#which. i learned was a south park reference as a teenager. and i felt so betrayed

[mars-ipan]

i am such a one drink girlie. tipsy is plenty and i do not want to experience a hangover ever in my life

[kpopisamood]

Queen’s Clan { 1 }

Summary: y/n is plagued by nightmares. She realizes that the more she runs away, the less frequently they haunt her. However, in running away, she’s also running straight into her ultimate demise. Will she be saved in time by those who would lay down their lives for her, even if they don’t know of each other’s existence?

Monsta X/Reader, Human/Vampire(s), Reverse Harem, future smut?, violence, language

Word count: 2.35k

***

My queen.

Your highness.

Blood of my blood.

Trick.

Bébé.

My liege.

Lover.

With a startling gasp, you’re brought out of your reverie. They’re back again. Closer.

“Earth to Y/N! You’ve got customers!” Your manager shrieked at you.

You quickly shake your head and put away the rag you’ve been using to clean the same spot for the past few minutes and try to focus on the ever growing line in front of you. It would be a long morning of people demanding soy this and nonfat that. You took a deep breath to prepare for the oncoming onslaught that was coming your way and put on your best fake smile to welcome the next guest.

Hours later, you’re finally off of your feet and chilling out in the back room for your fifteen minute break. Your mind is wandering back to the voices you heard this morning. All very different and saying different things, but the meaning all the same.

How long have you been here? Surely, it hasn’t been long, right? It’s August now, and you settled down in this area around May. Was it already time to leave again?

You had grown accustomed to your frequent nomadic lifestyle, sure. However, picking up everything and moving on was starting to get frustrating since you just started at this new job to keep yourself afloat. But you couldn’t help it. Once the voices came, it was like a warning of what was to come and you shuddered at the thought of trying to pull the same stunt you did in Denver.

Fighting back only made it worse. You’d be left comatose again and that wasn’t an option.

You’ve gotta keep moving. Perhaps after work you could—

“Y/N! I need you out here!” Her voice was really starting to annoy you but at least you could distract your mind for a few hours more.

Grumbling to yourself, you leaned back to give yourself the leverage of hauling yourself out of the not-so comfortable but welcoming chair and walked on your pulsating feet back to your register to smile at the next guest. Another long line of complicated orders. Just another few hours to go.

As you’re making a specialty item for a group of teenagers on their lunch break, you hear the door hit against the bell. Another customer needing their caffeine fix. In a way, you were like a drug dealer, enabling these people to get the highest they’ll ever be today and smirked to yourself.

The girls waiting around the counter all gasped and whispered in hushed voices, giggling.

Now, you know for a fact these kiddos weren’t laughing at you making their drinks, right? As you’re about to give them a piece of your mind you hear him.

“I’ll have a coffee, black.” He said with a bored tone. Your attention snaps from the girls to a man with blonde hair swept to one side. He’s wearing a gray shirt that accentuates the lines of his body and has a necklace dangling in front. He’s carelessly typing on his phone, not giving you any sort of regard. It wouldn’t have bothered you, had you not already been on edge. You rolled your eyes at him and started getting ingredients ready to make a new batch of coffee.

Once you poured it into a to-go cup, with the new state-of-the-art lid that promoted a cut back on plastic straws, you slid it over to him.

“That’ll be $2.60.” You totaled out for him, and fixed your attention on the register, hand out for his payment.

What you didn’t see was his eyes widening. His head slowly picking itself up to stare at you and your hand. His phone completely forgotten and clutched at his side.

Growing impatient, you looked back to him and gasped. He was staring deep into you but that’s not what scared you. His eyes tinged red for the slightest of seconds and he quickly threw a twenty dollar bill into your hand, grabbing his coffee and just about sprinting out of the cafe.

The girls whined at the absence of his presence impetuously but you paid them no mind. Your earlier negative attitude almost completely diminished. Immediately, your mind tried to come up with a logical explanation. Was he wearing contacts? No, contacts don’t change color, right? Trick of the light? Perhaps, if the lights inside weren’t already dim. Why do you care?

Why do you care?

Your vision blurred slightly before returning back to normal.

Already? In public?

You looked at the clock in panic and saw your shift was just about over. Surely, your boss wouldn’t mind if you left a few minutes earlier? Even if she did, you’d be leaving town soon and starting over anew. Who needed this place as a reference, anyways?

You huffed and made your way into the back room once more, seeing your boss in her low of the day. She’d been taking espresso shot after espresso shot this morning to keep up with the lines only to meet a hard crash in the afternoon. As you’re about to wake sleeping beauty, your co-worker comes in, ready for a shift change and you sent him a relieved smile.

Tossing your apron onto a nearby table, you made your way to your locker. You grabbed your over the shoulder bag and checked your phone for any messages, though you know the chances of seeing any sort of notifications were slim to none. Still, it brought you peace of mind and you shuffled out of the small building into the unforgiving, blistering heat.

How long has it been since you’ve lived like this? Maybe a little over a couple years? After high school had ended, you had these episodes. You had assumed it was your body trying to adapt to a new lifestyle of college and all the new adult things you had to do, but for some reason, it felt like there was something more. Your parents had sent you to countless psychiatrists, therapists, and psychologists to get opinion on top of opinion on what you could possibly have. All gave varying answers to diagnosis with prescriptions filled to the brim of medications that would pretty much put you into a vegetative state.

You had discovered soon after that these episodes would dampen each time you saw a new area. Each hospital you went to for treatment had a completely new environment that you welcomed. Not the hospitals themselves, but the areas around. Simply sitting outside in a new place seemed to calm you down.

That’s when you knew you had to keep moving.

Starting over was hard, but staying in once place brought the attacks.

As you made your way to your car, your mind once again wandered to the voices from earlier today. They only came when things were about to south. A forewarning of sorts. Then, you would start zoning out more frequently. Shadows would blind your vision and chills would overtake you. You’d only tried to fight it off once after being so tired of dealing with it. That was a mistake.

A mistake you learned from.

You quickly started your car and sped to the motel you were staying at. When you parked, you made a beeline for your door on the second floor. You quickly slide your card in and waited for the beep to let you in before chucking the door open and slamming it behind you.

Made it. You smiled softly and almost pat yourself on the back when you noticed the picture next to the messy bed. You sighed and sat down, throwing your keys and bag to the side while looking at the smiling faces. The picture was of you and your parents on a vacation. Times were tough and they couldn’t exactly pay for the most extravagant trip, but you were all excited to stay at a 4-star hotel by the beach nonetheless. It was a much simpler time and you missed your parents if you think too long about them. They were truly supportive of anything you did and wanted to be there with you every step of the way.

But you couldn’t let them. You didn’t know why, or how, but you knew staying near them wouldn’t be good for either party. Your sanity was slowly deteriorating and that was too much for everyone involved. Once you figured out a way to help yourself, you had had a long conversation with them about what you were going to do and how you were going to do it. They were a bit reluctant to let you go so hastily, but they understood this was something you had to do for yourself. They couldn’t send a lot of money, but when they did, it was usually when you were scraping the bottom of the barrel. It’s like they knew in some weird, helicopter parent way.

Thankfully, you had saved a few hundred from tips and whatever you made, so this next trip should be easy. You started packing when you heard an incessant knocking on your door that made you stand up straight.

It’s not the maid, right? Surely, they only came when rooms were vacant. The owner? But you paid for the room a day in advance.

You wearily made your way to the door and chanced a look through the peephole. You scanned around the area in front of your door only to see it empty. You sighed and leaned against the door, bumping your head against it in agitation. You’re losing it again? So soon? Your eyes closed, body sagging to the floor from pure exhaustion. Your feet ached, your legs were slightly numb, and your back and neck felt like you were a senior citizen who desperately needed a chiropractor.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Your eyes popped open as you felt the vibration of the door being pounded once more and pulled yourself up with the swagger of a cripple. Once again, no one was outside. You frowned and slowly stepped back, going through your options like some sort of video game story.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

You could do a few things here. Open the door like the dumb, first person who dies first in a horror flick does, or you could try and find a way out. You weren’t a criminal by any means and the worst thing you did was steal a toothbrush on a field trip to the grocery store with your class which had made you feel horrible. So this couldn’t be the police waiting on the sides of your archway, wanting to pummel in the door and arrest you. You didn’t know anyone here, not really, so it’s definitely not someone you know. It could be your boss trying to give you a hard time, but even then, you hadn’t put the motel address on the work application. Just your parents’ location.

Could it be your parents? They wouldn’t scare you like this.

You slid the lock onto the chain and slowly opened to door, letting the warm breeze into your cool room. Door ajar, but locked provided a small sense of security. You were sure someone could easily just kick the door in and break the chain lock, but that was neither here nor there.

With a sigh, you braced yourself and looked through the small crack.

Nothing.

No one.

Shit, you were losing it. You rolled your eyes at yourself before trying to close the door, only to get it stuck on something. Shocked, you tried putting weight against it, only to have it knock back at you. The edges of your vision darkened and you nearly whimpered at the familiarity of the situation.

You’re hallucinating and you needed to go. Now.

Leaving the door slightly cracked, you packed the remained of your stuff in your duffel bag. Your grabbed your family picture and held it tightly to yourself in one last embrace before packing it gingerly with your clothes and made your way back to your door.

It was closed now.

You breathed shakily as you grasped the doorknob, trying to build up the confidence to throw it open and run.

The moment you did so, you regretted it.

As soon as you threw caution to the wind and ran like hell, you were yanked down by your hair with a cry. Your vision weaving in and out relentlessly, breath coming out in panicked gasps.

Once you were sure it was just your imagination, you slowly made your way down the rickety stairs and towards your car before being thrown to the side by an invisible force.

You looked around in panic to see nothing out of the ordinary which made you that much more terrified. Just as you were about to get back up, you felt a blunt force hit you in your stomach, knocking you back down, face flat against the asphalt.

“SHIT!” You screamed in frustration and pain. Were you drugged? Was your imagination this wild? What the f—

Your slammed back up and then back down with a force harsh enough to bruise. You rolled into your back, trying to alleviate the force, only to get knocked again on your side and then dragged against the rough terrain.

“Please, no.” You begged. You waited once more for this to die out, only to feel a warm drag on your arm. A glance at it and you nearly screamed. Your entire arm was cut from elbow to wrist in one fell swoop.

You need to go. Now.

You huffed. Enough was enough. You slowly tried to pull yourself in an army-like crawl, only to get dragged back.

You were going to die. In a damned motel parking lot like some washed up prostitute. Great.

Just as you were willing to accept defeat, a growl resounded around you. You could hear a blunt object hitting another again and again. You didn’t care, though. You were just thankful it stopped it’s attack on you.

Before you lose all consciousness, you heard the voice. His voice.

“My Queen.”

Please do NOT repost. All rights reserved.

[internaljiujitsu]

Negrito: Race In The Latino Community

I had lots of nicknames growing up. Bolita (little ball) when I was a toddler because I was round. Jun (short for Junior), because I share a name with my dad. But the monikers I heard most from my mom and extended family were Negro (black), Negrito (little black) or Negrolo (black something or other). Notice a pattern?

As the darkest person in my Puerto Rican family, that’s how my loved ones would address me. It’s a common practice in Latino cultures. Identifying someone by their color, frowned upon in politically correct, modern society, has morphed into a term of endearment among racially diverse Latinos. Or so it seems.

Despite the wide range of hues within Latino culture that would suggest an evolved view of skin color, these societies are just as racist as any dusty mid western town full of red cap wearing “Americans.”

When a black South African, Zonzibini Tunzi, beat out Ms. Puerto Rico for the ridiculous Ms. Universe crown, the supervisor for the Island’s Education Department called the winner, “La prima de Shaka Zulu.” It means Shaka Zulu’s cousin. You know, the legendary African military leader.

In case you were wondering, there is no relation.

In 1937, Dominican dictator Rafael Trujillo had forty thousand Hatitian migrants massacred to “whiten” the population of the Caribbean nation. Sixty years later, every Dominican in the world hailed the dark skinned Sammy Sosa as one of their own when he chased Babe Ruth’s legendary home run record.

And now — twenty years after that — Sammy Sosa is white.

In the eighties, my friends and family referred to African American people as “Morenos” (Dark Skinned) or “Cocolos” (a term originating with a dark skin group of people in The Dominican Republic.) We were all living in the same impoverished, dilapidated neighborhood together, but never felt the same. There was always an us against them attitude. We often felt as if we needed to fight for respect within our own neighborhood while buying into media perceptions of what it meant to be black and brown. And what we saw around us everyday did little to give us faith in ourselves or our darker brethren.

But I could blend in anywhere — while feeling comfortable nowhere. I belonged to a light skinned (except for me and my dad) Puerto Rican family growing up in a black neighborhood but I found myself relating more to white culture. While the Cosby Show was number one, I watched Family Ties. While kids were listening to Chuck D or KRS 1, I was head banging to Guns and Roses. I hated baggy clothes, preferring tight jeans and t-shirts. But I didn’t feel like I was rebelling - I just liked what I liked, and got plenty of shit for it.

To me, the Cosby show was bullshit. That’s not how it was for the black and brown people I knew. It was fantasy. Family Ties I had seen play out before my own eyes at white friends’ homes with cookie cutter lives that seemed perfect (spoiler alert: they weren’t). I wanted what they had so badly — peace of mind and enthusiasm for the future — and I wasn’t finding it where I lived.

I also hated my brother at the time (who I love to death) and wanted to be the opposite of him. He was a thug who always gave my parents headaches. He set a terrible example for his little brother while constantly asserting the fact that he was six years older and wiser. Once I stopped idolizing him, I detested everything he stood for. He has long since proven me and the old neighborhood wrong.

It took me years to become as secure as I am, but even now I get shit from people in my life. I’ve embraced my heritage and have ensured that my five year old daughter does the same. But when my parents hear my daughter speak proper Spanish without a Puerto Rican accent, they make fun of us. She’s been attending a Spanish speaking school since she was two. Her mother and I have attempted to be consistent with the dialect we use with her. That means she actually rolls her r’s and doesn’t sound like she’s gonna hock a loogie when she says “carro” or “perro.” My family thinks it’s fucking hilarious.

But it’s not just family. In a recent conversion with an old friend who had just retired from the police department, he called me an “Oreo.” Black on the outside and white on the inside. This guy is in his fifties. I chuckled when he said it, but haven’t returned his calls since.

The thing is, I know he was just fucking around. He himself is of mixed race and sounds like an Irish American with a Brooklyn accent, but looks Japanese. But there is something about police perception of dark skin people, how we are supposed to sound, that bugged me about what he said.

There’s too much chuckling that goes on. Too much nodding. A former close friend of mine, who is half Puerto Rican and married to a dark skinned Dominican woman, once complained that a guy he knew had “niggered up” his car ( because he added shiny rims, window tint and other bells and whistles). It wasn’t the first time I heard him use the word. Each time it turned my stomach. I didn’t get it — I was his friend. Both me and his wife would have been denied access to white bathrooms and water fountains. Just because we did not identify with black culture didn’t mean we wouldn’t be exposed to the same bigotry and hatred. What the fuck? It was too much for me to overlook. We haven’t spoken in years.

There was an ugly song I remember from the old neighborhood back in the day. There were two versions:

“A fight, a fight, a nigger and a white, the black don’t win, we all jump in.”

Or,

“A fight, a fight, a nigger and a white, the white don’t win, we all jump in.”

Which one you sang depended on who you were with. Which “us” against which “them?”

I remember, as a teenager, going to the Sunset Park pool in Brooklyn with a bunch of Latino boys. On the way home, there was a group of black kids walking ahead of us. The group I was with, only one of whom was my close friend, started taunting them. They hurled racial epitaphs and threats at the black kids for being in their neighborhood. I was silent and utterly confused.

As a kid, it was actually my one close white friend, Jesse, who was the least racist kid I knew. He might have been the most genuine friend I ever had. I stopped returning his calls because I didn’t trust his friendship. Not because of anything he did — My negative view of myself kept me from believing that he really wanted to be my friend. Why would he? He was from a great family that lived in a beautiful house and valued the things that mattered to me but weren’t for me.

When I hung out with Jesse’s friends, the chip on my shoulder was always ready to bash someone over the head. At a party in some kid’s basement, someone spilled a drink. The host, an Italian kid that I didn’t know, asked me to help clean it up. I told him to go fuck himself. Then he asked me, “What are you?”

The party ended when I dragged him down a staircase and started beating him down before being pulled off and barely escaping the awaiting mob. I am my brother’s brother, after all.

So even though I felt like a Martian in my own neighborhood and knew I wanted better, I didn’t think I belonged on the other side either. I was stuck in this bizarre place where the only role models I had were Roberto Clemente, Eric Estrada and Slater. I never knew anyone else successful that looked like me. At the same time it seemed everyone around me was determined to make sure I never forgot where I belonged.

When I was twelve years old, I refused to attend my zone school because it had a reputation for being the worst in the city. It wasn’t my parents that refused, it was me. I told my mom and dad I would not go to junior high unless they transferred me. What if I hadn’t done that?

As it turns out, the school I ended up going to (because my dad used a friend’s address) was in a good part of town and was the best public education I ever experienced. The work was so advanced that I went from being one of the smartest kids in class to struggling. I actually had to study — something I never had to do much of and found excruciatingly boring. At that new school, I felt like the bad boy. The outcast. The kid that didn’t quite belong and couldn’t keep up.

My grades suffered that year, and when I transferred to a another school, I wasn’t placed in the gifted program for the first time in my scholastic career. I petitioned the principal and pleaded my case, explaining the difficult circumstances of the previous year and promising that I would shine in his “7SP“ class, which got to skip the eight grade and go straight to “9SP” in the fall. Like when I refused to go to that war zone of a school, I once again stood up for my own education. I was thirteen years old.

The work that year was far easier than what I had learned at the other school. I breezed through. The kind of disparity that existed between the two public middle schools I attended is indicative of the subpar education that children of color receive within what is supposed to be one school system. Kids in bad schools aren’t exposed to the same world that their crosstown rivals are and are ill prepared for the reality that awaits — be it a college admissions exam or the job market. Those who do not take it upon themselves to find opportunities for advancement can’t rely on working parents with little time or education to advocate for them. They are left with shitty choices and no one to champion their cause.

The scourge of poverty and racism is further sullied by the structural hierarchy of “shade” in communities of color. In the Autobiography of Frederick Douglass, the trailblazing abolitionist and former slave writes of the preferential treatment lighter slaves received, even among the others in bondage. Proximity to whiteness, then and now, is proximity to power and privilege.

In the late 1700’s, Spain instituted the process of gracias al sacar. Mixed race people could purchase a decree that converted them to white. One such royal decree granted to Cuban Manuel Baez in 1760 says that it erased “the defect that you suffer from birth and leave you able and capable as if you did not have it.” Ain’t that some shit.

Alice Walker coined the term “colorism” in her book, “In Search of Our Mother’s Garden”. She describes “prejudicial or preferential treatment of same-race people based solely on color.” Research has shown that skin tone affects the outcome of job interviews, court cases and elections. This is not a secret among people of color. They grow up believing that the whiter they look, the easier they’ll have it.

How does that make a kid feel who wants so badly to get ahead in life but has the mirror, the media and the world outside his window saying he doesn’t stand a chance? As if even after you do all the work and get to the finish line, the tape will be pulled back another few feet each time you stretch to get across. The life you want will be just out of reach, no matter how long or how fast you run.

There has been a delusion among some that because we’ve had a black president, hip hope rules the world and the Rock is the world’s biggest movie star, racism doesn’t exist anymore. There are people of color in positions of power and prestige, but they are few and far between. There just hasn’t been enough time for all the seeds of opportunity that were only planted a generation or two or three ago to compete with those who have seemingly inherited an eternity of racial privilege. Just because so many people fought for and finally earned some basic human rights doesn’t mean the playing field has been leveled.

The destruction of the long standing racial hierarchy is a challenging ongoing project that the world must decide to address together. The perpetuation of negative stereotypes of black and brown people is not only meant to strike fear in every suburban household, but to reinforce in the mind of the oppressed their role in society. Centuries of subjugation have purposefully convinced young men and women of color that they are born with an inherent disadvantage. Then, once their will to fight was clear, the oppressors barked that those they once lorded over should be grateful to simply be out of their chains.

It is up to people of color, whether African American, Latino, West Indian, or any other subdivision of “black” that may exist, to burn down the old models. The carefully calculated lie that “whiteness” is more attractive, desirable or indicative of ability must be deleted from our main frame. We must believe we are just as capable, because we obviously are. We must know that we have the opportunities, even if we have to work harder for them. And we cannot fight among ourselves, to the delight of those that would sooner see us dead, in jail or all together erased from the annals of history.

With dog whistles long having been discarded in favor of bull horns, the paper thin veil has been lifted from our union. In a country already in pieces, further division because of infighting is not something people of color, no matter their shade, can afford.

[sarakuper]

Cali; the salsa capital

Stop #10, February 11-17

We landed in Cali late Tuesday night and got to our hostel, The Pelican Larry. Our “private bedroom” was awkwardly filled with one queen bed and two sets of bunk beds… and a bunch of skeeters!

Wednesday we walked around, ate a delish vegetarian lunch, and attempted to go to the river to cool down. After traveling about 45 minutes by bus, we waited for next one we needed to take, but it never showed. There’s a chance this bus only ran on Saturday’s but honestly we weren’t too sure. It was already 4pm by the time we decided to turn around, since we were warned to leave the river by 5 for safety. Even though our plans for the day totally failed, I still thought the bus system here is actually pretty impressive. 

Back at the hostel other travelers, including 3 German girls traveling on their gap year, invited us to visit Cristo Rey to watch the sunset. We ended up being a group of 8, taking two cabs to get there. We enjoyed the views and the sunset, then Sean, myself and two others went for a vegan dinner in town that was cheap and yummy. 

That night several of us played games at the hostel around a big table and eventually got ready to go out for salsa. We went to La Topa Tolondra, a famous salsa club. I thought I knew some salsa from when I traveled in Peru but Cali salsa is so different!!! I knew almost nothing of the dance moves. Cali is known for salsa and their nightlife so even though Sean and I are early birds, I did my best to embrace this. Sean wasn’t thrilled to go out, especially for salsa, but he came for me. 

The next day we slept in late missing the free (and basic) breakfast by the hostel. I spent all day working on some applications for jobs while Sean did Duolingo for hours. I didn’t know it until later but he was very determined to exceed my XP. Only duolingo-ers will understand that reference (Sue gets it)! The rest of the day was spent working on extending our travel visa and participating in an interview to volunteer at the spanish school we went to when we first arrived in Colombia. In the evening I joined the free intro to Cali Salsa dance class offered by the hostel. It was actually pretty fun, and a nice way to meet other travels too. And after learning all the basic steps, of course I wanted to go ahead and practice what I learned! 

Later that night many of us went out again, and since I felt safe to go with this group of people Sean stayed back since it was not interesting to him. The salsa bar we went to this night was called Tintindeo and was so much fun! I enjoyed it much more than the other salsa club because it felt more like a bar you could hang out in and also dance salsa with a lot less intimidation. The salsa club from the previous night was slightly awkward in that you were either dancing salsa or awkwardly watching along the side lines. Tintindeo has fun lights, and all of the salsa teachers were there (probably to encourage people to purchase private salsa lessons with them) and they were amazing to dance with! Of course they know you are learning, but some are better than others in leading and two of the teachers in particular made me feel like I knew what the hell I was doing!! By the end of the night I was super sweaty; I knew I had tried my best! 

Around 1 am the bar came to a close and the group I was with wanted to head to a raggaeton club nearby. Since it was considerably early I went along, but when I got there I felt like it was sketchy and the best of the night was behind us. I’ve learned that usually “the next place” is never as good as the first when the first one was a blast. So why stay out? I decided to leave, and so a friend put me in a cab to assure I’d get back safe. During the ride I followed the blue dot on my phone on google maps to ensure the driver was taking me to the right place. All was good, and even though Sean locked me out of the room on accident, the 24 hour host was able to let me in. 

There had been a lot of talk about ELN, a guerrilla group still remaining in Colombia, engaging in a violent protest from Friday - Sunday, February 14-16. Talk was that the cities were safe, but the small towns outside the city were not. We heard of tourists being told not to take busses between cities for their own safety. Afraid of this threat, we decided to extend our initial 3 day visit to Cali into a 6 day visit. We changed hostels on Friday and stayed until Monday morning, when it was reportedly safe to travel again.

This next hostel, Green House, was very quiet and relaxed. There were only 3 other tourists staying, 2 of them being Israeli’s on their gap year after the army. I love meeting Israeli’s because I feel like I have so much to talk about with them; being jewish, my family in Israel, and having visited the country many times. Usually when I travel to Central or South AmericaI meet many Israeli’s, but being there for 2 months at this point, these two were the first ones we met! 

After attempting to cook some version of the delicious lentil patties we’ve been eating (total fail btw) we got ready to go out to experience another club, this time not for Salsa. After reading a lot about Cali I understand now that their nightlife really is the main attraction of visiting Cali, and so this would be my 3rd night in a row going out! Sean was being a trooper and coming along with me. I had hoped the lack of salsa would make it more interesting for him. 

I had a few drinks with the Israeli’s while we talked a bunch. Sean didn’t feel like joining the conversation even though I tried to include him time and time again, as did the two Israeli’s, he didn’t budge. Sometimes it’s hard because I absolutely love socializing (when I actually like the people), and traveling as a couple makes it slightly harder to socialize than when I had traveled alone in the past. Anyway, Sean and I eventually went out to La Pergola which had a $20.000 cover (about $6). Even though this is quite expensive, we weren’t buying drinks there and were really going for the experience. As we approached the club in our cab we could hear the music from down the street. There was a long line to get in that moved surprisingly quickly. The club was huge and completely open having great views of the surrounding city. There were 3 floors playing different types of music, and really was a sight to see. It was especially fun when a very popular latin song came on and everyone in the club sang it together. We stayed until 1am before hopping into a cab back to the hostel.

The rest of the weekend, we spent our time just hanging out trying to avoid the serious heat of this place. By 1pm it gets so hot, all you can think about is swimming. By 2pm we left for a cab to Acuaparque de la Cana to spend the late afternoon in a children/family water park. We felt like teenagers having fun on all the watersides, walking around in our swim suits, eagerly checking out the next fun thing to do. One of Sean’s favorite was the zip line where you hung (together) on a bar that zip lines above a pool. You have to let go before it reaches the end plopping you right into the water! We did this one several times throughout the day. 

We did other rides as well including a high and long waterslide. Sean and I went on a slide, side by side, and my slide gave me a huge wedgie just before it shot me into the pool. Sean loved that one too, but I could not handle that level of discomfort again and so I chose to pass on repeating it. Another fun one was the toilet bowl (or at least that’s what we called it when we visited waterparks at camp)! We rented a two person tube that shot us through a tube spitting you out into a “bowl” that you flung around and around until you made it to the bottom. That one was super fun :) The last ride of the day for us was the wave pool, since it was 5pm and everything else was closing. It was fun and enjoyable until Sean realized how dirty the pool was and how much hair was in the water (LOL). 

Our last day in Cali we waited for the heat to pass before heading out for a bite and some walking around. We walked through the [very strange] cat statues, as well as a lovely park for people watching. Our time in Cali was fun, but now it’s time to leave (hopefully to somewhere less hot)!

Thanks for reading fam, love you all.

[comeondowntosouthparkrpg-blog]

Lola Thomas

Will she friend us on Facebook yet? Lola has been accepted! Send in your blog and faceclaim!

out of character info

Name/Alias: lexi (yeah im gonna try this again because looks like the negativity is GONE. BLESS.)

Pronouns: she/her

Age: 18

Join Our Discord: Yeaaaah

Timezone: central

Activity: 7 ( i do work so activity will prolly bump before 2pm and after 8pm lmao )

Triggers: nada

Password: jimmy can fast pass my ass ;))

Character that you’re applying for: Lola Thomas

Favourite ships for your character: going in this with a clean slate so try and give me a favorite ship? ’,:)

in character info

Full name: Lola Diane Thomas

Birthday: May 20th.

Sexuality, gender, pronouns: pansexual, female, she/her

Age and grade: 16 (almost 17) && senior.

Faceclaim: Taylor Hill

Appearance:

Head: Lola is what you call a tall glass of water. She’s refreshingly attractive. Her eyes are neither blue or green but a weird combination of the two colors, making them pop against her naturally darkened complexion. Her hair is soft and wavy and like to tangle near the ends by the time Lola is out of school and on the way to work. It’s color likes to change with the rare sunlight, meaning if she is outside in the sun all day every day natural highlights will appear in her honey chestnut tresses. Her nose is like a little button that deserves to be booped constantly. Her lips are full and plump- to that she owes genetics. Lola believes it is her only good trait.

Body: A natural looker. She stands at about 5'8, so be prepared if you’re tiny. She will tower you with her legs for DAYS.  She doesn’t have particularly large assets but they are there. And it’s a nice handful on either side of the equator. You just gotta look for them behind her non-stop barrage of sweaters. She likes to say she has a white girl booty- its cute && snooty. Her shoulders and cheeks are very, very, lightly dusted in freckles you can only see in the winter. Despiter her tall figure, Lola is NOT a bean pole, she’s slim thicccc weighing about 145 pounds and it’s not in her face.

Style: Lola dresses like she lives in Goodwill, trendy and thrifty. She would kill for knee socks and button up blouses. She aims to look like ‘The classic look of a teenager in the 90’s’. Her shoes will never don a heel for she believes she is 'too tall’ for them. She likes to keep a mellow color scheme for all her clothing items. Tan, green, white. Sometimes she looks like the first instagram post you see tagged * v i n t a g e. *

Personality: 

First off let’s get this straight, with Lola it’s not a personality but more of how she adopts a personality to fit each social clique she is suckered into that day. If you dig deeep deeeeeep down pass the meme references and pop culture shout outs- she’s awfully shy and hates making the first move in ANY kind of situation. She is sympathetic to most of the problems she hears- other than relationship ones. What’s a feeling for someone else other than your cat? She doesn’t get it. Skittish doesn’t even cover how much of a fraidy cat she is.. One little boo when she’s not expecting it is enough to get Lola to shriek and jump three feet into the air. She does have a nuturing instinct, finding it rather difficult to see anyone lonely or upset.

Once you get to know Lola, she is a sweetheart with a soul of gold. She would freeze in the frigid temperatures to keep her friend warm. She’s the girl who will sneak you into her house so you dont have to go home if you’re scared too or can’t. She is quite snarky however- as if a dam broke and every witty thought ever spun in her head rushes out. Once you get her talking about something she is personally interested in, good luck shutting her up. Lola is also a very superstitious person. Never one too step on a crack or split a pole. Her biggest quirk would have to be her need for reassurance that her jokes are funny. She thinks of herself as a comedian but is already sure everyone thinks she is trying too hard. She is a rather dull girl on the outside, moody and solemn. But if you can crack into her cold shell there’s an ooey gooey sweetness inside. Lola is often easily upset- movies to road kill make her tear up. Anytime she even gets mad the salry reminders if her lameness well up in her eyes. And that only pisses her off more.

Despite having a cool exterior she can and will snap- just push the right buttons. 

History:

Lola wouldnt deem herself an outcast yet she would always feel that way. Whether she was cheering with the girls or writing lists with Jenny, her feelings were uncontrollable. Her anxiety makes it impossible to determine if someone is being nice to her or if they have a plot to harm her. In middle school, Lola secretly dreamt of becoming a goth kid- going as far as painting her nails black for two years. But her fears never made her set out to do it. Plus everyone was a little then so isn’t that technically confirming? Her school work was the only thing Lola was ever certain in. Work was easy, you couldn’t fuck it up by being a complete oddball. It was practically memorization. After starting high school, Lola was practically a wallflower. Hell she was the wall and the flower all wrapped in one. She dropped every friendship and dedicated herself to her studies and her pets. After she got a job she was allowed to have them finally and her fur babies were the only things she cared about truly and deeply. For they could never hate their mother.

Things were always tough for Lola, socially or economically, but that didn’t mean her childhood sucked. It just meant instead of a Barbie dreamhouse for Christmas she got the summer edition Barbie. Not a house. Just the doll. Jealousy is an emotion often clouding her anxieties and judgement on people. It caused her to lose her best friend since.. Well, as long as she could remember. Lola grew jealous and almost possessive over Jenny. She probably didn’t mean too but when she saw Jenny getting along with people when she couldnt caused a burning rage to settle in her chest. It got so bad Lola didnt even speak to anyone for a week before blowing up and ruining her only real friendship.

Just because she looks innocent doesn’t mean the brunette is. There are probably a few flat tires and keyed cars residing in South Park that are Lola’s own doing. Not to mention she is a total bystander. You wanna skip school? Cool, yeah I’ll watch for a teacher. You wanna smoke pot in the bathroom? It’s all good as long as she gets a hit. These are all childish 'bad behaviors’ but as Lola sees it, there’s no point in trying that hard to be bad. After all the one time she tried it, the poor thing almost died from hypothermia after blindly listening to a slumber party dare.

You aren’t supposed to sneak out in slumber parties. Or streak in Wal-Mart. Or jump of a bridge into negative temp waters. But these are all things Lola did too prove she was cool. And it ended up with her grounded, being hospitalised for pneumonia, and gaining a large fear of heights. And a hatred for party games.

Sample paragraph:

Of course, it was another cold blustery day. Chestnut tresses fluttered in front of her sight along the whole way home, it didn’t matter how many times she forcefully blew the bangs out of her face- they always flopped back down. Numbing fingers clutched tighter to the soft cloth lining of her jacket pockets. The index fingers and thumbs of both hands pinching at the materiel. Gosh- why is it always freezing? Dull orbs flittered around the blank scenery of the all too familiar path from her house to the school. The only sounds Lola could hear were the crunching of her flats against the snow and the wind whipping furiously around her. Boring. It was all white and boring. Lola was tired of being bored. She imagined that would be the only feeling she could muster for the rest of her life and it made the corners of her glossed lips tug down.

She shook her head as if to clear the thoughts instantly, humming a tune to distract herself as she continued on her trek.

One step, two step, three step…

…Sixteenth step-

Lola really needed a friend. A small sigh lifted her chest and as it billowed past her mouth she noticed movement in her peripherals. Was she really looking down this whole time like an idiot? How embarrassing! She clenched her hands into fists, further rumpling the jacket from its own pockets. Avoiding any kind of eye contact she swayed over to the side near the street and hurried her steps along. Too fast to count now. She passed the figure and her hands slowly unfurled. The blood rushing to her digits made them quite warm and her face flushed as well. God she was awkard.

Just as she thought she was in the clear, Lola felt a tap on her shoulder and her heart stuttered in its cavity as she stumbled to a stop. Fuck.

Headcanons:

🌟 owns a bike but rarely rides it.

🌟 has one cat- a black kitten named sparrow.

🌟 also two rats- yin and yang which are little chocolate colored sisters.

🌟 3.8 GPA

🌟 wants to learn french

🌟 owns a polaroid camera kinda girl

🌟 gardens in her free time

Anything else:

Im really insecure so if it takes me time to reply its cuz im demeaning myself and my baby and my words. 

[howwelldoyouknowyourmoon]

Why I Am Not A Unificationist

I’ve been a Unificationist since childhood. From then, until I was around 19, I had to eat all of the sadomasochism fed by Rev. Moon. My new Father. My new Messiah. I’ll take some time to go through them, but please be patient. I had been told that God was some sort of compulsive crybaby whose universe was forever torn asunder because two naked teenagers had pre-maritial sex in a garden. A step up from the apple and snake, I admit, but the Garden of Eden is still a myth no matter how you spin it.

Anyways, I was also told that human history was a convenient series of failures on behalf of the human race to understand the infinite sorrows of God. The Church painted said God, interestingly enough, as quite impotent. He was a servant to some pseudo-scientific law, called the Divine Principle: a lugubrious, confusing, absurd, and comical attempt to plaster Moon’s idiotic theology onto human history. Neon Genesis Evangelion’s myths made more sense.

I’m not quite sure if the Divine Principle was supposed to be a moral law or not, but I certainly was given that impression. I would be horrified and disgusted if the Principle was by any stretch of the imagination considered moral. This so-called morality dictated that again, because two naked teenagers had pre-marital sex in a garden, the Biblical wars against various tribes, the Crucifixion of Jesus, the Fall of Rome, both World Wars, the Holocaust, the Korean War, and numerous other tragedies, in the Bible and in history, were ordained by the Divine Principle to occur as payment for indemnity, or global karma. The Principle has weird ideas on proportionality. I don’t think that even Zeus, at the height of his maliciousness, would have approved of such a doctrine, so it would be doubly discouraging if a loving and compassionate God did. 

Why then does Moon praise the Principle with such fervor? Even it was true, it should have been condemned and resisted, even if the effort was futile. Of course, there’s always the idea that the Principle is brutally objective, but then, I don’t recall Newton’s Three Laws of Motion or the Pythagorean Theorem bluntly putting persons into sides of God or Satan.

Again, I swallowed this nonsense in my elementary years – I didn’t know any better. I think that I was still watching Power Rangers. So all of this made me very terrified of sex. Moon had a cute obsession with sex. If you don’t believe me, just look up the instructions for the 3-day ceremony. It’s quite revealing. He also said that if a pretty woman attempts to touch your penis, you should kick her 1,000 miles and God will praise you for it, but I’ll touch on his sexism later.

He just could not stop going on about the sexual organs and how they were at the center of the universe, or something like that. Easy enough to pledge abstinence when you’re young, but after puberty, I felt like I was walking in a nightmare. No sex until after I married, and Lord knew when that was going to happen. No choking the chicken, either, but when I did get the occasional slip of the wrist, so-to-speak, my whole being filled with guilt, as if I had committed a crime against God and joined the ranks of Satan.

I realize that abstinence is quite common among many Christians and even Muslims in this country, but at least they are allowed to date! Yes, because God certainly doesn’t want His Children engaging in the evil of DATING. Okay, so women were off limits until I married. At least I got to choose my wife. Oh, what’s that? My wife could be chosen for me? We might barely know each other before getting married? She might not even speak English? There could be a waiting period before having SEX? You know, there’s a word for people who have a peculiar interest in other people’s sex lives, they’re called perverts, and Rev Moon was certainly among them. Lord knows the countless unintentional pregnancies, STI infections, and abortions his teachings may have prevented had he taught instead about the options of masturbation and birth control.

Speaking of sexuality, Rev Moon was diseased with homophobia. I am sorry to say that I caught this disease as well. Moon referred to homosexuals once as dung-eating dogs and homosexuality as an activity that attracts Satan. He also said that those who love dung eating dogs, ergo people who support gay rights, will produce that quality of life. I’ve heard some homophobic statements from Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson, but Moon’s hate speech sounds like something you’d hear from Neo-Nazis. Yeah, I went there, but Moon’s words were straight up dehumanizing and condemnable. NO group of people deserve to be described in that fashion. Also, Moon himself said that Hitler and Stalin were reborn as new beings, and they declared him the messiah. So he seems to think quite a bit of their opinions.

In any case, many religions still have trouble with treating homosexuals as equals, and that’s a shame. I repeat, a shame. Moon could have learned a thing from Desmond Tutu. Even the 14th Dalai Lama supports gay marriage and Pope Francis, who does not like homosexuality, says that the Church has no right to interfere with the spiritual lives of gays and that he has no authority to judge gay Catholics. I grew out of homophobia after I grew out of Moon.

Then there’s this whole damned idea of Rev Moon being the Messiah. Hell, anyone can claim that. Just ask Father Divine, Marshall Applewhite, Elijah Muhammad, Jim Jones, or L. Ron Hubbard. We all know the story. Jesus asked Moon to take up the cross and suffer for humanity as the first True Parent. The whole idea being that Jesus was supposed to get married as opposed to being crucified. Now I wouldn’t force crucifixion on my worst enemy, but marriage on the other hand, should be a choice, not a requirement for joining heaven, as Moon teaches. I think that most people are comfortable with the parents that they already have, and don’t need fanatical ones from Korea.

What makes Moon so special that he should be the Messiah, anyways? It’s his word against mine. Surely, Jesus didn’t expect Moon to convince people on word alone. Except that he apparently did. To be honest, I believed that Moon was the Messiah out of pity. He does deserve some. His home country was torn apart before his eyes, and he had to suffer atrocious accommodations in a North Korean prison camp. No one should have to go through that. The pressure was all around me to convert. Certainly I wouldn’t turn against a man who suffered so much. Before I knew it, I was bowing before photographs and reading books I could hardly understand at six in the morning. For those who want a better idea of what I am talking about, check out the film, “Ticket To Heaven.” Moon, however, had a habit of romanticizing Korea as the center of the world. I don’t hate Korea. It’s a fine nation, but not a holy one. Since Moon cast North Korea as Satan and South Korea as God, he probably forgot to mention that “God’s” nation had brutal dictators like Park Chung-hee.

I could also go on about how, in face of separation of church and state, Moon crowned himself like a king in the Dirksen Senate Office Building, how he implored Americans to forgive Nixon who sabotaged the Vietnam Peace Talks in 1968, how he founded the Washington Times which spews climate change denial, and how he had at least one affair while dictating other people’s sex lives, but I think I’ve made my point. Moon is no more of a messiah than my dead goldfish. If you still want a Korean to admire, try Kim Dae-Jung.

In closing, you may wonder what exactly liberated me from my slave-masters? It was a woman named Nansook Hong, whose book I would implore all of you to read. She married Moon’s first son, Hyo Jin, and suffered unspeakable abuse, both mental and physical. When Moon was told of these things, he blamed her for not being a good wife. This is the sexism I was referring to earlier. Moon was more concerned about his magnanimous legacy than about the domestic abuse of his daughter-in-law. As I read her testimony and followed her journey, I found myself going through a similar one. By the last page, I left the church and freed myself from the depressing theology of Rev Moon. I live a happy life now. I’m not very religious, but I don’t hate religion. 

Moon didn’t learn a lot from religion. Many Jewish scholars see the Old Testament stories as metaphors to learn from, not literal historical events representing the Cain and Abel dichotomy. If Moon really understood Jesus, he would have lived more like Gandhi, Tolstoy, or even Shaliene Woodley, as opposed to Donald Trump or John D. Rockefeller. The Qur’an opposes collective punishment for crimes done by others and would be disgusted with ideas like indemnity. While both Buddhism and Hinduism see atheism or agnosticism as acceptable spiritual paths, Buddhism more so. Moon denounced godlessness as Satanic.

I would like to thank HWDYKYM for giving me a healthy space to express these thoughts. As you can see by the length of this, they’ve been bubbling beneath the surface for some time now. I know that I may not have not have gotten everything right as far as Moon’s doctrine is concerned. I simply speak from my own experience – what I was taught, what I had believed. I hold no ill will towards current members, by the way. Many of them are still beloved members of my friends and family, just don’t expect me to go to workshops.

Sun Myung Moon’s theology used to control members

Divine Principle – Parallels of History

Sun Myung Moon  – Restoration through Incest

Moon’s Theology of the Fall, Tamar, Jesus and Mary

Nansook Hong, transcripts of three interviews

Nansook Hong In The Shadow Of The Moons, part 1

[atomkrp-blog]

WELCOME TO XAVIER’S, PARK HYUNJAE !

… loading statistics. currently aged twenty, entering first semester of xavier’s in seoul, south korea. decrypting files… mutant has the following records: strength +4, durability+6, agility +6, dexterity +2, intelligence +7. currently, he is classified under tier omega.

BACKGROUND.

The universe has a cruel sense of humour, and Park Hyunjae has always felt like a punchline.

He’s never been sure of the joke, but even from a young age it has seemed as though it has revelled in throwing adversity at him and laughing as he scrambles to deal with the consequences. The boy who wanted nothing more than to be seen and accepted for who he was transformed into an invisible man.  Even before his mutation presented itself though the deck had been stacked against him, life seeming to place an obstacle around every corner.

Though they’d like you to think otherwise, London is not the liberal bastion that it proclaims itself to be, especially not in the years before he was born. It was not kind to the poor and disadvantaged. It was not kind to immigrants. It was not kind to single mothers. His mother just so happened to be all three. Shortly after moving to the country she falls madly in love and marries a man, falls pregnant with Hyunjae, and mere months later the father passes away in a traffic accident. She stays strong though; she has to for the sake of her child. Rather than support from the community though, she is met with nothing but disdain and distrust.

Hyunjae is born as a perfectly normal, decidedly average baby. Looking at him then you would not have been able to guess that he harboured a mutant gene. The early years of his life are largely a blur; he doesn’t remember much. His mother works three jobs, scrubbing floors, waiting tables and doing whatever else she can to desperately try and make ends meet. She was often absent, leaving him with a revolving cast of babysitters who paid him little attention, but her deep rooted care for her son was always obvious. Her eyes scream of exhaustion and desperation, but her mouth always curls into a smile and hides the struggle: a technique that he’s come to adopt as his own.

It was a happy, if slightly lonely childhood. Until school it had been a sheltered life, but suddenly he is surrounded by people who seem to care, to find him interesting. They don’t glare at him and mumble under their breath, they don’t call him every name under the sun, they’re just… nice. It takes him about a week to fall completely in love with the spotlight, the feeling of being liked, after which he makes it his mission to be the centre of attention at all times.

To begin with it works. Everyone loves him, the class clown with a smart mouth who will do just about anything to get a laugh. As time passes and they grow older the mood begins to sour. There are some that still laugh, but there are an equal number who sneer and see him as lesser. Maybe it’s because he comes from a poorer background, maybe it’s because he’s the child of an immigrant, or maybe it’s because they find his personality overbearing. Perhaps it’s a mixture of all three, or none of them at all. Either way, it’s enough to cause him to slowly withdraw back into his shell and shelter alongside his little group of outcasts who are also treated as lesser for whatever reason.

He first begins to come to terms with his sexuality when he’s fourteen years old. Looking back now he can’t even remember the boy’s name, but the slightest hint of a smile was enough to hypnotise him. At first it confuses him, terrifies him, fills him with shame. It’s not a topic that has ever been discussed in his house, but it’s one that he’s almost certain would garner nothing but repulsion from his mother. And so the feelings are repressed. But no matter how deeply he pushes them down they pop back up like a perpetual game of whack a mole. Over the years he learns to deal with them, accepting the reality and debating whether or not he’ll ever be able to act on them.

He’s already lost one parent, he can’t lose another. It’s a small sacrifice to make in his mind.

The first time he has the courage to make a move he’s sixteen years old. That same boy with the quiet voice, the wide-eyed innocence and that damn smile is pulled aside, everything is laid on the line and, much to his surprise, he isn’t shunned. In fact, quite the opposite. Events transpire and the two wind up in a relationship.

If the universe is cruel though, teenagers are downright sadistic.

It turns out that they’d only needed a stick to beat him with in order to make his life a misery, and his sexuality was a metaphorical baseball bat. By this point he’s largely estranged from his peers, barely existing outside of his tiny friendship group who exist firmly on the outskirts. Perhaps they had not been quite careful enough in concealing their affection for one another, or perhaps it was just an idle rumour dreamed up by someone with nothing better to do with their time, but the relationship became public knowledge or at the least speculation. Whereas before it had simply been whispers behind backs and mocking words, it now developed to full on harassment. Things got physical on more than one occasion but he refused to bow to it or sink to their level and fight back.

The cycle of harassment repeats, each time worse than the last. By his seventeenth birthday he’s become a mater of hiding bruises and putting on a brave face, pretending that nothing is wrong. A week after, they get another stick.

During one of the now regular beatings, his mutation finally reveals itself. Pinned to the ground struggling desperately to get free before the next blow to is ribs is delivered, terror flashes across his features just before they vanish. His urgent pleading remains, as do the clothes still attempting to thrash loose, but in the place of his head is only sidewalk. They recoil, confused, as the clothes float upwards and speed away.

Hyunjae doesn’t know what has happened. He doesn’t know why they stumbled back in horror and let him free, and he doesn’t intend to stick around to find out. Instead he heads for home as fast as his legs will carry him, heavy breathing matching every frantic step until he reaches the door. It slams behind him, and he lets out a sigh of relief before painting on his usual happy face and calling out to greet his mother before she rushes to her next shift. When she emerges from the kitchen her smile turns to a look of abject horror.

She screams. She passes out.

Panic takes over as he rushes to her side, pulling his phone from his pocket to call emergency services. And then, in reflected in the darkened glass, he finally notices.

He doesn’t have a head. Or arms. Or legs. He’s just a floating pile of clothes.

He screams. He passes out.

Needless to say that when he awakes he has questions. As does his mother, who is currently backed against the wall with a carving knife pointed in his direction. The sound of his heart cracking fills the room. Turns out that it was never going to be his sexuality that tore his family apart. A glance down confirms that he’s visible once more and remains so as he tries to speak to her. “Someone must have put something in the water, we were hallucinating” he says. “What have you done with my boy?” She says.  “I don’t know what’s happening. I need my mom.” He cries. “Monster.” She cries back.

Eventually she’s talked down, though disgust is still evident on her features. He’s permitted to stay, but they are not to be in the house at the same time. They don’t speak. She won’t even refer to him by name anymore, and in fact he’s fairly certain that she tells people that he’s left town or died. School isn’t a priority, and he cuts himself off from the world almost entirely. The battery is removed from his phone, the boy isn’t spoken to again and his friends are left in the dark. He drops off of the face of the earth.

Over time he manages to maintain some control over his powers. The idea of being a mutant doesn’t repulse him; in fact, it fascinates him. He learns how to become invisible on command and that he’s also capable of hiding his clothes with enough focus. Days are spent blinking in and out of existence, hiding himself when the house is occupied so that he doesn’t have to leave. The world can’t hurt him in his bedroom he reasons.

His mother can though, with a knock on his door in the middle of the night startling enough to cause him to shift. Again, he doesn’t realize until he swings the door open and her face swells with a mixture of nausea and shame. His heart hits the floor, crashing through when he hears the words. Paperwork is shoved into his hands as she stares directly through him. “You’re on a flight to Seoul tomorrow. These people help…. Things like you. They might be able to fix you, bring my son back.”

“And if they can’t, don’t come back here.”

Which brings us to now. He’s a stranger in a strange land with nobody to turn to and armour-plated walls built around himself. A hermit with no idea what he’s doing, not sure what he’s supposed to do or even what he wants to. Still the façade of happiness that he’s spent so long painstakingly painting remains though. He has to seem strong, as though nothing is wrong, because humans prey on weakness, and they are nothing if not a cruel species.

He’s fine. Because he has to be.

But really he’s crumbling, barely holding himself together. Because he can’t handle much more.

MUTATION.

Hyunjae’s mutation allows him to become completely invisible, making himself undetectable by the human eye. This allows him to remain undetected by others and to move around an environment unnoticed. He also possesses limited cloaking abilities, allowing him to render select objects, and in certain cases other people, invisible as well.

STRENGTHS.

Completely Invisible – Hyunjae is able to render himself completely invisible instantaneously. This means that others are unable to see him or observe his movements. In this state he can move at a normal speed and act normally whilst remaining completely undetected. Whilst this mutation does not lend itself to combat, it makes him an excellent stealth and recon asset.

Limited Cloaking – As well as being able to render himself invisible, Hyunjae has developed (limited) cloaking abilities, allowing him to also make objects and, in exceptional circumstances, other people invisible. Physical contact must be maintained at all times and the larger the object the greater the drain on his stamina.

Stealth Combat – Though he is not an especially gifted fighter and would rather use his abilities to avoid conflict, Hyunjae is able to maintain invisibility during combat, even after receiving a direct hit. He is still extremely vulnerable to damage, but being invisible makes him a harder target to strike and goes some way to making up for his lack of strength.

WEAKNESSES.

Deteriorating Vision – Hyunjae’s mutation has wreaked havoc on his vision, and each time he becomes invisible it becomes ever so slightly worse. His eyes absorb considerably less light when in his invisible state, and as such have become damaged over time leading to the need for extremely strong prescription glasses. If he remains in his invisible state for too long he risks temporary (Or potentially permanent) blindness.

Unreliable Cloaking – His cloaking abilities are extremely limited and often unreliable. He can only cloak an object whilst invisible himself, and only with focus. The larger the object, the more focus and energy required. At present he is able to cloak his clothes and glasses for up to three hours, an object up to one cubic meter for half an hour, or another person for ten minutes.

Detectable – Invisible does not mean undetectable. He does not cast a shadow, but weather conditions such as rain or snow will real his shape and he still leaves footprints. If he is severely injured and for example leaving a blood trail It will also be visible. Sound is also not dampened in any way.

Triggered by emotion / adrenaline – Hyunjae can trigger his invisibility at will, but it will also flare up without warning when he experiences a rush of adrenaline or a strong emotional response to outside stimulus. Embarrassment, fear and anger seem to be the two most common causes but it is not limited to these. This is, at present, completely beyond his control

Detectable by technology – There have been a handful of times when Hyunjae was able to render himself undetectable by technology, but for the most past his power is only effective against organics. He is visible to cameras and most security systems, as well as when exposed to infrared, ultraviolet, x-rays, etc.

Coverage – Hyunjae’s ability is very much an all or nothing affair. He cannot make only a specific part of his body or an object, such as a hand or an arm, invisible. This means that it is a greater drain on his stamina.

Physically Draining – Maintaining invisibility takes a toll on Hyunjae, and retaining it over an extended period rapidly drains his stamina. As a general rule he should be visible for at least one hour for every hour spent invisible. At present he can remain invisible for up to six hours before exhaustion hits, and can cloak small objects for up to three. Though he can exceed this in a pinch, his powers will be unreliable and may short out at any given moment. He will also take considerably longer to recharge after over-exerting himself, typically through sleep.

[rejectedbyeharmony]

My First Husband

The title is a little tongue-in-cheek as I have not been married again, but I think it’s funny to refer to him as my first husband. After I ruined my life by dropping out of college and had no plans for my future, my dad made me go to work for him. My dad worked in remodeling. He tried his hand at his own company, but ended up going to work for a friend; and this friend was generous enough to give his free-spirited wayward daughter a chance. So, Dad had me working manual labor during the week, but the bonus was that I had a full weekend. Most of my friends worked retail or in the service industry so they had to work on nights and weekends.

I took to the internet to build a social circle. If you grew up in the time that I did, you probably spent your fair share of hours in AOL chat rooms. I was in a particular chat room that was geared toward the tattooed and pierced community. It was predominantly young adults who had a couple trashy tattoos and a bunch of piercings in their face and perhaps in their genitals… It attracted people who worked in the community or people who were attracted to people who were tattooed and pierced. But it was a pretty mixed bag of members all over the country.

I befriended a girl named Misty who lived in New Jersey, and we had been chatting online since I was in high school. We met finally when she and her family were visiting DC and I felt like I had found my long-lost sister. This girl and I totally imprinted on each other, and were inseparable aside from the distance.

One of my free weekends, I decided to go visit her in Central Jersey. I had never gone that far north by myself. But I figured after my trek to Charleston, a four hour trip to New Jersey would be cake. So I drove up there and got in late at night. Misty was working at the local Stop & Shop and she told me to meet her when she got off work. I pulled up in front of the grocery store and sat waiting for her as she came walking out with a couple of guys.

I got out to smoke a cigarette with them and she introduced me to Dale and Joe. They worked in the deli and they were “hilarious”, according to Misty. So far Joe had only poked fun at Dale’s last name, which was Butts. I’ll admit that I have the sense of humor of a teenage boy, so I definitely did laugh at that. But the jury was still out on “hilarious”.

They were having a party that night and we were invited. I was down! And so we said our goodbyes and headed back to Misty’s to get ready. She said, “I’m really excited for you to meet Joe because I think he’s awesome and I think that you’ll like him.” She also mentioned that she kind of had a crush on him. I was confused, and asked “so... do you want my approval or do you want me to hook up with him?” And she laughed and said “whatever’s clever girl!” But that’s how Misty was... you never really knew what she was talking about, but that was all part of her appeal.

So, we go to this party and we’re having an awesome time and I’m definitely digging Joe. Misty wasn’t wrong, he was hilarious. And, I don’t know, there was just something about him that was different and really cool.

I stayed up there for the rest of the weekend and spent most of it with Joe. Misty seemed to be supportive of this union and wasn’t jealous or weird, so when I came home Sunday night, we just started this slow-moving long distance relationship.

We decided a few weeks later that we should meet up again, this time we chose Philly. I’ve never been to South Philly and Joe‘s roommate was from there and they wanted to show me how to order a decent cheesesteak in on South Street. So I spent another weekend with these guys and I was just loving life. These weekend trips happened at least every other weekend for about two months, until finally I told my parents that I wanted them to meet him.

Fast forward to St. Patrick’s Day. I spent the weekend with Joe, and we were Irish af and drank a lot of green beer. The next morning we woke up and Joe’s mouth and teeth and hands were all stained by green food coloring. OMG We tried really hard to scrub it off before meeting with my parents that afternoon, who had driven up to go gambling in Atlantic City and we’re going to meet us halfway in Delaware. Joe and I tried as hard as we could to get that green off, but it was permanently stained on his mouth and hands. [LOL]

We took showers, got dressed, and got in the car, and every time I looked at him I could not stop laughing at all the green. Deep down, I knew that my parents would probably appreciate it, being proud Irish-American people. While I enjoyed watching him squirm, I assured him everything would be fine.

We met my parents for lunch and had a great time, and they thought his Irish pride was hysterical. I think they could see how happy we made each other. My parents asked Joe if he would be willing to move, my dad said that he had already spoken to his boss and he could get Joe a job with us at our company. Joe emphatically said yes! We ended lunch, said our goodbyes (but see you soon’s!) and went back to Jersey to tell Joe‘s roommate that he was going to be moving out. Dale had already prepared himself for that and told Joe “well you’re good, so whenever you’re ready...”

He was ready. So we packed him up and left that night. Moving this man to my hometown was so exciting and gratifying. After having been through the trauma of uprooting myself for someone who didn’t share my feelings, this relationship was healing that wound.

We lived with my parents at first, until we saved enough money. We got our own place, my first apartment, just south of Woodbridge, in Triangle. It wasn’t the best neighborhood and it definitely wasn’t the best apartment, but it was ours and we were proud of our place. We were poor. And I mean POOR. We bought loose cigarettes from the Getty gas station on Graham Park road because we couldn’t afford entire packs. We got pay day loans to pay the bills. We always had weed and beer, though because... priorities.

I really thought that this was the person I was going to spend the rest my life with. We were so well-suited for each other, and we talked about marriage all the time. Finally one day, Joe sat me down and said that he wanted to join the military. He thought long and hard about his future, and the only thing that he could see in it was me. He couldn’t see himself going to college, and he definitely couldn’t see himself learning a trade on his own. He thought the military would really get him where he needed in life.

Growing up with a father who’s a Vietnam vet, I have my own feelings about the military and war. And Joe’s decision came mere months after 911. The idea of Joe going to Iraq or Afghanistan terrified me, and supporting his decision was not the easiest thing I’ve ever had to do. But, eventually he convinced me that the military would take care of us, and I would be able to finish school and figure out what I want to do with my life. My experience working with my dad had taught me that I really liked interior design. I loved working in people’s homes and making them their dreams a reality. So with eyes on the prize, we moved forward, and he started visiting recruiters from different branches.

He asked me if I would marry him. There was no ring, there was no fairytale proposal. He just asked me point blank: “if I join the military would you marry me, so you can go wherever I go?” That was more meaningful then any YouTube quality proposal I could ever get. (But in case my future boyfriend’s reading this, I expect you to make a big damn deal when you asked me to marry you.) I, of course, said yes, and we immediately went to my parents house to give them the good news. My mom and dad happily agreed that this was a great plan and they supported our marriage.

We started to talk about wedding dates, and Joe insisted that we needed to wait until he had his schedule set for MEPS and Basic training. In the next couple of weeks he was working closely with an Army recruiter. He had his MEPS center date selected, and had a vague idea of when he had to go to boot... and it was fast approaching. We knew that we need to plan a wedding in about five months so we immediately sent out invitations, and started looking for a venue and dress.

Over the next four months my mom and I planned a pretty elegant little wedding. My sister and Joe’s sister Vicky were my bridesmaids, and Joe’s two best friends were his groomsmen . We got married under this little gazebo in Occoquan, if you’re familiar with Mamie Davis Park. We walked two doors down to the Sea, Sea & Company restaurant (you probably know it now as Madigan‘s.) Their upstairs room was affordable, pretty, and would accommodate our entire party. It’s actually a pretty nice space and it laid out really well for the wedding.

While our wedding was small, it was joyful. All of our family was there and a few friends, because we decided to keep it small. Everyone danced, we ate great food and had a ton of alcohol. My sister had her first drink from the bar as an “adult” (she was 18, I had just turned 20 for those keeping up). She ordered a Roman Coke, and I heard her order it a few times before I finally asked her what are you ordering? I laughed so hard explaining to her the drink was called a “rum and Coke”. That was basically the feeling of the entire day thus far, fun and blissful.

But, everything went dark after that.

[keywestlou]

SALLY.....A DANGEROUS WOMAN

Dangerous Sally.

Now a Category 2 hurricane knocking the hell out of Louisiana. Never underestimate the power of a woman. Sally is behaving like the wrath of a woman scorned.

One problem, however. No one scorned Sally. She just up and took off. Now a wild woman beating up Louisiana and shortly several other states.

Sally came to everyone’s attention roughly 10 days ago. A small storm of the coast of Africa. Nothing to worry about. Probably would never take form. Weather people doubted it would even become a tropical storm.

A day or 2 later, might form. Not to worry, however. At best a tropical storm and would never hit the United States. It would turn north and blow itself out somewhere over the Atlantic.

Never turned. Kept coming. At one point, the cone coming straight over Key West.

Not to worry. Merely some wind and rain.

Then Sally started moving south. Looked like it was going to completely miss the Keys. Not so. The Keys were on the north edge of the cone. She would brush Key West. A bit of rain and some wind.

Sally was in no hurry. She lumbered along at her own speed.

Key West had 1 1/2 days of heavy rain, wind and lightning. The rain the worst. A record rainfall in one day: 11.3 inches. Previous record a mere 2.5 inches.

Sally is carrying a lot of water. And respectfully, pissing where ever she goes. Rain, rain, and more rain!

Sally turned into the Gulf and headed for Louisiana and Mississippi.

The word was she “might” become a Category 1 when she made landfall. Then upped to a 2.

Sally hit Louisiana as a Category 2.

Sally is beating up the land areas with rain. Big time rain! Which means big time flooding. Rainfall expected to be 9-16 inches. In some places, as high as 20 inches.

I share Sally with you once again because she impresses me. Very much so. Her starting off the coast of Africa as a bunch of wind that would probably not even form. Some weather people thought she would dissipate.

Sally fooled everyone! Typical female. She did what she wanted

I watched the Middle East Peace Accord signing at the White House today. Israel, the UAE, and Bahrain involved.

Trump is touting this signing as a major peace agreement that solves Middle East problems.

Once again, Trump misleads.

Peace in the Middle East requires the Palestinians. Palestinians not involved means in reality the agreement is insignificant.

The real problem has been the Palestinians and Israelites. Other Arabs already like each other.

Israel was not a party to the agreement, did not attend the ceremony, and said in effect the agreement did nothing to bring peace to the Middle East.

The Peace Agreement of no value for 2 reasons. The first the absence of the Palestinians. The other if it were so important, why were the UAE and Bahrain represented by their foreign ministers as opposed to their Presidents?

Trump made a big deal of the signing. Smiling broadly. It was his show. He took credit for “bring the parties together.”

Trump’s tongue hangs out for the Nobel Peace Prize.

I was discussing with a friend on Skype Catholic education. Brought to mind my high school days.

A few years back I wrote an article concerning the experience and influence it had o me.

Elizabeth Ann Bayley was born August 28, 1774. To a wealthy family. She was the founder of the Sisters of Charity of St. Joseph. Some warm reflections from those days. My teenage days. High school. The Sisters of Charity of St. Joseph taught me. Henceforth to be referred to as Sisters of Charity.

Utica Catholic Academy.

My high school was in Utica, NY. Stood in the back of a large lot next to St. John’s Church on John Street.

The building tiny. Three stories high. The height larger than the width of the building.

Today, the school is gone. The land the school stood on a parking lot for St. John’s Church.

The heads of Sisters of Charity were capped with big white head coverings. Looked like wings. Body attire, dark blue ankle length dresses. Tied around their waists, extremely large and heavy appearing rosary beads.

The Sisters lived in an old Victorian building one block away. Today, a deserted lot.

The Sisters were excellent teachers. Disciplinarians. In teaching and personal matters. A sister would not hesitate storming into the boys’ bathroom if she thought there was smoking going on.

I got caught. On more than one occasion. Learned from one nun as she twisted my ear: The cigarette is a dirty weed and from it the Devil doth proceed.

Didn’t do much good. I smoked for many years.

One of the nuns had a distinct impact on my life. Sister Gertrude. A short stout elderly woman. A craggy beautiful face.

She discovered my love for history. Did everything to encourage it. She is also the reason I went to Manhattan College. She pushed Manhattan. Her cousin was a Christian Brother and Director of Athletics.

Latin was required in high school. I took three years. Thought it was stupid, but Sister Gertrude insisted. During my life time, I discovered those three years of Latin did more for me than any course I studied at any age.

Elizabeth Ann Bayley was born an Episcopalian. Married at 19. Became known as Elizabeth Seton. Bore 5 children. Her husband died ten years after their marriage.

Elizabeth was broke. Her husband had become ill some time before he died. Their money was gone. The family was stuck in Italy where they had gone believing the Italian weather would be good for her husband’s health.

Some Catholic Italian friends helped. She was impressed with their kindness and charity. Studied the Catholic religion. Became a Catholic.

Catholicism was neither popular nor respected in those days. Even her Episcopalian family deserted her.

Elizabeth returned to the United States. The Baltimore area. She became involved with helping the poor and needy. Especially women.

She founded the first Catholic school in the United States. Turned out to be the beginning of the parochial school system in the United States.

A group of women flocked to Elizabeth to assist her in the good works being performed. Elizabeth felt they should become an established nunnery order within the Catholic church. She pursued and accomplished the goal. Elizabeth founded the first female apostolic community in the United States. The Sisters of Charity of St. Joseph.

In 1975, the Pope recognized her commitment and success to humanity. She was ordained a Saint of the Catholic Church. The first American born to be so honored.

Enjoy your day!

SALLY…..A DANGEROUS WOMAN was originally published on Key West Lou

[onwardintolight]

11 Questions (Round 2)

I got tagged by the lovely @swimmergirl71​ to do this again and her questions are lovely and sufficiently distracting right now so here we go again

Official Rules: Always post the rules. answer 11 random questions posted for you. Create 11 new ones and tag 11 people. Let the person who tagged you know that you answered.

1. What song reminds you most of Han and Leia? 

Oh man I have a whole entire playlist *rubs hands* but if I had to choose one... nevermind I can’t choose just one so we’re gonna go with Wicked Games by Chris Isaak, Never Look Away by Vienna Teng, and Shadows of the Night by Pat Benatar

2. What is your hidden talent? 

I’m actually a pretty decent artist... I used to do a lot of sketches of LOTR and Star Wars characters as a teenager that I’m pretty proud of, and while I haven’t done any in years I think maybe someday I’ll get back into it

3. In your everyday conversations with non-fans, have you ever accidentally slipped into GFFA language or made a Star Wars reference/joke? If so, what did you say, and how did they react? (I, for instance, recently told a good friend that I needed to use the fresher. Oops.) 

Lol what a great question (and a great story)! Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately?), I don’t recall anything like this happening

4. Where in the GFFA would you want to live? 

Well, I would say Alderaan, but as I don’t want to share its fate, probably Naboo. Though I love the whole aesthetic of Cloud City too0

5. If Han and Leia had access to all of our movies, which one or ones would be their favorites? 

I think Leia would find Tree of Life as powerful as I did, despite the difference in religious orientation. She’d love a lot of thoughtful dramas, and action movies too, as long as there’s a lot of depth to them (think Inception, Interstellar, the Matrix, etc.) I think she’d also be a sucker for historical period dramas and a good romance.

With Han... I think he’d enjoy a lot of things, too, but I’m guessing he’d really like the Bourne Trilogy and the Oceans movies, some of the newer Bond movies, and he’d have a very large soft spot for Jurassic Park.

6. What foods do you hate? 

Liver and pea soup have been some of the worst in my experience. 

7. Which Star Wars character are you most like in personality? 

Leia, hands down.

8. What is your favorite hobby? Any unusual hobbies? 

My favorite would probably be dance. But as far as what I can do right now with the current state of my chronic illness, I’d go with writing and cosplay. As for unusual... within the next few months I’m planning to start learning the ancient Akkadian and Sumerian languages so I can translate cuneiform tablets :D

9. What is Han and Leia’s favorite thing to do on a stormy evening (besides THAT)? 

Watch the storm, of course

10. Where would you like to go on vacation, if you could go anywhere? 

The South of France. 

(We’ve been talking for a long time about maybe going this year since it’s our tenth anniversary, but I don’t know if we’ll be able to make it happen or not. Why are plane tickets so dang expensive??)

11. Here’s a topical one: What’s your favorite winter Olympic sport?

Ice skating/ice dance, for sure. I can’t wait!

I don’t think anyone has done the 11 questions I made up from the last round yet, so I’m just going to repost them here:

Describe a childhood memory.

Describe a time when you felt eternal/timeless.

What would you name your future children?

What’s your favorite dessert?

What are three things you really appreciate about yourself (no cheating)?

Have you ever felt like a ghost? If so, when? If not (or even if so), have you ever seen a ghost, or thought you saw one?

What’s a movie that just makes life seem better?

If you could imagine one place where you were completely at peace and felt totally safe, where would it be and what would it look like?

What do you wish you had the courage to say off of Tumblr?

What is the most beautiful song you’ve ever heard, or that you can think of right now?

Describe a time in your life that was a turning point.

I already tagged a bunch of people in the last one, so I’m not going to tag people individually this time... but, that being said, if you read this, you’re tagged!

[harleydavidsonbikepics]

Harley life still comforts Iowa family that lost two men on motorcycles

CLOSE

Iowa State Sen. Chaz Allen lost his brother to a motorcycle wreck in 2011, then this year his dad died in another motorcycle accident. Yet the motorcycle and Harley-Davidson lifestyle remains a comfort to the Allen family. Kyle Munson/The Register

State Sen. Chaz Allen of Newton in the last six years has lost both his brother and father to motorcycle accidents. Yet he and his family still look to bikes and the culture around them as a source of comfort.(Photo: Special to The Register) Newton, IA. — When Chaz Allen buried his father a few weeks ago, one of the sounds that surrounded and reassured him was what might as well qualify as a sweet hymn to his family: the deep rumble of motorcycles.  “It’s one of those things,” Allen said. “Everybody comes, hundreds of bikes show up, we want to show our respect.”  That was his sentiment despite the fact that his father, Tom, 75, was killed June 9 on his Harley-Davidson in an accident that also nearly claimed the life of his mother, Mikki, who clung to her husband. The Chariton couple hit a deer around dusk in rural Wayne County and were flung off the bike.  Compounding this, Allen’s younger brother, Keith, 34 and an Army veteran like his dad, wrecked his motorcycle on a corner south of Milo and died just six years ago.  I’m not a motorcyclist. When I saw the sad news of Tom’s death, then noticed that it was a tragic echo of Keith's, I assumed Allen and his family might be more than ready to park their bikes forever.  Just the opposite.  I’m a bicyclist, so can I understand the feeling of freedom on two wheels. But mine is a tamer, slower escape that comes with more fatigue.  To try to better understand my motorized brethren I sat down with Allen in his basement office in downtown Newton, his political headquarters as a Democratic state senator and former mayor.   The 47-year-old who also owns a welding firm and is a county economic development director, was born in Georgia and lived in Louisiana before his family moved to Chariton, where he was raised.  “It doesn’t seem real yet to me,” he said of his father's death.  His sister, Melinda Miller, read the same biker poem, “The Ride to Anywhere,” at both funerals. Allen sorted through his father’s belongings and found nearly 100 custom T-shirts — many of them crisp and never worn — collected at motorcycle benefit rides, the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally in South Dakota and other events.  This would have been Tom and Mikki’s 23rd annual trek together to Sturgis in August. 

Tom and Miki Allen of Chariton are shown in the middle of their favorite pastime, riding a motorcycle, near the end of a benefit ride. Miki has her hands in the air. Tom died June 9 in a motorcycle crash with a deer in which Miki was injured. (Photo: Special to The Register) “It’s kind of like your RAGBRAI,” Allen said, referring to The Register's Annual Great Bicycle Ride Across Iowa that serves as a summertime homecoming for pedal junkies from around the globe. “People kind of lose themselves for that week.”  I had a cousin who died a horrible young death on a motorcycle more than 30 years ago. Largely because of that my mother probably would have preferred that I run off and join the circus or become a bank robber in my 20s rather than announce that I had purchased a motorcycle.  I do have friends and family who ride. But the culture still feels mostly foreign to me.  The first time Allen uttered the word “dresser,” I thought he was talking about bedroom furniture. I finally figured out he meant a big bike fully equipped to make longer rides comfortable.  When I hear about bikes often it's through road statistics. The Iowa Department of Transportation tracks annual motorcycle fatalities that generally hover from around 40 to 60 statewide among nearly 273,000 licensed drivers. Generally, about three times as many of those fatalities each year aren't wearing helmets, compared to those who do. (Last year, 47 people killed on motorcycles in Iowa weren't wearing helmets, compared to 11 with helmets.) Iowa is one of just three states (with Illinois and New Hampshire) that lacks a helmet law. (Nineteen states and the District of Columbia have "universal helmet laws," while laws in 28 states require some use.) Neither Tom nor Keith wore a helmet in the crashes that killed them. Even now Allen believes that bikers should have that choice.  The motorcycle crowd above all seems to prize its sense of freedom, of the wind whipping through the hair and the whine of the road outside a sterile car or truck cabin.

Keith Allen was killed in September 2011 south of Milo in a motorcycle accident. He was the brother of State Sen. Chaz Allen of Newton, who also lost his father to a motorcycle accident in June 2017. (Photo: Special to The Register) “You smell, taste, feel, hear everything,” as Mikki put it.  Mikki, who wore a helmet in the wreck that killed her husband, suffered a broken foot and road rash and required major dental work. Nine years ago she nearly lost her right leg in another motorcycle accident in California. Four years ago she injured the same leg again in Missouri — tore her ligaments — and didn't walk for months. At that time Tom questioned whether they should ride again. But by then Mikki was as resolute as any biker.  “I find great comfort in all my motorcycle friends,” she said, what she called a “common joy.”  “When you sit behind someone as many miles as we’ve ridden, it’s a pretty bonding experience.”  Plus her late son, Keith, once observed that if you sit on a curb in front of a Buick and sip a cup of coffee, Mikki said, nobody is interested in what you’re doing. But do the same in front of a Harley and soon you’ll be asked where you’re going and get embroiled in a conversation with a new friend.  

'I guess we're going to be bikers now?'

Tom was a student at the University of Missouri when he borrowed a motorcycle and Mikki hopped on behind him for the first time. But it wasn't until decades later, as they were becoming empty-nesters, that the couple became immersed in the lifestyle. Tom and Mikki in 1995 were in the middle of selling their southern Iowa clothing stores to open a bargain warehouse. This was after they had run a pair of gas stations in the South.  “He went from slopping fuel and oil to selling women’s clothes,” Allen said of his dad.  That summer Tom embarked on a road trip with a pair of high school buddies from his 1960 graduating class for what the family assumed would be a night or two. It turned into an odyssey of a week and a half. When he returned to Chariton and walked in the front door of his store, at first Mikki didn’t recognize her own husband with his beard, boots, jeans, leather and do-rag.  “I guess we’re going to be bikers now?” she said.  Definitely, yes. 

State Sen. Chaz Allen, center, is shown in this 2012 photo with members of his family. From left: father Tom, mother Miki, daughter Madeline, Allen, wife Teri and daughter Morgan. Allen's brother, Keith, died in 2011 in a motorcycle accident, followed by his father, Tom, in 2017. (Photo: Special to The Register) At least Tom and Keith died doing what they loved to do, both Allen and his Mom said.  “I don’t regret a mile or a minute of it,” Mikki said.  She was there for all those miles, all over the continent. Including her husband's last mile. I had nothing more to say after that. Maybe I understood: The motorcycle is a metaphor and reminder for how we should feel lucky that we have any time at all to enjoy the ride of this life, no matter how brief. Regret isn't part of the equation.   Allen doesn’t have much time to devote to motorcycles these days, between work, politics and a pair of teenage daughters.   But shortly after his father’s death, when Allen stopped by C&C Cycle in Chariton to borrow a bike to ride to his father’s funeral, he definitely felt the urge.  "I got that bike, got outside of C&C, got on the highway, and just thought, ‘Man, I just want to go,'" he said. "'I just want to go.’”  “Any kind of ride, you just kind of lose yourself and what you’re doing.”  Allen longed to feel the freedom and let the wind lash his face as he mourned his dad. I get it.  Assuming she’s healthy enough to travel, Mikki will return to Sturgis in August, her first rally without Tom.  But in a concession to age, her recovery and her nerves, she’ll go in a car. 

Buy Photo Kyle Munson, Iowa columnist. (Photo: The Register) Kyle Munson can be reached at 515-284-8124 or kmunson@dmreg.com. See more of his columns and video at DesMoinesRegister.com/KyleMunson. Connect with him on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram (@KyleMunson).

Welcome Home Soldier Monument 

A cause that the late Tom Allen, a Vietnam War veteran, cared deeply about was the nonprofit Welcome Home Soldier Monument in Albia. The Allen family is directing memorial contributions to the monument in his memory. Learn more at welcomehomesoldiermonument.com. Or contribute via the Welcome Home Soldier Fund, Monroe County Veterans Affairs, 1801 South B St., Albia, IA 52531, 641-932-5622. Read or Share this story: http://dmreg.co/2u7mzqI Let's block ads! (Why?) Google Alert - harley davidson news Click to Post

[mermaidsirennikita]

Book Roundup -- April 2017

I completed by challenge of reading 50 books in 2017.... today.  Admittedly this is usually a pretty low bar for me, but I don’t wanna go any higher than 50 just in case I suddenly get super fucking busy or my speed-reading powers deactivate.

Anyway.  Most of the books I read this month were honestly mediocre to poor, but I did discover two books towards the end of the month ( “Feast of Sorrow” and “Crazy Rich Asians”) that not only introduced me to new authors but pretty much thrilled me.

So, without further ado:

The Night Mark by Tiffany Reisz.  3/5.  Still mourning the death of her first husband, Faye ends up divorcing the man she married for convenience and heading to coastal South Carolina in an attempt to resume her former career as a photographer.  After learning the local legend of a lighthouse keeper’s ill-fated daughter in the 1920s, she accidentally ends up in the water--and wakes up in the body of Faith Morgan, said ill-fated 1920s girl.  This book is definitely a romance novel, and it’s a lot of fun.  As with any romance novel, there are some random choices that are kind of done, and the plot is somewhat convoluted, and the time travel aspects of the plot don’t always make sense....  But it was fluffy.  It made me happy.  It made me homesick, for that matter.  If you’re looking for a quick, somewhat mindless read with some nice sexual tension-filled scenes, go for it.  (If anything, I feel like this would have been improved with a few more sex scenes.  To be honest.)  It’s note quite peak trashy time travel romance novel a la Jude Deveraux’s Knight In Shining Armor, but it’s good.

Love for Sale: A World History of Prostitution by Nils Johan Ringdal.  4/5.  A non-fiction history of prostitution spanning from ancient myths to the present day.  The book does a good job of covering the East and West--though more attention is paid to Europe than anywhere else, Asia gets a good amount of attention.  At certain points, it does get a bit dry.  But it does the job, and is very interesting and informative.

Alex, Approximately by Jenn Bennett.  4/5.  In this YA contemporary, Bailey moves to California, not telling her Californian longtime online penpal, Alex, that she’s done so.  (She has confrontation problems.)  Upon beginning a museum job, she falls into a love-hate tension-filled relationship with security guard Porter, not realizing that he--of course--is Alex.  This is pitched as a modern-day You’ve Got Mail, so I don’t think that’s a spoiler.  Honestly, I was so pleasantly surprised by this book.  I was beginning to think that YA contemporaries just weren’t for me anymore, and something about the chemistry and characters in “Alex, Approximately” just got me.  Certain dramatic backstories were a bit much, but ultimately the chemistry between Bailey and Porter sold this book for me. They felt like actual teenagers who were actually into each other, and lately I feel like the YA I’ve been reading is too sugary to accurately portray that.  Overall, this is a definite summer/spring rec from me.

Marriage Most Scandalous by Johanna Lindsey.  2/5.  This was a pretty typical historical romance bodice ripper, about this dude who killed his best friend by accident in a duel years back?  And is now a sort of mercenary detective type?  So years after said accidental murder, his father’s ward comes a-knockin’, all grown up and such, and she thinks his dad is being targeted by someone evil.  Of course they have to pretend to be married to figure out what’s afoot, and you can take it from there.  I don’t think I like Regency bodice rippers as much as I do like... Viking romances, or Highlander stories.  I feel like bodice rippers should be set in “rougher” times so the extreme fuckery going on is easier to dismiss as part of the fantasy.  Plus, idk, some viking dude capturing the self-insert heroine and teaching her the ways of erotic love is just sexier to me than a dude named Sebastian having a secret identity as the Raven.  I never said I wasn’t problematic.

Literally by Lucy Keating.  1/5.  Annabelle is in the midst of upheaval in personal life when she meets the perfect boy, Will--and finds out that she’s actually the main character in a story by the author Lucy Keating.  K.  This could have been good, but it’s pretty much ruined as soon as Lucy Keating introduces herself.  She’s referred to as Lucy Keating for the whole book; Annabelle thinks about how beautiful she is and her cute clothes; she’s all ambiguous and strange and self-adoring.  This was one of the most uncomfortable, awkward books I’ve ever read.

The Upside of Unrequited by Becky Albertalli.  3/5.  This YA contemporary is about Molly, a girl whose insecurity about her weight--and inevitable comparisons to her beautiful twin, Cassie--has her constantly crushing on people that she finds unattainable.  After Cassie falls head over heels for Mina, Molly feels pressured to like Will, Mina’s cute and sweet friend.  But she also likes--perhaps more genuinely--Reid, who is, like Molly, overweight and maybe a bit uncool.  This is less a romance--or I was less interested in the romance--than a story about Molly and Cassie growing up and apart.  Molly’s insecurities are driven in part by her comparing herself to Cassie; at the same time, the main reason why she doesn’t want to like Reid is that she thinks he’ll pull her further from her twin.  That’s a super interesting, real conflict.  The romances I found less compelling.  The book includes a lot of diversity, but at a certain point it did feel a bit... checking the boxes-esque?  Like, Molly thought back to this boy she crushed on, and specified that he was a trans boy even though it added nothing to the story and really served more to set him apart, in his two paragraphs of page time, as “special” compared to the cis boys Molly had crushed on.  I get what the author was going for, but it came off as a bit awkward sometimes.  Overall however, this is a very earnest and sweet read.

Given to the Sea by Mindy McGinnis. 2/5.  Khosa is the latest in a long line of women “given” to the sea--she’s destined dance into the sea as a sacrifice to prevent it from swallowing up her homeland.  Before she does that, of course, she needs to give birth to a daughter who will follow in her footsteps.  Trouble is, Khosa is afraid of being touched.  Aaaaaand that’s pretty much what I got from this.  The story has an interesting mythology and I liked the sort of writing style McGinnis was going for, but that’s it.  I kind of debate even giving it a 2/5 for that.  There were too many narrators (Khosa, the prince type guy she met, and his adopted sister I got but there was one guy whose presence as a narrator I never understood) and the plot was very... vague.  I got that Khosa was doomed to be sacrificed and needed to get knocked up, but everything else was extremely hard to understand.  And I was trying.  I really tried.  It just never got there for me.

The Perfect Stranger by Megan Miranda.  2/5.  I really enjoyed Miranda’s previous thriller, “All The Missing Girls”, but this one just... numbed me.  It seemed like a much more standard “what happened to the missing/dead person” story than “ATMG” was, and it never clicked.  

My Sister Rosa by Justine Larbalestier.  4/5.  Che (yes, named after THAT Che because his parents are The Worst) is a teenager moving from Australia to New York.  Also, his little sister Rosa is fucking psychopath.  Rosa has been wrong since she was a baby, but Che is the only one in his family who acknowledges this--ironically, because his parents are always occupied with hippy-type projects that are meant to save the world.  Che knows exactly how dangerous the unfeeling Rosa is, and how easily she manipulates everyone around her.  And of course, she catapults the family into disaster.  This book was pretty chilling at times.  For that matter, it actually had explanations for things that bothered me--why Che’s parents were so shitty, for example.  Threads like those would have been dropped in another book, and I appreciate Larbalestier following up on them.  It’s a really effective thriller; perhaps the most convincing part of it is how much Che loves his sister, despite everything.  The book isn’t quite scary, but it is creepy--and quite sad at points.

The Monster of Florence by Douglas Preston and Mario Spezi.  4/5.  From 1968, a serial killer terrorized the hills surrounding Florence.  The killer would spy on couples parked to have sex--a common practice in Italy, where people usually didn’t leave their parents’ homes until they married--shoot both of them, and often mutilate the women’s bodies in a sexually motivated manner.  There have been a number of suspects, some of which have been convicted then exonerated.  Italian journalist Mario Spezi had been following the case for decades when he met American thriller novelist Douglas Preston.  Forming a friendship, the two began researching the murders, leading to both of them tangling with the Italian authorities (including the prosecutor who botched Amanda Knox’s case; and if you didn’t think she was innocent before you read this book, you probably will after).  The book is divided into two parts--that detailing Mario Spezi’s investigation of the murders as they happened, and then what happened after Preston got involved. Preston describes Florence and the unique Florentine attitude well, but honestly I got frustrated with him a lot.  He seemed so ~shocked~ that the Italian authorities didn’t function in the same way that they do in America.  I figured that out pretty quickly after landing in Italy for my year abroad, and I was 20 at the time.  Also, like...  it wasn’t hard to keep my head down.  I get Preston’s motivations, but his story is less interesting than Spezi’s, which isn’t surprising.  Am I 100% sure that they found the true killer?  No, but their guy seems more likely than anyone else who’s been a suspect.  This is a very gripping, very interesting true crime story that I definitely recommend.

Feast of Sorrow by Crystal King.  4/5.  Thrasius, a young Roman slave, is bought by the patrician Apicius due to his exception skills in the kitchen.  Apicius wants to become the gastronomic adviser of Caesar Augustus, and he believes that Thrasius is his ticket to fave.  What follows is the decades long saga of Thrasius as he helps his often-capricious master and bonds with Apicius’s family, particular his master’s wife, Aelia, and his daughter, Apicata.  But Apicius’s ambition and hunger for renown knows no bounds, and he drags Thrasius and his family into the depths of Roman politics with him.  So this book was actually a really, really compelling read.  King has a talent for description, and as a recurring backdrop of the drama is cookbook(s) that Thrasius is helping Apicius put together... I got hungry fast.  King also has a talent for creating that sense of the Roman world, beyond the famous people.  She created an environment that felt real and everyday to me, while at the same time keying in the drama when she needed to.  I will definitely be picking up her next book, especially if it’s historical fiction.  I couldn’t put this down.  With that being said, there were a couple of things that kept this from being a 5/5 for me.  One was Thrasius’s romance with fellow slave Pallia--it felt very plot-device-y to me; I mean, you do need to give Thrasius a motivation to stay with his master even when he’s a dick (beyond his own life) and yes having him fall in love with a woman brings in the possibility of Babies as an added motivation, but also...  I kinda wish that Thrasius had fallen in love with a dude.  His chemistry and sex scenes with Pallia felt super forced, but his scenes with other men were more... interesting.  Towards the end of the book, the melodrama got dialed up a little too much--like I know it’s not Feast of Sunshine and Daisies but holy shit.  Some fact-checking proves, though, that King did her research and the goriest parts of the book did happen.  So overall, I’d highly recommend this to anyone who wants to read an entertaining novel of Ancient Rome.

The Last Neanderthal by Claire Cameron.  3/5.  This novel takes the perspective of Girl, a young female Neanderthal who, due to a sudden turn of events, ends up alone in the wilderness with Runt, a strange young  boy her family adopted.  At the same time, it tells the story of Rose, a pregnant archeologist who has discovered two unique skeletons and is racing against the clock to finish her project before her baby comes.  This is very much what you might call a feminist read--it’s about different aspects of women’s lives, how much has changed, how much... hasn’t.  What I found particularly interesting was the look at sexism--particularly towards women who choose to become mothers--in the academic world of archeology.  Unfortunately, I can’t say I super liked the book because Girl’s side was... well, kind of a downer.  It’s realistic, but strict realism doesn’t always make the best story; and at any rate, who knows how realistic it is? We’re talking about Neanderthals here.  Also, I feel like some people will really appreciate the degree to which Claire Cameron describes things, but like.  Dude.  Once we start talking in detail about the smell of a Neanderthal’s cervical fluids, I’m kinda out.  But I gave it three stars because it is well-written and it is an interesting angle to take, it’s just not for me.

Crazy Rich Asians by Kevin Kwan.  5/5.  American Born Chinese (ABC) girl (but not really) Rachel Chu has been dating the charming Nick Young--her first Asian boyfriend--for about two years, and finally agrees to spend the summer with him in Asia as he stands as the best man in his friend’s wedding.  Nick is charming, kind, and handsome--also, he’s mega-rich, as Rachel only discovers upon arriving in Singapore and meeting his family, including his formidable mother Eleanor.  Nick hails from not one but two different elite clans in Singapore society, and not only is his mother plotting against no-name Rachel--so are all the women who want to get their claws into him and his bloodline.  There are several different, super-interesting subplots going on too, but that’s the main story.  And it’s great.  This book is the perfect blend of insightful social commentary--from someone who would actually know what’s he’s talking about, rather than an outsider white author--and catty drama.  Rachel is probably not the most interesting character here, but she’s supposed to be the good girl, and she’s not bland.  She’s smart and sticks up for herself, even if she’s a bit naive.  Nick is a decent guy, if not perfect--he’s ignorant to the complications of his own world because... it’s his world, and he’s a man and therefore not privy to many of the machinations the women perform.  The two most compelling characters are Astrid, Nick’s beautiful cousin who’s just beginning to recognize the cracks in her marriage, and Eleanor, his mother.  Eleanor is AMAZING, the perfect mom from Hell without being a caricature.  Her concerns go over the top, but they stem from a valid place, especially when you take cultural norms into consideration.  Also, she’s being played by Michelle Yeoh in the movie so... I’m hype.  Loved this.  It was one of my longer books of the month, but I sped through it in two days.

[murderincrp]

PROFILE LOADED...「PARK HYERIM」「UNAFFILIATED」「THIRTY-FOUR」

“Thirty-four-year-old FIELD AGENT for the NIS. No known allies.”

✘ THREAT LEVEL HIGH. PROCEED WITH EXTREME CAUTION...

WARNING: DEATH, UNDERAGE PROSTITUTION

[ BACKGROUND... ]

Remember Hyerim-ah. When life gives you lemons, you squeeze them into people’s eyes.

That was the first important lesson that the at-the-time seven year old Hye Rim learned from the man she called her father. To live a life her father had led, from the time he ran away from home at the age of fifteen through the next thirty years, meant that everything could and should be utilized as a weapon. A gun, a knife, a person’s fists, their words. In a cutthroat world, where anyone could stab your back at any given point, this was the only kind of life a person could lead. Constantly looking behind their back and always counting on whatever nearby tool could be used as a mean for defense.

The world is not at your feet, it never will be, remember that. It will always aim for your throat. It’s only up to you to decide, whether you will let it, or whether you will be the first to cut.

Age 0-5

There was an immeasurable kind of despair that came with being born without an identity. Many people, if not most, are born without a name, but an identity is something the majority is brought into the world with. There is a name behind the face, a sense of security behind a child’s smile. Not for Hye Rim, though. Oh no. Park Hye Rim had no name until she was five. She was brought into the world as a nobody. She was a newborn abandoned in front of a hospital, on a warm April evening, wrapped into a blanket. There was no note, no goodbye from the person that left her there. No one could know whether she was abandoned by her mother, or father, or more distant family; or a random citizen who had initially discovered the poor child in a dumpster. All of that remains unknown, cloaked in mystery never to be unveiled.

The child was shortly after sent into a foster home which, sadly, proved to be everything but a caring home. Without a name, and referred to as only ‘the girl’ or 'the child’, she lived the first five years of her life in despair and uncertainty. Thoughts of the people who abandoned her plagued her at night, hopes for a better tomorrow tormented her during the day. At such a fragile age, the child already knew a world no infant should have. To be sent to beg for money, however, turned into a blessing. The child who was sent to the street from the time she was four, to ask for mercy and money from local strangers, would find herself at the mercy of a man who would give her a name, a home and family.

Age 5-16

The man’s name was Park Taewoo. That was, at least, the name he went by. A contract killer, with roots deep into the underground, a man who had killed so many, showed pity towards a barefooted, dirty young girl and took her away, struck by a grief so deep for the poor child’s fate. There was no fear his act would be discovered. It turned out that the family which had 'adopted’ her did not even care about her disappearance. No missing’s person report was filed. As though she never existed in their lives, the five year old was once more erased from the world, with no trace left behind. Whatever identity she might have found in that wretched household was gone and she found herself once more to be an empty canvas, a tabula rasa. A person without identity.

Not for long, though. Park Taewoo gave her his family name and named her Hye Rim. Later, she would find out Hye Rim was Taewoo’s sister, the only member of his family he truly ever cared about, albeit he had cut all connections with the entire family from the point he ran away. Taewoo sent Hye Rim through school as well. Her whole life she felt that it was odd for a contract killer to be caring about her, to care enough to send her to school and repeatedly make her promise him she would not become a bum like himself. But, it was a promise Hye Rim simply could not fulfill. What’s a daughter of a killer going to do in life? At best, I will be a waitress, or a dancer. The fact she was his daughter became a crucial part of her, something that she often used as a counter-argument whenever conflict arose between the two of them.

Still, an illegal lifestyle was ineluctable. By the age of ten, Hye Rim could fire a gun. By the age of twelve, she could put up a good fight, and could name several types of guns and rifles. At school, she showed to be a student with great potential, however always stained by her choosing the wrong crew. The bums of the school, the good-for-nothings who would drag her along with them. By the time she was 15, Hye Rim had been an addict. She had involved herself with a 'daddy’ – a pimp who’d send her off to the world of prostitution. She would become a pickpocket too. A bum. Like Taewoo.

Her relationship with Taewoo had not changed, though. She would always be his little girl, no matter the fact how deeply he was plagued by her lifestyle. He blamed himself, obviously, though never gathered enough courage to put an end to it all.

Age 16-19

Taewoo died when Hyerim was sixteen. The man had anticipated his downfall but right before he left, to finish what he described as a terribly dangerous job, he left Hyerim a disk. It was a disk where he had stored every information about the crime lords that hired him, data that he could leverage if he was cornered. It was a disk that would imprison Hyerim as well.

By the time she was eighteen, Hyerim had graduated high school. However, she had also given birth to a baby daughter. Having involved herself with a boy from her school, their short-lasting fling bore a child, which was taken away from Hyerim by the boy’s astute parents. She only got to see the child in the hospital and on a photograph a year later – when the baby’s father informed that they had moved to the States.

Hyerim’s criminal lifestyle ended when she was nineteen. She got arrested, finally, on the charges of prostitution but just when she thought that was the end of it, that she would end up in jail and lose all hope in life, Hyerim found herself in an unusual situation. The disk which she had kept hidden was an object wanted not just by the crime bosses but also by the government. Once the detectives confirmed her identity, they realized they had hit a goldmine. Hyerim held information so big that it could shake things up in the country.  But, it was information that she did not know either. She had, you see, never played the disk. She never dared opening it, knowing this would make her a walking bull’s eye. Without the disk, she was nothing.

With the disk she was an irreplaceable asset.

Age 20-28

The next eight years, Hyerim spent in strict training. The NIS, desperate to get on the infamous Park Taewoo’s disk, went out of their way to send her through school. The Academy, then the two years of rotation, then two years of NIS training. She was groomed, like the finest of weapons, into a dangerous asset that would potentially give the government the upper hand.

Age 29-34

It was funny how everything about her life came down to weapons. What her father taught her turned out to be true. Anything was a weapon if one knew how to utilize it. And so, she, a flesh and bone person, became a weapon of the government. She was trained for the department of international crimes where she assumed the role of a field agent, given a mission to work on cracking down chains of foreign crime entering South Korea.

All in the meanwhile, she stays clear of the streets that were once her home, knowing that even with the protection of the country she still had a target on her back. She is looked for, far and wide. She lives her life in hiding, keeping a low-profile. The disk is safely hidden, though she has no intentions of handing it over to anyone. She feels that should she give the government the upper hand, she would, in a sense, be working against her father. And if it fell into the bosses’ hands, that too would be the end of her.

[ BEHAVIOR... ]

Although she would never admit it out loud, Hyerim is a person that reflects on her past a bit too often. Subconsciously or not, she has done her best to erase the old Park Hyerim. Once she enrolled the Academy, she worked hard on eradicating any stigma that might be attached to her name and identity. It was during college days that her life added a humorous, if not ironic, twist wherein she felt she would rather denounce all previous identity than refer to herself once again as Park Hyerim the street bum. This was that one betrayal that she could afford to inflict to her already deceased father. She did not want to have anything to do with how she grew up and who she was.

Past, unsurprisingly, has innumerable ways of creeping back up to the person it belongs to. Nightmares of the day she saw her father’s face on the news – the anchor revealing the death of an infamous assassin the feds had been looking for for nearly twenty years – torment her often but she does an extraordinary job in keeping all the little troubles and storms of her mind to herself. She is a dedicated worker, though quite stubborn and strong-willed with a personality which does not allow her to succumb to authority that easily. She an avid reader and a collector of postcards, though they’re from places she’s never visited. These postcards are all gifts from an old middle school friend, the only one who had managed to escape the grip of petty teenage crime.

She is not much of a people person, though beneath the layers of stoicism and coldness, she is an amiable, caring woman. Somewhere inside of her, a silly and playful child uncorrupted by circumstances of her life resides, though she rarely, if ever, allows for that side of her to show, rendering it a weakness.

[internetbasic9]

Nature Meet the Young Female Photographers Who Documented 18-Year-Old Girls

Nature Meet the Young Female Photographers Who Documented 18-Year-Old Girls Nature Meet the Young Female Photographers Who Documented 18-Year-Old Girls https://ift.tt/2C9xjLF

Nature

LENS

The New York Times asked 22 young women to take photos for a project exploring daily life for girls around the world who are becoming adults this year.

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Madison Justice, a teenage mother in Clarksdale, Miss., visiting where she grew up.CreditCreditYasmine Malone for The New York Times

TiKa Wallace is not your typical New York Times photographer.

She’s 17, competes in slam poetry events and describes herself as “an amalgamation of creative witticisms, music references and chocolate.” Raised by a single parent from a blue-collar background, this “young, queer, black girl” attends high school in a wealthy suburb of Washington, D.C.

She is, as she puts it, “a square peg in a round hole.”

She is also among 22 young women who took photos for the project “This is 18,” which documents girls around the world. And now she has been published in The New York Times, in a special section devoted to exploring what life looks like for girls turning 18 in 2018. The project goes online today and will appear in print next week.

“What surprised me is that a major news outlet that is consumed by millions of people all over the world is allowing teenagers to tell teenager stories,” she said. “Normally, when a story is told, especially for a major news outlet, it’s told by someone who’s 30 or 40 years old. It’s just seen from a different lens versus when your peers get to tell your story.”

Staff photographers for The New York Times usually have several years of professional experience at other news organizations, and even then, they usually have to wait awhile before they get to work on projects. But the visual journalists like Ms. Wallace whom we enlisted for this project were decidedly different. They were young women, mostly teenagers.

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Mahak Naiwal with her friends at her home in New Delhi.CreditShraddha Gupta for The New York Times

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Liana Sharifian, among few Iranian women who play the bagpipe (ney-anbān), and her friend Miad play folk music from southern Iran.CreditAtefe Moeini for The New York Times

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Maryclare Chinedo and her mother in the Bronx before departing for Brown University.CreditJulie Lozano/Bronx Documentary Center

Jessica Bennett, the paper’s gender editor, realized early on that the key to success for this project was going to be getting an authentic view of the lives of 18-year-old girls. She and Jodi Rudoren, associate managing editor for audience — in collaboration with a team of editors and designers in Styles — decided the best way to assure that authenticity of experience was to have teenage photographers take the pictures and conduct interviews.

The project, managed by Sharon Attia, a 23-year-old photographer herself, became less hierarchal because most of the young women also choose their subjects.

The team behind the project paired each photographer with a mentor to help them complete the assignment and to make it a learning experience.

We asked the photographers to find the girls, photograph and interview them, and make videos of their subjects, as well. Although the photographers were mostly in their late teens, they were asked to act like professionals. And they did.

So how do you find a couple dozen talented female teenage photographers from all over the world? Well, let’s say it takes a village — a global village. Sandra Stevenson, the project’s picture editor, and I relied on a global network of photographers, editors and teachers that we have compiled over decades.

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Lori’anne Bemba, center, with her sister and grandmother at a family wedding in Montreal, Canada.CreditAdele Foglia for The New York Times

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Sage Grace Dolan-Sandrino at Bard College in New York.CreditTiKa Wallace for The New York Times

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Obdulia González González embroiders beside her artesanal craft stall in Zacatecas, Mexico.CreditJesse Mireles for The New York Times

The team decided not to take a set approach, but it did try to choose 18-year-old female subjects with various experiences from a variety of places. For the most part, it was an organic process, because it was led by the young women. And it was often an educational experience for the photographers, as Adèle Foglia, a 21-year-old photographer from Montreal, noted.

“What surprised me the most about this project was to realize how differently the world all experiences this transition to adulthood,” she said. “And also it pushed me to reflect on my own experience and to see how sometimes the world may be such an unwelcoming space for women who have dreams and the determination to realize those dreams.”

Many of the photographers felt empowered by the project and the opportunity to highlight their own concerns in their own communities.

Jessie Mirelas, 19, who grew up in Zacatecas, Mexico, has always been proud of living in “a diverse multicultural country with great architecture, great destinations and an exquisite gastronomy — a place where the peoples that preceded us remain alive.”

She photographed Obdulia González González, an 18-year-old who is part of the indigenous Wixárika people of northern Mexico. She helps her parents sell traditional crafts and hopes to attend college.

“I believe this project is important because it’s giving us a voice, an opportunity to tell our story not only just in Mexico, but to the world,” said Ms. Mirelas, who studies at the University of Veracruz and wants to become a journalist. “To be able to show the legacy and cultural heritage of our indigenous peoples who are often neglected or ignored.”

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Madison changes her son’s diaper.CreditYasmine Malone for The New York Times

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Yasmine Malone photographing Madison as she looks through her journals and art.CreditChandler Griffin

Yasmine Malone, who turned 20 this month, grew up in Clarksdale, Miss., in the Mississippi Delta and is now a student at the University Of Mississippi in Oxford, majoring in English and political science. Using just the camera in her phone, she documented Madison Justice, a teenage mother in Clarksdale.

“I saw much of my mom and sister in her when she spoke about these things, being that they have all experienced being a teen mom in poverty with limited resources,” she said. “The frequency of this story is where it’s power stems. Madison Justice is not alone in her struggle; plenty of teens deal with it. Their stories deserve to be told for not only the realness of it all, but for its humanity, perseverance and strength.”

When many think of the Delta, they think of “poverty, crime, gun violence and low health rates,” Ms. Malone said. She learned that “we all have a story worth telling” which, over time fosters hope in her community. “If we can find our common threads,” she said, “we’ll realize the gaps between us are not that big, and there is where real social change can happen.”

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Millie Landewee, a member of an all-girl skate crew in Melbourne, in her bedroom.CreditEremaya Albrecht for The New York Times

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Shama Ghosh with her sister-in-law’s baby.CreditTahia Farhin Haque for The New York Times.

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Wanjiku Gakuru in Kibera, the largest slum in Nairobi.CreditSarah Sunday Moses for The New York Times

Some of the young photographers already had a mentor, but for the others, we asked photographers in their country to take on the role. Sandra provided guidance on how to take photographs and monitored the progress of participants to keep them on track. For three months straight, she was like an air traffic controller on the day before Thanksgiving — with some of the pilots speaking languages she did not understand.

For many participants, the project was a crash course in documentary photography and filmmaking: Make wide shots so we can see where you are, and also details. Photograph them hanging out with both friends and family and in their rooms alone. And be sure to collect family photos. Oh, and make a video of them, too.

Ms. Bennett and Ms. Attia teamed up with editors from the Styles section and digital and print designers to curate all the material and present it as a zine.

At the beginning, each photographer was asked to find three different 18 year olds. We asked them to not choose their friends and to send us a brief bio of each subject and a few photos of them in their rooms. The team then chose one of those subjects for each photographer.

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Aleksandra Yuryeva with her younger sister and friend at a park in Moscow.CreditAnna Dermicheva for The New York Times

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Victory Chukwu and her mother prepare lunch in Lagos, Nigeria.CreditAmarachi Chukwuma for The New York Times

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Jung Eun Yang applies pigment to a mannequin. Her dream is to become a makeup artist.CreditDa Hyeon Kim for The New York Times

Sarah Sunday Moses, 19, hails from South Sudan but grew up in Kenya after her parents fled the instability in their country. She photographed Wanjiku Muthoni Gakuru, who is studying urban planning at the University of Nairobi. What impressed Ms. Moses “the most in doing the project was the amount of people that were required,” she said, and the complexity of the forms that we asked the photographers to fill out.

She hopes that readers see that “despite being from different parts of the world, we are still similar,” she said.

Some of the photographers documented young women who were similar to themselves, while others spent time in situations quite different from their own. Tahia Farhin Haque from Dhaka, Bangladesh, is studying biochemistry at North South University while also studying at a photography school. While she describes herself as a practicing Muslim who wears a hijab, she photographed Shama Ghosha, a young Hindu woman who lives with her husband in Chandpur and hopes to finish high school and become a teacher.

“I went there with my eyes shut and came back with my eyes open of an entirely different life of a girl that lived in a different state,” she said. “We must empathize with the world around us. And not take anything for granted.”

Image

Anndrine Lund and friends pack up their things during a rainstorm in Norway.CreditCelina Christoffersen for The New York Times

Image

Shenzhi Xu at her high school in Chengdu, China.CreditLuxi Yang for The New York Times

Help Us Celebrate Girlhood Around the World

Share a photo of yourself at 18 with the hashtag #ThisIs18 on your favorite social platform. What advice would you give to the girl in the photo? Follow along on Instagram (@nytgender) as we feature some of our favorite TBTs.

James Estrin, the co-editor of Lens, joined The Times as a photographer in 1992 after years of freelancing for the newspaper and hundreds of other publications. @JamesEstrin

Read More | https://ift.tt/2A3xQ0s |

Nature Meet the Young Female Photographers Who Documented 18-Year-Old Girls, in 2018-10-11 13:03:37

[algarithmblognumber]

Nature Meet the Young Female Photographers Who Documented 18-Year-Old Girls

Nature Meet the Young Female Photographers Who Documented 18-Year-Old Girls Nature Meet the Young Female Photographers Who Documented 18-Year-Old Girls http://www.nature-business.com/nature-meet-the-young-female-photographers-who-documented-18-year-old-girls/

Nature

LENS

The New York Times asked 22 young women to take photos for a project exploring daily life for girls around the world who are becoming adults this year.

Image

Madison Justice, a teenage mother in Clarksdale, Miss., visiting where she grew up.CreditCreditYasmine Malone for The New York Times

TiKa Wallace is not your typical New York Times photographer.

She’s 17, competes in slam poetry events and describes herself as “an amalgamation of creative witticisms, music references and chocolate.” Raised by a single parent from a blue-collar background, this “young, queer, black girl” attends high school in a wealthy suburb of Washington, D.C.

She is, as she puts it, “a square peg in a round hole.”

She is also among 22 young women who took photos for the project “This is 18,” which documents girls around the world. And now she has been published in The New York Times, in a special section devoted to exploring what life looks like for girls turning 18 in 2018. The project goes online today and will appear in print next week.

“What surprised me is that a major news outlet that is consumed by millions of people all over the world is allowing teenagers to tell teenager stories,” she said. “Normally, when a story is told, especially for a major news outlet, it’s told by someone who’s 30 or 40 years old. It’s just seen from a different lens versus when your peers get to tell your story.”

Staff photographers for The New York Times usually have several years of professional experience at other news organizations, and even then, they usually have to wait awhile before they get to work on projects. But the visual journalists like Ms. Wallace whom we enlisted for this project were decidedly different. They were young women, mostly teenagers.

Image

Mahak Naiwal with her friends at her home in New Delhi.CreditShraddha Gupta for The New York Times

Image

Liana Sharifian, among few Iranian women who play the bagpipe (ney-anbān), and her friend Miad play folk music from southern Iran.CreditAtefe Moeini for The New York Times

Image

Maryclare Chinedo and her mother in the Bronx before departing for Brown University.CreditJulie Lozano/Bronx Documentary Center

Jessica Bennett, the paper’s gender editor, realized early on that the key to success for this project was going to be getting an authentic view of the lives of 18-year-old girls. She and Jodi Rudoren, associate managing editor for audience — in collaboration with a team of editors and designers in Styles — decided the best way to assure that authenticity of experience was to have teenage photographers take the pictures and conduct interviews.

The project, managed by Sharon Attia, a 23-year-old photographer herself, became less hierarchal because most of the young women also choose their subjects.

The team behind the project paired each photographer with a mentor to help them complete the assignment and to make it a learning experience.

We asked the photographers to find the girls, photograph and interview them, and make videos of their subjects, as well. Although the photographers were mostly in their late teens, they were asked to act like professionals. And they did.

So how do you find a couple dozen talented female teenage photographers from all over the world? Well, let’s say it takes a village — a global village. Sandra Stevenson, the project’s picture editor, and I relied on a global network of photographers, editors and teachers that we have compiled over decades.

Image

Lori’anne Bemba, center, with her sister and grandmother at a family wedding in Montreal, Canada.CreditAdele Foglia for The New York Times

Image

Sage Grace Dolan-Sandrino at Bard College in New York.CreditTiKa Wallace for The New York Times

Image

Obdulia González González embroiders beside her artesanal craft stall in Zacatecas, Mexico.CreditJesse Mireles for The New York Times

The team decided not to take a set approach, but it did try to choose 18-year-old female subjects with various experiences from a variety of places. For the most part, it was an organic process, because it was led by the young women. And it was often an educational experience for the photographers, as Adèle Foglia, a 21-year-old photographer from Montreal, noted.

“What surprised me the most about this project was to realize how differently the world all experiences this transition to adulthood,” she said. “And also it pushed me to reflect on my own experience and to see how sometimes the world may be such an unwelcoming space for women who have dreams and the determination to realize those dreams.”

Many of the photographers felt empowered by the project and the opportunity to highlight their own concerns in their own communities.

Jessie Mirelas, 19, who grew up in Zacatecas, Mexico, has always been proud of living in “a diverse multicultural country with great architecture, great destinations and an exquisite gastronomy — a place where the peoples that preceded us remain alive.”

She photographed Obdulia González González, an 18-year-old who is part of the indigenous Wixárika people of northern Mexico. She helps her parents sell traditional crafts and hopes to attend college.

“I believe this project is important because it’s giving us a voice, an opportunity to tell our story not only just in Mexico, but to the world,” said Ms. Mirelas, who studies at the University of Veracruz and wants to become a journalist. “To be able to show the legacy and cultural heritage of our indigenous peoples who are often neglected or ignored.”

Image

Madison changes her son’s diaper.CreditYasmine Malone for The New York Times

Image

Yasmine Malone photographing Madison as she looks through her journals and art.CreditChandler Griffin

Yasmine Malone, who turned 20 this month, grew up in Clarksdale, Miss., in the Mississippi Delta and is now a student at the University Of Mississippi in Oxford, majoring in English and political science. Using just the camera in her phone, she documented Madison Justice, a teenage mother in Clarksdale.

“I saw much of my mom and sister in her when she spoke about these things, being that they have all experienced being a teen mom in poverty with limited resources,” she said. “The frequency of this story is where it’s power stems. Madison Justice is not alone in her struggle; plenty of teens deal with it. Their stories deserve to be told for not only the realness of it all, but for its humanity, perseverance and strength.”

When many think of the Delta, they think of “poverty, crime, gun violence and low health rates,” Ms. Malone said. She learned that “we all have a story worth telling” which, over time fosters hope in her community. “If we can find our common threads,” she said, “we’ll realize the gaps between us are not that big, and there is where real social change can happen.”

Image

Millie Landewee, a member of an all-girl skate crew in Melbourne, in her bedroom.CreditEremaya Albrecht for The New York Times

Image

Shama Ghosh with her sister-in-law’s baby.CreditTahia Farhin Haque for The New York Times.

Image

Wanjiku Gakuru in Kibera, the largest slum in Nairobi.CreditSarah Sunday Moses for The New York Times

Some of the young photographers already had a mentor, but for the others, we asked photographers in their country to take on the role. Sandra provided guidance on how to take photographs and monitored the progress of participants to keep them on track. For three months straight, she was like an air traffic controller on the day before Thanksgiving — with some of the pilots speaking languages she did not understand.

For many participants, the project was a crash course in documentary photography and filmmaking: Make wide shots so we can see where you are, and also details. Photograph them hanging out with both friends and family and in their rooms alone. And be sure to collect family photos. Oh, and make a video of them, too.

Ms. Bennett and Ms. Attia teamed up with editors from the Styles section and digital and print designers to curate all the material and present it as a zine.

At the beginning, each photographer was asked to find three different 18 year olds. We asked them to not choose their friends and to send us a brief bio of each subject and a few photos of them in their rooms. The team then chose one of those subjects for each photographer.

Image

Aleksandra Yuryeva with her younger sister and friend at a park in Moscow.CreditAnna Dermicheva for The New York Times

Image

Victory Chukwu and her mother prepare lunch in Lagos, Nigeria.CreditAmarachi Chukwuma for The New York Times

Image

Jung Eun Yang applies pigment to a mannequin. Her dream is to become a makeup artist.CreditDa Hyeon Kim for The New York Times

Sarah Sunday Moses, 19, hails from South Sudan but grew up in Kenya after her parents fled the instability in their country. She photographed Wanjiku Muthoni Gakuru, who is studying urban planning at the University of Nairobi. What impressed Ms. Moses “the most in doing the project was the amount of people that were required,” she said, and the complexity of the forms that we asked the photographers to fill out.

She hopes that readers see that “despite being from different parts of the world, we are still similar,” she said.

Some of the photographers documented young women who were similar to themselves, while others spent time in situations quite different from their own. Tahia Farhin Haque from Dhaka, Bangladesh, is studying biochemistry at North South University while also studying at a photography school. While she describes herself as a practicing Muslim who wears a hijab, she photographed Shama Ghosha, a young Hindu woman who lives with her husband in Chandpur and hopes to finish high school and become a teacher.

“I went there with my eyes shut and came back with my eyes open of an entirely different life of a girl that lived in a different state,” she said. “We must empathize with the world around us. And not take anything for granted.”

Image

Anndrine Lund and friends pack up their things during a rainstorm in Norway.CreditCelina Christoffersen for The New York Times

Image

Shenzhi Xu at her high school in Chengdu, China.CreditLuxi Yang for The New York Times

Help Us Celebrate Girlhood Around the World

Share a photo of yourself at 18 with the hashtag #ThisIs18 on your favorite social platform. What advice would you give to the girl in the photo? Follow along on Instagram (@nytgender) as we feature some of our favorite TBTs.

James Estrin, the co-editor of Lens, joined The Times as a photographer in 1992 after years of freelancing for the newspaper and hundreds of other publications. @JamesEstrin

Read More | https://www.nytimes.com/2018/10/11/lens/what-life-looks-like-girls-18.html |

Nature Meet the Young Female Photographers Who Documented 18-Year-Old Girls, in 2018-10-11 13:03:37

[blogwonderwebsites]

Nature Meet the Young Female Photographers Who Documented 18-Year-Old Girls

Nature Meet the Young Female Photographers Who Documented 18-Year-Old Girls Nature Meet the Young Female Photographers Who Documented 18-Year-Old Girls http://www.nature-business.com/nature-meet-the-young-female-photographers-who-documented-18-year-old-girls/

Nature

LENS

The New York Times asked 22 young women to take photos for a project exploring daily life for girls around the world who are becoming adults this year.

Image

Madison Justice, a teenage mother in Clarksdale, Miss., visiting where she grew up.CreditCreditYasmine Malone for The New York Times

TiKa Wallace is not your typical New York Times photographer.

She’s 17, competes in slam poetry events and describes herself as “an amalgamation of creative witticisms, music references and chocolate.” Raised by a single parent from a blue-collar background, this “young, queer, black girl” attends high school in a wealthy suburb of Washington, D.C.

She is, as she puts it, “a square peg in a round hole.”

She is also among 22 young women who took photos for the project “This is 18,” which documents girls around the world. And now she has been published in The New York Times, in a special section devoted to exploring what life looks like for girls turning 18 in 2018. The project goes online today and will appear in print next week.

“What surprised me is that a major news outlet that is consumed by millions of people all over the world is allowing teenagers to tell teenager stories,” she said. “Normally, when a story is told, especially for a major news outlet, it’s told by someone who’s 30 or 40 years old. It’s just seen from a different lens versus when your peers get to tell your story.”

Staff photographers for The New York Times usually have several years of professional experience at other news organizations, and even then, they usually have to wait awhile before they get to work on projects. But the visual journalists like Ms. Wallace whom we enlisted for this project were decidedly different. They were young women, mostly teenagers.

Image

Mahak Naiwal with her friends at her home in New Delhi.CreditShraddha Gupta for The New York Times

Image

Liana Sharifian, among few Iranian women who play the bagpipe (ney-anbān), and her friend Miad play folk music from southern Iran.CreditAtefe Moeini for The New York Times

Image

Maryclare Chinedo and her mother in the Bronx before departing for Brown University.CreditJulie Lozano/Bronx Documentary Center

Jessica Bennett, the paper’s gender editor, realized early on that the key to success for this project was going to be getting an authentic view of the lives of 18-year-old girls. She and Jodi Rudoren, associate managing editor for audience — in collaboration with a team of editors and designers in Styles — decided the best way to assure that authenticity of experience was to have teenage photographers take the pictures and conduct interviews.

The project, managed by Sharon Attia, a 23-year-old photographer herself, became less hierarchal because most of the young women also choose their subjects.

The team behind the project paired each photographer with a mentor to help them complete the assignment and to make it a learning experience.

We asked the photographers to find the girls, photograph and interview them, and make videos of their subjects, as well. Although the photographers were mostly in their late teens, they were asked to act like professionals. And they did.

So how do you find a couple dozen talented female teenage photographers from all over the world? Well, let’s say it takes a village — a global village. Sandra Stevenson, the project’s picture editor, and I relied on a global network of photographers, editors and teachers that we have compiled over decades.

Image

Lori’anne Bemba, center, with her sister and grandmother at a family wedding in Montreal, Canada.CreditAdele Foglia for The New York Times

Image

Sage Grace Dolan-Sandrino at Bard College in New York.CreditTiKa Wallace for The New York Times

Image

Obdulia González González embroiders beside her artesanal craft stall in Zacatecas, Mexico.CreditJesse Mireles for The New York Times

The team decided not to take a set approach, but it did try to choose 18-year-old female subjects with various experiences from a variety of places. For the most part, it was an organic process, because it was led by the young women. And it was often an educational experience for the photographers, as Adèle Foglia, a 21-year-old photographer from Montreal, noted.

“What surprised me the most about this project was to realize how differently the world all experiences this transition to adulthood,” she said. “And also it pushed me to reflect on my own experience and to see how sometimes the world may be such an unwelcoming space for women who have dreams and the determination to realize those dreams.”

Many of the photographers felt empowered by the project and the opportunity to highlight their own concerns in their own communities.

Jessie Mirelas, 19, who grew up in Zacatecas, Mexico, has always been proud of living in “a diverse multicultural country with great architecture, great destinations and an exquisite gastronomy — a place where the peoples that preceded us remain alive.”

She photographed Obdulia González González, an 18-year-old who is part of the indigenous Wixárika people of northern Mexico. She helps her parents sell traditional crafts and hopes to attend college.

“I believe this project is important because it’s giving us a voice, an opportunity to tell our story not only just in Mexico, but to the world,” said Ms. Mirelas, who studies at the University of Veracruz and wants to become a journalist. “To be able to show the legacy and cultural heritage of our indigenous peoples who are often neglected or ignored.”

Image

Madison changes her son’s diaper.CreditYasmine Malone for The New York Times

Image

Yasmine Malone photographing Madison as she looks through her journals and art.CreditChandler Griffin

Yasmine Malone, who turned 20 this month, grew up in Clarksdale, Miss., in the Mississippi Delta and is now a student at the University Of Mississippi in Oxford, majoring in English and political science. Using just the camera in her phone, she documented Madison Justice, a teenage mother in Clarksdale.

“I saw much of my mom and sister in her when she spoke about these things, being that they have all experienced being a teen mom in poverty with limited resources,” she said. “The frequency of this story is where it’s power stems. Madison Justice is not alone in her struggle; plenty of teens deal with it. Their stories deserve to be told for not only the realness of it all, but for its humanity, perseverance and strength.”

When many think of the Delta, they think of “poverty, crime, gun violence and low health rates,” Ms. Malone said. She learned that “we all have a story worth telling” which, over time fosters hope in her community. “If we can find our common threads,” she said, “we’ll realize the gaps between us are not that big, and there is where real social change can happen.”

Image

Millie Landewee, a member of an all-girl skate crew in Melbourne, in her bedroom.CreditEremaya Albrecht for The New York Times

Image

Shama Ghosh with her sister-in-law’s baby.CreditTahia Farhin Haque for The New York Times.

Image

Wanjiku Gakuru in Kibera, the largest slum in Nairobi.CreditSarah Sunday Moses for The New York Times

Some of the young photographers already had a mentor, but for the others, we asked photographers in their country to take on the role. Sandra provided guidance on how to take photographs and monitored the progress of participants to keep them on track. For three months straight, she was like an air traffic controller on the day before Thanksgiving — with some of the pilots speaking languages she did not understand.

For many participants, the project was a crash course in documentary photography and filmmaking: Make wide shots so we can see where you are, and also details. Photograph them hanging out with both friends and family and in their rooms alone. And be sure to collect family photos. Oh, and make a video of them, too.

Ms. Bennett and Ms. Attia teamed up with editors from the Styles section and digital and print designers to curate all the material and present it as a zine.

At the beginning, each photographer was asked to find three different 18 year olds. We asked them to not choose their friends and to send us a brief bio of each subject and a few photos of them in their rooms. The team then chose one of those subjects for each photographer.

Image

Aleksandra Yuryeva with her younger sister and friend at a park in Moscow.CreditAnna Dermicheva for The New York Times

Image

Victory Chukwu and her mother prepare lunch in Lagos, Nigeria.CreditAmarachi Chukwuma for The New York Times

Image

Jung Eun Yang applies pigment to a mannequin. Her dream is to become a makeup artist.CreditDa Hyeon Kim for The New York Times

Sarah Sunday Moses, 19, hails from South Sudan but grew up in Kenya after her parents fled the instability in their country. She photographed Wanjiku Muthoni Gakuru, who is studying urban planning at the University of Nairobi. What impressed Ms. Moses “the most in doing the project was the amount of people that were required,” she said, and the complexity of the forms that we asked the photographers to fill out.

She hopes that readers see that “despite being from different parts of the world, we are still similar,” she said.

Some of the photographers documented young women who were similar to themselves, while others spent time in situations quite different from their own. Tahia Farhin Haque from Dhaka, Bangladesh, is studying biochemistry at North South University while also studying at a photography school. While she describes herself as a practicing Muslim who wears a hijab, she photographed Shama Ghosha, a young Hindu woman who lives with her husband in Chandpur and hopes to finish high school and become a teacher.

“I went there with my eyes shut and came back with my eyes open of an entirely different life of a girl that lived in a different state,” she said. “We must empathize with the world around us. And not take anything for granted.”

Image

Anndrine Lund and friends pack up their things during a rainstorm in Norway.CreditCelina Christoffersen for The New York Times

Image

Shenzhi Xu at her high school in Chengdu, China.CreditLuxi Yang for The New York Times

Help Us Celebrate Girlhood Around the World

Share a photo of yourself at 18 with the hashtag #ThisIs18 on your favorite social platform. What advice would you give to the girl in the photo? Follow along on Instagram (@nytgender) as we feature some of our favorite TBTs.

James Estrin, the co-editor of Lens, joined The Times as a photographer in 1992 after years of freelancing for the newspaper and hundreds of other publications. @JamesEstrin

Read More | https://www.nytimes.com/2018/10/11/lens/what-life-looks-like-girls-18.html |

Nature Meet the Young Female Photographers Who Documented 18-Year-Old Girls, in 2018-10-11 13:03:37