#and this is why you will NEVER catch me not having solidarity with black women

[decolonize-the-left]

Time to learn about more people and things that influenced my politics~

The Combahee River Collective.

They were a Black feminist lesbian socialist organization active in Boston, Massachusetts from 1974 to 1980.

"The Collective argued that both the white feminist movement and the Civil Rights Movement were not addressing their particular needs as Black women and more specifically as Black lesbians.

Racism was present in the mainstream feminist movement, while Delaney and Manditch-Prottas argue that much of the Civil Rights Movement had a sexist and homophobic reputation."

The Collective is perhaps best known for developing the Combahee River Collective Statement, a key document in the history of contemporary Black feminism and the development of the concepts of identity politics as used among political organizers and social theorists, and for introducing the concept of interlocking systems of oppression, including but not limited to gender, race, and homophobia, a fundamental concept of intersectionality. Gerald Izenberg credits the 1977 Combahee statement with the first usage of the phrase "identity politics".

Source

Demita Frazier, Beverly Smith, and Barbara Smith were the primary authors of the Combahee River Collective Statement in 1977. [...]They sought to destroy what they felt were the related evils of capitalism, imperialism, and patriarchy while rejecting the belief in lesbian separatism. Finally their statement acknowledged the difficulties black women faced in their grassroots organizing efforts due to their multiple oppressions.

In “A Black Feminist’s Search for Sisterhood,” Michele Wallace arrives at this conclusion: We exists as women who are Black who are feminists, each stranded for the moment, working independently because there is not yet an environment in this society remotely congenial to our struggle—because, being on the bottom, we would have to do what no one else has done: we would have to fight the world. [2] Wallace is pessimistic but realistic in her assessment of Black feminists’ position, particularly in her allusion to the nearly classic isolation most of us face. We might use our position at the bottom, however, to make a clear leap into revolutionary action. If Black women were free, it would mean that everyone else would have to be free since our freedom would necessitate the destruction of all the systems of oppression.

[hearteyes-for-killmonger]

Six Weeks Into an Era

A sequel to Three Weeks Into an Era. Someone ages ago asked for a sequel. Blame them 👀💅🏾.

The plantation hidden deep into private land was an instant success and as reporters broadcasted nationally on the mass disappearance of white men over the age of 21 with an unfamiliar air of fear and a new sense of panic, no connection could be made between the disappearances and the new booming businesses due to the preexisting condition that is outsourcing factory labor. Erik and his crew were fat cats rolling in dough. Dante had been promoted to head of the all-male plantation as Erik floated from camp to camp, the latest camp being for women. It was 10 miles away from the first camp and nicknamed Camp Karen by the all-female team of overseers that supervised the property.

"PICK UP YOUR MACHETE AND SWING YOUR GOD DAMN ARM, BRIDGETTE," Kathy seethed turning bright pink under her frosty white bobbed hair. She'd been toiling in the high heat for three hours, the sun beating on her causing sweat to drip all down her chiffon blouse. She was soaked and pissed.

"You better listen to her, Bridgette," Shavon chuckled misting herself with her battery operated spray fan. "I'll keep y'all out here all day and night until all that sugarcane is harvested. You won't eat or sleep."

Bridgette was a twenty-four year old engaged yoga instructor and mother of one 2-yr-old according to her profile provided by Erik. Her favorite pastimes included yelling at people of color who she perceived to be immigrants and throwing around the N word at black service workers. She'd even gotten violent on numerous occasions. Now she was screaming to the top of her lungs in a sugarcane field, refusing to work despite the fact that she was holding up twelve other exhausted and angry white Karens who were all but frothing at the mouth . She picked up the machete and swung it wildly.

"I don't care if you hit them lice lizards you rode in with, bitch, but if you swing it this way I'll assume you're swinging at me and you WILL be taken down," Shavon eyed the sandy blonde and lanky woman ensuring she understood. As Bridgette began to cry and wail, the other women fussed amongst themselves, fed up and exhausted from the hold up of Bridgette not doing her part. "Oh do you not like her behavior??" They had a nerve. They were all at the plantation for similar offenses. Some for way worse.

Thirty minutes of tantrum rolled by and Shavon returned to the air conditioned tent for a cool drink of Gatorade while Alexis took over as the active overseer. Alexis wasted no words having watched the entire meltdown from afar in her chair. She pulled her whip and lashed Bridgette on the back to snap her into quick action.

"This is what your people did to my people, remember?! You bring it up all the time to black people when you're getting your nonfat lattes you must remember but in case you don't, let me remind you." With another snap of the whip across Bridgette's back, Bridgette started working in double-time. She needed to catch up on all the chopping she had not done. "PUT YOUR BACK INTO IT," Alexis yelled. "YEAH I CAN SCREAM TOO."

Alexis had originally been gentle, but truckloads of entitled and extremely racist white women had ruined that side of her. She stung Bridgette once more holding nothing back, the pain of her ancestors her driving force in that moment. "Do you know that it's estimated that 40% of slaveowners were white women? Yeah? We were currency for you.. A way for you to escape your sorry ass lot as a lesser counterpart to your white man and gain some type of freedom since you couldn't freely acquire land. You say it's the past yet you still view us as your step stool. Well not here, bitch. Pick up the pace."

Meanwhile, at the all-male camp, Overseer Dante kept his group of caucasians in line by threat of fire. He introduced what he called the gun line. If any of the men were to take so much as a step past the boundary of the plantation he'd be dropped on sight. "TRY IT MILK MUTANT. YOUR TOE WILL BE THE ONLY THING LEFT OF YOU," he yelled to a younger pale face with trouble in his eyes. He had yet to be broken, but it was a matter of time.

Erik was out with the truck on the hunt, ready to abduct new cattle based on a list of addresses and coordinates. The world had all but come to a stop, discussing the disappearances to the point that it was the main topic on all news stations and had been for a while. Pictures of socially high ranking white men were displayed from MSNBC to FOX. The president had declared a state of emergency. It was disgusting for Erik to witness considering the ratio of missing white men compared to black men. There had never been so much as a televised conference or lasting discussion regarding the disappearance of non-white people. Erik felt even more justified in his actions. Erik's team also felt just as justified.

"WHY CAN'T WE JUST GO HOME," Bridgette collapsed into the soil, shaking and crying, her portion of the harvest not near complete. "I just wanna go to take care of my SON!" Snot dripped down her top lip mixed with dirt, tears, and sweat.

"You think I give a damn about your little snotty nosed brat? When MY people, my literal great-grandmother was ripped away from her own child? Couldn't breastfeed her own child because she had to breastfeed a white woman's child? Cook and clean in a white woman's home to survive? You think I give a fuck about you? My great-grandmother was whipped by a white woman for being raped by the white husband. She went blinding one eye because of it. The same white women she cooked and cleaned for and raised her child. You think I'm supposed to give a damn about yours? Get the hell up," her top lip disappeared over her teeth as she reared the whip in a real threat once more. Bridgette scrambled to her feet, still sobbing as Alexis walked away back to the tent to collect herself.

"You okay?" Shavon had listened to the whole thing, sipping cold Gatorade in the cool air.

"I'm irritated, I just need to watch some Family Feud to get my mind off of it," she muttered dropping down to watch the small television.

"Girl don't let it get to you, you let that whip get to them ranch roaches and release that stress."

"I know, girl.. I know.." She propped her feet up with a cold beer in hand and Shavon returned to the field refreshed with a new idea in mind.

"Since SOME of you moon crickets don't wanna work there's gonna be some changes around here. Going forward, the last one to finish gets 10 lashes and a night sleeping in the hole. Hopefully that lights a fire under your meth addicted pink and red flat asses. We know who's sleeping in the hole tonight!"

Bridgette's angry shriek was at its loudest yet.

"That's for you Lexi," Shavon called to the tent with a proud grin. Alexis waved in grateful solidarity just as the familiar drop off truck rolled in.

"ERIK," Alexis exclaimed jumping up and fixing her hair to jog to the truck. It was him and he was tired and brooding as usual. "Hey, we've been keeping them busy on our side. Are you gonna stay?"

"Girl, let him out the truck," Shavon smirked from the side, prompting Alexis to stop blocking his door. She was overly excited as always and as always, Erik was uninterested.

"New shipment," he spoke to Shavon giving her the details on eight new women who could be heard screaming as soon as Erik lifted the sound proof gate. "Your problem now," he patted her shoulder with humor in his weary eyes. "Have fun."

[lauralestrange7]

𝓐𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓼𝓶 | 𝓢𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓾𝓼 𝓑𝓵𝓪𝓬𝓴| (Part 7)

The motto of the Lestrange family is "𝓒𝓸𝓻𝓿𝓾𝓼 𝓸𝓬𝓾𝓵𝓾𝓶 𝓬𝓸𝓻𝓿𝓲 𝓷𝓸𝓷 𝓮𝓻𝓾𝓲𝓽" which would when literally translated in English would mean "a crow will not pull out the eye of another crow." Referring to the complete solidarity amongst a group of like-minded people regardless of the consequences or condemnation. Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Part 14

Flashback

A ten-year-old Laura hopped outside the carriage, after her brothers Rodolphus Lestrange, a tall and ambitious nineteen-year-old, and an arrogant fifteen-year-old Rabastan Lestrange. "Why do we even have to come? why do I have to come? I could've just stayed home" he groaned kicking a rock that rolled away. Rodolphus glared at his younger brother "Because you were asked to" he said through gritted teeth "Now not a word, Rabastan" he added before knocking on the door of The Number 12 Grimmauld Place. Laura stepped closer to Rabastan as she looked up at the handsome house.

They heard the sound of heels clicking against the hard floor, the sound neared closer and closer, Walburga Black opened the door. Her cold grey eyes didn't seem very welcoming as she scanned the lot, she then stepped back and gestured for them to come in. Rodolphus was the first to walk in, in a gentlemanly manner as he took the older lady's hand pressing a kiss at the back of it. "Father said he would show up before dinner, mother's been feeling a little under the weather since this morning," he explained. The lady just nodded no sign of any sympathy in her cold eyes, before confirming "But she will show up, won't she?" "Yes of course," Rodolphus assured the older women with a smile of fake assurance, which let me tell you no one could believe to be false, aye it is the Lestrange's charm they've got quite the silver tongue.

Then there was a sound of someone coming down the stairs, and soon Laura spotted Bellatrix Lestrange beautifully sporting a black lace dress. Rodolphus smiled at her, and a genuine one this time, he walked towards her handing her the bouquet he had brought for her. Which she took smiling a little, she then gave Rabastan and Laura a blank look. Laura had never talked to Bellatrix ever and Rabastan had once told her that she was a bit of a cuckoo. Bellatrix then took Rodolphus' hand guiding him up the stairs, Walburga couldn't help but roll her eyes but then she looked over at Laura and Rabastan. "Right then, you two," she said as she walked them towards the sitting room and gestured towards the couch "Have a seat," she said and they did. "Would you like anything else?" she said whipping her wand out and pointing it to the fireplace which instantly lit up with roaring flames. "No thank you," Rabastan said as Laura politely shook her head sitting back.

"Aunt Walburga I've checked on the house-elves in the kitchen, everything's alright down there." A beautiful brunette walked towards them, Laura's mouth hung open in amazement; the girl looked just like her about-to-be sister-in-law, her features just somewhat softer and kinder than those of her elder sister's. The brunette smiled warmly as she greeted them "Oh hey Rabastan", she seemed like the most welcoming and nice resident of the house that they have met so far. "Hey," Rabastan said smiling back, Walburga looked at the two and then said "Oh good then you can keep them company, I've got work to be done" and with that, she walked off.

"Mother!" a voice yelled as a boy ran down the stairs "Bella took a boy inside her room and shut the door in my face, I don't think she has any good intentions, I have a funny feeling about it" he continued as he descended the stairs. Laura looked up at the boy, who just landed with a jump from the stairs, he looked about her age. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Rabastan sitting beside Andromeda on the couch, his mouth was the shape of an 'O'. He walked towards them then tapped on Andromeda's shoulder who looked around at him, the boy then whispered something in her ear and Andromeda nodded in response. Rabastan sat up "You must be the eldest son of Orion Black?" he said; he never knew what was the right thing to say at the right time. The boy seemed a little offended that the stranger sitting in his house and on his couch; well technically it neither was his house and nor his couch, but you get the point, didn't know his name, HIS name?! He looked at him "Yes I'm Sirius Orion Black, who are you?" he asked as he proudly placed his hands on his hips, emphasizing on the 'you'. Rabastan chuckled softly before doing a little bow "I, Sirius Orion Black am Rabastan Lestrange son of Reinhard Lestrange" he said and then gesturing his hand towards Laura he continued "And this sir, is my sister Laura Lestrange". Andromeda laughed at Rabastan's dramatic gesture, whilst Sirius had only now noticed Laura, he looked at her for a hard minute then walked back upstairs after giving them a suspicious look.

Laura looked down at her shoes once he was gone, and Andromeda resumed her conversation with Rabastan, Sirius went to Regulus' room and peeked inside, Regulus was looking outside the window sitting on the windowsill. "Psst brother" Sirius trying to get the latter's attention, Regulus looked at him raising an eyebrow "There's a little girl downstairs," Sirius said walking in. Both Sirius and Regulus never really saw many kids of their age, Regulus climbed off the sill "What's her name?" he asked eagerly. "Laura, she's sitting downstairs with her brother and 'Dromeda on the couch. Wanna see?" Sirius said. It was indeed a tempting offer, Regulus thought carefully but finally gave in as he nodded.

Sirius gestured his brother to follow him as he walked out of the room and towards the top of the staircase, he carefully peeked down and caught a glimpse of the girl, who was now swinging her legs gently, looking bored. Sirius looked back at his brother and gave him a thumbs-up, Regulus took a deep breath. Whenever he and Sirius did something they were not supposed to; it made him feel daring and scared altogether. Regulus smiled nervously at his brother before he too peeked downstairs and towards the couch. Laura felt someone watching her so she instantly looked up, her eyes found a pair of greyish blue ones looking at her. Laura's face lit up as she laughed softly on catching the boy secretively spying at her, Regulus' pale face on the other hand was flushed with embarrassment as he was very embarrassed indeed, on being caught staring at a girl. He stepped back out of the girl's sight and frowned when he saw Sirius was shaking with laughter.

End of Flashback

Want to read it on Wattpad? No problem here you go

All the characters (except Laura Lestrange) and places mentioned in this story belong to J K Rowling. So I’ve posted a few chapters of this stories on Wattpad, but I’ve got a lot of it already written down, I’ll try to post any new chapters on Tumblr as soon as I can. Please reblog, it would be very appreciated and my requests are open.

[lastsonlost]

Crossing the divide

Do men really have it easier? These transgender guys found the truth was more complex.

In the 1990s, the late Stanford neuroscientist Ben Barres transitioned from female to male. He was in his 40s, mid-career, and afterward he marveled at the stark changes in his professional life. Now that society saw him as male, his ideas were taken more seriously. He was able to complete a whole sentence without being interrupted by a man. A colleague who didn’t know he was transgender even praised his work as “much better than his sister’s.”

Clinics have reported an increase in people seeking medical gender transitions in recent years, and research suggests the number of people identifying as transgender has risen in the past decade. Touchstones such as Caitlyn Jenner’s transition, the bathroom controversy, and the Amazon series “Transparent” have also made the topic a bigger part of the political and cultural conversation.

But it is not always evident when someone has undergone a transition — especially if they have gone from female to male.

“The transgender guys have a relatively straightforward process — we just simply add testosterone and watch their bodies shift,” said Joshua Safer, executive director at the Center for Transgender Medicine and Surgery at Mount Sinai Health System and Icahn School of Medicine in New York. “Within six months to a year they start to virilize — getting facial hair, a ruddier complexion, a change in body odor and a deepening of the voice.”

Transgender women have more difficulty “passing”; they tend to be bigger-boned and more masculine-looking, and these things are hard to reverse with hormone treatments, Safer said. “But the transgender men will go get jobs and the new boss doesn’t even know they’re trans.”

We spoke with four men who transitioned as adults to the bodies in which they feel more comfortable. Their experiences reveal that the gulf between how society treats women and men is in many ways as wide now as it was when Barres transitioned. But their diverse backgrounds provide further insight into how race and ethnicity inform the gender divide in subtle and sometimes surprising ways.

(Their words have been lightly edited for space and clarity.)

‘I’ll never call the police again’

Trystan Cotten, 50, Berkeley, Calif.

Professor of gender studies at California State University Stanislaus and editor of Transgress Press, which publishes books related to the transgender experience. Transitioned in 2008.

Life doesn’t get easier as an African American male. The way that police officers deal with me, the way that racism undermines my ability to feel safe in the world, affects my mobility, affects where I go. Other African American and Latino Americans grew up as boys and were taught to deal with that at an earlier age. I had to learn from my black and brown brothers about how to stay alive in my new body and retain some dignity while being demeaned by the cops.

One night somebody crashed a car into my neighbor’s house, and I called 911. I walk out to talk to the police officer, and he pulls a gun on me and says, “Stop! Stop! Get on the ground!” I turn around to see if there’s someone behind me, and he goes, “You! You! Get on the ground!” I’m in pajamas and barefoot. I get on the ground and he checks me, and afterward I said, “What was that all about?” He said, “You were moving kind of funny.” Later, people told me, “Man, you’re crazy. You never call the police.”

I get pulled over a lot more now. I GOT PULLED OVER MORE IN THE FIRST TWO YEARS AFTER MY TRANSITION THAN I DID THE ENTIRE 20 YEARS I WAS DRIVING BEFORE THAT.

Before, when I’d been stopped, even for real violations like driving 100 miles an hour, I got off. In fact, when it happened in Atlanta the officer and I got into a great conversation about the Braves. Now the first two questions they ask are: Do I have any weapons in the car, and am I on parole or probation?

Being a black man has changed the way I move in the world.

I used to walk quickly or run to catch a bus. Now I walk at a slower pace, and if I’m late I don’t dare rush. I am hyper-aware of making sudden or abrupt movements, especially in airports, train stations and other public places. I avoid engaging with unfamiliar white folks, especially white women. If they catch my eye, white women usually clutch their purses and cross the street. While I love urban aesthetics, I stopped wearing hoodies and traded my baggy jeans, oversized jerseys and colorful skullcaps for closefitting jeans, khakis and sweaters. These changes blunt assumptions that I’m going to snatch purses or merchandise, or jump the subway turnstile. The less visible I am, the better my chances of surviving.

But it’s not foolproof. I’m an academic sitting at a desk so I exercise where I can. I walked to the post office to mail some books and I put on this 40-pound weight vest that I walk around in. It was about 3 or 4 in the afternoon and I’m walking back and all of a sudden police officers drove up, got out of their car, and stopped. I had my earphones on so I didn’t know they were talking to me. I looked up and there’s a helicopter above. And now I can kind of see why people run, because you might live if you run, even if you haven’t done anything. This was in Emeryville, one of the wealthiest enclaves in Northern California, where there’s security galore. Someone had seen me walking to the post office and called in and said they saw a Muslim with an explosives vest. One cop, a white guy, picked it up and laughed and said, “Oh, I think I know what this is. This is a weight belt.”

It’s not only humiliating, but it creates anxiety on a daily basis. Before, I used to feel safe going up to a police officer if I was lost or needed directions. But I don’t do that anymore. I hike a lot, and if I’m out hiking and I see a dead body, I’ll keep on walking. I’ll never call the police again.

‘It now feels as though I am on my own’

Zander Keig, 52, San Diego

Coast Guard veteran. Works at Naval Medical Center San Diego as a clinical social work case manager. Editor of anthologies about transgender men. Started transition in 2005.

Prior to my transition, I was an outspoken radical feminist. I spoke up often, loudly and with confidence.

I was encouraged to speak up. I was given awards for my efforts, literally — it was like, “Oh, yeah, speak up, speak out.” When I speak up now, I am often given the direct or indirect message that I am “mansplaining,” “taking up too much space” or “asserting my white male heterosexual privilege.” Never mind that I am a first-generation Mexican American, a transsexual man, and married to the same woman I was with prior to my transition.

I find the assertion that I am now unable to speak out on issues I find important offensive and I refuse to allow anyone to silence me. My ability to empathize has grown exponentially, because I now factor men into my thinking and feeling about situations.

Prior to my transition, I rarely considered how men experienced life or what they thought, wanted or liked about their lives.

I have learned so much about the lives of men through my friendships with men, reading books and articles by and for men and through the men I serve as a licensed clinical social worker.

Social work is generally considered to be “female dominated,” with women making up about 80 percent of the profession in the United States. Currently I work exclusively with clinical nurse case managers, but in my previous position, as a medical social worker working with chronically homeless military veterans — mostly male — who were grappling with substance use disorder and severe mental illness, I was one of a few men among dozens of women.

Plenty of research shows that life events, medical conditions and family circumstances impact men and women differently. But when I would suggest that patient behavioral issues like anger or violence may be a symptom of trauma or depression, it would often get dismissed or outright challenged. The overarching theme was “men are violent” and there was “no excuse” for their actions.

I do notice that some women do expect me to acquiesce or concede to them more now: Let them speak first, let them board the bus first, let them sit down first, and so on. I also notice that in public spaces men are more collegial with me, which they express through verbal and nonverbal messages: head lifting when passing me on the sidewalk and using terms like “brother” and “boss man” to acknowledge me. As a former lesbian feminist, I was put off by the way that some women want to be treated by me, now that I am a man, because it violates a foundational belief I carry, which is that women are fully capable human beings who do not need men to acquiesce or concede to them.

What continues to strike me is the significant reduction in friendliness and kindness now extended to me in public spaces. It now feels as though I am on my own: No one, outside of family and close friends, is paying any attention to my well-being.

I can recall a moment where this difference hit home. A couple of years into my medical gender transition, I was traveling on a public bus early one weekend morning. There were six people on the bus, including me. One was a woman. She was talking on a mobile phone very loudly and remarked that “men are such a–holes.” I immediately looked up at her and then around at the other men. Not one had lifted his head to look at the woman or anyone else. The woman saw me look at her and then commented to the person she was speaking with about “some a–hole on the bus right now looking at me.” I was stunned, because I recall being in similar situations, but in the reverse, many times: A man would say or do something deemed obnoxious or offensive, and I would find solidarity with the women around me as we made eye contact, rolled our eyes and maybe even commented out loud on the situation. I’m not sure I understand why the men did not respond, but it made a lasting impression on me.

‘I took control of my career’

Chris Edwards, 49, Boston

Advertising creative director, public speaker and author of the memoir “Balls: It Takes Some to Get Some.” Transitioned in his mid-20s.

When I began my transition at age 26, a lot of my socialization came from the guys at work. For example, as a woman, I’d walk down the hall and bump into some of my female co-workers, and they’d say, “Hey, what’s up?” and I’d say, “Oh, I just got out of this client meeting. They killed all my scripts and now I have to go back and rewrite everything, blah blah blah. What’s up with you?” and then they’d tell me their stories. As a guy, I bump into a guy in the hall and he says, “What’s up?” and I launch into a story about my day and he’s already down the hall. And I’m thinking, well, that’s rude. So, I think, okay, well, I guess guys don’t really share, so next time I’ll keep it brief. By the third time, I realized you just nod.

The creative department is largely male, and the guys accepted me into the club. I learned by example and modeled my professional behavior accordingly. For example, I kept noticing that if guys wanted an assignment they’d just ask for it. If they wanted a raise or a promotion they’d ask for it. This was a foreign concept to me. As a woman, I never felt that it was polite to do that or that I had the power to do that. But after seeing it happen all around me I decided that if I felt I deserved something I was going to ask for it too. By doing that, I took control of my career. It was very empowering.

Apparently, people were only holding the door for me because I was a woman rather than out of common courtesy as I had assumed. Not just men, women too. I learned this the first time I left the house presenting as male, when a woman entered a department store in front of me and just let the door swing shut behind her. I was so caught off guard I walked into it face first.

When you’re socially transitioning, you want to blend in, not stand out, so it’s uncomfortable when little reminders pop up that you’re not like everybody else. I’m expected to know everything about sports. I like sports but I’m not in deep like a lot of guys. For example, I love watching football, but I never played the sport (wasn’t an option for girls back in my day) so there is a lot I don’t know. I remember the first time I was in a wedding as a groomsman. I was maybe three years into my transition and I was lined up for photos with all the other guys. And one of them shouted, “High school football pose!” and on cue everybody dropped down and squatted like the offensive line, and I was like, what the hell is going on? It was not instinctive to me since I never played. I tried to mirror what everyone was doing, but when you see the picture I’m kind of “offsides,” so to speak.

The hormones made me more impatient. I had lots of female friends and one of the qualities they loved about me was that I was a great listener. After being on testosterone, they informed me that my listening skills weren’t what they used to be. Here’s an example: I’m driving with one of my best friends, Beth, and I ask her “Is your sister meeting us for dinner?” Ten minutes later she’s still talking and I still have no idea if her sister is coming. So finally, I couldn’t take it anymore, and I snapped and said, “IS SHE COMING OR NOT?” And Beth was like, “You know, you used to like hearing all the backstory and how I’d get around to the answer. A lot of us have noticed you’ve become very impatient lately and we think it’s that damn testosterone!” It’s definitely true that some male behavior is governed by hormones. Instead of listening to a woman’s problem and being empathetic and nodding along, I would do the stereotypical guy thing — interrupt and provide a solution to cut the conversation short and move on. I’m trying to be better about this.

People ask if being a man made me more successful in my career. My answer is yes — but not for the reason you might think. As a man, I was finally comfortable in my own skin and that made me more confident. At work I noticed I was more direct: getting to the point, not apologizing before I said anything or tiptoeing around and trying to be delicate like I used to do. In meetings, I was more outspoken. I stopped posing my thoughts as questions. I’d say what I meant and what I wanted to happen instead of dropping hints and hoping people would read between the lines and pick up on what I really wanted. I was no longer shy about stating my opinions or defending my work. When I gave presentations I was brighter, funnier, more engaging. Not because I was a man. Because I was happy.

‘People assume I know the answer’

Alex Poon, 26, Boston

Project manager for Wayfair, an online home goods company. Alex is in the process of his physical transition; he did the chest surgery after college and started taking testosterone this spring.

Traditional Chinese culture is about conforming to your elders’ wishes and staying within gender boundaries. However, I grew up in the U.S., where I could explore my individuality and my own gender identity. When I was 15 I was attending an all-girls high school where we had to wear skirts, but I felt different from my peers. Around that point we began living with my Chinese grandfather towards the end of his life. He was so traditional and deeply set in his ways. I felt like I couldn’t cut my hair or dress how I wanted because I was afraid to upset him and have our last memories of each other be ruined.

Genetics are not in my favor for growing a lumberjack-style beard. Sometimes, Chinese faces are seen as “soft” with less defined jaw lines and a lack of facial fair. I worry that some of my feminine features like my “soft face” will make it hard to present as a masculine man, which is how I see myself. Instead, when people meet me for the first time, I’m often read as an effeminate man.

My voice has started cracking and becoming lower. Recently, I’ve been noticing the difference between being perceived as a woman versus being perceived as a man. I’ve been wondering how I can strike the right balance between remembering how it feels to be silenced and talked over with the privileges that come along with being perceived as a man. Now, when I lead meetings, I purposefully create pauses and moments where I try to draw others into the conversation and make space for everyone to contribute and ask questions.

People now assume I have logic, advice and seniority. They look at me and assume I know the answer, even when I don’t. I’ve been in meetings where everyone else in the room was a woman and more senior, yet I still got asked, “Alex, what do you think? We thought you would know.” I was at an all-team meeting with 40 people, and I was recognized by name for my team’s accomplishments. Whereas next to me, there was another successful team led by a woman, but she was never mentioned by name. I went up to her afterward and said, “Wow, that was not cool; your team actually did more than my team.” The stark difference made me feel uncomfortable and brought back feelings of when I had been in the same boat and not been given credit for my work.

When people thought I was a woman, they often gave me vague or roundabout answers when I asked a question. I’ve even had someone tell me, “If you just Googled it, you would know.” But now that I’m read as a man, I’ve found people give me direct and clear answers, even if it means they have to do some research on their own before getting back to me.

A part of me regrets not sharing with my grandfather who I truly am before he passed away. I wonder how our relationship might have been different if he had known this one piece about me and had still accepted me as his grandson. Traditionally, Chinese culture sees men as more valuable than women. Before, I was the youngest granddaughter, so the least important. Now, I’m the oldest grandson. I think about how he might have had different expectations or tried to instill certain traditional Chinese principles upon me more deeply, such as caring more about my grades or taking care of my siblings and elders. Though he never viewed me as a man, I ended up doing these things anyway.

Zander Keig contributed to this article in his personal capacity. The opinions expressed in this are the author’s own and do not reflect the view of the Department of Defense.

--------

Old story worth a repost SOURCE

[funknrolll]

CHLOE X HALLE "UNGODLY HOUR": A JOURNEY THROUGH SELF-AFFIRMATIONS, VULNERABILITIES, STRENGHTS, PERSONAL AND ARTISTIC GROWTH. THE GEM WE DIDN'T KNOW WE NEEDED

Despite all the traumatic things that happened this year, summer 2020 is full of great new music we are totally in love with. One of the new albums that caught my attention is Ungodly Hour by the powerful duo Chloe x Halle. With Ungodly Hour, the Bailey sisters mark their coming of age, exploring a more adult territory. The new R&B record is indeed drenched in sultry harmonies, intricate beats, ravishing vocals, profound, empowering, at-times caustic lyrics.

The album was released one week later in solidarity of the Black Lives Matter protests and boasts the writing and production credited to the two sisters. With no further ado, let's discuss this new gem. A 28 seconds Intro opens Ungodly Hour with Chloe and Halle harmonizing together on the melodies of the next songs, then stating, "Don't ask for permission, ask for forgiveness." which sums up the whole concept of this work.  Forgive Me with the melancholic harmonies accompanied by meticulous vocals and downtempo beat, is the perfect sorry-not really sorry breakup song in the face of a jerk who stole time with his lies and empty promises. As the artists sing in the previous song, "Best believe I move onto better things," the next track Baby Girl finds the pair moving into a new scary yet exciting new world full of adventures and independence. The complex and layered beats masterfully crafted by Chloe perfectly match the lo-fi harmonies. Segueing the laid back, vintage-flavored Do It is one more time about being independent, partying, having fun, not-"looking for boo," having a no drama mama kinda night. In Tipsy the straightforward biting lyrics, and the angelic vocals match the themes of the song excellently, "Better babe, you better treat me better (babe)/ Better than those other guys who change up like the weather,/ It is such a shame that they went missing, they can't find 'em now/Oh, I wonder how, I accidentally put them in the ground? Yeah". As we can see from these words, this is another sorry not sorry advise for a boy to not play with fire or else... Then the gorgeous 80s-verved title track is a perfect mix of infectious house beats and alluring vocals. Opening in a terrific soul vocalization in the taste of the glorious Motown Records and the Supremes, the classy R&B  Busy Boy is ornated with gorgeous vocal complexities shifting from low notes to higher ones. One more time, the lyrics of the song are a metaphoric middle finger spurred in the face of a typical annoying "I know I can play with any girl I want" fuck-boy. Not this time, Kevin. Chloe and Halle don't want your unsolicited nasty pictures. Chloe and Halle didn't come here to play with you this time!! Next song the stringed-based with prominent hip-hop beats Catch Up boasts the collaboration with part of the hip-hop duo Rae Sremmurds, Swae Lee, and Mike Will Made-It, who also helped in the production process. What is impressive about this track is how the voices of the four artists work in perfect harmony with one another. Subsequentially, Overwhelmed is a short yet expressive piano-based interlude accompanied by gorgeous almost-acapella angelic voices polyphonically set, which works perfectly with the central themes.

With Overwhelmed, the duo addresses the feeling of helplessness exploring and diving into the deep vulnerabilities youth brings: feeling like not having everything figured out while the pressure keeps pushing, ultimately not knowing what to do and how to fix things "I don't know at all/ I wish I had all the answers/ Fix it all myself (oh)/ I feel overwhelmed." This is what the stunning interlude is all about: everyone can surely empathize with these genuine words. We all have been there. At least once. With Lonely, the duo gets back to the classy, insistent R&B beats, delving into the art of being alone as a moment and act of self-discovery, self-love, because after all, "It don't have to be lonely being alone." Segueing Don't Make It Harder On Me, is a sumptuous Motown-tinged, Never Can Say Goodbye by Jackson's 5 flavored with a touch of It Ain't Over 'Till It's Over by Lenny Kravitz, glistening sampled-stringed ballad. Wonder What She Thinks Of Me is yet another emotional stringed power ballad nestled with utterly striking and precise vocals. Closing the album ROYL, an effervescent anthem with trap beats resembling Lizzo's iconic anthem Truth Hurt. With this song the duo aims to remind themselves and the listener the uplifting truth, "You wanna fly, but you don't/ You holdin' on your wings/ Look to the sky, why don't you/ Live for the finer things?/ You know, you know, you know that you fine like that". Because to spread our wings and fly, we need to stop holding onto our wings and live, right? 

With the superb, classy, and always precise vocals, its masterful production and empowering lyrics, Ungodly Hour is a beautiful not-always-comfortable voyage through the self-affirmations, ethos, vulnerabilities, strengths, of Chloe x Halle's personal and artistic growth and the passage from teenagerhood to womanhood. In the album, the protective layer of innocence dissolves, unraveling the artist's ending in approaching love naively, in turn sparking their awareness on the dangers of the lies and subterfuges deeply ingrained in it. There is so much strength and so much power in togetherness and sisterhood. There is so much empowerment from the two siblings whose constant message is to remain unapologetically true to themselves, being proud, gorgeous young women. Not only did the duo create Ungodly Hour to empower themselves. This work was, as well, conceived as a common salvific act for other women to relate to the artist's message. They really "Did It For The Girls." Ungodly Hour represented one of the first adult acts from the astonishingly talented duo, and I cannot wait to hear more from Chloe x Halle, and I am sure we will. This was just the beginning of a bright future awaiting them.

Thank you for your attention💜 G✨

[su-o]

The tiaras have been dusted off and the pearls polished. Four long years after the final instalment of Downton Abbey, it’s back, this time on the big screen.

It is a crisp, clear morning at Wentworth Woodhouse, the stately home in South Yorkshire. Built by the 1st Marquess of Rockingham, it has the widest façade in Europe, boasts at least 365 rooms (no one is certain of the exact number), and represents two and a half acres of building.

This perfect specimen of English baroque is the setting for the new Downton Abbey film – in which George V and Queen Mary tour the north of England (which also includes a visit to Downton itself, filmed as usual at Highclere Castle in Berkshire) – and today they are shooting a grand ball at the home of the Countess of Harewood in the film, attended by the royal couple and Downton’s Crawley family.

Inside the house, a production unit zigzags in and out of huge vaulted rooms with cables and film cameras, while extras in 1920s ball attire chat nonchalantly on makeshift chairs. Meanwhile in the ballroom – a giant marble space, adorned with deep-red damask wallpaper and enormous flower arrangements – Maggie Smith and Penelope Wilton(two of the stars of the original series) slip through the lines of dancing couples in diaphanous silks, as a small orchestra plays a waltz.

In the background, an assistant producer is being told off by one of the volunteers of Wentworth Woodhouse for wandering into a disused room. This isn’t jobsworthiness. The carpet in some rooms is nearly 300 years old and will disintegrate if anyone breathes on it. The wallpaper, meanwhile, is laced with arsenic (as was the fashion at the time) in order to make it a certain shade of green.

Away from the action, Michelle Dockery, who plays Lady Mary (the eldest Crawley daughter), is sitting in her trailer, her sharp features accentuated by period make-up, feeling slightly in awe of the whole process. ‘It was during my costume fitting when it hit me. I got really emotional.’ 

Downton Abbey made Dockery and many of her fellow cast members international names, and no wonder. The ITV series, which ran from 2010 to 2015 and followed the lives of the aristocratic Crawley family and their servants, was sold to 220 territories worldwide, achieved a global audience of 120 million and was nominated for 53 International Emmys.

In America, it became the most successful British drama import of all time. It also set the bar for costume dramas, at least in terms of visual sheen. The Crown, Netflix’s lavish regal series (which returns this autumn), has clearly been influenced by Julian Fellowes’ series, which cost, on average, £1 million per episode to make.

Everyone expected that a film would be made, but it was quite a feat getting the cast together. ‘It was like herding cats,’ says Dockery. ‘But I just love it. It’s so familiar and doesn’t feel like work.’

Despite rumours to the contrary, Maggie Smith is back as the Dowager Countess, famous for her withering put-downs, as are Hugh Bonneville’s paterfamilias the Earl of Grantham, his American wife Cora (played by Elizabeth McGovern) and his two surviving daughters, Lady Mary, of course, and Laura Carmichael’s Lady Edith.

Others involved include Penelope Wilton’s sensible cousin Isobel and many of the downstairs staff: Jim Carter’s stentorian Mr Carson and his wife, the no-nonsense housekeeper Mrs Hughes (Phyllis Logan); Mrs Patmore (Lesley Nicol), the plain-speaking cook with Escoffier abilities, and her protégée, the occasionally mutinous Daisy (Sophie McShera).

When I talk to Fellowes though, he is adamant that a film was never inevitable. Rumours circulated about a prequel, following Robert’s courting of Cora for her money and subsequently  falling in love with her, but nothing came of it. ‘When we finished the series, we didn’t envisage a film. We had a lovely party at The Ivy and everyone cried, but that was it as far as I was concerned. Then, as the years rolled by, there was a sense that people hadn’t quite finished with it, and eventually I formed an idea for a feature film.’

The Downton Abbey film, directed by Michael Engler, is set in 1927, just over a year after the series ended, and focuses on the Crawleys and their servants as they prepare for a royal visit. It causes much excitement below stairs, but the staff soon find the monarch’s entourage taking over – including a temperamental French chef (played by Philippe Spall) and a pompous head butler, played by David Haig, who refers to himself as the ‘King’s page of the back stairs’.

Other new cast members include Simon Jones and Geraldine James as the King and Queen, Imelda Staunton (real-life wife of Carter) as Lady Bagshaw, lady-in-waiting to the Queen and a relative of the Crawleys, and Tuppence Middleton as her mysterious lady’s maid, Lucy.

Fellowes was inspired, in part, by a book he had read called Black Diamonds by Catherine Bailey, which details a 1912 visit by King George V and Queen Mary to South Yorkshire. As well as tucking into lavish 13-course dinners, which included puddings served in sugar baskets that took four days to weave, they also met local miners and toured  pit villages.

Although the film is set 15 years later, the King and Queen did make similar, unlikely tours around the country, as Fellowes explains. ‘After the First World War, there was a period of unsettled feelings about things – not least the monarchy. It had to re-establish itself as many members of European royalty had disappeared – the German Emperor, the Austrian Emperor, the Tsar of Russia. The structure had to be restated as having an integral role in society and they [George and Mary] were very successful in doing so. By 1930, the Crown was back at the heart of English life.’

For Dockery, making the film was not only a chance to catch up with old friends, but also to further develop a character that the nation took to their hearts.

‘Mary is so complex. We met her at 18 and she was this rebellious teenager – she was bored, and because she was a girl, she wasn’t what her father wanted [an heir to Downton]. Ultimately he became very proud of her, though, and I think  everyone really responded to that. Seeing her journey was what hooked people.’

Now we see Lady Mary very much in control, happily married (to Matthew Goode’s Henry  Talbot) and more than capable of taking over the ancestral pile when the time comes.

‘Julian writes really well for women and I think that has something to do with his wife, Emma [a descendant of Lord Kitchener]. I see a lot of her in Mary, just her expressions and things,’ she says.

Dockery has had a particularly successful career post-Downton. She brought rigour and a dash of fun to her part as an ambitious TV exec in Network (the National Theatre production based on the acclaimed ’70s film), and a sort of watchfulness to the role of a hard-edged widow in Netflix’s warped western Godless. Next year, she will be showing her versatility further in Guy Ritchie’s film The Gentlemen, in which she plays the wife of a drug lord (played by Matthew McConaughey).

One character who has a particularly meaty  storyline in the film is gay footman Thomas, played by Robert James-Collier. We meet at Shepperton Studios, where the kitchen scenes are being filmed. It’s a cavernous setting which production designer Donal Woods describes as ‘like a noirish, Scandi film, as opposed to the glorious technicolor of upstairs’. For the TV series, the servants’ quarters were created at Ealing Studios, but the set has been flat-packed and sent over, as have the copper jelly moulds, kettles and pans.

This time, we see Thomas befriend a footman from the Royal household (played by Max Brown), and he ends up in an illicit gay drinking den in York. This was  an era when homosexuality could result in a prison sentence, but, says James-Collier, for one brief moment his somewhat malevolent character is liberated.

‘He is introduced to this other world that he doesn’t know exists, and there is this sense of relief, this sudden realisation that there are  kindred spirits and that he is not this “foul individual” as Mr Carson once described him.’

The irony that Downton Abbey has been sold to countries where homosexuality can be punished by death is not lost on James-Collier, and he feels a grave sense of responsibility about his role.  ‘I have received letters from young men who say that watching Thomas’s journey has helped them. All I can say is that it’s an utter privilege. It’s the reason why I do it.’

The film’s 1927 setting marks a period in Britain when country houses such as Downton were beginning to feel the austerity of the interwar years. Death duties had to be paid and households streamlined, which meant that many servants lost their jobs. Meanwhile, the General Strike of 1926 – in which the TUC fought against worsening conditions for the country’s miners – underlined a growing sense of solidarity among the working class.

In the film, however, there are no such concerns, and that reflects the point that Downton is in many ways a fantasy. One criticism of the original scripts was that the Crawleys were too benign as employers, that the relationship between master and servant was much more remote, without any of the Earl of Grantham’s well-meaning paternalism. Fellowes disagrees.

‘This notion that people were horrible to their servants is wrong. Most of us, if you think about it logically, and putting aside the moral view that that life should exist at all, would want to get on with the valet or lady’s maid. When you see a character snarling at his butler, you think this isn’t a way of life. None of us would want to be in  a position of speaking to people you disliked.’

If Fellowes is the arbiter of psychological accuracy, then Alastair Bruce is the gatekeeper of  protocol. He was Downton’s historical adviser at the beginning and describes himself, among other things, as the posture monitor.

He explains. ‘The cast tend to put their bums here on the seat,’ he says indicating the back of his chair. ‘But in those days, you didn’t – you would sit at the front. Also, [people’s] shoulders have fallen forward because everyone is on their mobile phone all the time.’

Bruce also helps the actors with their diction and mentions the word ‘room’. Many tended to accentuate the ‘o’s when it fact it should be shortened, so they sound very nearly like a ‘u’.

‘It is pompous bollocks, but if you are recreating the ’20s you may as well get it right,’ Bruce adds. ‘Michelle would quite happily let me describe her evolution in life as a long way from Downton Abbey, but I have some pretty grandiose friends who can’t believe this is the case. I am very proud of the fact that she now has this incredible poise – you never see a curve in her back – and her accent is on point.’

Several months later, I ask Fellowes whether he has plans for a sequel (although in truth, certain scenes in the film suggest a full stop rather than a pause). ‘There is never any point in answering that,’ he says. ‘In this business as soon as someone says that’s the last time I’ll put on my ballet shoes, there they are, a year later, dancing Giselle.’

Downton Abbey is released on 13 September

[searchingwardrobes]

Your Love is a Song

Happy Birthday, @let-it-raines ! For anyone who doesn’t know, Raines is an amazing writer and an all around sweet person. I was honored to have her as my Captain Swan Secret Santa, not only because she gifted me with an absolutely perfect fic but also because chatting with her was a blast. I am so blessed to have come to know her as a friend. I hope you have a fantastic day, Raines!

I got a prompt on Ao3 from a reader with the user name Adidas. Sweetie, wherever you are, I hope you read this because I don’t know your tumblr url or even if you have one. Anyway, the prompt was that Emma used to be into music but stopped. Then she meets musician Killian, and her family notices she’s started playing again. I wasn’t sure I could do the prompt justice since I am only a lover of music and not a musician myself, but then I was listening to the Switchfoot song “Your Love is a Song,” and this came to me. I was also working on Raines present, and it just all seemed to come together!

Summary: Emma Swan is having a pretty horrible night when she hears the voice: gravelly, sultry, with a touch of melancholy, accompanied by an acoustic guitar. She’s never heard the song before, but after that night, she won’t be able to get it out of her head. Or the dark haired, blue eyed man singing it.

Rated M, but only for brief mentions of nudity. It’s really light M with no smut, but I wanted to ere on the side of caution.

Words: 4,500 or so

Also on Ao3 and part of my Fandom Birthday Playlist

Tagging the usuals: @snowbellewells @kmomof4 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @kday426 @winterbaby89 @teamhook @bethacaciakay @thislassishooked @tiganasummertree @snidgetsafan @delirious-latenight-laughs @jennjenn615 @optomisticgirl @wellhellotragic @welllpthisishappening @branlovestowrite @shireness-says @distant-rose

Emma is bone weary, her dress is too tight, and she broke a heel chasing her latest skip. She’s walking barefoot through downtown Boston, which can’t be good. She had to run three blocks to catch the guy who – oh yeah – spilled wine all over her only nice dress. They were only a block from the nearest precinct, so she’d cuffed him and hauled him in on foot. Only now she’s trudging four blocks barefoot to get back to her Bug.

She’s leaning against the nearest storefront to massage her aching feet (they weren’t particularly happy with the stilettos in the first place) when she hears it. A voice; gravelly, sultry, with a touch of melancholy, accompanied by an acoustic guitar.

The dawn is fire bright against the city lights. The clouds are glowing now. The moon is blacking out.

The lyrics catch her attention too: poetic and speaking of a hope that’s belied by the tortured voice of the singer. He’s good too, whoever he is, with a voice that is powerful and melodic. Like a sailor drawn by a siren, Emma follows the music into the small, smoky bar. It’s one of those places below street level, the type of dive bar that locals swear by and tourists don’t know about. The source of the music is there, alone, in the corner of the bar. The place is too small and unpretentious for a stage, the crowd thin even for one in the morning on a weeknight. With her small clutch in one hand, and her broken heels in the other, she slides on to a stool at the bar, eyes glued to the dark-haired man singing in the corner.

When the bartender approaches, she asks for a beer and stays only long enough to finish it and hear one more song. She worries it’s the type of place where the bartender tries at being a part time therapist, but he leaves her alone. He can probably sense she’s not having the best night: her attire and the smell of wine saturating her dress screams bad date. Of course, who has good dates on a Wednesday night?

On second thought, maybe the bartender thinks she’s a hooker in her honey-trap dress. Oh well, like she ever cares what people think. (And it shows just how much of an idiot her skip was that he didn’t stop and think why a woman would be willing to hook up on a week night.)

She finishes her beer, pays the bartender, then rises to leave. The last notes of Pearl Jam’s “Better Man” linger behind her as she leaves, yet it’s the song that drew her into the bar in the first place that keeps haunting her mind. Even after a warm bath and her soft bed. For some reason, it fills up her apartment with a lonely cry.

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

Emma’s not entirely thrilled when Graham calls her the next day with some bull shit about paper work for the night before. She’s pretty sure it’s a thinly veiled excuse to ask her out. Again.

It is.

Prickly as she is, Emma still doesn’t take pleasure in turning the man down yet again. He’s nice and all, but . . . well, that just might be the problem. At any rate, she’s dragged herself out of bed for no purpose but to stomp on a nice man’s heart.

So maybe that’s why she stops in front of the bar. Maybe. She knows it probably won’t be open yet, and it isn’t, but she can at least scan the posters of musical acts littering the door. She startles when the door swings open.

“May I help you? We don’t open until after lunch . . . “

It’s the bartender from last night, and he’s narrowing his blue eyes at her with suspicion. She wonders if he recognizes her.

“Of course,” she says with a wave of her hand, “I was just looking for a musician on your posters. I stopped in for a beer last night, and he was really good -”

“Oh, . . that’s just my brother,” the man tells her. “Killian fills in on weeknights. We’re just a local dive, you know, and we can’t afford to pay for acts every blessed night.”

She realizes then he has a British accent, and she assumes his brother does too. Funny how you can rarely tell a person has an accent when they’re singing. Country music notwithstanding.

At least the bartender’s smiling at her now. “I remember you. Red dress, right?”

“Yeah,” Emma chuckles, tugging at the ends of her hair, “it had been a long night.”

He nods, humming in solidarity. “We all have those from time to time. It’s what bars are for, am I right?”

“One reason I guess,” Emma says with a shrug of one shoulder.

“Well, come again,” he says, easing back into the doorway, “on another week night if you like my brother.”

She opens her mouth to clarify that last statement, but the door is already closed.

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

Emma tries to stay away from the bar, she really does. Especially because of the way the bartender could have meant the whole “if you like my brother” comment. If he actually mentioned her to said brother, it would be all kinds of humiliating.

Yet here she is, nursing a beer at one in the morning again. The brother – Killian – is indeed once again strumming his guitar in the corner, playing “Pictures of You” by The Cure. She tries not to stare, but the intense way he closes his eyes as his lips practically caress the microphone is too mesmerizing. She practically jumps when his brother addresses her.

“Another beer?”

“Oh,” Emma mutters, flustered as she gazes down into her empty mug, “uh, yeah.”

He regards her with almost amusement as he takes it, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth as he fills it at the tap.

“I didn’t mention you, if that’s what’s worrying you,” he tells her.

Her eyes widen and she feels warmth creep up her neck. “Um . . . thanks.”

He’s chuckling and shaking his head as he walks away, and Emma begins to wish she’d never come. Until Killian transitions to another song – the song.

I hear you breathing in. Another day begins. The stars are falling out. My dreams are fading now, fading out.

It’s all she can do not to close her eyes as the words wash over her. Though she does find herself humming as she finishes her beer and the song winds to a close. Killian says into the mic that he’s taking a break, and that jolts Emma out of her reverie.

She’s out the door before his guitar is back in its case.

When she gets home, she strides to her bed, not a trace of hesitation within her. She gets down on her knees and reaches underneath to pull out the hard case, running her hand longingly across it before flipping open the latches. She lifts the lid and exhales long and slow, just gazing at the acoustic Epiphone nestled in red velour. She takes it out almost reverently, settles on to the floor, and situates it on her knees.

The first strum is like a flame flickering back to life.

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

Emma comes to a complete stop in the middle of the bar the next night, frozen in place amidst the Friday night crowd. Friday night – shit, she’s an idiot! His brother said he only played on weeknights, and everyone knows Friday night kicks off the weekend. So of course, Killian is behind the bar, smiling at a flirty brunette, and over in the corner are a pair of women with guitars doing their best Indigo Girls impression. Emma thinks of turning and fleeing, but before she can, Killian turns in her direction, and his eyes meet hers. If she were the type, she would swear it was one of those moments in rom-coms when everything else in the room gets fuzzy and time slows down.

But she isn’t. The type, that is.

Leaving would be too obvious, though, so she gives him a nervous smile and approaches the bar. Up close, he’s even more handsome, and she can now see that his eyes are blue. Extremely blue. His brother’s were blue, so she should have figured, but Killian’s eyes. Damn. They make his brother’s seem colorless by comparison.

“So we finally meet,” he says, extending a hand. “Killian Jones.”

“Emma Swan,” she tells him as she takes his hand. And maybe there’s a spark, but again, she’s not that type. “Your brother told me he didn’t say anything.”

Killian cocks his head. “Liam?”

“So that’s his name.”

“Aye, but – why would he say anything?”

Emma’s face is on fire, and maybe leaving wouldn’t have been so bad. “You know – about me showing up Thursday morning looking for your music flyer.” She gestures in a ridiculous way towards the door.

“You did?” His broad grin makes her feel slightly less idiotic.

“I did,” she admits, “but you didn’t have to know that embarrassing detail, did you?”

He leans on the bar and chuckles. “I noticed you Wednesday night.”

“You did?”

“Why do you think I played Better Man?”

“Um, I don’t follow.”

“You came in with your heels in your hand, a wine stain on your dress, and a scowl on your face. Anyone who would leave you in such a state is clearly a jerk or an idiot or both. So . . . Better Man.”

He stands then, crossing his arms over his chest, and Emma notices how toned they are. She’d noticed as he strummed his guitar, but up close it looks even better. His head is cocked, one eyebrow raised, and a smirk tilts his lips. The cocky bastard.

“Let me guess,” Emma deadpans, leaning across the bar. His gaze flits to her cleavage, and she flashes a smirk of her own, “you’re that better man?”

“I could be,” he quips, his tongue swiping at his lower lip.

She rolls her eyes. “Well, I hate to devastate your ego, but you’re not the reason I keep coming back.”

Now he waggles those eyebrows, and she can’t help the brief chuckle that escapes her lips. “Oh no?”

“No. It was the song.”

He leans close again. “Which one, love?”

“Not your love. And it was the one you were playing Wednesday night when I first came in.”

“Aww, I see. And what’s it worth to you?”

She props her chin in her hand. “You do know there’s this thing called Google.”

“Yet here you are.”

She presses her lips together in a thin line. “You didn’t seem so full of it when you were playing your guitar.”

He laughs then, completely self-depracating, and she hates how it makes her heart flip. Then he tilts his head at her and pouts like a five-year-old, and that makes a traitorous smile fill up her face.

“Just that you’ll come back next time I play, Swan, that’s all I’m asking.”

She rolls her eyes again. “Fine, done. Now – the song.”

“It’s a Switchfoot song,” he says softly, all trace of flirting gone as he leans against the bar again, “one of my favorites. It’s called Your Love is a Song.”

Her breath hitches involuntarily at the intensity in his eyes. Someone yells for the bartender, and Killian yells back for them to wait a damn minute.

“You better go,” she tells him in a breathy whisper. She’s really piling up the rom com cliches tonight.

He sighs, but goes to serve the customer. The second his back is turned, she’s gone without evening ordering a drink.

When she gets home, she pulls out her guitar, this time settling cross legged on her bed. She finds the song online, with the chords, and starts to pick out the tune. She stays up most of the night before she gets it, her skills a bit rusty.

I’ve been keeping my eyes wide open. I’ve been keeping my eyes wide open.

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

She waits until Monday night to return to the bar, and Killian is once again in the corner with his guitar. His eyes find her as she walks in the door, and he winks even as he continues to croon Free’s “All Right Now.” Instead of sitting at the bar, she takes a booth in his line of sight, and orders a beer once again from a red headed waitress. She could say she isn’t giving him sex eyes over the rim of her mug, but she’d be lying.

“This one’s for the blonde in the corner.”

And it’s her song. Your love is a symphony. All around me, running through me. She can’t help singing along under her breath, and when it ends, he stands.

“Sorry folks, but it’ll have to be the jukebox for the rest of the night.”

She can’t help the beaming smile that fills her face at his words, and her heart beats triple time when he puts away his guitar and saunters over.

“May I?”

“You may,” she says with a flip of her hair over her shoulder, and God, could she be any more cliché?

“How are you tonight, Emma?”

She shrugs coyly. “I’m better now.”

“Now that you’ve heard your song?”

She nods as she takes a sip of her beer. “I learned it last night. Took me hours, but I did it.”

His eyebrows raise in admiration. “You play?”

“It’s been awhile,” she says, “but yes.”

“I would be in a dark place if not for my music.”

She looks into his eyes, so sincere and intense. It’s as if he’s opened a door, inviting her in, fully

knowing she might not take it.

“When I was sixteen,” she begins slowly, running her finger through the condensation on her mug, “my foster mother bought an Epiphone for me from a pawn shop for Christmas. No one had ever done that for me before.”

“Bought you a present?”

Emma nods, the understanding in his voice giving her courage. “Not only that, but actually asking what I wanted for Christmas to begin with and then actually listening. She even payed for lessons.”

“I started playing around the same time,” Killian says, leaning back in the booth, “it helps during lonely adolescence, doesn’t it?”

Emma smiles and shrugs. “Cheesy I guess, but yes.”

He laughs lightly, and Emma finds that she loves the sound.

“Anyways, Ruth, that was her name, she encouraged me in my music. She and my foster brother David came any time I did talent shows and stuff. Then, when I put together a horrible garage band, they came to all our gigs.”

“So why did you stop?”

“Someone told me it was dumb, and I listened,” Emma lifts one shoulder to brush it off, though Neal’s biting words still echo in her mind. “He was right in a way. I wasn’t good enough to make a career out of it. And I’m good at what I do now . . . I like it -”

“Emma,” Killian cuts her off gently, placing a hand over hers, “just because art isn’t your career doesn’t mean its dumb or that it can’t be part of your life. If playing brings you joy, then play. Don’t let anyone stop you.”

His words are like a warm bath on an icy cold day. Ruth and David, even Mary Margaret and Ruby, have told her the same time and again. But for some reason, coming from Killian, a man with such talent in his voice and in his hands, it means so much more.

They continue to talk over drinks, the time going by much faster than Emma can believe. Before they know it, it’s closing time. Liam is berating Kilian for flirting instead of playing, but the smile on his face tempers his words.

Killian walks her to her car, and when he kisses her, she practically melts against the side of the Bug. Her hands tremble with want as she slides them up his chest, past his shoulders, finding stability when she digs her fingers into his hair. The melody of her song plays in her ears.

“Will you go to dinner with me,” he whispers against her lips.

She can barely collect herself enough to speak, but she does say yes. The next two weeks go by in a haze of bliss, with both lunch and dinner dates, and many hours at his and Liam’s bar. And any time she isn’t with him or working, she’s finding solace with her guitar.

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

Emma is leaning against the sofa in her living room, her guitar once again on her lap, her tablet propped up on the coffee table as she strums through the chords of a new song she’s learning. It’s another one Killian had played at the bar. The verses are giving her trouble, but once she gets to the chorus, she belts it out, her eyes closed. When she gets to the next verse, she opens them to glance at the chords and screams when she sees a figure looming out of the corner of her eye.

“Shit, David,” she gasps, pressing a hand to her heart, “you nearly gave me a heart attack!”

“Well, you weren’t answering your door,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest in that pose of brotherly intimidation.

“And you couldn’t hear me playing?” she grumbles, putting her guitar back in its case and rising to her feet. “I gave you that key for emergencies only.”

David gives her a side hug and a kiss to her temple. “Well, you not answering the door classifies as an emergency.” Then he grins broadly, setting his hands at her shoulders. “But you’re playing again, that’s great! What changed?”

She bites her lip as she feels a traitorous blush rise to her cheeks. “I just . . . felt like it was time.”

He narrows his eyes at her. “Mhm, right Emma. And what else?”

“You know,” Emma says, stepping around him, “MM and Ruby are waiting for us at the restaurant.”

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

“Emma’s playing again.”

The table falls silent as her friends turn to her with joyful expressions.

“That’s great!” Mary Margaret exclaims.

“But she won’t tell me what inspired her,” David adds, “and I know something’s up with her.”

“Why would you think that?”

“You haven’t been around much lately.”

“He’s got a point,” Ruby says, then her eyes widen and she gasps. “You met someone, didn’t you?”

“I . . . um . . . why would you think that?”

Ruby points at her, “Aha, see! You’re stumbling over your words, and your face is bright red.”

“Okay, so I did, but it’s not a big deal.”

“Oh Emma,” Mary Margaret breaths, “that’s wonderful!”

“Now slow down, MM, it’s only been a few dates.”

“How’s the sex?” Ruby asks, and David groans.

“There’s only been kissing,” Emma clarifies, shooting daggers at her blunt friend.

“What’s his name? How did you meet?” Mary Margaret is much too giddy, her chin resting on her fisted hands eagerly.

Emma sighs and tells them the whole story, starting with hearing him singing in the bar and not being able to get the song out of her head. Ruby and Mary Margaret are practically swooning while David is scowling.

“I need to meet this guy.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “Don’t go all overprotective on me, David.”

“Well, I’m your brother, it’s part of the job description. “

“What was it?” Mary Margaret asks, ignoring her husband.

“What was what?”

She rolls her eyes. “The song. What was it?”

“It’s by Switchfoot. Your Love is a Song.”

Mary Margaret lets out a little gasp and presses her fingers to her lips as tears well up in her eyes. “Oh, that’s so beautiful! It’s fate!”

Emma eyes her warily as she hands her a tissue. “Slow down, MM, this isn’t a rom com.”

She waves her hand in front of her face as she dabs at her nose with the tissue. “I’m sorry. Pregnancy hormones.”

And suddenly the table erupts in another round of emotions with Emma and Ruby trying to hug Mary Margaret at the same time. Thankfully, the attention is off Emma. For now.

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

There’s a knock at Emma’s door the next night, and she’s surprised to see Killian standing there with grocery sacks in his arms. She tilts her head in confusion.

“I thought I was meeting you at the bar.”

“Aye, that was the plan,” he looks at her hesitantly, “until your brother showed up a little while ago to give me the third degree. You never mentioned he was a detective with the Boston PD. A mite intimidating.”

Emma groans. “Oh my God, I am so sorry! He gets a little . . . overprotective.”

Killian chuckles. “I can relate. Liam tends to be the same. At any rate, David parked himself in a corner booth and informed me he would be staying there to keep an eye on you. All night.”

Emma liftes her hands to her temple and massages her brow. “For the love of God, David!”

“So, I thought we could either hang out with both our big brothers watching, or I could come over and cook you dinner. In privacy.”

A flirtatious grin fills Emma’s face. “Now that sounds like a plan.”

With an eager smile of his own, Killian comes in and heads for her kitchen. She closes the door and sags against it, watching him unload the ingredients he brought over. It’s so domestic, and feels so right, and suddenly words to the song – their song runs through her head.

With my eyes wide open, I’ve got my eyes wide open, I’ve been keeping my hopes unbroken.

That’s the feeling sweeping through her – hope.

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

As Emma stumbles backwards into her room and almost trips on a pair of shoes in the middle of the floor, she vaguely thinks that maybe she should have straightened up in here while Killian was cooking. But he doesn’t seem to care about her mess as he kicks the shoes out of their way and maneuvers her to the bed. Emma giggles against his lips as she falls backwards. He catches himself before he can fall on top of her, his hands braced on either side of her. He’s grinning wider than she’s ever seen, almost goofily, his hair a riotous mess. And in that moment, she knows.

She grasps his biceps lightly, caressing the muscle with her thumbs. “I love you,” she says, amazed that it doesn’t terrify her.

He waggles his eyebrows. “I know.”

She groans and rolls her eyes, more giggles falling from her lips. He swallows them with more kisses.

“That was so cheesy, Killian.”

“Was it?” he mumbles as he kisses a path down her neck. She digs her fingers into his hair and tugs so she can look into his eyes. They’re dark blue with desire. He nuzzles his nose with hers and speaks against her lips. “I have loved you since the moment you walked into the bar.”

“There’s no such thing as love at first sight, Killian.”

“Well I hate to tell you love, but that’s how it happened.”

She laughs again as she tightens her arms around his neck.

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

“You still haven’t played for me,” Killian mumbles against the bare skin of her back, trailing kisses as he speaks. They are both sated and content, Emma wrapped up in his arms, her back to his chest.

“I can’t,” she protests, distracted when he lifts her hair to kiss the nape of her neck, delicious tingles running down her spine.

“Why not?”

She turns in his arms and buries her face in his chest. “Because you’re too good, and I’m . . . not.”

He kisses the top of her head, then lifts her chin gently. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

He kisses her once more on the forehead, then rises from the bed as if it’s decided. He goes to the corner where her guitar is propped up, then brings it back, holding it out like an offering. She sits up in bed, the sheets pooling at her waist.

“Do you think the offer is more appealing because you’re stark naked right now?”

He gins salaciously. “Perhaps.”

She shakes her head, messy curls falling across her forehead, but she reaches out for the guitar nonetheless. “Should I put some clothes on?” she wonders before she settles the guitar in her lap.

“Please no,” Killian pouts, “a beautiful woman playing the guitar in the nude has always been a fantasy of mine.”

Emma laughs, shaking the hair out of her face. “Okay, that’s rather specific.”

“Humor me, Swan.”

She winks at him, and his answering smile calms the butterflies in her stomach. Still, she closes her eyes and breaths in through her nose, her nerves still on edge. Her eyes fly open.

“What should I play?”

“Our song, of course,” he tells her softly.

“Right.”

A peace steals over her as she strums the first few chords. She closes her eyes as she begins to sing: I hear you breathing in. Another day begins. The stars are falling out. My dreams are fading now, fading out. I’ve been keeping my eyes wide open. I’ve been keeping my eyes wide open.

When she begins the chorus, Killian joins her, and the harmony of their voices together is more breathtaking than she ever could have imagined.

Your love is a symphony. All around me. Running through me. Your love is a melody. Underneath me. Running to me. Your love is a song.

Killian goes quiet again as she sings the second verse, but now she’s singing out strong, with power. His belief in her, his support of her, giving her voice strength.

The dawn is fire bright against the city lights. The clouds are glowing now. The moon is blacking out. I’ve been keeping my mind wide open. I’ve been keeping my mind wide open. Your love is a song.

By this time, tears are streaming down her cheeks, and she isn’t sure why. Killian gently takes the guitar out of her hands, and sets it carefully on the floor by the bed. Then he takes her in his arms, lowering her to the bed, and kisses all of her tears away. He cups her face tenderly as her eyes flutter open, her tears spent.

“I love you, Emma Swan. And you’re bloody brilliant, amazing.”

A year later, they sing the song – their song – at their wedding in exchange of vows. It may not be traditional, but in the lyrics is the very story of their love.

Your love is as symphony.

Your love is a melody.

Your love is a song.

[in-flagrante]

The wait is over

THE TIARAS HAVE BEEN DUSTED OFF AND THE PEARLS POLISHED. FOUR LONG YEARS AFTER THE FINAL INSTALMENT OF DOWNTON ABBEY, IT’S BACK, THIS TIME ON THE BIG SCREEN. BEN LAWRENCE WENT ON SET TO UNCOVER SOME FAMILY SECRETS

The Daily Telegraph

31 Aug 2019

As Downton Abbey sweeps majestically on to the big screen, Ben Lawrence joins the cast reunion on set

It is a crisp, clear morning at Wentworth Woodhouse, the stately home in South Yorkshire. Built by the 1st Marquess of Rockingham, it has the widest façade in Europe, boasts at least 365 rooms (no one is certain of the exact number), and represents two and a half acres of building. This perfect specimen of English baroque is the setting for the new Downton Abbey film – in which George V and Queen Mary tour the north of England (which also includes a visit to Downton itself, filmed as usual at Highclere Castle in Berkshire) – and today they are shooting a grand ball at the home of the Countess of Harewood in the film, attended by the royal couple and Downton’s Crawley family.

Inside the house, a production unit zigzags in and out of huge vaulted rooms with cables and film cameras, while extras in 1920s ball attire chat nonchalantly on makeshift chairs. Meanwhile in the ballroom – a giant marble space, adorned with deep-red damask wallpaper and enormous flower arrangements – Maggie Smith and Penelope Wilton (two of the stars of the original series) slip through the lines of dancing couples in diaphanous silks, as a small orchestra plays a waltz. In the background, an assistant producer is being told off by one of the volunteers of Wentworth Woodhouse for wandering into a disused room. This isn’t jobsworthiness. The carpet in some rooms is nearly 300 years old and will disintegrate

if anyone breathes on it. The wallpaper, meanwhile, is laced with arsenic (as was the fashion at the time) in order to make it a certain shade of green.

Away from the action, Michelle Dockery, who plays Lady Mary (the eldest Crawley daughter), is sitting in her trailer, her sharp features accentuated by period make-up, feeling slightly in awe of the whole process. ‘It was during my costume fitting when it hit me. I got really emotional.’

Downton Abbey made Dockery and many of her fellow cast members international names, and no wonder. The ITV series, which ran from 2010 to 2015 and followed the lives of the aristocratic Crawley family and their servants, was sold to 220 territories worldwide, achieved a global audience of 120 million and was nominated for 53 International Emmys. In America, it became the most successful British drama import of all time. It also set the bar for costume dramas, at least in terms of visual sheen. The Crown, Netflix’s lavish regal series (which returns this autumn), has clearly been influenced by Julian Fellowes’ series, which cost, on average, £1 million per episode to make.

Everyone expected that a film would be made, but it was quite a feat getting the cast together. ‘It was like herding cats,’ says Dockery. ‘But I just love it. It’s so familiar and doesn’t feel like work.’

Despite rumours to the contrary, Maggie Smith is back as the Dowager Countess, famous for her

‘When we finished the series, we didn’t envisage a film. We had a party at The Ivy and everyone cried’

withering put-downs, as are Hugh Bonneville’s paterfamilias the Earl of Grantham, his American wife Cora (played by Elizabeth Mcgovern) and his two surviving daughters, Lady Mary, of course, and Laura Carmichael’s Lady Edith. Others involved include Penelope Wilton’s sensible cousin Isobel and many of the downstairs staff: Jim Carter’s stentorian Mr Carson and his wife, the no-nonsense housekeeper Mrs Hughes (Phyllis Logan); Mrs Patmore (Lesley Nicol), the plainspeaking cook with Escoffier abilities, and her protégée, the occasionally mutinous Daisy (Sophie Mcshera).

When I talk to Fellowes though, he is adamant that a film was never inevitable. Rumours circulated about a prequel, following Robert’s courting of Cora for her money and subsequently falling in love with her, but nothing came of it. ‘When we finished the series, we didn’t envisage a film. We had a lovely party at The Ivy and everyone cried, but that was it as far as I was concerned. Then, as the years rolled by, there was a sense that people hadn’t quite finished with it, and eventually I formed an idea for a feature film.’

The Downton Abbey film, directed by Michael Engler, is set in 1927, just over a year after the series ended, and focuses on the Crawleys and their servants as they prepare for a royal visit. It causes much excitement below stairs, but the staff soon find the monarch’s entourage taking over – including a temperamental French chef (played by Philippe Spall) and a pompous head butler, played by David Haig, who refers to himself as the ‘King’s page of the back stairs’. Other new cast members include Simon Jones and Geraldine James as the King and Queen, Imelda Staunton (real-life wife of Carter) as Lady Bagshaw, lady-in-waiting to the Queen and a relative of the Crawleys, and Tuppence Middleton as her mysterious lady’s maid, Lucy.

Fellowes was inspired, in part, by a book he had read called Black Diamonds by Catherine Bailey, which details a 1912 visit by King George V and Queen Mary to South Yorkshire. As well as tucking into lavish 13-course dinners, which included puddings served in sugar baskets that took four days to weave, they also met local miners and toured pit villages. Although the film is set 15 years later, the King and Queen did make similar, unlikely tours around the country, as Fellowes explains. ‘After the First World War, there was a period of unsettled feelings about things – not least the monarchy. It had to re-establish itself as many members of European royalty had disappeared – the German Emperor, the Austrian Emperor, the Tsar of Russia. The structure had to be restated as having an integral role in society and they [George and Mary] were very successful in doing so. By 1930, the Crown was back at the heart of English life.’

For Dockery, making the film was not only a chance to catch up with old friends, but also to further develop a character that the nation took to their hearts.

‘Mary is so complex. We met her at 18 and she was this rebellious teenager – she was bored, and

‘It is pompous, but if you are recreating the ’20s you may as well get it right’

because she was a girl, she wasn’t what her father wanted [an heir to Downton]. Ultimately he became very proud of her, though, and I think everyone really responded to that. Seeing her journey was what hooked people.’

Now we see Lady Mary very much in control, happily married (to Matthew Goode’s Henry Talbot) and more than capable of taking over the ancestral pile when the time comes.

‘Julian writes really well for women and I think that has something to do with his wife, Emma [a descendant of Lord Kitchener]. I see a lot of her in Mary, just her expressions and things,’ she says.

Dockery has had a particularly successful career post-downton. She brought rigour and a dash of fun to her part as an ambitious TV exec in Network (the National Theatre production based on the acclaimed ’70s film), and a sort of watchfulness to the role of a hard-edged widow in Netflix’s warped western Godless. Next year, she will be showing her versatility further in Guy Ritchie’s film The Gentlemen, in which she plays the wife of a drug lord (played by Matthew Mcconaughey).

One character who has a particularly meaty storyline in the film is gay footman Thomas, played by Robert James-collier. We meet at Shepperton Studios, where the kitchen scenes are being filmed. It’s a cavernous setting which production designer Donal Woods describes as ‘like a noirish, Scandi film, as opposed to the glorious technicolor of upstairs’. For the TV series, the servants’ quarters were created at Ealing Studios, but the set has been flat-packed and sent over, as have the copper jelly moulds, kettles and pans.

This time, we see Thomas befriend a footman from the Royal household (played by Max Brown), and he ends up in an illicit gay drinking den in York. This was an era when homosexuality could result in a prison sentence, but, says James-collier, for one brief moment his somewhat malevolent character is liberated.

‘He is introduced to this other world that he doesn’t know exists, and there is this sense of relief, this sudden realisation that there are kindred spirits and that he is not this “foul individual” as Mr Carson once described him.’

The irony that Downton Abbey has been sold to countries where homosexuality can be punished by death is not lost on James-collier, and he feels a grave sense of responsibility about his role. ‘I have received letters from young men who say that watching Thomas’s journey has helped them. All I can say is that it’s an utter privilege. It’s the reason why I do it.’

The film’s 1927 setting marks a period in Britain when country houses such as Downton were beginning to feel the austerity of the interwar years. Death duties had to be paid and households streamlined, which meant that many servants lost their jobs. Meanwhile, the General Strike of 1926 – in which the TUC fought against worsening conditions for the country’s miners – underlined a growing sense of solidarity among the working class. In the film, however, there are no such concerns, and that reflects the point that Downton is in many ways a fantasy. One criticism of the original scripts was that the Crawleys were too benign as employers, that the relationship between master and servant was much more remote, without any of the Earl of Grantham’s well-meaning paternalism. Fellowes disagrees.

‘This notion that people were horrible to their servants is wrong. Most of us, if you think about it logically, and putting aside the moral view that that life should exist at all, would want to get on with the valet or lady’s maid. When you see a character snarling at his butler, you think this isn’t a way of life. None of us would want to be in a position of speaking to people you disliked.’

If Fellowes is the arbiter of psychological accuracy, then Alastair Bruce is the gatekeeper of protocol. He was Downton’s historical adviser at the beginning and describes himself, among other things, as the posture monitor.

He explains. ‘The cast tend to put their bums here on the seat,’ he says indicating the back of his chair. ‘But in those days, you didn’t – you would sit at the front. Also, [people’s] shoulders have fallen forward because everyone is on their mobile phone all the time.’

Bruce also helps the actors with their diction and mentions the word ‘room’. Many tended to accentuate the ‘o’s when it fact it should be shortened, so they sound very nearly like a ‘u’.

‘It is pompous bollocks, but if you are recreating the ’20s you may as well get it right,’ Bruce adds. ‘Michelle would quite happily let me describe her evolution in life as a long way from Downton Abbey, but I have some pretty grandiose friends who can’t believe this is the case. I am very proud of the fact that she now has this incredible poise – you never see a curve in her back – and her accent is on point.’

Several months later, I ask Fellowes whether he has plans for a sequel (although in truth, certain scenes in the film suggest a full stop rather than a pause). ‘There is never any point in answering that,’ he says. ‘In this business as soon as someone says that’s the last time I’ll put on my ballet shoes, there they are, a year later, dancing Giselle.’ Downton Abbey is released on 13 September

[hedwigsaardvark]

From the Telegraph.

The wait is over: Downton Abbey hits the big screen - and a visit to the set uncovers family secrets 

By Ben Lawrence

30 AUGUST 2019

Harry Hadden-Paton, director Michael Engler and Matthew Goode CREDIT: CHARLIE GRAY

CREDIT: CHARLIE GRAY

It is a crisp, clear morning at Wentworth Woodhouse, the stately home in South Yorkshire. Built by the 1st Marquess of Rockingham, it has the widest façade in Europe, boasts at least 365 rooms (no one is certain of the exact number), and represents two and a half acres of building.

The tiaras have been dusted off and the pearls polished. Four long years after the final instalment of Downton Abbey, it’s back, this time on the big screen. 

This perfect specimen of English baroque is the setting for the new Downton Abbey film – in which George V and Queen Mary tour the north of England (which also includes a visit to Downton itself, filmed as usual at Highclere Castle in Berkshire) – and today they are shooting a grand ball at the home of the Countess of Harewood in the film, attended by the royal couple and Downton’s Crawley family. 

Inside the house, a production unit zigzags in and out of huge vaulted rooms with cables and film cameras, while extras in 1920s ball attire chat nonchalantly on makeshift chairs. Meanwhile in the ballroom – a giant marble space, adorned with deep-red damask wallpaper and enormous flower arrangements – Maggie Smith and Penelope Wilton(two of the stars of the original series) slip through the lines of dancing couples in diaphanous silks, as a small orchestra plays a waltz.

In the background, an assistant producer is being told off by one of the volunteers of Wentworth Woodhouse for wandering into a disused room. This isn’t jobsworthiness. The carpet in some rooms is nearly 300 years old and will disintegrate if anyone breathes on it. The wallpaper, meanwhile, is laced with arsenic (as was the fashion at the time) in order to make it a certain shade of green.

Away from the action, Michelle Dockery, who plays Lady Mary (the eldest Crawley daughter), is sitting in her trailer, her sharp features accentuated by period make-up, feeling slightly in awe of the whole process. ‘It was during my costume fitting when it hit me. I got really emotional.’

Downton Abbey made Dockery and many of her fellow cast members international names, and no wonder. The ITV series, which ran from 2010 to 2015 and followed the lives of the aristocratic Crawley family and their servants, was sold to 220 territories worldwide, achieved a global audience of 120 million and was nominated for 53 International Emmys.

In America, it became the most successful British drama import of all time. It also set the bar for costume dramas, at least in terms of visual sheen. The Crown, Netflix’s lavish regal series (which returns this autumn), has clearly been influenced by Julian Fellowes’ series, which cost, on average, £1 million per episode to make.

Everyone expected that a film would be made, but it was quite a feat getting the cast together. ‘It was like herding cats,’ says Dockery. ‘But I just love it. It’s so familiar and doesn’t feel like work.’

Despite rumours to the contrary, Maggie Smith is back as the Dowager Countess, famous for her withering put-downs, as are Hugh Bonneville’s paterfamilias the Earl of Grantham, his American wife Cora (played by Elizabeth McGovern) and his two surviving daughters, Lady Mary, of course, and Laura Carmichael’s Lady Edith. 

Others involved include Penelope Wilton’s sensible cousin Isobel and many of the downstairs staff: Jim Carter’s stentorian Mr Carson and his wife, the no-nonsense housekeeper Mrs Hughes (Phyllis Logan); Mrs Patmore (Lesley Nicol), the plain-speaking cook with Escoffierabilities, and her protégée, the occasionally mutinous Daisy (Sophie McShera).

When I talk to Fellowes though, he is adamant that a film was never inevitable. Rumours circulated about a prequel, following Robert’s courting of Cora for her money and subsequently  falling in love with her, but nothing came of it. ‘When we finished the series, we didn’t envisage a film. We had a lovely party at The Ivy and everyone cried, but that was it as far as I was concerned. Then, as the years rolled by, there was a sense that people hadn’t quite finished with it, and eventually I formed an idea for a feature film.’

The Downton Abbey film, directed by Michael Engler, is set in 1927, just over a year after the series ended, and focuses on the Crawleys and their servants as they prepare for a royal visit. It causes much excitement below stairs, but the staff soon find the monarch’s entourage taking over – including a temperamental French chef (played by Philippe Spall) and a pompous head butler, played by David Haig, who refers to himself as the ‘King’s page of the back stairs’.

Other new cast members include Simon Jones and Geraldine James as the King and Queen, Imelda Staunton (real-life wife of Carter) as Lady Bagshaw, lady-in-waiting to the Queen and a relative of the Crawleys, and Tuppence Middleton as her mysterious lady’s maid, Lucy.

Fellowes was inspired, in part, by a book he had read called Black Diamonds by Catherine Bailey, which details a 1912 visit by King George V and Queen Mary to South Yorkshire. As well as tucking into lavish 13-course dinners, which included puddings served in sugar baskets that took four days to weave, they also met local miners and toured  pit villages.

Although the film is set 15 years later, the King and Queen did make similar, unlikely tours around the country, as Fellowes explains. ‘After the First World War, there was a period of unsettled feelings about things – not least the monarchy. It had to re-establish itself as many members of European royalty had disappeared – the German Emperor, the Austrian Emperor, the Tsar of Russia. The structure had to be restated as having an integral role in society and they [George and Mary] were very successful in doing so. By 1930, the Crown was back at the heart of English life.’

For Dockery, making the film was not only a chance to catch up with old friends, but also to further develop a character that the nation took to their hearts. 

‘Mary is so complex. We met her at 18 and she was this rebellious teenager – she was bored, and because she was a girl, she wasn’t what her father wanted [an heir to Downton]. Ultimately he became very proud of her, though, and I think  everyone really responded to that. Seeing her journey was what hooked people.’

Now we see Lady Mary very much in control, happily married (to Matthew Goode’s Henry  Talbot) and more than capable of taking over the ancestral pile when the time comes.

‘Julian writes really well for women and I think that has something to do with his wife, Emma [a descendant of Lord Kitchener]. I see a lot of her in Mary, just her expressions and things,’ she says.

Dockery has had a particularly successful career post-Downton. She brought rigour and a dash of fun to her part as an ambitious TV exec in Network (the National Theatre production based on the acclaimed ’70s film), and a sort of watchfulness to the role of a hard-edged widow in Netflix’s warped western Godless. Next year, she will be showing her versatility further in Guy Ritchie’s film The Gentlemen, in which she plays the wife of a drug lord (played by Matthew McConaughey).

One character who has a particularly meaty  storyline in the film is gay footman Thomas, played by Robert James-Collier. We meet at Shepperton Studios, where the kitchen scenes are being filmed. It’s a cavernous setting which production designer Donal Woods describes as ‘like a noirish, Scandi film, as opposed to the glorious technicolor of upstairs’. For the TV series, the servants’ quarters were created at Ealing Studios, but the set has been flat-packed and sent over, as have the copper jelly moulds, kettles and pans. 

This time, we see Thomas befriend a footman from the Royal household (played by Max Brown), and he ends up in an illicit gay drinking den in York. This was  an era when homosexuality could result in a prison sentence, but, says James-Collier, for one brief moment his somewhat malevolent character is liberated.

‘He is introduced to this other world that he doesn’t know exists, and there is this sense of relief, this sudden realisation that there are  kindred spirits and that he is not this “foul individual” as Mr Carson once described him.’

The irony that Downton Abbey has been sold to countries where homosexuality can be punished by death is not lost on James-Collier, and he feels a grave sense of responsibility about his role.  ‘I have received letters from young men who say that watching Thomas’s journey has helped them. All I can say is that it’s an utter privilege. It’s the reason why I do it.’

The film’s 1927 setting marks a period in Britain when country houses such as Downton were beginning to feel the austerity of the interwar years. Death duties had to be paid and households streamlined, which meant that many servants lost their jobs. Meanwhile, the General Strike of 1926 – in which the TUC fought against worsening conditions for the country’s miners – underlined a growing sense of solidarity among the working class.

In the film, however, there are no such concerns, and that reflects the point that Downton is in many ways a fantasy. One criticism of the original scripts was that the Crawleys were too benign as employers, that the relationship between master and servant was much more remote, without any of the Earl of Grantham’s well-meaning paternalism. Fellowes disagrees.

‘This notion that people were horrible to their servants is wrong. Most of us, if you think about it logically, and putting aside the moral view that that life should exist at all, would want to get on with the valet or lady’s maid. When you see a character snarling at his butler, you think this isn’t a way of life. None of us would want to be in  a position of speaking to people you disliked.’

If Fellowes is the arbiter of psychological accuracy, then Alastair Bruce is the gatekeeper of  protocol. He was Downton’s historical adviser at the beginning and describes himself, among other things, as the posture monitor.

He explains. ‘The cast tend to put their bums here on the seat,’ he says indicating the back of his chair. ‘But in those days, you didn’t – you would sit at the front. Also, [people’s] shoulders have fallen forward because everyone is on their mobile phone all the time.’

Bruce also helps the actors with their diction and mentions the word ‘room’. Many tended to accentuate the ‘o’s when it fact it should be shortened, so they sound very nearly like a ‘u’.

‘It is pompous bollocks, but if you are recreating the ’20s you may as well get it right,’ Bruce adds. ‘Michelle would quite happily let me describe her evolution in life as a long way from Downton Abbey, but I have some pretty grandiose friends who can’t believe this is the case. I am very proud of the fact that she now has this incredible poise – you never see a curve in her back – and her accent is on point.’

Several months later, I ask Fellowes whether he has plans for a sequel (although in truth, certain scenes in the film suggest a full stop rather than a pause). ‘There is never any point in answering that,’ he says. ‘In this business as soon as someone says that’s the last time I’ll put on my ballet shoes, there they are, a year later, dancing Giselle.’

Downton Abbey is released on 13 September 

Source and copyright The Telegraph

[sayofchains88]

Chapter three: The Crystal Queen by OrangeLetters88~

In front the weathering abandoned church Christian is the first one to open the door to the building. He is feeling morose. Ever since the event he hasn't felt like eating or chatting with anyone, Dr. Carol decided to keep him the rest of that night under careful watch.

A deep tiredness washes over him; Sadie follows behind him closely then Clarence in the back. "You know...I didn't want to say anything Christian, but when I first met you I had a feeling you were my fate..."

He doesn't look at her at first. He hesitates till she grabs his hand. "I don't want to be here..."

She could feel the sudden weight of his sadness silencing without questioning. Christian presses softly against her back. "He went a lot of things recently. Just give him time Sadie."

They make it to the alter where the white coffin stands in the middle of the church in pristine shape. The rest of the church falling apart, Christian can feel a strange wind drag him forward.

"I know why you are here dear Christian. Don't be afraid."

"You were expecting me?"

"Of course, it is written in eternity your fate from the first time you met Alex. You are the shield of your clan. Now you must close your eyes, but before that I demand your conviction to my honor young vampire..."

Christian pulls out his butterfly knife opening his wrist letting his blood drain out against the coffin due to the coffin being covered in chipped away blood. The blood rushes so quickly he doesn't have a chance to meditate instead collapsing over the side over the coffin.

Sadie tries to go to him, but Clarence stops here shaking his head to leave him alone afterwards showing the medical box he brought in case. She at looks him slightly annoyed.

She appears to Christian. She is absurdly beautiful, ruby red lips, long white robe, long fangs, her hair is blonde and in a messy bun. Her heart bleeds against her contrasting white dress. "I sense you are not happy...I swear to you. I will do everything I can help you. You need to be honest with me Christian..."

"There is so much pressure on me...I feel like I am the wrong person..."

She paces around Christian who stands straight. "You know it is okay to have doubts, but it's not just Alex who is waiting for you. There is many waiting for their freedom. You are truly the only one. If you didn't become a vampire...they will never be free."

"What do you mean by that?

"Why do you insist on Sadie to be your wife?" She smiles gently. He thinks about it for a second.

"I don't...know? It just came out of my mouth. I am an idiot..."

"It is because you are meant for each other. I assure you. You were born kill Samuel not Alex. His reign is coming to end..."

"Impossible, it is not me..."

A sword appears in her hand from nowhere. "You are shield of the earth for a reason. Samuel knows his end approaching. I will be giving you the tome of nowhere on top that the sword of earth. You can dispel witches magic and break the slave seals. You are now endowed with honors..."

Touching the sword he feels a surge of energy through his body. "Now wake up!"

The sword and book lies against top of the coffin. Christian wakes up to Clarence wrapping his arm. "What the fuck...who the hell who decided this fate...wasn't I just worried about Alice?"

"Sometimes our starts can be less than stellar, but it doesn't change what we are meant to do in our lives." Sadie says picking the sword up and handing it to Christian. She takes hold of the grip whereas Christian lays hand on the pommel. The scabbard falls to the floor.

The book opens to a blue fairy who wraps herself around the blade. Christian drops the sword. He just stands there. His eyes turn teal like a blue fire burning in the midst of night.

Christian is un-moving for more than five minutes. Tears fall down his cheek before he moves towards Sadie touching her chest where the slave curse is.

Robotically he places his whole hand against her naked skin. You can see the seal's words unravel into the air. "Sadie you need to catch him!"

"Wait what?" She says dumbfound. He falls like a ragdoll as Clarence daftly is able to grab his him. He stares at the ceiling with his mouth open, his eyes slowly close. "Christian was able to cure me? The vampire queen has this power?"

"Do you feel free Sadie?" Clarence asks happily.

"He is now my husband..." She whispers. "He doesn't have to participate in the games, but we need to go so we can free everyone..." Sadie says crying into her hands. Clarence pats her back. She slings Christian over his shoulder.

"You are free...we will free your sisters too."

Sadie grabs the sword and book trailing behind Clarence. The whole church starts to shake, the ceiling crumbling. "Get out of here first!" Clarence pushes Sadie outside before he could make it with Christian. The ground starts to sink under them.

"Clarence! Christian! Nooooooo!!" Sadie screams. From behind she is detained by two of Samuel's men who take the sword and book from Sadie's hands.

"They are dead. Give it up already." One of the men snickers.

"No! Christian can't die! He needs to save us!" Sadie cries out. She stomps on their feet, but is pulled back into an unmarked van. She grieves wailing out loudly as it pulls out.

The church has collapsed down far into a well place tunnel which lines with how it fell. "Clarence...Clarence wake up...you have a long way to go. You can't die yet..."

"My lady of the crystal...I could never die...as so you beckon me..." Clarence sits up in the wake of destruction of the building.

"When it is over...please re-build my body...you are now my treasured saint. You are the apostle of vampire kind. It is my will...go now my dearest apostle. Retrieve the sword of earth for Christian..."

"My queen..." Clarence looks around to see Christian unconscious, but his eyes slightly open burning like a blue fire. Like a fractals of a kaleidoscope. He pats Christians face to make sure he was alright. "Christian...hey man we need to get out of here..."

His forehead bleeding, but his body unable to give any signals for help not even a twitch in sight; Clarence more amazed he was untouched, but he notes he was picked as an apostle of the saint vampire queen. "Steel is not going to believe me..."

He sits Christian up tying his handkerchief around his head to stop the bleeding before coaxing him to piggyback. He looks upward through the large crater before walking to see the coffin tilted to the side. The ashes spilling out, he takes his blood vial pouch to pick the ashes up before gently sitting them inside the coffin sitting it up right. "Forgive anyone who desecrated your resting place my crystal queen..."

The wind starts to blow so hard that Clarence he had to stop moving for a second. The air stops. The tunnel is long and constantly has to crouch to move. Clarence finds he himself has to stop often due to cramps or hard to adjust Christian.

A couple times he had to dip his legs in very large water puddles. His suit ruined by the time he makes it to a large oasis deep into the tunnel. He lays Christian down propping him against a tree. He takes his small canteen to fill it up from his belt.

He drinks a lot before he lays Christian back making sure he keeps hydrated. The blue fairy comes out. Unlike Steel's fairy, Christians is wearing a long slip. "Hey down here!" She snaps bowing.

"You are his fairy?"

"He is in coma, he was supposed to fully touch the pommel...the crystal Queen is scared for his existence, but knew Samuel would do this, but now I must give your book."

A book hits Clarence on the head. "The book of existence?"

She laughs. "I mean yes, this will be your life line. You now serve the Crystal Queen...her heiress of blood demands you to protect the shield and sword of earth. This is your first test. The sword was meant to be stolen by Samuel. Clarence this is your fate."

"What exactly is going on?"  

"Doesn't matter what is going. You have a duty apostle of existence. The shield and sword of Earth needs to touch the pommel."

He sits back sighing. "Seriously...Alex's little group is made of eccentrics, but seems to be fated and has made me fated..." Clarence says kicking his legs.

"You being forced into vampiracy was your fate. Do not blame anyone for that please. Her crystal queen has been waiting for this a long time. She tests those who are perfected to her whims. I was fated to guide Christian, but for now I am here to help you."

All of Clarence's cigarettes are soggy. He tosses them to the ground aggravated. "How are we supposed to even get out of here??" He shouts.

"We need to go further. There should be cave dwelling vampires here who serve her heiress."

"Fine...but are we almost out."

She nods her head. Clarence picks Christian back up. "By the way call me Ava."

"Shut up Ava...please..." He says slightly irritated. About an hour in of traveling, Clarence spots someone out of the corner of his eye.

"Weary travelers we heard of your arrival!" A man shouts from the top of the spiral staircase.

A ton of women and men dressed in white dresses, white tops and slacks while each wore a unique scarf or sat it like robes against chest in varying colors of red. A beautiful blonde with braided hair takes Christian. "Excuse me do not take him please..." he says carefully taking him back. "Can you please just show me the exit?"

The blue fairy closes her eyes making herself bigger. Her unclothed feet gently never dirtied under the floor of dirt. She out stretches her arms giving a huge smile darting between them all tugging their hair and examining their features. "These are the peoples of the Crystal Queen themselves! They live off the lands and their blood comes from a crystalized blood that comes from the coffins buried above! She blesses her peoples with thy divine blood which is filtered through the solidarity of earth!"

A little girl hands Clarence a crystal flower. "The blood of earth...you will feel revived."

A man takes Christian from Clarence who is startled. They lay him in a huge lacquer black coffin covered in red spider lily. They fold his arms. Welcoming Clarence to the dining room, large baskets are filled with crystal flowers of the hardened blood substance.

"But you still eat food?"

"Of course we do! We were blessed to be able to enjoy human delicious bounties." A lady says laying large dinner rolls on the table. Another man plops are large roasted deer on the table.

"I cannot eat human food...but it smells delicious." He replies feeling sickly to the smell.

"We knew when we looked at you, but you may carry some of the crystalized flowers with you only if you wish apostle of existence."

"How did you know?" Clarence states shocked.  Ava pops out of nowhere.

"It is dictated in texts of her crystal queen." Ava shouts.

He walks outside to see Christian for the first time ever in his life sleeping in a coffin. He feels a knot in his throat. Ava once again appears out of nowhere while Clarence picks Christian up. When sticking his hands in the red spider lily's they start to glow.

He feels he is being sucked into them. Things start to stretch. He looks around his surroundings. "Welcome to palace of death apostle of existence. Right now is your first test. You will have three tests before you can reclaim Christian's sword and book from Samuel."

Everything is black surrounding Clarence. A path of blue fire orbs open before him. He runs forward to see Christian holding his sword, but he is grayed out covered chains. A bush under him is blue roses.  

"You must curious why you are seeing this. This is the core of his soul, but if you fail he will die...but you also will die." The voiceless entity explains. "You see her crystal queen doesn't just you have a title. You both prove you are worthy of her presence."

"What am I supposed to do?" Clarence says in shock. A staircase leading up is made spotlight. He walks up the stairs. He observes a field of red spider lilies far as the eyes can see. In the middle contains three entities. They are statues. Samuel, Christian and Elijah stand in different positions.

"One of them contains the key of existence, In truth they could have been just any statues, but these are conjured from Christians mind that includes he himself. This should be easy for you if you indeed an apostle of her crystal queen..."

He stands still closing his eyes, breathing in and out slowly. He makes the triangle of his element in his mind holding his fingers out. He sees a faint glow inside of Elijah's mouth. He pulls it out. BING BONG.

"That is indeed your key to communicate with her highness; you must never lose that key. Your life depends on it. Please exit to the stair case back into the lobby."

He comes down to see Christians face is slightly laced with color instead of being gray. The roses are now yellow instead of blue. He hangs the key around his neck.

"Christian now has some color on his cheeks, would you look at that? Anyways you need to push into his chest this time. Don't worry he is fine."

Clarence pushes into Christian's body; he is a doll it seems. Behind him is a door. A little girl is crying on the ground with her stuffed animal.

There is no cue this time. Clarence nervously walks over to her. He can tell right away by her smell she is human. Something sends him into bloodlust automatically he dunks his head down so his head is leaning into her chest.

"Is there something wrong mister?"

"N-n-nothing, you are a good girl aren't you sweetheart." He says smiling. He gets up walking away mournfully. "I am sorry...I can't do this to a little girl...I accept my fate..."

BING BONG Clarence looks up, his nose running from wanting to cry. "No you are correct. We do not harm smaller children. Please proceed down."

"Precede what??" Clarence yells as he tumbles down a chute that activated under his feet. This time Ava is front of him. "Hello Clarence! I want to inform you there is no third test."

A woman comes from the shadows. "I was mainly messing with you, but in a way I was looking for certain aspects from you. Truthfully, we often read too much into things right in front of us which is dreadful."

"So we are okay then?" Clarence asks relieved.

"Yes, I am so sorry, but when you wake you will be shown out of my peoples den. You are my apostle of existence. One day I will need you when the Sapphire Queen awakes. You will fight with four others to protect her. For now you are awakened to meet the others, but not yet..."

"Sapphire Queen? What will happen to you?"

"I will finally be able to rest and she will be able to stop wars of man and vampire. She is the soft voice reason and her beauty will rise beyond comparison. She will make Kings jealous, but she will always be a Queen alone."

"What about Christian? When will he awaken?"

"Samuel stole the sword. I cannot help you there... make sure to rest the pommel in his hands and I will resurrect his awareness which is trapped in his heart. I am counting on you Clarence. Goodbye..."

Clarence awakes on top of Christian who is lying inside the coffin with Christian. He spits out the red spider lily which somehow made it to his mouth. He lifts Christian out of the coffin once again lifting him on to his back.

A woman comes out giving them a sack of crystalized blood. "Please follow me."

He makes his way groggily over to a large door that opens slowly through an electronic button. "Thank you." He says before leaving.

Clarence realizes very quickly that basically he is back near the castle. He is very tired before he fully makes it back to the house trudging through the fields of flowers. Steel can see him from the distance running over to him.

He falls over into the long grass releasing Christian from his grip plodding into the soft meadow. Steel joins him. She embraces him sticking her arms around his waist and brings her hands up to his face. He is so tired he doesn't notice she is touching his face. "I am so glad you are back safe..."

https://www.wattpad.com/1075064632-chronicles-of-alex-fighting-against-eternity Please support my work on wattpad please if you like my works~

[cherry-o-piggy]

And old slew

posted 3/7/2021

I think my number one requirement is that you keep up, which only the mentally ill do.

What does it say about me that all my friends are ADHD?

The black boys, they pass and bob and chat to rap like it’s beat poetry in the 1960s. Here with them I am in a modern historical moment of art discovering my aesthetic and true calling. I see this after a bias worry on repeat, looking back it was not a real fear, just a humorous societal conception, and who have I ever been to subscribe to society. Me and my white girl friend out smoked them in their own home and my friend, I hugged him in front of his friends, and he walked us out of his house like a true gentleman. It was truly the part of my soul that I wanted to share in a social setting.

“You’re not in charge of me, T[redacted] is.”

It’s 10 degrees in the dark and it’s just me and my skin wrapped in tight black fabric flying up the powdered hill like I was never meant to touch the ground in the first place. It is still 10 degrees and I’m replaying everything that has ever happened like maybe I’ll get a second chance that I don’t need, but want still. The 10 degrees rummage around in my bones and all the pain this new year brought, the pain of becoming women, intertwines itself with my heart so there is no difference. The 10 degrees keep me warm, from the pit of my stomach to my chest and red cheeks. It’s enough right now.

The concept of solidarity flowed from Budimir’s lips along with sweeties and engagement, and I truly think it is the first concept I ever truly understood. I do not know respect or love or good. But I know solidarity, I know solidarity deep down in my bones and my blood and my soul. And it just goes to show, it was never me, I just never met a good teacher.

My lust still rides with you, for safe keeping.

I don’t remember what your voice sounds like anymore, I used to be able to hear it in my head.

Every man both looks like you and the man who wanted me dead.

Sometimes I am hollowed out enough that the only feeling I have is my hands and they don’t seem to bare my heart’s intentions. But it is a much deeper part of my being they represent, one I wish someone worse would fulfill for me. Pity I am the only beautiful thing.

Part of my soul is an iris in the wind.

A wealthy woman in the glass, a thesis sustaining the validity of age regression in design and mini-practice, and collections combatting change in order to hold on to something.

There was a few moments of my life where I was obsessed with the devil in the woods by the ocean and the magic I would be allowed if I could just exist somewhere beautiful to be a little odd in peace with equally passionate companionship. While the other burn outs dream of fantasy I dream of psudeo-realistic peace because I could never get there by myself, let alone with the chaos of another sentiment being.

You wouldn’t like me anymore. I’m an existentialist bc I am completely and totally unsure of myself as a concept. And it makes it immensely easier to flow along with the process of getting what I want.

In the dark the voice pokes at suicide in the highest of highest and I drown out the noise with the hope that in that grainy moment 5 guys ago you flicked away my perfect tears with your tongue and I was too intimate and vulnerable to fully feel it.

With a face this expressively cute and a brain this overwhelmingly neat I deserve a man to compliment my abundance completely.

I bet no one thinks about me at all. But that would be naive and hopeful.

If he is only supplying money as his position in your life, as soon as the money stops he no longer needs to be taken into consideration when making decisions because he is no longer a part of your life. If the only value you have is the provision of the bare necessities and no emotional connection you have no purpose after you no longer supply the means of survival because you made the decision and only did a quarter of the work needed to take responsibility for that decision.

Time isn’t who she used to be. Time used to drag and suffocate and strangle. Now Time is broad watercolor strokes to blurry, cotton eyes. I live the same day over and over with the same amount of nothing but I still do not feel the suffocation of monotonous repetition, not like I used to when I was young. I feel unfulfilled still, empty still. But it is not overwhelming. And this nothing that happens, the absolute repetition of activity happens so quickly now. Not like it used to. I feel like I’m always playing catch up. There’s never enough time, or maybe I am newly blind to her movement? Whatever the case, Time and I are strangers now, which is such a shame because I used to know her intricately, anxiously so.

Sometimes I dissolve into words, I think that’s why everything moves so fast.

I’m going to force my oddity on man and disregard everyone that has anything at all to say. I always said I was crazy, which drew extensive attention, but I no longer think that is fitting for me and who I aspire to become. I think I desire much more to be odd than to be mad. Eccentric.

A man bought me six and a half hours (after tax) worth of stuffed animals. And I haven’t even had sex with him. Fuck, that kind of feels like debt. Can I like hang out w him and like “drop” $50 somewhere he’ll eventually notice. I’ve never had to do that before, but I am willing to go that far. Actually, I did that to my GM last break (and I shouldn’t have, I deserve better compensation for my labor, but I refuse to be rude ever).

Why would I want a man that smells like wood?

Hanging out w me is like just me saying “no babies” over and over in different voices.

The feeling drips like sunflower blue syrup down my back. It feels too sharp to be harmless, but too quick to enjoy. And it leaves my chest hollow after it’s appearance. My limbs are heavy and my head is worried about the fluttering around that happened inside my chest last night, I wasn’t sure if it was death or symptoms of suffocation. My lungs just filled and I grasped my body from within my soul and when it was sufficient and neat, I dove back into the harmful thoughts of lust and the gripping behavior caused by being lonesome. This feeling doesn’t flow, it’s too stuck, it remains mine. So instead it drips.

I want to scream that I am good at what I do because a piece of me always felt that you doubted me. I am good enough that I read a love poem out loud to my high school class with the girl in the class and I didn’t get bullied for it, it didn’t scare her away, and my teacher complimented me about it. I was known by the whole high school as a writer and it wasn’t in a bad way. I used to write and edit peoples papers and I was an English tutor for middle school. My English 101 professor told me I should Publish my paper based on the three paragraphs that I wrote in twenty minutes right in front of him. I have not read a full book since sophomore year of high school and I am able to break down structures and themes of books by picking through about 30 pages, and from that I can developed a thesis, a five paragraph outline, research questions, and eventually a 6 page paper from 30 pages of a novel. I hung out with someone, read then my poetry and they were surprised that it was not cringe. Every English teacher I’ve ever had has loved me. I was already so familiar with the English language and the concept of grammar rules and their functions that I could speak in limited vocabulary sentences in Spanish when I was taking Spanish 2 (did I cry every single day, yes, but did I get an A, also yes). When I tell you I am a writer, I mean that it is my soul. It is the only reason I am alive. When I tell you I am good at what I do I mean I’m already published. Twice. I am good at what I do. So yeah, I know what a fucking genre is, bitch.

Even my abusers will tell you I’m good at what I do.

I need someone to press their soul into mine so that I am sure I have one.

Good morning honey bun 💛 I hope you have a wonderful day today and I’ll be sending good thoughts your way all day :) love you ❤️❤️

8 year old me would think I’m the most beautiful woman in the world. I remember how critical I was of other women, I remember the way I used to pick them apart in my head about all their imperfects. It’s bc I only heard those things about myself. And I’m not proud, but I was a child and I am completely different now. I remember my favorite parts about women too. I remember how I used to melt for long hair and belly button piercings and being unashamed. I am tall and wealthy and have a million expressions. 8 year old me would stare at me in the store and hope to be her, 8 year old me would love to be 17 year old me. It’s all she ever wanted. I am everything I ever wanted. I am gorgeous.

Sometimes it’s claymation filter and my body is yellow and I am ugly and when I laugh my teeth are bucked. I get so clear that I am ugly. I get so outside of my own perspective that I have never uttered my own name.

I am so self aware and violently gone and ridiculous. And I’ve been wanting this. That I thank god for planning and hard work.

I’m a slut. :) beep

[mc-dude]

solidarity (pg)

Bea knows.

The specifics of that statement are less frightening than the underlying meaning.

Someone else knows.

There, Ted thinks somewhat hysterically. Properly terrifying.

It’s not like he doesn’t trust Bea with his life, but just that small, one-person addition that brings the total number of people in the know to three instead of two, makes it that much more dangerous.

He could lose his company, if this got out. Booster would lose his endorsement deals and modelling contracts. The League would never hear the end of it.

All because Ted couldn’t wait another five seconds for the elevator doors to close before pressing Booster up against the side of it and shoving his tongue into his mouth.

The sound of a purse hitting the floor behind him had only just barely broken through the wave of Booster-related endorphins, but he managed to catch her wide gaze before the doors closed, and that was that.

It’s out there, now.

Just the word out sends another wave of anxiety coursing through Ted’s body. He cringes into his pillow as he twists his fingers through the sheets. They had been so careful, up until now. Booster doesn’t really realise the danger they could be in, the public outrage that could happen if their actual relationship status was ever revealed. He can’t understand. He didn’t grow up here, in this time; he didn’t have to live through viciously homophobic fathers or blatant public disgust with the word homosexual, like even the word was something dirty and unclean. Even with the AIDS epidemic in full-swing, Booster still has trouble understanding.

It’s just not a thing, in the future, he had told him one night, with the sweat still cooling between their chests and his fingers trailing through the little tufts of hair on Ted’s chest with a lazy, unconcerned touch. It’s just– normal. No one cares; no one even thinks to care, it’s so normal.

Ted remembers trying to picture it– a society without homophobia. Where he could reach out to hold Booster’s hand in public and have no one bat an eye. Where he could finally not have that nervous twist in his stomach every time Booster reached out to touch him, for fear of being discovered. Maybe we should go back there, he had half-joked, pushing the sweaty clumps of hair off of Booster’s forehead so he could lean down and plant a kiss right above his eyebrow. It’s bad in other ways, Booster had mumbled into his skin, right before twisting his arm around Ted’s chest, kissing the spot right above his sternum, and drifting off to sleep.

But we wouldn’t have to hide, Ted had thought. Maybe that was worth all the other horrible things Booster had told him about the 25th century. Maybe Ted could piece back together Booster’s broken time sphere he had buried and take them into the 21st century, where Booster had assured him public opinion has- will change, and they could be together like Ted so desperately wants.

But that’s decades from now; that bright future seems so hopelessly far away, and now someone else knows. It could all be over before him and Booster could even start considering the possibility of a happily ever after.

(and even just that thought sends a pang of longing stabbing through Ted’s chest)

“Fuck,” Ted proclaims to his ceiling with feeling, flopping a hand over his eyes and using the blanket to muffle his noise of frustration.

Someone knocks on the door. Ted freezes. It’s not Booster– he’s never quite mastered the whole knock before entering deal. It’s a timid knock, the second one hesitating before connecting with the wood. Ted stares at the doorknob, considering the merits of just pretending he’s not here.

“I know you’re in there, Ted.”

Tora’s soft voice wafts in from under the gap between door and carpet, and Ted relaxes on instinct, before tensing back up. Shit, does Tora know too? He almost slaps himself. Of course she does; her and Bea are so close they’re practically the same person. He pushes himself to his feet and pads through the shag carpet, hesitating before reaching for the door handle.

He’s not quite sure what he’s so afraid of. He trusts Tora- and Bea. Maybe it’s just the fact that he’s been hiding this part of himself for so long that the thought of sharing it with anyone other than Booster is terrifying. Hell, sharing it with Booster was terrifying– and that was without him even confessing anything.

His mouth had been a little busy at the time.

Tora taps again, quiet, yet firm, and Ted sighs, rubbing the corner of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. Time to face the music. He tugs open the door a few inches and pokes his face out. And blinks.

Tora’s wearing a onesie. Some light blue thing with a fur-lined hood, even a little pocket on the tummy. His eyes make it all the way down to her fuzzy white slippers before the laugh works its way out of his throat. He clamps his lips down around it and grins at her.

“Shut up,” Tora laughs as she smacks his arm lightly. “Bea made fun of me, too. It’s comfortable!”

Ted feels the tension seep out of his shoulders as he gives her another once over and snickers behind his hand. “I’ll bet.”

Tora sticks her tongue out at him. Ted swings open the door a little bit further to lean against the doorframe. He hesitates; feels a drop of sweat slide down the back of his neck.

“Um- what’s up?”

Her eyebrows raise ever-so-slightly, and then she leans to the left to poke her head over his shoulder. “Is Booster here?”

Ted feels the hot flush work its way over his cheeks in a matter of milliseconds. “I- no,” his voice squeaks as he tries to keep his cool. “Why would he–”

Tora’s hand reaches out to squeeze his arm, cutting him off. She tilts her head to the side and smiles at him, warm and sincere.

“Ted,” she admonishes in that don’t-bullshit-me tone that always throws Ted off guard. “It’s okay.” She taps on her nose with a reassuring quirk of her lips. “It’s just me.”

Ted’s eyes flick between hers, once- twice, and then he lets his guard drop, hand running through the messy clump of auburn tufts with a tired motion.

“I–” he takes a deep breath. “Yeah, okay. Okay.” It’s okay, she already knows. “Okay,” he says again, for good measure. “Uh- no, he’s not here. I told him to stay in his own room, since-” he glances at her helplessly, words catching in his throat. “Since.. you know.”

Tora’s smile morphs into something more sympathetic, and she squeezes her fingers around his bicep one more time.

“Can you get him? Bea wants to talk.”

Ted blanches, nerves erupting in his stomach. “Talk about what?” His mind immediately goes to eight hundred different terrible places. Black mail. Public shaming. Bea waiting with Ted’s dad waiting to send him to one of those gay conversion camps he had threatened him with as a kid.

Tora waves her hand in front of his face to get his attention. “Nothing bad!” she insists, eyes wide. “She just has a, uh-” she glances around the hallway. “A proposition for you guys.”

Ted raises an eyebrow incredulously. “A.. proposition?”

The white fur on the hood flops down as Tora nods. “Uh huh! Just-” she leans a little closer. “Meet in the women’s bathroom on the third floor,” she whispers conspiratorially, and then she’s gone, spinning on the heel of her fluffy white slipper and turning the corner back into the hallway.

Ted slumps against the doorframe, stomach churning with trepidation. He blinks a few times, glances back longingly at his dark, safe room, and then, obediently, shuffles along the carpet to go get Booster.

“Why do we have to meet in the women’s bathroom, again?”

Booster kicks his feet from on top of the sink. Ted leans against the wall of the handicap stall, fingers tapping against his forearm in a nervous staccato. If anyone notices his strategic position as far away from Booster as possible, they don’t mention it.

“Because,” Bea starts, slowly, as if it’s obvious why Ted has a feminine hygiene dispenser digging into his ass. “This is the only room not able to be accessed by the League monitoring system.”

Booster’s legs stop kicking. “What.” He shoots Ted a look. “Really?”

Ted shrugs. “Hey, I didn’t design it,” he holds up a finger, “only.. modified it.”

Beatriz rolls her eyes. He sees Tora smile at him from her perch on top of the supply cabinet.

Booster hops off the sink and leans back against it, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. He glances at Ted. “Okay,” he starts, awkwardly and after a brief moment’s hesitation. He scoots imperceptibly closer to Ted’s position before continuing. “What did you want to- talk about?”

The paper towel dispenser squeaks as Bea shifts against it uncomfortably. Ted watches her gaze drift to Tora’s slippers, then to her face, and then back to her own feet, before she takes a deep breath that sets Ted on edge.

“Okay,” Bea says, pushing down a cuticle on her nail with an air of nonchalance betrayed by the way Ted can see her leg bouncing up and down against the cheap vinyl bathroom tiles. She takes another breath- glances at Tora again. Tora nods at her encouragingly. Bea huffs in annoyance, blowing her bangs off her face with a burst of hot air, and point at the Ted.

“Okay, obviously we know about- you guys,” she blurts out all at once.

Ted tenses up with a grimace. Booster shifts along the wall until he’s touching Ted’s sock with his bare foot.

“Which, honestly,” Bea continues, “I don’t know how you–” she points at Booster accusingly “– managed to keep it under wraps for this long. It’s actually mildly impressive.”

Booster puts his hand on his chest, offended. “Hey, I can be discrete when I need to be.”

Ted’s too busy panicking to remind him about that time when he told Max about his surprise party literally 3 minutes after they decided to throw him one. Booster’s so hopelessly sincere. It’s simultaneously one of his most endearing and most infuriating qualities. He shakes his head and forces himself to meet Bea’s gaze.

“What’s your point?” Ted grits out, words only slightly wobbly. Every muscle in his body is tense; he knows that Bea wouldn’t betray them, but some part of him- the same part that cowered under his Dad’s hateful glare when he caught him dancing to Gene Kelly musicals as a kid- can’t help but wait for the ball to drop.

Bea looks at him in surprise. “I–” she cuts herself off, biting on her bottom lip for a moment before glancing at Tora again. Tora smiles reassuringly. Bea stares at her for a moment longer, before glancing back at Ted.

“I thought we could..” she waves her hand in the air in a vague, mysterious motion “.. help each other.”

Ted purses his lips and raises an eyebrow. Booster responds before he can.

“What do you mean, help each other?” Booster asks, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. His eyes light up all at once. “Ahh– wait, I get what you’re saying.” He puts his hand on his chest again, apologetic this time. “Sorry, ladies, but I’m afraid Teddy here has stolen my heart and your womanly wiles cannot tempt me–”

A balled up paper towel hits him square between the eyes. Ted snorts, covering his smile with his palm.

“That’s not what I meant, you neanderthal,” Bea says with practised agitation, already rolling up the next paper towel ball in preparation. “What I meant is that–”

She cuts herself off again, this time with a choking sound, her fingers clenching tight around the paper towel. Something in her eyes looks familiar, Ted realises. Something about the way she’s holding herself, arms wrapped around her stomach and the way she keeps glancing nervously over at Tora like she wants to reach out but something is holding her back, is so, achingly familiar..

Bea bites her lip again and shifts closer to Tora so that she’s leaning against the supply cabinet. Her shoulders noticeably relax, just an inch, but it’s enough to cause Ted to realise what’s going on here- like a bolt of lightning hitting his brain.

“Wait–” Ted holds up a hand. “You and Tora?” He holds up his other hand, too, just for good measure. “Really!?” Booster shifts so that he’s leaning a little straighter.

“Her and Tora what? I don’t–”

Tora reaches out to grab Bea’s hand. Beatriz twists their fingers together and glares at them, as if daring them to say something.

A moment of silence. “Oh,” Booster realises softly. His whole face lights up, and then he rubs his hands together in front of him like some kind of C-grade villain. “Ohhhhh ho ho.”

The second, well-deserved paper towel ball hits him in the face. Ted whacks him on the side of the head too, for good measure.

He interrupts Booster’s petulant hey! by taking a step towards Tora.

“So when you said proposition, you meant–”

Tora nods, a cute flush on her face that Ted’s pretty sure isn’t from the temperature. “Like, an arrangement between us four for–” she taps her chin with a finger, as if searching for the right word “– safety?” Her eyes flick to Booster. “The world I grew up in was not so- unwelcoming to this sort of love, but I’ve seen what people are like here, and I don’t want that kind of–” she scrunches up her nose “– unpleasantness brought upon us.” She catches Ted’s gaze again with a worried expression. “Any of us.”

The look Bea gives Tora is so full of fondness that Ted almost feels like he’s intruding. She squeezes her hand before speaking.

“What she means is if we want to go out, we all go out, but like–” she looks at Booster with an air of tired acceptance “– so it looks like we’re with–” Ted sees her glance at his pajama pants; the blue ones with the purple polka dots, and then grimace ever-so-slightly “– with you guys, you know?” She rotates her fingers in a circle around themselves. “Switch it up, so people don’t realise that we’re all–”

“Gay as hell?” Booster offers with a deadpan.

That earns him another paper towel ball to the face, but this time he catches it, smirk stretching along his dimples and a quiet laugh on his lips. Ted hears Tora giggle from her perch on the cabinet and Ted can’t help his own snort that quickly transitions into a full on snicker. Something in his chest finally gives, then- like a dam that’s been at capacity for years finally opening the floodgates, and that last bit of tension seeps out of his frame as he lets himself flop to the side to press up against Booster’s arm.

“Yes, Booster,” Bea concedes with an elaborate eyeroll. She watches as Booster rotates his arm up and around Ted’s shoulder, tugging him even closer, and then smiles– one that makes her eyes crinkle along the corner from how wide it is. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

Ted forcing himself to stop giggling long enough to catch his breath. He runs his fingers through his hair with another relieved huff.

“So you guys want to go on double dates?” He catches Bea’s gaze with a wry grin. “You sure you can stomach us for that long?”

“We all have to make sacrifices to get what we want,” Bea says solemnly, hand over her heart.

Ted snorts. Booster makes an offended noise, but he’s smiling too. Relieved, Ted thinks. He saw the way Booster scooted closer to him before they knew what was going on; his instinct to comfort Ted as best as he can without crossing that line into his personal space. Sometimes he can’t quite believe how much he loves the man pressed up beside him.

“So, it’s settled then.” Tora claps her hands in front of her.

Booster pushes back off of the stall and slips his arm down to grab Ted’s hand. “Sure. Sounds good to me.” He squeezes his fingers and tilts his head to the side. “Teddy?”

Ted looks down at their hands in surprise, but then shakes his head and squeezes his fingers back. “Yeah,” he says, dragging his thumb along the outer part of Booster’s palm with a smile. “Yeah, sounds good.”

Bea pushes herself off of the cabinet and tugs Tora towards the door. “Good. I’ll let you know when we’re going out.”

“Why do you get to decide when we go out?” Booster whines.

“Because I called the meeting, which gives me the authority,” Bea retorts, reaching for the door handle with a haughty smirk.

Something feels left unsaid- unfinished. Ted realises what it is at the last moment, and grabs her arm before she can open the door. Bea spins around with a raised eyebrow. Ted feels his face grow hot, fingers scratching at the back of his neck as he tries to find the words.

“Um, I just wanted to say- thank you guys.” He glances at Tora, and then gestures between the two of them. “For being so.. um.” Booster rubs his thumb along the inside of his palm and Ted takes a breath. “So- you know.. about this. Cool, whatever.” He lets out a nervous chuckle. “For a while there I thought you guys were gonna–”

Tora grabs his free hand. “Ted,” she admonishes, gently squeezing his hand to get his attention. “Don’t think for a second that either of us would ever- reject you.” She glances at Booster and smiles. “Even if Bea and I weren’t together.. you guys are still family.”

Ted, mortifyingly, actually chokes up a little at that, and lieu of an actually using his vocal chords, squeezes Tora’s hand back.

“Unfortunately,” Bea adds, smiling in that rare, sincere way of hers, before reaching for the door handle and maneuvering her way out of the room. Ted gathers himself before, regretfully, dropping Booster’s hand and stepping out into the hallway, feeling lighter than he has in years. Booster pushes his way past Ted’s shoulder.

“So-li-darityy~” he whispers to Tora, raising his hand for a fistbump. Bea punches him in the arm. Tora grins and bumps his fist anyways.

[armeniaitn]

Mothers' Power in US Protests Echoes a Global Tradition

New Post has been published on https://armenia.in-the.news/politics/mothers-power-in-us-protests-echoes-a-global-tradition-39226-25-07-2020/

Mothers' Power in US Protests Echoes a Global Tradition

Wearing matching shades of white or yellow, the women of the “Wall of Moms” in Portland, Ore., have become instant icons of the city’s protests, though the mothers nightly gatherings only began last Saturday and the city’s protests have been going on for more than a month.

They join a long line of mothers’ protests against state violence and what they view as authoritarianism around the world, including in South Africa, Sri Lanka, Argentina and Armenia, which have shown that mothers can be particularly effective advocates for a cause — but also that there is a catch.

History suggests that mothers’ power is most potent when they are able to wield their own respectability, and the protections it brings, as a political cudgel. But that is easiest for women who are already privileged: married, affluent, and members of the dominant racial or ethnic group.

Mothers who are less privileged often struggle to claim that power, even though they are often the ones who most urgently need it.

Image

Members of the Black Sash movement demonstrating against apartheid in Mmabatho, South Africa, in 1991.Credit…Gallo Images, via Shutterstock

Theresa Raiford, a Black mother who is the executive director of Don’t Shoot Portland, a local group that works to end police violence, helped to organize and direct the Wall of Moms’ early actions, but noted that the positive response to the mostly white mothers has been proof of the very racism they are protesting.

Mothers had been participating in the protests for five weeks, but “nobody recognized them until they literally put on white so they could be highlighted as white,” she said.

“What it does show us is that Black lives don’t matter here, white moms do,” she said. “And those moms know that, too. That’s why they’re standing in solidarity with us.”

‘Mothers are symbolic to the nation’

Bev Barnum, who posted the original Facebook message asking moms to come and protest, said she had asked women to color-coordinate their outfits in order to stand out in the crowd, but otherwise told them to dress “like they were going to Target.”

“I wanted us to look like moms,” Ms. Barnum, who serves as the group’s informal leader and organizer, said in an interview. “Because who wants to shoot a mom? No one.”

Mothers’ protests are often powerful precisely because the gender roles that ordinarily silence and sideline women, allowing them to be seen as nonthreatening, turn into armor for political activism, experts say.

During Armenia’s 2018 “velvet revolution,” a largely nonviolent uprising that eventually toppled the country’s leader, Serzh Sargsyan, mothers took to the streets pushing their children in strollers, indelibly tying their maternal identities to their political demands.

A demonstration in Yerevan, Armenia, in 2018.Credit…Vano Shlamov/Agence France-Presse — Getty Images

In Armenia, “mothers are symbolic to the nation and, to some extent, have immunity in protests,” Ulrike Ziemer, a sociologist at the University of Winchester in Britain, wrote in a 2019 book chapter about the uprising. “If police would have touched mothers with their children in prams during the protests, that would have brought shame on them individually, but also on the state apparatus they represent.”

In the Armenian protests, mothers from all walks of life were able to claim those protections, Dr. Ziemer said in an interview. But in societies that are divided along racial or ethnic lines, mothers from marginalized groups cannot access that full political power so easily.

In South Africa, the Black Sash, a group of white women who opposed the apartheid regime, were able to use their gender and race as a shield for their political activity that others could not.

“The Government has let Black Sash survive while closing down other anti-apartheid groups in part because white South African society has perched its women on pedestals,” The Times reported in 1988. “The police find it awkward to pack the paddy wagons with well-bred troublemakers who look like their mothers or sisters.”

Members of the Black Sash movement demonstrating against apartheid in Cape Town, South Africa, in the 1970s.Credit…Gallo Images, via Shutterstock

The government had no such compunction about locking up Black women. Albertina Sisulu, a pioneering Black anti-apartheid activist who was also a married mother of five, was arrested and held in solitary confinement multiple times. Countless other Black women suffered even worse fates.

In Sri Lanka, women from the Tamil minority group have been protesting for years to demand information about sons and daughters who were kidnapped by state forces during the country’s civil war and never heard from again. Their activism has drawn international attention and some limited engagement from the country’s government.

But when the women’s demands went beyond their own individual grief and engaged with politics more broadly, national politicians and civil society groups dismissed them as pawns of male activists, said Dharsha Jegatheeswaran, co-director of the Adayaalam Centre for Policy Research, a Sri Lanka-based think tank. As members of a marginalized minority group, she said, motherhood could take them only so far.

Tamil women holding photographs of their missing sons during a protest against the Sri Lankan government in Colombo, Sri Lanka, in 2013.Credit…Reuters

In the United States, there is a long tradition of Black women claiming their identities as mothers when protesting against police shootings, lynchings, and mass incarceration. But, like the Tamil activists in Sri Lanka, they have tended to be viewed through the narrow lens of their own grief and fear for their children. White women have typically been taken far more seriously by white audiences as representing mothers generally — another case of bias on display.

Ann Gregory, a lawyer and mother of two who joined the wall of moms in Portland on Sunday, said they had hoped to serve as a buffer between other demonstrators and law enforcement.

“We realize that we’re a bunch of white women, and we do have privilege,” she said. “We were hoping to use that to protect the protesters.”

“We don’t need silent victims, we need loud witnesses.”

Instead, the women got a crash course in the grievances that had set off the protests in the first place.

Ms. Barnum, new to such activism, said she was surprised when other demonstrators warned her group that they could be in danger.

“The news said that if you give the police officer a reason to fear for their life, a reasonable fear, they could hurt you,” she said. “But if you didn’t give them a reason then they wouldn’t hurt you.”

The moms, she reasoned, would be peaceful and give the officers no cause for alarm, so had no reason to worry.

That may seem an unusual belief for someone attending a protest against police violence, but it illustrates the privilege taken for granted by many people who have not had run-ins with law enforcement.

So on her first night at the protests, when federal officers fired tear gas and flash-bang grenades at the group of moms, “I couldn’t believe what was happening,” she said. “We weren’t being violent. We weren’t screaming expletives at them.”

A Wall of Moms member washing her face after being tear gassed by United States federal agents on Tuesday.Credit…Mason Trinca for The New York Times

The power wielded by police has long been justified with the claim that officers must be able to use force when necessary to protect themselves or the public, and that people who have done nothing wrong have nothing to fear. Black activists and their allies have been contesting that claim for years, but the tide of public opinion has been slow to turn against law enforcement.

However, when officers fire tear gas and projectiles at soccer moms holding sunflowers, as happened in Portland on Sunday night, even more observers — who may not previously have thought they could be at risk — see that as a fate that might befall anyone. And history suggests that could have profound political consequences.

In Argentina in the late 1970s and early 1980s, the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo, women whose children had been “disappeared” by the military government — seized, tortured and murdered in secret — were the most visible opposition to the regime, with their distinctive white kerchiefs.

They “continually pointed out that the majority of the disappeared were not terrorists, as the junta claimed, but loyal members of the opposition, including people who had never engaged in politics and even some members of the establishment,” the political scientist Marguerite Guzman Bouvard wrote in “Revolutionizing Motherhood,” her 2002 book on the group.

“In shattering the lies that served as a rationale for the junta’s terror,” Dr. Bouvard wrote, “the Mothers exposed the glaring weakness of the entire system.”

Hebe de Bonafini, the head of Argentina’s Mothers of Plaza de Mayo group, leading a march in Buenos Aires in 1979.Credit…Eduardo Di Baia/Associated Press

There are obvious differences between the Argentine dictatorship of and the United States today. But Ms. Gregory, the Portland mother who joined Sunday’s demonstration, was deeply disturbed by the federal officers’ violent response to the protest.

“We weren’t any danger to them,” she said. “We were just standing there with flowers. We’re a bunch of middle-aged moms.”

“This isn’t what America is supposed to be like,” she said. “We’re not supposed to be ruled by militarized, jackbooted forces.”

Ms. Raiford, the longtime activist, is cautiously hopeful about the power of that message — and its messengers.

“Sometimes when people hear activists say ‘Black lives matter,’ they say ‘well that has nothing to do with me.’” she said. “But when we talk about the intrinsic value of humanity, and how all of our lives intersect because we have children, we have families, we live in communities, we have loved ones, I think that that creates less of a barrier.”

She hopes the attention on the moms will help to spread that message. “We don’t need silent victims,” she said. “We need loud witnesses.”

Read original article here.

[abnahaya]

It’s That Bad That Now I Talk Politics: A Rant

That was a clickbait, guys, I’m not going to preach about political things as I am not in a proper capability to do that. I’m sorry (not sorry) but I do still think that we all can and need to educate ourselves with the current social issues instead of hoping that someone “better” would spoon-feed it to us. However, I will provide a few reliable news link by the end of the post to give you insights about what happened.

Things are getting worse that people like me, who prefers to look up about how JLo learned how to pole dance from the internet rather than what my own President is doing, actually got off my comfort bubble screaming “HOLY SHIT!” then changing my profile pictures into some plain black hashtags in solidarity of my peers and fellow Indonesians. Yup, it’s that bad. If you hate politics as much as I do, understand this: I get it that you just wanna get everything over with, and you’re tired of all the negativity and you don’t know who to trust, but sadly, we’re not 10 years old anymore, we can’t afford to stay at the same level of ignorant as when we were a kid just because it’s not our cup of tea. I mean, look at Greta Thurnberg, that kid is screaming for her future, and so should we. I mean, in 30 years we are most probably still alive, though not in our prime age anymore. So yes, for people with big egos like us, think about our own futures! 

In this post, I will only stating my opinions and concerns towards a massive student demonstration that took place is various cities in indonesia yeterday. This is another complex and urgent issue, that has been spread out in many misleading ways by the western medias: the demonstration against the revision of the criminal code, anti-corruption bill, urging government to execute the anti-sexual violence bill, and of course, the environment issues.

As I mentioned before, many western media wrote misleading articles about the movement. Most of them only highlight a piece of the first point, that in the criminal code draft, pre-marital sex could be criminalized, including for the foreign tourists. So they simplify it into “sex laws”. like EXCUSE ME? There are so many problematic points in the code yet of course you gotta pick the sex points because Indonesia as the stereotype of taboo-ing the matter and/or because it actually the thing that can affect the western. Like, seriously, I had to lecture my husband when he shared a Facebook status about how Australians should stop taking vacation to Bali because of the “new law” while he had no idea what it was about (and so did the author of the post). White people seriously need to check their privilege and educate themselves regarding the issues that aren’t their story.

Anyway, As per this morning, the hashtag #HidupMahasiswa (Long Live the Students) has been #1 worldwide trend as the demonstrations that took place yesterday in many cities in Indonesia were conducted by hundreds of students from different Universities. Each of them wore their alma mater jackets to show solidarity and status as they didn’t want other civilians with hidden agenda to join. This honestly is the peak of my nationality, it’s like the best historical moment I’ve ever been through all my life. I tear up and sincerely having mixed feelings of worry and proud every time I stumble on the news.

I followed the real-time development of the movement since many of my peers are sharing it through social media. Yeah right, said the baby boomers, why believe social media? Oh maybe because the mainstream media doesn’t talk the truth about big issues due to some private interests. These are real people with real friends and communities, some of them I know personally, and let’s admit, social media is our power in this generation. These people share their genuine experiences and tackle the false issues based on what they see in the field. 

Some points that I noted from people who actually were in the field is that many of the allegations by the parliament on TV were NOT true, such as the claim that the students demonstrated with violence. The thing is the students did not start the chaos, police started shooting them with tear gas and they panicked and started running away. Imagine hundreds of people that can’t see clearly, in pain, panicking and running to so many directions. The students asked the police to stop but they didn’t stop, many students actually warned each others not to get provoked. The chaos mentioned started when it was getting dark by unknown civilians who didn’t wear alma mater jacket. The clarifications were very precise, from many angles, and even civilians who happened to be in locations said the same thing. Not to mention the victim of police violence, many students had to be taken to hospitals for injuries.

It’s very sad to see people with privileges posting on their Facebook page shaming these brave students saying that they were dumb for not calculating other civilians who could use this opportunity to start chaos. I am filled with rage reading how they conveniently type from the comfort of their homes, that demonstrating is stupid and irrelevant and inviting violence. These people watched the news from mainstream TV medias who only interviewed the elites of the governments being in denial of their mistakes, and never show the other side of the story. Some became a delusional fan of the President, only caring about news saying that there were never any request from the students to drag him down.

What was even more upsetting, when I looked at the creative demonstration posters uploaded to Facebook, I found a lot of disgusting comments towards women protesters. People, mostly men, wrote like, “I should start raping then.” And even one of the elite government officer tweeted how the demonstration was “infiltrated by liberals who wants to do adultery sin”. The head of People’s Representative Council of Indonesia called a female journalist, “honey” as he was answering questions in an interview, followed by men’s audience laughter.

These are exactly why we need the anti-sexual harassment bill! Look at our sex education system, it lacks so much because of the “taboo” culture that tends to block information, so that people keep being clueless and missing the real point of the education: how to use contraception, the importance of consent, etc. And instead of educating properly, they suggest to block the entire sex education?  Sex will always be there and people will always find ways to do it, it’s one of human’s basic instincts, The problem is how they can have better, safer sex instead of how they to make them stop having sex at all.

These old geezers should face that values have changed in today’s society, they should’ve realized that the old Indonesian way to block everything “bad” is never the answer. It’s 2019 and we need to catch up with time. As time flows, things change, values shift, and we need an open mind to always be “relatable”. Today, ageism is no longer acceptable, just because you’re older, doesn’t mean you always know better.

The seniors said that students should be at their class studying, when on other times complaining about how much millennial and Gen Z don’t care about the government. They want us to listen to them coz they are the adults, forgetting that we are adults too, just because we haven’t worked as long as you, doesn’t mean we haven’t developed the same (or maybe better) critical thinking that makes an adult, adult. We have the rights to speak up and be listened to, especially because we’re the ones going to suffer all the consequences in the long run.

I believe yesterday’s movement would become one of the turning points of Indonesia, we still haven’t gotten an exact, satisfying answer towards our demands, heck we still haven’t gotten the respect we deserve as the citizen of this nation. However I’m sure, more young people are becoming more aware of what’s happening in the country and hopefully more will join us in the fights for humanity and justice.

Recommended articles:

https://uk.reuters.com/article/uk-indonesia-politics-rights-bill-explai/explainer-its-not-only-about-sex-indonesias-divisive-criminal-bill-idUKKBN1W91DE

https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2019/09/indonesia-protests-80-students-hurt-police-clashes-190925044211780.html

https://www.washingtonpost.com/world/asia_pacific/indonesia-students-rally-against-changes-to-corruption-law/2019/09/24/e860a64a-deb5-11e9-be7f-4cc85017c36f_story.html

https://nasional.tempo.co/read/1252142/gelombang-demonstrasi-mahasiswa-menggulung-dominasi-dpr

[jspark3000]

Ugly Asian Male: On Being the Least Attractive Guy in the Room

Statistically, I’m the least attractive person in the dating scene. Alongside black women, the Asian-American male is considered the most ugly and undesirable person in the room.

Take it from Steve Harvey, who won’t eat what he can’t pronounce:

Eddie Huang, creator of the groundbreaking Asian-American sitcom Fresh Off the Boat, responded to Steve Harvey in The New York Times:

“[Every] Asian-American man knows what the dominant culture has to say about us. We count good, we bow well, we are technologically proficient, we’re naturally subordinate, our male anatomy is the size of a thumb drive and we could never in a thousand millenniums be a threat to steal your girl.” 

Asian-American men, like me, know the score. That is, we don’t count at all.

Hollywood won’t bank on me. Think: When was the last time you saw an Asian male kiss a non-Asian female in a movie or TV show? Or when was the last time an Asian-American male was the desired person in a romantic comedy? And more specifically, when where they not Kung Fu practitioners or computer geniuses? I can only think of two examples: Steven Yeun as Glenn from The Walking Dead and John Cho as Harold from Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle. So it takes either a zombie apocalypse or the munchies to see a fully breathing Asian male lead, or a Photoshop campaign #StarringJohnCho for an Asian protagonist with actual thoughts in his head. 

It’s so rare to see a three-dimensional Asian male character, with actual hopes and dreams, that Steven Yeun remarks in GQ Magazine:

GQ Magazine: When you look back on your long tenure on The Walking Dead, what makes you proudest?

Steven Yeun: Honestly, the privilege that I had to play an Asian-American character that didn’t have to apologize at all for being Asian, or even acknowledge that he was Asian. Obviously, you’re going to address it. It’s real. It’s a thing. I am Asian, and Glenn is Asian. But I was very honored to be able to play somebody that showed multiple sides, and showed depth, and showed a way to relate to everyone. It was quite an honor, in that regard. This didn’t exist when I was a kid. I didn’t get to see Glenn. I didn’t get to see a fully formed Asian-American person on my television, where you could say, “That dude just belongs here.” Kids, growing up now, can see this show and see a face that they recognize. And go, “Oh my god. That’s my face too.”

Growing up, I never had that, either. I can’t help but think of this scene from the biopic, Dragon: The Bruce Lee Story, in which Bruce Lee watches the controversial Asian stereotype played by Mickey Rooney in Breakfast at Tiffany’s to a theater filled with derisive laughter. This moment with Bruce Lee is most likely fictional, but the weight of it is not lost on us:

This was a powerful moment for me as a kid, because I grew up with the same sort of mocking laughter, whether it was watching Short Round in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom with my white neighbors, or being assailed by the Bruce Lee wail in the local grocery store. I knew they were laughing at me, and not with.

“But hey wait!”—I’m told, with fervent knowing, “I know some Asian guys who are hot!” and I’m pointed to an infamous Buzzfeed list that shows “the hottest Asian men who will prove you wrong about Asian men,” with zero irony. Yes, I’ve seen the list. And yes, they’re like I expected: hard-rock glistening abs that are impossible for the working Asian dad, with classically European, chiseled faces and surgically-lifted eyes. More than that, it plays into the same creepy objectification of Asians as sexual play-toys.

Perhaps even worse than the portrayal of Asian men is how they’re not. More often, an acting role becomes “whitewashed” to suit a global audience, or an Anglo-American is the audience-avatar as a safety net for box office returns (remember, the last samurai in The Last Samurai was white). 

I know this is a shrill, ill-discussed subject with all kinds of variables, but from the prosthetic slanted eyes in Cloud Atlas to race-bleaching in Ghost in the Shell to the the “Yellow Peril” demonizing of Asian males as evil ninjas and drug dealers in Daredevil and Iron Fist, Asian-Americans—especially males, as females can still literally serve as co-stars—are vastly both mis- and under-represented. We’re used for a footnote joke at the Academy Awards (the same year that there was a campaign called #OscarsSoWhite), an overly loud insane person in raunchy comedies like The Hangover or Saving Silverman, or a “funny foreigners” punchline in the falsely interpreted romantic comedy, 500 Days of Summer.

One of the obvious reasons that Asian-Americans are sidelined in the mainstream is because there’s no money in it. It’s that simple. Freddie Wong, in his parody video of Ghost in the Shell casting Scarlett Johansson, says it best:

“Because, as a studio executive, the immorality of whitewashing a beloved work of Japanese culture is outweighed by my fear that audiences won’t want to watch a movie starring an Asian woman. And I don’t have the balls to take that risk. Besides, whatever political outrage this decision evokes doesn’t materially effect how much money I make.”

In other words, we’re stuck in a Catch-22. There can be no roles for an Asian-American unless it guarantees a profit, but since we’re not portrayed regularly in most media, there’s never a chance for Asian-American leads to draw a profit in the first place. I get the bottom line here, and I’m not so oblivious to consider that investors are all idealistic innovators. The creative risk is too daring. From an executive’s point of view, I can almost painfully understand.

So besides whitewashing an entirely Asian property, the next best thing is to throw in a scrap of representation by using the whole stereotype.  Make the Asian guy the smartest or the martial artist, and there’s your token diversity. It’s why major Hollywood blockbusters have now made shoehorned references to China: because they’re a huge source of box office revenue, and a pandering shout-out to China, no matter how forced or unoriginal, will mean more ticket sales. (It’s even going the other way, with Chinese movies like The Great Wall casting a white role to get more sales in America.)

Yet these roles have little nuance and only serve to further someone else’s plot. I’m the Manic Pixie Dream Girl and the Magical Negro, rolled into a non-threatening sidekick or the meditative Zen master. I will never be the action star or the romantic lead. God forbid that an Asian-American male would ever win against a non-Asian.

In some cases, Asians have capitalized on their own mockery by making fun of themselves in minstrel-like deprecation. I was surprised to find that the first winner of Last Comic Standing was a Vietnamese-American named Dat Phan, until I saw his routine, which went for the lowest hanging fruit possible. If you can’t beat the laughter, why not become the jester? Even other Asians want in on their own sabotage. 

Representation for the Asian-American only seems to happens when it aims for the least common denominator. The cheapest move, of course, is to completely hijack the “exotic quaintness” of Asian culture without going “fully Asian,” in order to boost a pseudo-masculinity. It’s easy: throw in Chinese tattoos or an Asian-type mysticism, and the non-Asian character instantly gains credibility. You can make up an Asian-sounding name, like “David Wong,” actual name Jason Pargin, a white author at Cracked.com, or Michael Derrick Hudson, a white poet who uses pen name “Yi-Fen Chou,” and watch the doors open. All the benefits, none of the fuss. Use my name without the actual struggle.

Of course, Asian-Americans are accused of allowing such undercover racism in the mainstream because we’re silent, passive, and obedient. We’re easy targets. We don’t typically march or cause disruption. We’re not socially involved. It’s why a huge clothing company like Abercrombie & Fitch can make shirts with Asian stereotypes like “Two Wongs Can Make It White.” It’s why Stephen Colbert (whom I love, by the way), can get away with non-apologies when he cracks yet another Asian joke. It’s why Ryo Oyamada, a 24 year old Japanese college student, can get run over by a police car in New York, and the officer goes free and no one chants in the streets.  

If you replaced the race with any other, the response would be louder, with solidarity on every side. Asian? No one cares. Literally and statistically, no one cares. Worst of all, it appears that Asians don’t care, either. It’s always a surprise when we speak up. You can drag an Asian-American off an airplane, and the most noise you’ll hear from other Asians is that they just don’t want to be seen as noisy and displeasing. 

The thing is, there are no shortage of Asian-American men who are physically and intellectually desirable, who could portray themselves as fully living beings with compelling stories and relatable conflicts. Is it possible that the mainstream, for all its talk about diversity, is afraid of encountering a man who is both Asian-American and attractive? Is it simply intolerable to witness an Asian-American switch lanes between the sidekick and the star? Has the Asian-American male been permanently imprinted as comic relief or Karate expert? Is it too culturally explosive to pair an Asian-American male with a non-Asian female? Can we really handle an Asian alpha male who gets the girl at the end? (Much less a non-Asian female lead get an Asian guy at the end?)

I have to admit that some of this is on us. No, I don’t mean that we brought it on ourselves. I would never, ever perpetuate blaming the victim. I mean that we can still fight against the pervasive, seemingly impermeable walls around the identity of the Asian male, by reaching and demanding for more challenging roles in every sphere of media. The shift in perception of the Asian-American male coincides with a shift in self-perception. 

Is it also possible to take a creative risk without guarantees? I know today’s market is less likely to pave new ground, with its risk-averse eye on sequels and reboots and recycling the same tale, but I wonder how we can tell new tales without resorting to the cheapest, easiest cliches, without exploiting Asian culture for “mystical credibility” but celebrating its uniqueness with a thoughtful exploration of both its treasures and its trials.  

I’ll leave you with a quote from Lewis Tan, the half-Asian-American actor who was rejected for the role of Iron Fist. In a recent interview, he says:

“I’ve turned down a couple roles. My agents will tell you when I first signed with them, I turned down the first three or four things that came up. I’ve just turned down roles that were super-stereotypically Asian that I didn’t feel represented me and I didn’t want to do. Not to necessarily say they’re bad roles, but it just wasn’t me. I’m not going to do this dorky Asian accent and just play someone in the background. That’s not why I’m here to act. I’m here to represent and to make stories that I believe in and to achieve new things in the industry.”

[lvlsrvryhigh]

LVLSRVRYHI-054: Hunni'd Jaws

Introductions first: for anyone who doesn't know, who are you / where are you from? Yo yo, thanks for having me - I’m Hunni’d Jaws. I'm a solar eclipse personified. I moisturize. Facts: Coconut oil is not what it’s cracked up to be, if you want the hook-up on emollients DM me...on some off the record ish. My latest conspiracy is that I'm immortal.

From New York, exiled in Berlin, I mean “based”. How does "On exile" sound? Like I’m on chic sabbatical for being a leftist multi-national expatriate. Although, ya gotta strive for "arbitrarily-detained" these days, for the social media credentials.

What music did you grow up listening to? I grew up whittling didgeridoos. On the real, there’s a rogue didgeridoo in the house I grew up in. I have no clue how it got there. No one knows how to really “play” it, we’ve all tried. If my folks got it at a flea market, I’ll be a livid that my parents are just hoarders, and that Carlo Santana’s 3rd cousin didn’t loan it to us.

I’m so thankful for access to radio like Hot 97 and NYC. Nineties pop music was an animal. Dance-pop, grunge, dancehall, alt-rock, RnB, hip hop, trip-hop, the OG list goes on. I’m nostalgic for the pop hits, from Ace of Bass to No Doubt.

Mix cds were essential living. My street punk older sister got me into punk music and concert-going, starting at places like the Chance in Poughkeepsie. Thusly train-ing to NYC was compulsory. SO former self getting signatures on my cons. I grew up technically too far to be a bridge-and-tunnel though. “Bridge-and-tunnel" is slang for someone who takes one of the bridges and/or tunnels to get to NYC by car. Bridge-and-tunnels get on the Metro-north around White Plains with vodka Coolatas and clog up the Midtown club scene.

My folks played jazz, on special holidays merengue, 60s funk, reggae some 80s pop - cuz they’re into that - oh and a lot radio monotonous news coverage, tonally so nauseating that they smell like plastic factory fumes. Afro-caribbean & latin music were solace, since I’m half dominican. My uncle was more current, and played lots of new wave, punk, or like fat boy slim and beastie boys for us. We ransacked his computer once when we finally got cd burner software.

I also was heavily into indie rock, post-punk and random hip hop or the genre one-offs, like Hold You Down by the Alchemist, I found. Finding music was everything. I wrote about UK experimental & indie music for my HS newspaper - no one cared. My younger sister got me into A Tribe, Madvillian and J Dilla. Shout out to Nora for keeping me updated on hip hop mixtapes throughout the 2000s. And in college I veered towards indie music and electronic.

I'm cutting myself off, we should pick up the conversation here for the next interview. We can highlight more cringe-worthy pleasures that did not age well and my descent into grime and club, and how I’m still an angsty tropical riotgrrl haha.

One of my earliest musical memories was going to this wedding in 1997 and dancing to radio garage house tracks - what we called techno. Recently, I had a dance floor epiphany at Monarch Club in Berlin. Soda Plains played a garage track I hadn’t heard since that era, maybe that occasion. I made a note of the lyrics, found it later, and binged on it for like a week. This is my mentality.

My first introduction to you as a DJ came via Call Dibs, the show you run with Dis Fig on Berlin Community Radio, so I wanted to get an idea as to how the show first came about and what the motivations were behind starting it together. How did the two of you start to put things together? Yeah before Call Dibs, before deejaying, I was a head in NYC. Fel - Dis Fig - and I met then, kicking it many dawns.

Fast forward, in Berlin we saw a vacancy for our musical focus on BCR - whose programming we admired and were acquainted with. It fell into place. We decided to do this plan b, instead of becoming tech-house legends.

Going through the show's archive is like reading a who's who of upcoming djs over the past few years and it's pretty impressive how on top of it the two of you have been. How do you decide on which guests to reach out to? Do you have any dream picks? Thanks! We follow music, convene on that, take turns hosting monthly, and plan logistical. There's been several artists, I heard one track of theirs and decided to ask them. I was lucky they were down. It's insanely cut-throat. There's usually a rose award ceremony and sacrifice.

No "dream picks", I’d like to work with so many people, especially unique gem artists. I'm interested in new, small, unique voices and showcasing challenging fun sounds.. The cult of celebrity dominates booking, the scene and the industry. At the same time, we don't obscurity hunt. The process is organic, why dilute it?

From what I can gather (correct me if I've got this backwards), you moved from New York to Berlin not too long before the BCR show first started. Do the two cities mean different things for you musically? Did anything change for you in that vein after making the move? Yeah definitely! I lived in NYC for a couple summers during school, then moved to Brooklyn after college for 3ish years. New York is it’s mix of cultures and hustle. There are so many micro-communities doing amazing things. It is a pace, hip-hop, outspoken, loud - the majority of new dembow in my mix, I heard blaring out of cars, at restaurants, and in cabs while visiting over in early June. Even just 2 years ago, Bushwick was not what it is now, or Crown Heights even. I grew up in the music communities in NY through Jelly NYC, Tribes, bass warehouse parties like Reconstrvct and DIY venues like 285 Kent, and lived with the Teklife extension. Ballroom, dancehall, jersey club, and footwork were foundational w/ parties like Ghettogothik, Lit City, S!ck Magic, Mixpak, among others. With all this stacked against a city, there's so much synchronicity, like Dubbel Dutch playing an arcade entirely word of mouth, or mythic rooftop parties w/ lineups of whoever is in town not playing officially in the city. Or heads from around the country, turn out to see acts on a Monday night in Meatpacking district. It’s a constant struggle and everything is bought out. I have a deep bond there, the music community has a different appreciation and gratefulness for each other. People dance. I’m idealizing hxc. It all took bites, I got bored, and was looking to contribute.

I shifted gears, and moved to Berlin, to party less. Hahah. Techno goth, crust punk aura, the gay club scene, and deejaying/producer culture are indisputably mainstream. The leftfield club scene is compact w/ Janus, PAN, Trade, Creamcake, Boo Hoo, among others. There’s a core DJ and music producer community here that inspires me, albeit, a catch-22, is insular. There’s more funding, clubs are seen as institutions. It’s still Germany. It’s much more modest, introverted, and chill. The sound is usually spot on. Flights are cheap. It’s more white, whiter than the Midwest.

If you can sort housing, it’s a refuge for creativity because of work/life balance.

You're also involved with a few programs based around teaching dj skills to women and those within the lgbtq+ spectrum in No Shade and Intersessions. What interested you about these programs? What was it like for you personally when you first learnt to DJ? Was there anything similar out there at the time? Who wants a world w/ the same people, the same cliques, in control throwing the same parties, of similar perspectives, w/ the same mega brands curating, playing the same music?  Sign me up if I'm a mega-brand.

I didn’t choose to be half black, a woman, or femme, so I def take advantage of the opportunities given to me. And I'm aware I'm somewhat priveleged. I have a lot of friends who also want to organize and pass the torch. My core ethics are merging human rights, creativity, and access empowerment. I was also involved in the Co-Op compilation w/ Ziur, galvanized to counter the tension and rise of global alt-right movements.

When I first learned to DJ, it was a necessity to socializing. And when I got more serious about it, I had to teach myself. Getting comfortable at the club and tech-literacy was another blind-fold. I’ve had to dj with equipment I've never used before - wish these moments were filmed cuz I went too hard on myself. There were some people to help me but not really. I also had several feminist social groups to help with the visibility of women in NYC, our goals were more about solidarity and the safety of women at parties.

I co-founded No Shade alongside Linnea and Caramel Mafia in association with Acud Macht. The DJ tutoring program aspect gives the participants more security and time with industry standard equipment. They can ask questions, and they are learning from women and non-binary folk. Blasphemy!

Links between music and therapy come up a lot on your social feeds and, though it's not really something I've put a lot of thought into understanding, I often find myself relying on music to clear my mood or help me move past something that's frustrating or aggravating me. Do those ideas ever inform the sets you put together or the music you listen to? That’s sick that you found a personal correlation. Music as therapy vs. music therapy vs. sound therapy vs. vibration therapy vs. however we define music and therapy has an abundance of operational levels. On your experiential level, it’s great for emotional awareness, resonance, letting out stress, etc. 

It can be deeply triggering yet cathartic too. It’s tied very close to memory. People with degenerative neurological diseases can get pieces of their identity and abilities back when listening to their old records, or happiness. In other mysteries, if you suffer a major head injury you can miraculously become a musically-creative, perfect-pitch savant. Still so much is unknown in the regard to cognitive neuroscience, music and healthcare. This is Your Brain on Music by Daniel J. Levitin and Musciophilia by Oliver Sacks expand on this.

The club is an undeniable conduit, escape. A good sound bath from a sound system will reset you. Cymatically, it manifests your physical matter. Certain chord progressions and frequencies will awaken certain feelings. Certain rhythms make you rotate your hip joints, certain vibrations catapult you to an astral plane, ASMR and whiteness soothes and entrances. I’m rambling. It’s personal, it’s human, it’s spooky, it's cyborg. There’s loads of sound phenomena to explore.

The tradition of it in the psych world is very “koombayah”, which led me away from the narrow conventional sense of it. However, there are however strides towards incorporating rap into the psychotherapy application. The history of oration down to modern rap is rooted in the "music game over the streets" to narrate the struggle. Poets from West Africa brought oration traditions over to communicate their highest spiritual being. The command of it is called Nommos. As a practice it's so very suitable for the clinical experience. Therapeutic Uses of Rap & Hip Hop by Susan Hadley discusses this, maybe overintellectualizes it, but it’s an important platitude to introduce formally to the white-coat community. I may go back to school for it, so I can dispute and defend the way. I wish I had proper exposure to composition as a kid. I was more interested in learning tabs so I could steeze on covers.

There’s truth deeper and universal, beyond niche music that privileged perspectives get to admire, be bewildered by and entertain with. It's orthodox. It seems the people involved don't consider how esoteric and self-centered this chokehold of participation is, like subjective tunnel-vision ; music culture is full of circumstance, value judgements, media infrastructure, markets, and industry. Who has access? What is contingent? and Why? What does this all mean in 5-10 years?

You seem to take a playful, lighthearted, but also semi-theatrical approach towards your moniker and press shots (covering yourself in honey, planning to do the same but with bees), which is refreshing and in stark contrast to the ultra serious DJ look (black tee, dark background, lots of shadow, plsdon'tsmile). Was that something you consciously set out to achieve? Wow, thanks for noticing! Deejaying is full of bad baaaad tropes. Shout out Kurupt FM for being as played out as possible. Satire, critiques, and creating new information are important to me but it's more unconscious and involuntary. Music gets all bent out on being serious, then plays into trends and lacks originality.

I treat creating under hunnid jaws as a full multi-medium, creative universe. My press shots were fun. They feel so old, they're from a past life at this point. The series are under themes of objectification, erotica, and sex culture paradigms mirroring a literal interpretation of my pseudonym. The general idea was around for 2 years before it came together with my homegirl Syd who's in Rotterdam now. The actual process felt like I was suffocating and stung my eyes, basically honey-board torture. I'm sitting on a lot of weird ideas and bizarre influences. Just takes one or two sentences for an idea to be a good one. I'm excited to use them when I have more content and collaborators. I'd love to art direct for others. And to do more video.  Or something extrasensory.

Did you set out with a particular idea for this mix? Where / how did you record it? I recorded it in my room on my pioneer ddj-sb controller. No set intention but this mix is a missing cut from a film reel, like a glimpse into my flashback. Disorienting like a horror flick being played in reverse.

What do you have planned for the rest of 2017? Conjuring up some gigs and beats. Ya tu sabes.

If you had to pick something for people to listen to immediately after this mix what would it be? If you can hold out, listen to Call Dibs this Thursday 6-8pm CET.