#I am not Indian I thought my first name was African like my dad’s | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

womenofwonder · 3 years

Text

RWBY characters races for AUs set in our world.

How I’m going to do this: three things. The first, the city they live in Remnant. This is the least important because that leaves us with only five…maybe six places compared to our world’s hundreds of countries.

The second will be the original of their names, which they’ll have to keep in the AUs, meaning that they need some culture background for them.

The third will be their fairy tale origins.

So to start, Ruby Rose:

She lives in Vale, which is similar to France (I’ll explain why in another post maybe), but technically grew up in patch, a small island off the coast of Vale. I have no idea about Patch’s culture as we hardly ever see it, so I’m going to skip this one. We also don’t know if either Summer or Taiyang was originally from Vale.

We know Taiyang is Chinese from his name, so I’m going to say she’s half Chinese. I also wrote a western au once and really love the idea of Taiyang being an Asian Redneck…so I think I’m going to say Ruby is very, very southern just because that would be adorable.

But if you don’t want that idea I generally see Taiyang being either Asian-American or Asian-French, or Asian-British if your doing a HP AU. Summer is harder to pin down, but Red Riding Hood was originally an Italian fable, so I’m going to have her be Italian or Italian-American.

Weiss:

Weiss is German, although making her simply white America/British would work. I could see her being Russian too in some AU because Atlas fits well as Russia. For American works, Pennsylvania has quite the German population and coal mines, so that works pretty well for her.

Blake is really complicated. From Remment Australia which is culturally SEA (south East Asian), has an English name but parents with a Hindu-inspired names, but neither looking vaguely Indian. I’m going to assume her family are immigrants (as they are in cannon I think) to Australia, maybe even changed their name to help them fit in. Immigrants from where? Well, India is an option, but I like to think Malaysia. They have a large Indian and Chinese population, and I like to think Blake is a mixture of Chinese, Malay, and Indian ethnicities, from Malaysia and immigrated to Australia. And if you think this is crazy or unrealistic, you haven’t seen anything yet. The sheer mix of cultures I’ve seen growing up as an ex-pat is insane. This isn’t too crazy.

For Yang, we already have Taiyang as an Asian red-neck. Or at least I do. Raven and Qrow are going to be a little harder to pin down, but I’m think bandits getting replaced by mafia. Which mafia? I don’t know, take you’re pick. Branwen is Welsh, but I can’t think of a Welsh mafia. Coming from Mistral I would see them as being Triad, not Yakuza because Raven’s gang is famous for being less than coordinated.

If you need a logical reason for Yang having blonde hair, Taiyang could be only half Chinese, half blonde (blonde is race right?).

Either way I see Raven operating in an American city like New York or Detroit.

This would mean Yang is fully Chinese ethnically.

JNPR:

Jaune’s name and inspiration are all French. However his mother does come from Mistral (I think), so I do see him being half Chinese, but nationally French. It’s also funny to imagine him with a French accent.

Pyrrha: she’s Greek or maybe Greek-American with her parents being recent immigrants. Argus seems to Remnent-Greece and her name and fairy tale are greek.

Nora: she should be Scandinavian. I feel like in a MCU AU she’s Thor’s daughter. But she also grew up as a street rat in Mistral, which is hard to fit in our world. Therefore I’m going to have her in America, the great melting pot (and also America seems to be more like Mistral than any other Remnent king with our state system), and she going to ethically Scandinavian but knowing nothing of her culture due to her upbringing.

Ren: obviously Chinese, but I might have him be American-Chinese to fit his story nicely in with Nora’s.

Others:

Coco: we’re all ignoring that she’s based off Coco Channel, so let’s make her a LA girl

Velvet: Australia, because of the accent. Or maybe English because that is her story origin

Fox: he’s difficult, because tribes are pretty rare in modern AUs. But his story could work for various things. He’s one of the few black characters so he could come from practically any African tribe (I’m currently going with Hausa because it’s one of the few I know anything about). His name is based off ‘the fox and the hound’ which is a rare American story, so he could also be from a Native American tribe if you want the AU to be more American-based.

Yatsuhashi: Japanese, this one is thankfully easy.

Sun: Chinese. He comes from a tribe as well, but I can’t think of any nomadic Chinese tribes except the Uyghurs. Making Sun a Uyghur doesn’t make much sense but it will serve to piss off certain people on the internet. And now this is going to be taken down, isn’t it? Oh wait, this is tumbrl. This is anarchy. It won’t. Forgot why I liked this place for a second.

Scarlet: sorry for the rambling there. Anyway, Scarlet is definitely English. “I hope I don’t get sand in my shoes.”

Sage: well, he’s black, but other then that we have nothing to go one. He’s also from Mistral but that doesn’t really work? If Mistral is America as well as China I guess we can make him African American. Or whatever else works best for the AU. He might be Indian too now that I think of it. Or even Maori. Really options are limitless here.

Neptune: Yeah, so probably just American, but does have both a French last name and an Italian first name. So probably ethically American (aka white mutt). Also he lives near a port, I think I’m gonna gone with him being from Tacoma Washington because I am.

Flynt: African American

Neon: Japanese-American because of her meme (it started as part of Japanese pop song on YouTube, the latter of which is America summed up in one invention)

Oscar: Hispanic-American, he just looks it. And I’m guessing he lives in Kansas for obvious reasons. His last name isn’t Hispanic but their could be a lot of reasons for that. Or he could be Native American (Pawnee, Cheyenne, and Osage are all Native American tribes in Kansas).

Penny: well if she’s still a robot she probably stays white, but if you want her human in this AU she might end up being half black as Pietro is, although she also could just be adopted. I guess the later makes more sense, huh? I figure she’s American, with her dad working with a ‘well meaning’ but ultimately corrupt government. Probably living in DC, as that has both the government and the poverty issues.

Emerald: oohh, boy. This is hard. Sustrai is Basque, and Aladdin is a French addition to an Arabian story, she herself is dark skinned with anime features that are super unhelpful for this sorta thing.

I have three ideas. Brazilian, mostly as there’s no South American themed RWBY characters I can think of, and it’s diverse enough that someone looking like Emerald would fit. Secondly, for American centered stories she’s just an orphan with no idea of her ethnicity. Or she could be African, Indian, Pacific Islander, or Hispanic or some mixture between those four. It’s honestly really hard to tell. In my fanfic she’s from Suriname and ethnically 1/4 Indian, 1/2 Creole, and 1/4 Javanese.

Ilia: Sioux (Native American). Ilia means a lot of things in a lot of different languages, and Amitola mean rainbow in Sioux, so I decided to just stick with that.

Mercury: American, white mutt American. I’m guessing New York or Philli for where he grew up, it seems like a place where he’d be comfortable

Neo: the new novel reveals her father lived in vale (btw I haven’t read it, I’m just getting this off the internet) and her mother was a assassin who’s origins aren’t known. She doesn’t really have a fairy tale. So I’m going to go with British or French (thank RWBY thoughts for the first one) although in an American AU she works as just a white American.

Robyn: depends on what Atlas is in this AU, but probably German or American.

Qrow: I already mentioned he’s probably Chinese due to being from Mistral. It’s a bit weird to think of him as Asian, but not as weird as it to think of Raven as white, so I’ll take it. Although I do like the idea of him being American Irish, that’s fun.

Winter: whatever Atlas is in this AU, German or American, although British and Russian would work well too.

Maria: Mexican

Salem: If you want a AU where she’s just a normal person then New England or Italian for her story origin

Watts: British

Tyrian: uh…I have no idea, but he looks white. And he kinda has a British accent? I want him to be southern for the accent tho. Probably just another crazy American

Cinder: her fairy tale is French but her origin is Chinese. Also, Cinderella doesn’t really have an origin, it’s an ancient story with every culture having at least one Cinderella story. So I’m going to say Chinese.

Hazel: American, from the Midwest. He’s darkish so maybe he’s a POC? Part Native American or Hispanic? Idk or really care I can’t stand Hazel

Roman Torchwick: American-Italian, he runs/works for the mafia

Ozpin: American because of the whole wizard-of-Oz-thing or French, because he seems to have come from Vale.

Glynda: American or French for the same reasons Ozpin is

Oobleck: Jewish American (because Dr. Seuss was)

Professor Port: Russian, due to his fairy tale, or English, due to his style

Taiyang: already said he’s a red-neck Asian.

Raven: depending on whether you want her to be white or not, either Chinese or Irish American, like I already said.

Cordovin: Karen

Ironwood: again, depends on Atlas in the AU. Either American or German…maybe Russian

Clover: Irish-American (or German, obviously the ace-ops depend on where Atlas is. I’m just going to do the rest of them assuming Atlas is American because Germany isn’t that diverse)

Harriet: African-American, I guess. It kinda messes with the story because Harriet is supposed to be privileged, which doesn’t really work in this AU, but she’s also obviously black.

Elm: Just normal American, maybe greek-American because of the Aesop fable themes

Vine: Tibetan based on his design

Marrow: either African-American or Pakistani/Indian-American. (I’m personally going for Pakistani)

Klein: english. All butlers are English. It’s a rule.

Pietro: African-American

Johanna: Pakistani or Indian American

Fiona: Jewish-American (kinda random but while she’s obviously white she also needs to be a minority for the Faunus thing to work)

May: normal upper glass American/German

Ghira: Half Malay, Half Indian, from Malaysia but immigrated to Australia later in life

Kali: half Chinese, half Indian, but also from Malaysia

Adam: much like Fiona I’m going to assume he’s Jewish due to him being white but still needing to be a minority. German or American, again, depending on where Atlas is. Or he could be Chinese, even though it doesn’t work with his name, due to the theory that he was trafficked much like Cinder. I’m going with ethically Jewish though

Sienna Khan: Indian

Huh, I actually finished that. I’m pretty sure I was accidentally racist multiple times and apologize in advance,

I’m exhausted and starving and not thinking straight. But anyway, here it is. Your very messy guide to modern RWBY AUs. I swear this was insane to sort out.

28 notes · View notes

p---leia · 4 years

Conversation

Ancient Writer of dreams and nightmares: I am 71 (-one month), and have been writing (making up tales) since I was three. I can still remember my Pawpaw whittling a pencil for me, and Mawmaw tearing a piece of brown grocery bag for me to write on. They weren't 'poor', but writing paper wasn't to be wasted on a 'kid' just for fun. I carefully scripted my first short story.

Of course my 'letters' looked more like ancient Hanguel, so I had to read it to my "captured" audience. I really don't remember the story, but as my grandparents had a yard full of chickens and my dog, Mutt, liked to chase them (because of this we 'both' got into trouble -- because I always joined the chase) I most probably wrote about that.

My Pawpaw was a story-teller. For several years I thought there really was a baby found in the wilds of the African jungle and raised by the great apes. I thought he was the luckiest babe, EVER!

Then I found Pawpaw's books about three years after he died. I was eleven when he died, and felt that my best friend had abandoned me. But when I found those books I realized just where Tarzan actually came from and went to. I read everyone of those books and got the complete picture. THEN..

Well, Pawpaw also told stories of Daniel Boone and Davey Crocket...before I saw them on Disney. Then, of course, I went to school and learned what I already knew. Pawpaw was an excellent story-teller and never mixed up his facts, time-lines, or characters.

Growing up under his influence had a lot to do with how I developed as a story-teller. At family gatherings when I meet cousins I haven't seen in decades, they STILL remember me and the stories that I used to tell them. My children and grandchildren have grown up with me re-telling Pawpaw's old stories, and sharing many that I made up on the spot.

But I think what I read in my early years developed my writing style.

I was just turned eight when I read my first Shakespeare, MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. He was my first favorite author. Then I was forced to read Romeo and Juliet. I was disgusted by the fact that TRAGEDY was made famous as a ROMANCE! Even at the innocent (then) age of fourteen, I was disgusted with the idea that it was considered romantic for 'anyone', let alone 'teenagers' to commit suicide over unrequited love.

My sister (now 68) and I recently discussed this play. Because she had a 'forbidden' teenage love, she said that she related to the story (even though she had never read it). GASP! It was required reading in ninth grade!

I remember our dad breaking up my sister and her boyfriend, who was really cool. He was a hard working farm boy who had saved his money to buy a motorcycle. AND his own car. But he wasn't good enough for my sister. smh

I always thought her story would make a great LifeTime movie. But I'm not touching it. She would 'skin me' for sharing with the world her broken heart. And if I added the stuff that sells today, she'd scalp me for lying. Not a win situation at all. So, I will write notes in my "Random Jottings Journal" for future decendants who might grow into writers or story-tellers.

By the way, the title "RANDOM JOTTINGS" came from a sci-fi book that I read as a kid in the fifties. I don't remember the author, although I'm pretty sure it 'might' be from a Heinlein juvenile book. But I've never found a reference to any sci-fi books using that term. SO!!! If anyone recognizes "RANDOM JOTTINGS", which was a note book that a professor/scientist/genius used to keep his 'thoughts', PLEASE share the author's name and the title of the book!!! Thank You.

In the meantime, I referenced Shakespeare. James Oliver Curwood wrote about Kazan, the Wolf Dog, and later Baree, Son of Kazan. From those two books, read when I was eleven, I searched for and found other books about Canada. Later there was Walter Farley, author of the Black Stallion, and the Island Stallion series. I think I met my FIRST friendly alien in the Island Stallion Races.

Of course, Edgar Rice Burroughs taught me much false history about the jungles of Africa, as well as the Moon and Mars. But I loved every 'read-under-the-covers-with a-flashlight' minute! I believe he was a contemporary of Zane Grey, because he wrote a few non-jungle and non-space stories, too. Which led me to Zane Grey.

Having read both of their biographies at a young age, I learned about the hardships of being a writer. I should say 'the hardships of a struggling writer'. I have never had a problem writing. Since I write for 'fun' and not 'profit', the few short stories I've had published were by local press, and a State magazine.

No, my struggles have centered around graduating high school, and completing college, stuggling to satisfy my husband, a 'Mr. Spock in the Flesh' personality, and later raising two children without benefit of parental support or child support. But we survived in the middle of laughter and many tears. And my made up stories about children lost in the woods who were rescued by a great friendly bear, or wolf. Or dog. And sometimes by a great Black Panther - a by product of one of my Pawpaw's 'local historical tales'.

I understand that publishers detest stories that begin with "It was a dark and stormy night.." But let me tell you, some of the BEST bedtime stories occur on stormy nights when the power has gone out, and it's too hot for candles or lanterns. That shadow that stands darkest in the corner and seems to be moving towards the bed is actually grandma come to check on the kids, and stands quiet so not to disturb the kids if they're already asleep. But since they are awake, and they see her 'shadow', she becomes the old crone who lives in the castle dungeon, and has slipped her chains to visit with the 'wee folk'. But there are no fairies out on such a blustery night, so the old crone comes to visit with the 'wee bairn', who fall all over themselves to get out of bed and sit around her to hear her stories of 'long ago' and other 'dark and stormy nights'. Again -- unpublished, because publishers don't like ... LOL

Of course there's always On-Line publishing. But that involves more work than actual writing.

Back to the writrs who influenced my writing:

While I enjoy a good Western, an adventurous space trek, or time travel, I also enjoy the occasional Historical Romance. Georgette Heyer was my first! I still re-read her amazing books. Of course there's Jane Austen.

There are a myriad of modern writers that I have read over the last five decades. Heinlen, Asimov, Norton, Bradley, McCaffrey, Moon, Stirling, Krentz/Castle/Quick, and Moening, just to name a few of the ones whose books I have in my personal library.

Those older authors did affect my writing style to develope as I read their stories. The later authors helped me to move into the late 20th century. But I'm not so sure that I like the 21st century so much. It's all about being politically 'correct'. If you aren't ashamed of your gender, your race, your country, your religion, your culture, your family, your history, then you are prejudiced. That's just too much guilt to have to live with.

I'm still dealing with my mom's death from ten years ago. I was her care-giver for five years. Her doctor had given her nine months. I still worry if I did enough for her in those last years.

And though my children are grown with their own families, I worry that I wasn't a good enough parent. And I worthy as a grandmother? How was I as an older sister? I was responsible as a moral guide when our parents were at work. Was I a good neighbor? A good support in our Church? And Hollywood wants me to feel guilt about something I can't change?!!

I'm an old woman who still likes being a woman and enjoys liking men. I'm not just white. I'm also mixed with a bit of Native American, and even a drop of -- OMG!!! --- Black. snicker.

That's a serious joke, because as a kid I had a recuring nightmare that I was a black man being judged by a group of people in white hoods I was hanged amidst their fiery torches. I always thought those white hoods represented the Catholic Church, because at that young age I didn't know about the Ku Klux Klan. Even though I grew up in the South, my family was not involved with that group of out-lawrey. Thank God!

Still, I'm supposed to feel shame? For something not even my family supported.

I've always believed there's a hint of Fae in my DNA. Because I love dancing in the light of the full moon, and flying with the owls who perch outside my bedroom window and call to invite me to follow the moon's shadow. If I am part Fae, I know it came from my mother's people. They were Irish mixed with Alabama Indians who believed in the Nunnehi aka Immortal, and the Yunwi Tsunsdi, aka Little People.

ALSO, while there's no DNA proof of ancestry, I've always been a 'closet Chinese'.

In the Fifties, when WW2 was still fresh, and we were involved with the 'Korean Conflict', and at odds with China, I would sneak around the radio, turn down the volume, and tune into 'that wierd channel' that sometimes played Opera, or Chinese music. Ahhh. I would close my eyes and wander through the few visuals I'd found in books, or the occasional movie. (before color tv)

A year or two ago I was totally depressed and disgusted with American TV. Hollywood has become so political, so wierd. Their programming is no longer for entertainment, but to 'educate, enlighten, or to inform'. zzzzz

Then I found KDrama!!!!! Korean TV. Japanese Tv. squeal!!! Chinese TV.

The rom/coms are sweet and 'pure'. Okay. I'm realistic. This is not a reflection of real life on any planet. But the innocence of the early 1950s programs is there. Similar to Disney's 'Summer Magic'. I'm happy with those dramas that remind me of thati nnocence. I have found a few dramas that shared more than I cared for, and I do enjoy an occasional 'romp'. But I've always preferred the Lady and Gentleman characters.

And watching these programs have reminded me of those fairy tales and legends from my childhood that had been sprinkled with the Occasional Oriental myth, legend, and children's tale.

Then I remembered my FIRST historical legend. "The White Stag" by Kate Seredy, is the tale of Atilla the Hun!

I recently found a copy of that book and am waiting for a quiet time, when the power is out and there's nothing to do. Then I will use one of the many flashlights I bought for a huge hurricane, and relax on the sofa beneath an open window and read this legend once again. I live in Florida. The odds of this happening increases as the summer progresses. I can't wait to learn if my memory of this tale of Atilla the Hun remained true, or has been distorted in the last half of a century.

Most of the tales that I write involve space adventures, the occasioanl ghost, and encounters with fairies, the evil ones, not the romantic ideal fairy. smh

I've never been very good with romance or comedy. But thanks to the recent influence of the Asian productions, I have re-formatted one of my dark adventures and turned it into a rom/com.

I love a good joke, but very seldom get the point or see the humor. And I can NEVER remember the punch line if I try to share a joke. My family have said they will write on my tombstone --

"I don't remember the punchline ... but it was funny."

But as I write humorous lines or events I find myself laughing. Or crying at sad events. And I am all 'giggly' when I write what is supposed to be innocent romance between a young and shy couple. But I have never felt that my own reactions were a true guide to how the story might come across to a 'reader'.

As it happens, I have two sisters younger than I am. My middle sister is bored easily and immediately redirects our conversation to something about 'her'. Okay. I understand. She is lonely, needy, and maybe a bit selfish? Not judging. She's the 'middle child' and that's her excuse. ROFL..

But the youngest sister is my greatest fan who declares that I am an awesome writer. "I love you, sister, dear."

So she visited me last week and patiently listened as I read the first chapter. She listened quietly, and I wondered if I had 'read her to sleep'. sigh. Boring books are often the best sleeping pill. Then I heard her laugh.

Squeals/Dancing/hooting/flying around the room in ecstasy!!

Okay! At least one person has laughed. And she's not that easily 'tickled'.

So, I will always carry on and write. But now I feel that at least I might be following a path strewn with "Black-Eyed-Susans, honeybees, butterflies, and bunnies".

I don't know if anyone will read this, or will enjoy it. I hope so. While sharing bits of my youth, my worries, and my concern about certain ones of my 'stories', I actually had ideas for developing 'new' stories.

I am always amazed when writers say they are 'blocked'. I have only to open my eyes to see a world around me that no one else can envision. I listen to a song, and I'm in a different world, time, planet. A gift from Pawpaw, and Mother's DNA.

It is my oldest granddaughter's birthday this month, and I don't know what to give her for her birthday. But when she was younger, she always asked me to tell her a story. I think that I will pull out one of my OLD/ANCIENT tales that I wrote when her dad was her age and make it into a book for her.

p---leia aka Mamma KayeLee

7/19/2020

3 notes · View notes

citylightsbooks · 4 years

Text

5 Questions with Megan Fernandes, Author of Good Boys

Megan Fernandes is a writer and academic living in New York City. She is the author of The Kingdom and After (Tightrope Books 2015) and the new book of poems, Good Boys (published by Tin House). Her work has been published or is forthcoming in the New Yorker, Tin House, Ploughshares, Denver Quarterly, Chicago Review, Boston Review, Rattle, Pank, the Common, Guernica, the Academy of American Poets, and McSweeney's Internet Tendency, among others. She is a poetry reader for The Rumpus and an Assistant Professor of English at Lafayette College. She holds a PhD in English from the University of California, Santa Barbara and an MFA in poetry from Boston University. She reads from her new book Good Boys with special guests at City Lights Bookstore on Tuesday, February 25th.

***

City Lights: If you’ve been to City Lights before, what’s your memory of the visit? If you haven’t been here before, what are you expecting?

Megan Fernandes: Of all the places I’m reading this Spring (and it’s probably not politic to say this), I am most excited to read at City Lights. I’ve never been, but I understood at a very young age that the bookstore symbolized possibility, spontaneity, digression, lostness, community, etc. As a teenager, I read a lot of Beat literature, my favorites being Dharma Bums, In the Night Café, and everything Ginsberg. I was compelled by their portraits of America’s expansiveness. And I also just think as an immigrant kid not born in the USA, the Beats gave me some sense of American geography. I went to Colorado for the first time last year and I had this memory of my first impression of Colorado as a place described in On the Road. When traveling across the country, I often have Ferlinghetti’s feverish, twitchy, carnivalesque poetics in my head. I also think in this indirect way, Beat literature shaped some of my thoughts around feminist thinking as I was conscious of my orientation as outside certain privileges of the “male, womanizing adventurer” often romanticized in Beat lit. I had to interrogate what it meant to feel intimacies with Ginsberg and Duncan who were destabilizing masculinities and cultural logics of hate.

And so what I learned from City Lights and Beat lit is really something about the relationship between myth-making and counter-culture communities. I’m understanding the truly expansive network of the movement in so much more detail right now while reading an advanced copy of a fabulous new book called The Beats: A Literary History by Steven Belletto.

What are you reading right now?

I’m reading a book called Dapper Dan: Made in Harlem, co-written by Dapper Dan himself and my good friend, Mikael Awake. It’s a history of Dapper Dan’s iconic work in fashion, of course, while being really intimate. And it’s just as much a history of his family’s internal dynamics and, through his family, New York City at large. In particular, 1970’s NYC is so vividly, brilliantly wrought in this book.

There’s this one section where Dap is at Iona College at a lecture on protohistory and the professor, a Czech immigrant, tells the class that “In order for man to have survived during those ancient times… he must have had powers that he doesn’t have now. The only people that could possibly still have these powers today are the black and brown people on the planet” and when Dap hears this, he is transfixed. He says: “This is one of the most esteemed scholars at Iona College telling a packed lecture hall that black and brown people were the only ones on the planet who still had spiritual powers. How come this was my first time hearing about that? I looked around. I was the only black student in the class. I wasn’t tired anymore. He had my full attention… I said to myself, This is what I need to know. This is how I need to formulate myself.” I’m loving how the book captures these intense moments of transformation. I love that word choice: formulate. What poetic agency is modeled in that word? I needed that word the moment I read it.

Recently, I’ve also read Samiya Bashir’s Field Theories and Edgar Kunz’s Tap Out. Samiya wrote this legitimately weird and imaginative book that feels like it’s made out of the time-space continuum. Some cosmic materiality is really showing up in that book. I remember this line: “A body. A zoo. A lovely savannah. Walls of clear, clean glass” and I’m just on a ride with the musicality of her shifting assonance. Plus, I know that writers like June Jordan and Toni Cade Bambara are operating influences/specters of the book and you can feel that energy. Edgar’s book is more narrative and quieter, but so devastating. I sort of get what makes his speakers tenderize if that makes sense. I think it’s the same phenomena that tenderizes me, too.

Some of my favorite novels of recent years includes A Questionable Shape by Bennett Sims, The Small Backs of Children by Lidia Yuknavitch, Sonora by Hannah Lillith Assadi, and very recently, The Nickel Boys by Colson Whitehead.

What book or writer do you always find yourself recommending?

I think Jean Toomer’s Cane is the most beautiful book of the 20th century. I remember just being blown away by its call and response, the repeating imagery of sun and smoke and pines. That book is so stunning. Other astounding work that I always recommend includes Mebvh McGuckian’s Captain Lavender, Anne Carson’s The Autobiography of Red, Evie Shockley’s The New Black, Franz Wright’s Walking to Martha’s Vineyard, Eleni Sikelianos’ Body Clock, Jorie Graham’s The Errancy, Bhanu Kapil’s The Vertical Interrogation of Strangers, The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats, and Galway Kinnell and Hannah Liebmann’s translations of Rilke. Those are my hard-hitters. Those books are why I became a poet.

What writers/artists/people do you find the most influential to the writing of this book and/or your writing in general?

You know, I collected poems while I was writing and editing this book. And I think those specific poems created a kind of constellation around me, almost protective, that kept me writing. Some of those poems include “The Long Recovery” by Ellen Bass, “A Matter of Balance,” by Evie Shockley, “What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why” by Edna St. Vincent Millay, “I am Not Seaworthy” by Toni Morrison, “Becoming Regardless” by Jack Spicer, “A New Bride Almost Visible in Latin” by Jack Gilbert, “To the Young Who Want to Die” by Gwendolyn Brooks and many, many others. Definitely O’Hara as well. He never leaves me. The most important poem of that little self-curated archive is Frank Bidart’s “Visions at 74” where he writes: “To love existence / is to love what is indifferent to you.” I remember reading that line and just losing it. I have been guided by so much of Bidart. And maybe my book is a little bit about how to sustain rage in the face of that which is indifferent to you, what cannot love you (both personally and abstractly). How do you sustain rage so as to not fall into despair?

I also listened to a variety of music while writing and editing. A mix between contemporary sad kid hip-hop, old school jazz and blues, gospel, 80’s bands, pop culture queens, 1970’s hypnotic modal vamp, classical Spanish guitar, electronic pop, really pretty varied. A few names that come to mind: KOTA the Friend, NoName, Vince Staples, Travis Scott, Miles Davis Quintet, Bessie Smith, Sam Cooke, The Knocks, Solange, Archie Shepp, Pharoah Sanders, Alice Coltrane, Big Mama Thornton, Miriam Makeba, Kamasi Washington, Thompson Twins, Misfits, Bowie, Talking Heads, Tears for Fears, Cher, Whitney Houston, Portishead, Goldfrapp, Memphis Slim, Dinah Washington, Alberto Iglesias, Gustavo Santaolalla, Holychild, Blood Orange, etc.

If you opened a bookstore, where would it be located, what would it be called, and what would your bestseller be?

My grandpa played violin on a ship that sailed between Tanga, Tanzania and Goa, India. I never had the chance to meet him. He died when my dad was sixteen, but I always thought about what that journey might have looked and felt like, its many hardships, but also the wonder of gazing out at the sea playing strings. For that reason, I’d love to open a bookstore that focused specifically on Indian Ocean diaspora and sold books exclusively by authors working, uncovering, or investigating the literature of that oceanic rim. I think there is something rich in thinking about books not necessarily focused on nation-statehood but thinking more about a kind of social-imaginary with a literature that is messy in its conceptualization and crosses, migrates, misses, and mythologizes across many cultures over generations. You could have sections on food, underwater exploration, piracy, long-distance intimacy, trade routes, empire, transnational feminism. I like the idea of a bookstore that is anti-genre and instead, organized by associative thinking and imagination. It would be a logistical nightmare. You would never find what you were looking for, but you might find something you didn’t know existed.

So yes, I’d vote for a little homegrown network of bookstores in India, East Africa, and actually, maybe one of them in Lisbon which is a city that has a long (and problematic) history with the Indian Ocean. I’ve spent a lot of time in Lisbon the past eight years of my life, spending time visiting family and researching the history of the Portuguese empire especially as it relates to my family history (my folks are third generation East African Portuguese colonized Indians). I have a lot of conflicting homelands which is a way of saying that there are times when I feel like I have nothing but a rootless present. That’s something I investigate in my work, that weird (a)temporality. And I’m drawn to the particular light of Lisbon which is quite unusual. I’d call the bookstore “Malaika” which means “Angel” in Swahili and is the favorite folk song of my parents who grew up in Tanzania. I like the idea of a bookstore in Lisbon with the name in Swahili run by a Goan-Canadian-American woman. That’s the world I grew up in… one of multiplicities.

#Megan Fernandas #City Lights Bookstore #Tin House Books #Good Boys

8 notes · View notes

nowitsdarkfic · 5 years

Text

a quiet place // a joey one shot

Now, here’s a one shot for you guys. I’m also putting this on AO3 because he needs more love there 💜

Totally fiction but loosely inspired by things that actually happened to me with an old classmate of mine... as well as the Seinfeld episode “The Tape.”

February, 1985.

“Every piece of art you see here is from me.”

It was such a stepping stone for me to have my own art show here in New York City. Me, the little art student who stood on the outside looking in with her peers and the vagabond, now twenty-four and talking to people from the New York Times about her craft: I never would have guessed I made it this far in my career.

It was only two years ago when I had woken up feeling like my life was over. That old job drained me dry even if it brought home the bacon to myself and my parents. Art was in my soul, and it ached to flood right out of me, ever since I was a toddler.

My parents and I relocated out here to the East Coast from the southeastern side of Los Angeles because my mom’s job was transferred to the city of Rochester. They decided on Oswego to live at given the commute was a quick seventy-five minutes, and thus I called the region home. But there have been many times where I was asked why no accent and my response of “California baby, New York kid” never flew too well with everyone. It was particularly isolating at school when I watched the kids on the playground and I was relegated to the swing set or bunking myself up in the library with a book to read or a picture to draw.

It wasn’t until I met Joe in the beginning of the second grade when I began to feel more at ease with my peers.

I still remember sitting down at the table in the library, right across from him. He wore a bright red hockey jersey under a big black windbreaker and he didn’t look very comfortable there: he had this stern, serious expression plastered on his face, too serious for a little boy so I knew right away he was bit of an outcast himself. I asked him if I could sit with him and he raised these big brown eyes up at me from the book he was reading, and nodded.

I remember examining the nappy black hair all around his head and how it dangled down onto his shoulders, almost like a stuffed animal. His skin was light brown and smooth, and with his brown eyes, I realized I was sitting with a little Indian boy. He kind of resembled me because I had the same complexion and type of hair: I thought our eyes looked similar. At one point, he squirmed in his seat and whispered, “could you not stare at me, please?”

“Oh my goodness, I’m sorry,” I whispered back to him, shaking my head and directing my attention to the drawing in the sketchbook resting on my lap. Every so often, I took a glimpse up at him to see if he was still there. He never left until the bell rang and we all returned to class for the rest of the day.

I often saw him walking the halls of the school with his dark hair covering part of his face and his little body wrapped up in heavy sweaters and baggy clothes. He never talked to anyone, even when we shared music class together at one point during the year. I was in the choir section while he tucked himself behind the tiny drum kit in the corner.

It was the middle of November when I caught him on the walk home after school. Both my parents worked so I had to walk with the other latchkey kids, but I never saw him with the group. The afternoon felt cold and crisp with incoming lake effect snow and our leader told us to hustle: I watched him catch up with us for a moment before he hung back on the curb near a vast grassy area lined with tall spruce trees. I watched him stand there for a moment before he crossed the street. I was curious about him and I wanted him to join us.

Once all eyes were off of us and fixed on the street ahead of them I followed him across the street to the park. I reached the sidewalk on the other side once the latchkey group had turned the corner. I returned to him right as he began to walk faster. I trotted after him; once I came closer to him, he peered over his shoulder at me before breaking into a run. Up ahead stood a tall chain link fence around a low bright blue wall surrounded by thick evergreen bushes. To our right was more grass, a side street, and then, beyond another tree line loomed a sliver of Lake Ontario.

I picked up the pace to catch up with him.

“Leave me alone—“ he pleaded to me.

“But why?” I blurted out.

“Leave me alone, please!” He ran away towards the bushes near the hockey rink, but I followed him. He was a fast runner, his legs pumping so much harder than mine. But I lurked back a bit to watch him duck behind the biggest one near the door of the rink. Panting, I spotted his nappy hair from behind the top side of the pine needles. I rounded the edge of the bush closest to me to find he had taken a seat against the bare branches; right before him, and right next to me stood the bright blue wall of the rink.

He bowed his head into his arms, which he folded over his knees, like he was trying to hide from me.

“Hey—are you okay?” I choked out, slipping in between the bush and the wall.

“Don’t look at me,” he begged from his folded arms. I took a knee next to him.

“Hey—Hey, it’s okay,” I assured him, kneeling closer to him.

“No, it’s not,” he snapped back. I pushed a branch out of the way to come closer to him.

“What happened?” I asked, setting a hand on the base of the branch behind me.

“Nothing.”

“I think something happened,” I pointed out. He sniffled, and then he lifted his head to look at me with those big brown eyes.

“Do you promise not to tell?”

“Pinky promise.” I stuck out my right pinky finger for him. He swallowed before hooking his right pinky around it.

“Okay,” he finally said, letting go of my finger, “I’m ugly.”

I was stunned.

“You’re ugly? Who said that?”

“Everyone. When you’re half Injun, people will look at you and you wonder why and ask yourself if you can do anything.”

“Half what?”

“Injun,” he repeated, sniffling again. He paused for a second. “That’s a word my grandma taught me when I was little. She said that’s a word white people like to use to put Indians down.”

“Why are you using it then?” I asked, shifting my weight to better feel comfortable against the branches.

“She said if we use it, it loses its venom.”

“You think I could use it?” I suggested.

“Are you Indian?”

“Yeah. My grandpa is Blackfoot.”

“My mom, and my grandma and grandpa are all Iroquois. I don’t know about your tribe but you know, I do—I do feel better talking about it, though. I don’t feel so all alone.” He cleared his throat and hunched his shoulders to keep the warmth in his little body.

“I’m also Italian from my dad’s side,” he added, shivering.

“I’m German, Norwegian, and African,” I told him. “So don’t worry about feeling ugly. I’m a mess.”

I nestled even closer to him, so close in fact I put my arm around him. I could feel the wind picking up from behind the bushes and over the top of my head.

“I’m Hannah,” I told him. “What’s your name?”

“Joe. But everyone calls me Joey.”

He glanced around the nook in the bushes, the tops of which protected us from the outside world. It was quiet here with just the two of us.

“Let’s make this our safe spot,” he told me. “We can come here when we both feel alone.”

“It’s a quiet place here,” I added.

We often came back to that little spot, all throughout the second grade and the rest of elementary school. He told me he missed me after a good snow because we couldn’t meet up there, but always did during the spring and summer. The two of us walked home after school together and then strode across the grass, and hung out there for a while until we had to get our butts back home because of homework. We talked about our day, like something that happened at recess or at lunch or during class. He always made me laugh with his little off-the-cuff quips and his spicy sense of humor; I often made him laugh when I learned sarcasm and my humor grew sharper. Nothing fancy, just two kids hanging out together.

We returned to it as we grew older and Joey found interest in hockey and then music. Every single time we took the exact same seating with our backs to the grass and our feet pointed to the outside wall. I always put my arm around him whenever he felt too cold; sometimes he did the same with me, too. At school, I almost never saw him because our classes were down the hall from each other, and so seeing him was the best part of the school day.

Meanwhile, I watched his hair grow longer and thicker and darker to where it was solid black. We listened to our voices change, his squeaky little boy voice breaking and falling lower, and mine growing more womanly.

We even watched our hips grow fuller—it was more so the case with me, but his developed a gentle curve, all while he grew lankier: he gained all of his weight in the form of slender but strong muscles. The first time I knew he was going to be a tall man was in the middle of sixth grade, and one of the last times I saw him. When he stretched out his legs towards the wall, his jeans legs receded back up enough to reveal the very tops of his black Chuck Taylors.

The last time we saw each other was the last day of the summer before seventh grade, and I had received a letter in the mail telling me I had been accepted into a brand new art school over in Rochester, which meant my parents and I would have to move over there.

“It’s the seventh through the ninth grades only, though,” I assured him. “So I could come back by the time regular high school starts up.”

“But that’s three years without you, though,” he remarked. “Who am I going to hang out with until then?” I could never answer that question.

And before we returned home, and we stood to our feet, and strode over to the curb and stopped before crossing. I put my arms around him to feel him one last time: even though he had grown slim and toned with time, he had this nice soft feeling to him. He held me in his slender arms against his deepening chest and I never wanted to let go of him, not just from the fact I was saying goodbye to my best friend but from the fact I always wanted to stay with his softness and his gentleness.

He never saw me grow heavier with everything ballooning: indeed, by the time I started ninth grade and my technical freshman year of high school, I was five foot seven and a hundred sixty pounds. Another fifteen on me and I’d be considered fat. My parents worked long days so I often spent my time alone.

The blessing, however, was art: I managed to make art so well that I was at the top of my class by the end of the ninth grade. The other blessing was having found a tape recorder to record my thoughts. Since I was alone, I could speak my thoughts aloud and I felt better doing it like that instead of putting them in writing.

But I wasn’t returning to Oswego upon graduation. I kept going in the arts all through my high school years, and yet not one time did I hear a word from Joey. I hoped he could find me as I started losing weight and looking forward to being a part of something greater than myself. It didn’t help matters I was surrounded by fears of an economic downturn, even though by my eighteenth birthday in the middle of April I landed a factory job: it couldn’t come at a better time as my dad was laid off from his job and my mom worried about being the sole breadwinner. I stayed there for a year and a half until the place closed down. I was forced into a job at Xerox, which I liked at first because I was bringing home money to help my parents as much as myself.

But over time I hated it there. The hours were ridiculous so I couldn’t see my parents that often, or make art so much. There came a point before my twentieth birthday I had gone so far to writing a suicide note and a plan on how to kill myself, including finding a way back to Joey so I could tell him goodbye for the last time. I would then drive into Oswego and scout out a drug dealer and overdose on heroin right there at home.

But it was the thought of him, that belief that he and I would reunite in the future, that saved me from my own demise. I finally said enough with the job, but I had faith in my art.

It took me a full year before I made my first commission and it was modest. I worried about my parents and I being evicted and thus I poured my all, all of my yearning to return to the quiet place and to Joey, into every single piece. We were given two days to leave our condo when I had one of my drawings posted in a gallery in the heart of the city and I was invited to share more with them.

The commissions I made saved my parents’ condo and even though I was a ways off, I began scouting out for a place of my own. I started gaining weight again but I knew it was for the best.

Over the next two years I had more and more art shows with galleries in Rochester and then that past autumn in 1983, I received a letter from that gallery that saved us, telling me they wanted to sponsor me in my own show in New York City. My own art show! In the city!

I had my parents put in first class with me as we rode the rails from Rochester to the outskirts of the Big Apple in Yonkers, right near the Hudson River. This place was exactly how I would imagine an art gallery in New York would look like with its shiny wooden floors so clean I could eat off of them and all of my art treated like they were worth millions.

I was so eager about the whole thing that I made an auditory diary in the back room right before showtime. That little recording became my sole moment alone for hours on end as I answered interview questions, made even more commissions, and even sold a few drawings. I was on top of the world for once, caught up in a state of euphoria.

By eleven thirty at night, the owner announced five minutes before closing time, but I still had a couple of stragglers from the New York Times in conversation with me for at least another ten minutes. Once they node me good night, I breathed a sigh of both relief and elation.

Day one was done: time to grab my things and head back to my hotel room next door to my parents’ room. I scooped up my purse and my tape recorder before heading out to my rental car. Once I sank into the driver’s seat, I rewound the tape to a clean strip.

Nothing. It was full. Strange, it couldn’t have been, as I had plenty of space left.

I played the spot where I had left off before to make sure it wasn’t a mistake.

I gasped.

At the end of the tape, I brought a hand to my mouth in shock. I blushed, but I didn’t know if I wanted to puke or scream.

There was a lot of people in there, and they were all getting to know me, so I don’t know who would know me that well enough to leave an absolutely filthy message on my verbal diary. I stuck the recorder in the panel on the inside of the door as I drove back to the hotel a couple of blocks away.

I let out a long low whistle once I found a spot near the door and killed the engine. I decided to take the tape recorder into my room with me because I could probably figure who was the creep who left that message. But at the same time a part of me felt flattered that a guy went out of his way to do this for me and on something I kept with me on my person whenever I needed it.

I entered the lobby of the hotel and I spotted the tall, slender man at the ice machine on the side of the room. I recognized his jet black kinky hair, now quite the mess on top and grown halfway down his back in the most flyaway fashion, and most of all, that lovely curvature to his hips and thighs.

“Joey?” I called to him once I came within earshot. He turned to face me: he never lost that solemn expression and his eyes were as rich brown as ever, but in spite of his thin body his face was rounder, such that his cheekbones filled out with a sweet little smile at me.

“Hey, I know you,” he greeted me. My heart skipped several beats as I approached him with my arms wide open. As soft as ever.

“Oh my God—“ I almost choked up holding him and then peering right up into his face.

“Long time no see, right?”

“Right?” I let go of him to stick the recorder in my purse, out of sight, out of mind. “Oh my God. What are you doing here?”

“I’m in a band now. We’re recording a new album. We met with our producers today and they said it should be out in October just in time for my birthday. And our manager scrounged to get me and our guitarist both a room here because we’re both from outside the city. I was literally right down the street at a bar and I was just getting ready to go to bed.”

“And then I showed up.”

“Right. But shit, Hannah, how’ve you been, though? You look fantastic. I always thought you’d look good with a little weight.”

“Oh, you should’ve seen me after I moved out to Rochester. I was like... almost fat. But I’m an artist now. I just had my own show down the block.”

“I was wondering what was going on down there at that little gallery. The bar I was at was right across the street and I kept seeing all these people walking around, and I kept thinking ‘what’s going on?’ But I’m pretty beat, though.”

“Oh, I hear you. It’s been a big, long day for me. But... you wanna talk more over breakfast?”

“I’d love to. Here, I assume?”

“Of course. Hey, free breakfast is free breakfast.”

“True. Gimme another hug—“ He put his arms around me and I lay my head against his chest, and I closed my eyes. Even if it was for a minute, it felt sweet to be with Joey again. He let go of me and one final stroke of my back before returning back down the corridor to his room with his bucket of ice. I watched him slip inside before I returned to own room down the hall to my right.

I set my purse down on the table to take the tape recorder out and give that voice another listen. The second time around felt a little better. Maybe this guy was just trying to mess with me, or maybe he did want me from all the desires he expressed to me. They all felt so pure and from a different place. Maybe he just wanted attention. But I needed to find him, especially after my breakfast with Joey.

*****************************

“So tell me more about your band.”

It was a blustery day near the heart of New York City, and neither of us felt to be in the mood to go out anywhere no matter what happened. Joey had put on a baggy black button up shirt and fitted black jeans, and those black Chucks I remember from when we hung out at the quiet place.

“I love this ghoulish look on you,” I remarked to him when he sat down across from me with a paper cup of coffee and a blueberry muffin.

“Pretty rock n’ roll, isn’t it?” he replied, giving me a playful little smile.

“Definitely.” I eyed the muffin, which just appeared to be larger than his own hand. “Ever since we were little,” I noted, gesturing at the top.

“Hey, sometimes that’s all you need, especially when you’re a little boy and it’s all you can find for yourself. So anyway, my band—well, that’s not really correct. It’s not technically my band, they just brought me in because I can sing. They’re called Anthrax after... some kind of disease.”

“That sounds attractive,” I said, nonplussed.

“Well, we’re heavy metal and our other guitarist Scott was the guy who came up with the name after reading about it in a biology textbook. He said the name just sounded sinister, like perfect for a heavy metal band. But yeah, it’s me on vocals, Scott and a guy named Dan on guitars, and uncle and nephew Charlie and Frankie on drums and bass respectively.”

“Uncle and nephew?”

“Yeah, it threw me, too, because they’re like three years apart, but yeah—they’re uncle and nephew.” He took a sip from his cup before speaking again.

“And like I said last night, Dan and I are kind of the odd ones, more so me.”

“Why’s that?”

“Scott’s from Queens, Frankie and Charlie are from right down the block in the Bronx. Dan’s from Rockland, almost in Jersey.”

“But they’re all from the city, though,” I pointed out.

“Right.”

“How’d they find you, though?”

He chewed on his bottom lip before replying to that.

“I have my ways.”

“You have your ways?” That beckoned a chuckle from me.

“Of course. After you left, I kinda learned how to risk things and go forth by my own whims. Well, and it was the pressure of growing up, too. Growing up a half-breed Injun boy in upstate New York is quite the experience.”

He took a bite from his muffin and another sip from his cup.

“Did you go back to the quiet place?” I asked him in a low voice as he set down his cup and showed me a thoughtful look.

“Once in a while. I had to stop in seventh grade because it got—kind of depressing.”

“You were missing me.”

“Totally. You know I made new friends after a while but I missed that—that—I wanna say ‘feminine principle’. Just being there in the bushes behind the hockey rink away from the world was something I needed to feel comfortable about myself and it was something I missed.” He showed me a solemn little smile before taking another bite of muffin. And then I remembered the message on my tape recorder.

“Oh! You’re not gonna believe this,” I started.

“What’s up?” he asked with his mouth full.

“Last night after the show, I checked my tape recorder—I’ve kept a spoken word diary since high school just because I, too, was alone with no one to talk to and I needed to vent somehow—“

“Mm-hmm...”

“—so anyway I checked the tape after the show, you know for a new entry—and at some point or another, some guy left this—very interesting message on there.”

“Interesting?” he echoed, his mouth full of muffin. “How so?”

“Filthy. Absolutely filthy and naughty.”

“Like... sexual?” He raised his eyebrows at me.

“Very. It weirded me out at first but I gave it another listen and I found it kinda flattering to be honest.”

“Like some dude walked in and he didn’t wanna bug you so he told you how he feels about you, though.”

“I guess so. You know I’m not such a mess after all.”

That coaxed a chuckle out of him. He took another bite of muffin before glancing down at his wristwatch.

“Oh shit, I gotta go! I think Danny already left, though—I haven’t seen him.”

“I’ll take you,” I offered him.

“Oh, thank you!”

We stood to our feet and hurried down the corridor to his room, and then my room to fetch the keys. He kept his arm around me as we rushed out to the cold and the rental car; he left his hair disheveled when I shut the passenger side door next to him.

“So where we headed?” I asked him, tugging the seat belt over my chest.

“Uh... just a few blocks away over in the Bronx. I’ll show it to you—“

I started up the car and we headed on over to the recording studio in question. He showed me the way, past some bits of traffic, and into the heart of the Bronx.

“I hope you can find that guy, though,” he declared at the last stoplight beforehand.

“I hope so, too,” I admitted. “I mean, this guy—Joe, I’m not even kidding when I say this—this guy said the filthiest things I’ve ever heard in my life. Like... I almost don’t know how to react to it.”

He cleared his throat before he turned his head to me.

“What did his voice sound like?” he asked me. “Could you describe it?”

“It was like—throaty and husky. There were some points where he lowered it to a whisper and—it was kind of hot, to be honest. You know, sexy.”

The light turned green and we rolled forward towards the low brick building three doors down from the crosswalk. I pulled up to the curb, and he unbuckled his seat belt right before I pulled the parking brake. He cleared his throat again.

“Was it something like—“ He cleared his throat a third time and leaned into my face, his eyes hooded and his expression in a state of euphoria.

“—Hannah... I want you,” he breathed out in that exact same whispery voice as on the tape, “to go down on me with your tongue all along the side of my dick.” He let a soft airy moan out from the back of his throat and ran his tongue along the rim of his mouth, and the result was my toes curling right into the inside of my socks. I gaped at him right as his expression changed into a devilish grin.

“That... was you?” I sputtered.

“Shhh!” he hissed, bringing a finger to his lips even though the windows were rolled up.

“That was you?” I demanded in a hushed voice.

“That was all me.”

“Joey—“ I was rendered speechless.

“No! No! Please don’t tell anyone.” He sighed through his parted lips. “Okay. When I was across the street, you know—I saw all those people walking around and I wanted to check it out. So I took a quick walk over to the gallery and I saw you in there talking to some people—like I recognized you almost immediately. I knew I couldn’t get in so I went around back and when the coast was clear, I ducked in and saw the tape recorder on the table in there. I assumed it was yours because I didn’t think some girl would just leave her purse lying around like that unless she was protected. I just... went for it and filled up the rest of the tape and got out of there before anyone saw me. I really hope it didn’t perturb you too much—I only did it to be kinda—you know, sassy. That being our thing and everything.”

I closed my lips a bit when he shrugged. I didn’t know what to say right then.

“Anyways, I gotta go. I’ll ask Danny for a ride back so don’t sweat it.” He ducked out of the car and into the cold morning.

“Yeah, yeah—“

Once he closed the door, I lingered there for a moment before rolling forward to the next stoplight in hopes of turning around and heading back to the hotel.

I gave the recording another listen. I sat there on my bed with my mouth agape.

“Wow,” I breathed out when I reached the end. It made sense. He and I had known each other for years and the adolescence was the last time we saw each other. He was alone, and he missed me. But at the same time, this was an interesting, rather jarring side to him. I had always known him as that little Indian boy with no one to talk to; I thought I had known him but this was something else.

I kept the whole thing tucked in the back of my mind for the entirety of the second day of my art show. I watched my parents speak to some people on the other side of the room. What would they think?

It was the same shtick that night as the one before, and this time I really went back to my room with some big fat checks in my pocket. I strode into the lobby once again to find him walking towards the ice machine. He nodded at me and I decided to run over to him.

“What’s up?” he greeted me.

“Can I talk to you about something?” I asked him in a hushed voice.

“Yeah, of course. In my room or in yours?”

“Mine.”

“Okay—“

I led him down the corridor to my little room, right next door to where my parents were staying for one more night. He shut the door behind him and set the ice bucket on the table next to the TV, and fixed the lapels of his shirt.

“This is about that message, isn’t it,” he guessed, rubbing his hands together.

“Yeah.”

“Look... like I said, I only did that to just play with you. I didn’t mean to like... creep you out or anything.”

“No, no... you didn’t,” I promised him. “But I brought you in here because—I wanted to tell you that I didn’t realize you were so... sexual.”

“Well...” he began reluctantly, “let’s just say I missed you, especially right around that time when—things happen.” He spoke with that same husky, breathy voice like on the tape. He parted his lips and unfastened the top button on his shirt to show off more of his chest. I wanted to touch him.

I lunged for him with my arms wide open.

“Oh—Oh, Joey—“ I breathed out before locking my lips with his. So soft. The only boy who could feel so soft and so like home to me.

He put his hands on my back before he tugged me towards the bed. I could feel him taking off my blouse and then unhooking my bra. I tossed the bra to the side and unfastened my jeans, but I decided to keep them on for a moment more. I unbuttoned his shirt to feel his chest and his stomach. His skin felt smooth and warm like melted butter underneath my lips. I undid his jeans and kissed him all the way down his happy trail, and that stripe of warm, utterly gorgeous skin. I could feel myself growing moist with every caress of his skin. So soft, and also... sexy.

“Okay, this is hot,” his voice broke as I inched closer to his genitals. I peeled back his jeans to better reach for his length. So big and full; makes sense with those thick thighs and those gorgeous hips; I could see he was erecting. I knew he wanted it, just like he said.

I put my lips around it first before running my tongue along the side. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed his eyes snapped shut and his lips pouted. He was surrendering to the feeling. I curled my tongue around the shaft like I was licking a popsicle. I put my lips around it again when I tasted something salty. He came right in my mouth. He let out a gentle but broken moan when I swallowed it down.

I let go because I could feel him tapping on my arms. I crawled over him when he reached down my jeans and into my panties. His fingers wriggled right into me.

“Wet as the streets outside,” he groaned out. I never realized how good that felt, with his fingers twitching and rubbing against that little spot. I stared right into his face as I could feel myself rising higher and higher. It was like a runner’s high, feeling my heart pound faster and my lungs scarcely fill with air but all I had with me was him, was Joey.

“Oh fuck, I’m coming—!” I sputtered into his face.

“That’s it!” he grunted, and he let go of me. I lay down on his chest which brought out a groan from him. We both panted from the intensity, but then he started laughing.

“Wha—?” I could hardly breathe.

“That’s my girl,” he said in a broken voice. I lifted myself off of him so he could take off his shirt and his jeans. I could taste him all on the inside of my mouth, but I could care less. I crossed a new threshold with my best friend, and I felt closer to him. Once he returned out of the bathroom, he invited me into the bed. He lay down on his side first and, once I switched off the lamp, I nestled in before him. I lay my head against his chest as he wrapped his arms around me.

“Mmm, oh, Joey—that was wonderful,” I whispered to him.

“That was everything I could’ve ever asked for from you, Hannah, baby doll.” His fingers stroked up my back and into my hair.

“But let’s keep this a secret, though, okay?” he suggested. I took a glimpse up at his lovely dark face staring back at me.

“Yeah, of course,” I promised him. “This here is our safe spot.”

“It’s our safe spot,” he echoed, showing me that little smile again through the darkness. “It’s a quiet place.”

I put my arms around his slim waist only to find he was still soft, still holding that sweet softness I had been longing for these past eleven years. I had been wanting to feel him again, in the deepest way possible, and in what better setting than in a quiet place.

#joey belladonna #anthrax #80s #fanfic #fanfiction #heavy metal fanfiction #smut and angst #lemontober2019 #lemon #oneshot #scott ian #dan spitz #frank bello #charlie benante #long post #text #SHOW THIS BOI SOME LOVE OR I WILL THROW GOOD & PLENTIES AT YOU #so hot omg

6 notes · View notes

woodenwedges · 6 years

Note

1 through 100. Let's go! Answer em aaaalll!

Omg Kate you’re absolute mad!!! Thanks tho’ I love answering these things ❤️😁Hoo boy here we go!1. What is you middle name?Don’t have one! Neither does my brother.2. How old are you?203. When is your birthday?The 15th of may 🌸4. What is your zodiac sign?Taurus ♉️🐃5. What is your favorite color?Baby pink! 6. What’s your lucky number?Dunno about lucky number but my favorite number is 77. Do you have any pets?Yep! Two dogs.One sweet, blonde girl named Emsi (based on the danish word Emsig meaning officious)And a neurotic chihuahua named Henry. We got them both cause their owners no longer could take care of them and I love them to the moon and back ❤️8. Where are you from?Hirtshals in Denmark! I love my town to death9. How tall are you?Uuuh around like 1,65 m10. What shoe size are you?3911. How many pairs of shoes do you own?Too many.... we get a lot of free stuff so I have a lot. Probably around 10 pairs?12. What was your last dream about?The only thing I remember from my last dream was that I got a pimple on my forehead lol13. What talents do you have?I’m good at art, dancing and just performing in general and I’m getting pretty good with makeup!14. Are you psychic in any way?Nope15. Favorite song?Right now it’s brain damage and eclipse from The Dark Side of The Moonby Pink Floyd. They remind me of my mom ❤️16. Favorite movie?Don’t actually have one! But the last film I think I saw was carol and I absolutely loved it.17. Who would be your ideal partner?Just someone who’s intelligent and kind I guess! And has a similar sense of humor18. Do you want children?I do, but I’m probably never gonna birth any cause I have an illness I don’t want to risk transferring and also might be going on T soon!!19. Do you want a church wedding?I don’t really care20. Are you religious?Nah. I’m a spiritual atheist21. Have you ever been to the hospital?Only as a visitor. I’ve gone to the emergency room but I’ve never been admitted.22. Have you ever got in trouble with the law?Nope23. Have you ever met any celebrities?My cousins a model who’s dating one of the Danish x-factor judges so yea.24. Baths or showers?BATHS25. What color socks are you wearing?White. I prefer just plain whites rn, but there’s was a time in my life where I always wore fun, colorful socks and never matching them26. Have you ever been famous?Lol no but a stranger did come up to me last week and told me she’s a huge fan of my work ❤️ a lot of the locals like my watercolor portraits27. Would you like to be a big celebrity?Honestly yea I do fantasize a lot about it 28. What type of music do you like?Music is a huge part of my life! My main Spotify playlist is 161 hours now and it’s all extremely diverse!The only music I don’t particularly like is blues and trap cause i find it boring. Right now I’m really into old grungy rock, punk, experimental stuff, rap and disco 💃🏼 29. Have you ever been skinny dipping?Sure have! I did it countless times this summer at the beach. There’s nothing more freeing than swimming naked in the ocean 💙30. How many pillows do you sleep with?Just one, but it’s a really good one. Oh and sometimes and extra one just to cuddle 31. What position do you usually sleep in?Fetus position is my fav but I’m trying not to do that cause it’s bad for your back32. How big is your house?Pretty big. Two stories plus a garage where my friends and I hang out. And also a two bedroom annex33. What do you typically have for breakfast?Toast or oatmeal with nuts and berries34. Have you ever fired a gun?No35. Have you ever tried archery?I tried it a couple of weeks ago and it was really fun! 36. Favorite clean word?I like words like clean and crystal and chemical 37. Favorite swear word?Fuck.38. What’s the longest you’ve ever gone without sleep?Don’t remember. Pretty long. But I’ve started to be very careful with sleep cause my mental health REALLY depends on it39. Do you have any scars?Lots. Anything from self-harm to getting burned by a marshmallow lmao40. Have you ever had a secret ?Bitch my whole personality used to be a secret. So yea a lot41. Are you a good liar?Yup. I’m very creative and anxious so if I feel like I’ve done something I shouldn’t I immediately have a good lie ready. Also I’ve had some problems with compulsive lying whoops42. Are you a good judge of character?Nooo not really cause I always feel bad for disliking ppl so I force myself to keep an open mind. But I’ve learned to just follow my instincts a bit more43. Can you do any other accents other than your own?I’m pretty good at like southern American accents and also an American accent In Danish is so fun and cute. 44. Do you have a strong accent?It’s pretty strong. I used to fake a British accent out of embarrassment but then I started feeling pretentious so I let it go45. What is your favorite accent?I love a Colombian accent and French ofc. Also Indian and Chinese. Oh and a lot of African ones too, especially the ppl from Congo! But I love accents in general. They’re literally my go to ASMR trigger46. What is your personality type?INFP47. What is your most expensive piece of clothing?My winter jacket... my mom wanted to buy me one that was new and when we finally found one that didn’t give me dysphoria I was so excited I forgot to look at the price tag... and she just bought it for me anyway.48. Can you curl your tongue?Yea and I can stick it between my tooth gap49. Are you an innie or an outie?Outie all the way50. Left or right handed?Right51. Are you scared of spiders?No, I used to have pretty severe arachnophobia but i worked through it and now I actually really love them! Also I don’t care how scared you are of them, don’t you dare kill them in front of me! That makes me so uncomfortable. Just let me know there’s a spider and I’ll get it safely outside for you 52. Favorite food?Love sushi with crab meat or fried shrimp!53. Favorite foreign food?Well probably sushi? Lol. Or anything Italian!54. Are you a clean or messy person?Super messy but I’m trying my best!55. Most used phrased?“Bid I det sure æble”. Basically “bite the bullet” in English 56. Most used word?Probably bitch. I use it in an affectionate manner towards friends lmao57. How long does it take for you to get ready?Very, very long58. Do you have much of an ego?Yea I think so59. Do you suck or bite lollipops?Suck60. Do you talk to yourself?Nope. 61. Do you sing to yourself?Yes!62. Are you a good singer?I’m decent. Think I could get good if I got a vocal coach63. Biggest Fear?Getting ridiculed, being misunderstood and being unwanted 64. Are you a gossip?I love gossip...65. Best dramatic movie you’ve seen?I don’t really know sry!66. Do you like long or short hair?Love all hair. I love running my fingers through long hair. I prefer short hair for me tho67. Can you name all 50 states of America?LOL NO68. Favorite school subject?I really liked art and foreign language classes69. Extrovert or Introvert?HUGE introvert!70. Have you ever been scuba diving?No but I’d love to try it!71. What makes you nervous?Public embarrassment is a big one. But racism, homophobia, transphobia and misogyny will also make me very, very nervous.72. Are you scared of the dark?Not at all73. Do you correct people when they make mistakes?Depends on the mistakes? Never on like grammar and stuff like that.74. Are you ticklish?Very. I can tickle myself. But then again I am schizophrenic lol75. Have you ever started a rumor?Once in high school my friends and I started a rumor that I was “a hermaphrodite” and we kept it going for years. At first it was just to fuck with people but then I started getting like a kick from it. For some reason I loved the idea of people thinking I was intersex. Aaaand that was the start of me getting gender identity issues lol76. Have you ever been in a position of authority?I used to teach dancing lessons for kids at a local church lol does that count?77. Have you ever drank underage?Only a couple of beers. But the drinking age is here is 15 so that’s not a huge problem 78. Have you ever done drugs?a couple of times. Done ecstasy and Valium once which was really fun. And I’ve tried speed a couple of times but it has no effect on me. I also love weed if you consider that a drug 79. Who was your first real crush?Had a huge crush on a guy at my boarding school. And also a girl at the school... they became a couple and I remember wanting to die asdgsa80. How many piercings do you have?None! Had a septum once, but I never had my ears pierced as a child or anything 81. Can you roll your Rs?“Yea82. How fast can you type?Pretty fast!83. How fast can you run?I’m not a great runner but I’m getting better84. What color is your hair?Blonde85. What color is your eyes?Green86. What are you allergic to?Nothing. Tho I do get allergic reactions to extreme swifts in temperature 87. Do you keep a journal?Yup!88. What do your parents do?Both retired now but my dad used to be a fisherman and my mom ran a daycare and later worked with elderly people who suffered from dementia. 89. Do you like your age?Yea?90. What makes you angry?It takes a lot to get me angry but unnecessary hate and harassment usually gets me to tick91. Do you like your own name?I really like it actually! 92. Have you already thought of baby names, and if so what are they?I have but I don’t remember them... think I repressed those daydreams when I decided never to bear children :(93. Do you want a boy a girl for a child?Idc94. What are you strengths?Intellectuality, kindness, curiosity, creativity and bravery. Also I get a lot of praise for being so open and aware of my mental illnesses and for fighting so fiercely to get healthy. 95. What are your weaknesses?Bad self criticism, naïvety, laziness and having trouble asking for help and taking initiative 96. How did you get your name?My brother decided it.97. Were your ancestors royalty?Pff highly doubt it98. Do you have any scars?Already answered this99. Color of your bedspread?That really popular, white IKEA one with flowers100. Color of your room?White, although I cover them up with posters, drawings and sometimes literal trash when i get psychotic cause white walls make me hallucinate like crazyThis was a fucking blast!!! Thanks Kate 😚❤️

2 notes · View notes

marymosley · 4 years

Text

CNN Analysts Unleash Personal Attacks On RNC Speakers In Twitter Storm

We have previously discussed the case of former Covington Catholic High School student Nick Sandmann who was repeatedly and falsely called a racist in an encounter with a Native American activist in front of the Lincoln Memorial. Various media organizations have apologized or settled cases with Sandmann for their unfair coverage, including CNN. However, when Sandmann spoke at the Republic National Convention, CNN’s political analyst Joe Lockhart again attacked him personally after he criticized how the media got the story wrong. CNN’s Jeff Yang also attacked the teenager and even suggested that his speech proved that he was not innocent. Fellow CNN analyst Asha Rangappa attacked former United Nations Ambassador Nikki Haley as yielding to a racist America for not using what Rangappa suggested was her real name as opposed to “Nikki.” It turns out that Nikki is her lawful middle name and the Hill’s Saagar Enjeti noted it is “a Punjabi name.” That however is an appeal to reason not rage which seems to have little place in our national discourse or media coverage.

The personal attacks on speakers were beyond the pale, but hardly unprecedented. What happened to Sandmann was a disgrace for the media and he had every right to speak publicly about his treatment by the media.

Sandmann is a pro-life kid who wanted to demonstrate against abortion. He sought to play a meaningful role in his political system, which is what we all have encouraged. Indeed, CNN has aired many such calls for young people to have their voices heard. He was in Washington as part of the annual “March for Life.” This is one of those voices. Sandmann spoke about his horrific experience in being labeled the aggressor in the confrontation when all he did was stand there as an activist pounded a drum in his face. Sandmann said this morning in an interview that he only learned at 3 am in the morning on the bus home that he was being labeled a racist who attacked or harassed this activist.

In addition to Lockhart, CNN opinion writer Jeff Yang said that the speech confirmed to him that he was guilty all along.

“Hey @N1ckSandmann, I watched your speech tonight at the #RNCConvention2020 with an open mind, thinking I might hear something that would convince me of your position that you were an innocent victim of a cruel media. I was disappointed, but not surprised, to hear otherwise.”

So Yang now believes Sandmann was the aggressor or the one who was at fault? Yang even criticized Sandmann for not extending a “branch of peace” to Nathan Phillip, the Native American elder in the confrontation. Sandmann did nothing wrong in front of Lincoln Memorial. He just stood there as Phillip pounded a drum in his face. Yet, Yang now believes that the media was not wrong or Sandmann innocent.

Yang previously personally attacked Pete Buttigieg for calling for a “vision shaped by the American Heartland rather than the ineffective Washington Politics.” Yang again viewed Buttigieg’s political statement as a license for personal insults: “Okay, gloves off: This is the bullshittiest quote of many bullshitty quotes from this man, whose vision was shaped by Harvard, Oxford, McKinsey & Company and a keenly honed sense of ambition. Dude, your dad was a lit professor and you went to a private prep school. Quit fronting.” Nothing on the content of Buttigieg’s point. Just a personal attack from the CNN commentator.

The Sandmann controversy arose because of the very bias that Yang reaffirmed this week. For many, the mere fact that he was wearing a MAGA hat was enough to declare him a racist. An example that we previously discussed is the interview of “Above the Law” writer Joe Patrice with Elie Mystal. In the interview, Mystal, the Executive Editor of “Above the Law”, attacked this 16 year old boy as a racist. Patrice agreed with Mystal’s objections to Sandmann wearing his “racist [MAGA] hat.” They also objected to Sandmann doing interviews trying to defend himself with Mystal deriding how this “17-year-old kid makes the George Zimmerman defense for why he was allowed to deny access to a person of color.” It was entirely false that Sandmann was denying “access to a person of color.” Yet, the interview is an example of the criticism (which continued with Lockhart) of Sandmann speaking publicly about his treatment. Mystal and Patrice compared this high school student to a man who was accused of murdering an unarmed African American kid and continued to slam him even after the true facts were disclosed.

After his remarks at the RNC (which is not an easy thing for most teenagers to do), Lockhart declared on Twitter “I’m watching tonight because it’s important. But i [sic] don’t have to watch this snot nose entitled kid from Kentucky.”

Why is this teenager “entitled”? Because he is discussing his role in a national controversy or his abuse by the media, including CNN? CNN settled with Sandmann. When did that become “entitled”? The message from these media personalities seems to be that Sandman is expected to simply stay silent and such interviews make him either a George Zimmerman wannabe or a textbook case of entitlement. Of course, media figures like Lockhart can continue to slam Sandmann, but he is . . . well . . . entitled to do so.

Nikki Haley gave one of the most polished speeches at the RNC. There is clearly much in the speech that many do not accept about racism in America. However, Haley lashed out that it is

“now fashionable to say that America is racist. That is a lie. America is not a racist country. This is personal for me. I am the proud daughter of Indian immigrants. They came to America and settled in a small Southern town. My father wore a turban. My mother wore a sari. I was a Brown girl in a Black and White world. We faced discrimination and hardship. But my parents never gave in to grievance and hate. My mom built a successful business. My dad taught 30 years at a historically black college. And the people of South Carolina chose me as their first minority and first female governor. America is a story that’s a work in progress. Now is the time to build on that progress, and make America even freer, fairer, and better for everyone.”

That speech led to an immediate personal attack from Rangappa that Haley bowed to racism by dropping her real name: “Right. Is that why you went from going by Nimrata to ‘Nikki’?” Rangappa asked.

The problem is that Haley birth name is Nimrata Nikki Randhawa. She is not the first politician to use her middle name like Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson, who goes by Boris. Then there is Willard Mitt Romney. Was Romney denying his roots by going with Mitt? Yet when a minority member uses her middle name, it is somehow evidence that she is a racist tool.

What is telling is that, rather than address the underlying argument on systemic racism in our society, analysts like Rangappa prefer to attack Haley personally and suggest that she is some type of shill for racism. Why? Rangappa teaches at Yale and in academia such ad hominem attacks are viewed as the very antithesis of reasoned debate. Likewise, in journalism, such attacks were once viewed as anathema, particularly when they are based on false assumptions.

There is much in these conventions to debate. In truth, I have never liked political conventions and view them all as virtually contentless. Nevertheless, there have been parts of the RNC that I have criticized, including the appearance last night of Secretary of State Mike Pompeo in a departure from past traditions of keeping such cabinet members out of political convention roles. Once again, such important lines of separation were obliterated by the Trump Administration. I also found reformed former felon John Ponder’s remarks to be powerful, but I agree with critics that the incorporation of a pardon signing into the events at a political convention to be wrong. I have also previously criticized the use of the White House for the political convention, including for the First Lady’s speech (which I also thought was a good speech).

Those are issue worthy of debate and people of good faith can disagree on the merits. That is a lot more productive than attacking an 18-year-old kid because he had the audacity to criticize the media and support President Trump. There is, of course, a troubling entitlement evident in these stories. It is the entitlement enjoyed by media figures who feel total license to personally attack anyone who challenges their narrative or supports Trump. It is not just permitted but popular. This is why Merriam-Webster defines “entitlement” as the “belief that one is deserving of or entitled to certain privileges.”

youtube

CNN Analysts Unleash Personal Attacks On RNC Speakers In Twitter Storm published first on https://immigrationlawyerto.tumblr.com/

0 notes

yuehong · 6 years

Text

I am about to finish my studies soon (ugh) and I started to reflect on a lot of stuff. It's pointless to share everything here, though, one thing which frequently comes to my mind are racial issues (unsurprisingly). I feel like dumping some stuff on my blog for no specific reason. Some of these have been mentioned before. The way my brain works is sometimes weird when it's past midnight.

When I was 4, I was bullied in kindergarten. Children made fun of my name and I went home crying every day till I switched to another kindergarten.

In elementary school our crafts teacher decided to let us design masks for carnival. She had a few suggestions like clowns, monsters, animals and Chinese. She described how they looked and drew a caricature on the blackboard. The other kids compared the image to me. I felt extremely uncomfortable and cried (again). I left the room to calm down. The teacher apologized by claiming that she had no ill intentions and that it was meant in a positive way as Chinese tend to have cute little noses.

Also, while I was elementary school age, my sister and I were wearing a Chinese shirt when we went grocery shopping with my dad. A lady with (probably) her child pointed at us, telling her child: "Look, there are Chinese!"

Also, during elementary school some of my classmates at some point learnt the German chant "ching chang chong - Chinese im Karton" (ching chang chong - Chinese in cardboard box) and followed me around while saying that.

My elementary school teacher also often wanted me to say things in Chinese or sing Chinese songs in front of the others.

When we started to receive grades in school, my mother told me, I needed to be great. Later, when I had to look for a job and had the same qualification as a German, the employer would choose the other person first. I was 8 at that time.

A guest in our restaurant brought a coin of the Qing dynasty to us. He told us it was the possession of his grandfather. He didn't know why he possessed it. My mother knew. Because of colonialism.

I cannot remember any representation of Chinese in media aside from the comic WITCH during my childhood.

After elementary school one goes to secondary school based on qualifications during the last year of elementary school. The "good" students go to the Gymnasium. My mother regularly read a newspaper about German-Chinese issues. Often economy-related. In one issue, a Chinese girl wrote about her experience at Gymnasium. She took part in a competition and placed second. While the school paid tribute to the winner, the Chinese girl was in the audience. She was approached by a stranger who asked her what she was doing there because that person assumed a Chinese couldn't be good enough to go to Gymnasium.

Once after a school trip I was sitting on the bus. Some of my classmates thought I already got off the bus and started to talk about me. The content in and on itself wasn't negative. They started to project from me onto 1.3 billion other people. I noticed, to them I represented all Chinese people.

During a violin event a girl told me I didn't look like a Chinese because my eyes were too big.

When I was in 7th grade, the "red spies" who came to steal and copy German technology hit the news. During a certain period of time then news frequently reported such instances. On a German-Chinese forum, several Chinese wrote that they suddenly found themselves jobless because their employers fired them without any reason (aside from fear that they could be spies). I realized my mother was right. I will have a disadvantage on the job market and I am easily disposable.

In 7th grade we had a skiing excursion. There was a presentation on climate change and the teacher claimed that China had a major impact on the climate. Responsibilities of other countries went unmentioned. I cried (a reoccurring habit). My roommates during the trip told the teacher and he apologized and explained that he understood that European countries had a big footprint.

In 9th grade I found a note next to my seat in the bus, roughly saying "You look cute Manga girl. Call me: xxxx".

A half-Indian friend wrote me that their brother liked his time in the US a lot. Less people would be envious of his success despite him being Indian. Later on that friend wrote me they were bullied. It was evident that them being half-Indian was a factor. I was... too young and my support was useless and not helpful at all. (still young tho and still making so many mistakes).

When I aced an exam, a friend would say: "That's our Chinese!"

A friend would randomly say "Confucius said"

A teacher would ask if Chinese used huge keyboards with all hanzi characters to type into their computers.

A teacher jokingly said, I would be an expert in eating dogs.

In grade 12 (roughly a year before graduating) an epidemic broke out in Germany and few other European nations. Chinese scientists figured out the genetic makeup of the specific virus and Spiegel ("mirror", a German news agency) wrote an article about how it was possible that out of all things it was Chinese scientists in Shenzhen who figured out what virus was causing troubles. Their answer: It was pure coincidence.

A student and a teacher would discuss that Buddhism is sexist because no female found enlightenment. At some point I was like no, and their only response was, oh.

During preparation courses for university another Asian guy in my course said if his family stayed in their home country, he'd be a farmer with several wives now. His new-found ethnically European friends laughed.

The week before first courses started at university for me, a group of drunk students stood in front of my dorm and called me "Ling Ling". I didn't know them.

Autumn after my first year in university, a 15 yo half-Chinese boy was beaten up in Hamburg by right wing extremists. He suffered trauma.

In the canteen a group of students were joking about how Muslims are terrorists and had several wives.

In the canteen a guy told his friends he would go to Thailand for vacation. His friend told him, he should get a Thai girl as souvenir.

A Chinese overseas student admitted to me they felt depressed because of how Germans saw themselves above Chinese and the effeminating view on Asian men.

A few German people told me, colonialism had good aspects. One of those people is one of my best friends.

In a students association which promoted social internships, they used random pictures of "poor, little African children" as advertisement for their volunteering program.

A Chinese overseas student recounted they could not join German flat sharing communities. He was denied because Chinese cuisine had a too strong smell due to spices and garlic. They didn't want that in their flats.

A Japanese friend of mine who came to my city and paid a visit to the museum was followed by a few guys who would chant "ni hao" behind her.

I joined a volunteering program in China. Another international participant was very vocal about how China is bad in so many ways. There was no real coffee. The food is too fatty. It is no wonder that Chinese men don't grow muscles. She had no interest in learning about Tibetan Buddhist art. "If it was Italian art from the renaissance, ok. But Buddhist art? Hmpf. No".

The Chinese in the organizing committee would frequently use the word 那个 (neige, "that") to describe things. Some of the volunteers would parrot them. (I am not sure if there is a relation but 那个 does sound similar to the N-word.)

An ethnically Chinese girl who was raised in Germany rejects her Chinese heritage and Chinese people.

Once I was waiting for a friend. Some guy would ask me where I was from. I said Germany. They laughed.

Often when people ask me where I am from and I respond with Germany there would be surprise in their mimic followed by silence.

My mother grew tired of people asking her when she will go back to China. Now she answers, she will first have to clarify whether she will still receive pension abroad.

I heard people say that the person who thinks something is racist, is the racist person because they interpret something as racist.

Someone told me they can't stand Mainland China

Last autumn I woke up in Hong Kong to the news of a right wing party being elected to the third strongest party in Germany.

A Chinese overseas student told me she got assigned the easy parts in projects because her German was not good enough. The subtle feeling of superiority makes her uncomfortable.

A select few instances. And the conclusion: My life is good. The things I faced are pretty common for German-Chinese to my understanding. I'm sure all German-Chinese have experienced a subset of my experiencs. And they have experienced things which I haven't. I'm sure there are people who have it worse. My experiences were probably on the lucky end. But I still want all of this to end.

#Yue's crap #It's 3am #And I am lying here and think #This is ridiculous #Ridiculous and real #Racism tw #The other things I am reflecting on are friendship and how I hate myself lol #Like #These are the three pillars of my existence #Good night

1 note · View note

bamby0304 · 7 years

Text

The Hart: Chapter One

Summary: When Lizzie was just a few months old, she lost her father. Fifteen years later she lost her mother, and then her sister. Now in her early twenties Lizzie spends her days and nights hunting things and saving people. When the Winchesters meet the bright eyed and bubbly blonde they don’t realise what they’re in for… and neither does she…

Part Eight: Psychic?

Masterlist

Warnings: Violence and death

Bamby

EPOV

Sam is a psychic... Sam, is a psychic... How am I supposed to process this? How does this even happen? My head hurt. It had been hurting for a few hours, ever since Dean and I had walked into our hotel room and found Sam on the ground.

He hadn't even hesitated before telling us he'd had a vision.

I freaked out. Dean made sure Sam was okay. Sam told us what his vision was about. I kept freaking out. Sam tried to explain it to me. Dean got protective and warned me not to say a word or he'd kill me. I snapped back at him, while still freaking out.

Eventually we all calmed down and piled into the car though. I still wasn't sure if I wanted to tag along, but I'd gotten slightly attached to the guys, and I knew that I could trust them. Despite this new turn of events.

"Continue on OR-224 west." Sam's phone's GPS spoke.

"There are only two town in the U.S. named Rivergrove." Sam told Dean.

"How come you're so sure it's the one in Oregon?" Dean asked.

"There was a picture of Crater Lake."

"Okay, what else?"

Sam shrugged, explaining the vision for the millionth time. "I saw a dark room, some people and a guy tied to a chair."

"And I ventilated him?" Dean didn't sound too sure about that part, as if it wasn't like him. Which it wasn't. Dean didn't go about killing people randomly.

"Yeah. You thought there was something inside him."

"A demon? Was he possessed?"

"I don't know."

"Well, all your real visions are always tied to the Yellow-Eyed Demon somehow. Was there any black smoke? Did we try to exorcise him?"

"No, nothing. You just plugged him. That's it."

"I'm sure I had a good reason."

"I sure hope so."

"What does that mean?" Dean asked his brother. "I mean, I'm not gonna waste an innocent man. I wouldn't." he insisted.

"I never said you would."

"Fine." Dean nodded.

"Fine. Look, we don't know what it is, but whatever it is, that guy in the chair is part of it. Let's find him, see what's what."

"Fine." Dean repeated.

"Fine." Sam sighed before he turned around to look at me. "You okay, back there?"

I nodded frantically. "Peachy."

Usually I sat behind Sam or in the middle, but for the first time, I was behind Dean. As much as I trusted Sam, I was still a little unsure. My job was to kill things like him. That's what were instincts were telling me to do. But my heart was telling me not to. He was a friend after all.

"You're not scared, are you?" Dean sounded both unsure and amused.

We both knew that if I became a problem, he wouldn't hesitate to stop me. Dean and Sam would always come first when it came to each other. No one got in between the brothers.

I completely understood that. I knew what it was like to have a close bond with a sibling. I knew what it was like to have someone that close to you. Someone who was by your side for every second while growing up.

But Dean and I were friends as well, and the thought of losing him or Sam, because of something like this... I'd lost enough already.

DPOV

Sam nudged me as I parked the car. "He was there." he pointed out my window to an African American man sitting outside a bait shop.

"Okay." I nodded, getting out of the car before moving to open Liz's door. As she stepped out, I leaned closer to her. "Sam is not a monster. He's not like the things we hunt. He doesn't want this. So you being scared… well you don't have to be."

She looked over my shoulder at Sam as he got out of the car, before her eyes flicked back to mine. "Are you sure?"

"He's my brother. I know him better than I know myself."

Nodding slowly, she stepped away from the car so I could close the door. "I trust you, Dean. If you say he's good, then he's good. But the moment I think otherwise-"

I cut her off. "I won't let you hurt him."

"And I can't hurt him." she sighed. "I've been thinking about it in the car. You and Sam... you're my friends. Even if I wanted to. I could never hurt you guys." she shrugged. "So I'd just leave."

I never thought hearing those words would affect me the way they did. Liz had been with Sam and I for a little over a month now. We'd bonded and become good friends.

There was a friendship between her and Sam that I didn't quite understand. They shared something I couldn't share with either of them. But at the same time, she and I had a bond that she would never have with Sam.

She was the kind of person who could get along with everyone. She was fun, smart, kind, witty, sarcastic, funny, tough, and bold. She was one of the strongest people I knew emotionally and mentally. She was always ready to do whatever was necessary, no matter what the risks were. She could always put a smile on your face, but she could also be serious when she had to.

The idea of losing someone like her. I didn't think I could let that happen. Sam wasn't a danger. He never would be. She would see that. Then, she'd never have a reason to leave.

"Everything okay?" Sam asked from behind me.

"Yeah." I gave a short nod. "Let's do this."

We walked across the road and headed over to the man. He didn't look up as we stopped a few feet in front of him. He just kept fiddling with a fishing rod.

"Morning." I called to him.

He looked up then. "Morning. Can I help you?"

"Yeah. Ah, Billy Gibbons, Frank Beard, Gilligan Stillwater. U.S. Marshals." I nodded to Sam and Liz as I pulled out my fake badge, which they then did as well.

This got the man's attention. "What's this about?"

"We're looking for someone." I answered.

"A young man, early twenties. He'd have a thin scar right below his hairline." Sam described to the man.

"What'd he do?"

"Well, nothing. We're actually looking for someone else. But we think this young man can help us." Sam explained.

Liz nodded. "He's not in trouble, sir." she smiled.

"Well, not yet." I added. But the look the guy gave me made me think I'd said the wrong thing. My eyes landed on his arm, noticing a familiar tattoo sitting on his forearm. I used it to get him back on our side. "I think maybe you know who he is, master Sergeant." his face softened a little, so I shrugged and went on. "My dad was in the Corps. A corporal."

"What company?"

"Echo two-one."

"So can you help us?" Sam asked.

The guy thought it over for a moment before answering. "Duane Tanner's got a scar like that. But I know him. Good kid, keeps his nose clean."

"Oh, I'm sure he does." I nodded. "Do you know where he lives?"

"With his family, up Aspen Way."

"Thank you." Liz smiled again before she turned to Sam and me. "Well, let's go then."

The three of us left the man to get back to work before crossing the road again, looking around for any signs of anything unusual. But honestly, the place just looked like any other small town.

"Hey." Sam called.

Liz and I turned to see him gesturing to a wooden post with a word carved into it.

"'Croatoan'?" I asked.

"Yeah." Sam nodded, but I didn't get it. "Roanoke? Lost colony? Ring a bell? Dean, did you pay any attention in history class?"

"Yeah." I answered, though even I could hear how unsure I sounded. "The shot heard around the world, how bills become laws."

He shook his head at me. "That's not school. That's School House Rock!"

"Roanoke was one of the first English colonies to settle in America during the late 1500s. But when other settlers came to join them, having just come off more recent ships, they found everyone was gone. The only thing left was the word croatoan carved into a single tree."

I turned to Liz, shocked. "How do you know these things?"

"I've picked up a book or two in my life, Dean."

"Anyway." Sam got back to it. "There were theories. Indian raid. Disease. But nobody knows what really happened. They were all just gone. I mean, wiped out overnight."

I laughed lightly. "You don't really think that's what's going on here? I mean..." but his face told me everything I needed to know. He did believe it.

"Whatever I saw in my head, it sure wasn't good." he looked to the carved word again. "But what do you think could do that?"

"Well, I mean, like I said, all your weirdo visions and always tied to the Yellow-Eyed Demon somehow, so..."

"We should get help. Bobby, Ellen, maybe."

"Yeah, that's a good idea." I pulled out my phone, about to dial a number. But I couldn't. "I don't have a signal."

Sam and Liz pulled out their phones. But as they looked to the screens, it was clear they didn't either. This was not normal.

I spotted a public phone a few steps away from Sam. Walking past him, I headed over to it, giving it a try. But there was no point.

"Line's dead." I slammed the phone back into place. "I'll tell you one thing. If I was gonna massacre a town, that'd be my first step." I noted, suddenly not liking this place at all.

EPOV

Sam, Dean and I stepped up to the front door the Sergeant directed us to. Opening the screen door, Dean nodded to his brother who then knocked on the wooden one. A moment later, it opened, revealing a young man.

"Yeah?" he asked expectantly.

"Hi." I smiled, showing him my badge. "We're looking for a Duane Tanner. He wouldn't happen to live here, would he?"

The guy nodded. "He's my brother."

"Can we talk to him?" Dean asked.

"He's not here right now."

"You know where he is?"

"Yeah." the guy looked to each of us as he answered. "He went on a fishing trip up by Roslyn Lake."

Sam spoke up then. "Your parents home?"

"Yeah, they're inside."

"Jake, who is it?" a man called from inside the house before appearing in the door way as well.

"Hi. U.S. Marshals, sir. We're looking for your son, Duane." Dean explained

"Why? He's not in trouble, is he?"

"Of course not, sir. We just need to ask him a few routine questions, that's all." I turned my smile to him. "Do you know when he'll be back from his trip?"

"I'm not too sure."

"Well, maybe your wife knows." Sam suggested.

There was something fishy going on here. It hadn't taken me long to figure that out. The way they both stood in the door way, smiling like they were from the Brady Bunch or something. No one is ever that happy. Especially when three strangers are on their porch asking questions about a family member.

Mr Tanner shrugged. "You know, I don't know. She's not here right now."

"Well, your son said she was." Dean noted.

The son looked up then. "Did I?"

"She's getting groceries." Mr Tanner chuckled lightly. "So when Duane gets back, is there a number where he can get a hold of you?"

"Oh, no, we'll just check in with you later." Dean nodded.

"But thank you for all your help." I smiled at them. "You two have a lovely day."

"And you as well." Mr Tanner smiled back at me before he and his son headed back into the house.

Sam, Dean and I turned to leave, walking down the porch steps. We waited until the door was closed before we spoke up.

"Anyone else getting creepy vibes from them?" I asked.

"Yeah." Dean agreed. "Little too Stepford."

Sam nodded. "Bigtime."

"Well, then. Looks like we're not leaving just yet." I turned form the brothers and headed for the side of the house, knowing they'd be right behind me.

We ducked under windows, peeking through to see if we could see anything going on inside. It wasn't until we were at the back of the house, by a window to the kitchen, when we stopped.

Tied and gagged to a chair was a woman I could only assume was Mrs. Tanner. Standing by was Mr Tanner as he cut into his son's arm with a kitchen knife. That was the moment we pulled out our guns.

Dean moved back, stepping to the door before he kicked it down. The three of us hurried in, guns raised.

Mr Tanner ran at us, knife in hand, yelling at the top of his lungs.

"Put it down!" Sam warned.

Dean didn't hesitate before he pulled the trigger, and kept going until Mr Tanner was on the ground. The son ran past and out the window before Sam or I had a chance to get him.

Sam ran after him, moving to stand by the window and aim his gun at the kid. Yet he didn't shoot. I couldn't see, so I didn't know if he'd had a chance or not. But then again, maybe he did. Maybe he just didn't take the shot.

I was starting to think Sam really wasn't a danger.

DPOV

Sam helped Mrs. Tanner out of the car, while Liz and I headed for the trunk where we'd stashed Mr Tanner's body. The son was gone, but I had a feeling he wouldn't be gone for long. Whatever was going on, was only getting started.

"Wait." Liz move to stand in my way of the trunk. "Show me your hands."

"What? We don't have time for this, Liz."

"Just do it, Winchester." she snapped, grabbing my hands before taking a look at them. As she continued to talk I found my focus divided between her voice, and her gentle hands against my rough ones. "I'm working on a theory. Mr Tanner cut the son, who didn't fight back. There might be something in their blood, and the last thing we need is for it to get in your system."

I looked down at her confused and amazed. "Who are you?"

A small smile played on her lips as she reached up to check my neck as well. "Just a girl, Dean. I'm just a girl."

But she wasn't just a girl. She was more than that, and it left me curious.

"Okay, you're clean." she nodded, taking a step back as she gestured to the body. "Carry on."

Not needing to be told twice, I reached into the trunk and pulled the wrapped body over my shoulders as Liz kept watch. Once it was secure and I was sure it wouldn't fall, we headed into the building where Sam and Mr Tanner disappeared to. The doctor's.

Liz held the door open for me. Once I stepped inside she walked ahead and into the waiting room. "Hello?" she called.

A middle aged, blonde woman came around the corner, her eyes landing on me right away. "Is that-"

"Mr Tanner?" I shifted the weight of the body, causing a hand to fall out from underneath the blanket. "Yeah."

"Was he attacked too?"

"Uh..." my eyes flicked to Liz as I decided to tell the truth. "No, actually, he did the attacking and then he got himself shot."

"Shot?" the woman's eyes went wide.

"Yeah." Liz nodded.

"And who are you two?"

"U.S. Marshals." Liz pulled out her badge. "Do you have somewhere my partner can put the body?"

"Yes. Uh, bring him back here." the woman nodded. "I'm Dr Lee, by the way." she introduced herself as she led us further into the building.

"Dean and Elizabeth." I didn't have time for fake names and the usual bullshit. Right now, there were more pressing issues we had to deal with.

EPOV

Sam, Dean and I stood by the door as we watched Dr Lee work on patching up Mrs. Tanner. We didn't say anything as we all listened to Mrs. Tanner tell us what happened. Dean, Sam and I knew better than to speak.

We didn't even know what was going on. It's not like we could actually offer much help at this point.

"Wait, you said Jake helped him?" Dr Lee asked Mrs. Tanner. "Your son Jake?"

Mrs. Tanner nodded. "They beat me. Tied me up." she cried.

"I don't believe it." the doctor's assistant spoke from the corner.

"Pam." Dr Lee shook her head at her, then turned back to Mrs. Tanner. "Beverly, you've any idea why they would act this way? Any history of chemical dependency?"

"No, of course not. I don't know why. One minute, they were my husband and my son... And then the next, they had the devil in them."

Dean turned to Sam and me. "We gotta talk." he told us before walking out of the room.

Sam and I were right behind him, moving to the waiting room while the others stayed where they were.

"Those guys were whacked out of their gourds." Dean noted as he came to a stop and turned to us again.

"What so you think? Multiple demons, mass possession?" Sam suggested.

Dean shrugged. "If it is a possession, there could be more. God knows how many. It could be like a frigging Shriner convention." he nodded at me. "You seen anything like this?"

"No." I shook my head. "I mean, the closest I've come to seeing something like this, is when dealing with demons. But there was no smoke when Mr Tanner died. No signs of possession other than the craziness."

"Well, that's one way to take out a town." Dean noted. "Take it from the inside. Something must have turned them into monsters." he looked to Sam. "You know, if you'd taken out the other one, there'd be one less to worry about."

I stepped back then. This was not something I was getting into.

"I'm sorry, all right?" Sam told him. "I hesitated, Dean. It was a kid."

"No, it was an it. Not the best time for a bleeding heart, Sam."

The sound of heels on the ground had us all turn to see Dr Lee walk into the room and towards us.

I stepped up to her, speaking before one of the guys could. "How is she?"

"Terrible." she answered honestly. "What the hell happened?"

There was no other answer I could give her other than the truth. "We're not sure."

"Yeah, well, you just killed my next-door neighbour."

"We didn't have a choice." Dean insisted, standing closer to me, a defensive and protective tone in his voice.

"Maybe so, but we need the county sheriff. I need the coroner."

"Phones are down." Sam noted.

She sighed. "I know, I tried. Tell me you got a police radio in the car."

"We do. But it crapped out just like everything else." Sam was right, we'd tried it on the way here.

The doctor looked to the ground, shaking her head. "I don't understand what is happening."

"How far is it to the next town?" Dean asked her.

"It about forty miles down to Sidewinder."

"All right. I'm gonna go there and see if I can find some help. My partners will stick around, keep you guys safe."

But instead of agreeing, I turned to Dean. "I'm going with you."

He looked from me, to the doctor and then back to me. "Can I talk to you in private for a minute?" he asked. But before I could answer, he grabbed my arm and walked us away from the others so we could talk without being heard. "This better not be about Sam."

"No. It's about you." I pulled my arm from him as we stopped. "We don't know what's out there. I'm not letting you go off alone. Everyone needs back up right now."

He searched my eyes, frowning as if he wasn't sure if he should listen to me or not. But we both knew I would end up doing what I wanted anyway. There was no point in fighting it.

"Fine, okay." sighing, he gave a short nod. "Sam, we'll be back." he called before we headed for the exit and walked out into the street.

I could feel a thickness in the air the moment we were out in the open. Whatever was changing, had already begun.

DPOV

I stopped the car behind an abandoned car on the side of the road. From where we were parked, we could see blood on the back window of the car in front of us.

"Stay in the car."

"Hell no." Liz pulled out her gun from the back of her pants.

Shaking my head, not bothering to argue, I stepped out of the car and headed for the trunk while she slid over and got out through my door as well, watching out surroundings. I grabbed a shotgun and closed the trunk before moving to stand with her again.

The two of us moved carefully and cautiously.

A baby seat sat in the back, soaked in blood. The front seats were covered in blood as well. The front window had been shot at. Both the driver's and passenger's window had been smashed in. But there were no people.

My eyes fell to the ground where a bloody knife lay.

"Dean..." Liz looked into the car at the baby seat. "You don't think..."

I stepped closer to her, pressing my hand to her back as I turned us to the Impala. "You stay close to me, okay? No matter what."

All she did was nod as we got back into the car and drove off.

SPOV

I was with the doctor as she checked out a sample of Mr Tanner's blood under a microscope. Her assistant was keeping an eye on Mrs. Tanner, trying to keep the woman calm as we waited for Dean and Lizzie to get back.

"Huh..."

I turned to Dr Lee. "What?"

"His lymphocyte percentage is pretty high. His body was fighting off a viral infection."

"Really?" What kind of virus?"

"Can't say for sure."

"Do you think an infection could've made him act like that?"

"None that I've ever heard of. I mean, some can cause dementia, but not that kind of violence. And besides, I've never heard of one that did this to the blood."

That didn't sound promising... "Did what?"

"There's this weird residue. If I didn't know any better, I'd say it was sulphur."

Yeah, that is definitely not good.

EPOV

Dean rounded the corner, coming up to a bridge. But he had to stop. Blocking the road were several vehicles, and armed men. None of them moved. They didn't do anything actually. They just stood there, watching us.

At the front of the group was Jake Tanner, grinning at us smugly.

I shook my head. "This is not good..."

A loud bang made me jump as a man hit the roof of the Impala before he leaned down by Dean's door, looking in though the open window at us.

Dean chuckled lightly. "Hey."

"Sorry, road's closed." the man told us, voice flat and emotionless.

"Yeah, I can see that." Dean nodded. "What's up?"

"Quarantine."

"Quarantine?" Dean asked. "What is it?"

The man shrugged. "Don't know. Something going around out there."

"Uh-huh. Who told you that?"

"County sheriff."

"Is he here?"

"No. He called." there was a smugness about the man. As if he knew we knew the truth, but none of us were willing to bite first. "Say, why don't you get out of the car and we'll talk a little?" he asked.

Just then, another man appeared by my window.

I tensed and moved a little closer to Dean, who chuckled at the man by his window. "Oh, you're a couple of handsome devils, but I don't swing that way, and she's taken." he wrapped his arm around my shoulders then. "Sorry." he shrugged.

The man by Dean smiled. "I'd sure appreciate it if you got out of the car, just for a quick minute."

"Yeah, I bet you would." Dean's arm moved from behind me as he shifted in his seat a little.

Suddenly he reached for the gear stick and put the car in reverse. But as the Impala moved, the two men reached in and grabbed us. I was smaller and weaker than the man holding me, so before long, he almost had me out of the window.

Dean spun the car around, which caused both guys to lose their grip and let us go. I grabbed onto whatever I could and pulled myself back before the force could take me out of the car with the men. As they dropped to the ground the people at the bridge started shooting at us, but we were gone before any bullets did any damage.

"You okay?" Dean asked, looking from the road to me and then back, a panic in his voice.

"Yeah... I guess." I nodded, out of breath. I was shaking, slightly in shock. "I hope."

"Hey. Hey, Liz." he wrapped an arm around me, causing me to turn and look up at him. "We're gonna be okay. You hear me? We're gonna get out of this." he assured me as he continued to drive.

Nodding, I slid closer to him, still shaking as I wondered if he really believed what he was saying, or if he was just trying to make me feel better...

SPOV

"I don't understand." Mrs. Tanner shook her head. "Are you saying my husband and Jake had a disease?"

"That's what we're trying to find out." Dr Lee nodded. "Now, during the attack, do you remember, did you have any direct contact with their blood?"

"Oh, my God. You don't think I've got this virus, do you?"

Dr Lee sighed. "Beverly, I don't know what to think. But with your permission, we'll take a blood sample."

Mrs. Tanner thought it over for a moment, before nodding. She reached over and rested a hand on the doctor's as if she were agreeing.

Before anyone realized what was happening, Mrs. Tanner grabbed a hold of Dr Lee's wrist and yelled out as she backed handed her with her free hand. She then turned to me as I run for her. With a strong push, she practically threw me across the room and into a cabinet.

She grabbed a scalpel next, and started to run towards me, yelling once more.

I acted quickly, picking up a bottle of some kind of gas or something, which I then hit her across the head with. She fell to the ground, knocked out.

DPOV

I kept looking from the road, to Liz. I was worried. About her and Sammy. About the town. About myself. About everything. I'd never seen anything like this before, and it was freaking me out. How could a whole town go violently insane like this?

Liz tensed next to me. "Dean, look out!"

I turned back to the road. Standing in front of the car, rifle raised at us, was the Sergeant from earlier.

Hitting the brakes, I stopped right before I would have hit him.

"Hands where I can see them!" he ordered.

"Son of a-" This cannot be happening.

"Get out of the car!"

In the corner of my eye I could see Liz's grip on her gun tightening. "Dean..."

"Stay in the car." I told her and this time it wasn't negotiable. Doing as the Sergeant said, I started to get out of the car, my hands raised. "All right, easy there, big guy."

"Her too." he nodded to Liz.

While he was looking at her, I quickly pulled out my own gun and aimed it at him. "Put it down! Down!" I yelled.

"Lower it now!" he warned. "Are you two like them?"

"No, you?"

"No."

"You could be lying."

"So could you."

"Shut up!" Liz snapped, causing both me and the Sergeant to turn to her. "All you two are doing is drawing those bastards here. So shut up, and get in the car or get the hell out of here."

"She's right." I nodded- though kept my gun raised. "We could do this all day. Let's just take it easy before we kill each other."

He didn't move at first, but eventually he relaxed a little. "What's going on with everybody?"

"We don't know." I answered honestly.

The Sergeant shook his head. "My neighbour, Mr Rogers-"

"You got a neighbour named Mr Rogers?"

"Not anymore." he shook his head again. "He came at me with a hatchet. I put him down. He's not the only one. It's happening to everyone."

"I'm heading to doc's place. There's still some people left."

"No way. I'm getting out."

"There is no way out. They got the bridge covered. Now come on."

"I don't believe you."

"Fine, stay here." I shrugged as I started to get back in the car. "Be my guest."

The moment I closed the door, he lowered his rifle and pulled out a handgun as he started for the passenger side door.

"Liz, move closer to me." I told her as I pulled her closer. "You watch him. Keep your gun aimed at him. The moment he does something you don't like, you shoot him and you don't stop until he's dead. You got it?" I murmured in her ear as she leaned against me, turning slightly so she could do as I said.

"Got it." she nodded.

The Sergeant got in the car then, facing us as much as he could, his gun pointing in our direction. Liz stayed where she was, keeping her eyes on him just like I'd told her to.

"Well, this ought to be a relaxing drive." I muttered before driving off.

Bamby

If you would like to be tagged please send an ask, and tell me what list you want to be added to, it’s just easier to organise this way :):)

Forever Tags:

@kellyn1604 @bunnymelodies @ask-kakashihatake

SPN:

@anique-olsman

22 notes · View notes

dianepoststhings-blog · 5 years

Text

The interview

What’s your name?

My name is Franck Walker.

Where were you born?

I was born in New York City, New York so and I was born in the village of Harlem, which is in upper Manhattan. Harlem is the Indian name for Manhattan but we call it New York City.

What is your date of birth?

I was born March the 15th 1949. I’m 70 years old.

Where did you grow up?

I grew up in New York city exclusively. I grew up in apartment.

What were your parents’ job?

My mother was a housewife and she worked with the PTA (The Parents Teachers Association) so she was part of the educational system. She didn't work full time because she had 8 children.

My father worked at The Metropolitan Opera House and he was the first black scenery director at the Metropolitan Opera House. This is before Lincoln Center, this was the original Metropolitan Opera in New York City.

Do you have siblings?

I have, I had I should say five brothers and two sisters. I lost 4 of my brothers and 1 of my sisters so it’s just now all the 3 of us: my older brother Clarence, and younger sister Allegra.

What was your dream job when you were little?

There were so many. When I was a kid, I was going to be a singer, and I sang for the Metropolitan Opera Boys Choir, but my voice changed. Because my father worked at the Metropolitan, he encouraged us to play instruments, so I played the cello for 8 years. My parents said I had to play an instrument, everybody had to play an instrument in my house.

Did your parents force you to play an instrument?

They didn’t force us, they suggested strongly because they didn't want us playing in the street. You had to have activities after school. It was either that or to church, and I went to church every day until I was 15.

Why did you stop?

Because I could, I was old enough to say I'm not going anymore. I went to religious instruction every day every.

What is your religion?

I'm African Methodist Episcopal. It's the Church of England.

What was your dream job dream?

From the time I was 12 years old, my mother used to do my sister hair for church on Sundays. So she will wash their hair Friday night, and then she would do the brushing and all on Saturdays. She used to burn them every other Saturday because it was every 2 weeks. She would be talking on talking and running her mouth, so she would burn them, so they will start to cry on Saturday before she started. One time I said to my mother: “Why don't you pay attention to what you're doing”, and she said to me: “Who you’re talking to?”. And I said: “I'm talking to you because you’re burning them in they’re crying”. She looked at me, and we were allowed to talk, so she said: “You think you can do a better job”. I said:” I can't do any worst”, so she said: “Go ahead”, so I did their hair. I did their hair so well and I didn't burn them, then she said: “OK from now on, and I'm going to pay and if you do it anybody else’s hair they must pay”. That's how I started doing hair so I was going to be a designer I always could do hair but I was going to be a designer. When I took my entrance exam for art design, they said it wasn’t my work, so they made me sketch in front of them, so I did and I passed. Then, I decided to go with design and illustration, but I was always drawing pictures of hair.

In my 10th grade I was going to school, and after I was working in a salon so I started working there at 16 years old. So I have been doing hair and makeup for 54 years.

Give me 3 qualities you have and rate them.

I have the ability to put myself in your place somebodyelses place so whatever you're going through I can imagine it's happening to me. I have that empathy for people and that's one of the characteristics about myself that I like most.

I'm funny I think it's one of my better qualities I have a great sense of humor.

I am a dreamer. Usually, my daydreams become realities, it’s not just daydreaming for nothing I think.

What is your worst habit?

My habit is eating anything. I'm a diabetic and I'm not supposed to have sweets and I love to eat them. My diabetes is really under control. When you have diabetes it doesn't mean that you can't have sweets it means you have to know your limits.

I’m a procrastinator, I put things off, I hate to admit it but I am. I'll do it tomorrow.

What is your happiest memory?

I was about 17 years old and my mom was always making sacrifices for the kids. So sometimes she was wearing the same thing over again. When I got my job, every week I would put away money, and I bought an outfit for my younger siblings from the from the shoes to the beret. For my mother, I bought everything from the shoes to the gloves. My mother was concerned about what she was going to get the kids for Easter, so when I came home that day, I had all these boxes. She said: “you've been shopping, what did you buy yourself?”. I said that it wasn’t for me but for the kids and she kissed me and she said: “You’re a good son you’re always so thoughtful”. She opened up each thing and she was happy. When she opened up the box for her, she just burst into tears.

What is your worst memory?

It’s the death of my mom. She had a colon cancer and they had given her 6 months to live. She was 45 years old. We were just devastated. I was 16 at the time, and the idea that my mother, my best friend was not going to be there anymore… Then she went into remission, and she lived for 10 years. She was living in Bermuda, and she fell and it activated her cancer for whatever reason. She came back in August and went in the hospital in September and she never came out. She died that January the 2nd 1975. To watch her from this woman full of life just diminish. She couldn't talk. I remember it was the end of the year and she said to me: “I don't want you to come tomorrow you’re here every day, go out and enjoy yourself.”. I did and I'm getting ready that morning on the 2nd to go to the hospital, and I got a phone call that my mom had passed. I was so pissed that they told me on the phone and it wasn't the hospital it was a friend of mine who want to see my mom. He should never have told me that my mother died on the phone let me come to the hospital and then let me let somebody in my family tell me. How I was going to deal with this knowing that I would have to do her body because we had agreement from when I was a young boy “When I die I wanted my hair, my nails and my make-up done, I want them to see my shoes”. I knew the moment she died I was gonna happen and I did. I was 25 years old.

Is your dad still alive?

My father died my father died in April 1974. They were divorced. I lived with my mother until I was around 18 and then I moved out. In America you are encouraged to be on your own, to be independent because you will have to take care of yourself for the rest of your life, so you might as well start early. I had a job when I was 13 years old, I used to be a paperboy.

What were your relationship with your father?

He was a very smart man and he could be extremely kind, but he was not a man that should have had 8 children. He was a mommas boy, he always had his mother to do things for him. When he was very young his father left home. I'm sure that this has some type of effect on him. I think he meant to be a good father, but he wasn't responsible. He was still living his life like he was single. My mother was from a very wealthy family, and my mother had five older brothers. When she got pregnant, she got married. My uncle told her to not marry him because he was never going to be a man. My relationship with him was volatile because he could be abusive, instead of being mad at himself he would take it out on my mom, he never took this responsibility for what went wrong and I think what compounded the stuation was that my mother's family had money. When he couldn’t afford something, my mother would get the money from her family. I think he may have the less.

He had an accident on his job and he injured himself. He never recovered from it, so he started to drink. He died at 58 years old. I asked her: “Mom did you ever love daddy?”, and she said: “I liked him”.

What is your greatest achievement?

Being 70 years old. I don't know a lot of people my contemporaries that are 70 years old, mostly people my age is dead. I'm in France, I've been in France for 28 years. I guess that's an achievement. I was 42 years old when I came here.

Why did you leave America?

I had a cousin here, and we were going to open a salon here. In America, I had a lot of celebrity clientele, and sometimes when you’re doing celebrity people, they talk too much about their personal life, and then, they get mad at you because they told you. They want you to sign a piece of paper saying that you won't repeat what they said, and it got to be too much for me. When I came to France, I could do hair and not talk, I didn't speak a word of French. I was known for taking good care clients, and they would just say: “Do me”.

What is my future achievement?

I want to write a book about my life and my experience in France because I love France, I really do. I love the French people.

Do you have any regrets in your life?

Yes, I have many regrets. But nothing big. I would have liked to be a parent. I had 2 children and they both died, one at birth and the other one she lived by a week or two. I worked out in my head and wasn’t for me.

What do you like the most in life?

I like to be alone, I’m a loner. I was like this when I was 7. In a house full of kids, I would play be myself. I can amuse myself. I do like me.

Are you currently satisfied of your life?

Yes, I am right now. But this is kind of new to me what I’m going through right now, because I'm in the middle of changing my whole life here. I'm containt, but I’m not happy happy but I'm going to be. There’s a lot of things coming, next year, I'm going to be with my family. There are coming to Paris. I'm very very happy everything in my apartment will be finished.

Do you want to get married?

I’ve been married since 1978 with my wife. We just never got a divorce, we had a daughter and she died, so there was no reason for us to stay together. I mean we loved each other but not that much, not for lifetime. I told her that if she ever wants to get married again, I will sign the paper, but she never did. I’ve never seen her in 30 years.

0 notes

sundayeveningthoughts · 5 years

Text

A Chance

Sunday Evening Thoughts

May 26, 2019

A Chance

Dear Paul and Rachel,

When Jesus saw the crowd, he went up to the mountain… Matthew 5:1

Once again we end Sunday Evening Thoughts for the academic year 2018-19. And once again, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed writing Thoughts on Sunday evenings. Because of my dimness in writing, quite often you Thinkers — usually a different person each time — will respond with corrections to spelling, grammar, and syntax; and for that I am grateful.

This year, perhaps more than ever, you have inspired me. You inspired me when you excitedly wrote to tell me of a new book (This is an Uprising by Mark and Paul Engler)

about how nonviolent protests actually work better than violent ones, and in your own way you explained how you saw this as the gospel — the message of Jesus. You inspired me when you challenged me to be more precise in my explanations: “Roman imperialism does not equal South African apartheid” (Born a Crime by Trevor Noah),

and by using poor comparisons, I cheapen the severity of racism. You inspired me in the day-to-day living of your life and witnessing first hand in poor countries immense poverty caused by, what else, war and violence; but that you take a Thinking approach, like Tolstoy explained to Mahatma Gandhi in A Letter to a Hindu by Leo Tolstoy

that only through psychological chains could 10,000 British enslave a hundred million Indians. And you inspired me when you brought me a book, An Anthology of the Experiences of Hiroshima Atomic Bomb Victims,

from the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum, and how it inspired you to commit to nonviolence — though I think you were already there.

Your inspiration makes me hopeful.

Your inspiration also makes me want to act in some small way. If we are talking about God, in the form of Jesus, mainly what we know comes from the Gospels. And Jesus always took some action. Ultimately this is what caused his arrest and execution, his insistence of justice for all: justice for black folks, white folks, and brown folks; justice for the rich and poor; and justice for Christians, Jews, Hindus, and Muslims. Universal justice. The justice taught by Jesus is found in Matthew 5.

So from a combination of all of the inspiration I’ve received from you this year, I am sponsoring a tent “up on the mountains” at Floydfest Music Festival that I call A Peace Initiative, in Floyd County, VA. The main purpose of A Peace Initiative is to bring some awareness to the absurdity of even possessing nuclear weapons, let alone to consider using them — clearly antithetical to the command from Jesus in Matthew 5 to “love your enemies.”

If you notice I am calling it “A” Peace Initiative not “The” Peace Initiative. I do not have the answer to solving the problem. I only have “a” small way of initiating people to think about nuclear weapons in a more humane, dare I say “Christian,” light.

On August 6, 1945 when the U.S. dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima, a little two-year-old girl named Sadako Sasaki lived one mile from the epicenter. Ten years later, Sasaki developed leukemia from the radiation she received from the atomic blast, a common effect in many Japanese children from the area. Placed in a room in a Red Cross Hospital, Sadako Sasaki met another young girl dying from radiation who folded paper cranes. Inspired by her roommate, Sasaki’s father told her the ancient Japanese tradition of the crane symbolizing strength, courage, and faithfulness. Her new friend told her that if she folded 1,000 cranes, she would be healed from leukemia. Tradition says she folded 644 cranes before she died at the age of 12. Today, the origami crane symbolizes not only strength, but also the devastation of nuclear war. A large origami crane is prominently displayed at the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum in Japan.

At my booth, I am asking for a $2 donation to make two cranes: one for a 1,000 origami tree and one for the person to take home for their Christmas tree. (Note: No one will be refused if they don’t have two-bucks.) All donations will go to the Sadako Sasaki Soup Kitchen here in Norfolk and part of the Norfolk Catholic Worker.

So, if you want to hear some great music for a couple of days, Floydfest runs from July 24-28, please come to Floydfest, and while there please stop by and make an origami crane. And if you are even more inspired, please come and volunteer for a few hours and work the booth helping folks fold origami cranes.

In any case, have a great summer!

Love,

Dad

P.S. In thinking about what song to end this S.E.T., I first thought of John Lennon’s “Give Peace a Chance,” but it seemed a little cliché. At last year’s Floydfest I bumped into a great new band with historical pedigree, Lukas Nelson & the Promise of the Real. Yep, he’s Willie’s son. They are also the band who wrote and played in this year’s movie “A Star is Born.” Generally he writes his own music, but he finished his set at Floydfest last year with Tom Petty’s “American Girl.” Since Floydfest is about great music and a few days of relaxation (and this is Memorial Day Weekend), I think this is more appropriate. Besides, Lukas Nelson & the Promise of the Real are playing again at Floydfest!

… have a great summer!

youtube

0 notes

mixedfeelingsproject · 7 years

Text

Arslan

Where are you from? United States of America

How would you describe your race/ethnicity? Native Turkmenadian (Kalinago/Arawack, Turkmen, Scottish, Irish, African)

Do you identify with one particular aspect of your ethnicity more than another? Have you ever felt pressure to choose between parts of your identity? Yes, and somewhat. I mainly identify with Turkish, which is pressured when I am unable to speak Turkish myself. Black Americans have wanted me to identify with black, but that would deny me my heritage. My friend's girlfriend once told me over the phone "I need culture".... Turks have been around for over a millennia, whether they were Mongols/Huns, Mughals, Seljuk, or Ottoman. I have history. Lots of it. I recently got to identifying more with my Grenadian side, eating their foods, but Turkish is predominantly how I identify, even if people don't see it haha. Latino Americans, similarly, have walked up to me speaking Spanish, and being disappointed when I couldn't. As I have found out, people think I look Brazilian or Dominican. However, that is their perception, so I don't feel pressure because I can't compare it at all.

Did your parents encounter any difficulties from being in an interracial relationship? Yes. When my they were dating, my father worked at UPS. His boss once told him he was "in the wrong kind of interracial relationship". When he introduced my mother to his mother, they got into a screaming match for a solid 20 minutes before letting my mother in. Polite, but probably seething. When I did visit Turkey when Babaanne (paternal grandmother) was still alive, I never knew more than half the family. When she died, I met cousins who were about my age. It was amazing, and sad to hear and think about.

How has your mixed background impacted your sense of identity and belonging? Very much so. I don't belong anywhere, yet I belong everywhere. I can make friends easily, but since we don't have a cultural connection, there is always a barrier. Recently, one of my close friends is Peruvian, and maybe because I look Latino, to some, we hit it off. But no, I do feel as though I don't quite belong, especially because I am upper-middle class, going to a middle to lower class college. I can feel the cultural gap. Black Americans, Latino Americans, and South Asians all call me "my n****", and I don't respond. Not my culture(s). I get along every well with Indians, Pakistani, and other MENA people more than black Americans or Latino Americans. So, it's easy to see where I belong, because my identity is stronger there. But would they let me marry their daughters? No.

Have you been asked questions like "What are you?" or "Where are you from?" by strangers? If so, how do you typically respond? Very, very seldom actually. I get this question from black Americans and Latino Americans most. However, when dealing with Eastern Europeans, or anyone from the MENA region, they are pleasantly surprised by my name. These MENA people accept me more so than non-MENA people (except Eastern Europeans). I usually get snooty, like "well, what do you think? You'll never get it right". Maybe when they ask, I'll give them my middle name, much to the shock of my friends, who think I am lying. It's quite funny, and hides my identify. Or at least one of them.

Have you experienced people making comments about you based on your appearance? Kind of? They mostly love my hair. They think it's a perm. Also, black people, followed by Latino people, are the most attracted to me. But no girlfriend, so...

Have you ever been mistaken for another ethnicity? All the time. Black, Latino, Indian! My mother and sister get Indian the most, but now me too!

Have you ever felt the need to change your behavior due to how you believe others will perceive you? In what way? No, because I am too much of a personality by myself to try to fake being anybody else. I really can't fake being anyone who I am not, even when I give a "false name".

What positive benefits have you experienced by being mixed? I am more comfortable around white people, because I realize that not every white person is European. After all, people from the MENA region are recognized as white by the U.S. census (may change in 2020). When I run into these people, we are on good terms, especially once they see my name. Being mixed has also allowed me to see the world. Thus, I believe I have a better understanding of the world and see how race is not everything, it really is an American thing. The world is broad, giving me a bigger perspective than most. For example, interracial couples are common in Paris, France; London, England; Lisbon, Portugal, and of course Sao Paulo, Brazil. It's just America it is still taboo. Living under my father's white privilege has allowed me to see the better side of the world. For example, we have a sailboat, something most minorities don't even think about, and I get to go on adventures, sailing through the Florida Keys, the Hudson River, and New York Harbor. Again, my world is broader, and I am thankful for that.

Have you changed the way you identify yourself over the years? Yes. When I was young, I was black, at least I thought I was because my mother taught me that. However, my father saw me as Turk (according to Turkish citizenship requirements, that's true). Neither did my friends. Mixed was not a word or identity that existed then. Sometimes, on the infamous race/ethnicity fill-in-the-box, I would fill in black, Asian, and native American. After all, Turkey is in Asia, not Europe (unlike what tour guides say).

Are you proud to be mixed? Yes

Do you have any other stories you would like to share from your own experiences? One time, the family was at a restaurant and the waiter asked if my dad and mom were married. Literally, the only time the validity of the family was questioned. Being mixed has given me privilege into the white mind. When I was at college, the first one, an acquaintance said "Hey, since you're not really black, can I say racist things about black people?" I said yes to learn more. A friend of his would say "I hate rap, except for Eminem, 'cus he's white". Recently, people have said I look Indian. Maybe it's the beard? I forgot the first time I got that was my second year of college. I have gotten it a lot in the last 2 months. In Portugal, a man in the first 4 hours of my arrival, asked me a question. I had no idea what he was saying. Again the next day with a woman. I have never felt so normal outside the U.S.

#mixed #turkish #turkmenadian #scottish #irish #african #identity

2 notes · View notes

drblovewrite · 7 years

Text

A Winding Ramble About Damain R. B. K. by Yours Truly ✌

I can remember being younger and telling my family I loved them. Looking back, I believe that I did not feel love for them and that was due to a fear of a lack of my family and all they could provide and their familiarity as well as an acute sense of how they would supposedly feel awful and be hurt if I did not express that sentiment.

It is only now that I know without a doubt that I love them, with a great fondness and regard for their state of being and a wish for them to view me well and believe that they are loved.

A lot of the time I felt disconnected, like there was a distance between my family and I. I wanted to be protected. I said I loved my mom and dad, but at that age what I really would miss was my mom’s cooking and my dad’s financial support. That’s a pretty cold view, but what I had.

What curbed my actions at times was the idea that if I said something, I feared that they would analyse my words and find a meaning that implied a lack of regard- no care or consideration, or hatred. I did not like feeling that way, and so I would apologise if I felt that my words could chase those feelings. I used my feelings and way of thinking as the standard and reference point. That is perhaps why I doubted so much that persons meant what they said. I know I did not mean what I said, subconsciously, and so I attributed that to others.

Looking back, I recognise that I was filled less with genuine care for others.

Now I genuinely care for few, and wish to engender care from others or good regard so I can get them to feel what I want them to feel towards me and put them in a place where they are more likely to do what I want them to do and give me less resistance when I want something done.

I’m very friendly with few friends. However, I also now find that making others happy or less discontent makes me happy. I have found that my name precedes me and my actions pave the way to easier interactions and an easier time overall.

I don’t generally ask for favours, because I prefer to get what I want myself and be responsible for the greatest quality that can be assured. To ask, to me, is ceding power and acknowledging my inability to perform a task. Making the frequency that I ask for favours seldom, I am able to project the idea that I am competent, but am open to aid at times, but not to the point that I am viewed as incompetent or taking advantage of those who would aid me.

I experience more emotions from reading than in daily life. Hence why I read constantly and hundreds of thousands of words are read by me daily. I want to moved to tears. I want to jump for joy. I want to be conflicted and brought to rage and made to feel hurt. I want too feel more than muted emotions and rare bursts of high levels of emotions.

Music is a source of emotions for me as well, which is how I am also able to feel a specific emotion. It frustrates me that I can’t hold onto them and keep them solid to be accessed at all times. When a song is no longer able to move me is when I get annoyed with it and avoid it. It usually comes back.

I have one friend on here who cause me to feel genuine fondness and love and another on my dorm whose a year below me but 4 years older than me who feels like a younger sibling who I count on.

I kinda am disappointed that I am willing to send persons who I have regard for into situations I view as potentially harmful, but…

I am not brave…and I can’t get over the fear that prevents me from leaving the fucking *campus*…so I’m willing to let others do it for me.

A lot of the time I don’t mean what I say, but only because I want to.

I am manipulative, and that is true, so I won’t say I’m not. It’s just who I am and who my parents raised. I will say vague stuff or specific random stuff. But I avoid divulging deep stuff about myself, and I avoid saying anything that is truly potentially harmful in arguments, so that when the tale eventually flies away, I don’t appear in a truly negative and authority figures will have no reason to doubt my character. I will insinuate things, but that is mostly in reference to an individual’s ability to truly understand what I’m putting down and through twisting the other persons words to make them a appear in a negative light. I listen when people talk to me. And the North remembers. So I know what makes makes a person tick and what they have to say about others. If a relationship goes sour, I may pepper my conversations sparsely with vague mentions and inferences and ‘worries’ that this person with whom I’ve shared so much or spent so much time with had turned on me. This usually is resolved through strict avoidance and icy politeness that quickly warms until the relationship is just as it was before. Though I don’t forget.

That’s a positive for me though, my ability to scream at someone one week and then go to talking about our fucking dogs and what we like the next.

The same cannot be said for others however. I have realised that my intervention has caused some relationships to go sour for like, ever, and some to never come about.

I generally expect others to be like me though, so I’m not surprised when others try to do the same to me without actually succeeding.

I can greatly dislike a person and everything they stand for and not express a lik of it to them. Though for those who I don’t care to have in my corner, I am more free with my words. Like my fucking roommate who is a passive aggressive shit who mooches off me like nobodies business and makes efforts to appear benevolent in certain respect that are transparent and who is unable to even properly appear as such due to outbursts that make them obvious. They claim to be the most selfless person ever, when people know that they sabotage them self to ensure they get what they need and can still say that they are the “most giving person in the world. No one gives as much as me”. But…they purposefully waste others time by arriving hours later than promised and they also ensure that others *have* to help them. At first I thought “doormat?” and wanted to help… but really, they shoot them self in the foot.

I know I mislead others and shit, but I give them my best if only because that’s what I’d want.

Movin’ ON.

I weigh like 136 lbs. 5'4" and hoping for at least one more, And my fam and almost every one I know says I’m faaaaaat.

18 years old, going 19 in December.

Single. Never dated, never kissed, never had sex.

Am unable to take of myself in daily life and perform the necessary actions that make humans 'presentable’. (That means unless outwardly prompted, I’m more likely to just…not.) Makes me feel like a piece of shit a lot, but its all good 😆

I avoid reading or watching the same thing more than once. If I read it once, I’m unlikely to revisit unless I forget that I read it and then just power through with determination.

What do I watch? Impractical Jokers and Family Feud and Random Movies. On that note, the representation of religion and LGBTQPIA+ topics often is a miss for me, and so I’m the type to just kind of cover my eyes for fear of what I see. Also, my family regularly watches the shit I watch, so I can’t really watch stuff that is of good fibre without being in a rigid state of severe discomfort and mild fear.

What do I read? Fanfic and original fiction. Sci fi is a hard no go, and supernatural is a hit or miss.

Fanfic preferences? Time travel, fix-it, self insert, reincarnation, mpreg, coming out, outing, dysphoria, fake relationships, social media focus, sports RPF, and the *dark tags* on Ao3. A lot of it is because of morbid curiosity and an irresistible urge to see what can go wrong go horribly wrong- or right as the story would have it. My *issues* are always on my mind, so they appear in my preferred reading. Yes, that is a thing. That I do.

What else? How long can I make this?

I have shit eyes and teeth and skin. My fashion sense is to wear what fits and still is functional. I severely dislike shopping.

I like spicy food! I live in the Caribbean! I…go to a religion based school, as I’ve done my whole life! I study science! I have two bros. I speak English, but my country has a dialect that I am very capable in. I won a silver medal for performance arts once.

I have dark brown kinky hair that I perm and that is now just wavy and loosely curly and sentient at this point. My eyes are very dark brown. I’m of Irish and Scottish descent on my mom’s side and just something something Indian and some African on both sides with a great dash of one of the old local groups from my paternal grandma. My voice is kinda low, but of a scratchy register?(is that a thing) with a kinda smooth and yet stuffy undertone. It resonates and has the capacity to drown out everyone else in the room. I generally speak in a cutesy- yes I really mean it- voice when on the phone with my mom. I almost always have an electronic with me. I follow rules to the tee, so I’m rather rigid in that respect.

I wanna be a psychiatrist…but what I want to do is just raise children. I want kids baaaad. Like, if you are pregnant, I’d take your kid and raise it and expect like, nothing from you, except I’m a college kid dependent on my parents…so.

I have so much more to say, but don’t have the drive to write more and make this long ass post any longer.

If you actually read this tell me something about you! I mean, you know so much of my shit already! 😳

Love!

#i can't wait for this #nothing #i'm all alone #no one to talk to #speak to me #personal #me #in my mind #i don't mind #wouldn't blame you #ramblings

1 note · View note

katiebruce · 5 years

Text

year of the wildflower

I can’t believe it’s fucking February and I have yet to sit down and reflect on the end of yet another year. 2018.

Two Thousand and Eighteen.

What a glorious, glorious year you were for me. (It was the ten-year anniversary of 2008 after all, so I probably should have seen that one coming. Hindsight is a fickle beast I’ve yet to learn to tame.)

I started the year off with a lot of newness—preparing to move out of my apartment of seven years, for example.

Though I knew it was time for a new beginning, the months leading up to this move were hard for me. I felt like I was separating myself from some former version of myself; a hermit crab shedding her proverbial shell.

The moment we found Hoegarden, however, I knew it was the right choice.

Only four blocks up the street (a six-minute walk; I timed it) from my old place, it felt like the comfort of home laced with the thrill of a new start.

And so, I packed.

I purged.

And the week before I moved, I flew to India. (I am nothing if not wildly ridiculous at a seemingly predictable rate: life change? Leave the fucking country!)

I have been talking about going to India obsessively since the eleventh grade (I had learned about Holi and became obsessed with Eastern culture quickly after.)

Though I paraded around with arrogance, I was quite intimidated to plan this trip. It was something I don’t think I realized was happening until we had landed, disembarked, and had been rushed into the chaotic Delhi streets at midnight before it really hit me—that I was here, and I couldn’t be afraid.

So, I wasn’t.

I had only one bad experience that night, and I handled it—I learned to say no. As an American, millennial, feminist, I thought this was something I was already good at.

Turns out, I was not.

But I got better. And by the end of my trip, I felt so completely safe, so enamored by the sights, the smells (rich dirt moist with the smell of sweat, the sultry scent of saffron, sweetened candy from the streets…curry!) that I was sad my time was over so soon.

This trip prepared me for Morocco—the adult I had to be, the sticky situations I had to diffuse, middle eastern culture. I wandered those golden, enchanted markets thirsty for authenticity, and I always seemed to find it, for better or for worse.

There was lots of yelling. Lots of jetlag. And lots of running for flights.

But between these two trips, these two monumental events in my life, I walked away and felt growth. I felt proud of where I’d gone and what I’d seen. And that, though I was accompanied by friends (and oh, the friends we made!) I had accomplished this feat mostly alone, planning and ultimately orchestrating both trips by my lonesome, endlessly researching cultural customs, Indian cuisines and transport, Ramadan rules (because we were in Morocco during the holiday) and I had fucking succeeded.

I flew again to London (London, London, London, alwaysLondon) and Scotland and finished up my year by going to Australia.

Five continents in one year.

I spent an entire day running around Jaipur, my phone almost being stolen by a monkey, and I tried to get an Uber in a place where elephants are considered vehicles and you can order a tuk-tuk via the app.

I bathed, fed, and walked a rescued elephant—Chin Chin—and felt her two-ton belly swollen with babies (twins!) as she made me laugh by playing with my hair and squirting water on my head when I wasn’t playing with her.

I was welcomed into the home of strangers and fed a home cooked meal; the best I had in all of India.

I made friends with the soda-shop boys near our palace of an Airbnb and left them with all of my change upon leaving the country. (This would leave me completely screwed at the airport where the vendors did not accept credit cards, but alas—who am I if not starving and stressed about non-reving out of another country?)

I woke up at four in the morning and rode all the way to Agra to bask in the wonderful Taj Mahal. I dipped my toes in it’s gorgeous lakes and dreamt of a love so big someone would construct a monument to celebrate it someday that would put this silly marble slab of stone to shame.

I returned to Spain and wandered the streets of Barcelona and Madrid like a pro; how quickly three years had passed, how recently it seemed upon returning.

We flew down to Morocco and booked a famous riad with a driver and were escorted through the airport like queens (gluttons, really.) We wandered the many rooms of our new home excitedly, pretending to be princesses and bursting into wine-induced fits of laughter when the first Ramadan calls came over the loudspeaker and bellowing down into our open-aired fortress.

We wandered the gardens of Yves Saint Laurent and I impressed Lauren and Beebs with my correct pronunciation of the designer’s name (thanks, Cardi.)

We took a horse drawn carriage through Marrakech and were swindled by henna artists in the streets (it was still worth it.)

We boarded a ten-passenger caravan and took a trek that took us through the northern African mountains, the many small villages and ruins, learned about the art of rug making and sipped on delicious mint tea.

And then I was proposed to. His name was Watik. Once again, I said no. Albeit a more forceful one.

We drove directly into a sand storm and learned how to adorn our heads with a “passport to the desert” to protect us from the harsh conditions.

And then we rode camels through the fucking Sahara Desert.

We camped in giant rooms and dined under the stars (the most delicious of the tangines we had, though it’s honestly hard to pick) and listened to our guides play African drums under the moonlight.

And then we went adventuring into the night.

I remember climbing to the top of a dune, digging my toes deeper into the sand and being amazed at how bright the moonlight shone over the dessert sands.

(We watched the sunrise in the morning, and I was equally in awe of nature’s subtle beauty.)

We wandered the ancient city of Fes with our newly married friends and took in the smells of sweet mint leaf and the curing of animal hyde in the tanneries.

I took a few weeks off traveling and fucking prepared for what would be my mother’s first trip abroad: The UK.

I got to see the excitement fill her eyes upon seeing the London skyline, see some adolescent excitement light up in her upon taking her to her first protest (baby Trump riot—yes, it was as amazing as it looked on television) and watched her fall in love with old, ancient English streets, the ones I’ve loved for so many years, watch her accept my longing, my desire to make this my home, as she fell completely head over heels in love with it, too.

I drank violet gin and watched bagpipers play in the street and climbed to the highest part of Edinburgh just so I could turn around and look down at it in awe.

I watched Paul Simon say farewell, with another 500,000 fans in the royal gardens and wept with emotion when he opened his set with “America.”

I came back and saw Paramore with my strawberry, I saw St. Vincent in all her glory, Twin Peaks and First Aid Kit and even flew to Denver to see Ryan Adams play Red Rocks.

I stressed, a lot.

And yet somehow always made it through.

I celebrated my Dad’s sixtieth birthday and got to finally show him around Chicago, my home, and watch as he pieced together a new aspect of me he never seemed to understand before.

I flew to Denver to meet up with my best friend for a road trip to Salt Lake to see Panic. We cuddled and laughed and jammed and danced under the stars in beautiful Big Sky.

And then there was Australia. Rainy, jungle-esque Australia.

Noodle night in the muddy park and Aussie pizza (twice, because it really was that spectacular.)

Twin Peaks at an abandoned skate-house and teenagers blacking out around us.

Ferry rides hopped up on Nyquil. Books read in cafes.

Beautiful, beautiful Melbourne.

Lauren laughing at me because of fear of all the various vicious birds we encountered. My allergies through the roof, throat closing in the royal gardens.

Not one single fucking kangaroo.

There was San Francisco and fleet week and the Mystic Valley Band at a winery in Sonoma. (The most beautiful sunset I’d ever seen—and that wine!)

I left the country so many times this year with no more than pennies to my name, no place to stay when I landed, nothing but an inspiration and the courage to make myself show up for a flight.

I took myself to the Opera and felt bougie for sipping on black coffee the entire time and sitting alone.

I relaxed.

I found myself hiding away in my new home, no school to attend (because again, I fucking GRADUATED COLLEGE) and no trips to take and I felt… peace.

An old friend came to town and I met up with him for drinks and now Taylor is my boyfriend.

Me; a boyfriend.

Me; in love.

I held his hand at Chriskindel market and consoled him after an eventful first Thanksgiving together. I rubbed my hands through his luscious hair and kissed his forehead where the small patch of gray grows in with the eager fervor of old age. (My old man.)

I let him love me, all of me, and sat back in amazement as I lowered my walls, my protection, and let this one man weasel his way through the booby traps I had planted long before.

(He detonated them all.)

I watched, silently—though often times conflicted—as the light in his eyes grew familiar, listened as his sweet, humble snoring cooed me to sleep.

I fell in love.

And through all of the fantastic adventures 2018 took me, through every corner of the world, I did not know that what I had been looking for all along was him. My love, my prince, my sweet, sincere, annoying, handsome, smart, idiot, adorable boyfriend Taylor.

And now I feel so whole.

2018 was a big year for me—in every way imaginable. I even started grad school (I’m a masochist, I must be). But it was the last year I would be in my twenties.

In February, I turned twenty-nine and began preparing myself for the start of a new decade. I felt unaccomplished and somehow proud of what I’d done—scared yet eager to grow older.

Weeks before my birthday, I marched proudly with thousands of others through the streets of my home, my city, protesting our asshat of a president and the suppression of women’s rights. I remember walking through the streets, sign in hand, feeling like a fully actualized version of myself; I was finally the person I had always wanted to be.

It just took me longer than I had expected to get there.

My twenties were a tumultuous time (something eerily familiar about the terrible two’s, no?)

Where I lost myself and tried on new versions of myself for extended periods of time.

I dropped out of college and worked three jobs.

I moved cross-country with my best friend to live in a big city like I had always wanted to.

I became a flight attendant.

I went back to college and graduated. Then I got into fucking grad school.

I fell in love with four boys: the first, my first. The truest, the purest; a complete and total heartbreak. The second, from afar—that spark, that magnetism—now a friend engaged himself, and I couldn’t be happier for him and his wife-to-be. The third, my German—a wrong fit I tried so desperately to squish into all of my open, healing wounds. And the fourth, my love—my Taylor. My partner.

I slept with some awful people (two; M & T).

And kissed plenty more.

I lost friends I thought I’d never lose and met friends I thought I’d never have.

I discovered what it is to be broke.

Brutally, honestly, broke.

And yet I traveled.

I visited fifteen countries in those ten years and did it all on my own terms. I saw Stonehenge, the Sahara, the Taj Ma-Fucking-Hal, went to Oktoberfest, played Sega in Japan and even saw Alex Turner a whopping four times in one decade. (What a facetious little man.)

I cried in bathroom stalls and did coke in bathroom stalls and danced so much I felt invincible and once upon a time even owned the streets of Ybor.

I did acid on tinder dates and even dated a girl, my only girl, my Kelli.

I watched as my sister got engaged and our little family grew by one.

I lost my Cody, my baby, and felt his spirit in a haunted hotel in South Dakota (hi, baby.)

I wandered many foreign streets and stumbled my way through foreign languages and ordered foreign food I couldn’t pronounce the name of and didn’t like the taste of.

I went to so many concerts I’ll probably be deaf, and probably soon.

I was so surrounded by love and so alone at times I silently cried myself to sleep in a new city.

I cut off my hair, got six tattoos and went to so many different music festivals.

I was wild; I was timid. I was fierce; I was afraid. I was whole; I felt alone.

(Walt Whitman isn’t the only one who can contain multitudes.)

#personal

0 notes

dariamalek · 5 years

Text

What It Was Like Growing Up With Immigrant Parents

[DISCLAIMER: Grab a snack, it’s a long one!]

It’s no secret that I am the first generation Canadian in my family.

I’ve spoken about the effects that it had on me growing up; living in a different home, growing up in a different culture. However, I’ve never spoken about the reason why everything was different for me and it was because my parents were the first people from their families to immigrate to Canada and reside here in Toronto.

I was born to two Iranians in 1997 in Downtown, Toronto to a Biochemistry graduate for a mother and an Engineering PhD as a father. My mother couldn’t fully speak English and my father was doing his best to support the three of us in a small apartment.

Both my parents were headstrong, smart and driven. It was difficult for them coming to a new country, learning a new language and having to get up on their feet so quickly just like any other immigrant. I may mention it is a tad easier for immigrants now in a Western dominant society however, in 1994, it was a little more difficult.

My father immediately started working as a courier and a pizza delivery man. He learnt English through his work and was doing everything to give my mother and him a roof above their head as my mom studied hard in adult high school to continue on and get her nursing degree.

Up until I started kindergarten, it was pretty easy for me living in a house with my parents. I was speaking fluent Farsi, as it was the first language I spoke. I didn’t start speaking English until I was four, ironic now since I’m an English Literature masters and writer. I got very used to a different outlook on life. I went in to kindergarten with a very cultural view on relationships. My best friends were also first generation Canadians which made it easy for me to connect with them. We were both learning something new. Nothing really made a difference then until I started getting older.

Iranian traditions are very different. For one thing, we were Muslim. I was in kindergarten when the 9/11 attacks occurred. I know you’re probably thinking: “what does this have to do with anything?” Others began to have a different outlook on the Middle East, and I was one of the very few children in my elementary school who was Middle Eastern. By the time I was maybe in fourth grade, the bullying began, mainly related to the terrorist attacks that occurred a few years prior.

As years passed, and middle school fast approaching, teens started dating and having sex and “hooking up,” which in our culture, was quite frowned upon. Casual sex and whatnot were just a “natural occurrence” at that stage. In the Iranian culture, it’s tradition to wait until you are married to have sexual relations, as it might be the same for other cultures, but my family almost completely eliminated the idea of sex when I started middle school, almost making me fear it. Thus, continuing the great “prude” and “pussy” bullying stage.

I got a lot of heat for having different opinions on certain subjects that were completely different than the Westernized view but, it wasn’t my fault. I was born into it. However, this sparked a fire deep inside me that made me hate my culture. I hated my religion and my culture. I hated the fact that I wasn’t “Canadian” enough. Even though I spoke perfect English perfectly and dressed like them and acted like them, I was still as different as they come. It was strange for the other kids too, considering the other few Middle Eastern kids in my middle/high school were completely white washed.

So this is what I did: I took on a new persona. I Westernized my name, my look (the emo stage was born here) and I completely transformed myself into something that none of those kids could complain about because there was no such thing (at the time) as a “punk Middle Eastern kid.”

This worked. They thought I was Western enough for them now. However, I began having problems at home. I kept fighting with my parents over the fact that they’re not Canadian enough, or white enough.

“Why can’t you be more white?! You’re embarrassing me!”

However, I was completely ignoring the fact that they’re not originally Canadian. They weren’t raised into this Western ideology that we all follow. Their parents followed a completely different mindset that was the norm in their country and now, in Canada, a country full of immigrants from different cultures, it’s suddenly not normal? It was already so difficult for them. If I didn’t feel like I didn’t fit in, I couldn’t imagine how they felt. But I wasn’t thinking about that at the time. I was being selfish and wanting to remove anything about me that differentiated me from everyone else and it sucks that it had to be my culture.

It was after high school where I was accepted to university and the first thing I noticed was some of the courses that were available: Italian Literature, Iranian Film; heck, there was even a whole field for Communication and Culture. It made me realize that every single one of these cultures has something to offer to an intellectual mind. I’ve taken courses about Italian Literature, Indian dance and African music. I’ve learnt so much about jazz and the African American literary tradition. I finally realized that maybe I could learn something from my Iranian ideology about myself and my family. I began to form a stronger connection with my parents. Asking them what it was like for them, what’s the same, what’s different, the struggles they face.

All those times I rebelled against them brought me to where I was today. They had the highest expectations of me. I kept being told do “do what makes me happy” in the future but my parents wanted multiple degrees from me, pressured me into back up plans and PhD’s. I was frustrated and eventually said: “screw this, I’m going to be a musician.” Now, looking back, I realize they were teaching me stability. They came to this country where they didn’t have their family here, and they still don’t. They didn’t have someone else to lean on financially and emotionally. They were pressuring me because they wanted me to have a back up plan to fall back on to in case one thing doesn’t work out. They never wanted me to be out of a job or struggle financially. And now I realize that if I wasn’t pushed and overwhelmed I would not be sitting here with a successful, yet aspiring, writing career getting my Master’s degree at a university and so happy about my future within this career. They didn’t have a chance to do what they wanted or dreamed because they based their careers on the money to provide for their child.

Jumping back to my elementary years, I watched my family move multiple times, starting in the fourth grade and this was because my father ambitiously began to work on his passions and start his own business. He had a passion for cars and wanted to start a luxury car business. Sure he had to start slowly and put a lot of time and energy down, and I didn’t get to see much of him, but he slowly grew his company bigger and bigger and eventually we moved out of that old apartment to our first big house.

My mother found her true passion in teaching after volunteering in my school because she didn’t want to put me in daycare and couldn’t stand to be alone at home without me. I watched her work her way up from a volunteer, a lunch supervisor and eventually she became a teacher for students with autism. I watch her do so much for these kids and defend them against everyone who try to take away their resources.

And how my parents managed to do this was because of the effect their culture had.

My mother taught me the value of family. She didn’t want to put me in daycare so she put aside her job, bought her own clothes from a thrift store, had to buy our groceries with coupons only to buy my clothes from the high end baby stores and to stay at home and raise me. She stayed up until hours in the morning putting together the most perfect lunches for me and my dad. And I still probably came home, complaining about what other children had, not knowing what my mom was sacrificing to give me what I had and that taught me priorities. In Iran, “daycare” wasn’t a thing back then. Most women were housewives. However, my mom had the chance to go work and be the independent woman she dreamed to be but she chose her family over her dreams of being a nurse because I was her priority.

My father taught me to be strong and never take [crap] from anyone. In the Iranian culture, the man if the man couldn’t bring in the money, he wasn’t a “man.” Iranian dads were known for being cold, giving all child-like priorities to the wife. There was no “gender equality.” But in the case of my father, who regardless of how late, used to kiss me before bed every night, he was making sure that I wasn’t less than any of the other children. My father taught me that if you can’t do something, you better work your butt off to do it anyways. He made sure to teach me that you should never allow people the slightest bit people put labels on you. He taught me the strength of a man, and sometimes, it’s okay to be cold but you need to know when and to who. He taught me truly how hard it is to work like I man (in that day and age) and he taught me that women can and should work as hard - success doesn’t have a gender. He showed me that, if you work hard enough, you can transform anything to something you love. And that is the most important thing.

Now, it’s not like my parents just rejected the Western culture. They embraced that too. In Iranian society, there are only a selection of certain successful professions (and it may apply to some of you as well) which are: lawyer, doctor, dentist, chemist, etc. You get the gist. But my parents realized that they were living in a society of opportunities for every passion. They encouraged me to research them and to be educated, as well as educate them, and help them. Unlike further Iranian societal tradition, where the parents always know more than the kids, they never doubted my knowledge. They learnt from me, just as I learnt from them. They taught me equality in the family. And let’s be real, I wouldn’t be where I am today if it wasn’t for the frustration and different views. I found myself and my passion within all that.

They gave me insight to a whole new culture and country, a country I found myself writing a successful novel about today. They gave me inspiration and an insight to who I am. Because let’s face it, your citizenship does not define your roots. Just because you were born in Canada or get your Canadian citizenship (or any other country) doesn’t mean that you are “suddenly Canadian.” You have a whole culture behind all that. Modernization is great for certain things, like the economy (which even that is questionable) however, if you want to understand who you really are, it goes much deeper than your citizenship status.

I must say, that I am so proud of my parents. For someone who’s born and raised in Canada, there are so many hardships that I have faced that would have been twice as hard for my parents who were immigrants. They learnt a new language, adapted to new laws and societal views and became two very successful individuals living very comfortably in a country that isn’t theirs, all while not forgetting their roots and their culture and embracing it. They taught me the beauty of different parts of the world and taught me to respect each and every one of them. They taught me that there are good and bad people from every culture, but that one person does not define that country and/or region. And I can say that I am just as proud of any other immigrants out there in any country. Your culture, not only brings so much to you, but to the country you’re living in. Canada wouldn’t be the same without all the different cultures. We wouldn’t have the Taste of Danforth, Salsa on St. Clair or Caribana. Even educating and embracing the culture of the Aboriginal culture can help you understand the birth of the country you are living in. I am proud of you, and you must be proud of yourself.

My parents, and all the other immigrated cultures, have taught me a totally new level of self confidence and self realization. They taught me that you must embrace a deeper version of yourself in order to be completely comfortable with yourself. You can use your culture to connect with others, to help others - which is as easy as helping an individual at the airport who doesn’t speak English, but speaks the same language as you. It can help you understand your family and your upbringing rather than question why your parents dress or act a certain way, or have certain sensitivities.

Stop romanticizing being “white washed.” We are basically saying that people who aren’t “white washed” aren’t accepted; they’re different and not the norm. Put aside this ridiculous behaviour and act like yourselves! Being “white washed” doesn’t make you cool or modern. Think about how offensive it can be to someone who is pure Canadian, who’s family have extended generationally in this country and within its culture. You’re using their culture, adapting it as your own, when it may not be. It’s wonderful to educate eachother on different cultures and embrace them and love them but, that doesn’t mean forgetting your own or using someone else’s culture to benefit your spot in society. There is nothing wrong with where you come from and it’s offensive to your parents who worked really damn hard to bring you here [from some countries] for a better life.

Yes, times have changed. It’s almost 2020. It sounds a little old fashioned, for lack of a better word, to think that one specific way of life is the norm. If we are aiming for modernization, and being smart about it in terms of society, then we need to realize that there is no longer a “norm.” Whether it’s culture, sexuality, gender, language, physicality - we are all the norm. We are all equal.

Think about it this way, a soup without the different ingredients is just water. And that’s just not as good.

With love,

daria xx

0 notes