceremony, music, dance, and sacrifice, through which participants commune with their ancestors in trance and possession. It has a pantheon of spirits, called ‘Iwa’ that protect areas of life including love, family health, and wealth. Similarly, throughout Europe and America, there is a growing interest in the old religion of Paganism which is trying to cast off the negative witchcraft image given it by Christianity.

The truth is that many ancient magical beliefs may be used for good or ill. For example, returning to the effigy theme, puppet healing is the reverse of effigy burning. Instead of desiring to kill or injure the person whom the puppet represents, the practitioner wishes to help them. Healing given to the puppet is transmitted to the person represented.

Protective Spells

Protective healing spells are cast on the night of a full moon by voodoo sorcerers. In particular, they will make a Paket Kongo to summon the healing spirits. This is an onion-shaped, bright coloured, a cloth-bound package filled with herbs and the powdered flesh of a sacrificed rooster. It is tied around with string seven times and has large feathers sticking out of its top. Similarly, a Catholic may pray in Church with a rosary or a colour healer may “charge” water or a photograph with coloured light (Graphichromotherapy). Clearly, it is the intention of the practitioner that determines whether the results of magic are good or evil.

Voodoo and hoodoo have some interesting methods to protect the soul from harm. For example, if a person believes that they are under a psychic attack, there are a number of remedies that they can use to negate the harm. They may have a feeling that something “out there” is after them or that someone has bad intentions towards them. Similarly, they may feel that this energy has become an “entity” that is causing bad luck or illness. Wiccans generally believe that once you are aware of the curse or negative energy sent towards you, it no longer has power, where followers of voodoo and hoodoo believe that a curse, spell, or “crossing” can only be lifted using specific rituals and techniques.

The Psychology of Spell Casting

Naturally, psychology plays an important part in making a spell work. Just as we can talk ourselves into being ill, we can frighten ourselves into believing that bad luck and illness will befall us. If we believe we are unlucky, we may inevitably attract bad luck into our lives and curses may only succeed because the victim believes in their power.

Most people find out that they are jinxed through word of mouth or when a “friend” tells them that a spell has been put upon them. Let’s face it, people love to gossip and soon the belief in the jinx is reinforced by the community at large. Inevitably, as soon as something untoward happens to the victim, the jinx is to blame. They may lose their keys or a credit card and immediately they remember what the friend told them. And so the cycle of fear begins.

Worse still, a hideous token, gris-gris, amulet, or charm may be posted to them or hung on their door to warn them that magic has been cast. A hoodoo sorcerer may nail a gruesome chicken bone amulet on your front door and cover your steps in blood-red powder. In some countries, it is traditional to spit or blow powder in the victims face while speaking the words of the curse. This shock technique reinforces the power of the curse, taking the victim, as it does, off guard and naturally causes a severe upset.

Curses and a Jinx

REMOVING A CURSE | REMOVING A HEX |

“Protection comes to me this day . This crossed condition goes away. Returning negativity To the one who has crossed me.” –Hoodoo Candle Spell

There are as many ways to remove a curse or spell as there are ways to cast them, and these vary according to the cultural tradition. Remaining with the hoodoo theme, the belief is that curses should be “sent back” to the perpetrator. A popular way of doing this is to scatter Angelica in the direction of the curse, or to the South if the sorcerer is known. Similarly, Five Finger Grass (Cinquefoil) can be stuffed into a drained egg which is then sealed with wax. It is believed in New Orléans that a home with this magical egg in it will be free of jinx and curses.

Followers of hoodoo also like to take special herbal baths made with Dragon’s Blood, Five Finger Grass, Ginger, or Pine and Hyssop to protect them from sorcery. Herbs and special powders are also used by the secret “red sects” from Haiti to induce illness and fear in their victims. One pinch of these secret recipes is said to bring bad luck or illness. Similarly, this tradition holds that herbal baths may be used to combat an evil hex and also to bring luck in love and money.

Bath-time food offerings are made to the spirits of Ezili Freda (love) or Ibo Lele (money) and may include everything from popcorn to the blood of sacrificed animals. (I would try this technique myself, but am concerned that my wife would be a little alarmed to see chicken heads among the talc and soaps.)

REMOVING CURSES

Haitian voodoo has an armoury of amulets, totems, and tools to protect the soul. Malicious spirits are countered using an ason rattle made from a gourd and containing snake vertebrae. Music and dances are used to counterspells, and many of these ceremonies involve Catholic saints in the rituals. Most Haitian altars, in particular, include a mixture of both voodoo and Catholic imagery, with icons of saints placed next to tribal gods. Altars also include magical drawings of “verve” designs, which are made during ceremonies as an aid to draw the protective spirits from their divine homeland to the mortal world.

They look very similar to western protective talismans. But perhaps some of the odd tools of voodoo priests are dolls heads that they squash into bottles to ward off evil spirits and sequined bottles decorated with a skull motif of the Gede spirits (the guardians of the dead and masters of the libido). One strange protective totem, created by Franz Barra, featured a Barbie doll squeezed into a miniature, red-sequined coffin.

The Evil Eye

Voodoo and hoodoo are, of course, not alone in giving strange surreal remedies to protect the soul from curses and spells. Many believe that the soul can be harmed by a jealous stare or envious glance. The eyes are considered “the gateway to the soul” and, in many cultures, the “evil eye” is believed to harm the soul. It is one of the oldest and most culturally prevalent magical beliefs in the world.

The evil eye is believed to cause miscarriage, illness, business failure, marriage breakdown, bad luck, and a great many misfortunes. In addition, anyone, including those who have no special powers, can give the evil eye. Since it happens involuntarily, no one can be certain who or where the evil came from, making this one of the most feared of all magical powers.

People with different colored eyes or eyes set close together or deep in their head were often suspected of having the Evil Eye and were often persecuted as witches from the sixteenth to eighteenth century. In the 1930s, a man from New York earned his living by renting his evil eye to prize-fight managers. He would sit ringside and stare at opposing fighter.

Averting the Evil Eye

There are hundreds of ways to avert the Evil Eye. One of the most immediate techniques, and not recommended for dinner parties, is to spit three times in the eye of the onlooker. Another is to step aside, if someone is staring at you, so letting the negativity pass you by. The Italians wear special amulets of hands making sexually symbolic gestures for protection from the evil eye: called the mano fico (‘fig hand) or the mano corunto (horned hand).

In most cultures, the cure involves a complex series of rituals, which vary around the world. Water, oil, and melted wax often play a part, or the ritual may center on an eye-shaped and liquid-filled natural object such as an egg. Animals that were supposedly affected by the Evil Eye were burned, whereupon the person who had made the curse would suffer the same agony. Similarly, a clay manikin, or witch puppet, made in the likeness of the suspect person with the Evil Eye would be stuck with pins to lift the spell.

Naturally, I have always believed these things to be hocus-pocus; that is, until my Israeli friend brought us a present from his homeland. He knew we had had trouble with a neighbor so gave us an ornate hand in the “stop” gesture with an eye in the palm. “This will avert the evil eye of the bad woman,” he said. “It’s good. Hang it up in the front of your house and you will have no more trouble.” Within three months, the bad neighbor had moved.

Profits of the Prophets

“Praying is like a rocking chair–it’ll give you something to do, but it won’t get you anywhere.” — GYPSY ROSE LEE (Rose Louise Hovick, American stripper)

Many claim that sympathetic magic is “mumbo jumbo,” that results can be explained away. This is no doubt true in some instances, but there are also times when such magic appears to have worked. Yes, belief alone may be enough to cure some people or fulfill a spell’s curse. But there are cases on record that contradict that scenario–where people appear to falter even though they are unaware a curse has been placed on them. Nonetheless, common sense is the primary ingredient in spiritual ventures, particularly in relation to magic and the healing arts.

Magic Snake Stone

Some people believe that snake bite calls for treatment by “magic snake stone,” which is, in reality, no more than benzine or a gallstone, having no effect on the venomous bite. Clearly, if a snake-bitten person were to rely on such magic in this instance, consequences could be fatal.

Sadly, charlatans still exist today to take advantage of those who are gullible and superstitious. Often this is the case with those who are upset about the break-up of a relationship: they will do, or pay, anything to get their partner back! A common scam is promising to change your luck by lifting a curse or a jinx or removing “negativity from your aura.”

Through my columns and website, I have received many letters from people frightened by threats of a curse that they are told can only be removed if they pay money. These “psychics” often target people who are already fearful, having met “bad luck” in their lives. The fraud psychic have good observational skills and is able to give the sitter with enough apparent information to convince them that what they say is true. They are alert to facial reactions and bodily gestures, and incorporate feedback information likely mentioned earlier in the sitting or consultation or hinted at in a response.

Once the sitter is hooked with this “cold reading,” the charlatan may offer to change the person’s luck for a price. I know of someone who was quoted $3,000 to have bad luck lifted from their lives. For this fee, the “psychic” would burn a magic candle to clear the misfortune. However, she warned that, as the case was particularly bad, it might be necessary to burn more candles. Of course, this would cause added costs, for the magic candles and her services.

Negative Energy Curses

A real curse is a set of words or a ritual that has been imbued with the negative energy of a thought-form. A curse cannot harm us unless we allow it to, by giving the negative energy an entry point. Certainly, paying money to someone else will not remove negative energy, nor will having rituals performed on your behalf. The key to protection from real curses come from your own refusal to give in to superstition and unfounded fear. Just as money can’t buy you, love, giving money to such people cannot change your luck or make you well again. People often incur such problems when they do not generally take personal responsibility for their lives.

They tend to go to a fortune-teller because they want someone else to make the hard choices for them. It is much easier to blame things outside of ourselves for our troubles. We accuse others, instead of owning up to our own faults. We blame circumstances and people for troubles that are of our own making. And, of course, many of us blame our bad luck on fate. How much better it is to take charge of our own lives! Personal responsibility gives a person self-confidence and a realistic view of circumstances.

The role of the true psychic is to give insight and inspire, not to make decisions for you. A psychic can encourage you, and even empower you to take charge of your destiny. To do something about it! So, take my advice: If you are ever asked for money to remove a curse or a spell, to regain health, to bring back a lover, or to change your luck, leave immediately and don’t look back!

psychics.co.uk/blog/curses-and-spells-that-work/

[rabbitindisguise]

Hey, I saw your "culturally christian" post—may I ask, are you Christian? Jewish? something else? Because I'd like to know what perspective you're coming from in your (very good!) analysis.

Thanks! That's actually a complicated question to answer. It would make things easier for the discussion if I could place myself somewhere intelligible along the privileged/marginalized axis since it would actually give me a place to start this post from but oh well

I actually classify myself as "superstitious" if anything. I'm not religious- I'm agnostic, because statistically I don't think anyone has the right answer. Worse, many religious beliefs are all or nothing on converting, no other god/s allowed.

But my "religious practice" so to speak isn't, technically, acultural but so multicultural that to call me "culturally Christian" is laughable. Christians do not trust the guy saying that hey, maybe the divine order is backwards. Maybe germs are the most important thing in the universe. I mix science with my beliefs like some sort of trinket stealing gremlin because I like internal consistency more than fitting in. By the same token, I considered converting to Judaism because I'm all about debating meanings but I simply do not have the energy for something that still feels ill fitting. Shintoism isn't quite right either. But I pull from all three of those and more in my everyday life. Ultimately, agnosticism, and therefore completely out of the boundaries of any atheism vs religions debate, is the most comfortable for me, but not a very helpful answer to "but who do you hand out with." I try to be easy for anyone to hang out with. That's lead to a Big Mess of cultural awareness.

I tried to summarize the total number of cultures I've been exposed to and picked up habits from and unfortunately that would be "just about everything and the kitchen sink." I genuinely don't know where half of my superstitions come from and adopt new ones easily through learning about new cultures to construct characters in my books. Which is why I'm just "superstitious."

I'd probably say I'm basically religious if religion itself wasn't so restrictive and instructive. I'm an anarchist so I get turned off completely when I get told I have to do anything. Plus many religions shape and inform the values of the culture they come from. People do a lot of bad things in the name of religion and I don't want to be a part of that, but neither do I genuinely not believe that "a religion" can't be possible.

And so far no religion I've interacted with, I feel, has focus on the idea that humans are small insignificant ants and that literal ants can be incredibly powerful, making humans just a different kind of ant. I'm actually very anti-human in many people's view simply because I don't think we're any more special or interesting than anything that has ever existed. I don't think that any religion I participate in should pay attention more to humans than animals. I don't think animals are just here for our comfort. And I don't see anything wrong or dirty with killing for food. That's not covered by any religion I've seen, yet that's basically my religious belief system. My code of conduct, even.

TL;DR agnostic, not religious

(Don't ask me to pick a penny head's down though, lmao I'm not fucking risking that. Better safe than sorry.)

[cassiopeiathewraith]

Books you should read because I LOVE THEM

Dedication: For @kissmybruisedknuckles who told me to make this because she’s too lazy to make one lol

1. Strange The Dreamer - Laini Taylor

The dream chooses the dreamer, not the other way around—and Lazlo Strange, war orphan and junior librarian, has always feared that his dream chose poorly. Since he was five years old he’s been obsessed with the mythic lost city of Weep, but it would take someone bolder than he to cross half the world in search of it. Then a stunning opportunity presents itself, in the person of a hero called the Godslayer and a band of legendary warriors, and he has to seize his chance or lose his dream forever.

What happened in Weep two hundred years ago to cut it off from the rest of the world? What exactly did the Godslayer slay that went by the name of god? And what is the mysterious problem he now seeks help in solving?

2. The Night Circus - Erin Morgenstern

The circus arrives without warning. No announcements precede it, no paper notices plastered on lampposts and billboards. It is simply there, when yesterday it was not. Within these nocturnal black-and-white striped tents awaits an utterly unique, a feast for the senses, where one can get lost in a maze of clouds, meander through a lush garden made of ice, stare in wonderment as the tattooed contortionist folds herself into a small glass box, and become deliciously tipsy from the scents of caramel and cinnamon that waft through the air.

Welcome to Le Cirque des Rêves.

3. Unwind - Neil Shusterman

The Second Civil War was fought over reproductive rights. The chilling resolution: Life is inviolable from the moment of conception until age thirteen. Between the ages of thirteen and eighteen, however, parents can have their child "unwound," whereby all of the child's organs are transplanted into different donors, so life doesn't technically end. Connor is too difficult for his parents to control. Risa, a ward of the state, is not enough to be kept alive. And Lev is a tithe, a child conceived and raised to be unwound. Together, they may have a chance to escape and to survive.

4. Cinder - Marissa Meyer

Sixteen-year-old Cinder is considered a technological mistake by most of society and a burden by her stepmother. Being cyborg does have its benefits, though: Cinder's brain interference has given her an uncanny ability to fix things (robots, hovers, her own malfunctioning parts), making her the best mechanic in New Beijing. This reputation brings Prince Kai himself to her weekly market booth, needing her to repair a broken android before the annual ball. He jokingly calls it "a matter of national security," but Cinder suspects it's more serious than he's letting on.

5. This Savage Song - Victoria Schwab

Kate Harker and August Flynn are the heirs to a divided city—a city where the violence has begun to breed actual monsters. All Kate wants is to be as ruthless as her father, who lets the monsters roam free and makes the humans pay for his protection. All August wants is to be human, as good-hearted as his own father, to play a bigger role in protecting the innocent—but he’s one of the monsters. One who can steal a soul with a simple strain of music. When the chance arises to keep an eye on Kate, who’s just been kicked out of her sixth boarding school and returned home, August jumps at it. But Kate discovers August’s secret, and after a failed assassination attempt the pair must flee for their lives.

6. The Darkest Part of The Forest - Holly Black

Children can have a cruel, absolute sense of justice. Children can kill a monster and feel quite proud of themselves. A girl can look at her brother and believe they’re destined to be a knight and a bard who battle evil. She can believe she’s found the thing she’s been made for.

Hazel lives with her brother, Ben, in the strange town of Fairfold where humans and fae exist side by side. At the center of it all, there is a glass coffin in the woods. It rests right on the ground and in it sleeps a boy with horns on his head and ears as pointed as knives. Hazel and Ben were both in love with him as children. The boy has slept there for generations, never waking.

7. Red Queen - Victoria Aveyard

This is a world divided by blood – red or silver.

The Reds are commoners, ruled by a Silver elite in possession of god-like superpowers. And to Mare Barrow, a seventeen-year-old Red girl from the poverty-stricken Stilts, it seems like nothing will ever change. That is, until she finds herself working in the Silver Palace. Here, surrounded by the people she hates the most, Mare discovers that, despite her red blood, she possesses a deadly power of her own. One that threatens to destroy the balance of power.

8. Daughter of Smoke and Bone - Laini Taylor

In a dark and dusty shop, a devil’s supply of human teeth grows dangerously low. And in the tangled lanes of Prague, a young art student is about to be caught up in a brutal otherworldly war.

Meet Karou. She fills her sketchbooks with monsters that may or may not be real, she’s prone to disappearing on mysterious "errands", she speaks many languages - not all of them human - and her bright blue hair actually grows out of her head that color. Who is she? That is the question that haunts her, and she’s about to find out.

9. Illuminae - Amie Kaufman and Jay Kristoff

The year is 2575, and two rival megacorporations are at war over a planet that’s little more than an ice-covered speck at the edge of the universe. Too bad nobody thought to warn the people living on it. With enemy fire raining down on them, Kady and Ezra—who are barely even talking to each other—are forced to fight their way onto an evacuating fleet, with an enemy warship in hot pursuit.

BRIEFING NOTE: Told through a fascinating dossier of hacked documents—including emails, schematics, military files, IMs, medical reports, interviews, and more

10. Legend - Marie Lu

What was once the western United States is now home to the Republic, a nation perpetually at war with its neighbors. Born into an elite family in one of the Republic's wealthiest districts, fifteen-year-old June is a prodigy being groomed for success in the Republic's highest military circles. Born into the slums, fifteen-year-old Day is the country's most wanted criminal. But his motives may not be as malicious as they seem.

From very different worlds, June and Day have no reason to cross paths—until the day June's brother, Metias, is murdered and Day becomes the prime suspect. Caught in the ultimate game of cat and mouse, Day is in a race for his family's survival, while June seeks to avenge Metias's death. But in a shocking turn of events, the two uncover the truth of what has really brought them together, and the sinister lengths their country will go to keep its secrets.

11. Angelfall (Penryn and the end of days) - Susan Ee

It's been six weeks since angels of the apocalypse descended to demolish the modern world. Street gangs rule the day while fear and superstition rule the night. When warrior angels fly away with a helpless little girl, her seventeen-year-old sister Penryn will do anything to get her back.

Anything, including making a deal with an enemy angel.

12. Caraval - Stephanie Garber

Remember, it’s only a game…

Scarlett Dragna has never left the tiny island where she and her sister, Tella, live with their powerful, and cruel, father. Now Scarlett’s father has arranged a marriage for her, and Scarlett thinks her dreams of seeing Caraval—the faraway, once-a-year performance where the audience participates in the show—are over.

But this year, Scarlett’s long-dreamt-of invitation finally arrives. With the help of a mysterious sailor, Tella whisks Scarlett away to the show. Only, as soon as they arrive, Tella is kidnapped by Caraval’s mastermind organizer, Legend. It turns out that this season’s Caraval revolves around Tella, and whoever finds her first is the winner.

13. The Unbecoming of Mara Dyer - Michelle Hodkin

Mara Dyer believes life can't get any stranger than waking up in a hospital with no memory of how she got there.

It can.

She believes there must be more to the accident she can't remember that killed her friends and left her strangely unharmed.

There is.

14. An Ember In The Ashes - Sabaa Tahir

Laia is a slave. Elias is a soldier. Neither is free.

Under the Martial Empire, defiance is met with death. Those who do not vow their blood and bodies to the Emperor risk the execution of their loved ones and the destruction of all they hold dear. It is in this brutal world, inspired by ancient Rome, that Laia lives with her grandparents and older brother. The family ekes out an existence in the Empire’s impoverished backstreets. They do not challenge the Empire. They’ve seen what happens to those who do.

15. The Darkest Minds - Alexandra Bracken

When Ruby woke up on her tenth birthday, something about her had changed. Something frightening enough to make her parents lock her in the garage and call the police. Something that got her sent to Thurmond, a brutal government “rehabilitation camp.” She might have survived the mysterious disease that had killed most of America’s children, but she and the others emerged with something far worse: frightening abilities they could not control.

16. The Wrath and The Dawn - Renee Ahdieh

One Life to One Dawn.

In a land ruled by a murderous boy-king, each dawn brings heartache to a new family. Khalid, the eighteen-year-old Caliph of Khorasan, is a monster. Each night he takes a new bride only to have a silk cord wrapped around her throat come morning. When sixteen-year-old Shahrzad's dearest friend falls victim to Khalid, Shahrzad vows vengeance and volunteers to be his next bride. Shahrzad is determined not only to stay alive, but to end the caliph's reign of terror once and for all.

[declandeboos88-blog]

The Unsubduable.

There is actually a considerable amount of enthusiasm in organic pet wellness as numerous concerned proprietors are actually pondering exactly what enters into ordinary kibble. Many people possess a superstition, if a dark pet appear to your property door suggests you will certainly meet with your old buddy and also if the dog happens inside to your home, suggests an aged buddy is coming to your house.

Jim the whippet participated in a central task in a triumvirate from canal travel books through Terry Darlington Described as a 'slim canine' he provided his title to the book's headlines - Slim Pet dog to Carcassonne, Narrow Pet to Indian Stream and Narrow Pet to Wigan Boat dock.

If you start to discover that throughout your occasional journey to the fridge your dog observes with an anxious attitude, or even when you sit the dinner table he rests correct next to you like he has fasted in grows older. The nurse at first was actually scared since pets are certainly not allowed in the hospital, and also she questioned just how that dog got inside. And then the doctor saw the pet, and all from a quick a great tranquility came all the people working with the cop ... it seemed to be as though time stalled.

As an example think your pet barks whenever the washing machine performs. You could possibly place the washering on and also receive your dog to cease howling (the greatest method is actually to literally shut your pet's mouth and keep it finalized repetitiving the deter barking demand. Many pet owners will certainly try to accommodate to help ease their pets apparent suffering, having said that they might just be making the issue a lot even worse than that should be. Nonetheless, if you have the proper solution you can assist soothe a number of the stress that plagues pet dogs during a thunderstorm. Though they may be rather improper for a guarddog, if you manage to meet their need for bodily and mental stimulation as well as company, management as well as a cool residing setting at that point the Siberian Husky could create the ideal canine kind for you. My pet dog is actually sizable and also won't climb up in the tub (despite a towel in the bottom) and if she beverages, the next task will be actually cleansing my whole entire washroom, so our team spare full on shampoo time for the summer outdoors, as well as make use of the waterless type for the cold weather. I merely prefer that even more youngsters would take this to center besides bugging their moms and dads ... Given I badgered my own all the time when I was actually much younger, but they recognized I was a responsible kid, they merely didn't wish a pet dog at that time I would pest as well as harass them, but they normally will acknowledge eventually. In his voice was actually kindness-something of which White reviewsblog-Careface.Info Fang had no encounter whatever. When exploring the pet establishments advantageous canine food items you consistently intend to spend close attention to the substances. This considered all of them in a strangely nostalgic technique, after the manner from a canine; yet in its wistfulness there was none from the pet dog devotion. Citation needed to have Sacrificial dog bones are actually frequently bounced back off historical sites; 147 nonetheless, they were actually typically discriminated, as were actually steeds, off other food pets. The globe's lengthiest hot dog created was 60 gauges (197 ft), which relaxed within a 60.3-meter (198 ft) danish.

[flauntpage]

Bruce Maxwell Had the Courage, and Credibility, to Take MLB's First Knee

On Saturday, the ACLU tweeted a quote from Jackie Robinson's 1972 memoir, I Never Had It Made:

"I cannot stand and sing the anthem. I cannot salute the flag; I know that I am a black man in a white world."

On Saturday, Oakland Athletics rookie catcher Bruce Maxwell, a black man, became the first MLB player to kneel during the national anthem. In a moment that faintly echoed Robinson and white teammate Pee Wee Reese's iconic embrace seven decades ago, Mark Canha placed his left hand on Maxwell's shoulder. The game went on. Oakland beat Texas 1-0.

Maxwell spoke eloquently about his reasons for taking a knee. Following his tweets from the weekend, you can see that Donald Trump's fixation on Colin Kaepernick and Steph Curry rather than national issues like the destruction of Puerto Rico struck a chord with him.

Why did it take so long?

The conservatism that has always held baseball hostage is a short, serviceable answer. It's nothing new. Back when Muhammad Ali was embracing the Nation of Islam, and Tommie Smith and John Carlos were raising their fists in black solidarity at the Olympics, the most meaningful activism among baseball players was economic—the fight to unionize and to earn free agency. Even the leaders of those movements faced backlash from their fellow players, not to mention owners, the media, and the public at large.

In the decades since, we have witnessed the repeal of the Fairness Doctrine, the imposition of internet filter bubbles, the optimization of soft news—of which sports is a crown jewel—and the deterioration of the American education system. Today, the average citizen cannot readily discern fact from fiction. They revert back to their trusted information troughs that validate their biases and make them feel better, smarter. Baseball players are like extreme versions of this, only with more confidence.

In the company of a few players last year, for example, I mentioned the (once again relevant) Paid Patriotism in Sports investigation led by Republican Senators Jeff Flake and John McCain from Arizona, which revealed that the Department of Defense paid MLB and other major sports leagues millions of dollars to stage many of the boutique military exercises we as players had all become so accustomed to being accessories to, standing at attention with our hands over our hearts along the foul line. One player told me that this was "liberal fake news," and that "John McCain would never do no kinda shit like that."

Baseball may value shut-up-and-play guys more than any other sport. The patron saint of that archetype is Derek Jeter, the most beloved baseball player since Babe Ruth, whose farewell tour was seen by many as excessive. What had he done but win championships? But to celebrate Jeter was to celebrate kicking ass and taking names, the Crash Davis school of never saying the wrong thing (not to be confused with saying the right thing) and only making waves off the field in heterosexual sex scandals that ultimately add girth to the legacy.

Orioles veteran centerfielder Adam Jones is one of the few players to consistently speak out about issues of race, from talking about Freddie Gray's death in 2015 to calling out fans who shouted the N-word at him in Fenway Park last season. A year ago, Jones said that Kaepernick–style protests hadn't made their way to MLB because "baseball is a white man's sport."

Jones was one of just 58 black, African American, or African Canadian players on active rosters for Opening Day this season, according to the 2017 Major League Baseball Racial and Gender Report Card. That number doesn't include Maxwell, who was called up from Triple-A later in April, nor several players who were on the DL, but the report still calls attention to "the relatively small and declining percentage of African-American players" in baseball.

It should be noted that Afro-Caribbean players born in the U.S. are not always counted in that group. I am both African and American—my parents' native Cuba was only a few stops on the Atlantic slave trade away from the Alabama of Maxwell's youth—but on the only Jackie Robinson Day in which I was in the Major Leagues (2009), I was not tabbed for that photo opportunity.

The same 2017 report card notes that there are more players of color in the league now than ever before. And the growing Latino presence in MLB creates more racial complexity that is especially hard to follow for people who don't see race and want all this race stuff to go back into the shadows. Many Latino people are racist. Many Latino people deny their own blackness. For every white-passing Latino with less than a quarter of African blood in them who speaks with an alarming NPM (niggas per minute) in public spaces, there is an undeniably African Latino who doesn't believe they're black. The individual desires of people of color to defer participation in "race" chips at the solidarity of the black community as efficiently as racism itself does. This is hard for anthropologists to follow, much less ballplayers.

Black solidarity is difficult to negotiate with a language barrier, and one should understand what might dissuade, for instance, a Venezuelan Afro-Latino from criticizing any aspect of American culture when matters are worse in every sense, including race issues, in their own country. Black people who are well traveled, especially Afro-Latinos who've traveled to many Spanish-speaking countries, eventually come to the glib conclusion quicker than anyone else, that despite our longtime and recently stoked problems here in America, there is perhaps no better place in the world to be black.

Kaepernick's protest spread slowly but surely across the NFL, where African-Americans made up 69.7 percent of players last year. Athletes in the NBA and the WNBA—two more leagues with majority black rosters—have also become fluent in peaceful protest in the last few years. Demographics may have kept the Kaepernick movement from catching on in baseball, but it's important to note that baseball conservatism has many layers.

In baseball, conformism is subconsciously enforced by the martial law of the purpose pitch, and by the ingrained biases of the people in power who make personnel decisions and drive its culture. When you wear your hat a certain way, a coach may say, "Why do you have to be different?" Your hair may irk him, and when you miss the cutoff man, it may be more irksome to him than when the guy who looks more like his son does it. There's the crappy .220 hitter and there's the scrappy .220 hitter, and the formula for who goes to AAA and who stays on as the good clubhouse guy is subjective at best.

It takes a special person to stand up, or kneel down, when you consider the full weight of the baseball institution.

Why was it Bruce Maxwell?

Three weeks into the NFL season, Colin Kaepernick is still unemployed. NFL insiders have been more reticent to say he's being blackballed than non-insiders like activist Shaun King. While Kaepernick is probably as capable as most starting NFL quarterbacks, he is not in the elite, irreplaceable strata of athletes. This gives the owners who don't sign him (i.e., all the owners) plausible deniability. It complicates the issue of Kaepernick's unemployment.

John Hefti-USA TODAY Sports

As a player, Bruce Maxwell is even more replaceable than Kaepernick. Though the Oakland A's were swift to defend Maxwell after he kneeled on Saturday, it is important to note that if he were to be blackballed, it would be virtually impossible to prove. To date, Maxwell has proven he is a light-hitting catcher worth about half a win above replacement over the course of a season. Though many ballplayers are late bloomers, Maxwell's 300 at-bats represent a sufficiently large enough sample size for him to slowly fade into journeyman status without a second thought.

But whether he noticed or not, Maxwell's path was eased by other circumstances. The Oakland A's were mathematically eliminated from the playoffs on September 22, though they were never in the race at all, and even sold off their best pitcher at the trade deadline. The length of MLB's season holds that half its teams engage in dozens of meaningless games, such as Saturday's historic, meaningless contest between the Rangers and the Athletics. Maxwell has enjoyed the luxury of relatively low stakes—in baseball terms.

Along those lines, a story:

The morning after my club, the Tampa Bay Rays, beat the Red Sox in the 2008 ALCS, a handful of teammates and I supported then Senator Barack Obama at a rally in Florida. As a rookie, I was "hazed" by being volunteered to introduce the most famous political figure of our generation with a short speech before a capacity crowd at Legends Field. We were criticized for associating the team with a political party, but it was manageable—World Series stakes or not, Tampa is a tiny sports market. At the same time, had there not been several senior teammates with me, I might not have gone to the Obama rally. I might have caved under the pressure of fitting in that Maxwell overcame. And despite a military veteran father of my own, had all of what's happening now been happening in the middle of a playoff race I was in as a rookie, especially in a major market, I would probably not have taken a knee—by myself no less—during the national anthem, either. You don't want to be labeled a "distraction" by the media, and then become one in a superstitious, cliquey clubhouse as a rookie who is a new actor in a championship run that is years in the making. We have yet to see a major baseball star in a major market make a major political engagement. We have yet to see a Kaepernick–grade athlete use the platform of a championship run, with its larger audience. The "distraction" is perhaps entirely superstition, which especially pervades sports, but its effect is real.

My money would have been on Jones to be the first player to take a knee, despite his comments. My number two choice would have been Rays pitcher Chris Archer. But Maxwell was the right guy at the right time. He was born on a military base in Germany. His father is a veteran. For a certain kind of person watching these protests—which many critics have mischaracterized as being about "the flag" or "the troops," instead of racial inequality and police violence—he had the credibility, along with the courage, to do something.

This is what Archer told the press on Sunday after Maxwell took a knee:

"It did take a while in baseball, I think mainly because the other sports that do that are predominantly black," says Archer. "Our sport isn't, so I think the criticism might be a little more harsh. It took somebody really special that had a unique background to take that leap.

"The way he went about it was totally, I think, as respectful as possible, just letting everybody know that this doesn't have anything to do with the military, first and foremost, noting that he has family members that are in the military. It's a little bit tougher for baseball players to make that leap, but I think he was the right person to do it."

What Happens Now

Maxwell was cheered by the home Oakland crowd in his first at-bat since kneeling, a line-out to left field. In Mariners veteran Felix Hernandez, he was not forced to face the kind of (white, surly) pitcher one might expect to throw at a guy to send a political message, though it's not at all implausible a pitcher of Felix Hernandez's background could have thrown that purpose pitch "for America" after reading a tea party blog during pregame.

In the last week of the season, more teams will be eliminated (including the Rays), and their players will officially have no distraction superstition as a deterrent. For these players, there will be fewer games after which to face reporters. Here is what Archer told me in a text message: "What [Maxwell] did was tasteful & respectful to all parties. I wouldn't be surprised if more guys start to follow suit."

Bruce Maxwell Had the Courage, and Credibility, to Take MLB's First Knee published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

[amtushinfosolutionspage]

Bruce Maxwell Had the Courage, and Credibility, to Take MLB’s First Knee

On Saturday, the ACLU tweeted a quote from Jackie Robinson’s 1972 memoir, I Never Had It Made:

“I cannot stand and sing the anthem. I cannot salute the flag; I know that I am a black man in a white world.”

On Saturday, Oakland Athletics rookie catcher Bruce Maxwell, a black man, became the first MLB player to kneel during the national anthem. In a moment that faintly echoed Robinson and white teammate Pee Wee Reese’s iconic embrace seven decades ago, Mark Canha placed his left hand on Maxwell’s shoulder. The game went on. Oakland beat Texas 1-0.

Maxwell spoke eloquently about his reasons for taking a knee. Following his tweets from the weekend, you can see that Donald Trump’s fixation on Colin Kaepernick and Steph Curry rather than national issues like the destruction of Puerto Rico struck a chord with him.

Why did it take so long?

The conservatism that has always held baseball hostage is a short, serviceable answer. It’s nothing new. Back when Muhammad Ali was embracing the Nation of Islam, and Tommie Smith and John Carlos were raising their fists in black solidarity at the Olympics, the most meaningful activism among baseball players was economic—the fight to unionize and to earn free agency. Even the leaders of those movements faced backlash from their fellow players, not to mention owners, the media, and the public at large.

In the decades since, we have witnessed the repeal of the Fairness Doctrine, the imposition of internet filter bubbles, the optimization of soft news—of which sports is a crown jewel—and the deterioration of the American education system. Today, the average citizen cannot readily discern fact from fiction. They revert back to their trusted information troughs that validate their biases and make them feel better, smarter. Baseball players are like extreme versions of this, only with more confidence.

In the company of a few players last year, for example, I mentioned the (once again relevant) Paid Patriotism in Sports investigation led by Republican Senators Jeff Flake and John McCain from Arizona, which revealed that the Department of Defense paid MLB and other major sports leagues millions of dollars to stage many of the boutique military exercises we as players had all become so accustomed to being accessories to, standing at attention with our hands over our hearts along the foul line. One player told me that this was “liberal fake news,” and that “John McCain would never do no kinda shit like that.”

Baseball may value shut-up-and-play guys more than any other sport. The patron saint of that archetype is Derek Jeter, the most beloved baseball player since Babe Ruth, whose farewell tour was seen by many as excessive. What had he done but win championships? But to celebrate Jeter was to celebrate kicking ass and taking names, the Crash Davis school of never saying the wrong thing (not to be confused with saying the right thing) and only making waves off the field in heterosexual sex scandals that ultimately add girth to the legacy.

Orioles veteran centerfielder Adam Jones is one of the few players to consistently speak out about issues of race, from talking about Freddie Gray’s death in 2015 to calling out fans who shouted the N-word at him in Fenway Park last season. A year ago, Jones said that Kaepernick–style protests hadn’t made their way to MLB because “baseball is a white man’s sport.”

Jones was one of just 58 black, African American, or African Canadian players on active rosters for Opening Day this season, according to the 2017 Major League Baseball Racial and Gender Report Card. That number doesn’t include Maxwell, who was called up from Triple-A later in April, nor several players who were on the DL, but the report still calls attention to “the relatively small and declining percentage of African-American players” in baseball.

It should be noted that Afro-Caribbean players born in the U.S. are not always counted in that group. I am both African and American—my parents’ native Cuba was only a few stops on the Atlantic slave trade away from the Alabama of Maxwell’s youth—but on the only Jackie Robinson Day in which I was in the Major Leagues (2009), I was not tabbed for that photo opportunity.

The same 2017 report card notes that there are more players of color in the league now than ever before. And the growing Latino presence in MLB creates more racial complexity that is especially hard to follow for people who don’t see race and want all this race stuff to go back into the shadows. Many Latino people are racist. Many Latino people deny their own blackness. For every white-passing Latino with less than a quarter of African blood in them who speaks with an alarming NPM (niggas per minute) in public spaces, there is an undeniably African Latino who doesn’t believe they’re black. The individual desires of people of color to defer participation in “race” chips at the solidarity of the black community as efficiently as racism itself does. This is hard for anthropologists to follow, much less ballplayers.

Black solidarity is difficult to negotiate with a language barrier, and one should understand what might dissuade, for instance, a Venezuelan Afro-Latino from criticizing any aspect of American culture when matters are worse in every sense, including race issues, in their own country. Black people who are well traveled, especially Afro-Latinos who’ve traveled to many Spanish-speaking countries, eventually come to the glib conclusion quicker than anyone else, that despite our longtime and recently stoked problems here in America, there is perhaps no better place in the world to be black.

Kaepernick’s protest spread slowly but surely across the NFL, where African-Americans made up 69.7 percent of players last year. Athletes in the NBA and the WNBA—two more leagues with majority black rosters—have also become fluent in peaceful protest in the last few years. Demographics may have kept the Kaepernick movement from catching on in baseball, but it’s important to note that baseball conservatism has many layers.

In baseball, conformism is subconsciously enforced by the martial law of the purpose pitch, and by the ingrained biases of the people in power who make personnel decisions and drive its culture. When you wear your hat a certain way, a coach may say, “Why do you have to be different?” Your hair may irk him, and when you miss the cutoff man, it may be more irksome to him than when the guy who looks more like his son does it. There’s the crappy .220 hitter and there’s the scrappy .220 hitter, and the formula for who goes to AAA and who stays on as the good clubhouse guy is subjective at best.

It takes a special person to stand up, or kneel down, when you consider the full weight of the baseball institution.

Why was it Bruce Maxwell?

Three weeks into the NFL season, Colin Kaepernick is still unemployed. NFL insiders have been more reticent to say he’s being blackballed than non-insiders like activist Shaun King. While Kaepernick is probably as capable as most starting NFL quarterbacks, he is not in the elite, irreplaceable strata of athletes. This gives the owners who don’t sign him (i.e., all the owners) plausible deniability. It complicates the issue of Kaepernick’s unemployment.

John Hefti-USA TODAY Sports

As a player, Bruce Maxwell is even more replaceable than Kaepernick. Though the Oakland A’s were swift to defend Maxwell after he kneeled on Saturday, it is important to note that if he were to be blackballed, it would be virtually impossible to prove. To date, Maxwell has proven he is a light-hitting catcher worth about half a win above replacement over the course of a season. Though many ballplayers are late bloomers, Maxwell’s 300 at-bats represent a sufficiently large enough sample size for him to slowly fade into journeyman status without a second thought.

But whether he noticed or not, Maxwell’s path was eased by other circumstances. The Oakland A’s were mathematically eliminated from the playoffs on September 22, though they were never in the race at all, and even sold off their best pitcher at the trade deadline. The length of MLB’s season holds that half its teams engage in dozens of meaningless games, such as Saturday’s historic, meaningless contest between the Rangers and the Athletics. Maxwell has enjoyed the luxury of relatively low stakes—in baseball terms.

Along those lines, a story:

The morning after my club, the Tampa Bay Rays, beat the Red Sox in the 2008 ALCS, a handful of teammates and I supported then Senator Barack Obama at a rally in Florida. As a rookie, I was “hazed” by being volunteered to introduce the most famous political figure of our generation with a short speech before a capacity crowd at Legends Field. We were criticized for associating the team with a political party, but it was manageable—World Series stakes or not, Tampa is a tiny sports market. At the same time, had there not been several senior teammates with me, I might not have gone to the Obama rally. I might have caved under the pressure of fitting in that Maxwell overcame. And despite a military veteran father of my own, had all of what’s happening now been happening in the middle of a playoff race I was in as a rookie, especially in a major market, I would probably not have taken a knee—by myself no less—during the national anthem, either. You don’t want to be labeled a “distraction” by the media, and then become one in a superstitious, cliquey clubhouse as a rookie who is a new actor in a championship run that is years in the making. We have yet to see a major baseball star in a major market make a major political engagement. We have yet to see a Kaepernick–grade athlete use the platform of a championship run, with its larger audience. The “distraction” is perhaps entirely superstition, which especially pervades sports, but its effect is real.

My money would have been on Jones to be the first player to take a knee, despite his comments. My number two choice would have been Rays pitcher Chris Archer. But Maxwell was the right guy at the right time. He was born on a military base in Germany. His father is a veteran. For a certain kind of person watching these protests—which many critics have mischaracterized as being about “the flag” or “the troops,” instead of racial inequality and police violence—he had the credibility, along with the courage, to do something.

This is what Archer told the press on Sunday after Maxwell took a knee:

“It did take a while in baseball, I think mainly because the other sports that do that are predominantly black,” says Archer. “Our sport isn’t, so I think the criticism might be a little more harsh. It took somebody really special that had a unique background to take that leap.

“The way he went about it was totally, I think, as respectful as possible, just letting everybody know that this doesn’t have anything to do with the military, first and foremost, noting that he has family members that are in the military. It’s a little bit tougher for baseball players to make that leap, but I think he was the right person to do it.”

What Happens Now

Maxwell was cheered by the home Oakland crowd in his first at-bat since kneeling, a line-out to left field. In Mariners veteran Felix Hernandez, he was not forced to face the kind of (white, surly) pitcher one might expect to throw at a guy to send a political message, though it’s not at all implausible a pitcher of Felix Hernandez’s background could have thrown that purpose pitch “for America” after reading a tea party blog during pregame.

In the last week of the season, more teams will be eliminated (including the Rays), and their players will officially have no distraction superstition as a deterrent. For these players, there will be fewer games after which to face reporters. Here is what Archer told me in a text message: “What [Maxwell] did was tasteful & respectful to all parties. I wouldn’t be surprised if more guys start to follow suit.”

Bruce Maxwell Had the Courage, and Credibility, to Take MLB’s First Knee syndicated from http://ift.tt/2ug2Ns6

[flauntpage]

Bruce Maxwell Had the Courage, and Credibility, to Take MLB's First Knee

On Saturday, the ACLU tweeted a quote from Jackie Robinson's 1972 memoir, I Never Had It Made:

"I cannot stand and sing the anthem. I cannot salute the flag; I know that I am a black man in a white world."

On Saturday, Oakland Athletics rookie catcher Bruce Maxwell, a black man, became the first MLB player to kneel during the national anthem. In a moment that faintly echoed Robinson and white teammate Pee Wee Reese's iconic embrace seven decades ago, Mark Canha placed his left hand on Maxwell's shoulder. The game went on. Oakland beat Texas 1-0.

Maxwell spoke eloquently about his reasons for taking a knee. Following his tweets from the weekend, you can see that Donald Trump's fixation on Colin Kaepernick and Steph Curry rather than national issues like the destruction of Puerto Rico struck a chord with him.

Why did it take so long?

The conservatism that has always held baseball hostage is a short, serviceable answer. It's nothing new. Back when Muhammad Ali was embracing the Nation of Islam, and Tommie Smith and John Carlos were raising their fists in black solidarity at the Olympics, the most meaningful activism among baseball players was economic—the fight to unionize and to earn free agency. Even the leaders of those movements faced backlash from their fellow players, not to mention owners, the media, and the public at large.

In the decades since, we have witnessed the repeal of the Fairness Doctrine, the imposition of internet filter bubbles, the optimization of soft news—of which sports is a crown jewel—and the deterioration of the American education system. Today, the average citizen cannot readily discern fact from fiction. They revert back to their trusted information troughs that validate their biases and make them feel better, smarter. Baseball players are like extreme versions of this, only with more confidence.

In the company of a few players last year, for example, I mentioned the (once again relevant) Paid Patriotism in Sports investigation led by Republican Senators Jeff Flake and John McCain from Arizona, which revealed that the Department of Defense paid MLB and other major sports leagues millions of dollars to stage many of the boutique military exercises we as players had all become so accustomed to being accessories to, standing at attention with our hands over our hearts along the foul line. One player told me that this was "liberal fake news," and that "John McCain would never do no kinda shit like that."

Baseball may value shut-up-and-play guys more than any other sport. The patron saint of that archetype is Derek Jeter, the most beloved baseball player since Babe Ruth, whose farewell tour was seen by many as excessive. What had he done but win championships? But to celebrate Jeter was to celebrate kicking ass and taking names, the Crash Davis school of never saying the wrong thing (not to be confused with saying the right thing) and only making waves off the field in heterosexual sex scandals that ultimately add girth to the legacy.

Orioles veteran centerfielder Adam Jones is one of the few players to consistently speak out about issues of race, from talking about Freddie Gray's death in 2015 to calling out fans who shouted the N-word at him in Fenway Park last season. A year ago, Jones said that Kaepernick–style protests hadn't made their way to MLB because "baseball is a white man's sport."

Jones was one of just 58 black, African American, or African Canadian players on active rosters for Opening Day this season, according to the 2017 Major League Baseball Racial and Gender Report Card. That number doesn't include Maxwell, who was called up from Triple-A later in April, nor several players who were on the DL, but the report still calls attention to "the relatively small and declining percentage of African-American players" in baseball.

It should be noted that Afro-Caribbean players born in the U.S. are not always counted in that group. I am both African and American—my parents' native Cuba was only a few stops on the Atlantic slave trade away from the Alabama of Maxwell's youth—but on the only Jackie Robinson Day in which I was in the Major Leagues (2009), I was not tabbed for that photo opportunity.

The same 2017 report card notes that there are more players of color in the league now than ever before. And the growing Latino presence in MLB creates more racial complexity that is especially hard to follow for people who don't see race and want all this race stuff to go back into the shadows. Many Latino people are racist. Many Latino people deny their own blackness. For every white-passing Latino with less than a quarter of African blood in them who speaks with an alarming NPM (niggas per minute) in public spaces, there is an undeniably African Latino who doesn't believe they're black. The individual desires of people of color to defer participation in "race" chips at the solidarity of the black community as efficiently as racism itself does. This is hard for anthropologists to follow, much less ballplayers.

Black solidarity is difficult to negotiate with a language barrier, and one should understand what might dissuade, for instance, a Venezuelan Afro-Latino from criticizing any aspect of American culture when matters are worse in every sense, including race issues, in their own country. Black people who are well traveled, especially Afro-Latinos who've traveled to many Spanish-speaking countries, eventually come to the glib conclusion quicker than anyone else, that despite our longtime and recently stoked problems here in America, there is perhaps no better place in the world to be black.

Kaepernick's protest spread slowly but surely across the NFL, where African-Americans made up 69.7 percent of players last year. Athletes in the NBA and the WNBA—two more leagues with majority black rosters—have also become fluent in peaceful protest in the last few years. Demographics may have kept the Kaepernick movement from catching on in baseball, but it's important to note that baseball conservatism has many layers.

In baseball, conformism is subconsciously enforced by the martial law of the purpose pitch, and by the ingrained biases of the people in power who make personnel decisions and drive its culture. When you wear your hat a certain way, a coach may say, "Why do you have to be different?" Your hair may irk him, and when you miss the cutoff man, it may be more irksome to him than when the guy who looks more like his son does it. There's the crappy .220 hitter and there's the scrappy .220 hitter, and the formula for who goes to AAA and who stays on as the good clubhouse guy is subjective at best.

It takes a special person to stand up, or kneel down, when you consider the full weight of the baseball institution.

Why was it Bruce Maxwell?

Three weeks into the NFL season, Colin Kaepernick is still unemployed. NFL insiders have been more reticent to say he's being blackballed than non-insiders like activist Shaun King. While Kaepernick is probably as capable as most starting NFL quarterbacks, he is not in the elite, irreplaceable strata of athletes. This gives the owners who don't sign him (i.e., all the owners) plausible deniability. It complicates the issue of Kaepernick's unemployment.

John Hefti-USA TODAY Sports

As a player, Bruce Maxwell is even more replaceable than Kaepernick. Though the Oakland A's were swift to defend Maxwell after he kneeled on Saturday, it is important to note that if he were to be blackballed, it would be virtually impossible to prove. To date, Maxwell has proven he is a light-hitting catcher worth about half a win above replacement over the course of a season. Though many ballplayers are late bloomers, Maxwell's 300 at-bats represent a sufficiently large enough sample size for him to slowly fade into journeyman status without a second thought.

But whether he noticed or not, Maxwell's path was eased by other circumstances. The Oakland A's were mathematically eliminated from the playoffs on September 22, though they were never in the race at all, and even sold off their best pitcher at the trade deadline. The length of MLB's season holds that half its teams engage in dozens of meaningless games, such as Saturday's historic, meaningless contest between the Rangers and the Athletics. Maxwell has enjoyed the luxury of relatively low stakes—in baseball terms.

Along those lines, a story:

The morning after my club, the Tampa Bay Rays, beat the Red Sox in the 2008 ALCS, a handful of teammates and I supported then Senator Barack Obama at a rally in Florida. As a rookie, I was "hazed" by being volunteered to introduce the most famous political figure of our generation with a short speech before a capacity crowd at Legends Field. We were criticized for associating the team with a political party, but it was manageable—World Series stakes or not, Tampa is a tiny sports market. At the same time, had there not been several senior teammates with me, I might not have gone to the Obama rally. I might have caved under the pressure of fitting in that Maxwell overcame. And despite a military veteran father of my own, had all of what's happening now been happening in the middle of a playoff race I was in as a rookie, especially in a major market, I would probably not have taken a knee—by myself no less—during the national anthem, either. You don't want to be labeled a "distraction" by the media, and then become one in a superstitious, cliquey clubhouse as a rookie who is a new actor in a championship run that is years in the making. We have yet to see a major baseball star in a major market make a major political engagement. We have yet to see a Kaepernick–grade athlete use the platform of a championship run, with its larger audience. The "distraction" is perhaps entirely superstition, which especially pervades sports, but its effect is real.

My money would have been on Jones to be the first player to take a knee, despite his comments. My number two choice would have been Rays pitcher Chris Archer. But Maxwell was the right guy at the right time. He was born on a military base in Germany. His father is a veteran. For a certain kind of person watching these protests—which many critics have mischaracterized as being about "the flag" or "the troops," instead of racial inequality and police violence—he had the credibility, along with the courage, to do something.

This is what Archer told the press on Sunday after Maxwell took a knee:

"It did take a while in baseball, I think mainly because the other sports that do that are predominantly black," says Archer. "Our sport isn't, so I think the criticism might be a little more harsh. It took somebody really special that had a unique background to take that leap.

"The way he went about it was totally, I think, as respectful as possible, just letting everybody know that this doesn't have anything to do with the military, first and foremost, noting that he has family members that are in the military. It's a little bit tougher for baseball players to make that leap, but I think he was the right person to do it."

What Happens Now

Maxwell was cheered by the home Oakland crowd in his first at-bat since kneeling, a line-out to left field. In Mariners veteran Felix Hernandez, he was not forced to face the kind of (white, surly) pitcher one might expect to throw at a guy to send a political message, though it's not at all implausible a pitcher of Felix Hernandez's background could have thrown that purpose pitch "for America" after reading a tea party blog during pregame.

In the last week of the season, more teams will be eliminated (including the Rays), and their players will officially have no distraction superstition as a deterrent. For these players, there will be fewer games after which to face reporters. Here is what Archer told me in a text message: "What [Maxwell] did was tasteful & respectful to all parties. I wouldn't be surprised if more guys start to follow suit."

Bruce Maxwell Had the Courage, and Credibility, to Take MLB's First Knee published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv