#Māori language week

[multimediacreative]

Te wiki o te reo Māori

[murderousink23]

09/11/2023 is World Childless Week 🌎, Māori Language Week 🇳🇿, National Hot Cross Bun Day 🇺🇲, National Make Your Bed Day 🛏🇺🇲, Patriot Day and National Day of Service and Remembrance 🇺🇲, National Boss/Employee Exchange Day 🇺🇲, Emergency Number Day 🇺🇲

[theriverbeyond]

how do we know in the books that john is indigenous? can you say more about how his indigeneity is important to his story?

hello! so there is a word of god post on race (doesn't mention John but mentions that Gideon is "mixed Maori"), BUT I frankly don't think word of god statements are worth any weight without actual in-text support (see: the "dumbledore is gay" situation). SO!

Specific evidence that John Gaius is Maori, as revealed in Nona the Ninth:

When he is listing his education, John mentions having gone to Dilworth School (John 20:8). Dilworth is an all boys boarding school in Auckland and accepts students based on financial need instead of academic or sporting achievements. Demographics appear to be about 70% low income Maori boys, indicating that it is highly likely that John is Maori

John reports that P- said he looked like a "Maori-TV pink panther" (John 15:23) when his eyes turned gold. Maori TV is a TV station that is focused primarily on Maori culture & language revitalization, with presumably all or mostly Maori hosts, and tbh I don't see why P- would say this unless John was himself Maori

John uses a te reo Māori phrase ("kia kaha, kia māia") (John 5:20) when he is saying goodbye to the corpses in the cryo lab before the power is shut off. Though it is possible he said this as a non-Maori kiwi, but in combination with the previous two points of evidence I think this all very strongly points to him being Maori

He also renames his daughter Kiriona Gaia, "Kiriona" being just literally the name "Gideon" in te reo Māori

TLT is not a series that hands you anything on a silver platter but to ME this is all pretty solid proof

Why is this relevant to The Locked Tomb?

In Nona the Ninth, we learn that before he completed apotheosis and ate the solar system, John was basically trying to save the earth from capitalism-caused climate change. Climate justice and the rights of indigenous people over their own land are deeply tied together, in the same way that climate catastrophe and capitalism/ imperialism/ colonialism are linked. disclaimer that this is NOT my area of study and others have definitely said it better; this is just the basic gist as I understand it, but on quick search I found some sources here and here if you want to do some reading.

TLT is not a series that hands you anything on a silver platter, but i don't think it is a stretch to see John as an indigenous man trying to save the earth and getting ignored and shut down at every turn by primarily western colonial powers (PanEuro, the USA) who declare him a terrorist and then as a reader thematically connecting that to the experience of indigenous climate activists IRL

there are absolutely TLT meta posts that have discussed this before me; tumblr search is nonfunctional and I have been looking for an hour and a half and cannot find anything specific even though i KNOW i reblogged multiple posts about this in the first few weeks following NTN's release. sad & I am sorry

I think that by the time the books take place, John is 10k years removed from the cultural context he grew up in, with the Nine Houses having become a genocidal colonial power in their own right (with more parallels to be made between John's forever war for the resources of literal life energy and like, oil wars), but I also think that John Gaius is a fictional character who can represent and symbolize multiple different things in service of telling a story. (not to mention the potential thematic parallels being made to how oppressed people sometimes are pressed into replicating the power dynamics of their oppressors and continuing the cycle--now that is a tumblr post i KNOW i read last year and definitely cannot find right now, once again sad & I am sorry)

How Radical Was John Gaius, Really is a forum thread that was locked by the moderators after 234534645674564 pages of heated debate

[mucking-faori]

The NZ first party is now not only insisting that Māori people are not indigenous, they are also claiming that the only Māori who believe themselves to be so are "Elites" who need to be exterminated. Their definition of "elites" seems to be Māori who speak the language, are involved with or aware of their culture and history, or are generally not buying white supremacist bullshit.

A Māori party candidate has had her home broken into, her signs smashed down, her fence driven into and terroristic threats made both in these attacks and via mail.

Māori party billboards have been defaced with swastikas and broken down.

There have been two anti-māori marches in the last two weeks.

National, ACT, NZ First and a host of other far right parties are parroting and endorsing extremely racist conspiratorial shit about Maori and others. I am seriously worried that there is going to be a terrorist attack at a māori event at some point soon.

Tatou ma, we HAVE to vote in this election. And especially to pakeha, take further action. Support kaupapa māori, participate in the ongoing protests and counter-protests and educate yourselves. We have protests here supporting primarily American kaupapa that get more turnout than Māori led actions do. We need to change that.

I feel that māori are slowly starting to shift things in our favor, but unfortunately one of the clear symptoms of that is that right-wing extremists are scared enough to be making serious threats to our safety. Fuck them. Fuck them all. It will be a long fight over the next few years, but we /have/ to do it, if we want the best future for our country.

[uispeccoll]

#MiniatureMonday

Happy Māori Language Week from Special Collections & Archives!

Te Wiki o te Reo Māori, Maori Language Week, is celebrated annually the week of September 14th to commemorate Te Wā Tuku Reo Māori, the Maori Language Moment, which stamps the presentation of the Maori Language Petition in New Zealand at 12 pm on September 14, 1972.

Te Reo Māori is the language of New Zealand's Indigenous Maori people. It is a part of the Austronesian language family and shares its roots with other island languages including Tahitian and Hawaiian. The celebration of Te Wiki is rooted deeply in efforts to revitalize the Māori language after years of the speaking and use of te reo was banned in schools. Today, te reo Māori is the official language of New Zealand, or Aotearoa as it is called by the Indigenous people. It has become increasingly used in New Zealand society, culture, and professional institutions. The Māori language has also become something of global interest, with the popularization of the language through its presence in music, film, television, and sports commentary.

In the United States, Polynesians as a whole make up less than half of a percent of the American population, with Māori people as one of the smallest migrant populations. Still, for those living abroad or interested in learning the language from afar, the language revitalization movement has certainly spread to the United States, along with its learning materials and resources.

There is a Māori proverb that reads ahakoa he iti he pounamu, "although it is small, it is greenstone." This refers to the importance of things small but precious, such as these miniatures!

The Reeds' Lilliput Māori dictionary and Reeds' Lilliput Māori proverbs live in Special Collections as part of the Smith Miniature Book Collection. These 5cm tall miniature books were published by A.W. Reed in the early 1960s, the dictionary in 1960 as part of a collection of miniature dictionaries made popular by other global publishers. The book of whakatauki, Māori proverbs, joined the mini-dictionary in 1964. Other language dictionaries include Spanish, French, and Romanian. Due to their size, it is likely that these books were made to entertain more so than educate. Still, they are certainly one of the many taonga, treasures, of Special Collections.

Te Wiki o te Reo Māori 2023 begins Monday, September 11, and concludes Sunday, September 17. Celebrate through songs, stories, conversations, or by learning some library-related Māori vocabulary! You can also visit the University of Iowa LibGuide on learning beginner's te reo Māori.

NGĀ KUPU WHARE PUKAPUKA LIBRARY VOCABULARY

pukapuka book

pūranga archive

whakaputunga collection

kaitiaki pukapuka librarian

wāhi tuku pukapuka reference desk

pānui to read

ako to learn

--From M Clark, Instruction GA

Reeds' proverbs (SMITH PL6465.Z77 .R44 1964) and Reeds' dictionary (SMITH PL6465.Z5 .R44 1960)

[takataapui]

Ko tāku toi tēnei mō te wiki o te reo

Māori.

Ko uaua tāku reo. He taonga reo. E rua, e rua. Ki ōku tūpuna, kia whakarongo

au ki a koutou. Ka tarai au.

Kia kaha Te Reo Māori ❤️🖤

---

Tāku kōrero i te reo Pākehā:

This is my art for Māori Language week.

My language is hard. It is a treasure. These both are true.

To my ancestors, I will/am listening to you. I will try.

Be strong, Māori language.

[ofmdtereomaori]

Nau mai, hoki mai ki te Wiki o Te Reo Māori! Welcome back to Māori Language Week! This year I will be using Our Flag Means Death screenshots to illustrate kupu whakarite (metaphors), kīwaha (idioms) and the occasional whakataukī (proverb).

I got most of them from Hona Black's excellent book He Iti Te Kupu: Māori Metaphors and Similes, available here in physical and electronic form.

Shout out to ngā taurapa o ngā waka kātoa - all the people working out of the spotlight to support others. And shout out to everyone who's supported this mahi since I started on Twitter a year ago. :)

[imarvelatthestars]

Just A Man: II

Pairings: Jango Fett x f!Reader

Content: this is a Headless Horseman au set during a historical time period on Earth with a special focus on Māori culture to honor Tem's heritage; warnings include - decapitation, violence & warfare, mercenary activity, explicit references to colonization, (D)jango is morally ambiguous and a problematic king but we love him anyway, and also (eventual) smut

Notes: yeah, so instead of doing homework, I cranked out about 6k words in a sitting, but at least the writing is out of my system temporarily (until I get possessed by the ghost of headless horseman Django again).

a playlist | previous chapter

important vocab: aotearoa - literally 'the land of the long white cloud', the māori name for new zealand iwi - tribe tamariki - children pītau - baby fern fronds pūkana - to stare wildly or widen the eyes, used during haka performances as emphasis poi - a small ball on a rope or string spun in accompaniment to songs and dances mokopuna - grandchildren (tā) moko - traditional māori tattoos reo - language pūkauae - the type of chin tattoo that women receive mana - the supernatural, indestructible power of the gods that exists in everything django - possibly from a romani word meaning "i awake"; fetu - alternate spelling of the māori name "whetu" (wh- = f-) [you can stick some of the māori words into this dictionary and have it pronounce them for you, if you'd like btw]

November 1820

Josiah can’t stand it when Dr. Kirk comes to call. He loathes being doted on as if he were incapable of taking care of himself, though both you and Kirk try to affirm that this is not the intent of these visits. However, he happens to be one of the most stubborn men you know and so the progress of his healing is slow.

Teaching has slid to a halt. With Josiah unable to work, it falls to the rest of the house to pick up the slack. Your lessons now revolve around menial tasks like caring for the livestock and the horses, which Cora seems to enjoy the most, second only to her love of socializing, helping to bundle and prepare the rest of the harvest goods for selling in the market. Moses does not exactly enjoy this, but he’s always happy to leave the house and see whatever parts of the world he can. This is where Cora shines the most and her bubbly personality, sweet smile, and kind words are enough to encourage many townsfolk to your stall.

You’re so proud of them. In the weeks since the scourge of All Hallow’s Day, they have proven themselves to be far stronger than you or Josiah ever gave them credit for, although they do still climb into bed with either one of you when the dreams strike. And the dreams come for all of you, not just the children.

You wake more often than not drenched in sweat, heart pounding out of your chest, and the image of the knight scorched into your eyes. He is a mountain of silver and blood. His broad shoulders spattered with red, the rusted edges of his helm wired shut. He cuts Josiah down even with a bullet in his back, rounds on the children. God, the children. You still cannot remember if they were the ones screaming or if it was you.

You never dream of your triumph. It seems to vanish the instant you close your eyes. In your mind, you are always cut down and the children are always taken. Death lingers when you wake.

The knight haunts you so vividly that you find yourself buried alive in your paranoia. Every instant the children aren’t in your sight, you panic. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of leaves in the grass, any man whose gait falls too heavily sends your chest heaving. You are so desperately afraid, not even for yourself, but for the little ones. What if he comes for them again? Will you be able to beat him back a second time? Will he even give you the chance?

This fear grips you so tightly that you don’t even realize Cora’s gone until you blink out of your trance, call her name, and she doesn’t answer.

“Moses. Moses, where’s your sister?”

The boy looks up from the handful of coins he’s collected from your latest customer. Counting, just like you told him to. He frowns. “I dunno. Maybe she went to one of the other stalls.”

Your body goes white hot. “I thought I told her to stay put?” Before he can so much as respond, you race out into the main street, shouting Cora’s name so violently that your voice is almost immediately hoarse with the first try. “Cora! Cora Minor! Where are you?”

It’s suddenly difficult to see, to breathe. Every nightmare that has wrenched you from your sleep this week is suddenly coming to fruition. She’s gone. Even worse, she’s dead. And it’s all your fault. Josiah will hate you and he’ll throw you out, and you’ll have nowhere to go but back home to the family you despise, and all because you let your mind wander when you ought to have been focused solely on her and her brother.

“Cora?”

People are watching you. You can see their mouths moving, but you cannot hear them over the blood rushing in your ears.

“Cora! Where-?” Oh God, you can feel it bubbling inside you, the bile and the fear and the anxiety. You’re going to be sick. “Cora-“

There’s a flash of brown and silver, and then, “I’m right here.”

You practically trip over yourself trying to get to her. Your hands fly to her face, thumbs smoothing over her skin, across the birthmark above her brows, fingers tracing the lines of silver in her otherwise dark hair. Her nose is all wrinkled up and you can see she’s irritated with the sudden onslaught of affection, but she doesn’t fight you.

“Where were you?” you breathe as you fall to your knees. “Cora, sweetheart, you frightened me.”

This softens the lines that have wrinkled along her browbone. “I’m sorry.” Her face tilts down and she holds her arms crossed over her chest, not quite hugging herself. “I didn’t mean to. I thought I saw something in the field over there, so I followed it.”

This time you’re certain you’ll retch on the both of you. “Cora, it is far too dangerous to go wandering without an adult. You could have been hurt!”

“I’m not afraid!” she huffs. “I was only curious!”

She jerks herself out of your reach and turns her shoulder so you can no longer see her. Your mind is a flurry of equal parts fear, relief, and anger, and for a moment you almost snap and tear into her right there. You want to. It’s what you would do to yourself if you could, for allowing her to disappear while under your charge. But then you see her little shoulders quivering and it breaks something deep inside you.

“Cora, look at me.”

Her hair bounces when she shakes her head.

“Cora.”

It takes some gentle prodding, and you are both crying once she relents and allows you to turn her toward you again. She’s still holding her hands to her chest, as if she were protecting something she doesn’t want you to see.

“Promise me you won’t go running off the next time you see something curious. Sleepy Hollow isn’t safe any longer, and I’m frightened that something awful will happen to you and your brother. That’s why I need you to stay close to me when we’re in town. Do you understand?”

“Yes. I understand.”

For the first time all day, you finally find yourself able to breathe easily. So long as she is safe in your arms, everything will be alright, you’re certain of it. She bends to your embrace, though her agitation is clear in the way she withholds herself from you.

“What did you find out there?” This is your peace offering. “May I see?”

Cora’s eyes narrow. “Promise you won’t be angry?”

“I promise.”

Her slender fingers uncurl to reveal two small pieces of bone, each carved so intricately and carefully that you could almost swear it was something alive. A hole has been made near the top and a leather thong threaded through to create a necklace. The artistry on these bones is unlike anything you have ever seen before, unlike any piece of Lenape artistry you know. You hesitate to assume, but the feeling in your gut tells you this was not crafted by the hands of anyone from around these parts.

“What is it?” you ask.

“I don’t know. But there was a man, he gave it to me.”

This time your body goes cold. “What man?”

She shrugs. “Just a man. I’ve never seen him here before. He said they were for me and Moses.”

You promised. You know you promised, and it would only make things worse with Cora if you were to break it, but the fear that strikes you is so powerful that all you want to do is rip the bones from her hands and throw them as far and hard as you possibly can. Whoever this strange man is, wandering about and offering children bones, you pray he stays far away from you and that he never returns. Whoever he is, it isn’t good, that much you feel certain of.

“Come on,” you choose to say, rather than the string of highly uncouth words you’re currently biting back. “I think it’s time we went home.”

He waits for your husband to leave. It is a long wait brought on by his own foolishness, he knows, for the man’s arm is still in a sling and carefully bandaged, but only then does he approach.

Django is not a nervous man, but he feels his apprehension grow with every step that brings him closer to your door. He knows this is foolish as well, that it may end in disaster, but there is no other way that he can see. He can either try or he can continue on with his miserable, lonely existence, knowing all the while that his children are cut off from their mana here, so far away from land that first gave them breath.

There was never a choice to be made, simply a way to go about acting upon it.

The woman that answers his knock appears to be a servant, old and round-faced and wrinkled, and she screams when she sees him. He sighs. His forearm braces against the door when she slams it shut, heaves it back open so he may saunter in.

“Where is the woman of the house?” he asks in what he thought was a rather unthreatening tone.

But the servant only continues to shriek and it’s enough to draw the attention of the others who work with her. A man comes to her aid, but he is old and frail as well, and is of no concern.

“Where is the woman of the house?” he asks again. He wonders if perhaps his English has gone unused for too long, for the words are awkward in his mouth and they do not sound the same as the words he’s heard you and the children use.

When neither servant answers, Django elects to find you on his own. It’s a familiar path that he remembers from the hazy illumination of a town on fire and waxing moonlight a month prior. Why does it feel as though so much is different from how it was, as though the walls themselves are as changed as he is?

There’s no time to dwell on it because you appear so suddenly before him that it nearly takes him by surprise. It’s clear he surprises you as well. Whatever you had been expecting when you heard the screams of your workers, this had likely not been your first assumption.

He raises his hands in surrender. “Lady-“

You take off in an instant. He doesn’t catch you the first time he attempts to, but he does the second, and immediately, he is hit by a barrage of fists. And more shrieking. Gods above and below, is there no end to it? Have you all not adjusted to his presence by now? Can you not see that he poses no threat, weaponless as he is?

You’re shouting now, panicked and terrified, and he’s surprised by just how strong you are despite it. It’s a deceptive strength that packs quite the punch, something he notes when you strike him between his armor plates and his ribs immediately begin to protest. Strange. He can feel you. He’s fought many battles, been assaulted countless times over the centuries, and each blow has left its mark behind to varying degrees, but never has he felt his body in the way he does now with you.

“Bellamy! The children!”

His helm snaps up to focus on your face. Now that is exactly what he doesn’t want. You may protest and fight all you like, but he won’t let you take the children. They are his, whether you know it or not. And 224 years of instinct overwhelms him as his body reacts. Your wrist catches in his waiting palm, his other hand pinches your shoulder and twists you until you’re pinned to the wall and entirely at his mercy.

“I am not here to harm them,” he growls.

He can see you thinking. The fog that usually accompanies the world around him feels a little clearer now, and he can properly see for the first time in forever. Curious, then, how he can see so much now that he is so close to you. Like the distinction between your eyelashes, the texture of your skin, the pulse ticking under your jaw, and he can only see it because your head is tilted so far back that your throat is fully exposed.

It could be so easy… He doesn’t even need his weapons to take your life, he could do it with his armor, dig the corner of his vambrace into your flesh and tear until you bleed. He can almost smell it now. The metallic rush of red that would trickle over his hands, down your dress. And for a moment, he considers it, tilts his helm forward so it rests on the wall beside your head, and he can listen to you breathe, feel you tremble beneath him.

It's intoxicating.

You bring all his senses into focus, you strange, soft, vibrant thing, and he almost wishes that killing you and licking the blood from your skin would fix something that broke within him long ago. Because he really thinks it could work.

But something stays his hand. A voice he recognizes from long ago, the voice of his dreams that stole him from his tribe and swept him across the waters. The voice tells him to wait. For surely you will taste much sweeter once his children are returned to him and his victory is solidified.

“I have a request,” says Django. “Will you hear me?”

Still, you’re frozen in place. He cannot work with you if you give him nothing.

He jostles the wrist he still has in his grip and leans into you, hoping to prompt you into responding. “Speak, woman! Or have you no tongue?”

Finally, finally, you crack. Your lips part and a sound comes out, but he cannot hear it properly through the armor. “Again,” he prompts.

The hand he’d left free suddenly smashes into the underside of his helm as you thrust your weight into him. “I said, get off of me!”

Such a thing would normally be incapable of phasing him, but this time is different. This time his helm is not correctly affixed, and it leaves his head vulnerable, makes it easier for the attaching stitches to tear, makes the secret he holds so close that much more precarious, so he lunges for you again, pins both your wrists to the wall and presses you so firmly to its surface that there’s not a single inch of space left for you to move.

“You test my patience, Lady. You will hear me, even if I must force your ears to listen. Stay. Still.”

Oh, and now you’re huffing and spitting like a viper, wriggling in his grip and making this mission all the more impossible. If you would only be still and allow him to explain, none of this would be necessary!

“… filthy hands off me! Bellamy! Bellamyyy, help! Hel-fffmn!”

“Must I gag you as well? Lower your voice or I will remove it altogether. Do you understand me?”

The warning, however, comes too late, for he hears the distant slamming of metal on wood, footsteps running up the stairs, the shouting of half a dozen male voices, and all of it spells trouble. Dammit all, you took so long to corral that he wasted the time he needed to bargain with you. He sees all the terrified spitfire in your eyes wonders if this battle is even worth fighting, if the trouble is worth the price, but then he thinks of his children. He thinks of the centuries he spent without them and all the good it never brought him, and he knows there is no returning to what once was. This is all there is now.

For the second time in his life, Django runs and this time he is not alone. He bursts outside with you half struggling, half paralyzed by his grip at the base of your neck, and he marvels in the moments between moments just how much clearer his senses have become since he cornered you, how even the sun seems to shine brighter and the chill of the air bites at his bones once more. He watches you stumble alongside him. Fascinating.

He knows the woods better than he knows anything else and it’s remarkably easy to slip into the brush and entirely disappear. The men are too busy shouting, calling your name, stomping too noisily through the brush to hear you struggle against his armor. But he can hear you. He swears he can almost hear your heart thundering beneath him.

The men travel fast into the farther reaches of the forest, leaving only the two of you under the partial canopy of the red and orange leaves. He eyes a fallen log some paces away.

“I have no desire to harm you. I want only to talk.” Django removes his hand from your mouth very cautiously. “Will you hear me?”

You have a vexing tendency to stay quiet specifically when he requests otherwise, so once a few moments of silence pass, he jostles your arms. “Yes!” you snap, still limp in his hands.

He guides you to the old tree that has grown over with pītau and grass, and finally releases you, but he does not stray far from the trunk. His helm is tilted as far down as is possible so he can watch you seat yourself.

“Do not run.”

Your body goes still. “What do you want?” you ask, and Django can easily distinguish the way your voice wavers. You’re afraid. Good. That means you’re smart.

“The children.”

It’s then that your head snaps up and your eyes lock on his, somehow, through his visor. “If you want them, you’ll have to kill me. And their father.”

The venom in your words is understandable, but irritating nonetheless. “I do not wish to take them,” he sighs.

It’s a half-lie, not entirely false yet not entirely the truth. Taking them by force would end poorly for all, and he has no desire to see his tamariki flee from him or be injured, but they need him. They are cut off from their mana here, so far away from land that first gave them breath. He knows he cannot take them and run for there is no iwi to return to, and he suspects that his wife would return from the dead and haunt him were he ever to set foot on Aotearoa’s shores. Nor would they come with him willingly, not so long as he continues to present himself the way that he does. He knows they dream about the night his wrath spilled over. He hears them whisper about it sometimes, like he hears you wake from your slumber and cry, too, and for once he feels guilty.

“How many years have they?”

Your eyes narrow. “Why?”

“How many?”

The log creaks under your weight as you shift uncomfortably. Then, “10, both of them.”

Of course they are.

“As were mine.” His mouth feels dry when he says it, his heart burns, and not for the first time, he’s grateful for the helm he hides behind. He doesn’t want you to see the first tears he’s felt on his cheeks in over 200 years.

He’s even angrier when he sees the light of understanding in the black of your eyes, how it almost borders on pity, and he does not want pity. He’s killed others for less. But he can’t kill you, and he knows it. Perhaps you know it now, as well.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur.

For a moment, he’s overcome with emotion as he pictures his children, the carvings they wore around their necks, the songs they used to sing. He pictures Poa’s fierce pūkana and Omeka’s handling of the poi. He pictures all the battles he would have missed and the mokopuna he never saw born, and he feels his jaw tighten and his throat constricts (as much as it can).

“What are they called?” he finally asks. “The boy?”

“Moses.”

He’s familiar with this name, has heard multiple times in a variety of tongues, but it doesn’t suit his son. He shakes his head. “Poa.” You repeat it back to him, but the word is awkward in your mouth. “No,” he says, “Poa.”

It’s better the second time.

“And the girl?”

You almost dare to smile then. You must be fond of her. “Cora.”

This name is at least somewhat similar to the one he knows, although the sounds are rearranged. “Omeka,” he corrects. “They are mine, as they are yours.”

Your face crinkles with frustration. “But they’re not-“

“They are.” No room for discussion. “What do you know of the rebirth of souls?”

“‘The rebirth of’…? What are you talking about?”

“My children are yours now, Lady. Their spirits reborn in new bodies that you have nurtured.”

It’s no easy thing to accept, he realizes, but he had hoped you would understand, that there might be a chance. But it’s clear you think him crazed and lost within his mind. He sees your hands twitch in your lap, your eyes dart to the side as you survey your surroundings. You’re going to run, and with you will go the last chance he has at atoning for his greatest sin, the last chance he has to see the little ones he once loved grow old. This is exactly what he feared.

Django is accustomed to taking. He takes every day, takes risks and lives, and he takes to survive, to keep going even when he finds there is nothing to continue surviving for. He watches you now and sees the future of his tamariki flicker like a flame. It all hinges upon you.

He cannot take this time, but he does take your hand. It startles you. You are, for all intents and purposes, as frightened as a wild hare, your body trembling and stiff, your nose twitching as you assess him, but this time he is a wolf who bares no teeth and hides it claws. He lowers himself onto his knees and does the one thing he swore never to do: he lifts his visor.

He's not sure of the state of his head. You have no way of knowing it’s severed from his body, held in place only by hope and metal loops wiring the helm in place atop his shoulders, but he knows you’re able to see most of his face. It’s been so long since another person saw it and lived that he half wonders if he’s changed over the years, become the beast he set out to be. He wonders if the lines of his moko frighten you, if you, like so many of the settlers that have taken this land as their own, see the color of his skin and the breadth of his nose and think him monstrous for it, and thus unworthy of being heard.

“I have nothing in this life beyond them,” he proclaims, laying himself bare before you in a moment of desperation. His heart is pounding, threatening to rip itself from his chest. “I ask for nothing from you, Lady, but to see them brought up in the ways of their ancestors, to speak their reo again, to learn the songs and dances of their tribe as they once did.”

But you shake your head even as he clutches your hand to his chest. “They’re not yours. It’s not possible.”

It whispers to him again, the lust that rattles deep within him, yearning for blood when things don’t go his way. You have no idea what mercy you’ve been dealt or how you’ve been spared his wrath. You don’t know how easily he could take from you everything you hold dear, how he could snatch the children up now and gut you like a fish, leave you gory and dying and ten times more miserable than he is.

The beat of your pulse thumps in your fingertips. He tugs you closer, gently so as not to startle you. He can’t help his gaze dropping to the trembling line of your mouth. “I had hoped not to take them from their mother.” Your shoulders drop as he leans closer. Unguarded and unaware. How foolish. Django exhales through his nose in a sort of laugh as he suddenly pulls on your wrist, dragging you off the trunk and directly into him, and in an instant, he has you flat on your back with his hand at your throat. And how his body sings when he sees the terror in your eyes. “It would be easier with your blessing.”

The nearest tree groans in the wind as its branches bend, and the cold is harsh on his face for the first time in memory.  He closes his eyes, breathes, feels the thrumming of your life force under his hands, and he knows he cannot kill you. He hates that he can’t. He hates that he wants to. But then he thinks of the terrorized faces that cowered behind you that awful night and he withdraws himself from you as if he were burned. His hands tingle within his gloves as he does, and he half wonders if you did, if your touch is as dangerous as a flame.

Silence hangs heavy between you. It lingers on his armor like dew, like sweat, and it worries at the inside of your cheek where you’re chewing on it. You move to sit up. He does not retreat, nor does he advance. He simply waits.

He’s waited 224 years, he can wait another few minutes until your decision is made.

What sort of man is this? You thought him a devil at first, some ghoul from the pits of Hell itself sent to torment the town and snuff out whatever life it found. He’s haunted you from that very night, lingered in the back of your mind until you’ve made yourself sick with worry, yet now he kneels before you, not a spirit but a man. There is flesh behind his armor, dark and sickly as if it’s never seen the sun, and his face is carved with curls of ink that follow the lines of his cheeks, mouth, and brow. He smells like a man, musky and sweaty and old, but not in the same way that the elders of the town do. He smells old in the same way the land does, less of a proper sensation and more of something that you sense when the wind tosses his scent your way.

He's human. And even if you had doubted that, you know it by the way he regards the children. There’s a reverence there, an honesty so true that it’s beyond fabrication. He genuinely believes they’re his. He’s so determined to have them again, to teach them – although what he might wish to teach them is beyond you – that he’s willing to do anything to try, even go so far as to… capture you? Threaten you? Beg you for a chance, all within the span of a few minutes?

What’s worse is he seems to think you’re their mother. Would he kill you if he knew the truth?

A surge of bravery enables you to glance his way and assess the knee taken, the face beneath the armor, the empty holsters and the missing pistols, the dried and rusted blood caked into the corners of his chest plate. This knight is a killer. He left a bloody trail the length of Sleepy Hollow in his wake the morning of All Hallow’s Eve, he left Josiah injured on your bedroom floor, and he very nearly killed you then. Only he didn’t.

Cora and Moses. You wouldn’t be surprised if they were the reason.

“What happened to your children?” you ask before you can think better of it.

The knight flares his nostrils, seemingly taken aback by the query. His eyes search the grass for something you cannot fathom. “Dead,” he finally responds, his jaw angrily squared off and his eyes suddenly very far away. “Many years ago.”

You thought as much, and in fact, your mouth finds a course of its own as it opens to explain that the children lost their mother years ago, too, until you realize that you are, in his mind, their mother and your jaw quickly snaps shut. “Their grandmother,” is the correction that you offer him with a shaky, barely convincing smile. “They were very close to her. But I suppose that’s not the same, is it?” He merely blinks. “I am sorry, sir, that you lost them. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

He must be very lonely. The thought strikes you rather hard and it pierces straight through your heart. You could be wrong, of course, but something tells you you’re not. Lonely people don’t see their deceased children in strangers. Lonely people don’t traipse the forest in armor centuries out of date, nor do they go on bloody rampages in sleepy towns. They don’t beg on their knees to see a couple of children that ought to mean nothing to them.

How do you know you can trust him?

For the first time, the knight smiles – it’s strange how the corner of his mouth quirks into a vague resemblance of the thing. “You don’t.” Then the smile vanishes and that same fire you saw burning in his irises when speaking of his children burns anew. “But I would not harm them, Lady. Not ever.”

And you, in all your foolishness, believe him.

You’d be less nervous if there was pistol pressed between your eyes. There might as well be, you tell yourself rather dejectedly. The knight – Django – had after all threatened you in all but name. It was an excellent motivator to whip up a believable lie, to tell the children of the old family friend who had journeyed very far to wish you well in your new home and would be coming to visit very soon, so long as they were good and diligent in their studies. But now as the hour of his arrival grows closer, you feel yourself dissolving into a nervous wreck.

This whole thing is a terrible mistake. You know what he is, who he is, the things he’s done. You saw it with your own eyes, yet you’re allowing this man to insert himself into Moses and Cora’s lives? Are you mad?

You ought to go running and screaming to the mayor, to the house of the strongest, fittest men and beg them to protect you against the demon in armor that’s haunting you. But you know he’d find you. You know he’d kill you. And selfish though it is, choosing your life over sanity is a much easier decision than you ever thought it could be.

Still, you do take the precaution of hiding a knife in the pocket of your apron. It’s the only thing that will keep you from losing it entirely.

The thundering knocking of metal on wood shudders through the house, cutting right through your lesson. Cora and Moses both look up from their chalkboards, eyes wide in giddy anticipation. You don’t want this to happen. You’re not ready. What if he hurts them? What if he hurts you? What if, if-?

The blur of movement that is Cora rushing to the window snaps you from your thoughts.

“It’s him!” she shouts. She starts bouncing up and down on her toes, beaming as she points out the window to the gravel path below. “He’s here, he’s here!”

Moses attempts to remain more composed, but you can see he’s curious. He raises an eyebrow at you. Well? he seems to say. What are you waiting for?

You smile through the sudden bought of nausea. “I think our lesson will have to wait for later.”

Cora, meanwhile, has her face pressed up against the glass. “He looks mysterious. Why’s he dressed like that?”

Your stomach drops. Oh no, did he come in the armor? The whole town will bury you alive if they see him like that, if they know it’s because of you. Oh, you’re going to be sick now, there’s no debating it.

“You don’t look well,” Moses notes.

“I don’t feel well.” It’s the first honest thing you’ve said all day.

He frowns so much that his entire brow crinkles. It’s a look he’s been giving you more often, usually when you ask him to do something he has little interest in, or when he’s in a mood. But you worry he’s frowning now because he knows you too well, because he’s remarkably observant and he’s using it against you at the worst possible time.

You need a chamber pot. Or to go lie down and rest. You need the villain you’ve invited into your home to go back to wherever he came from and leave you be.

The study door creaks open to reveal Harriet. “Pardon me, ma’am, but you’ve a visitor.” She’s trying to appear pleasant, but you can see she’s as curious as the children are and more than a little suspicious. She leans into the door and lowers her voice to a more conspiratorial tone. “Strange face, he’s got. Sounds foreign, too.”

You’re sure they can all hear you swallow. “He’s not from around here.”

Somewhere behind you, Moses snorts and Cora ‘oo’s and ‘ahh’s. God above, you need to get this over with before you make yourself legitimately sick or something worse happens. The idea of him forcing his way inside and into this room, taking the children because you took too long to answer when he called, it scarcely bares imagining.

How you manage to drag yourself from the study to parlor room, you have no recollection, though you’re distantly aware of the two little shadows following along. But all you think of is him. And then Harriet pushes the door open for you, and all you see is him.

Gone is the armor that lights up your nightmares, gone are the weapons and the promise of violence that lingers in the cracks and crevices of the metal he hides behind. A cloak replaces cold steel and a high collar reaches nearly to his jaw. His throat has been wrapped in a kerchief and knotted above the bend in his neck. The rest of his clothes are strange, certainly older than is appropriate for the current fashion and stained in places they shouldn’t be, and though you hope it isn’t the case, you suspect it’s the result of blood seeping under his gear.

Without the helmet, you can see more of his face and the full reach of his markings, as well as the dark coils of his hair that have grown shaggy and uneven. However, Django isn’t even looking at you. His attention is focused solely on the children.

His children.

The thought is startling and entirely unbidden, but it tugs at your mind like Cora often tugs at your skirts. It’s ridiculous. It’s not even possible. The ‘rebirth of souls’? Such things are the stuff of fairy tales and exotic regions on the map, and he is clearly out of his mind if he truly thinks that.

But then you look at Moses and you see Django’s nose.

No.

No, that’s not possible. You know it isn’t. You must be feeling more ill than you first thought. Perhaps you’re feverish.

But then Cora tilts her head to one side and her hair falls over her shoulder, moves exactly the way that Django’s does. It’s such an insignificant thing, but his voice is already whispering in your ear, a memory of the afternoon in the forest when he dropped to his knees and begged like a man instead of a monster.

The rebirth of souls, reborn into new bodies.

Such things are impossible.

They have the same eyes. Dark like the earth when it’s damp and freshly dug, rich like the smell of Harriet’s morning coffee. It’s the exact same color. And their brows; Moses’ have the same angular ridge at the top, and Cora’s aren’t much different, albeit a little thinner.

All this time, you’d thought they looked so much like Josiah. Now all you see is Django.

“Why do have you lines on your face?”

“Cora Minor!” You know now that he would never hurt them, it’s a knowing that penetrates your bones down to your very soul, but he is still the knight who drowned Sleepy Hollow in its own blood, and you would prefer it if he weren’t offended. “That’s very rude.”

“I’m sorry,” she starts to say, but Django raises a hand to stop her.

“Have you seen lines like these before?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “No, sir.”

“Do they frighten you?”

She shakes her head a second time, but this time she’s enthused. “No! I think they’re wonderful. Only… what are they for?”

There is a change in the room then, a change within Django that seems to utterly transform him. However handsome his eyes were before, they were dull and mostly empty, devoid of any true sensation. But you see him come alive as new light sparks within his irises and illuminates his entire face.

“These are the sacred marks of my people,” he begins, and even his voice is different. It reaches new depths you hadn’t even known were possible, and the tone of his accent changes to match it, the consonants rearranging themselves and the vowels elongating with an elegance you wouldn’t have thought possible by someone like him. “Tā moko. It is an ancient art, meant to honor our chiefs and great warriors.”

She’s enraptured, wholly and completely. You could swear there were stars in her eyes with the way she watches him.

Django takes a step forward, then another, and it stirs up the worry in your belly again, but only for a whisper of a moment. Whatever danger there once was is now gone.

“A young woman like you would receive hers when she came of age. Here.” He crouches to press his thumb to the divot in her chin. “Yours is a pūkauae.”

Her face wrinkles up much like her brother’s often does. “A what?”

The word is strange to all your ears. The only language they truly know is English, though they’ve picked up some Hebrew from their prayers. But this tongue that Django speaks in clipped verses is unlike any you’ve ever heard before. He speaks it with a certain rhythm, almost as if it were a poem or a song.

Once he feels that Cora has managed to pronounce the word properly, he turns to Moses. There is less softness here in the space between two not-quite men, one too young and one too old, and both entirely too stubborn to see eye to eye. Already you feel that their journey will be a harder one than Cora’s, and that’s just from the stink eye the boy’s casting his way.

“You have the heart of a warrior.” Moses doesn’t appear too outwardly impressed by this, but you know him better than that. “You are strong. Brave. Your moko will be great, like mine.”

His little nose sniffles. “Did it hurt?”

Django nods seriously. “Yes.” His fingers trace the path of one line of his tattoo. “My marks were carved into me. I did not eat for three days after.”

“That’s weird.”

This boy is going to be the death of you. “Moses. Be polite to our guest.”

But the man before him doesn’t devolve into a fit of rage. His voice does not threaten, his face remains calm, and you swear you almost see him smile.

“It is strange to me that the people of this land do not mark their faces as I do. I wonder if they have no mana here.” His gaze slips to you as he says this and though it doesn’t seem to be a threat, you know you don’t like the sound of it.

Moses juts his chin out a bit as he thinks. “What’s that?”

“Mana?” His voice rumbles low in his chest when the boy nods affirmatively. “It is the enduring, indestructible power of the gods, our atua. Inherited at birth by all people.”

“There’s only one god, you know,” Cora interjects as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. You had hoped she would ignore that bit.

Yet still, Django is not offended by their candor and is, if anything, humored by it, possibly even proud of their curiosity and honesty. He even laughs. A real, genuine, human laugh! “You are not the first to tell me so, little one, nor will you be the last. But your god is not the god of my ancestors. Mine are great and mighty like the sea and the sky, brighter than the sunset and shining like the stars.” And when he crouches down to her level again, they smile at one another in a way that halts your breath. “Shall I tell you about them?”

“Where’s he from now?” Josiah asks over dinner that night. “Your friend.” His drawl is still honey-sweet, but there’s something new behind it, a glint in his eye. You’re not sure if it’s mischief or condemnation.

“Uh, he, he never told me.” True enough, but it still feels like a lie. Unless this is just your guilt coming back to bite you. “Europe, I think.”

“I ain’t never heard o’ people like that in Europe.”

“I like him,” says Cora between bites.

Looking her in the eyes is much easier than it is with her father. Either of them, but particularly Josiah. “Don’t speak with your mouth full.”

Only she’s still so excited over this afternoon’s visit that she doesn’t even listen. “I hope he comes back. I want to hear more of his stories. Like the one about Rangi! That one was good.”

Moses huffs. “I thought he was weird.”

“Why’d’ja say that, son?”

His eyes shift until they’ve narrowed down to slits, then he shakes his head and stabs at a vegetable on his plate. He doesn’t put much heart into it. “Dunno. Just a feeling.” Then he looks to you, and you see that too-knowing shine in his eyes like he had when Django first knocked at the door and sent you spiraling. “Thought maybe he was making you nervous.”

He’s so perceptive. Too perceptive. He gets that from his mother, apparently. Josiah’s always said she was a quiet, observant woman who kept her cards close to her chest and her secrets even closer. You see it in him now with how much he picks up on without you ever having to say a word.

“I wasn’t,” you assure him, but it’s clear he will not accept that lie the moment you tell it. “A little. But only because so much time has passed since I last saw him.” This is a better lie, far more believable and convincing enough that you almost fool yourself. “I had hoped to make a good impression on him, and that he would make a good impression on all of you.” This much is true, though its truth lies in your fear of Django’s wrath should the meeting have gone poorly.

It is enough, mercifully, to throw Moses off your scent. Whether he believes you or not is another matter entirely, but one you needn’t worry about for now.

Silver clatters on china, the fireplace crackles, and evening settles upon the Minor household. Somewhere out there, beyond the tree line, you know that he’s watching, waiting. This first meeting is just that – a first. He won’t be satisfied with only this. Neither would you be if your situations were reversed, and you don’t begrudge him this, but it does make you worry.

A singular visit is an easy pill to swallow. It is easy to explain away and just uneventful enough to eventually drift out of memory with enough time, but Django needs more and you’re afraid to give it to him. How can you possibly convince Josiah to allow more visits? How can you explain it to yourself so it doesn’t shatter the very fiber of your moral code? Josiah is their father just as Hesti was their was mother, yet you plan to allow a man who views himself as truer than fact into their home?

Even setting that troubling dilemma aside, what would Josiah think of you, what would the children and the staff think of you, if you continued to host such a strange person on your behalf? A man. Governesses are almost always forbidden from entertaining male guests. It’s a matter of decency, and you certainly don’t want people thinking that you and this man from your nightmares are being, well…, indecent.

Does he even understand such things? He comes from a land so distant and foreign from yours that you can’t help wondering if he knows what is considered appropriate. Then again, he’s a murderer. Even if he was aware of societal expectations, you doubt he would care enough to heed them.

Tomorrow, you decide later that night. You have tucked yourself under the covers and dressed warmly enough to fight against the biting cold that seeps through the walls, but still sleep eludes you. I will talk to him tomorrow. Surely the two of you can come to a reasonable solution.

prompt: omega 💛✔️

@clonexreaderbingo

taglist: @moodymisty @wolffegirlsunite @clonemedickix @bobaprint @freesia-writes @deewithani @wings-and-beskar @rain-on-kamino @wizardofrozz @anxiouspineapple99 @multi-fan-dom-madness @deejadabbles

(please let me know if I forgot you on the list or you'd like to be added/removed!)

[annikathewitch]

Let's Make A Conlang Poll #6! (Redo)

I accidentally put the wrong time limit on the original version of this poll, so we're gonna redo it to get a larger sample size!

Grammar! Yay! May as well get some other stuff figured out while I try to sort out round 2 of the vowel selection poll!

The first grammar related thing we have to figure out is word order. For anyone who doesn't remember their grammar unit(s) from school (I only ever had one grammar unit. It was in 9th grade and was only like a week long. But this is public school in the US I'm talking about so that makes sense), the subject of a sentence is generally the thing doing the verb, whereas the object of a sentence is the thing the verb is being done to.

For Example:

Blåhaj ate food.

"Blåhaj" is the subject, "ate" is the verb, and "food" is the object.

As shown above, the word order for English is Subject-Verb-Object, or SVO. Other languages with this word order include French, Spanish, Chinese, and Dutch. About 42% of languages have this word order.

SOV is actually slightly more common, at about 45% of languages, including Latin, Japanese, Hindi, and Ancient Greek.

The third most common word order is VSO, which includes languages like Classical Hebrew and Arabic, Filipino, Irish, and Māori. This is followed by VOS, (which includes languages like Ojibwe, Malagasy, and Yucatec Maya), then OVS, (which includes languages such as Äiwoo, Guarijio, Hixkaryana, and Urarina, as well as the well-known conlang Klingon), then OSV (which as far as I can tell from Wikipedia is only the main word order of a handful of languages in the Amazon).

Sometimes languages deviate from their main word order in certain circumstances, and it can get a little more complicated than just what is described here, but we'll get into most of that stuff later; this is just to figure out the main word order used in most circumstances.

This poll is to create a grammar system for a constructed language made (as much as possible) entirely with tumblr polls! More information on this project can be found here!

Please reblog for larger sample size! Poll #7 (or vowel tournament round 2, depending on whether or not I have time to set it up) should go up in 48 hours!

Taglist: @writing-with-olive@notajerusalemcricket@antique-symbolism-main@jan-fiona-li-pona

[the-eternal-maiden616]

One another thing i wanted to talked about for Autism Awareness week is the word in which my people The Indigenous Māori of New Zealand or Aoterora use to describe Autism and other disorders like this.

'Takiwātanga' meaning Autism which means his/her or their own space

Being a Mixed Polynesian with New Zealander Māori as well as Cook Islander Māori and European Irish and Scottish heritage it was important for me to share this to you all for anyone else who wanted to learn the different ways Indigenous peoples and all peoples around the world call these disabilities in their own languages and the different meanings behind them.

Aroha/Love to you all and have a safe and happy Easter.

[toiletpotato]

the caption for the picture in the article states "NZ Prime Minister Chris Luxon's office has confirmed taxpayers paid for his Māori language classes."

article transcription below "keep reading"! (emphasis mine)

written by Ben McKay, last updated at 2.15 am on 18 Dec 2023

--

As New Zealand grapples with a new style of government and approach to the Māori language, Prime Minister Chris Luxon has fallen foul of his advice to the public service.

Mr Luxon appears guilty of a double standard after scolding bureaucrats for taking cash bonuses for understanding the Māori language, te reo, while using taxpayer funds to learn it himself.

Mr Luxon recently confirmed his government would axe payments to te reo-speaking public servants and criticised those who took the bonuses.

"People are completely free to learn for themselves," he said.

"That's what happens out there in the real world, in corporate life, or any other community life across New Zealand.

"I've got a number of MPs, for example, that have made a big effort to learn te reo ... they've driven that learning themselves because they want to do it.

"In the real world outside of Wellington and outside the bubble of MPs, people who want to learn te reo or want to learn any other education actually pay for it themselves."

However, Mr Luxon did not follow his advice.

After repeated requests, the prime minister's office confirmed taxpayers paid for Mr Luxon's classes through a budget offered to the leader of the opposition, saying it was "highly relevant" to his role.

"I think it makes me a better prime minister," he said on Monday.

Opposition Leader Chris Hipkins said te reo was "a national treasure" and learning it should be incentivised.

"Christopher Luxon should be commended for learning Māori, but it's absolute hypocrisy for his government to then set about cancelling the taxpayer subsidies he used to do so, thus denying others that same opportunity," he said.

Waste watchdog the New Zealand Taxpayers' Union called on Mr Luxon to pay back the tuition costs.

Mr Luxon's right-leaning coalition of the National, ACT and NZ First parties has already strained relations with many in Māoridom, particularly over plans to wind back te reo use as championed by the Labour government.

Public servants have been told to communicate in English while public bodies - such as Waka Kotahi for the New Zealand Transport Agency - must revert to using their English-language name first.

Detractors say the government is bashing a minority and inflaming a culture war while the government argues changes have confused non-te reo speakers.

Te reo use is on the rise in NZ but remains a second language.

Competent speakers have grown from six to eight per cent from 2016 to 2021, including 23 per cent of Maori, up from 17 per cent.

Assimilationist governments banned the language in schools for much of the 20th century, causing trauma for many Māori.

Some government members are hostile to te reo use, with Deputy Prime Minister Winston Peters believing Aotearoa, the Māori term for NZ, is illegitimate.

In parliament last week, the 78-year-old declined to answer a question in te reo from Rawiri Waititi, the Māori Party co-leader who has mobilised thousands to protest the new government.

Mr Luxon insisted he supported the language and wanted others to learn too.

"It's a fantastic language," he said.

"I wish I had learned as a younger person ... I'm trying to learn.

"I've found it actually very hard."

Mr Luxon had a chequered record with the Indigenous language in his former role as Air New Zealand's chief executive.

Under his leadership, stewards began using te reo greetings such as "kia ora" for hello and "ma te wa" for see you soon.

In September 2019, the airline sought to trademark "kia ora" - the name of its in-flight magazine.

After consultation with Māori leaders, and a local and international backlash, Air New Zealand abandoned the bid a week later.

[ayin-me-yesh]

Heads up to other Kiwis that there are now te reo Māori courses at Open Polytechnic that are free for citizens and residents. Open Polytechnic's courses are online so you can apply to them from anywhere in the country (or from overseas if you still have citizenship or residency). There's a series of four te reo Māori papers with frequent intakes so it's not as competitive as some other language programmes. I'm currently taking the first course and my application was processed and accepted within two weeks!

[yellowgnomeboots]

Ok so we know there's still a long way to go with indigenous rights and so on in NZ but there is one thing I like to see and that is bilingual signs, but even more so is stuff like this:

This McDonald's bathroom sign. It's common with bilingual signs in many countries to put English on top and larger, but frequently nowadays I actually see the text the same size, and even with te reo Māori first like here.

Also you can see this is a predominantly Māori sign because of the little suggestion of koru on the ends of the horizontal divider.

Like maybe it's not a lot but te reo Māori is dominant on this sign and it's completely normal. That's what I love. It's important to have Māori language week and other things that draw attention to Māori things and this is still very needed, but I love to see the ways that te reo Māori is present and normal.

[thewolvesof1998]

taro and papyrus?

HIIIII!

papyrus ⇢ if you put your ‘on repeat’ playlist on shuffle, what’s the first song that comes up? what do you like about it / associate it with?

La Vie en Rose- English by Con O'Neill

Okay so first off this reminds me of Our Flag Means Death and my boy Izzy Hands. SPOILERS: It reminds me of the scene in which Izzy sings this song and the pure queer joy it gave me. And it makes me think of this post that sums up my thoughts on this scene so well.

taro ⇢ if someone called you right now to catch up, what’re the things you’d tell them about?

How I reorganised my gallery wall, the new plants I got, what fics I'm working on (depends on who I'm talking to though, I might just say I'm writing again), how the job search is going and how I didn't get the job that I interviewed for after three interviews because they thought I would get bored in a few months, my wonky Christmas tree and the green mirror I got at the charity shop, how we brought a giant tennis ball for my dog and she loves playing with it, how the Pohutukawa trees are flowering early, how my nan had a fall a few days ago, how she's okay but St Johns only tried to call me once when last week they called me twice and my mom once because her device was unplugged, how I am on the verge of tears multiple times a day because of what is happening in Gaza, how powerless I feel after signing all the petitions and going to the protests and boycotting but I keep watching all the videos and reposting and making content about it because it's better than doing nothing, how I despise Nate Shelley from Ted Lasso atm and if Keeley and Roy don't get back together I'm going to be upset, how much the new right-wing NZ Govt is fucking up and it hasn't even been two weeks, how they're threatening to re-interpret the nation's Indigenous treaty, close the Māori Health Authority and roll back use of Māori language, which will not only cost a lot of tax-payers money but also critically impact Maori citizens who are already disadvantaged due to racism, they also planning to reverse a ban on offshore gas and oil exploration and also rewrite firearms legislation and how it's all a fucking shit show atm.

Sorry for dumping that all on you 😂.

thanks for your ask!

random get-to-know-me ask game

[nixielinghui]

Are we human because we gaze at the stars, or do we gaze at them because we are human? Pointless, really.

Is that NIXIE LINGHUI? A SOPHOMORE originally from FUNAFUTI, TUVALU, they decided to come to Ogden College to study ENVIRONMENTAL ENGINEERING on a FINANCIAL SCHOLARSHIP. They’re THE OPHELIA on campus, but even they could get blamed for Greer’s disappearance.

Do the stars gaze back? Now that's a question.

STATISTICS;

BASIC INFORMATION;

full name: nixie linghui. nickname(s): nix. age: twenty-one. date of birth: september 30th, 2001. zodiac: libra. hometown: funafuti, tuvalu. current location: ogden, new hampshire. ethnicity: caucasian & chinese. nationality: polynesian. gender: demigirl. pronouns: she/they. orientation: panromantic & pansexual. religion: wicca. occupation: student & employee at c.ling. language(s) spoken: english, chinese, hawaiian, māori, tuvaluan, semi-fluent vietnamese.

FAMILY;

father: david linghui. marine engineer. born january 18th, 1965. mother: carley linghui. marine biologist. born november 21st, 1968. sibling(s): n/a. children: n/a. pet(s): n/a.

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE;

face claim: havana rose liu. hair color: honey brown.  eye color: grey to green. height: 5'2''. weight: 110 lbs. tattoos: n/a. piercings: lobes on either side (multiple).

PERSONALITY;

character trope: the ophelia. additional tropes: the aquaphile, the barefoot loon, the barefoot sage, the beach bum, the dreamer, the effervescent, the halcyon, the manic pixie dream girl, the malingerer, the mysterious waif, the paracosmist, the peach, the traveler. character inspirations: argyle (stranger things), bea (mayday), delirium of the endless (the sandman), dolores madrigal (encanto), lottie matthews (yellowjackets), luna lovegood (harry potter), molly gunn (uptown girls), mr. magorium (mr. magorium's wonder emporium), sarah sanderson (hocus pocus), thomas jerome newton (the man who fell to earth), valerie (valerie and her week of wonders). positive traits: affectionate, extroverted, understanding. negative traits: carefree, indecisive, codependent. skills: forging relationships, mediation, amateur tea sommelier. smokes: no. drinks: yes. drugs: yes, natural substances only.

SCHOOLING;

attending; ogden college. major: enviormental engineering. minor: marine biology. sports: swimming & diving. extracurriculars: renewable energy and sustainability society, rock climbing team.

BACKGROUND;

TW: n/a. ● Nixie's parents met unexpectedly on a ship that her mother was traveling on and her father was working on. It was love at first sight and within four months they were married and Nixie's birth followed an additional seven months later. ● Due to her parents work, they never truly had a set home. Instead, she spent her childhood traveling on ships or boats and visiting exotic and beautiful locations, staying in everything from hostels to hotels and rented out rooms. ● Their education came mostly in the form of homeschooling and lessons taught both by their mother and the various women who helped raise and shape them throughout their childhood, most of their knowledge (and the things that piqued their interest) not coming from the things found in a textbook or classroom. ● It was throughout their travels that they became increasingly aware of the impact of global warming, particularly on the places that they loved to much, and in hopes to make a more impactful change going forward, they enrolled in Ogden. ● They definitely do care about their education and being able to help, but being as wild as they are, Nixie struggles with actually attending classes and staying on top of their assignments, something she too often has to be reminded about.

BIOGRAPHY;

TW: n/a. It had to have been fate that allowed their paths to cross, no coincidence that the ship she wasn’t have meant to have been on broke down while in his zone, that she’d wandered out of her room and into directly into him. It was love at first sight, two people destined for each other, a romance that others might try to simplify but the Linghui’s refuse to view it so plainly. It took a mere four months before they were tying the knot, a wedding some called shotgun soon after the fact, but the child growing inside of Carley was unbeknownst to them at the time, a welcome surprise when that beautiful baby arrived seven months later. To say that Nixie's upbringing was unorthodox would still be managing to down play it. She may have been born in Funafuti but it was never home, pulled to the seas before she was even a year old. In fact, home wasn't a word that they identified in the traditional sense — home was people, it was a feeling, no set place that ever been able to hold them. Nixie spent their time drifting; beaches and islands, boats and ships, oceans and villages that so few people got to experience. There was a plethora of time spent under the watchful eye of local women, incredible elders from varying backgrounds who’d lived and seen so much more than her, who shared their wisdom and stories and helped shape her. Of course, home schooling was mandatory, even with no singular home it was important she learn — and although they passed, it was no easy task, mind drifting and focus elsewhere, always feeling they could experience and learn more from the world around them than any book. While the past two decades have allowed them to experience beautiful and exotic places, they've also forced them to be witness to the suffering of the world — particularly of small islands, populations that have lived there for centuries and are often putting the least strain on the environment, remaining most affected by it. It’s why she’s journeyed to Ogden, the stillest she’s ever been and for the longest extent of time, leaving her skin itching for change. Nixie wants to learn and help the places and people that have come to be so important to her, but don’t be surprised if you find her arriving to class late or not at all, wandering the hiking trails while the skies are dark or laying on the water for so long people begin to worry she’s merely a body.

EXPAND ON HOW THEY EMBODY THEIR SKELETON TROPE;

For perhaps anyone who's appreciated an iteration of Hamlet, the visual is clear — long, disheveled hair and bare feet, clad in a dress and often pictured amidst flowers and water. It's not just the visual of her that takes people's mind to that place, however. They display the same childlike naivety, as if entirely unaware of the harsh realities of the word, a mind that it seems has taken a step away from the real world while at the same instant, holds gently onto secrets that no one else may ever may be privy to the knowledge of. At times it's unclear if Nixie is plagued by an invisible illness or merely not of this world, questions that her unwillingness to answer acts to make her all the more bewitching.

RELATIONSHIP TO GREER;

Their first encounter was unexpected and the ones that followed were even more so. Nixie was an almost impossible person to pin down, floating around with her parents like a piece of drift wood lost to the sea. It was thanks to the beautiful locations that their work took them that she was privy to many experiences most her age were not so lucky to enjoy. The couple may not have been able to afford the luxury of the vacation homes and resorts that the Morrison family could, but the ocean and it's mainland were things trickier to lay claim upon. The same beach at the same time, together and yet somehow worlds apart — though to an outside eye, it seemed the pair were either unaware or unaffected by that reality.

LINKS;

AESTHETIC | FASHION | INTERACTIONS | MUSINGS | PINTEREST | VISUALS

[affableanthropologist]

Māori language week begins today! Kua timata te wiki o te reo Māori i tenei ra! Kia kaha te reo Māori. Kia kaha e hoa!