#“and skin the members of the black student Union”

[tiriansjewel]

mmmm I love my university having classes cancelled tomorrow after a tirade of hate crimes and gun threats against black students!!! God I fucking hate it here!!!

[eretzyisrael]

by Christopher Rufo

Portland, Oregon, has earned its reputation as America’s most radical city. Its public school system was an early proponent of left-wing racialism and has long pushed students toward political activism. As with the death of George Floyd four years ago, the irruption of Hamas terrorism in Israel has provided Portland’s public school revolutionaries with another cause du jour: now they’ve ditched the raised fist of Black Lives Matter and traded it in for the black-and-white keffiyeh of Palestinian militants.

I have obtained a collection of publicly accessible documents produced by the Portland Association of Teachers, an affiliate of the state teachers’ union that encourages its more than 4,500 members to “Teach Palestine!” (The union did not respond to a request for comment.)

The lesson plans are steeped in radicalism, and they begin teaching the principles of “decolonization” to students as young as four and five years old. For prekindergarten kids, the union promotes a workbook from the Palestinian Feminist Collective, which tells the story of a fictional Palestinian boy named Handala. “When I was only ten years old, I had to flee my home in Palestine,” the boy tells readers. “A group of bullies called Zionists wanted our land so they stole it by force and hurt many people.” Students are encouraged to come up with a slogan that they can chant at a protest and complete a maze so that Handala can “get back home to Palestine”—represented as a map of Israel.

Other pre-K resources include a video that repeats left-wing mantras, including “I feel safe when there are no police,” and a slideshow that glorifies the Palestinian intifada, or violent resistance against Israel. The recommended resource list also includes a “sensory guide for kids” on attending protests. It teaches children what they might see, hear, taste, touch, and smell at protests, and promotes photographs of slogans such as “Abolish Prisons” and “From the River to the Sea.”

In kindergarten through second grade, the ideologies intensify. The teachers’ union recommends a lesson, “Art and Action for Palestine,” that teaches students that Israel, like America, is an oppressor. The objective is to “connect histories of settler colonialism from Palestine to the United States” and to “celebrate Palestinian culture and resistance throughout history and in the present, with a focus on Palestinian children’s resistance.”

The lesson suggests that teachers should gather the kindergarteners into a circle and teach them a history of Palestine: “75 years ago, a lot of decision makers around the world decided to take away Palestinian land to make a country called Israel. Israel would be a country where rules were mostly fair for Jewish people with White skin,” the lesson reads. “There’s a BIG word for when Indigenous land gets taken away to make a country, that’s called settler colonialism.”

Before snack time, the teacher is encouraged to share “keffiyehs, flags, and protest signs” with the children, and have them create their own agitprop material, with slogans such as “FREE PALESTINE, LET GAZA LIVE, [and] PALESTINE WILL BE FREE.” The intention, according to the lesson, is to move students toward “taking collective action in support of Palestinian liberation.”

The recommended curriculum also includes a pamphlet titled “All Out for Palestine.” The pamphlet is explicitly political, with a sub-headline blaring in all capital letters: “STOP THE GENOCIDE! END U.S. AID TO IRSAEL! FREE PALESTINE!” The authors denounce “Zionism’s long genocidal war on Palestinian life” and encourage students to support “boycott, divestment, and sanctions” policies against Israel.

The pamphlet includes chants that teachers can adopt in the classroom. Some imply support for militancy and political violence: “Resistance is justified when people are occupied!”; “We salute all our martyrs! mothers, fathers, sons and daughters!”; “Justice is our demand! No peace on stolen land!”

It’s not immediately clear to what extent the “Teach Palestine!” lessons have been adopted in Portland public school classrooms. But the teachers’ union claims that the district has been “actively censoring teachers” for promoting pro-Palestine ideologies; in response, it has assembled a legal guide for how teachers can keep promoting the lessons under the guise of meeting state curriculum standards.

[roller6262]

Harvey Gives Fashion Advice

< Previous Part | Next Part >

Harvey still had time before his next class, so he headed straight for his dorm. Harry's bed was topped with cardboard boxes, and Harry himself was rummaging through his wardrobe. He would evaluate individual items before deeming they were no good and tossing them behind him. "Dude, I've been gone for a few hours, are you still trying to find something to wear?" Harvey asked his room mate.

"Oh, Honey, I already picked out a casual outfit for the day" Harry replied without taking his eyes off his clothes. "That's what I wore to pick up all those boxes."

"By the way, what is all this stuff?" Harvey sat on Harry's bed and peeked inside the boxes. It was a mix of decorations, papers, and small items that looked like they could be used for games.

"Those are the supplies for tomorrow's Queer Student Union meeting. As secretary it was my job to pick them up from storage."

"So why are you changing again?"

"And repeat an outfit on the same day? Hell no. There's an executive meeting with all the Queer Student Union's leaders tonight, so I need to look my best."

"Sheesh, I'm glad I'm not a member of your gay club" Harvey sighed, "If I spent as much time on clothes as you did, I'd never get out of this dorm."

"Oh shut up" Harry said, tossing a shirt he was looking at onto his bed, "I bet I spend less time on clothes than you do styling that ridiculous pompadour" Harry ran his fingers through his own curly hair, then turned around to face his room mate, finally seeing that Harvey was wearing a patka, "Or at least, how much time you usually spend on it. That thing on your head is new. Is it some kind of fashion statement?"

"Huh?" Harvey placed his hands on top of his head, feeling cloth where he expected to feel gelled hair. "I thought I took this thing of last night. Did I tie it back on this morning?"

"What are you mumbling about?" Harry turned back to his wardrobe, "instead of making fashion statements like that, I wish you were a fashion guru. I could use some advice." Harry grabbed a pink scarf and wrapped it around his neck. He considered it for a moment before tossing it towards the bed like all the rest. This time, it landed on Harvey's head.

The scarf wrapped itself around Harvey's patka, forming a pink UK-style turban. "Wait… this is just like with Gurpreet's table cloth. Was- was that real? It is happening again!?" While Harvey was expressing a great deal of panic, the texture of his face became smoother, and his cheek bones were more pronounced. All of his hair once again darkened to a shade of black. His mustache thickened, covering his upper lip, and his beard grew to his collar in a squared off shape. To maintain this shape it was not cut, but rather well maintained. Harvey winced, expecting to bloat into a fat man like before. Instead, he grew a bit taller and slimmed into a model physique. He got that warm feeling again as his skin turned an Indian hue, a bit darker than Harvey's normal time, but a good amount lighter than previously. His features changed slightly to be more telling of a Punjabi man, but it was unmistakably Harvey's face.

Finally the rest of his clothes were altered. He was wearing a light blue silk button up with grey wool trousers and brown leather shoes. A tricolor, diagonally striped long tie appeared around his collar. A pink scarf, matching his new turban, hung from his neck, and a dark navy suit jacket topped his shoulders. Harvey looked at his arms in disbelief, his wrists were decorated with a gold watch on the left and an iron Kara bracelet on the right. "Am I imagining things again? Why is it so different this time?"

"So Harpinder" Harry started, as if Harvey hadn't said anything just now. He was holding up two shirts, one in each hand, "Which do you think would look better on me tonight?"

"What are you talking about, Harry?" Harvey realized this was just like with Gurpreet. Harvey, or Harpinder as he was now, seemed completely normal to Harry. "You never ask me for advice about clothes."

"I just didn't want to bug you with my day to day stuff" Harry admitted, a bit embarrassed "you're such a famous fashion influencer after all. I'm sure you have more important things to do." Just then Harvey got a notification on his phone, actually he was receiving several. He unlocked it and the phone opened to a photo-sharing social media app. Instead of his usual profile, he was logged into @sikhstyleguru under the name Harpinder Singh. The page looked like it was regularly updated with photos of Harvey as he appeared now, wearing a variety of fashionable suits and street wear. Scrolling down, Harvey figured this page had to have been active for a few years, which should have been impossible because he only transformed a few weeks ago. Was reality changing? Is that why no one thought his sudden changes were odd? Either way, Harvey took this as proof that he wasn't imagining things, he really had become a Sikh man.

He tapped on his most recent photo, the one he was getting notifications for. The like count was already well above three thousand and still ticking up. Comments included phrases like "waheguru" followed by praying hands emoji and "Att" with the fire emoji. "I really am a fashion influencer" Harvey said to himself.

"That's why I'm asking you, you know better than anyone" Harry said. Harvey was confident he'd be able to return to normal, as he had before. For now he decided he would play along with Harry's vision of him, as it would be useless to try and convince Harry that he was someone else. Still, Harvey's idea of a good outfit was a white tee and black jeans, hardly the wisdom that Harry was expecting. He decided he should just answer truthfully. "Honestly, Harry, I don't think either of those shirts would work." Harpinder stroked his hairy chin while thinking, "If you're going to meet with other leaders of your organization, you yourself should look like a leader. I think I can lend you something." He turned to his own wardrobe and saw that it was replaced by a pop-up closet. Due to the dorm's restricted space, it was smaller than any proper closet would be, but it still had enough rack space to hold Harprinder's many suits, with drawers at the bottom for the rest of his clothes. He picked out a deep blue dress shirt, a vibrant yellow dress tie, brown slacks, and matching black leather belt and dress shoes. Harry quickly changed and the items fit surprisingly well on him, despite belonging to someone else.

"This is awesome, I've never had a suit I liked this much" Harry was checking himself out from a few different angles.

"It's all about finding the right fit. Now you look ready for business" Harprinder grinned. Harry threw his arms up and gave Harpinder a big hug. He chuckled and hugged back, "Easy there, try not to wrinkle my shirt too much." Harpinder impressed even himself with his wisdom. Maybe this fashion influencer thing wouldn't be too hard. Once Harry had let go, apologizing for any wrinkles he might have caused, Harpinder turned back to his closet and considered his next move. He thought Harry's outfit could use a little something more to truly stand out. He grabbed two cloths from his closet. "Hold still Harry, I just need to add one last touch." Harpinder first tied the blue cloth around Harry's head into a patka. Harry did as he was told and didn't stop Harpinder, but he was still visibly uncomfortable.

"You know, Harp, these turbans look really good on you. I'm just think this is weird on a white guy like me."

"Nonsense, you just need to see it all together" Harpinder tied the yellow cloth into a morni pagg turban. Then he used a salai needle to smooth out the folds. "See? Isn't that better?"

Harry looked at himself in their dorm's mirror, turning his head to check a few different angles. "I guess so…" Harry saw his face turn a darker shade of brown and became delighted. "Yes! This vibrant yellow does go well with my skin tone. That was a good choice, Harpinder" Harry said in a Punjabi accent.

Harpinder nodded, "Now we must do something about your hair."

"But all of my hair is under my dastaar" then a short chinstrap of curly black hair grew on Harry's previously bare face.

"Obviously I meant your facial hair" Harpinder chuckled, using a wooden comb to remove the tangles in Harry's new beard.

"Ah, that is much better" Harry admired his Punjabi features in the mirror.

"I'm glad I could help" with this task complete, the pink turban on Harpinder's head unspooled and returned to being a simple pink scarf. Harpinder himself reverted to being Harvey, and his pop up closet disappeared, leaving behind Harvey's original wardrobe. The only thing that didn't turn back to normal was the now Sikh Harry. "Woah, who are you!?"

"Harvey you are so sweet. Pretending you don't recognize me because I look so much better in this suit? I'm flattered" Harry winked.

Harvey recognized that jokingly flirty attitude, "Harry, is that you?"

"It's pronounced Harri, you know that. Anyways, thank you for helping me pick out an outfit, I'll have to return the favor some time. But for now, I'm off to meet my felllow Queer Student Union leaders" Harri lifted the boxes from his bed and made his way to the door of the dorm.

"You can't leave, there's something wrong!"

"The only thing wrong here is that a cute guy like you is still only wearing a patka. Before the next Sikh Student Alliance meeting I am going to have to tie the most handsome dastar on you. See ya!" And with that, Harri blew a kiss and left the dorm.

"No, Harry, wait!" But it was too late, Harri was gone. "This is so freaky! First I'm changing, now Harry is too! Did I do that to him?" Harvey took a look at himself in the mirror. "It's got to be because of this patka I got from that Indian club. It's making me look like them!" Harvey tried to yank the black cloth from his head, but it wouldn't budge no matter how he pulled. "It's no use, the thing is tied on like some kind of magic." he sighed. "At least I can take care of you" Harvey said, looking at his short brown beard. Harvey went to his "hair care" drawer. He was pretty obsessed with maintaining a perfect pompadour, so he always kept a drawer stocked with hair scissors, razors, tweezers, an electric shaver, Combs, and his favorite gel. Opening the drawer, he discovered that most of these items were gone! In their place was a wooden comb, a salai needle, some kind of beard oil, and multiple patka cloths. "Where's all my stuff!? I thought I changed back" Harvey slammed the drawer, "I am not giving up that easy, you stupid beard"

Harvey grabbed a pair of office scissors from his study desk and went back to the mirror. They weren't the ideal tool for grooming his beard, but they would have to do. He brought the scissors close to his chin and attempted to cut, but the scissors wouldn't close. "Huh?" Harvey pulled the scissors away from his face and heard the satisfying "snip" of the scissors cutting the air, but as soon as they got close to his face, he couldn't bring himself to close his fingers together. "Are you kidding me? I can't cut my beard either!?"

It had become evidant that whatever magic had transformed Harvey twice today was also preventing him from removing his patka and hair, even in his white form. "I need to find a way to get 100% back to normal, and also prevent future transformations." Harvey thought the best way to do that was to write down everything he knew about his predicament. He grabbed his Religious Studies 372 notebook and started a list on a new page. 1. This all started when those people from the Sikh club tied this patka on my head. 2. I can't take the patka off, except to sleep and shower. Even then, I end up tying it back on without noticing. 3. When fabric touches this patka, I turn into one of those turbanned Indian guys. The table cloth and the scarf had very different results. Maybe the type of cloth matters? 4. When I transform, my personality changes a little bit and my memory gets a bit foggy. I should keep this notebook with me so I don't forget who I really am.

Harvey sighed and closed the notebook. He didn't know much yet, but this was a start. "It goes without saying I need to avoid that Sikh club, even if it does cost me a grade" Harvey checked the time on his phone "can't let my other grades slip though, my break's almost over" Harvey packed his things and marched to his next class, believing that he was temporarily safe from Punjabification.

[kemetic-dreams]

How Italians Became ‘White’

Congress envisioned a white, Protestant and culturally homogeneous America when it declared in 1790 that only “free white persons, who have, or shall migrate into the United States” were eligible to become naturalized citizens. The calculus of racism underwent swift revision when waves of culturally diverse immigrants from the far corners of Europe changed the face of the country.

As the historian Matthew Frye Jacobson shows in his immigrant history “Whiteness of a Different Color,” the surge of newcomers engendered a national panic and led Americans to adopt a more restrictive, politicized view of how whiteness was to be allocated. Journalists, politicians, social scientists and immigration officials embraced the habit, separating ostensibly white Europeans into “races.” Some were designated “whiter” — and more worthy of citizenship — than others, while some were ranked as too close to blackness to be socially redeemable. The story of how Italian immigrants went from racialized pariah status in the 19th century to white Americans in good standing in the 20th offers a window onto the alchemy through which race is constructed in the United States, and how racial hierarchies can sometimes change.

Darker skinned southern Italians endured the penalties of blackness on both sides of the Atlantic. In Italy, Northerners had long held that Southerners — particularly Sicilians — were an “uncivilized” and racially inferior people, too obviously African to be part of Europe.

Racist dogma about Southern Italians found fertile soil in the United States. As the historian Jennifer Guglielmo writes, the newcomers encountered waves of books, magazines and newspapers that “bombarded Americans with images of Italians as racially suspect.” They were sometimes shut out of schools, movie houses and labor unions, or consigned to church pews set aside for black people. They were described in the press as “swarthy,” “kinky haired” members of a criminal race and derided in the streets with epithets like “dago,” “guinea” — a term of derision applied to enslaved Africans and their descendants — and more familiarly racist insults like “white nigger” and “nigger wop.”

The penalties of blackness went well beyond name-calling in the apartheid South. Italians who had come to the country as “free white persons” were often marked as black because they accepted “black” jobs in the Louisiana sugar fields or because they chose to live among African-Americans. This left them vulnerable to marauding mobs like the ones that hanged, shot, dismembered or burned alive thousands of black men, women and children across the South.

The federal holiday honoring the Italian explorer Christopher Columbus — celebrated on Monday — was central to the process through which Italian-Americans were fully ratified as white during the 20th century. The rationale for the holiday was steeped in myth, and allowed Italian-Americans to write a laudatory portrait of themselves into the civic record.

Few who march in Columbus Day parades or recount the tale of Columbus’s voyage from Europe to the New World are aware of how the holiday came about or that President Benjamin Harrison proclaimed it as a one-time national celebration in 1892 — in the wake of a bloody New Orleans lynching that took the lives of 11 Italian immigrants. The proclamation was part of a broader attempt to quiet outrage among Italian-Americans, and a diplomatic blowup over the murders that brought Italy and the United States to the brink of war.

Historians have recently showed that America’s dishonorable response to this barbaric event was partly conditioned by racist stereotypes about Italians promulgated in Northern newspapers like The Times. A striking analysis by Charles Seguin, a sociologist at Pennsylvania State University, and Sabrina Nardin, a doctoral student at the University of Arizona, shows that the protests lodged by the Italian government inspired something that had failed to coalesce around the brave African-American newspaper editor and anti-lynching campaigner Ida B. Wells — a broad anti-lynching effort.

A Black ‘Brute’ Lynched

The lynchings of Italians came at a time when newspapers in the South had established the gory convention of advertising the far more numerous public murders of African-Americans in advance — to attract large crowds — and justifying the killings by labeling the victims “brutes,” “fiends,” “ravishers,” “born criminals” or “troublesome Negroes.” Even high-minded news organizations that claimed to abhor the practice legitimized lynching by trafficking in racist stereotypes about its victims.

As Mr. Seguin recently showed, many Northern newspapers were “just as complicit” in justifying mob violence as their Southern counterparts. For its part, The Times made repeated use of the headline “A Brutal Negro Lynched,” presuming the victims’ guilt and branding them as congenital criminals. Lynchings of black men in the South were often based on fabricated accusations of sexual assault. As the Equal Justice Initiative explained in its 2015 report on lynching in America, a rape charge could occur in the absence of an actual victim and might arise from minor violations of the social code — like complimenting a white woman on her appearance or even bumping into her on the street.

The Times was not owned by the family that controls it today when it dismissed Ida B. Wells as a “slanderous and nasty-minded mulattress” for rightly describing rape allegations as “a thread bare lie” that Southerners used against black men who had consensual sexual relationships with white women. Nevertheless, as a Times editorialist of nearly 30 years standing — and a student of the institution’s history — I am outraged and appalled by the nakedly racist treatment my 19th-century predecessors displayed in writing about African-Americans and Italian immigrants.

When Wells took her anti-lynching campaign to England in the 1890s, Times editors rebuked her for representing “black brutes” abroad in an editorial that joked about what they described as “the practice of roasting Negro ravishers alive and boring out their eyes with red-hot pokers.” The editorial slandered African-Americans generally, referring to rape as “a crime to which Negroes are particularly prone.” The Times editors may have lodged objections to lynching — but they did so in a rhetoric firmly rooted in white supremacy.

‘Assassins by Nature’

Italian immigrants were welcomed into Louisiana after the Civil War, when the planter class was in desperate need of cheap labor to replace newly emancipated black people, who were leaving backbreaking jobs in the fields for more gainful employment.

These Italians seemed at first to be the answer to both the labor shortage and the increasingly pressing quest for settlers who would support white domination in the emerging Jim Crow state. Louisiana’s romance with Italian labor began to sour when the new immigrants balked at low wages and dismal working conditions.

The newcomers also chose to live together in Italian neighborhoods, where they spoke their native tongue, preserved Italian customs and developed successful businesses that catered to African-Americans, with whom they fraternized and intermarried. In time, this proximity to blackness would lead white Southerners to view Sicilians, in particular, as not fully white and to see them as eligible for persecution — including lynching — that had customarily been imposed on African-Americans.

https://static01.nyt.com/newsgraphics/2019/10/10/srw1011-staplesgallery/4792c59ca6f516c487b724c1c77fd4899b3050d3/photo_cat.jpg

Nevertheless, as the historian Jessica Barbata Jackson showed recently in the journal Louisiana History, Italian newcomers were still well thought of in New Orleans in the 1870s when negative stereotypes were being established in the Northern press.

The Times, for instance, described them as bandits and members of the criminal classes who were “wretchedly poor and unskilled,” “starving and wholly destitute.” The stereotype about inborn criminality is plainly evident in an 1874 story about Italian immigrants seeking vaccinations that refers to one immigrant as a “burly fellow, whose appearance was like that of the traditional brigand of the Abruzzi.”

A Times story in 1880 described immigrants, including Italians, as “links in a descending chain of evolution.” These characterizations reached a defamatory crescendo in an 1882 editorial that appeared under the headline “Our Future Citizens.” The editors wrote:

“There has never been since New York was founded so low and ignorant a class among the immigrants who poured in here as the Southern Italians who have been crowding our docks during the past year.”

The editors reserved their worst invective for Italian immigrant children, whom they described as “utterly unfit — ragged, filthy, and verminous as they were — to be placed in the public primary schools among the decent children of American mechanics.”

The racist myth that African-Americans and Sicilians were both innately criminal drove an 1887 Times story about a lynching victim in Mississippi whose name was given as “Dago Joe” — “dago” being a slur directed at Italian and Spanish-speaking immigrants. The victim was described as a “half breed” who “was the son of a Sicilian father and a mulatto mother, and had the worst characteristics of both races in his makeup. He was cunning, treacherous and cruel, and was regarded in the community where he lived as an assassin by nature.”

Sicilians as ‘Rattlesnakes’

The carnage in New Orleans was set in motion in the fall of 1890, when the city’s popular police chief, David Hennessy, was assassinated on his way home one evening. Hennessy had no shortage of enemies. The historian John V. Baiamonte Jr. writes that he had once been tried for murder in connection with the killing of a professional rival. He is also said to have been involved in a feud between two Italian businessmen. On the strength of a clearly suspect witness who claimed to hear Mr. Hennessy say that “dagoes” had shot him, the city charged 19 Italians with complicity in the chief’s murder.

The monument to David Hennessy rises above nearly all the other tombs in Metairie Cemetery in New Orleans.William Widmer for The New York Times

That the evidence was distressingly weak was evident from the verdicts that were swiftly handed down: Of the first nine to be tried, six were acquitted; three others were granted mistrials. The leaders of the mob that then went after them advertised their plans in advance, knowing full well that the city’s elites — who coveted the businesses the Italians had built or hated the Italians for fraternizing with African-Americans — would never seek justice for the dead. After the lynching, a grand jury investigation pronounced the killings praiseworthy, turning that inquiry into what the historian Barbara Botein describes as “possibly one of the greatest whitewashes in American history.”

The blood of the New Orleans victims was scarcely dry when The Times published a cheerleading news story — “Chief Hennessy Avenged: Eleven of his Italian Assassins Lynched by a Mob” — that reveled in the bloody details. It reported that the mob had consisted “mostly of the best element” of New Orleans society. The following day, a scabrous Times editorial justified the lynching — and dehumanized the dead, with by-now-familiar racist stereotypes.

“These sneaking and cowardly Sicilians,” the editors wrote, “the descendants of bandits and assassins, who have transported to this country the lawless passions, the cutthroat practices … are to us a pest without mitigations. Our own rattlesnakes are as good citizens as they. Our own murderers are men of feeling and nobility compared to them.” The editors concluded of the lynching that it would be difficult to find “one individual who would confess that privately he deplores it very much.”

Lynchers in 1891 storming the New Orleans city jail, where they killed 11 Italian-Americans accused in the fatal shooting of Chief Hennessy.Italian Tribune

President Harrison would have ignored the New Orleans carnage had the victims been black. But the Italian government made that impossible. It broke off diplomatic relations and demanded an indemnity that the Harrison administration paid. Harrison even called on Congress in his 1891 State of the Union to protect foreign nationals — though not black Americans — from mob violence.

Harrison’s Columbus Day proclamation in 1892 opened the door for Italian-Americans to write themselves into the American origin story, in a fashion that piled myth upon myth. As the historian Danielle Battisti shows in “Whom We Shall Welcome,” they rewrote history by casting Columbus as “the first immigrant” — even though he never set foot in North America and never immigrated anywhere (except possibly to Spain), and even though the United States did not exist as a nation during his 15th-century voyage. The mythologizing, carried out over many decades, granted Italian-Americans “a formative role in the nation-building narrative.” It also tied Italian-Americans closely to the paternalistic assertion, still heard today, that Columbus “discovered” a continent that was already inhabited by Native Americans.

The “Monument to the Immigrant,” commissioned by the Italian American Marching Club of New Orleans, stands along the Mississippi River in Woldenberg Park.William Widmer for The New York Times

But in the late 19th century, the full-blown Columbus myth was yet to come. The New Orleans lynching solidified a defamatory view of Italians generally, and Sicilians in particular, as irredeemable criminals who represented a danger to the nation. The influential anti-immigrant racist Representative Henry Cabot Lodge of Massachusetts, soon to join the United States Senate, quickly appropriated the event. He argued that a lack of confidence in juries, not mob violence, had been the real problem in New Orleans. “Lawlessness and lynching are evil things,” he wrote, “but a popular belief that juries cannot be trusted is even worse.”

Facts aside, Lodge argued, beliefs about immigrants were in themselves sufficient to warrant higher barriers to immigration. Congress ratified that notion during the 1920s, curtailing Italian immigration on racial grounds, even though Italians were legally white, with all of the rights whiteness entailed.

The Italian-Americans who labored in the campaign that overturned racist immigration restrictions in 1965 used the romantic fictions built up around Columbus to political advantage. This shows yet again how racial categories that people mistakenly view as matters of biology grow out of highly politicized myth making.

[beardedmrbean]

A White history teacher accused a California teachers union of discriminating against him on the basis of his skin color and called the move "disgusting."

Isaac Newman, a teacher in the Elk Grove School District, on Friday filed a federal lawsuit against his local National Education Association affiliate for allegedly violating his Title VII civil rights. The suit alleged that the Elk Grove Education Association formed a seat on its executive board that was only available to candidates of color, meaning Newman wasn't eligible.

"It's disgusting, and that's why I'm suing," he told Fox News Digital in an interview.

"My union barred me from a leadership position simply because of the color of my skin," he said, discussing the suit. "I'm prohibited from running for a leadership position simply because of my race. This kind of racial litmus test is illegal, and it's un-American, and that's why I'm taking them to court." 

In 2023, Elk Grove Education Association officials voted to create a "BIPOC At-Large" seat on its executive board, a position limited only to people who "self-identify" as "African American (Black), Native American, Alaska Native, Native Hawai’ian, Pacific Islander, Latino (including Puerto Rican), Asian, Arab, and Middle Eastern," according to the suit. 

"Plaintiff Isaac Newman is a white [EGEA] member who wants to run for union office to address the District’s recent adoption of what he believes to be aggressive and unnecessary Diversity, Equity & Inclusion (DEI) policies," reads the lawsuit, filed by The Fairness Center, a legal group focused on representing "those hurt by public-sector union officials."

The suit asked the court to "declare the BIPOC Position unlawful" and prevent the union "from creating any similar positions in the future where candidate eligibility is, in whole or in part, based on race." 

Newman said the alleged discrimination was "frightening," as was the prevalence of critical race theory in society's culture. 

"I'm actually really frightened for my children," he said, "when we look to a future where people are being taught [critical race theory]."

Newman believes that DEI ideology pushes hostile messages that focus on a person's skin color as opposed to their expertise and knowledge.

"The message there is that as a White teacher in a district that is very diverse, my students can't learn from me," he said. "It's abhorrent, and it's flatly wrong."

Newman told Fox News Digital that after disagreeing with the union pushing "aggressive" DEI agendas in the district, he decided to run for an executive seat to challenge the status quo. 

"I'm looking to see my district and union back away from this fantastically toxic ideology, back away from DEI and embrace merit and individuality," he said. "I'm hoping to see that other teachers, other people in similar organizations, will stand up." 

Newman said he was not alone in his opposition to DEI in school districts. 

"Most people who think like me are unwilling to speak up," he said. "There are a lot of teachers [who are silent], and it's not really a conservative or liberal thing."

"There are a lot of teachers who recognize that meritocracy, colorblindness are at the core of good teaching," Newman added. "What's shocking is in these DEI trainings, they actually call out colorblindness and meritocracy as racist myths. And of course, if you're dedicated to that, well, then you're going to have division, and you're going to have mediocrity." 

Fox News Digital reached out to the Elk Grove union for comment. 

"Teachers’ unions don’t get a pass from laws that prohibit racial discrimination," said Fairness Center President and general counsel Nathan McGrath. "The Civil Rights Act explicitly forbids unions from discriminating based on race, color, religion, sex or national origin and from segregating members based on these attributes." 

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Jack, Deuce: Reason for Strength

Every time Jack talks about Magical Shift, I think about how he used to watch Leona play on the TV 😂 which… I DON’T KNOW, I THINK IT’S KINDA CUTE HOW HE LOOKS UP TO LEONA LIKE THAT

L*ona as a respectable upperclassman that his juniors admire 🤡 This is literally Epel’s Union Birthday interview all over again... OTL

A Boy in Bloom, and his Flowering Future

“What do you do on your days off?“

“I train.” Jack said it as though it were the most obvious, most simple answer in the entire world. (And, if the massive size of his muscles said anything about it, Deuce didn’t doubt him.) “I keep a notebook, research different protein bars... that kind of thing.”

“That makes sense! It’s just like Coach Vargas says, if you want to get gains, you’ve got to commit yourself to constant training.” Deuce paused. “Oh, and apparently drink lots of raw eggs.”

“They’re a good source of protein,” Jack agreed, “but you can get a more varied diet if you mix in protein powders with your regular meals.” He took a look at Deuce’s arms, then added, “I can recommend some to you. Track and Field Club member to Track and Field Club member.”

“I’d appreciate it!” Deuce smiled gratefully. “Come to think of it, why are you in Track and Field instead of Magift?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I always figured since you look up to Kingscholar-senpai so much--”

“I-I do NOT!!” Jack cried indignantly (though his cheeks darkened bashfully and his ears flattened in a telltale way).

“--that you’d go for the same extracurricular he’s in. You mentioned before that you’re really into Defensive Magic too. Playing Magift would give you a chance to practice that, and using it with other types of magic. It seems like a perfect fit for you.”

“It’s a team sport,” Jack grunted. “Not my thing. I’m better off doing things myself.”

“Oh.”

The birthday boy turned away, as if closing the conversation like a book, its story told time and time again. The frown on his face was like a worn cover or folded pages, creased with lines and frayed at the edges. 

Deuce regarded him with a pensive look. “… Hey, Jack. I’ve been wondering this for a while now, but… Why do you want to become so strong?”

“Why?”

“Yeah. I mean, there’s gotta be a reason for it, right? Otherwise, you wouldn’t be working so hard. Um! Like how I’m aiming to be an honors student to make my mom proud. I want to know what drives you!”

Jack’s fur bristled. His eyes darted away. “Wanting to be strong is its own reward,” he said gruffly. “What I have right now isn’t enough.”

“Dude, you’re already the buffest guy I know!!”

“It’s still not enough,” Jack repeated, clenching his hands into fists. (Deuce nervously eyed the beastman’s broomstick, afraid that he would snap it cleanly in half from the way the wood strained against his grip.)

“How can it not be enough?”

Jack faced his friend. A new haunted urgency shone in his fierce stare. “Because even someone as strong as Leona-senpai can have moments of weakness. Times when they turn on others and give in to their darkest impulses.”

Deuce gulped. An unspoken word formed a creeping chill along his skin.

Overblot.

They had both been there that day in the coliseum. They had both witnessed Leona’s dissent into madness, how his face twisted and writhed with pain as black ink consumed him.

The earth-shattering roar he had let out then, whipping sands making their eyes tear, pushing them farther and farther away... Their voices not reaching him.

“Strength will never be enough. That’s why I need to dedicate myself to training--not just my muscles, but my mind and spirit too. So when that day comes where I’m challenged, I’ll be ready for it.” Jack nodded solemnly. “I won’t give in.”

I will protect the ones I love with all my strength. That is the reason I train.

“Wow...” Deuce gaped, his jaw slack. “… I don’t get it!! But whatever you said just now sounded really cool and inspirational!

“Uh...” Jack felt for the back of his neck. “Thanks?”

Deuce gave a grin and playfully punched the birthday boy on the arm. His fist bounced off harmlessly. “You’re strong and smart. Whatever you do with your power... I know you’ll do good with it.”

Jack smiled back awkwardly. “You too. Well, you’re not too bright, but you’re strong for your family and friends.”

That makes two of us.

Deuce flinched. “I’m working on the bright part!!’

“I know.” Jack tilted his head, the brim of his wizard’s cap casting a shadow over his broadening smile. “... Good luck with your training.”

“To both of us!” Deuce corrected him.

“To both of us.”

Jack shielded his eyes, lifting his gaze to the clear autumn skies--and the blazing sun that scorched it. There seemed to be no end to its brilliant blue hue. He could get lost in it forever.

Jack cut to his classmate.

“You and me,” Deuce said, a wicked glint now set in his serious face. “We’ll see who can meet their goal first.”

“It’s a race, then.” Jack swept onto his broom and mounted it with a smirk. The flowers in place of the bristles shimmered with a golden halo of light. “You’re on.”

The boys spoke in unison.

“I’ll see you at the finish line.”

Jack took off like a rocket, his tail streaking behind him like a flag. Sunshine colored petals rained down.

Cupping his hands together, Deuce shouted something after Jack. His laughter caught on a blast of crisp wind and warm leaves, echoing after the birthday boy like a trail of indescribable magic.

Jack laughed back, raising a balled hand into the air.

Triumph and a promise in his grasp.

[lboogie1906]

Marsha Lovelle Turner Taylor (May 27, 1953 - January 25, 1977) was the first national leader of the Black Panther Party Free Breakfast Program. She was born in Berkeley to William Turner and Charles Etta Keyes. They were one of the first legally married interracial couples in California.

In 1968, she was elected president of the Black Student Union at Berkeley High School. She attended rallies held by the Black Panther Party for Self-Defense. While attending one of those rallies, she attracted the attention of a co-founder of the BPP, Bobby Seale, and she left her formal education at the age of fifteen to become involved with the Party. She finished her schooling at the Huey P. Newton Institute for Learning in Oakland. Seale recruited her to the BPP and she became the national leader of the Free Breakfast Program, started in 1968 in Oakland. She worked as a teacher at the Huey P. Newton Institute.

The program fed hundreds of Black children each day. She worked with the children daily as well, teaching them to be proud of their race and their skin color. The Panthers had set up similar free breakfast programs across the US. As National Leader, she traveled to different locations and abroad to Europe to speak on behalf of the Black Panther Party and its free breakfast program, to develop the Party’s international following, and to raise funds for the Party’s various programs.

She married Van William Taylor (1970). The couple had two sons. Van Taylor joined the party at a young age. He rose through the ranks from Section Leader to Lieutenant Field Marshal. He was a key member of the bodyguard detail for Seale and the guard for the BPP Central Committee, which included co-founder Huey Newton and other prominent party members such as Emery Douglas and David Hilliard. In 1972, she left the party.

The Free Breakfast Program that she ran for the Black Panther Party proved to be her most enduring legacy. The program was adopted by hundreds of public school districts across the US which today provide millions of meals to their students. #africanhistory365 #africanexcellence

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Evan Stambaugh

Published: August 14, 2022

A Minneapolis teachers union contract stipulates that white teachers will be laid off or reassigned before “educators of color” in the event Minneapolis Public Schools (MPS) needs to reduce staff.

After the Minneapolis Federation of Teachers (MFT) and MPS struck a deal on March 25 to end a 14-day teacher strike, the two sides drew up and ratified a new collective bargaining agreement complete with various proposals.

One of the proposals dealt with “educators of color protections.” The agreement states that if a non-white teacher is subject to excess, MPS must excess a white teacher with the “next least” seniority.

“Starting with the Spring 2023 Budget Tie-Out Cycle, if excessing a teacher who is a member of a population underrepresented among licensed teachers in the site, the District shall excess the next least senior teacher, who is not a member of an underrepresented population,” the agreement reads.

According to the United Federation of Teachers, “excessing” means “reducing staff in a particular school when there is a reduction in the number of available positions in a title or license area in that school.”

The agreement adds that non-white teachers, as well as those working in various programs, “may be exempted from district-wide layoff[s] outside seniority order.” The agreement also prioritizes the reinstatement of teachers from “underrepresented populations” over white teachers.

The stated justification for these measures is “to remedy the continuing effects of past discrimination by the District.”

“Past discrimination by the District disproportionately impacted the hiring of underrepresented teachers in the District, as compared to the relevant labor market and the community, and resulted in a lack of diversity of teachers,” the agreement adds.

The Star Tribune reports that the “seniority-disrupting language” of the agreement is one of the first of its kind in the entire United States. Teachers are normally laid off or excessed based on seniority alone, but the new agreement adds a racial component as well.

James Dickey, senior trial counsel at the Upper Midwest Law Center (UMLC), says the racial component violates both the Minnesota and United States constitutions.

“The [collective bargaining agreement] … openly discriminates against white teachers based only on the color of their skin, and not their seniority or merit,” Dickey told Alpha News. “Minneapolis teachers and taxpayers who oppose government-spon.sored racism like this should stand up against it.”

Dickey also urged “any Minneapolis taxpayer or teacher who opposes this racial preference system” to send the UMLC an email.

According to the Star Tribune, roughly 16% of MPS teachers with tenure and 27% of its probationary teachers are non-white, while more than 60% of students are non-white.

==

California tried to pull this before Minnesota, and lost a lawsuit. California also tried to repeal anti-discrimination laws - in the name of "equity" - and were shot down at the polls.

If the rationalization "to remedy the continuing effects of past discrimination by the District" sounds familiar, it's textbook Kendi.

“The only remedy to past discrimination is present discrimination. The only remedy to present discrimination is future discrimination.”

-- "How to Be an Antiracist," Ibram X. Kendi

As stated, this would seem to suggest that the district was nakedly violating decades-old anti-discrimination laws in the past. Which would be both illegal and morally wrong. But that's not what they mean. They mean vague mysterious ways "systems" which manifest and operate independently of any human with ill intent.

This is what "equity" means. Violating ethics to treat black and brown folk like fragile idiots, and white folk like dirt. In the name of virtue.

[ausetkmt]

The alerts from groups representing Black and Latino Americans come as the state’s Republican governor, Ron DeSantis, is expected to enter the 2024 presidential race with a campaign built on tenets of the conservative agenda he’s fostered in Florida.

The NAACP issued a travel advisory for Florida “in direct response to … DeSantis’ aggressive attempts to erase Black history and to restrict diversity, equity, and inclusion programs in Florida schools,” the group said Saturday in a statement.

“Beware that your life is not valued,” NAACP President and CEO Derrick Johnson told CNN on Monday. He cited a new DeSantis-backed law allowing gun owners to carry a concealed weapon without a permit, as well as education policies that include a ban on teaching about gender identity and sexual orientation through 12th grade.

The announcement came days after LULAC – the League of United Latin American Citizens – issued a travel advisory for Florida after DeSantis signed a new immigration law that will go into effect in July.

Both LULAC and the NAACP say actions under the DeSantis administration are “hostile” to their communities.

“Florida is openly hostile toward African Americans, people of color and LGBTQ+ individuals,” the NAACP said. “Before traveling to Florida, please understand that the state of Florida devalues and marginalizes the contributions of, and the challenges faced by African Americans and other communities of color.”

Under DeSantis, Florida has banned the teaching of critical race theory, which acknowledges systemic racism is a part of American history and challenges the beliefs that allowed it to flourish. The governor said the concept would teach children “the country is rotten and that our institutions are illegitimate.”

DeSantis has supported legislation barring instruction that suggests anyone is privileged or oppressed based on their race or skin color. His administration also blocked a preliminary version of a new Advanced Placement course for high school students on African American studies, with Florida’s Department of Education saying it “significantly lacks educational value.”

The NAACP said DeSantis’ actions are “in direct conflict with the democratic ideals that our union was founded upon.”

“Let me be clear: Failing to teach an accurate representation of the horrors and inequalities that Black Americans have faced and continue to face is a disservice to students and a dereliction of duty to all,” said Johnson, the NAACP president.

CNN has sought comment from DeSantis’ office.

After the DeSantis administration rejected the AP African American studies course, the NAACP distributed 10,000 books to 25 predominantly Black communities across Florida in collaboration with the American Federation of Teachers’ Reading Opens the World program, the NAACP said.

The majority of the books donated were titles banned under the state’s increasingly restrictive laws. The NAACP continues to encourage local branches and youth councils to start community libraries to ensure access to representative literature.

The NAACP also decried Florida’s new concealed weapon law, which also states gun owners no longer have to take any training before carrying a concealed weapon outside the home. It goes into effect July 1.

The NAACP president said such measures are “not business-attractive policies” and urged members to consider holding conventions outside of Florida.

“The policies that he has put in place are harmful policies to far too many individuals,” Johnson said.

This isn’t the first time the NAACP has issued a travel advisory for a state. In 2017, the NAACP warned people of color about traveling to Missouri after the state passed Senate Bill 43, which made it more difficult for employees to prove their protected class, such as race or gender.

While the governor said the new law put Missouri’s standards for lawsuits in line with other states, the NAACP said it allows unlawful discrimination.

[claudia1829things]

TIME MACHINE: Mary S. Peake

TIME MACHINE: MARY S. PEAKE

One of the least known historical figures from the 19th century an American educator and humanitarian named Mary S. Peake. Along with her husband, Mrs. Peake was a member of the African American elite community from Hampton, Virginia before the U.S. Civil War.

In 1823 Norfolk, Virginia; Mary Peake was born as Mary Smith Kelsey to a light-skinned free woman of color and an Englishman. Her mother sent Mary to live with her aunt in Alexandria (then part of the District of Columbia), so that she could attend school. Mary spent another eight years attending a primary school operated by Sylvia Morris. Since Alexandria was part of the District of Columbia until 1846, when it was retro-ceded to Virgina. A new U.S. Congress law prohibited free people of color in Virginia and several other Southern states from being educated. This prohibition came as a result from the Nat Turner Rebellion in 1831. When Alexandria was retro-ceded back to Virginia in 1846, all schools for free people of color were closed due to this law. However, Mary had completed her education at age sixteen by 1839 and returned to her family in Norfolk.

Not long after her return to Norfolk, Mary secretly taught some of the city's slaves and free blacks to read and write in defiance of the law that prohibited African Americans from receiving an education. Her widowed mother married a free man of color named Thompson Walker in 1847 and the family moved to Hampton, Virginia, where they purchased a house. In 1850-51, Mary married Thomas Peake, a freed slave who worked in the merchant marine. The couple had a daughter named Hattie, whom they nicknamed "Daisy". As she had done in Norfolk, Mary began teaching some of the neighborhood's slaves and free blacks in defiance of the law prohibiting their education. Kelsey also founded a women's charitable organization, called the Daughters of Zion, whose mission was to assist the poor, the sick and enslaved fugitives who managed to reach Hampton. She supported herself and her family as a dressmaker and continued to teach in secret. Among her adult students was her stepfather Thompson Walker, who became a leader of Hampton's black community.

A few weeks following the outbreak of the U.S. Civil War, Union forces assumed control of the nearby Fort Monroe. The fortification became a place of refuge for enslaved fugitives seeking asylum. The Union defined them as "contraband", a legal status to prevent their being returned to Confederate slaveholders. They built the Grand Contraband Camp near, but outside the protection of Fort Monroe. Her classes moved inside Fort Monroe, after Confederate forces torched Hampton in August 1861. After Mary Peake began teaching the fugitives' children, the American Missionary Association (AMA) hired her as its first paid black teacher. Mary taught her first class and many others under a large oak tree on September 17, 1861; in Phoebus, a small town nearby in Elizabeth City County.

Eventually, the AMA provided Peake with Brown Cottage, which is considered the first facility of Hampton Institute (and later Hampton University). Mary's school taught more than fifty children during the day and twenty adults at night. Due to her classes being held at Brown Cottage, Mary became associated with the AMA’s later founding of Hampton University in 1868. However, Mary never enjoyed this distinction during her lifetime. Before the war, she had contracted tuberculosis. The illness struck her again in February 1862. And on February 22, 1862 - George Washington's birthday - Mary Peake died of tuberculosis.

For more details on Mary S. Peake, I recommend the following book:

"Mary S. Peake, The Colored Teacher at Fortress Monroe" by Rev. Lewis C. Lockwood

[starsasunder]

DOSSIER: The Starweaver, Astraea

Still heavily under construction; thank you for your patience !

GENERAL INFORMATION

NAME: Astraea NICKNAMES: Astraea, Aster, Stardust TITLES: Azem, The Traveler PRONOUNS: she/they SEXUALITY: demiromantic, demisexual, polyamorous (verse-dependent) DOB: spring equinox CHILDHOOD HOME: Tyre, a city located on the coast. OCCUPATION: Student/Researcher at the Akaedemiya, Azem (verse-dependent). RESIDENCE: Apartment in Amaurot SPECIALTIES: Celestial studies, magics.

⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙∘☽༓☾∘∙•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅

RELATIONS:

MOTHER: Pythia, formerly of the seat of Lahabrea. FATHER: Oleander, a member of the Words of Halmarut.

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ABILITIES: volatile creation magicks, innate clairvoyance / foresight.

CLASSES: A mixture of what citizens of modern etheirys would call black magic and astrology. MAGIC: Her magic is celestial-aspected, and focuses on channeling the energies of stellar creation and destruction. She is far more well-versed in the arts of destruction and summoning than she is in the arts of healing, though she can patch someone up in a pinch.

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APPEARANCE:

HAIR COLOR: Silver with dark undertones. HAIR LENGTH: Waist-length. HAIR STYLE: long and curly, with bangs across her forehead. EYE COLOR: Silver EYE SHAPE: Hooded eyes, rounded. WEIGHT: 120lbs soaking wet. HEIGHT: About 5'4", in modern measurements. BUILD: Thin and lithe, but full-chested. She has always been sickly, so she has just enough muscle-mass to facilitate travel by foot where she must. SCARS: None, as she allows healers to erase them when she receives healing. Her mother insists that her skin remain unblemished. TATTOOS: N/A. NOTICEABLE: Freckles all over her body. The freckles on her cheeks are a lighter shade, like stars smattered across her cheeks. This trait passes on to those sundered reincarnations who are most similar to her.

⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙∘☽༓☾∘∙•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅

PERSONALITY:

"For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream."

Much like Inanna, Astraea is soft-spoken by nature. Her parents were proponents of 'children should be seen, not heard,' and it took a long while for her to break free from that mold. As Azem, she has an uncanny ability to disappear into crowds, and often walks among the populace without ever revealing her true identity. According to her, it is far easier to perform her duties without others fawning over her. Thus, she rarely wears her red Convocation mask (a habit which vexes certain colleagues).

Her parentage and gifts are a closely-held secret, one which she does not divulge even to close colleagues and friends. She has no control over her visions. They come upon her suddenly, with little regard to time, place, or circumstance, and can be a great danger to her in battle. This, combined with her physical frailty, means she often calls upon her friends for aide. Thus, those who are closest to her have some understanding of her abilities, even if she does not openly or willingly discuss it with them. This can be a point of contention between her and those closest to her, as she obstinately refuses to share her burdens unless otherwise forced.

⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙∘☽༓☾∘∙•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅

BACKSTORY:

From the very beginning, her parents had high expectations for her. Her mother's bloodline was known for its powerful gift of foresight, and her father's for its deep magical wellspring. Though Pythia and Oleander did hold genuine affection for each other, they chose to marry because they wanted to combine the potential of their two bloodlines. From their union came one child - Astraea: a sickly, small thing whose timid nature was nothing like their own.

Though Astraea's health was a disappointment, her power was not. Pythia soon chose to vacate her seat on the Convocation in order to focus on her child, citing that her mind was too preoccupied on personal matters to meet the needs of the star. Astraea received the full focus of her mother's attentions - all her love, all her hopes and desires for the future, and all of her expectations. Much of her childhood was spent in a sickbed, though even then she was not allowed to rest. Each day was filled with the study of creation magicks, the heavens, the world they lived in, and the strengthening of her understanding of Etheirys's complex political landscape and peoples. In Astraea, Pythia saw her perfect successor, and she was determined to overcome the limitations of Astraea's health.

Astraea inherited the gifts of her maternal line, exactly as Pythia had always hoped. Pythia's power of clairvoyance had served her well as Lahabrea. She could peer into the past with clarity, given a physical focus, and had a limited ability to peer into the future of others given that she was allowed physical contact with them. Her family had long sought after a successor whose gift would allow them to overcome the physical limitations of their gifts.

They found their long-sought-after successor in Astraea. Her gifts shone bright, allowing her to peer with gaze unclouded into the future. She had no need for foci, and could peer far into the future, a talent which had heretofore been near-unheard of. But her gifts were also far more volatile than her mother's. She had no control over the ability. Its targets were completely random - usually people in her vicinity, though not always - and she had no way of knowing when the event that she saw would take place or even if it would. Her gifts allowed her to peer into potential futures, and its seemingly random nature was a source of endless frustration for Pythia.

Vexed by her daughter's seemingly uncontrollable gift, Pythia eventually decided to focus on her magical gifts. The pairing with her father had been successful in one other aspect - Astraea had inherited the deep magical wellspring that Oleander's bloodline had long prided themselves on. Pythia pushed Astraea hard, and gave her little time to enjoy being a child. By the time the girl was of adolescent age, she had advanced to the point where her mother's specialized talents had little else to teach her.

Astraea eventually found freedom in her education. Once she outgrew her mother's tutelage, she was at last allowed out into the world to attend university at the Akaedemiya. She had visited a handful of times before, always sticking close to her father's shadow, but as a student she was finally allowed to flourish on her own. Choosing to do everything she could to put her mother's influence behind her, she threw herself into her studies and her akadaemiya career. She joined student organizations, volunteered, and found work in several different departments. But nothing seemed to suit her in particular, and nothing seemed to stick. And though she enjoyed more freedoms than she ever had at home, Astraea knew she still had not escaped her mother's expectations and her father's watchful eye.

That was the case, at least, until she met Azem. Venat took to Astraea immediately, recognizing in her a kindred spirit, if she just had the freedom to wander as she wanted. Taking the young scholar under her wing, she inducted her into the Words of Azem, and promptly took her as a traveling companion. Astraea spent many years at Venat's side, doing everything she could to assist the Traveler with her work. Though far too soon for Astraea's liking, eventually Venat decided to step down and appoint Astraea her successor.

[chiwhorei]

team spirit

pairing: k. sakusa x fem!reader x a. miya

genre: college!au, smut, 18+ minors dni

word count: 2.6k

warnings: threesome, semi-public sex, daddy kink, spitting, a spank, a tiny bit of choking, tit-fucking, degradation, a little coercion, curruption, gaslighting, voyeurism, a subtle age gap (freshman vs. senior in college), cum play, cum eating. nothing too crazy and everything is consensual- it’s just pretty dirty lmao

a/n: in a radical act of self care i have given up on kinktober as it was killing all love that i had for writing. i present to you a piece written solely because it made me h-word. thank you to the love of my life @hqbbg for beta reading, you have my soul and share my desire to be mask-man’s little bitch.

hymn: smells like teen spirit by: nirvana

“Didn’t I tell ya’, princess?” Atsumu’s voice is low and sharp against the shell of your ear as he brushes away a rogue strand of hair from where it fell from your high-pony. The action gentle, the tone unmistakingly galled. “I told ya to behave, but ya’ never want to listen to me.”

The grip he has on you is bruising, fingers nestled on your hips, large hands scrunching your pleated cheer skirt and exposing you to the almost empty locker room. Your boyfriend’s hard-on is distinct against his shorts, pressing against your bare cunt. Your hips buck desperately in his hold, but any fight is useless. There’s no way Atsumu will give you more than just minimal friction; only enough to make you dizzy and malleable in his capture.

Atsumu isn’t oblivious. He’s fully aware of how sweet you look every week, cheering on the sidelines of his games, donning his jersey number in a heart on the apple of your cheek. Having the prettiest little member of your college’s cheer squad in his bed every night never fails to fill him with an almost evil pride. Ever since the beginning of the season, your first year in college, Atsumu has been on you. The moment he first saw you, skin sheened with a layer of sweat and workout shorts riding up high enough to see the angelic curve of your ass cheeks, you were his. He totes a fine line, dancing between cockiness at his prize girlfriend when you’re hit on or ogled, and egregious rage.

Game-night started the same as any other: Astumu sneaking away before warm-ups to kabedon you against the wall when you walked out of the girls locker room. You always flush red-hot, no matter how many times he traps you, fiddling with the pom-poms in your hold. He grabs them from you, tossing them without care onto the ground to pull you tightly against his hard chest, your wrist pinned against the front of your uniform top in one of his hands. The rest of your squad walks by the two of you without much thought; the scene unfolding is rehearsed at this point. It seems like the whole student-body ignores the two of you.

“You act more like a horny teenager than a senior in college, Atsumu.” You puff your cheeks out and glare at him from the fringe of your perfectly curled eyelashes. The fake-blond towering above you snorts at your defiance.

“Well, you act more like an old prude than a freshman in college, princess.” His lips dip lower to fan over yours, “And my name ain’t Atsumu.”

Your knees feel weak trapped in his grip, his presence a strange mix of comfort and distress. You’re welcomed home into the den of a lion. You gulp down a painful air bubble trapped in your throat and mumble an apology.

“I’m sorry, Daddy.”

It seems to please the arrogant setter, earning you a chirpy laugh as he twirls a piece of your hair in his finger. You hate when Atsumu seems upset with you, so relief washes over you at the light gesture. He releases his hold on your wrists and pulls you into a sloppy kiss. You melt into the feeling of his lips, his hands rubbing up and down your arms lazily, causing your body to slack against him. Atsumu’s attention always renders you compliant (often against better judgement).

“I’ve gotta go, but make sure I hear ya’ cheering out there for me, sweetheart,” he says after letting go of your lips with one last nip. So begins the quick restoration of your uniform from where it was misplaced by setter fingers. After you’ve collected yourself under the watchful eye of your senior, you bend at the waist to pick up the stray poms and feel the swift union of Atsumu’s hand against your ass. You scoff at his childishness, even though you had expected it. Game nights are always the same.

The same round of cat and mouse, the same suffocating sexual tension and embarrassing public display.

The only anomaly tonight is the lecherous stare of your boyfriend's teammate on your folded body. A stare that shouldn’t belong to the curly haired man fixes onto you and the view of your tight pair of spandex has turned him into stone.

Pride is a cardinal sin, and so is lust.

“Do ya’ like what ya’ see, Omi? She’s a pretty little thing ain’t she?” Your eyes snap up to meet the gaze of the man in front of your disheveled form. Sakusa’s eyes are dark and cold; his expression reads indifference, but the hard cock in his shorts is clearly seen. He’s frozen in place a few feet in front of the bench you’re displayed on. Your crisp white sneakers are on either side of Atsumu’s built thighs, knees bent and held in place by the man under you. Your uniform top and bra have been pushed up unceremoniously, freeing your tits to bounce slightly with every squirm. Sakusa watches every jiggle of soft, supple skin in front of him. The tent in his boxers is becoming painful with every heave. Both hands are pressed stiffly to his sides, left hand clutching your white, cotton panties. The fabric is damp, sticking slightly against his fingers and making him cringe. Disgusting.

Atsumu’s hand wanders down to spread the puffy lips of your pussy, long middle finger proading against your tight hole. Atsumu growls at the feeling of your arousal, not wasting any time sticking a digit into you with practiced movements. You whimper at the intrusion, legs feeling weak and shaky from their strained position as Atsumu adds a second finger with ease. He always knows exactly how to work you over, rendering you at a loss for words with his prodding against the spongy anterior of your pussy.

“Y/n is always such a little mess on her daddy’s fingers.” His middle and pointer finger are pulled out with a resounding pop and his palm lands a harsh pat against your clit. “Do you like putting on a show for Sakusa-san? He seems to fancy ya’, doesn't he?” You’re asked a question but can only yelp in response as Atsumu’s fingers are shoved back into you, pumping with fervor.

The tall man in front of you is only partially familiar; aside from volleyball games and visiting your boyfriend at practice, you’ve only seen Sakusa at the occasional party or team dinner. He’s never seemed too keen on getting to know you before, but now he’s palming himself at the sight of your most intimate angles completely open for his viewing pleasure. Sakusa’s slightly flushed cheeks and boring stare causes your cunt to clench around Atsumu’s fingers. Ever the painfully observant man, neither the tightening muscles nor the reason behind it is lost on the blond.

“Ya’ like being watched, that’s why yer sloppy pussy’s extra wet tonight, huh?” You shake your head frantically, not wanting to admit that the heat rising in your stomach is due to your voyeur’s deep brown eyes. Atsumu is a prideful man, some would say too much so, a fact he’ll have to atone for later. One thing he isn’t? Greedy.

“Omi-omi~” The singing of the stupid nickname seems to snap Sakusa out of his stupor as he flicks his eyes to meet Atsumu’s. “Don’t be shy, c’mere.” Sakusa is still working long strokes over his confined cock, stepping forward to further invade your personal space. Atsumu’s chin rests against your shoulder, face amused and casual, disconnected from what his hands are holding.

All you can do is look up at the looming figure, black hair falling in front of his face and mouth set in a harsh line. You’re eye level with the bulge in his shorts now, so close you can almost feel the fabric against your lips. Every sense is overwhelmed, crowded in the abandoned locker room with your boyfriend working you open in front of his teammate. Sakusa reaches out and runs his finger over the uniform top that sits wrinkled up above your breasts. His calloused pad runs over the article in a moment of contemplation, before pinching your hardened nipple. A surprised yelp falls from your lips along with the already tumbling whines.

Distracted by your new company, Atsumu’s cock releasing from his shorts goes unnoticed. With the dark, inky stare keeping you hostage, you only realize his fingers are being replaced when the hardened tip is pressing into you. A pathetic squeal rips through your throat at the breach. No matter how many times Atsumu stretches you out on his fat cock, it burns every time.

“I think ya’ should help Sakusa-san out, princess.” Another few inches disappear, your shaky balance is corrected with one of Atsumu’s hands wrapping around your neck, “Since it’s yer dirty little body that’s got ‘em all hard.”

The intonation wracks you with guilt, looking up at Sakusa with bleary, begging eyes. You’re not sure what exactly you’re begging for.

There’s no restraint left in Sakusa, having used most of it up when your panties were ripped off and tossed to him with a cheeky wink from his setter. He shoves said garment into his pocket before pushing his shorts and boxers down enough for his cock to spring free. Your eyes roll slightly at the sight in front of you, impressive in length and pleasantly veiny. Right under his head, you see two freckles, noting they almost mimic the ones right above his eyebrow.

Atsumu’s cock is snugly inside you, buried to the hilt, and you're pulled back into his broad chest by the grip on your throat. Sakusa holds himself at the base, stroking upwards and swirling his thumb against the precum collecting at his tip. He leans over you, slapping his head against your tits experimentally. The reaction Sakusa gets seems to be the one he was seeking, as your whispered cries thump to the same beat of his length against your skin.

“Such a nasty girl. You always look so sweet and innocent cheering for us. Does he fuck you like this after every game?” Sakusa has found his voice, regarding you coolly. Tears prick at your eyes, any retort caught behind your teeth as you stare back dumbly.

“Answer ‘em princess,” Atsumu lifts you up slightly to slam you back down onto his heavy cock; the sound is squelching in the stale air around you, “tell ‘em how you cream on Daddy’s cock after everyone leaves.”

“I- please, I-” You’re cut off by your own mewl when a string of saliva breaches Sakusa’s lips and falls towards your chest, watching as it ascends onto the valley between your tits. As it rolls down your sweat-sheened skin, the black-haired man rubs his weeping cock down the map his spit makes. Your brain is fuzzy at the attention of both men, warming your boyfriend's cock as his teammate grinds himself on your naked chest.

Sakusa grabs your wrists, causing your thighs to wobble weakly from their squatted position, and presses your palms to hold your breasts against his shaft. The pressure has Sakusa’s head falling back as soft, warm skin welcoming his shallow thrusts.

“Such a complaint little pet you have, Miya.” His hand brushes against your cheek and trails downwards to find purchase on your chin. “Dirty little girl,” his voice coos you, “Open wide.”

Your mouth falls at his order, fussing weakly at the nickname. Another sharp putt meets your ears and his warm spit hits the fattest plane of your tongue. Tears escape at the sides of your eyes with the overwhelming presence. Atsumu begins a slow assault on your aching pussy, removing the hand on your throat to pull your hips against his lap. The rhythm is a salacious duet with the cock nestled between your tits and has you clenching even tighter.

“Ya’ better not swallow Omi’s spit until I say so, princess. Keep that wicked tongue out for him to paint.” You do as you're told, as always, tongue lolled out with a pant. At your passivity, Atsumu rewards you with tight circles to your throbbing clit. His cheek presses against your own, peering over to watch his friend’s cock against your chest with wonder. Such a distinct beauty is found in the ruined body on top of him. As much as Atsumu appreciates the sweet, loving moments that he shares with you, the sight of your precious body bent to his will makes his dick twitch acutely. It’s sick how much he enjoys seeing how far he can push you-

“I’m going to cum on your girlfriend's sweet face, Miya. Christ, it’s disgusting how much she seems to want it.”

However, your enjoyment in your own depravity and humiliation is much more sickening.

Atsumu’s pace picks up, skin slapping against your sore pussy with new resolve. He wants to see you break into pieces right on the locker room bench. Your vision is spotting at the pressure on your clit, mixing with the dulled sting of being split open on the blond setter's thick cock. All you can do is produce a garbled squeal from around your dangling tongue. Sakusa pulls his cock from your chest, pumping his hand feverishly against the soft skin. The sight is almost unbelievable: a man who barely allows his teammates a high-five has your hair wrapped around his other fist. Your head is yanked back, eyes entrapped by Sakusa’s. Atsumu’s fingers are unrelenting against the bundle of nerves that now feels more like a ticking time-bomb.

“C’mon princess, don’t hold back on us. I wanna see ya’ cum right in front of Omi. Show’em how much team spirit ya’ got.” Atsumu’s teeth bite down onto your neck, angling his tip to press against that deepest spot inside of you. The fraying cord in your stomach is pulled taught, snapping at the feeling of Sakusa’s hot cum against your face, thick spurts landing on your cheer uniform and splattering against your already marred tongue.

Your own orgasm tears through you, burning deeply through every vein in your body. It’s sinful how your body reacts to the messy splotching of a stranger's cum against you, thrown head-first into release at the ministrations of the men on either side of you. Your tight rings of muscles pulsate around Atsumu’s cock, coaxing his own orgasm out to meet your silky insides. There’s nothing better in the world, Atsumu thinks to himself, than fucking his hot cum into your sweet, submissive body.

As the pair of volleyball players steady their own breathing, another menacing laugh escapes your boyfriend’s mouth. He peers over the mess in front of him, strings of cum drawing random patterns against your chest and cheeks. He turns your face towards him and smiles, finding that you did exactly as he asked. Your mouth wide, tongue still stuck out and awaiting further instruction. Such a perfect girl you are, letting Atsumu’s most debased fantasies play out on your innocent little body. Your job is to motivate his team after all, and there’s no better way to boost comradery after a win than to celebrate the best way he knows how.

“Team spirit, huh?” Sakusa tucks himself back into his shorts, leaning in to swipe his cum against your lips as a parting gift. You watch him with glassy eyes and suck on the digit when pressed against your tongue.

“That’s for sure.”

all writing is dymphnasprose’s original content, please do not repost or modify. do no read my content as asmr.©️

[mamabear-elinor]

The Forging of Bitter Bonds

III. A Shining Light September 07, 1992; September 14, 1992

[cw for a small instance of ~~casual racism]

The first day of the semester at the University of Edinburgh was insignificant to most. The weather was average; overcast and cool, the wind sweeping in off the ocean and chilling the bone if one was not careful. Elinor found it invigorating as she walked over the uneven cobblestones through the stone corridor that led out onto the street in Old Town. She checked the map that the student’s union had passed out at orientation and then crossed the street and into the warm little pub. 

“Ellie!” A pretty, redheaded girl stood up in her seat and waved rambunctiously, garnering the attention of a few other patrons of the quaint pub. 

Quickly, Elinor headed toward the table and slipped into the seat across from her. “Goldie, crivvens, you’re going to get us kicked out.” 

“Oh, psh. It’s fine. I already made friends with ol’ Tommy.” She wiggled the whiskey in her hand. 

“You’re underage,” Elinor pointed out, torn between disapproving and impressed.

“That’s such a nice name, don’t you think?” Marigold DunBroch ignored her. 

Elinor turned and looked over her shoulder at the bartender, who was nothing to look at. Old and balding, with a red nose and a missing front tooth. “No,” she replied primly after her assessment.

Marigold made a face but just sat back in her seat. “How was it then? I don’t have class until tomorrow, thank God.” 

Finally, Elinor smiled. “Wonderful! My professor for Art History 101 is a woman, Professor Howell. She’s amazing. I want to be just like her.” 

“You got all that from one class?” Marigold curled her fingers in a wave at a strapping young lad a few tables away, not looking in her friend’s direction. 

“Have you ever heard of Artemisia?” 

“Bless you.”

“Hilarious. Listen.” Elinor tugged her friend’s arm. “She was this woman painter in the seventeenth century. She was the first woman to be a member of the Accademia di Arte del Disegno. I didn’t even know women were painters then! It’s only my first day and I’ve already learned so much. Oh, there was another one. I can’t remember her name, shoot.” 

Elinor dove for her notebook in her satchel, which was made from fine leather. Her father had given it to her as a gift. She pulled out her notebook and sat back up. 

There was a girl standing in front of their table. 

“Oh, hello,” Elinor said with a tight smile, her brow furrowed slightly. “Can I help you?” 

Marigold had turned her focus on the newcomer as well. 

“You’re in Professor Howell’s class.” Her accent was Scottish, but there was something strange about it. Elinor could not place it.  

“Yes?” Elinor had a feeling it was not a question. 

“Me too,” the girl smiled. “I’m Sorcha. Can I sit with you? All the other tables are full and it’s started raining.” 

Elinor glanced over her shoulder to the rain, then over at Marigold, who shrugged a little and moved her stuff over to make room. “Yeah, sure, sit. Please.”

“Fabulous.” Sorcha did not need telling twice. She plopped down in the spare seat as soon as the table was clear. Her gold jewelry glinted in the low light, almost too bright for the dim pub. There were raindrops in the tight curls of her black hair. They caught the light too, twinkling like stars. She reached up and shook out her hair. A few droplets fell onto the table. “Sorry. I forgot my scarf at home today. It wasn’t supposed to rain.”

“That--that’s alright,” Elinor said after a moment. 

Sorcha smiled at her. “You’re sweet. I didn’t get your names--?” 

“I’m Marigold DunBroch.” Marigold held out her hand. “And that’s Elinor Briar. We call her Ellie, though.” 

“No, no we don’t,” Elinor corrected, feeling the tips of her ears heat slightly. 

“No worries,” Sorcha said, leaning back in her chair and spreading her legs so that one of her knees bumped the table, making Elinor jump slightly. Her posture was horrid. It was alarming. “I like Elinor better. It’s pretty. Do you know what it means?” 

Elinor furrowed her brow, her eyes jumping up from Sorcha’s thigh which was encroaching into her space. “What? No, uh--I think it was my grandmother’s name or...something like that.” 

“Shame. You know, a name can tell a lot about a person.” 

“How’s that?” This was Marigold, her eyes sparking bright as she leaned forward slightly.

“Well, you were named after your grandmother or something?” Sorcha was still looking at Elinor, her dark eyes assessing. 

Elinor couldn’t quite meet her gaze. “Do Marigold,” she mumbled, but cleared her throat and laughed once. 

“Yes, tell me about my name.” 

“Alright.” Sorcha’s eyes lingered for another moment on Elinor and then turned to Marigold, who was sitting primly, shoulders back, and wide, dazzling smile. Ever since they had been young, Marigold commanded every conversation her and Elinor were in. They did not see each other often, but if anyone asked, Marigold DunBroch was Elinor’s best friend in the whole world. 

“Well, from what I know marigolds are used for Día de los muertos.” 

“What’s that?” Marigold asked, grinning like a loon now at the attention being lavished on her.

Outside, thunder rumbled and the rain began to come down more steadily against the window pane. Elinor realized she was still clutching her notebook. She wondered, if she just took a peak, if she would be able to remember the name of the artist they’d learned about in class. Maybe the artist had a name that meant something important. 

“It translates to the Day of the Dead. A day when the veil between worlds is thinnest and the deceased walk amongst the living.” 

Elinor shivered as if one of the cool raindrops from the windowpane had slipped down her spine. 

Marigold deflated slightly, her blue eyes a bit more cautious. “Oh. Well! Do Elinor’s. I bet it means something lame like--dark-haired. Her parents are so unoriginal.”

“I--don’t know, actually,” Sorcha admitted with a little shrug, but when she looked at Elinor again, she had the sense that Sorcha knew more than she was letting on. “At least you have a family name. That’s nice. To have a legacy like that.” 

“Yes, I suppose.” Elinor took a sip of her water. 

A legacy. That was certainly something her family had given her. Or, more accurately, placed on her shoulders without her consent. She felt it heavy now, her first day of classes behind her and now a countdown until her new first day of classes. Elinor had yet to tell Marigold that she would be transferring to Oxford. In fact, she had yet to tell her that she was no longer seeing Francis Smith. She didn’t want to think about any of that. She wanted to enjoy her semester. To learn what she could. The comment had brought her back down again, though, as she was reminded that this was not permanent. Professor Howell would not be her teacher next year. Nor even next semester. She couldn’t write her thesis with the woman. It was silly of Elinor to have even been thinking of it. 

“What does your name mean then, Sorcha?” Marigold asked, not sensing her friend’s withdrawal. She put an elbow on the table (unladylike.) 

“It means brightness,” Sorcha said and those dark eyes of hers sparked, her white teeth stark against the dark lipstick and her dark skin.

“I have an Aunt Sorcha and she is not bright at all.” Marigold laughed loud enough that she snorted. 

“I think you’re very bright,” Elinor blurted without thinking and then felt her ears burn.

The look that Sorcha fixed her with made Elinor’s stomach churn. She felt as if somehow Sorcha had looked right through her. Or, perhaps, more accurately, directly into her, like she could see Elinor’s soul. This time, though, Elinor couldn’t look away. Their eyes locked. 

Then, Sorcha’s face broke out into another grin. “Aw, thanks, sweetie pie,” she said, reaching out to squeeze Elinor’s forearm. Her nails were long and bright red. (Garish, Elinor’s mother said in her head. Only women of certain proclivities paint their nails bright like that, pale colours only or don’t paint your nails at all.) “You’re not so bad yourself.” She winked.

“Oh, uh--I just meant--”

“I know what you meant.” Sorcha patted her arm. “Now, what’s in that notebook? I saw you pulling it out when I came over.”

“I was just--we can talk about something else.”

“Well, how am I gonna say if I wanna talk about it or something else unless you tell me what it is?”

“It was just some artist she was trying to remember,” Marigold waved. “I’d much rather know more about you, Sorcha. Where are you from?” 

“Spain,” Sorcha replied offhand. She was still looking at Elinor. “What is the work from the artist? Was it one of the ones we were shown in class?”

“Spain? But you sound like a Scot!” Marigold said, looking like a dog with a bone. She was even more curious now.

“That’s because I grew up here. Now, what artist is it?” 

“It’s really--I can’t remember at this point,” Elinor said, leaning over to slide her notebook back into her bag. “It’s not important.” 

“You’ll just have to tell me next class. Looks like the rain has cleared, so I’m going to head out.” She stood up, the chair scraping behind her. 

Elinor blinked rapidly. “Oh, well. It was nice to meet you.” 

“You too.” She gave a little salute and then sauntered off.

“That was...odd,” Elinor commented, shifting in her seat slightly, crossing her ankles. 

“I liked her,” Marigold replied with a grin. 

→ → → 

The next week, after classes, as Elinor headed back out into the misty evening. Someone called her name.

“Elinor!” 

Turning, she saw Sorcha waving at her, then jogging down the steps to meet her. She had a bright yellow scarf tied around her thick hair this time. 

“Did you remember the artist?” 

“Oh, uhm, yes,” Elinor said as she began walking back toward her dorm. “It was Leonora Carrington.” It was a good thing the wind was brisk, for it hid the warmth of her cheeks. 

“You would totally like Carrington,” Sorcha agreed with a sage nod of her head.

“What? What is that supposed to mean?” 

“I just figured she’d be your style.” 

“How?” 

“I don’t know. Just a hunch.” 

They walked silently for a few steps. Elinor had assumed that Sorcha would peel off again, but instead she stayed right next to Elinor, her wide hips occasionally bumping Elinor’s own. 

“I looked up what my name means,” Elinor admitted after a few more moments. 

The smile Sorcha gave her made Elinor think that she had somehow known this too. “And?” Sorcha prompted. 

“Light of God, I suppose. There were a few other meanings but--”

“That was the one that stood out to you?” 

“No, I mean...that is probably what my parents intended anyhow.” 

“Who cares what they think? That’s not what I asked.” 

Elinor, if she was not so well-schooled in walking gracefully, might have tripped over a cobblestone. She clutched her books tight to her chest. Who cares what they think? What an absurd thing to say. 

“Well--it also means shining light or...the bright one.” Elinor’s heart felt like it was beating extremely fast for a casual, brisk autumn stroll across campus.

“We match!” Sorcha sounded extraordinarily pleased with herself. “That’s brilliant. Would you like to join my study group?” 

“Oh, I--” Elinor had a feeling saying no would be rude. She didn’t want to say no. Or...did she? There was a part of her that did. She was only going to be here for one semester. Gone before the snow melted and the spring bloomed again. Making friends had never been a priority for her anyway. She wanted to do well in school, so that her parents would give her freedom. If she failed, they would drag her back to the castle kicking and screaming. 

Education for women was a privilege, after all. 

“It’ll be fun, I promise.” 

“Very well,” Elinor agreed stiffly. 

“Perfect, we meet in classroom 124B on Wednesdays from 6pm to 7pm. I will see you there!” Abruptly, Sorcha turned on her heel and struck off straight across the quad. As she went, she removed the scarf from her head, allowing her hair to spring free, even though the rain had just begun in earnest. 

[rockislandadultreads]

Black History Month: some reading to get you started

Celebrate Black excellence with these titles

A Black Women's History of the United States by Daina Ramey Berry, Kali Nicole Gross

A vibrant and empowering history that emphasizes the perspectives and stories of African American women to show how they are--and have always been--instrumental in shaping our country In centering Black women's stories, two award-winning historians seek both to empower African American women and to show their allies that Black women's unique ability to make their own communities while combatting centuries of oppression is an essential component in our continued resistance to systemic racism and sexism. Daina Ramey Berry and Kali Nicole Gross offer an examination and celebration of Black womanhood, beginning with the first African women who arrived in what became the United States to African American women of today. A Black Women's History of the United States reaches far beyond a single narrative to showcase Black women's lives in all their fraught complexities. Berry and Gross prioritize many voices: enslaved women, freedwomen, religious leaders, artists, queer women, activists, and women who lived outside the law. The result is a starting point for exploring Black women's history and a testament to the beauty, richness, rhythm, tragedy, heartbreak, rage, and enduring love that abounds in the spirit of Black women in communities throughout the nation.

Black Detroit: A People's History of Self-Determination by Herb Boyd

The author of Baldwin’s Harlem looks at the evolving culture, politics, economics, and spiritual life of Detroit—a blend of memoir, love letter, history, and clear-eyed reportage that explores the city’s past, present, and future and its significance to the African American legacy and the nation’s fabric. Herb Boyd moved to Detroit in 1943, as race riots were engulfing the city. Though he did not grasp their full significance at the time, this critical moment would be one of many he witnessed that would mold his political activism and exposed a city restless for change. In Black Detroit, he reflects on his life and this landmark place, in search of understanding why Detroit is a special place for black people. Boyd reveals how Black Detroiters were prominent in the city’s historic, groundbreaking union movement and—when given an opportunity—were among the tireless workers who made the automobile industry the center of American industry. Well paying jobs on assembly lines allowed working class Black Detroiters to ascend to the middle class and achieve financial stability, an accomplishment not often attainable in other industries. Boyd makes clear that while many of these middle-class jobs have disappeared, decimating the population and hitting blacks hardest, Detroit survives thanks to the emergence of companies such as Shinola—which represent the strength of the Motor City and and its continued importance to the country. He also brings into focus the major figures who have defined and shaped Detroit, including William Lambert, the great abolitionist, Berry Gordy, the founder of Motown, Coleman Young, the city’s first black mayor, diva songstress Aretha Franklin, Malcolm X, and Ralphe Bunche, winner of the Nobel Peace Prize. With a stunning eye for detail and passion for Detroit, Boyd celebrates the music, manufacturing, politics, and culture that make it an American original.

Black Against Empire: The History and Politics of the Black Panther Party by Joshua Bloom, Waldo E. Martin Jr.

In Oakland, California, in 1966, community college students Bobby Seale and Huey Newton armed themselves, began patrolling the police, and promised to prevent police brutality. Unlike the Civil Rights Movement that called for full citizenship rights for blacks within the U.S., the Black Panther Party rejected the legitimacy of the U.S. government and positioned itself as part of a global struggle against American imperialism. In the face of intense repression, the Party flourished, becoming the center of a revolutionary movement with offices in 68 U.S. cities and powerful allies around the world. Black against Empire is the first comprehensive overview and analysis of the history and politics of the Black Panther Party. The authors analyze key political questions, such as why so many young black people across the country risked their lives for the revolution, why the Party grew most rapidly during the height of repression, and why allies abandoned the Party at its peak of influence. Bold, engrossing, and richly detailed, this book cuts through the mythology and obfuscation, revealing the political dynamics that drove the explosive growth of this revolutionary movement, and its disastrous unraveling. Informed by twelve years of meticulous archival research, as well as familiarity with most of the former Party leadership and many rank-and-file members, this book is the definitive history of one of the greatest challenges ever posed to American state power.

Satch, Dizzy, and Rapid Robert: The Wild Saga of Interracial Baseball Before Jackie Robinson by Timothy M. Gay

Before Jackie Robinson integrated major league baseball in 1947, black and white ballplayers had been playing against one another for decades--even, on rare occasions, playing with each other. Interracial contests took place during the off-season, when major leaguers and Negro Leaguers alike fattened their wallets by playing exhibitions in cities and towns across America. These barnstorming tours reached new heights, however, when Satchel Paige and other African- American stars took on white teams headlined by the irrepressible Dizzy Dean. Lippy and funny, a born showman, the native Arkansan saw no reason why he shouldn't pitch against Negro Leaguers. Paige, who feared no one and chased a buck harder than any player alive, instantly recognized the box-office appeal of competing against Dizzy Dean's "All-Stars." Paige and Dean both featured soaring leg kicks and loved to mimic each other's style to amuse fans. Skin color aside, the dirt-poor Southern pitchers had much in common. Historian Timothy M. Gay has unearthed long-forgotten exhibitions where Paige and Dean dueled, and he tells the story of their pioneering escapades in this engaging book. Long before they ever heard of Robinson or Larry Doby, baseball fans from Brooklyn to Enid, Oklahoma, watched black and white players battle on the same diamond. With such Hall of Fame teammates as Josh Gibson, Turkey Stearnes, Mule Suttles, Oscar Charleston, Cool Papa Bell, and Bullet Joe Rogan, Paige often had the upper hand against Diz. After arm troubles sidelined Dean, a new pitching phenom, Bob Feller--Rapid Robert--assembled his own teams to face Paige and other blackballers. By the time Paige became Feller's teammate on the Cleveland Indians in 1948, a rookie at age forty-two, Satch and Feller had barnstormed against each other for more than a decade. These often obscure contests helped hasten the end of Jim Crow baseball, paving the way for the game's integration. Satchel Paige, Dizzy Dean, and Bob Feller never set out to make social history--but that's precisely what happened. Tim Gay has brought this era to vivid and colorful life in a book that every baseball fan will embrace.

[dragonrajafanfiction]

Coronation

So I said I would post the crazy things that go through my head for no reason on any given day. Here’s one of those.

Who are these people?

It was enrollment season at Cassell College, right after the 3E exam results were released and a caravan of gleaming black Rolls Royce cars drove in a stately procession through the the streets. Pedestrians stopped to watch the unusual sight, whispering about who this procession might be for. The windows of the vehicles were completely blacked out, blocking the view from outside. The entirety of the vehicles was bulletproof. Each one of them has flags displaying a family crest, a green dragon raising its wings and spewing flame on a red background. The caravan stopped in front of Amber Hall. The entrance garden welcomed them with expertly sculpted topiaries of lions and horses. Silk garlands lined the covered walk. The people getting out only got out on one side. The vehicles formed a wall, blocking them from view.

The freshman Caesar Gattuso was already holding his welcome banquet for new members of the Student Union at Norton Hall after winning the Day of Liberty competition against the club Lionheart. The Gattuso family was notoriously rich and high class. Even rulers of countries would be honored to be an invited guest at their galas but people were filing out of the Rolls Royces for this occasion instead. It begged the question why they would spurn going to an arguably better party right next door. Perhaps it was because they were not invited. Or perhaps this was a deliberate play to show they were equal, if not better, than the Gattusos. A bold move, considering those who challenged the Gattuso family risked getting their attention. It wasn’t unusual for those who got their attention to meet with a challenge in return. Losing such a challenge came at a high cost. For some, it would cost them their lives. It was a good reason to conceal one’s identity.

The people getting out had white, grey or salt and pepper hair. Men in crisp suits and black leather shoes walked with women on their arms. Each face was covered in a sequined black masquerade mask adorned with blue feathers. No one checked them in at the door. Everyone in the masks knew they were supposed to be there. From within those doors, a live symphony orchestra and soft sounds of voices and laughter came from the golden light.

A stretch SUV rolled up like a steel anaconda and stopped in front of the entrance garden. All the drivers in this caravan opened their doors and filed out, forming a line on either side of the path to the doors, standing at attention and saluting military style as a young man with dark hair got out with an older man with grey hair who wore a black suit complete with military colors and medals. He walked with a cane made of silver wood and topped with a brass knob.

“Dominic. Lift your head up and stop sulking like a God-damn child.” The man growled under his breath. In a smooth quick motion, long practiced, he struck the young man in the instep with the tip of the cane.

The young man gasped and looked forward but did not break stride despite the pain running up his shin.

The floor of Amber Hall is paved in mirror like marble carved from the same quarry as the Roman Colosseum. Its stately columns rise twenty feet into a dome ceiling of curved windows, lined with gold plated frames. A heavy gilded crystal chandelier dripped from the ceiling to shine light on the people below. 

Waiters bearing thin plates of champagne flutes danced among the crowd. Long tables of delicacies framed either sides of a wall. A whole roasted pig lay flat, the classic apple in its mouth, its belly cut open. An ice sculpture of two leaping horses was the centerpiece between the sweeping staircases that led to the second floor. Royalty would not seem out of place here, but the guests were all retired military. They carried ceremonial daggers, swords and pistols along with their suits and gowns. This being Cassell College, however, one could rightly wonder if ‘ceremonial’ was a true way to describe such ancient weaponry.

The lofty double doors opened into the hall and Dominic stood beside his father with the cane, carrying a straight, basket-hilted sword at his hip, a chain arcing from his coat’s breast pocket that was attached to a watch hidden inside. He lifted his chin as proudly as the man next to him, but stared through the magnificent scene in front of him as though he were blind.

The music died down. All faces turned to look at them, full of expectation.

"Prince Dominic of Amsterdam has tested true to his blood." The man announced. "House Nassau will return to the path of Dragonslaying."

The announcement was met with enthusiastic applause and the band began to play a triumphant tune.

Prince Dominic was of the old royal blood. The Dragonslaying royals split off from the political royals nearly a thousand years ago with intent to perfect their dragonblood lineage through carefully selected breeding. Over time, they grew stronger and more bold in their efforts to suppress humanity's natural foe. It was said that this 'shadow royalty' held more influence than that which showed up in the newspapers. This secret branch of the royal family soon joined the Secret Society of Dragonslayers and their names, Nassau and Orange, are recorded in that history. That is until a mysterious disaster befell them. Only one servant girl survived to spread the news. The entire family had been killed in their beds by a band of assassins. The sun set on that glorious family and they weren't heard from again for until, one day, a message arrived at Cassell College from the 'Dragon King of Nassau'. He offered his son to Cassell College.

This is why they had not acknowledged the Gattuso family heir's Gala on this same night and why this gala was filled with military men. Each guest was no soft personality but members of the elite royal guard. The remaining ranks of a military lost to history had come together to receive their new head of state.

Dominic kept his head high, but trembled inside. The 3E exam had left him feeling hollowed out and weak, but his father deemed a visit to the Psychologist Toyama unnecessary and kept him sequestered until the Gala. The new royal family was as fragile as a dragon embryo. As the new heir, Dominic couldn't show any signs of fragility.

Down the staircases, women in sheer white dresses and long hair tied up in braids and buns descended to the sound of a stately march played by the orchestra. Each one carries royal purple cushions with the ancient ancestral regalia. The first carries the crown, a thin circlet of gold with a diamond at its facing. The second carries a golden engraved scepter. And the third: a sword in a sheath made of genuine dragon skin, said to date back to the royal days in Europe. The women stood in a line facing Dominic. Their expressions are blank and serene, like the three women weaving the strands of fate. The music dies down and the hall is silent before these goddesses. Despite the hundred guests, a heavy solemn quiet descended. No one moved.

The women spoke in one voice. "Say your vows."

Dominic took one stride forward. He spoke, his young voice firm and strong. "I swear to the people of my Kingdom that I shall uphold the mission of my ancestors, to hunt and to kill the dragons wherever they may hide."

He paused, swallowing. "This. I promise."

"I swear I will strengthen the bloodline, defend and preserve the homeland, and protect the royal family from all corruption. I will employ all means placed at my disposal for the good of humanity."

His voice echoed in that silence for three seconds. Then came the grating metal sound of dozens of swords, daggers and guns being drawn. The entire assembly kneeled to the floor and all heads were bowed. Everyone placed their hands on their hearts, and solemnly closed their eyes, save his father who stood, watching with a cold and critical gaze. A hundred voices declared in unison.

"We receive and invest you as king. We swear to maintain your inviolable sovereignty and the rights of your crown. This we promise!"

That final shout rattled the venue. Dominic took a deep breath.

The three women stepped forward. First with the crown. She lifted it and placed it on his head.

"Long live the King!" The crowd shouted.

Next, the scepter, placed in his hand.

"Long Live the King!"

Finally, the sword. His hand curled around its hilt and his arm tensed, locked as though struck with an electric bolt. The rest of the crowd could barely breathe as they watched with apprehensive glances. The mystery of such ancient relics had sparked rumors that those unable to control the sword were to be corrupted by it. The sword would devour the swordsman, turning him into a Death Servitor. The older man with the cane lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes. Dominic's teeth clenched momentarily but he slowly relaxed and took the sword from the cushion. The held breath of the guests let out in a relieved sigh and murmuring. The man's cane then thumped the ground in displeasure and the silence fell again.

The three women returned to their places in front of Dominic. They turned to watch him with pale cold faces. Dominic himself was pale from exhaustion. A thin sheen of sweat appearing on his forehead. The hand holding the sword trembled for a second, then stilled. The women opened their mouths and they shouted out in perfect harmony "Long live the King. Death to all dragons!"

[lolmasoma]

⌘ DON’T MATTER IF YOU’RE BLACK OR WHITE ⌘

FIELDWORK CH. 5 / HOW IS RACE CONSTRUCTED AROUND THE WORLD

A FEW KEY CONCEPTS THAT EFFECT HOW RACE IS PERCEIVED FROM MY POINT OF VIEW

1. WHITE SUPREMACY

THE BELIEF THAT WHITES ARE BIOLOGICALLY DIFFERENT FROM & SUPERIOR TO THE OTHER RACES

Higher Learning (1995) is a film by John Singleton that centers 3 students from different backgrounds that are navigating life through college, battling over different hardships like grades, finances, sports, race and more. One of the main character’s finds acceptance in a Neo-Nazi group on campus and tension rises amongst the already hostile environment. Great movie! 10/10– Definitely recommend.

2. RACIALIZATION

THE PROCESS OF CATEGORIZING & ATTRIBUTING A RACIAL CHARACTER TO A PERSON OR GROUP OF PEOPLE

At the beginning of the outbreak, Asian-Americans experienced a duel-pandemic between Covid-19 & xenophobia. 

President Donald Trump would refer Covid-19 as “the Chinese virus”, and spread his ignorance to the public, encouraging discrimination towards Asian citizens. Over the past year, due to the false rhetoric of the virus being spread by Asian people, there was an incredible increase of verbal & physical abuse towards them, forcing a congregation. #STOPASIANHATE

3. MISCEGENATION

THE UNION BETWEEN PEOPLE OF DIFFERENT RACES

On June 12th, 1967 The Supreme Court banned anti-interracial marriage restriction laws. There was once a time where if a black man & a white woman were caught together (consensual of course) the man would’ve been thrown in prison and the woman set free to go, and vice versa; if between a black woman & a white man, the woman would’ve been reprimanded & the man unbothered.

To put it into another perspective, my father was born in 1962 . For about 5 years of my father’s life, 15% of married couples in the United States today would’ve been illegal.

I want to highlight Meghan Markle & Prince Harry’s relationship. The people of the U.K. (including the Royal Family) constantly berated Meghan because of her race. Markle opened up to the public on what living in that environment was like and revealed that, while pregnant, a member of the Royal Family was concerned over the appearance of their expected child Archie, regarding his skin color & hair texture.

4. INTERSECTIONALITY

THE STRUCTURE SOCIETY BUILT TO KEEP CERTAIN GROUPS AT AN ADVANTAGE AND OTHER GROUPS AT A DISADVANTAGE

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The video speaks for itself, it illustrates exactly how society is built for the black man to easily fall behind.

5. MICROAGGRESSION

COMMON, EVERYDAY VERBAL REMARKS THAT COMMUNICATE HOSTILE, DEROGATORY AND NEGATIVE MESSAGES ABOUT SOMEONE’s RACE, GENDER, SEXUAL ORIENTATION, OR RELIGION

A question every black girl has heard atleast once in their life. “Is that your real hair?” A question you would probably never hear getting asked to a white woman. When someone asks this, it may not mean ill-intent but the question is rooted from a negative stereotype that is only placed on black women.

All hair is beautiful. Our hair is such an important piece to our black identity, its versatile & expressive. I just find it unnecessary for society to set these assumptions so strongly where it’s black women questioning other black women. Our hair is an important symbol to our culture, it’s constantly evolving with time; the styles we’ve grown accustomed to have defined our generations for centuries and will keep doing so indefinitely.