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earthbased · 4 years ago

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Making Your Own Correspondences for Plants

Disclaimer: This post is about magical and spiritual use, not medical, and medical use is mentioned only for historical examples. Don’t mess around with medicine unless you know what you’re doing, or consult someone who does. I’ve previously written about where the majority of magical plant correspondences tend to come from in modern pagan & witchcraft sites and books. If you decide to DIY some or all of your correspondences, how you do it will depend on what your beliefs and practices are. Some things to consider:

Do you believe the magical properties are already in the plants, are unchangeable, and need to be discovered? Or that they depend on your beliefs and associations?

Do you value individuality and personal significance, or having shared lore with your community and culture? Or both?

Do you value the process of relationship-building with a plant or spirit?

Do you value receiving lore through ancestry or lineage? Does it matter to you how old it is?

I’m going to delve deeper into 3 main sources: existing lore, physical characteristics and the plant itself.

===1. Building upon existing lore===

Learning the history and folklore of a plant, even if it doesn’t have existing magical uses, is likely to give you ideas and a deeper understanding. Some potential sources of lore: recorded folklore and common names, oral tradition, fairytales and nursery rhymes, etymology, flower meanings, appearances in mythology, appearances in well-known books or poems, pop culture and fiction.

Whether or not you want to think about it, the greater story of your practice includes the story of your lore and how it came to you. Oftentimes that story involves violence, theft, deception and ridicule. BIPOC have written at length about cultural appropriation [link, link, link, link] & cultural genocide as one of the ongoing harms of colonisation and racism. If you’re not part of a culture that traditionally stewards a certain plant or body of lore, listening to (whether literally hearing or by other means) and respecting those people’s voices is your ongoing responsibility when engaging with it. Navigating these issues as a member of an oppressing group often involves ambiguity and discomfort. This is also part of the path. Remember that we’re blessed to have the opportunity to listen to these voices today. Others did not survive.

Practical uses, both modern and historical often include medicine, but there’s much more, e.g. thorny plants’ association with protection - not only because the thorns protect the plant itself, but because thorny hedges have been grown in many times and places to deter large animals or trespassers from crossing a fence. More recently, I suspect the modern-day association of lemon with cleaning products has led to its current use in magical cleansing. In any case plenty of common correspondences have arisen fairly recently from modern-day uses. Whether you place special value upon ancient or pre-modern lore is up to you. The reasons behind old magical lore were often related to practical use, so I see it as a continued tradition.

===2. Looking at physical characteristics===

What you see depends on how you look (and think). Many plants have heart, star or crescent-shaped leaves. What do these things mean to you? A crescent usually reminds me of the moon but you could also see it as a claw or a smile, two things with very different connotations. Sympathetic magic (a phrase from anthropology) is the idea that things can magically affect each other based on their similarities. But beyond the obvious, there are also symbolic meanings. Many unrelated trees across the world happen to have dark red oozing sap, often earning them a name like "bloodwood". A straightforward use of sympathetic magic would mean it can affect blood, e.g. to stop bleeding. But symbolically, blood often means vitality, death, birth or rebirth, so that oozy tree could be thought to represent any of those things too. Learning observable facts about a plant can be a rich source of inspiration and understanding. Some things to consider: habitat, place of origin, endangered or invasive status, the wild form of a domesticated plant, gardening information, close relatives, lifecycle and seasonal cycle, and parts of interest (leaves, roots, flowers, seeds). For example, a plant well known for its flowers could have something interesting about its seeds which are usually overlooked. The internet is a bountiful source of information, as are books. Your local community likely includes many people who might be willing to pass on their knowledge, for example in local gardening or nature enthusiast clubs, nurseries, environmental groups, and cultural organisations.

You can apply a traditional method of Western astrology to make brand new correspondences to use for sympathetic magic, even with plants that have never been used this way before. This involves comparing the physical qualities of plants (shape, colour, smell, texture etc) with a list of qualities associated with each planetary energy. You might pick one or two features that stand out and concentrate on those. The planet it matches best is considered its ruling planet and will determine its magical application. It's possible for different parts of a plant to have different ruling planets, but not necessary. Common references for planetary qualities include Renaissance philosopher HC Agrippa and famous herbalist Nicholas Culpeper, but your associations may differ, or come from another system of astrology entirely. In any case, once the plant is connected to the planet, it’s also connected to everything else the planet represents. For example, if I determined that a herb in my garden had Venusian qualities, I’d consider it useful for any magic involving love, beauty, harmony or comfort. By a similar process you can assign herbs to a list of deities, zodiac signs, tarot cards, or whatever you want.

===3. Asking the plant itself===

What this looks like depends on your personal beliefs and practices. It might mean asking an individual plant or a spirit representing the whole species. It may involve trance or ritual, or be as simple as listening inwardly for an internal voice in your thoughts. Will you seek out a living plant, contact it through its dried leaves, invoke its spirit into your space or meet it in a non-physical plane? Additionally, not all communication is about sound and words. Among humans some languages are signed and some people communicate with picture boards. Images, emotion, gesture, touch, music and body language are things to consider.

In some belief systems listening to plants may be interpreted more metaphorically, involving intuition or imagination. Using intuition-enabling practices such as dream work or trance may help you to connect your accumulated knowledge to a spiritual or magical meaning. Imagination and roleplay is also a way of gaining a new perspective, such as the deep ecology practice of a psychodrama called the Council of All Beings (note that the original form was heavily influenced by misappropriated Native American practices and stereotypes).

“What [something/someone] is telling me” is a phrase that can be used literally or figuratively in English. In other languages, especially Indigenous ones, such a distinction may not exist. This use of grammar can reflect a way of thinking and relating that considers humans as one part of a whole. If you were raised in a colonial mindset, asking the plant about its correspondences (whatever form that takes) and considering the plant’s priorities can be a way of challenging that mindset by reframing the interaction as one between two beings, rather than a human acting on a passive object. To me this way of thinking invites respect and reciprocity. How you can act upon that is a topic for another post, or maybe another author.

#advanced witchcraft #green witchcraft #paganism #magical correspondences #witchcraft #magick #Herbal magick #herbal magic #wicca

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vcsecretgifts · 4 years ago

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Snap shot in time

From: @auburnandamberangel

Merry Christmas @plopofcolour Qotd era Khayman and Armand interaction on the Night Island. Hope you like ^u^

~~~

Armand watched Khayman looking at his upper terrace garden, the plants benefiting not only from the sunshine but also the seaspray. The cacti, the large Saguaros with their armed tall appearance especially had captured the ancients fascination. The silhouettes classic to many a western. They weren’t indigenous to Egypt, effectively a new world plant, and certainly capturing this until recently slumbering vampire. Perhaps as they too were long lived, slow in maturing. He had his cameras slung over his neck and shoulder wanting to capture the bloom on one of them, a first. He recorded all of them on this island. Mementos.

Khayman was a very good guest, polite, and surprisingly unaloof compared to other vampires of a similar age. ‘Mr manners leaves their bodies after the first few thousand years!’ Daniel had observed dryly not to long ago as they say in said same garden, watching the waves. Sitting on the stone steps, snuggly between Daniels stretched out legs. Barely dead himself, so manys ways appeared rude by his modern standards. “Not all are…impolite.” Daniel had nodded, smiling almost as if he’d read his mind and knew he was thinking of the Egyptian. Which was impossible, he just people watched very well. And surely he was an expert in Armand observations by now.

“Ahh but Khayman was nice as a human, not many airs on him plus he’s sweet on you. So you’re the last person he’d be short with.” Interestingly not too much jealousy in that statement. A small possessive kiss to the top of his head, caressing of his arms about his waist. Their guests came and went, things were more peaceful minus some of their vampire brethren. Peaceful between them even. Born in a time of crisis, his home even invaded it wasn’t ideal for them even with a notorious nosey parker like his fledgling. He’d borne so much strain at his hands before being turned, it worried Armand. Sometimes they fought as he instinctually pulled back.

“The fact he’s easy on the eye doesn’t hurt much either does it.” Daniel added laughter in his voice. Teasing. Armand smiled despite himself turning his head. “But I’m famous for a penchant for blondes darling aren’t I.”

“Except Louis.” His beloved kissing his dimples. And others he’d best not mention. Not eager to quote that book at him right now.

“Hmmmm. Nice to not always be predictable then.” Kissing Daniels matching smile. It had ended up being a very good evening that night. Allowing himself to bask in the glow of the memory of it.

Khayman found the sea soothing, the air fresh and the garden a magical oasis. A small movement betrayed his hosts presence, rare to not have an exuberant Daniel or hesitant brooding Marius in orbiting attendance around Armand. Moths to this ’cherubs’ - seraphin now surely more apts flame- A ethereal beauty no matter the flowery language. In his time one destined to be blessed by the gods. A soul just as full of substance as his appearance. To think without her, the mother waking he’d probably not have crossed paths with this one. So artful at cloaking his presence. Deep in thought he was looking at him, but not really seeing him. Caught in a recollection. Unguarded he looked so young, in the eyes the depth and knowledge in them gave his age away. This was the way with their kind. Trapped in their making, the soul grew seen through the orbs alone. Somehow still warmth there, if the mood was right. A miracle considering the heartache had been through in so far centuries. He would do much to make sure he didn’t make those eyes cold. Watching this former coven master navigate so many vampires in his sanctuary, first love mingling with last. Struck by the poise. The former parents guardian, the Roman made said face light up and close down in equal measure. Not his place to intervene ofcourse, though tempting. Best to announce his presence, so Armand didn’t feel too exposed.

“Armand, good evening. Was there something I can aid you with?” Smooth heavily accented voice totally interrupting his reverie. “Did you want private time in your garden?” Previously observed vampire catching him unawares, hoping he hadn’t left himself open to scrutiny thoughts wise. His mind usually locked up tight, some of the first brood lacked finesse with the mind gift, it coming to them later. But what they lacked in finesse, could be made up by brute force alone. Being Marius’ blood line vicariously provided some civility that otherwise may not exist, for a not even five hundred year old former cult coven leader. Ageism was alive and well in their surviving group from Akashas cull. As if age always came with wisdom… Khayman had been gentle and respectful in his manner towards him. Armand appreciated this from his most recent friend. He saw him as he was, no judgement.

“No not at all. I take pleasure in seeing enjoyment from my garden. The cacti have you in their thrall I see.” Genuine smile to the ancient. Moving closer. The garden lit by coloured uplights here and there to make it appealing.

“They are exotic to my old eyes, yes. Beautiful yet dangerous. So like us I feel.” Small smile back. “Your a gracious host, I know it’s not in most of your nature’s to live on mass for long. You’ve been patient where you could have been firm. Silent when you could have spoken.” Khaymans turn to watch and enjoy the view that had nothing to do with the garden, but more it’s creator.

“Ah well, tact or diplomacy is something I’ve always had to have. Never to speak unless it improves the silence or my position in it.” Being quite open now in this admission. Unusually candid for himself truly. He didn’t think he’d regret it in this situation.

“The lone jackel is a hard role to break, though it’s served you well.” The ancient replied. Looking back at the cacti. “How old is this one then?”

“This one is around seventy years. It’s the first year it’s flowered, you’re lucky to have witnessed it.” Itching to take a picture of the flower, and perhaps Khayman too if he was truthful with himself. Just incase his stay was brief and centuries passed until another meeting of minds. “But they can live to around one hundred and seventy five perhaps even two hundred years. Not bad for a desert dweller.”

Khayman eyed the camera, that was the term wasn’t it. One of the magical picture capturers. “You’ll record it with this?” He hadn’t tried anything new in a while. Armand was patient, the best person to ask to try. “How?” He uttered before he had time to edit.

Inquisitive and open to instruction, not your average elder. Refreshing like the sea breeze. “I need a tripod, unless you can hold it steady as a rock. I’ll do both.” Zipping inside and then back out to get it. “I’ll need a long exposure to make the most of the moon light, and a flash for my close ups. The window inside opens for the picked time, the light hits the film and makes an imprint like an eye I suppose but in reverse, or inverse a negative. We can use the darkroom next.” Twinkle in his eye as he saw the ancients eyes widen. “The Polaroid develops as you shake it.” It must sound odd to the others ears.

“Witchcraft then. I’m an apprentice to a modern sorcerer.” Pleased by the laugh this comment brought from Armand.

“Usually I’m called bewitching. But I’ve been accused of worse.” Daniels words echoing in his head, pleased he didn’t blush as easily as said youngblood.

Gingerly taking the camera and going still, statue like as he could. A trick you learnt which came easily with age. Though it usually unnerved younger immortals. *Direct me as if I’m a tripod.* He said is the mind voice. Armands softer hands aiming the slr camera for a closeup. Physical contact was a luxury being a nomad rarely afforded.

Hearing the snap of the inner workings, turning of the spool. With each shot, the flash singing. Armand liked this process, methodical, practised yet still room for error and surprise. *Move back a little so I can get a portrait of it. Perhaps one of and for you to take with you?* Because people leave - eventually. This was always a possibility. Sentiment came with a cost, this he always knew.

A photo to keep. An anchor would be good for times Khayman felt unsteady. Stronger by the year, but wispy in his soul sometimes. A welcome light in the Night Island Villa, to concentrate on. *Yes. A portrait of plant, myself and it’s guardian even better.*

Warm glance, nodding his answer. “This also has a cable to take a photograph at a distance. A bellow balloon, a tube and a metal press.” Screwing it into the button. Then retrieving it from the taller elder. Fixing this on the tripod via it’s own foot. Let’s set ourselves up. Standing and leaning into the framing arms of the cactus, as if the plant was behind them, reaching to hold them close.

Khayman followed the younger ones lead. Moving in closer and realising he could smell Armands hair. Wondering if this was his shampoo or just his natural scent. Vampires sometimes exuded a odour that was unique to them, a spice in the blood perhaps. Marius had made him, imbued with donations by Akasha during his guardianship. Perhaps he had smelt like this in Venice as a mortal. Not something he could easily ask the child of two millennia. Nor share a want to share his blood to strengthen those below a thousand in their coven, truthfully only this one piqued his interest.

Armand had the cord behind his back to depress at just the right moment. Khaymans strong heartrate was hard to ignore so close. “Ready. One two three.” Not using cheese, referring to a dairy product as slang for smiling usually put older vampires in a spin. So a countdown better. Not flinching at the flash or the next long exposure. “Always take more than one for practicality.” Moving to replace the lens cap and concentrate on the Polaroid camera in front of him now. “Arguably this one is like magic.” He stated with a smile. “As Daniel can attest I took so many in our early years here.” Boxes and boxes of them, indulgent expression on his face. He was rich, but some things were priceless that had little monetary value in his collection. “Strike your next pose. Make yourself comfortable.”

Khayman liked Daniel. He was full of life, and hoped that energy didn’t turn downwards into madness. Knowing Armand was concerned with this too, any elder making a first fledgling would be - especially one as fond of forward planning as his host. Smiling nervous about doing something wrong. Hoping irrationally it wasn’t magic, as magic never bode well. Flash and snap. Painless. Wondering what the twins back in Sonomo thought of this new family, Mekare learning after her travelling the wilderness. Focus on Jesse, their link to Miriam.

Armand handed the Polaroid by its framed white bottom edge to the elder. “Now shake it, and you’ll slowly appear.” Charmed by Khaymans expression, bouyed one so old could still feel the wonder of the new. Despite intermittent sleeps. Hope for all of them surely. Watching Khayman watching the photograph as it developed. “What do you think?”

Bit by bit the image appeared - the dark background shading in firstly, the bright green cacti appearing next with its vibrant blooms. Then the paled by time figure, a smile all for the taker. Now one such photo of Armand with or without himself would be wondrous. “A fine picture.” So excited he placed kisses on Armands cheeks stopping before he daren’t put any on those rosy lips. Moving faster than he usually did, enveloping the younger vampire in a hug would perhaps be too much of a liberty. They had time. “One of us next, yes?”

Armand didn’t have time to start at the sudden movement of the ancient. Stealing himself to be squeezed, fortunate it didn’t come to pass. Khayman smelt inviting though, heady blood from their fount. Marius would be jealous no doubt. But he wasn’t here was he. Attending to Pandora, a promise of a return soon. As ever time would tell. Trying not to stare at Khaymans lips. “Yes. An instant portrait next.” Glad of someone who gave as much as he took.

#2020 VC Secret Santa #VC #Vampire Chronicles #submission #plopofcolour #auburnandamberangel

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possible-eldritch-god · 3 years ago

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hi if you're following me -- or even if you see this on ur dash or whatever -- this is a reminder to go look into Puerto Rican history, we Are black and we Are indigenous and we Have been through colonisation and *are still going through it.* literally Puerto Rico has been connected with white people so much that I'm honestly afraid to say outright that I'm Puerto Rican. I just say BIPOC because apparently people can't see me as a person of colour unless I outright say that I'm not just Spanish or like Latino or whatever the fuck you wanna call me because my family speaks a language that we were forced to speak. The only reason we speak Spanish is because white people came in and proceeded to erase all of our culture, including our traditions and our language. (this was back when Puerto Rico was named Boriquen btw, the Spanish were the ones who literally just saw the gold in the rivers and renamed the island in Spanish.) Anyways yeah, go do some research on Taino culture and Puerto Rican history. and if you know anyone who's Puerto Rican treat them with basic human fucking respect and make sure you're not saying some bs like "oh well you're not *really* a POC" "but aren't you a white Puerto Rican" ect ect The next time someone asks me "what's Puerto Rico" I'm gonna cry

#this is absolutely a rant but #this is too important to tag properly OKAY #anyways white people can reblog but I don't wanna hear shit #if you're from PR or know someone who is and I made a mistake u can correct me

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diverse-writing · 4 years ago

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I'm white and My story I'm writing dealswith immortals starting in Victorian ukI made the two main characters white the story is from their perspective with side characters of colour because I thought it would be wrong for me to write the intense racism they wouldexperience and also I felt like as a white person it wasnt my place to write that so I made them white Should it stay like this or should I make a main character a poc and do extensive researchand try to write to the best of my ability

There’s a lot to unpack here so let’s dive in.

First of all, I want to tackle this idea that as a white person, it’s not “your place” to write about a character experiencing racism firsthand. I feel like this idea is a misinterpretation of the sentiment behind #OwnVoices that advocates for allowing marginalized voices to tell their own stories. And it’s true that POC don’t want white people writing race narratives, full stop. We don’t want white people writing books about what it means to be Black, Asian, Native, etc. We don’t want you to write entire novels telling us about the racism and prejudice we experience, profiting off our pain without experiencing it. Those narratives focused around identity and prejudice should be told by the people who know what it’s like firsthand.

But that’s not the same thing as wanting you to not write POC. In fact, it’s the opposite; we want you to write POC as fully fleshed out, dynamic, and interesting characters who live full lives beyond their race and the racism they face. Yes, sometimes writing POC may include writing about the unique problems they face (which, in your case, would be Victorian racism). But we just don’t want you to write only about that, reducing our lives down to our pain and the prejudices of people who hate us. So yes, it’s not your place to write a story about being Black, but it is your place to write a story about a Black character.

Secondly, let’s look at the role race plays in your narrative premise. Every single story about immortals is about immortal white people. Twilight is about immortal white people; Tuck Everlasting is about immortal white people; The Vampire Chronicles by Anne Rice is about immortal white people; How to Stop Time by Matt Haig is about immortal white people; even Doctor Who is essentially about immortal white people, with a few recent variations to the pattern. Hell, even if you just wanted to look at examples of immortality narratives in Victorian London, all you would come up with would be more immortal white people. The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, The Infernal Devices by Cassandra Clare, Dracula by Bram Stoker--all of these are more or less about immortal white people in London circa the late Victorian era. I’m hard pressed to think of an immortality narrative that isn’t about white people. (And no, The Old Guard doesn’t magically make up for literally hundreds of immortal white people narratives.) It is, at some point, a tired out narrative trope.

And now, getting to the heart of your question: You’re right that POC in Victorian London probably faced a vicious brand of racism. But that racism probably looked different than it does today, just as the people on the receiving end of that racism would be more different than one might expect. Remember that “whiteness” as we know it is essentially a modern construct.��When you look back at Victorian race relations, some of our modern race categorizations would still apply. For example, Black people and Asian people would still clearly be identified as “not white.” But that “not white” category encompassed a wider variety of racial/ethnic groups than it does today; at various points, Italians, Greeks, Slavs, and Hungarians were all filed under the “not white” category despite firmly registering as “white” within our modern consciousness (to say nothing of indigenous European ethnic groups like the Romani, Saami, or Basque people who may visually code as “”white”” while still facing horrific prejudice and racism).

And once you factor in the not-uncommon sentiments against the Irish, Welsh, and Scottish peoples that English Londoners shared a country (and city) with, so-called “white” racial dynamics become even more complicated. On top of that, London was and is a hub of religious diversity which adds an additional dimension of prejudice, with Jews, Catholics, and non-Anglican Protestants all facing different struggles throughout the Victorian era, when the religious demographics of the UK underwent a period of extreme change. Thus, it’s easy to see that simply being “white” wasn’t necessarily a guarantee against prejudice and why ethnicity, nationality, and even religion are necessary concepts to discuss alongside race.

Unless your main characters are both middle to upper class English WASPs born to generations of middle to upper class English WASPs, they will likely have to interact and navigate prejudice of some kind. It’s up to your discretion what kind of prejudice they face.

Obviously, it’s up to you but... in my opinion, you absolutely should branch out in terms of who and what you’re writing about. You’re right that writing a POC would require extensive research but literally any historical fiction is going to need extra research; this is just an extension of that. So take the time to reassess your narrative premise, do more research, and then dive back in and write your heart out. This ask doesn’t directly address the same problem you have here but it might have some helpful advice for moving forward nonetheless.

#writing about race #writing about race in historical fiction #swearing tw #why do my responses always get so long lol #victorian london #text heavy post for tw

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fandom-star · 4 years ago

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Non-Binary Week

I've not answered any of the questions the organisers of this have put out until now, but as yesterday was the last day, I'm just gonna answer them all today!

1. Personally, my experience of being non-binary is being a mix of both the male and female genders. The way I experience it can be shown in the ratio male:female as 80:20.

2. My pronouns are they/them, however I probably wouldn't mind he/him either.

3. My honorific is Mx. I used to have a mixed (ha) opinion on it, but over the past six months or so I've grown to actually really love it!

4. I mean, naturally I have to say that the purple on the flag represents me best! It's my favourite colour! However, of the four colours, it's the most obvious to symbolise the mix of male and female that I experience.

1. The first time I heard of non-binary was when an old internet friend of mine came out as non-binary. I never really thought much of it other than now knowing what pronouns I had to use for them!

2. I started questioning my gender more than two years ago. I used several non-binary labels before settling on just non-binary seven months later.

3. As I said before, I used some other more specific labels, which changed as my understanding of myself developed.

4. I have! I came out to my best friend basically when I labelled myself as non-binary. Then I came out to my mum the next Summer. Then I subtly came out to my other friends. And I came out on Instagram on Tuesday (actual non-binary day) and Friday.

5. I haven't come out to my granny or my dad, and I almost certainly never will.

1. I love the community we have. Like, the majority of non-binary people I know on- and offline are really amazing.

2. I definitely know a lot more about gender and the history of it than I used to.

3. I've gained gained more acceptance of the way I am. I've also gained insight to some of my behaviours when I was younger.

4. My favourite gender euphoria moments are definitely seeing or hearing my name. Not many people actually call me Elliott regularly, which is fine bc in most settings it's preferred that they don't (e.g. at school or in fandom spaces where I've almost always been known as Ell), but it's really nice to open my laptop and see it wanting "Elliott J" to log in and things like that.

1. I'm asexual, bi- and/or panromantic and autistic.

2. Well, my sexuality and everything intersect because it's all queer. Autism and trans identities intersect because a lot of autistic people are also trans and/or non-binary. While there is no exact reasoning behind this, some have connected it to our lack of understanding or different view of social situations.

3. Well, autistic and non-binary rep is incredibly lacking separately, put them together and, well...

4. Please, please, please, don't listen to people who are "oh so concerned about the lickle autistic childwen" because they pretend that we can't think for ourselves, or worse, they BELIEVE that. We can. If autistic people couldn't think for themselves, I wouldn't be running this blog. I wouldn't be writing fanfiction. I probably wouldn't have friends. Don't fall into that trap.

1. I am asexual (cba to go into romantic attraction). I have known that for years, I feel like I probably class as an ace veteran! I'm not really sure how to describe my relationship with the terminology.

2. Being non-binary definitely plays a part in how I refer to my body and and my relationship with it. As anyone who follows me probably knows, I have bad chest dysphoria, so I don't refer to that part of me with the "anatomically correct" term, I just call it my chest. I can't really change the terminology of anything else that bothers me. But yeah, being non-binary and the dysphoria I experience because of that definitely affects how I think of my body and relate to it.

3. Gender roles are shit, not gonna lie. I just do whatever the hell I want. I mean, cis people obsessed with them would probably say I fulfil the male role more than the female. But I don't know.

4. I definitely present myself in a more masculine way. I have short hair, I don't wear dresses or skirts, I only ever wear any kind of make-up for cosplay. However, a lot of my features are seen as proving that I'm "biologically female", and I don't bind as often as I'd like.

5. I don't really know how often I think about being non-binary. I mean, I think about my gender more often than a cis man or woman probably does, but... I don't know. Not as much as I used to.

1. Oh god, so many things people think are wrong. Probably that non-binary genders are new thing. They're not, they're really not. Western cultures just covered them up. A lot of indigenous cultures have more than one gender.

2. The most dangerous thing that people can think is that it doesn't exist and are only used to get attention. NO! If we wanted attention, there are SO MANY BETER AND SAFER WAYS TO DO SO!!!

3. I think it's definitely cis people, especially white cis people, who perpetrate the most misconceptions about us.

4. Binary people need to understand pretty much everything I've just said. And that if you want to have a say in this, do your research. And not just from a binary perspective. Actually LISTEN TO THE PEOPLE YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT!!!

5. Just... just don't ask me anything unless I say you can. And when I do tell, please don't ask anything invasive.

1. I have both changed my name and my pronouns.

2. I want to legally change my name. I also want to legally change my gender to non-binary, but that can't happen until the government agrees to allow it. Which they haven't.

3. I think I want to take testosterone for some time. Maybe between six months and a year. I also want a chest reduction. Not top surgery, because I think it would feel wrong for me if there was nothing.

4. I haven't tried to access any gender services yet. I probably won't have to lie, I hope not, I'm a horrible liar, but I suppose we'll just have to see.

5. I want to grow out my natural facial hair. I have a somewhat abnormal amount of facial hair for someone who's afab, and mum makes me get it off bc she's worried about bullying and stuff, so I'll probably have to wait until I go to uni to do that, which is only two years, so!

Thank you for getting this far! I hope this gave you some insight into me and my experiences as a non-binary person.

#nbweek #nonbinary week #nonbinary #transgender

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mikhalsarah · 5 years ago

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Oh look. Another anti-racist spouting racism. Not just at white people, which is a given, but also at everyone else they are supposed to be defending from racism.

Today’s personal fave, a middle-aged Ashkenazi Jew ranting about young Jews of colour for daring to write an open letter to organized Judaism asking them to confront inter-Jewish racism without asking any existing organizations for Jews of colour for input.

Next time I want to address antisemitism, I’ll be sure to call up the ADL;

And when I want to discuss sexism, I will of course collaborate with NOW.

Oh wait, I won’t be doing any of those things unless I damn well feel like it, because nobody treats me like I’m too stupid to come up with an idea on my own and need hand-holding through the process of advocacy....nor would I ever put up with being treated like I need intellectual babysitting.

Nisht plotz, Shaina. If the other Jews of colour want to kvetch about the letter, I’m sure they can find a nice Ashkenazi Jew to show them how to use a computer for sending an email about it. (Nu, that was sarcasm. The fact that I now have to explain that it’s sarcasm is irony)

This joins a long list of my favourite Leftist racism:

Like the Privilege Quiz that gave -600 points to anyone who was born in Africa (My GP was born in Africa and makes 8 times as much money as me, and hello, Botswana is rated 74th in Gross Domestic Income and the Ukraine is way down at 128th)

And that time a local mosque was firebombed and I went to Friday prayers to show moral support, only to have a Lefty anti-racist ask me how I wasn’t scared that they would slit my throat, roll me up in a prayer mat and toss me in a dumpster. (Holy shit, Simon, wtf goes on at your church?!!)

And the entire of the “I support the Wet’suwet’en” viral meme perpetrated by hordes of concerned white saviours who seemed to think it was a land dispute with Canada and that Trudeau called the cops on them.And if you ever pulled your head out of the crowdsourced ignorance and outrage that is Fb and Twitter and checked out APTN you’d know that it’s an internal dispute over who has the authority to decide whether a pipeline can cross their land, the elected band council or the traditional chiefs. You’d also know that Wet’suwet’en on both sides of the argument were begging outsiders to stop protesting on their behalf and stirring the pot, so that they could resolve the disagreement that was tearing apart their community and families. “Supporting” our Indigenous people apparently doesn’t extend to actually listening to them or respecting their wishes for privacy.)

#sjw stupidity #virtue-signalling #racism #jews #judaism #poc #islam #muslims #wet'suwet'en #slacktivism #white saviours

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coldalbion · 7 years ago

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This is a tricky religious question, but I'll try to encapsulate it in an ask. I feel a strong connection to Odin, but I also want to make that spiritual connection more firm in the landscape I /already/ inhabit, if that makes sense? Unfortunately, as a white person in a land that was never my own, I feel it would be disrespectful. My "ancestors" are from across the sea and I cannot claim to know them, either. Whiteness has colonised and homogenized culture. So I'm unsure how to proceed.

Imma be upfront here: What you want and feel doesn’t automatically have primacy when dealing with other beings. We don’t own the land, the land owns us.To think otherwise is a manifestation of that same colonial, homogenising, reflex which has married itself to rapacious capitalism and set about obliterating nuance and intimacy and depth.So, listen, I’m assuming you’re White here, but - Hwaet!: The land has its own needs, its own desires. The beings that populate it have theirs, and you don’t get to decide what’s respectful, and what’s not. To do that, you have to go and find out. You have to put yourself out there and say: “Hello. Here I am. Are you up for maybe building a relationship? A relationship that’s between us, even with all the shit people with my shade of skin have pulled?”They may very well say no. And, in the spirit of being up front? That. May. Be. Easier. If they say no, then you’re done.But if they say yes? That’s when the hard bloody work begins. Because you have to cobble together something from the ground up. And you have to do that, situated within the horror of Whiteness, because Whiteness actually homogenised and destroyed many of the vast number of differing and rich variations that North West Europeans and their descendants had for interacting with the world. It was deliberately constructed by those in power to level internal resistance and then turn that animus on POC and indigenous peoples. It created an ‘US’ to pit against ‘THEM’.As White folks, we and our ancestors have perpetuated, and continue to implicitly take part in a set of systems which have perpetuated atrocities across the planet, and continue to do so.And it is the absolute right of those beings, human and non, to hate us on sight. It hurts, and is upsetting, and if we’re decent people, we want to make it right. But we don’t get to decide how and whether that’s possible.Having said all this - the crimes perpetuated by folks with our shade of skin do not automatically disqualify us from anything - unless we’re told otherwise. But neither do they qualify us in advance.

This is the lie (some) of our ancestors bought, the one bearing the rubric of Whiteness. Whiteness, the lie goes, is a thing to aspire to - because Whiteness is better, being White makes you better automagically.(And yes, I more-than-half-believe that Whiteness is an imperialist magic spell. Seriously.) Because there was a time when ‘white’ was merely a simple descriptor of skin colour. And then it was made into something else.; I’d equate it with the ancient and very real magic of Roman citizenship, except for the fact that the Roman Empire was, at least at beginning, a polytheist culture.I’ve said above that Whiteness doesn’t automatically disqualify us unless we’re told, but I want to emphasise that ignorance is not an excuse either. Seek out those qualified. Do your research.Whiteness may have once only been a skin descriptor - but now it’s so, so, much more complex. We do not get to complain building healthy and fruitful relationships is hard, that Whiteness makes things difficult, and so we can’t do anything.That’s the lie speaking, trying to persuade us to leave Whiteness-as-is, as a monolith that can never be pulled down and replaced with a memorial to all those whose lives and lands it oppressed - just as say, Germany pulled down the statues of the Reich, and erected holocaust memorials.Germany has not absolved itself - it is flawed, and imperfect as an example. Yet, it has acknowledged what was done and moved forward, but not on. Those memorials are meant to stand as moral checkpoints. Thing that exist as reminders, as-never-again.Leaving Whiteness-as-monolith is simply ignoring the shadow it casts. Instead, we should blow it up, reconfigure, deconstruct it - whilst at the same time never forgetting where it comes from.Whether we acknowledge them or not, we are our ancestors, emanating their genes, the products of their actions, here and now. Even if we seek to deliberately excise them, that very excision is relation to them. If we cut out a family member due to their behaviour, they influence us in terms of what-not-to-do.Negative space, emptiness, is still a phenomenon, and everything is connected.

So when I say deconstruct, I mean not simply demolish, not simply raze-as-if-it-never-was. I say use it as fuel, transmute it; look for the cracks in its homogeneity - the things buried beneath - the green vitality that survives despite paving, steal and glass. The way birds fly, flock, wheel, and dive - and most importantly the spaces between.Focus - narrow, and so, so deep. Beneath Whiteness, there is Blood - and though these things are so beloved by white supremacist arseholes? Look at Blood Again. Do not see it as one thing, but note how many cells rush by - notice how many substances, hormones, surge through your veins, how very many things it is.Blood is never pure.And beneath that? Glistening, shining Bone - not white at all, shaded and stained ivory, all honeycombed and filled with marrow. Each heartbeat a rhythmic pulse.For your ancestors are Many, and you see them everytime you look in the mirror, Perhaps you have your Father’s mouth, your Mother’s jaw, your Grandfather’s eyes?But where did they get them?You know them, but you don’t know you know them. Known knowns and unknown knowns, known unknowns, and unknown unknowns.The spell of Whiteness says it is homegenous, because it homogenizes. But it’s a lie, and dig underneath it and you will find white-skinned variety - mixedness, shadowed memory - old ways, localised cultus based on village, town, terroir, field and forest. Mixed races and traditions.

Which of these is supreme? None. They are contextual. They are local. The landscape is not levelled, not concretized. Monoculture has its propaganda. Its siren-song that it it is the only option.But: Things are not gone - their roots remain, buried deep, ready to emerge in new forms.The knowledge of them may be held already, kept sacred by indigenous or closed groups, and if so, so be it. Or, it may lie waiting to be discovered again

And these new-old forms can only come forth if we risk ourselves. If we dedicate ourselves to reconnection, to respect and research, to wholeness and to wilfully acknowledging that we Know Nothing.

And the spell, the Imperial magic of Whiteness is failing, but it’s not dead. It’s cunning, shape-shifting into notions of silos and ideological purity. It says you are either Enough, or Not Enough.Enough is better, Enough is pure.And you are not pure, not clean. None of us are. So Whiteness uses that - creates both White guilt and White Pride - enhancing the sense of helplessness, which breeds sorrow and anger, and thus increasing US vs THEM.It creates toxicity which further perpetuates itself - and the individual can do little to change it, and virtually nothing to change the world. reaching towards purity is good, because purity is a beacon, a nice clear reference point by which we can make sense of the world.

And the Old Man is about as ambiguous and impure as they come. He emanates double and triple meaning - poetry as magic, as weapon, as entertainment, as blood and fury and iron. Knowledge as poison, as drug, as psycho-active substance.In some ways, I think he may find it darkly funny the way neo-nazi scumbags constantly use his name to justify purity and fitness. This one-eyed wanderer who self-harmed and submitted himself totally to the Kosmos because he wanted to Know itAnd not on his terms. On Its.He deliberately put aside all methods of control. He neither ate nor drank. He bled for it, probably even died for it. He sacrificed himself to himself because there was nobody else. Only by being completely Himself, in that environment, and letting whatever happened, happen, was he able to go down to the depths and receive and perceive the runes.Be prepared for the necessity of that. Of setting yourself apart, not as pure or better - but different. Empty your cup, as they say in Zen.Understand that he is the strife-bringer and its soother.If you want to find him in the landscape, first you have to meet him, it - on its terms. The lore says he gave humans breath.So breathe. Realise your Whiteness is not something you can help - you cannot stop being White, and you are enmeshed in the monoculture, but that the monoculture is not what it says it is. It is not the Only One.There are many different ways, and as master interpreter - the hermes in the hermeneutics, the Wanderer has travelled most, if not all of them.His answer to the Seeress’ question is YES. Forever and always YES. And knowing more is not just intellectual knowing, but meeting, knowing someone, carrying them, or a place with you.There’s a reason we call the World Tree what we do. It has roots no man knows, And this? This is the Old Man’s Horse - a tree is his method of travel, is the Great Tree which holds all worlds. The ancestral tree, just as humans were made from wood.The runes are risted with red, stained well with the power of blood and breath; the power of a magic alphabet filled with the rhythms of life and death.The poetry can crack a world. the root can break stone .A return to new-old ways can acknowledge and suborn your Whiteness, forcing it to undergo a detournement which will never grant some distant absolution, but just may allow the usage of that magical spiritual potency of that spell to benefit you, and others.In honouring Odin, you have the appearance of honouring the same god as some neo-Nazi scum. And yet, you are not, because of the relationship which is (may come to be) betwixt you. And it is that which contains life, death, health and wholeness. That is not theirs, but yours.In doing so, in living a connected life you illustrate, you render a way which was hidden, open. A way which may shift and change - for though the Whiteness was laid upon you at birth, its meaning may change in an unexpected way. You become a thing which is different, and Odin will be in your land, just as he came to be in mine.As to how that happens, only you can tell, but for me, it came to pass with a realization that he has always been there. He was just waiting for me to see his shape in the world - a piece of negative space, which once I discovered it, has become a roaring source of gnosis, a quiet whisper that raises the hair on the back of the neck.A thing to be lived with, and died with, and borne and lifted up and cast down.You are an enforced descendant of a vast criminal syndicate which killed millions, destroyed thousands of cultures, infected its own people with a thought-virus to keep them compliant, and keeps insisting it’s the only game in town.Its not. Be open. Live with who you are, as you are.But who you are is not who you have been told.Good luck.

#the old man #Anonymous

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garden-of-succulents · 7 years ago

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Kent Parson and the Comeback Kid - 3

After a week of Kent Parson breaking everybody's hearts I was like I AM GONNA WRITE SOMETHING FLUFFY FOR HIM IF IT KILLS ME. And tonight I wrote 6k in four hours? Which is an amazing omen for the new year, may it prove so in the future?

So this is a new chapter of Kent Parson and the Comeback Kid. It's 2021. Kent's finally gotten Andy from Leave Your Lovers Like Campsites to settle down and have a kid and marry him. They've got an open relationship and he's got boyfriends who don't appear in this fic so far; she's dating Maida Hombrebueno. Andy, who was an elite hockey player in her youth, was out of the sport for many years and just got rediscovered as a talent. She's 32 and just qualified for the US National Women's Team for the first time. Also, it's Round 3 of the Stanley Cup playoffs, and the Aces are up in the series 3-2.

(There's one little sour moment where Andy's dad is mentioned, and general BS of the media being gross, but nothing like the last part. And for people who're wondering: Katie is Kent's sister.)

At the airport, Nick jumped down and ran for her as soon as he got a clear eyeline. He almost got taken out by a luggage cart before getting within ten feet of her, and Andy sent thanks with her eye contact as the man stopped and let Nick blithely swerve around him.

"Mommy! Mommy!" he exclaimed, as she scooped him up. "What did you bring me?"

Andy laughed and rocked him back and forth, pressing her cheek to his hair. "Hey kiddo," she said, heart thudding. "I am so happy to see you. I brought you... a giant kiss. You gonna let me give you a big kiss hello?"

He did, pressing his hand over his cheek afterwards to hold it there. "I'm in pull-ups," he informed her glumly as she walked across the Arrivals area with him on her hip.

"Yeah? You peed yourself a little? Happens to the best of us, buddy," she said, tightening the arm around Nick so she could lift her other one and reel in her girlfriend.

A few years back, Andy ended her twentieth hockey season in a rec league in Minneapolis and hung up her ice skates in frustration. Half her team were skating for their first season ever, and were carried along by the half who'd been playing since they were little girls. They made great drinking buddies, but she hadn't been going anywhere as an athlete, and felt a little burned out by having to coach in her rec time over and above her day job coaching teenagers at a hockey academy.

Roller derby gave her a lot of the same things as hockey. It was fast and fun and violent, and played by women who made her laugh so hard she snorted beer out of her nose. But the player base had a deeply different ethos, embracing the weird and wonderful instead of hockey's straighter laces. When Maida Hombrebueno joined the Sin City Derby Girls, it was the first time she'd willingly participated in a team sport since the age of ten, and Andy might never have met her without it.

Maida spent her summers touring music festivals and New Age gatherings with her boyfriend Luis, a Santeria-practicing guitar player. When she wasn't rehabilitating injured wild raptors, Maida's own interests ran to composing slam poetry in indigenous Mexican languages and occult divination.

She was like water in the desert.

Once Andy got over her sense of disorientation with Maida, the feeling of being so far from any familiar cultural referents she didn't know where she was, she found herself at home. Maida was the teammate she trusted to have her back, the witch who poured blessings on her son's head. As a lover, she was like a stray cat who just walked into Andy's house one day and treated her bed like home, filling up her house with warmth and wisdom. When she left, it was on her own time and for her own reasons, but also the certainty that she'd be back. Maida was the only person Andy would trust to take her two-year-old son to the airport and let him wander freely, risking life and limb in the face of baggage carts and many other unknown horrors. Maida treated Nick with a calm, hands-off attentiveness, knew where he was every second, and could--unlike his grandmother--call him back at any minute.

Maida squeezed her in a hug, and Andy breathed in the jasmine perfume behind Maida's ears, pressing her face into Maida's hair for a minute before letting go.

"Congratulations," Maida said, and twined her fingers with Andy's as they began walking out to the parking lot.

We'll just do the long-distance thing, she'd said even before Andy left for the selection camp. No drama, no questions. Unless you don't want to. But you do what you need.

"Thanks." Andy squeezed her hand. "You coming to the game tonight?"

"Oh, no," Maida said. "You guys have fun. I'll go home when you guys head out."

Andy shook her head, smiling. Kent's friendship with Maida went back almost as many years as he'd known Andy, when he'd started exploring Paganism, and had been lovers with Maida and Luis for years; when he drove out of Las Vegas to their trailer in the desert, it was to escape hockey, to escape being Kent Parson, to escape even the memory of the pressures laid on him in the city. So even after all these years, they never went to Kent's games. Maida might acknowledge that Andy played hockey, but politely treated Kent's hockey career like a hobby that paled in comparison to everything else about him. She'd rather talk to him about music, xeriscaping, statistics, about the progress of Nick's potty-training, than let discussion of hockey pass her lips in his presence. "Series is 3-2 us," she said, just to fill Maida in. "Either they win conference finals and advance to the Cup final tonight, or it goes to another game."

"Karen's been trying to pack when she thinks Kent won't see," Maida said with dry humour. Kent and Andy were hockey-player superstitious, made uncomfortable by words or actions that implied their teams would win; Maida was idiosyncratically superstitious, more likely to believe fate was affected by the phase of the moon and the rains last winter than human actions; Karen didn't think she was superstitious at all, and liked to be well-prepared ahead of time. Karen therefore struggled to reconcile her son's habits and her household management, especially during Playoffs. In her opinion, a week's warning was hardly enough for her to prepare to take Nick to New England so they could be there at the game if Kent won, and the shuttling back and forth between home games and away was a demonic plan specifically designed to torment her. Over the past week Maida had probably been surreptitiously keeping friction between mother and son from erupting, when she wasn't tending to her birds.

"Grandma's gonna be so happy when Playoffs are over," Andy chirped to Nick, who had his arms around her neck and his head against his shoulder. To Maida she asked, "Where's Kent napping?"

"Swoops's," Maida answered. She reached over and rubbed Nick's back as they got to the car. "Though this one's not going to be too loud, I think. He was up at six this morning. Be nice if he could--" she mouthed the word nap-- "this afternoon."

"Mmm," Andy agreed, depositing Nick in his carseat. He clung to her, his eyelids drooping. She was already calculating the probability that he'd fall asleep in the car and stay asleep while she carried him inside.

The odds weren't great, but a girl could hope. It made sense that Kent Parson's son would be a stubborn little motherfucker, though.

"Kent wants to see you before puck drop," Karen said, as Nick dragged Andy by the hand. His eyes had snapped open just as Andy laid him down on his bed, damnit.

"I know," Andy said, as she retreated down the hall. "He texted me." And then she waved as Nick pulled her into the playroom.

She had to admit, privately, that she didn't always understand her son. His noises didn't always resolve into words in her ears, and she frequently relied on Kent and Karen for translation. She didn't understand why he wanted to do something with a train and a Barbie and a spaceship, and just patiently held the spaceship aloft for him until he took it out of her hands and set it to rest on a toy car. She never knew what his scribbles or Play-doh blobs were supposed to represent, and found herself falling back on phrases like, "That's a lot of blue!"

And yet, when she sat back on her heels and Maida brought her a cup of tea and a kiss goodbye, she said, "I've decided? I think I actually am a better parent than my parents were."

"Yeah," Maida said, and squeezed her shoulder. "Karen wanted me to remind you that you've only got two hours before the team goes in for strategy."

"Yeah, I know. I'll get dressed soon." Andy squeezed Maida's hand, and kissed it. "Drive safe."

Kent and Andy had an entire closet for jerseys. It was sentimental and a bit ridiculous, but there it was. Some jerseys got special treatment; his first Olympic jersey, framed with team picture and silver medal, hung in his den. One of her NCAA jerseys, and the award plaque she won that season, had the same treatment in her work office. But after a while there got to be so many--and not all fit for public display, like the All-Star jersey from a few years back with bloodstains on one side and a little penis drawn on the other in Sharpie. This was where her new Team USA jersey went when she pulled it out of its plastic wrapping, buried her nose in the fabric, and then slipped it onto a hanger.

Her chin trembled a little when she indulged in a whim and pulled out one of Kent's IIHF Worlds jerseys. It wasn't the same--different year, old logo, different neck decoration. But both jerseys were the same colour. Same team. PARSON, across one back. SCARLATTI, across the other.

She put them back in the closet and sighed wistfully. There used to be a time when she'd just throw one of them on over a pair of jeans and sit down in the stands with a hot dog and a beer. It was comfortable and familiar. She still did it for a lot of games and tournaments, but not NHL games, especially not Aces games, anymore. Instead she put her curling iron on to heat and stepped into the shower.

Kent didn't care what she wore. Or, that was, when his opinion was a deciding factor he preferred her in a jersey as God intended her. But he was a player, not a fat woman being spectated as a spectator. His fashion choices during a game didn't get dissected the way hers did. When she wore a jersey, his Twitter mentions didn't fill up with messages about her looking ugly and slovenly the way hers did. He didn't have bosses in the Aces Foundation making nervous comments about "professional attire" and "media image" the way she did. So when he was around he didn't comment on it, just helped her pull her Spanx on and zipped up her dresses.

Almost over, she consoled herself, blending her makeup.

Even the lower passages and back hallways of the arena sparked with life. This was an important game, and Las Vegas knew it. Andy waved to familiar faces--parking lot attendants, security guards, janitors in her husband's jersey. As she came down the tunnel the boom of the music playing hit her before the scrape of skates and smack of sticks did.

Jorge, the towel boy, nodded to her as she came down to the players' box, but the coaches and trainer there--Harry, Mel, and Luc--were too busy watching the ice with eagle eyes and conferring over their notes. The box was otherwise empty as the team warmed up. Andy went to lean on the boards and look out.

Swoops was still wearing fairy wings pinned to the back of his jersey, the way he had at warmups for the last three games. It was a bet Andy didn't fully understand. Dmytro was lying on his back and cycling his legs through the air, pretending that his jersey totally accidentally fell back and exposed his abs. Gordie's glove hand was still moving a little slowly when he windmilled, and therefore unsurprisingly, the backup kid they'd called up last night was nervously stretching on an empty patch of ice.

Kent was--

Kent skated away from a consultation with a rookie, snatched a puck, handled it over to the lineup to shoot on Gordie. Kent kept drawing her eye, and not just because he was hers. Kent was--

His jersey was missing the Nevada patch on the shoulder, the extra stripe of white at the bottom. Its sleeves were straight, not shaped the way they'd been for the last three years. The sides didn't have the subtly greyer panel the Aces were wearing this season. It looked retro, and it hung on him a little looser than normal, and there were what looked like scuff marks all over it, and--

SCARLATTI, it said. 14

Kent sank the puck over Gordie's glove, shook his head sympathetically, looked over to the callup kid, who looked like he was about to puke. Kent was on his way over to him when he noticed Andy.

Almost a decade ago she'd slept with him for the two weeks between conference finals and Cup final, slept with him a few times after, and then kissed him goodbye and moved back to Minnesota for four years. As a parting gift, he'd asked the team shop to custom make a jersey with her name and habitual number, to remember her year with the Aces by. A lot of the guys had signed it for her.

He'd felt self-conscious about giving her his own number and didn't want him wearing anybody else's, he'd said. But she'd always hugged a secret little hope to her chest when she wore it: that he put her own number on it because he took her a little seriously as a hockey player.

"You stole my jersey," she said through tears when he skated up.

He just grinned and wrapped her up in a hug over the boards, murmuring thanks when Jorge took the stick out of his hand. She hugged him back and gripped big handfuls of the fabric.

"I am so proud of you," he said. "You're gonna get everything you need to play. We're gonna figure it out."

"I'm wearing mascara, you asshole," she sobbed. He let her go so she could turn away and grab one of the bench tissues and turn back to him while she was crying. "I did actually know that."

"You... did?" the man wearing her jersey asked.

"I know, right?" she asked, blowing her nose. "On the plane back I just thought... you didn't actually say, but I just thought. If I made the team, and you were like, no, we can't make it work, your career is more important, after you told me to go? I'd be so fucking angry with you. You'd be an asshole." She sniffed mightily and swabbed at her face. She'd been smart; she'd used waterproof mascara, though she hadn't remembered it at first. "So it turns out I actually have, like. Expectations? And I..." she started crying again. "I actually believed you were gonna believe in me and support me? Even before you said so?"

"Babe," he said, and gathered her in again reverently. She leaned against his chest, holding tissues to her face, even when she felt him slide back on his skates and have to re-set his feet. She thought about the fact that their entire exchange had just been videotaped and clips of it had probably already been broadcast, but wasn't too troubled. Kent was shielding her; her face was safely hidden in his shoulder, and the jersey he'd chosen to warm up in told the story itself. Maybe he'd anticipated that. The media were going to want visuals to go with the story, and there had already been stories about the surprise addition to the roster before she boarded the plane back to Las Vegas. He'd already known they'd have to present an image as a team.

They just moved to the side for the first guy who came skating back to the bench, so he could step around Kent, but when it became clear this was a general exodus Andy sighed and straightened up and Kent let her go.

"I love you," he said.

She set her hands on his chest, gripping her jersey, and thumped him a little. "You make me proud tonight. Yeah?"

"Yeah," he said, touched her chin, and she let him go.

Andy blotted her eyes with a paper towel soaked in cold water, and then when she got up to the family box she looked for Valentyna. It was a lively box tonight--all the wives, most of the girlfriends, the callup goalie kid's parents, various friends and hangers-on. Nick and Karen weren't there yet, but Oksana and a couple other kids had pulled out the big Rubbermaid bin of Duplo from behind the bar and started playing with it already.

It took one look--it looked like Valentyna had been waiting for her--before Dmytro's wife was pulling out her glass makeup case and coming up to one of the tables in the back of the box. She adjusted the overhead light to shine on Andy's face, frowning at its inadequacies as Andy meekly sat on one of the tall stools.

"You TV interview?" Valentyna asked, snapping open her case. Before her marriage she'd been a model in Kiev, and worked as a makeup artist when she couldn't get modelling gigs. (Somehow, Ukraine had hundreds of women more beautiful than Valentyna Mykhailuk) She was normally shy around the other Aces wives, partly because of the language barrier, but their children were friends only six months apart, and watching Andy struggle with makeup alone had pushed her past her limits. Before the big games, Andy had to pass Valentyna's inspection before being allowed out to the front of the box.

"No," Andy said, squirming a little. "And no big eyeliner wings, Valentyna."

"Accentuates face," Valentyna said. "National team! Patriotic hero! Ought to interview you."

"My face," Andy said. "My eyeliner." And then, as Valentyna loaded up a brush: "Thank you."

"Will miss you," Valentyna said matter-of-factly, and then had to pause to let Andy wipe away tears again.

She got one interview that night, as it turned out, as well as going down into the stands because a group of girls had hastily written on the back of their posterboard sign, ANDY SCARLATTI COME SIGN MY JERSEY. They played on a U18 team together in Ontario, and got playoff tickets as part of what they described as "the most amazing vacation ever." Then she hustled back up to the press box.

Sam Park was the veteran holding down the Las Vegas Star's sports reporting, which meant he bounced from NHL and WNBA games and the local Little League games and initiation hockey tournaments Andy's office either organized, oversaw, or sponsored. They'd last texted two weeks ago when she'd given him the name of a good local flooring contractor for his house, and tonight he sent, Willing to come down to the press box and talk as a member of Team USA?

An interview with an old friend like Sam was a good starting place. He liked wordy character pieces more than brief sports reporting, so he listened with interest as she threw a new light on their acquaintance--how she worked with the Aces in 2010 because she'd always known she'd have to get a paid job after her college sports career, and left in 2011 in part because of the lack of local women's hockey; the growth of professional leagues for women, and differences between men and women's hockey. How her office at the Aces foundation being literally a hundred feet from the team's practice ice meant she could go out and skate at lunchtime if she wanted, and how those hours and her time playing keep-away with Kent before the teams she coached showed up were often more player development than other women just as skilled as her could afford.

She kept quiet about her speculation about next season, though Kent had already spoken about it. In an attempt to distract the press during the first intermission from the emotional crisis their new goalie was having in the dressing room, Kent had stepped out for a brief media scrum. When asked how Andy's selection to Team USA would affect his plans for next season, he'd shrugged and clasped his hands behind his back

"We haven't settled on any details, but, y'know, I wanna support my wife," he said. "I've had ten years of support to be the best player I can be, best coaching, best training, on the best team in the best league. So I think, y'know what, fair's fair." Then, having done his best to ensure rumours of his retirement would bump clips of the kid having a panic attack on the bench from the reporting, he'd smiled and slipped back into the dressing room.

Sam was softballing her, probably planning a series of articles if the story generated much interest. He wanted to know about her family, her friends, her new teammates.

"Have you seen this?" he asked, offering her his phone.

Lansing Cougars @mi_girlshockey · 2h So proud of my daughter #AndreaScarlatti for being selected to #USNWT #TeamUSA!

For a minute she smiled, under the assumption that someone running a girls' hockey account in Michigan had hyperbolically claimed her as their daughter. Then she read the sidebar with the account information. The realization that it was the team her dad was coaching now--that it meant "daughter" literally--wiped the smile from her face.

She wanted to snatch the phone up in a typing grip and fire back a response. Fuck you, she wanted to say. You don't get to claim any part in this. I did this despite you. This was exactly the kind of bullshit that made her block her father on Twitter every time she figured out what his new handle was.

Instead she let the impulse pass through her, and when she could, she consciously relaxed her grip on the phone. She put effort into breathing normally, sitting back in her chair, offering the phone back to him. "No comment," she said casually.

How like him, he thought, to name an account after the girls he's coaching and use it as his own personal mouthpiece.

Sam's eyebrows flicked up. "No comment?" he asked. "That's... not like you."

She made sure to take a full breath and double-check her response. What did she want to say? This was Sam, right; Sam who was writing a book about the Aces, Sam who hadn't written a word about Vladimir's breakdown despite witnessing some of it himself. Then she smiled, a little strained. "When I'm ready to talk about that? You're one of the people I'll talk to. But right now I think it's wise to leave him out of the story."

Sam looked a little concerned, like he was going to ask her if she was really okay, but Andy was saved by the airhorn. The game was back on.

When the game was over Andy kissed and hugged her son goodbye, and headed downstairs. Nick was under Valentyna's watchful eye, and would be going home with her, Oksana, and Dmytro tonight. Western Conference Finals, win or lose, were Kent and Andy's date night by very ancient compact. The other guys would tease Dmytro about not wanting to go out and party, but the same way they teased Kent: good-naturedly, and without a real intent to make him change his mind. Andy was grateful to the Mykhailuks and said so. Karen split off in the hallway to party with another group of middle-aged "wine grandmas".

When Kent met her in the hallway to the parking lot, his suit was rumpled and slightly damp with champagne spray. He grinned sheepishly and laced their hands together.

"Good game," she said, kissed his cheek and looked up. "Oh, hey Gordie, good effort. Tough luck. Rest that shoulder, hey?"

"Thanks, Ands," Gordie said, dredging up the ghost of a smile, and shouldered past them. Dmytro came out, his phone in his hand.

Then Valentyna came down one of the staircases with the kids and Nick caught sight of Kent and shrieked, "Daddy!"

"Oh, dear," Andy sighed under her breath, as Kent crouched down to receive Nick in a running hug.

"Daddy won!" Nick said, hugging him. "Good game, Daddy!"

"Yeah," Kent said. "Thank you! You gonna go home with Oksana and have a sleepover?"

"No," Nick said.

"Yeah," Kent encouraged. "You're gonna go home with Valentyna and sleep over at our place, and see me and Mommy next morning."

"Don't wanna," Nick said, and then something low and incomprehensible that Kent listened to with a furrowed brow. He scowled when Kent said something softly back, and then balled up one fist and hit his father's shoulder with it.

"Hey, hey, hey," Kent said. "Hands aren't for hitting. Gentle hands."

"Daddy mean," Nick said accusingly. He stopped to consider his actions, weighing righteous fury against fear of consequences, and hit Kent again with his face screwed up for tears.

This is my fault, Andy thought suddenly. I've been away for a week. He's upset because I've never been gone that long. That's why he's wearing pull-ups. He hasn't tried to pull a stunt like this for months. It's because of me.

Kent sighed, hitching Nick up into a surer grasp, and turned to the side to let a few other players by. He took a minute to rub Nick's back and close his eyes. "I love you, little man," he said, and then, muttered to himself under his breath: "I cannot take away your pain. I can only sit with you and teach you how to feel it." When he opened his eyes again it was to meet Andy's eyes with a wry expression. He jerked his head to Valentyna, and they started walking to the parking lot together.

"I don't know what books they have at Oksana's house," Kent said as they walked. "I wonder what you're gonna read together. You've got Goodnight Moon and I Am Not a Chair with you, you could read those. But you might read one of Oksana's books."

"No," Nick whined, but his strength was fading. He was collapsing into Kent, tiredness replacing anger.

"Which one would you rather read?" Kent kept going with that gentle voice. "Goodnight Moon or I Am Not a Chair?"

"...Chair," Nick conceded, as Kent pulled open the back door to Valentyna's sedan. Nick's car seat was already in it so Kent settled him in, while Oksana climbed into hers on her own. "An' also Goodnight Moon."

"Yeah, you want both books?" Kent looked over to Valentyna as she buckled Oksana in. "Do you think you can read two?"

"I think so," she said, and leaned forward as Kent drew back. "We gonna read two books?"

"Yeah," Nick said softly. "I love you, Daddy."

"Love you too, little man. Night, Oksana."

Andy stood back, watching with a sense of wonder as Kent closed the car door. He came back to join her with a crooked smile, and they started walking to their car in the other direction as Dmytro started his sedan. They glanced back to watch it reverse out, then drive away.

"I thought we were seriously done for," Andy said, taking Kent's hand. "How did you do that?"

"I mighta let him come back with us, to be honest," he said. "Even though we've got stuff to talk about. He missed you. Coulda put him to bed first. But then he hit me, and we talked last week about how hitting never gets him what he wants." He slipped into the passenger seat of the car, and resumed once he and Andy had their seatbelts on. "I think as soon as he hit me, he knew it was over. I was gonna have to make a stand. So then he gave in pretty fast."

Andy sighed. "I feel so bad. He was probably more upset because I was away."

Kent rolled his head against his headrest to look over at her. "Babe? Welcome to how I feel all the time."

Their drive home was quiet, nerves on her part and pleasant weariness on his. Because they were old, they changed out of their nice clothes as soon as they got in the door and changed into pyjamas. Kent fed the animals and poured a drink out onto his altar to the gods of luck, then stretched out his legs on the couch so Kit Purrson could have the seat she was actively agitating for. Andy brought him a cold pack for his knee first, and then the homemade pizza the oven had been programmed to have ready for them when they got home, and finally two glasses of rosé. She'd sat down when he said, "I wanna see your jersey," and then she had to get up again.

"Sorry," he said when she came back, taking her hand and kissing it. She let him, and then handed the jersey over and picked up her wine.

"Shit," he said after a minute. He was tracing the number on the sleeve.

"They, uh," she said nervously, twisting her wedding ring. "It got us to list three jersey numbers by preference, and then they got assigned based on seniority. And there's a lot of competition for the lower numbers, and Bri's played under number fourteen forever, so I..."

"Dude." Kent looked up at her, eyes shining, hands still gripping the 90. "You're wearing my number. It's not even your birth year."

"Fair's fair," she finally got out past her tongue.

Then she had to lean forward so he could kiss her, and they both cried a little bit, and then it seemed like they were really talking about how to do this.

"I'm afraid," she said. "I'm afraid like, you'll organize some big trade to another team, and we'll change our whole lives, and move everyone, and then I'll get cut from the team in October." She made a little cutting gesture with her hands. "Whoops! I thought I had a career, but I don't."

"It'd still be worth it," he said. "Even just having that chance."

Andy reached back and wrapped her hands around the nape of her neck. "It would be so fucking embarrassing. It's not us, it's the fucking commentators. They're just..." She rubbed her face. "I don't want to do something we're gonna regret, or that you're gonna resent me for, in case it doesn't work out."

"Okay," he said, like that was easy. "What are our options?"

"I mean like, technically..." she laughed nervously, picking up a pizza crust. "I still have one year of NCAA eligibility, I think? But I mean, that's not..."

"Yeah, no," he agreed, stroking his cat.

"If it were an Olympic year..." she paused. "Well I mean, I wouldn't get on in an Olympic year, because it's just that much more intense. But then the players take the whole season to build together. Whereas now there's a training camp, and then everybody's off to their regular team until the 4 Nations Cup. So unless I wanna stick around here and keep training with you... The N, the C-dub, the Russians, or China. I mean, I could play in Minnesota, but..."

"Everything we're hearing from Patty says their league might not last the year," Kent agreed. "And you might not wanna be around for the implosion."

"Yeah," she agreed. "As nice as it would be to be home. So. Realistically? Um. Because, all of the NWHL teams have expressed interest in me. But then it's like, the two body problem. Boston can't afford you. The Sabres aren't a good team right now. Connecticut doesn't have a team at all so then you're commuting, or I am. And you..." she trailed off when he lifted a hand, asking to jump in.

"I want to retire," Kent said.

She blinked at him, and then reassembled her face into something empathetic and supportive and ate her pizza crust. He smiled and poked her knee with his toes, because he liked to make fun of her Listening Face.

"I might as well admit it," he said. "I did this season out of spite. When I came back after my paternity year, people were just... so shitty. Everything they said or did was like, 'Oh, losing his edge.' By the end of the year I was so pissed I just... didn't want to prove them right with that shitty season. So I came back." His face twisted. "And now Nick has nightmares where I'm dead."

"Honey," Andy said. "He hasn't had those for..."

"Okay, but he did," Kent said. "And I'm just... wondering how many more seasons I might've put him through if I hadn't got that far. But now I'm here, and it's..."

Andy reached out and squeezed his foot while he searched for words, and then topped up his wineglass.

"There's this art studio in Rochester," Kent said. "It's in the building where Katie works. It's like, a family creative space. Child-led play. You take your kid in and there's all these art materials around, and the person teaches you how to make like, a popsicle stick picture or fingerpaints or whatever. But the point isn't the art, it's like... teaching your child to explore. How to let them be creative while you're there supporting them but not smothering or anything. She sends me snapchats about it. I wanna go there."

Andy started on her second crust, puzzled but willing to hear him out.

"I just hate how like... all of my time with him is chopped up and scheduled and he's always tired and we can never just be together. After the summers it's almost worse because then he's used to me being around and he's like, 'Where did Daddy go?' What I want is the time to just wake up and decide we're gonna fingerpaint today, and he never has to worry about when I'm gonna leave."

"You wanna be a stay-at-home dad again," Andy said slowly.

Kent paused to think about that, and then looked at her again with something almost fervent. "There's been so many times since he was born that I've been on the ice and asked myself, 'What the hell am I doing here? I've got important things I need to do!' It's like... being around Nick feels important in a way hockey hasn't in years. Even when he's just sleeping. Something changes about him every day, and I love being able to catch it. It kills me every time Mom has to send me a video of something he learned to do without me."

"Shit," Andy said. "I thought you were doing okay."

Kent shrugged, a little helplessly. "I think I repressed a lot. But also like, he's just gotten so interesting now. He's inventing stuff and coming up with ideas, and more and more I'm like, I don't wanna miss this. I wanna be there for this. I wanna get to know him." He picked at his nails and looked up at her. "I spent all these years wishing I had people who loved me, who took care of me, who needed me. And now I've finally got you and under all the competition there's a little bit of me that's like, fuck, why can't I rest on my laurels? Why do I have to get another season out like I'm wringing out a dishrag?" He rolled his head back and sighed. "I am so fucking glad we won tonight, because that might be the only way I'm brave enough to say this."

Andy wasn't good at accepting the fact that Kent loved her. It was like she was coated with an impermeable resin, and that love only seeped in when it cracked and flaked with age. But she didn't think it was just that difficulty that left her feeling that Kent's love for Nick was so much deeper than his love for her.

She wasn't jealous. It wasn't a competition. In some ways it felt like how the world ought to be. It was just a kind of realization: If Kent and I divorced, he'd hurt a lot, but then he'd live again. If he lost Nick, he'd never recover. The immensity of that secondhand love was so deep that it threatened to overwhelm her, and she was kind of humbled just to witness it.

It's gotta be good, some part of her thought. It overcame his pride and his workaholism.

"So," she said, voice rusty. "Rochester. How far is that from Buffalo?"

#kent parson #andy scarlatti #maida and luis #kent parson and the comeback kid #stuff i wrote

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jeremystrele · 4 years ago

Text

BE. Founder Grace Dlabik On Smashing Stereotypes + Parenting A Child With Disability

Family

Ashe Davenport

Grace at home with her pup Buzz, featuring beautiful bedding from the Kip & Co. x Bábbarra Women’s Centre collection! Photo – Nynno Bel-Air.

A divine family portrait – Grace, Elijah, Morganne and Buzz. Grace’s fab robe is from Suku! Photo – Nynno Bel-Air.

Left – Grace’s ‘Reclamation Wall’. Artefacts clockwise from left : Woven tray, Southern Highlands, PNG, Small mask, Sepik, PNG, Large mask, Sepik, PNG, Fan, Lese Oalai, PNG, Hair adornment, PNG (origin unsure), Afro bamboo comb, PNG (origin unsure), Woven basket, Highlands, PNG. Right: Morganne, Elijah and Buzz hanging out at home. Photo – Nynno Bel-Air.

Grace, Elijah and Morganne at the dining table – cooking is one of Grace’s great loves. Photo – Nynno Bel-Air.

Left: Grace is the founder of BE. a global creative collective dedicated to establishing new pathways to champion young people. They also have a creative agency arm, BE.ONE CREATIVE. Right: Grace, Elijah and Morganne’s home, which is their sanctuary. Artwork in centre is a Tapa Cloth piece, from Oro Province, PNG. Photo – Nynno Bel-Air.

Grace and Elijah at the BE.HQ! Photo – Nynno Bel-Air.

Left: Some of the incredible talent at BE. Right: Grace in the studio. Photo – Nynno Bel-Air.

Grace surrounded by some of the incredible talent at BE. ONE CREATIVE (Grace’s creative agency). Photo – Nynno Bel-Air.

Late in her pregnancy, Grace had a feeling her baby was in trouble. She took herself to hospital for some monitoring, but after checking the fetal heart rate, medical staff concluded that everything was fine. This was 17 years ago, before 3D scans had become routine and readily available. Grace accepted the advice and went home, but disquiet settled over the remainder of her pregnancy.

Elijah was born with his umbilical cord wrapped six times around his neck in a true knot. It caused severe damage to his brain, resulting in quadriplegia Cerebral palsy. Grace, who was 23 at the time, was told that it was very unlikely that he would survive, and if he did, he wouldn’t be able to see, hear or recognise her. She was advised that his quality of life would be too low to justify.

‘Says who?’ Grace asks me over Zoom, 17 years later, fresh from dropping Elijah at school. ‘Who’s to say what the experiences of each one of us should be like? Everybody’s different, has different experiences of life. Everybody wants to be seen and valued.’

Elijah has curly hair like his mum and a grin that can turn your day around. He can see and hear. He doesn’t just recognise Grace, he loves her deeply. He likes playing the drums. He’s wheelchair bound but he’s thriving and loves his life.

Grace’s experience as a parent directly informs the work she does. It’s a big part of why she founded the collective BE. a creative hub for young freethinkers and BE. ONE CREATIVE. BE. is a place that celebrates difference, creativity and gives voice to young people through a multitude of ways. BE. ONE is a creative agency that not only champions expressive and young people’s work, but also allows for that knowledge to be passed on through their mentorship program for young aspiring creatives.

Here’s Grace.

Hey Grace! What was your morning like?

Grace: My day starts at 5am. It means I can get things done and have some time with Morganne. We’ve started going for little walks together. We go through the parklands near our house. There’s no one around, and everything is so soft and tender. The birds are beginning to sing. You might hear a kookaburra, a couple of frogs, but apart from that, everything’s quiet and sleepy. It’s really special.

At the end of the day we’re completely exhausted, and I have my hands full with Elijah. I mean literally my hands are full. The care I need to give to him includes lifting him, changing him, dressing him and tending to him in that way, then I’m smashing out work for BE. while he’s at school, but that morning walk is just mine and Morganne’s.

What’s a typical evening like at your place?

I pick up Elijah at 3, and then it’s all hands on deck until his bedtime at 7. We have dinner together as a family and afterwards I give Elijah a massage. I get his legs out of his wheelchair and rest them on me while I massage them. He loves that part of our daily routine. Touch is such an important and beautiful thing. It gives him a little bit of relief, too, because he’s been sitting all day. It’s a special time for us to bond. He can’t articulate if something’s sore. He’ll communicate to me if something’s really bad, but his pain threshold is so high. He’s used to having niggling discomfort.

How do you and Elijah communicate?

The way that we communicate is through intuition. That’s something to be said for mothers in general. We’re so deeply connected to our children. Elijah understands a lot more than he can say, but because of the extent of brain damage that he had, he also has an intellectual disability. But we’ve been communicating with each other since before he was born. We have our own language and it’s deeply connected.

My experience as a parent directly informs the work I do at BE. I’ve learned huge lessons and I’ve come through the other side of these very complex challenges without a handbook – of course it’s an ongoing and ever-evolving life but now I know how to project my voice when I need to. I also understand the importance of surrendering, and trusting the pathways that life has given me. And don’t get me wrong, it’s really hard sometimes. Especially for people with a disability or people of colour, bla(c)k or Indigenous people, like myself. There’s a lot stacked against you from the get-go. But I’ve been given these tools that I can give to others, so that’s what I do, and I believe a big part of what we’re here to do.

What does next year look like for you and your family?

Elijah finishes school at the end of this year. I’ve been very overwhelmed thinking about what’s next for him. How will the outside world view him and welcome him? How will he take pride in what he’s able to contribute? Who will give him a chance? Will he ever be able to go to the footy and pay his own way? He doesn’t have those opportunities unless I create them for him, so what does this all look like?

Our society is so ableist and doesn’t really embrace or respond well to people with disabilities. We haven’t learnt how to do that. We don’t have important access to people with special needs, so the stigma builds up. We’ve got to smash these stereotypes around who is “normal” and “not normal.” There’s no such thing. Such a journey of “undoing” that needs to be done.

The National Insurance Disability Scheme (NDIS) was given a bunch of money in this year’s budget. Will that be helpful to you in any way?

To some degree, yes, however it’s a real battle to advocate for the requirements and needs for Elijah. Everything they’re affiliated with is privatised. It costs Elijah $870 for a night in respite care, for example, just so I can have a night off. Or go out on a date with my partner. Before NDIS, it was $560 per night. They’ve increased the price so much, because they can. There’s greed at the core of it, not humanity. It’s ridiculous how much everything costs.

I fought for years for Elijah’s standing wheelchair, so he was able to be upright and have the autonomy to change his position of his body with the aid of this amazing wheelchair. Years. I had support from a number of MPs, even a Greens Senator. In the end I showed up with a team of medical experts and Elijah, too, so they could fucking see his face and be confronted with him, as a person. Not a case number. They ended up overturning their decision, but that’s how much effort it took, to be granted something that he is clearly entitled to and that will benefit him greatly.

What’s it been like going from a two person family to three?

Elijah’s Dad and I split up when Elijah was little, so I’ve mostly cared for him on my own. What we have is very sacred to me, so the person who came into it had to be pretty bloody special. I’ve worked really hard on my own reflection of love, recognising areas I needed to work on and undo a lot of the adopted heteronormative world, and look at what love really is.

Then along came Morganne, who is a proud trans man. I think I’ve always been a queer person, but I had a fairly heteronormative outlook. I come from a generation that didn’t have the language around identity that we have now. Morganne and I just connected. He’s half Jamaican, half black, like me. I love that my partner can identify with my cultural roots and what it means to be black and on the outer. He prioritises community and family in the same ways that I do and views life on a deeper level.

Morganne has a rescue dog (Buzz) so when we came together as a family unit, it all made sense, with each of us navigating life as an outsider and actively smashing stereotypes. It’s been really hard, beautiful and easy. All at the same time.

Morganne has beautiful sensibilities and a tenderness that allows him to connect deeply to our lives and apply this to his work as a dog walker/adventurer – but he can also smash out caravan walls.

I saw you guys got a caravan! Any trips planned?

We’ve got to make it accessible for Elijah first, that’s something we’re working on together. It’s a labour of love. And maybe a weekend trip here and there for the two of us if Elijah is in respite care. It’s so hard to find an accessible property, unless we go to a fancy hotel, but that’s not a feasible option, I also like to cook and be in nature when I go away.

Our ultimate dream is to buy some land and create a fully accessible and creative space, where we could build our dream accessible home and build fully accessible guest houses. On the property there would be private healing rooms, studio spaces where we could have artist residencies and creative workshops, and people could host retreats such as creative writing, painting, etc. I want a gallery/museum and a large space for talks, conferences or classes (like yoga and mediation).

There’s such a need for a space like this to exist – where nature surrounds us, where healing can occur and where creativity can be harnessed and explored and where people who have a family member with a disability or special needs can seek respite and a getaway. I know this is a big vision but this is what I’m manifesting!

I feel certain you’re going to make that happen… What brings you joy?

Being a mama brings me joy. My culture, aunties and sisterhood bring me joy. Massaging my son’s legs brings me joy. Bathing my son brings me joy. Being of service to people brings me joy. Holding space for people brings me joy. Wholesome, critical and inspiring conversations bring me joy. People mobilising brings me joy. When I see people show up at a rally because they care about someone other than themselves, when they feel compelled to say: Enough is enough, that brings me joy. We’re shifting the paradigm and that brings me joy.

When it comes to political and social oppressive structures, it’s especially important that privileged people, those who benefit from those structures, are joining the fight. I feel hopeful because I see all these younger generations standing up and pushing back. We’re making ourselves actively responsible for each other. Most people just need an opportunity to do better, and they will.

Family Favourites

Weekend getaway? Oh wait…

Lol. Not applicable. We can’t find accessible properties to go away to, so it’s not something we do.

Cafe?

Everyday Coffee. We especially love their coffee for home, because we can’t always get over to Collingwood.

Go-to album?

The Whitney Houston radio station on Spotify. It has Mariah Carey, Lionel Ritchie, Luther Vandross, everyone you need, really!

Sunday morning breakfast ritual?

We often do a big cookup: eggs, greens, roasted tomatoes and mushrooms, whatever we’ve got in the house. Cooking is cathartic and such a loving act for me.

Me time?

Between 6.30-7am I mediate. We have an east-facing window in our living room. I watch the sunrise. It’s nice.

Follow the links to find out more about Grace and Morganne’s projects – BE., BE.ONE CREATIVE, and That Dog Life! You can find Grace on Instagram here.

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