#and the desperate ends the landlords and those in power have driven them to

[grenewoden]

hi i'm still not over the fact that tgp just proved you could so easily make a r.obin h.ood adaptation that was good actually instead of all the shit we've gotten over the years.

[yetanotherfanficblog]

Elation, Trepidation, Dejection, Destruction

Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV

Characters: Captain Jifuya, Male Xaela Aura Dark Knight Warrior of Light, Yotsuyu goe Brutus (mentioned)

Rating/Warnings: Mature (Mentions of past Sexual Abuse, Child Abuse, and Slavery, Slight Gore, Minor Character Death)

Summary: Hien refuses to judge Jifuya, and the Warrior of Light decides to take matters into his own hands. It is not the first time the Dark Knights have had to punish crimes that weak little lordlings would not, and it will not be the last.

Also on Ao3

It was with slowly dawning horror that Enkhjargal heard Jifuya unfold his story - of buying Yotsuyu from her abusive parents, of using her as a doll for his lecherous customers, of his eagerness, even, to specifically exploit her trauma, a story he told not with regret, but simply with fear that he might finally face consequences. Enkhjargal cast a look at Gosetsu. It was Gosetsu's choice, first, but surely, he'd understand this man could be no part of-

"...I see," Said Gosetsu, as Jifuya still cringed before him, "Then I shall recommend that you be assigned to a new post."

Enkhjargal took a step backward, a look of shock at Gosetsu that he quickly stifled. The practice of taking prisoners in war or camp raids was one thing, but this type of slavery, buying and selling of a person? He had seen Gosetsu's code in action, respected it. Did the code truly stop here? With allowing this buyer and seller of unwilling young women to continue as if his sin had been nothing?

Perhaps he only meant to leave the judgement to his lord. Yes. That must be it. Certainly, Hien would have the wisdom to deal with this properly. It was... not the best way to deal with it, frankly, in Enkhjargal's mind, but perhaps allowing Hien to serve justice would make Doma stronger in the long run, even it delayed the justice Jifuya so clearly deserved by a few hours.

---

"I would not presume to defend the life Jifuya led before he joined the Front," Said Hien, "Nor will I condemn it. Frankly, it is not my place to judge. I will only say this: the Jifuya I know has ever been a man of courage. That he should feel driven to flee bespeaks the depth of his terror. Even now, Yotsuyu casts a shadow over the realm..."

Enkhjargal narrowed his eyes. Had Hien just suggested that he would not condemn or judge bloody slavery-

No. Not here. Not like this. Confronting Hien right now is unlikely to change his mind.

But we must do something.

It won't be the first time we must dispense justice because some pampered noble lordling either couldn't or wouldn't.

And it certainly won't be the last.

He will be alone at some point. We only need to find out when, and where, and be there when he is.

Bide your time until then.

---

Enkhjargal kept his body language as casual as possible as walked out of the House of the Fierce - to get some fresh air, he had told his comrades. It wasn't even completely a lie, although mostly he meant to put as much space between him and Hien as possible, before he said something he might regret.

But before he did, he spoke to the sentry at the entrance of house of the Fierce, where it lead out to the fields of Doma once again.

"Have you seen Jifuya since he got back?"

"Oh! He stepped out again. Don't worry though, sir, he ensured me he was coming back this time. He's only off duty for a bit, at Lady Yugiri's suggestion."

"Hm. Do you know where'd go at times like this?"

"Well. I know he sometimes likes to head out past Monzen, to gaze at the Castle. Even though it's in ruins, it's still a grand view."

Enkjarghal nodded, "Very well. Carry on, Sentry."

The Sentry bowed as Enkhjargal strode past him, out of the House of the Fierce.

When he rounded the bend, he pulled out his whistle and blew a short blast. A few moments later, his Yol swept down the sky. Enkhjargal leapt upon her, and pointed her west.

---

Not his place to judge? By the twelve, it is EXACTLY his place to judge! What is the bloody point of having lords and kings if they will not judge the sins of the common folk and ensure their kingdoms protect the weak and prevent the strong from abusing their power? What in the Seven Hells is Hien thinking? Why are we freeing Doma if it will only perpetuate the sins of the Empire against the poor and orphaned and destitute? Will he create a hundred, a thousand new Yotsuyus, poor young folk, orphans and destitute, driven to hatred and desperation by their treatment of the hand of rich old lechers and greedy landlords and cocky soldiers, because he refuses to do his bloody duty?

The voice screamed at the back of Enkhjargal's mind as he flew his Yol toward the river, and Enkhjargal let it. It was right, as usual. Whether Imperial or not, Eorzean or Hingan or Xaela or otherwise, too many of these nobles and monarchs and generals were such selfish, shortsighted fools, interested in the path of least resistance, or their own comfort, and as always, it fell to the bloody warrior of light to fix it.

And fix it he would, one way or another.

His black-scaled tail twitched restlessly, angrily behind him as he flew on. ---

A few moments more, and he landed his Yol, patting it gratefully on the neck before taking a bit of Dzo jerky from his pack, holding it out letting the Yol nibble it from his hand.

"Wait here, my friend," he murmured, "I shall not be long."

He walked toward the river bank, and soon spotted Jifuya, staring out toward the ruins of the castle as the lookout had suggested. The man did not notice him. Enkhjargal's hand went to the spare dagger at his waist. He could end it now, with a well-aimed throw, or a shove of the dagger at just the right point on his spinal column-

No. Jifuya should KNOW. He should see it coming. He should face the weight of his sins, as we have. As all should.

So Enkhjargal walked closer, drawing his sword, ensuring the sound of scraping metal was just loud enough to be heard.

Jifuya leapt with a start and turned around.

"Oh!" He said, breathing a sigh of relief, "Hello, Lord Enkhjargal. I didn't expect to see you out here. I come here sometimes. Staring at the castle helps center me when I'm feeling a bit out of sorts."

"I know. I heard one of your comrades mentioning it. I had hoped to find you here."

"You... You hoped?" Jifuya said, his face confused.

"Yes. You and I have something to discuss."

"Oh! Of course! Anything for the hero of Doma," Jifuya said, smiling graciously, simperingly, "B... But what could you have to discuss with me?"

"Your Profession."

"My-"

"Before you joined the resistance. Was Yotsuyu your only victim? Did you kidnap your other girls? Buy some of them from slave markets? Seduce a few of them off streets, convincing them their only option to avoid homelessness was to work in your dens? Or did you simply buy them all from lecherous, greedy old monsters eager to pawn a daughter or a wife to pay off gambling debts, or just to move on to their next pretty plaything?"

"Wha- What?"

"ANSWER ME," Enkhjargal said, his voice rising in volume just a bit, infused with the dark anger of his other half, as he stepped closer, now towering over Jifuya.

"I-I- I was a legitimate businessman, I had the full sanction of the Em- I mean- I... I got my girls from a variety of places! But I- It was Imperial times! We all had to survive, one way or another-"

Jifuya stopped, cringed, looked up at Enkhjargal. Enkhjargal stared back.

"S-Some of them were there by choice..." Jifuya continued, whimpering.

"SOME of them," Enkhjargal repeated his words, stone-faced, monotone, putting just enough emphasis on the first to remind Jifuya of what it implied, that even more were there against their will.

If the man means to dig his own grave, who are we stop him?

"I. I know what I did to Yotsuyu was... not my best moment," Jifuya said, "But- But- I have heard what you've done! You fought her! Rumors say you can even stare into the past of your enemies! You've seen her sins firsthand! You KNOW she's a monster!"

"I am not here to judge her, Jifuya. I am here to judge you. But how, I wonder, did she become a monster? I have seen enough of her past to know she was not born that way."

He took yet another step closer to the Doman. Jifuya tried to step backward, but his foot nearly slipped off the enbankment. He looked back at the water, and Enkhjargal wondered for a moment if he was planning to try his luck in the swift current. Yet still, he turned back to look up at Enkhjargal, cringing.

"No, she was made a monster," Enkhjargal continued, "By neglectful, hateful parents. By a cruel, callous slavemaster who saw her pain and saw in it a way to put more gil in his pocket."

"I...I already said I felt shame-" Jifuya began to stammer.

"No you didn't," Enkhjargal said, his voice a low hiss, simmering with rising fury, "You said you were afraid of your past, not sorry for it."

"I-I- I'm saying it now! I'm sorry! I swear!"

"Remorse given at the last possible second out of fear is no remorse at all."

"P-Please! Hien already passed judgement! HE forgave me, sh-shouldn't you?"

"He is not my lord," Enkhjargal said, "And thus I have no reason to be bound by his judgement."

"It's a shame, really," Enkhjargal continued, "Maybe if he had done what a king should and put you on trial for your crimes, you could have gotten something softer, something that still served some sort of justice. Maybe exile, or a prison cell, or hard labor. Or restitution paid to Tsuyu and any other of your living victims. Some sort of thing to ensure that craven, beastly men like you will not be tolerated in his new kingdom. But instead, he'll let you go free."

"B... But he DID let me go, right? I'm free. He said so..." Jifuya's voice barely sounded as if it came from a human now, broken and whining as it was.

"Yes. He did. But Doma wouldn't be the first nation I've travelled in where the upper class are either too cowardly or too complicit to reign in the wicked and corrupt. And you know what I've done in those countries?"

"W-What's that?"

"This."

Enkhjargal raised his weapon, and as he did, dark crackles and swirls of aether played around every inch of his body, around his massive sword, as his inner flame finally unleashed, fueled by the anger and rage he'd being feeling every since he found out Jifuya's crime, ever since Hien refused to judge him.

"Oh Kami!" Jifuya cringed back, "Warrior! Please! Show Mercy!"

"The same mercy you showed Yotsuyu? Your other victims?" Enkhjargal answered, coldly, as he swung his sword downward.

Jifuya opened his mouth to scream, but Enkhjargal gave him no chance to sound the alarm.

The pieces of the former slaver's body fell silently into the River, the swift current carrying them out of sight in an instant.

---

"They might find out, you know," His Dark Double, Sometimes called Fray, sometimes Esteem, murmured at his shoulder, as Enkhjargal stood at the edge of the riverbank, still staring into its churning waters.

"No," Enkhjargal said, his mouth set in a grim line, "They'll never suspect me, I'm a hero, a bloody icon. Surely I would never harm as innocent a soul as the brave Jifuya, decorated Captain of the Great and Noble Doman Godsdamned Resistance. Besides. He already tried to run once, who says he didn't do it again? He must have slipped off into the night, too afraid of Yotsuyu - or feeling too guilty at a reminder of the weight of his sins."

"You have a point," Esteem said, with a dark chuckle.

"Besides, if they do find any part of his body," Enkhjargal continued, "They'll likely assume it was someone who died in the assault on Doma Castle. Even if the fish don't eat it first, the water should wear down the meat enough that no-one could tell for sure that it was him - or that he died quite some time after the end of that bloody battle."

"So that's one problem taken care of. But there's one left. How do we deal with Hien?"

"We watch, and we wait, like we always do," Enkhjargal answered, "I thought he had the strength to lead, but if he was too cowardly to judge Jifuya properly, perhaps I erred. So we watch. And if need be, we take action."

"Yugiri will not be happy, if it comes to that," Esteem noted.

"She won't," Enkhjargal said with a nod, "But I have hopes she won't let her love for her lord blind her should he continue to allow such gross oppression, and for all her loyalty, Yugiri's always been a friend of the oppressed. A Lord can only rule as long as they have the consent of their people."

"Hmph. We both know people consent to some messed up things. In exchange for a peaceful life, many would simply ignore the corruption which festers beneath the surface. Cast aside that which is dirty and broken. Speak not of things which would disrupt their dreary little lives."

"Many. But not all."

Enkhjargal could feel Esteem's smile at his shoulder, bemused, slightly bitter, but warm and genuine all the same.

"That we still have that optimism after all this time," Esteem said with a note of wonder, before switching thoughts, "Very well. As always, I shall follow your lead. But if the truth of the matter comes out as I suspect it will, and if you need help..."

"I shall clutch my crystal to my breast, and remember,” Enkhjargal said, fiercely, every word the truth. 

"Good."

And with that, he felt Esteem simmering no longer. He turned from the riverbank, and strode back toward his waiting Yol.

---

NOTE: Text in italics is meant to be the words of Esteem in Enkhjargal’s mind, ala Dark Knight job quest text in-game.

[angryhausfrau-writes]

I Travel Troubled Oceans: Chapter 13 - In Which Charles Vane Wanders Towards Domesticity Via Bareknuckle Boxing And Jack Feels Feelings

Charles has been... not ignoring Jack – he's never cold or brusque – brusquer than usual, anyway. But he is giving Jack space that he's never really given him before. Space that they've never really had, living in doorless squalid squats always in arms reach of each other and often closer. But it's fairly easy to stay out of each other's way in a house this big.

And Jack has been exerting plenty of effort to stay out of Charles's way. Unfortunately, Charles has noticed – how could he not, when Jack routinely followed him like a particularly persistent shadow. And damn Anne for pointing that fact out, for now Jack can't help but acknowledge the truth of his long infatuation – there, that's a good word for it – infatuation, not crush, no matter what Anne says.

Anyway, Jack's is pretty sure Charles thinks he's is mad at him when in fact the problem is that entirely the opposite is true – Jack is lovestruck and giddy in Charles's mere presence. Practically doodling little hearts with his and Charles's names written inside them in pink glitter gel pen like it's still the nineties and he's just discovered the magic of perfectly coiffed boy bands. Which Chaz would tease Jack mercilessly about if he ever found out – tease him for both his teenage taste in music and for his feelings for Charles.

So Jack has continued to cloister himself in his workroom with Christine to work on his next fashion show. An activity that isn't quite as much of a safe harbor after the conversation Anne had with her. Something about managing Jack when he gets in a “mood” - as if Jack has moods! And if he does, as a rich eccentric creative genius type person, he's more than entitled to whatever moods he cares to have. So there!

Charles has been out of the house more often than not over the past few weeks. Partly because Jack's been holed up with Christine, putting together another fashion show. And every time Charles has tried to butt in – to remind Jack to eat something, damn it, or to just take a break – he's been very summarily excused by Jack. And ok fine Jack's in a tizzy, what else is new? But it's not like he really wants to be around for that shit.

And. And. And he's got that itch under his skin that means he needs either a fight or a fuck.

Fucking's off the table, cuz he's Jack's pretend boyfriend and they're supposed to be monogamous. Not that he couldn't find someone reasonably discrete and reasonably removed from the world they're moving in now. The world of rich marks who think a night of slumming it means going to clubs that only have twenty pound cocktails on the menu rather than fifty. So he could find someone who'd never have a chance of encountering one of the rick fucks who'd know him as Jack's boy toy and not as a scourge of the streets.

Hell, he could go find a lower class prostitute who doesn't give half a fuck about anything about him other than that he's got cash to pay for their services. Christine may even have been amenable before Jack had driven her crazy with all his ridiculous demands. But he had and now she flees the house at the end of every day, desperate to be away from his shit. Or maybe she's got something to rush too, rather than away from – Charles doesn't know or really care to. Regardless, that's that plan scuppered.

Of course, there's always other fish in the sea. Or corner boys and girls looking for a John. Christine is just the most available. But there's another reason he doesn't go seek someone else out – another prostitute or even just someone looking for a casual fuck after a long day of being a boring corporate drone.

It's because Charles knows now, after months of collecting information and blackmail on various rich shitstains, just how far some of them are willing to go to see their enemies brought low. Hell, Flint's boyfriend – or husband or whatever their actual relationship is with one another – Thomas Hamilton's own father had him exiled. Left him homeless and destitute and unacknowledged simply because his relationship with Flint might someday be a liability to his business.

All the so-called civilized motherfuckers are so ready to toss aside anyone they think of as lesser and then climb the pile of corpses to even more wealth and power. And Charles refuses to hand any one of those sorry fucks any leverage against him or Jack or any one of their crew. Refuses to see their plans, everything they've worked for, thrown away for a quick fuck.

So Charles keeps himself company. And starts looking for a fight.

He's not so far separated from his days on the streets that he doesn't still remember how to find the underground bare knuckle boxing ring that floats through London's abandoned warehouses and highrises. The place where all the flotsam and jetsam of the criminal underbelly congregate to see a little blood spilt. Or to spill it.

And Charles is not so far separated from his days on the streets that the guy watching the door – some big hulking bearded fucker who dwarfs Charles – doesn't gape and stare but still let him in. In to the derelict parking garage that was meant to serve a set of luxury condominiums that were never built and so the land remained solely as a tax dodge for an absentee landlord to launder his actual business's shady money through.

Charles descends into the dank depths of the service corridors underneath the garage. And he stands face to face with a ghost.

Some fucking idiot, with more money than taste – not that Charles himself is a paragon of that, but some of Jack's obsessive rants about good design sense had to have rubbed off on him – some stupid fuck has installed a huge black door, mirror shiny, at the entrance to the illegal fighting ring. And it reflects his face from endless murky depths.

He looks like a dead man.

He looks like he did before. Before prison and before Jack taking over the crew and before Max and before playing pretend. Before dressing like a rich fuck almost too stupid and self obsessed to notice anything beyond his own reflection in the mirror.

He looks strong. He looks casually cruel – looks like a man whose only goal is to gather strength about himself and to crush out weakness. He looks ready to spill blood and have his own spilled.

Charles pushes open the stupid, ugly, ostentatious door.

His reflection may not look changed, but everyone there, all the hard fuckers, all the street trash, they know what happened to him. They know where he's been and what – who – he's been doing. So he gets a lot of shit on first walking in, shit for being a poof and a dandy. For moving out of the streets and into a house – a big posh house and not a crumbling council estate. But mostly he takes shit for him and Jack being bum buddies.

Cuz news like that's always going to travel right down to the lightless, scummy depths of the lowest places in London. Especially when it's about someone like him. Someone strong, since they see that as a weakness. Someone masculine, since they see that as inherently emasculating.

No one had been surprised about Jack swinging both ways, for instance. He looks like a poof and acts like a poof, no big mystery there. And him so unapologetically larger than life like he is, it's not like he kept it quiet. Although the street's acceptance of him might have had something to do with Anne always lurking at his shoulder, ready to slit an adversary's throat before they even knew it had been cut. And with Charles too backing Jack when he'd been in charge of the crew, making it known that if anyone fucked with him they'd have Charles Vane to deal with.

Charles himself, though. That is a surprise. One that ripples around the ring of fighters like the wave that pulls back before a tsunami is unleashed.

Charles steps into the center of the ring. A dare. A challenge.

And once he's knocked a few dozen heads together, knocks a few dozen teeth in. Once he's standing bloody and bruised but unbowed, with his vanquished enemies at his feet. Well, they all leave it alone after that.

Cuz he's still Charles fucking Vane.

And he feels that more clearly here than in the posh streets of Camden or the West End they now frequent. Feels it in the brutality of the fight for his place here, his life. Feels it in the friendlier sparring that replaces it once he's proved he's worthy to stand among them – sparring no less brutal than his earlier fights, but much more full of camaraderie and less full of a genuine desire to kill one another. And it's nice to feel like his old self, to know he's still him even after everything that's changed.

But that doesn't mean it's not nice to go home at the end of the night, bruised and bloody and with his blood finally cooled and settled under his skin. Nice to emerge from the dank underground into the grey miserable filthy dawn of London streets and know he's got a home to go to.

Jack... Well, he's not waiting up for Charles, because that would imply that he's anxious about where he's gone. And Charles is a grown man, more than capable of going wherever he'd like at whatever hour he'd like.

But he may admit to waking up a bit earlier than usual and, when he passes by Charles's room and finds his bed empty and unslept in, drinking his morning coffee in the sitting room that faces the street so that he can see Charles first thing when he arrives.

Not to be a nag or a mother hen or anything. But simply because he finds he's rather missed having Charles around – barging into his space and interrupting his work and generally making a nuisance of himself. And it's Jack's own fault Charles has started going out more. It's Jack who's been driving him away. But Jack misses him.

And Jack's going to nut up and tell Charles he's missed him. Because he doesn't want to keep going on this way. And his feelings aren't Charles's problem and Jack never should have made them be.

So he's going to fix this, he is...

And then he sees Charles coming up the street. At first, Jack thinks he's just drunk – or fucked up. He's moving a little strangely, like his legs won't quite carry him in a straight line. But as Charles gets closer, Jack can see that he's dead sober – and that he's been beaten to a pulp. His hair is stuck to his face with blood from the cut on his forehead and he's got one hell of a bruise blooming on his cheek and his knuckles are split all to hell.

He looks wrecked. He looks almost as bad as he had after he'd killed Albinus.

Jack runs out to him, where he's standing looking lost and alone out on the pavement.

Charles smiles at Jack as he approaches - Jack who must make a ridiculous figure, rushing outside in nothing but a silk robe and fuzzy slippers - and his teeth are stained red with blood and the smile is really more of a baring of teeth.

“Chaz.” And there Jack stops, because he's really not certain how to go on.

“Jack.” And Charles's voice is steady, even if his footsteps aren't.

Jack places an arm under Charles's and helps him towards the house, towards the hanging open front door and the warmth and safety beyond. “Charles, what the fuck happened?”

Charles slumps against the hallway wall while Jack turns to close the door. “Got in a fight.” And he's grinning up at Jack, looking absolutely fucking unrepentant.

Jack throws his hands up in exasperation. “Really Chaz? You got in a fight? I never would have guessed.”

Charles's grin just gets even more smug.

“Who, pray tell, were you fighting? And why?”

Charles moves further into the house, to the hallway bathroom, where he starts dabbing at his cuts with a delicate hand towel. And yeah, that stain's probably never coming out. But it wasn't his decision to buy white towels, Jack. “Just some street toughs. And as for why...” He shrugs. “Sometimes a man just wants a fight. You know how it is.”

Jack certainly does not know how it is. He's always had the philosophy that fights are to be avoided at all costs – he would never seek out a, a recreational skirmish.

And Charles seems to realize that, because he turns away from Jack and begins dabbing in earnest at the cut on his forehead with a now dampened – and frighteningly bloody - hand towel.

Jack purses his lips but squeezes into the bathroom alongside him. “Here, Charles. You'd better let me do that.”

[mariefsaintfleur-blog]

Ten Interesting Haitian Novels

1. Claire of the Sea Light by Edwidge Danticat

“ Just as her father makes the wrenching decision to send her away for a chance at a better life, Claire Limyè Lanmè—Claire of the Sea Light—suddenly disappears. As the people of the Haitian seaside community of Ville Rose search for her, painful secrets, haunting memories, and startling truths are unearthed. In this stunning novel about intertwined lives, Edwidge Danticat crafts a tightly woven, breathtaking tapestry that explores the mysterious bonds we share—with the natural world and with one another.’‘ (Amazon.com)

2. Breath, Eyes, Memory by Edwidge Danticat

“At the age of twelve, Sophie Caco is sent from her impoverished village of Croix-des-Rosets to New York, to be reunited with a mother she barely remembers. There she discovers secrets that no child should ever know, and a legacy of shame that can be healed only when she returns to Haiti--to the women who first reared her. What ensues is a passionate journey through a landscape charged with the supernatural and scarred by political violence, in a novel that bears witness to the traditions, suffering, and wisdom of an entire people.” (Amazon.com)

3. The Book of Emma by Marie- Célie Agnant

“ Confined to a psychiatric hospital following the murder of her young daughter, Emma Bratte refuses to speak any language but her mother tongue. Dr. MacLeod has brought in an interpreter, Flore, to help him evaluate Emma's fitness to stand trial. "Both crazy and too lucid," an articulate and knowledgeable Emma relates her long battle against despair, through striking images of her lonely but determined and creative struggle to win the love of a mother misled by a racist society and then through tales of the suffering and resistance of some of her female forebears. These narratives, which are both epic and dramatic, and their contrasting reception by the officious psychiatrist and the sensitive Flore, produce rich layers of experience and meaning in this concisely narrated work.  Flore recognizes Emma's faithfulness to her ancestors' struggle and their wisdom, both in her desperate gesture to save her child from the cruel humiliations of prejudice and in her definitive act of rejoining her ancestors when she has effectively fulfilled her duty to pass on the memory, theirs and hers, to guide her successors, like Flore.” (Amazon.com)

4. Children of Heroes by Lyonel Trouillot

“ Their father’s favorite saying, between drinks and blows, was, “Life holds only bad surprises, and the last one will be death.” And now, Colin observes of the man sprawled under all the broken furniture, their father was definitely and forever out of surprises. Children of Heroes is the story Colin tells of what happened—and what happened before that. Testimony, confession, a child’s outpouring: this is his painfully matter-of-fact account of how he and his older sister, Mariéla, killed the man who tyrannized them and their piously pathetic mother, who is now a “blank.” As he describes their flight from the slum in Haiti to an uncertain somewhere called “far away,” Colin conjures a bleak picture of the life he and his sister are trying to leave behind. And whether these two—children only in age—are guilty or merely victims of the violence festering in their city is a question only the reader can answer. In its picture of a world in which the heroes and the destroyers—whether fathers or leaders—are often indistinguishable, and where life’s poetry and poverty are inextricably linked, this book tells a story of Haiti that is at once intimate, universal, and otherworldly.’‘ (Amazon.com)

5. Clerise of Haiti by Marie-Therese Labossiere Thomas

“ A young domestic worker devoted to her prominent urban employers in Les Cayes, Haiti, Clerise progressively renounces the traditional values of her rural background. When she later marries and opens a small business, class conflicts and divided loyalties develop amid the terror of the Duvalier regime, and she is ultimately caught in the escalation of violence. Clerise of Haiti is a story of three generations of Haitian women, and covers a thirty year span ending in the late 1970s. Full of humor and resilience, Clerise's unique perspective into the upper classes and the world of the poor explores the complexities of life in a provincial town and highlights the socioeconomic and political forces at play in Haiti.’’ (Amazon.com)

6. The Farming of Bones by Edwidge Danticat

“ It is 1937 and Amabelle Désir, a young Haitian woman living in the Dominican Republic, has built herself a life as the servant and companion of the wife of a wealthy colonel. She and Sebastien, a cane worker, are deeply in love and plan to marry. But Amabelle's  world collapses when a wave of genocidal violence, driven by Dominican dictator Rafael Trujillo, leads to the slaughter of Haitian workers. Amabelle and Sebastien are separated, and she desperately flees the tide of violence for a Haiti she barely remembers.Already acknowledged as a classic, this harrowing story of love and survival—from one of the most important voices of her generation—is an unforgettable memorial to the victims of the Parsley Massacre and a testimony to the power of human memory.’‘ (Amazon.com)

7. Haiti Noir by Various Authors

“ Each book is comprised of all-new stories, each one set in a distinct neighborhood or location within the city of the book.” (goodreads.com)

8. Untwine by Edwidge Danticat

“ Giselle Boyer and her identical twin, Isabelle, are as close as sisters can be, even as their family seems to be unraveling. Then the Boyers have a tragic encounter that will shatter everyone's world forever.Giselle wakes up in the hospital, injured and unable to speak or move. Trapped in the prison of her own body, Giselle must revisit her past in order to understand how the people closest to her -- her friends, her parents, and above all, Isabelle, her twin -- have shaped and defined her. Will she allow her love for her family and friends to lead her to recovery? Or will she remain lost in a spiral of longing and regret?” (Amazon.com)

9. The Dew Breaker by Edwidge Danticat

“ In this award-winning, bestselling work of fiction that moves between Haiti in the 1960s and New York in the present day, we meet an unusual man who is harboring a vital, dangerous secret. He is a quiet man, a good father and husband, a fixture in his Brooklyn neighborhood, a landlord and barber with a terrifying scar across his face. As the book unfolds, we enter the lives of those around him, and his secret is slowly revealed. Edwidge Danticat’s brilliant exploration of the “dew breaker”-- or torturer-- is an unforgettable story of love, remorse, and hope; of personal and political rebellions; and of the compromises we make to move beyond the most intimate brushes with history. It firmly establishes her as one of America’s most essential writers.’‘ (Amazon.com)

10. American Street by Ibi Zoboi

“ On the corner of American Street and Joy Road, Fabiola Toussaint thought she would finally find une belle vie—a good life.But after they leave Port-au-Prince, Haiti, Fabiola’s mother is detained by U.S. immigration, leaving Fabiola to navigate her loud American cousins, Chantal, Donna, and Princess; the grittiness of Detroit’s west side; a new school; and a surprising romance, all on her own.Just as she finds her footing in this strange new world, a dangerous proposition presents itself, and Fabiola soon realizes that freedom comes at a cost. Trapped at the crossroads of an impossible choice, will she pay the price for the American dream?’‘ (goodreads.com)

[romancatholicreflections]

26th February >> Daily Reflection on Today's Mass Readings for Roman Catholics on the Eighth Sunday of Ordinary Time (A)

You are welcome to Living Space, where you will find commentaries on the daily readings. Eighth Sunday of Ordinary Time (A) This Sunday, which can fall either before Lent or after the Easter season, is not often celebrated. Readings Isaiah 49:14-15 1 Corinthians 4:1-5 Matthew 6:24-34 THE GOSPEL IS A STRONG CHALLENGE to the lifestyle that prevails in most of our cities in the so-called developed world and in many parts of the developing world too. Jesus puts it very bluntly: "You cannot at the same time be the slave of God and money (and this includes all the things that equate to money, like property, cars, clothes, foreign holidays, etc.)" As such, he does not criticise the having of things. What is in question is our attitude towards them, our being in thrall to them, having our lives controlled by them and, above all, being unable to share them with those in real need. Also in question is the false illusion that, if we have money and power, we have control of our lives. We are secure. Nothing could be further from the truth. So ultimately Jesus is teaching us that our only real security is total trust in God’s love for us. Money primarily is a means of exchange by which we can provide for the needs of our life, whatever those needs are at any given time. The problem begins when money and the pursuit of money becomes an end in itself, "I want to be rich." Which soon becomes "I have to be rich". And, when I am rich, when I have lots of things, I will go to any length to hold on to them. It is amazing how very rich people keep being driven to make more till they have more than they could possible spend. There was the case of a dollar billionaire in an Asian country who went to jail for insider trading on the stock exchange in order to make even more than he already had. And, after he came out of jail, he was worth more than twice than when he went in. When a very rich man died, someone asked how much he had left. "Every red cent," was the answer. "You can’t take it with you," as the cliche‚ goes. What will we bring with us? And, in a way, that is what Jesus is asking us to consider. When we come to the end of our lives what do we want to bring with us and what do we want to leave behind? Would you want to die alone and desperately lonely and unlamented like billionaires Getty and Howard Hughes or be like a Mother Teresa and Mahatma Gandhi who just kept giving themselves to others and were mourned by millions? Jesus is asking us today to reflect on what are our most basic values in life. Is it just what we want to have or is it what we most want to be? What is life about? Is it a matter of getting what we have not got or sharing with others what we have, however little it may seem to be? Is to be rich the only thing I want? Or are there other values, other more precious qualities which no bank can evaluate? What about things like happiness, peace, freedom, contentment, wonderful friends, a supportive family? Does having money guarantee us these things? Are they not available even to those who have little or no money? Conflicting goals We have to make a choice between the God’s vision of life and a preoccupation with money and possessions. They are not compatible. They involve conflicting goals in life and different visions of what is most important in life. The truly materialistic person may have a veneer of Christian practice but cannot be a really committed Christian. By definition, to be rich is to have more, a lot more than others. To continue to live this way when in the same society there are many poor, that is, people who do not have enough cannot be equated with a following of the Christian Way. Jesus preaches something like what St Ignatius Loyola calls ‘indifference’ to material things. Obviously some material things — like food and clothing and shelter — are necessary to daily living and everyone has a right to have these things. At different times other things will be necessary too, such as basic medical care, education… The attitude of ‘indifference’ in this sense is not that one does not care; on the contrary, one cares very much. But one cares to have things and to use things only in so far as they are needed to love and serve God and others for his sake. This involves a very high level of inner freedom — the ability to say ‘Yes’ only to what I need. Trust in God Linked to our attitude to material things, Jesus further urges greater trust and confidence in God’s care for us. Isaiah in the First Reading speaks of Israel as feeling abandoned and forgotten by God in its times of trial. The response comes in one of the tenderest passages in the whole of the Bible: "Does a woman forget her baby at the breast, or fail to cherish the son of her womb? Yet even if these forget, I will never forget you." For his part, Jesus points to nature. Nature lives always in the present. It never shows any anxiety about the future. Yet it is covered with a staggering beauty. Solomon in all his glory cannot match the lilies of the field. But, if God lavishes such beauty on things which quickly wither away, how much care will he not lavish on his own children? Jesus urges us to liberate ourselves from worry and anxiety about our body and material things such as food and clothing. To be concerned about food because right now I am very hungry and do not have anything to eat is very different from worrying whether I will have food next month; to be anxious about what is happening when I am in intensive care is very different from wondering how long my health will hold up in the coming years; to be fretting because I have no money to pay my rent with the landlord knocking at the door is very different from wondering whether I will ever be rich. Worry and anxiety about the future are a waste of time and energy yet we indulge in them so much. They are a waste of time and energy because they are about things which do not exist and very possibly may never exist. As Fr Tony de Mello used to say, quoting a Buddhist axiom: “Why worry? If you don’t worry, you die; if you do worry, you die. So, why worry?” So we are invited to look at the birds of the air and the flowers in the field. They do nothing except be themselves and God takes care of them. And how beautiful they are! When their time comes they pass away. We are often so busy regretting the past or worrying about the future that we never get to enjoy life in the here and now. Stewards Paul in today’s Second Reading gives us another reason for not being obsessed with our future security. Here in the present, we simply have too much to do. We are, he says, Christ’s servants. And as such, responsibilities have been entrusted to us, mainly to build up the Body of Christ in our Christian communities and to spread the Gospel message of God’s love far and wide. "What is expected of stewards is that each one should be found worthy of [God’s] trust." In other words, we are not being trustworthy stewards if, like the man in the parable, we take the gift that God has given us and bury it in the ground for fear it should be lost. No. If large sums of money or goods come our way, we are not to store them away. Our gifts are to used here and now and every day. We should simply be too busy doing God’s work to have time to worry about the non-existent future. As the saying goes, "Let go and let God". Be here To be fully alive, Fr Tony de Mello also used to advise: "Be yourself. Be here. Be now." Enjoyment and happiness are only in the present. Nowhere else. If we keep looking forward or looking back we will never find happiness. It is right here in our grasp at every moment of every day. Again as Fr Tony used to say, "You have everything you need right now to be happy." Do we believe that? How our lives would be transformed if only we could really believe it! Jesus puts the same thing today in different words, "Do not worry about tomorrow: tomorrow will take care of itself." God is only to be found in the here and now; he is always available.

[duaneodavila]

Short Take: A Clean Slate

Life with a criminal record has its undeniable hardships. Some would argue that if a person commits a crime, then they’ve brought it on themselves and deserve nothing more than the life they’ve created. While the argument has some simplistic appeal, it ignores the fact that the impact has exploded, from credit ratings to housing, from SORA to mugshots on the internet, to preclusion from education and licensure. How could anyone trust a barber with a record?

Then there’s the liability potential, as causes of action have been created by myriad laws holding people accountable for the acts of others, in the workplace and at the apartment complexes. Responses to the sad tears of the moment’s victims made complete sense to some, but created a purgatory where not only could a past crime, for which the debt had been paid in full, remain as a permanent taint, but a hard fact that not even the most empathetic of souls could overlook.

In law, there is a mechanism called “expungement,” the legal elimination of a criminal record as if it never happened. Can this end the taint, give those who made a mistake, or copped a plea even though they didn’t commit the crime, the chance to enjoy a productive, law-abiding life?

In recent years, criminal justice reform efforts have increasingly focused on finding policy tools that can lower these barriers. The most powerful potential lever is the expungement of criminal convictions, which seals them from public view, removes them from databases, and neutralizes most of their legal effects.

Will expungement do the trick?

Reflecting the changing politics surrounding criminal justice, the movement for these reforms has attracted a bipartisan coalition, creating a real possibility that more states around the country could pass similar laws. Still, such efforts must overcome the primary objection of critics: that employers, landlords and others have a public safety interest in knowing the criminal records of those they interact with.

Decades of emphasis on safety have given rise to a belief that once a criminal, always a criminal. Even worse, the concerns fail to distinguish between malum in se crimes and malum prohibitum crimes, between trivial offense that fall within a scary category (consider prostitution and sex trafficking, or sexting and child pornography). Are you really afraid of the guy who tossed three undersized fishes caught in his net back into the ocean, or mis-sourced ebony for guitars? We’ve got an awful lot of crimes out there, kids.

In the past year there’s been an explosion of activity on this front, however. In late February, an especially ambitious bill was introduced in the California Legislature, allowing automatic expungement of misdemeanors and minor felonies after completion of a sentence. In Utah, an automatic expungement bill is awaiting the governor’s signature. These developments follow on the heels of the first major automatic expungement law, which passed in Pennsylvania last summer.

The California effort, called “especially ambitious,” presents the question of whether too much emphasis on the harms caused by a criminal record without consideration of the flip side of concern will give rise to unintended, even if obvious, consequences that will either doom the measure or cause an uproar of the passionate to undo it when the sad story of the first victim of someone whose record was expunged hits the front page.

But that doesn’t mean expungement isn’t a proper fix.

For many years, debates about expungement laws have been missing something critical: hard data about their effects. But this week, we released the results of the first major empirical study of expungement laws. Michigan, where our data came from, has an expungement law that exemplifies the traditional nonautomatic approach.

The good news is that people who get expungements tend to do very well. We found that within a year, on average, their wages go up by more than 20 percent, after controlling for their employment history and changes in the Michigan economy. This gain is mostly driven by unemployed people finding work and minimally employed people finding steadier positions.

That’s certainly good for those getting expungements, and suggests that concerns that the internet means the “criminal-record genie can’t be put back in the bottle.” But what of the public safety aspect?

In addition, contrary to the fears of critics, people with expunged records break the law again at very low rates. Indeed, we found that their crime rates are considerably lower than those of Michigan’s general adult population. That may be in part because expungement reduces recidivism.

But another likely reason is that expungement recipients aren’t high risk to begin with. Like most states, Michigan requires a waiting period before expungement (five years after a person’s last interaction with law enforcement). Research in criminology indicates that people with records who go several years without another conviction are unlikely to offend again.

The problem here, as in even the California expungement on steroids bill, is that it leaves behind a class of people convicted of either more serious crimes, or disfavored crimes such as rape or domestic violence, in its wake. The same problems that make life untenable for the person convicted of a mid-level felony affects the person convicted of the moment’s more hated felony. So the benefits of reducing recidivism by not impairing a successful return to society is good for the shooter who missed, but not for the one who killed?

The automatic aspect of expungement also solves and creates a problem. When it’s automatic, some will slip through its clutches unnoticed, such as the guy driving the pimped-out Mercedes who hasn’t held a job or paid taxes since his release. He may have no additional arrests, but that doesn’t mean he’s cleaned up his act or you want to get on his bad side. But when it’s not automatic, does it happen?

So here’s the bad news: Hardly anyone gets expungements. According to information Michigan State Police provided to us, Michigan grants about 2,500 a year — but that’s a drop in the bucket compared to the number of criminal convictions there each year. Precise numbers are hard to come by, but we estimate that there are hundreds of thousands annually.

Relatively few people with records meet the legal requirements — but that’s not the only problem. Even among those who do qualify, we found that only 6.5 percent received expungements within five years of becoming eligible. Michigan judges have discretion to reject applications, but that’s not the big reason for this low rate. Rather, over 90 percent of those eligible don’t even apply.

From an academic perspective, there must be a reason for this failure to seek expungement, since it is irrational not to do so otherwise. But then, perhaps they don’t hang out with people charged and convicted of crimes enough. Just as people often commit crimes with mindless abandon, they go on to live out the balance of their lives the same way. For some, expungement is desperately desired, and they will do whatever it takes to remove the taint of their worst decision. For others, it’s Tuesday.

Not everyone can be fixed, and not everyone cares enough to do so. But for those who do, expungement, carefully managed, provides the tool. It’s a shame that New York, woke as it is, has never had an expungement statute and, the current reform-minded regime notwithstanding, has yet to give one much consideration.

Short Take: A Clean Slate republished via Simple Justice

[how2to18]

OFFICIALLY, AIMEE MOLLOY’S debut novel, The Perfect Mother, is a thriller. You might call it “grip-lit,” a new term for an old thing: a good suspense novel by a woman. More accurately, by a woman and for women, which The Perfect Mother certainly is. We’ll come back to that part, but first, I don’t think this novel is a thriller at all. To me, it’s a horror story.

First, there’s the visceral horror of the plot. A group of Brooklyn parents who call themselves the May Mothers (there’s one dad; the moms nickname him Token) go out for a drink one hot July night, most leaving their babies for the first time. They’re two drinks in, just starting to relax, when one gets a frantic call. She’s asked Alma, her nanny, to babysit for the group’s one single mother that night. Alma put the baby, Midas, to sleep, and all seemed well — until she went to check on him and he was gone.

Soon, Baby Midas is a cause célèbre in New York. There are prayer vigils, press conferences, and magazine covers about Midas and his mother, Winnie. A cable host named Patricia Faith begins a round-the-clock campaign against Winnie, her friends, and any other mother who has the gall to leave the house before her child turns five. There are prayer vigils in Prospect Park, middle-aged women waving flyers that announce, “Child neglect is a crime,” then cite Isaiah: “Can a woman forget her nursing child, that she should have no compassion on the son of her womb?”

Meanwhile, the rest of the May Mothers are frantic with guilt and fear. Guilt because they lured Winnie out for a drink and persuaded her to stop looking at the baby-monitor video on her phone — or, as Patricia Faith would have it, to “forget her nursing child.” Fear because they all went out, too. They all left their babies. Who knows why this happened to Winnie, not to one of them?

That’s the first horror: the it-could-happen-to-anyone kidnapping, the baby there one second and gone the next. The second horror is sneakier, and more interesting. Every woman in The Perfect Mother is haunted, and hunted, by the pressure to be exactly what the title suggests. The protagonists, Nell, Colette, and Francie, can’t go outside without strangers weighing in on their bodies, careers, and lives.

The opinions about what a mother should be come first and foremost from the media. There’s Patricia Faith and her prayer ladies, a smarmy New York Post reporter named Elliott Falk, and Nell’s boss at a thinly veiled Condé Nast. In one brilliant scene, Nell suggests that the company’s flagship magazine, Gossip!, “rise above” the Baby Midas scandal, and her boss snaps back, “Rise above it? That’s not our job, Nell. Our job is to create it.”

There are plenty of opinions closer to home, too. Each chapter opens with an email from a Brooklyn parenting network called The Village, which sends perky little reminders to hire a lactation consultant, walk off your baby weight, and start having sex with your partner again. The protagonists’ mothers tell them what to do: Baptize your baby! Go back to work! The May Mothers compete overtly with each other, exchanging homeopathic tips and displays of vulnerability like currency. Even Nell’s piggish boss has ideas about how a mother should be: he makes her return early from maternity leave, then shames her for gaining weight and missing her child.

It’s not news that when women become mothers, a whole new world of judgment snaps open. On a recent post on the fashion blog Man Repeller, the site’s founder, Leandra Medine, writes that after the recent birth of her twins, “I’ve noticed an uptick in the number of negative comments that populate my pictures. ‘Put your phone down and be with your babies,’ they will say.” You don’t need to look far — or try to look at all — to hear and read about experiences like this.

Of course, the idea of motherhood is always waiting for me. I’m 26, straight, Jewish. Every person in my life expects me to have children; I expect it of myself. And I want to, which is different, and less explored. The Perfect Mother doesn’t explore it at all. This is fundamentally a novel of expectations. In its characters’ world, wanting children — having always wanted children — is assumed. Colette, the only May Mother who didn’t get pregnant on purpose, admits to Winnie, “I called the whole thing a mistake for months. I’m excited now, but it’s been a process. I was not ready for her.” As she says this, she thinks of “the other women [in the group], who all seemed as if they’d spent their whole lives just waiting to become moms.”

This is true of the kidnapper, too. She’s a woman driven insane by expectations — her own and everyone else’s. She’s so desperate to be a perfect mother that she ends up possessed by perfection. She hallucinates, dissociates, commits terrible crimes in its service. And for a long time, no one can tell. Her friends find her performance of motherhood intimidating, and to the rest of the world, she’s just another Brooklyn mom with her stroller, going to baby yoga, popping probiotics, doing it right.

Horror stories rely on this dynamic. There has to be a character who’s haunted, or possessed, or stalked by some evil force, and the world around that person has to be unaware. The whole genre would be ruined if everybody believed in demons and ghosts. If Jack and Wendy in The Shining trusted their son’s premonitions, they wouldn’t stay a single night in the Overlook Hotel. In Jac Jemc’s recent novel The Grip of It, a couple moves into a haunted house, then lets their marriage dissolve rather than acknowledge the haunting. Carmen Maria Machado’s gorgeous “Horror Story” has the same premise, but in her version, the couple stays — the most relatable reason — because “the landlord had rented us a haunted house for above market rent and we didn’t have the money to move.”

In the Biblical story of Legion, which I’ve always considered the original horror story, Jesus encounters a man who’s possessed by a violent legion of demons, or else by a violent demon named Legion. He drives the demon(s) from the man into a herd of pigs, which immediately runs off a cliff. Afterward, the people in the town where the man lives aren’t grateful. They “plead with Jesus to leave their region.” He’s just saved them from a threat both spiritual and physical, and they can’t stand to face him — or face what he saw.

The demons in The Perfect Mother are not literal. But a demon is always a metaphor — those suicidal pigs in the Gospel of Mark aren’t important as pigs. The ghosts in the Overlook Hotel matter less than Jack Nicholson chasing his wife with an ax. It’s enough for the woman who kidnaps Midas to be driven by the pernicious ideal of perfection, something that came from outside her but to which she gave a home.

The Perfect Mother is a novel about internalized sexism, specifically as it relates to motherhood. And I do mean motherhood, not just privileged, gentrified Brooklyn motherhood, though I wish that weren’t the book’s context. The Perfect Mother could have been set nearly anywhere else in the United States, and should have been. Still, I hope its message will resonate as far past Park Slope as Molloy clearly intends it to. She seamlessly integrates commentary on the wage gap, on unpaid maternity leave, on male abuse of power in the workplace. Each protagonist has a demon of her own to fight, and with it, a new angle on the fundamental question of how a woman can reject the world’s beliefs about who she should be.

My favorite version of this is Colette, a ghostwriter married to a rising literary star. When the novel starts, she’s unhappily behind on a project her husband, Charlie, won’t take seriously. A few years ago, she ghostwrote a memoir for a charismatic young teacher who is now mayor, and he wants a follow-up. It’s going to be targeted at book clubs and at the “middle-aged women standing in line [at the mayor’s favorite diner], hoping to spot him at a table in the back,” and of course, it’s going to be a best seller. Charlie, though, couldn’t care less. Colette mentions that her deadline is a month closer than his, and he responds, “I know, baby. But you know what’s riding on mine.” To me, that would be grounds for a shrieking fight, but Colette just nods and agrees. Skip forward 100 pages, and she’s selling a novel to Charlie’s publisher.

I’m not going to give away everyone’s story line. Suffice it to say there’s a good Monica Lewinsky parallel, some enjoyable commentary on celebrity, and a few stories of heartbreaking sexual exploitation. There’s an underdeveloped but crucial arc for Alma, the nanny who was there when Midas vanished, whose immigration status and ability to raise her own child are threatened by the media frenzy around the case. And there’s Francie, who only needs to learn to speak up for herself. When the novel begins, she doesn’t even know that could be her goal. By the end, she’s the hero.

Francie shouldn’t need Midas’s disappearance to teach her how to speak up. Colette shouldn’t need it to understand the scope of her ambitions, nor Nell to argue with her sexist boss. This, I suspect, is Aimee Molloy’s agenda. She uses the drama of a kidnapping plot to shake readers awake. Her real goal is to show us the demons of motherhood in broad daylight, to make us admit the house is haunted. In Machado’s “Horror Story,” she’d be the psychic who comes over and opens the dryer, “which caused her to snap into the air like she was hanging from an invisible crucifix and recite something in a language we didn’t recognize, but which sounded unfathomably ancient.” After that, you can’t pretend there’s nothing going on.

I promised I’d return to the claim that The Perfect Mother is for women. I meant that. What I did not mean was that this is a novel for only women to read. It’s a novel written to champion women. It’s a powerful reminder that the consequences of telling a person who she is can be deadly. The Perfect Mother is set to be one of the year’s biggest crime novels, as well as a film starring Kerry Washington. I hope it keeps a whole nation of advice-givers awake all night.

¤

Lily Meyer is a writer and translator living in Washington, DC.

The post Aimee Molloy’s Maternal Horror appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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