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theginger-patrick · 4 years

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ART 311 - May 11, 2020 The Heroes’ Journey

The Heroes’ Journey is an extremely prolific narrative structure that we see everywhere around is entertainment media. In one of my previous posts, I listed some of my favourite authors and their works which are particularly important to me because of their effective world-building and foreshadowing. Many of these authors’ bodies of work feature stories which are solidly set within the Heroes’ Journey structure, but there’s one story not listed there that I would like to focus on specifically. That would be Contact by Carl Sagan, my single favourite stand-alone novel. As it was first published in 1985 and a movie adaptation starring Jodie Foster and Matthew McConaughey being released in 1997, I shouldn’t have to worry about spoilers, but here’s a spoiler warning: SPOILERS BELOW!

The premise of Contact is relatively simple. It’s a story about an astrophysicist performing SETI (Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence) research at an radio-telescope array who receives what turns out to be a message from extraterrestrials, first contact, and the resultant reactions . As soon as most people hear that premise, they’ll assume that it’s either an apocalyptic armageddon style story, a science fiction horror story, or some sort of Star Trek First Contact style story where the aliens come to Earth and peacefully usher humanity into a new era. This story is none of the above. Instead, it’s a breathtakingly beautiful, moving, and awe-inspiring narrative supported by hard science fiction. Hard science fiction is science fiction which is soundly routed in factual science and mathematics. Anyone who comes to know me knows that I am hardly a religious or spiritual person, in fact I’m an outright atheist, however, this novel expresses in better form than I ever could in words the sense of the numinous which I feel when I see images like that of the Eagle Nebula’s Pillars of Creation (taken by the Hubble Telescope and released to the public in 2015), when I read papers on the research done at the LHC (CERN’s Large Hadron Collider in Europe), or when I read about advancements in technology and our understanding of the universe which can be used for the betterment of our species.

There are three acts to Contact much like any traditional Heroes’ Journey narrative: The Message, The Machine, and The Galaxy.

The Message:

Our protagonist, Eleanor “Ellie” Arroway, spends her early childhood being raised by supportive and loving parents, though her father Theodore “Ted” is the most influential on her life. He is her first mentor on her Heroes’ Journey, and helps to promote and develop her love of learning. From a young age Ellie is intensely inquisitive and devours new knowledge with a voracious appetite; she becomes particularly infatuated with the constant of π , known as “Pi”. This is of particular importance, so take note, and I would argue that this is Ellie’s call to adventure and is never refused or ignored. Unfortunately, while in sixth grade, her mentor and father Ted passes away to be replaced with her step-father John Staughton who is decidedly not supportive of Ellie’s non-feminine interests. Their acrimonious relationship is an important part to her characters development, though it was difficult for me to see it when I first read this novel as a teen.

The novel proceeds quickly through her middle and high school years, primarily using these years to highlight the sexism which was (and still is to a degree) wildly rampant in the STEM fields at the time. I viewed much of this to be further motivation for our hero to pursue her goals, though now with the added motivation of proving her step-father's opinion of her interests to be wrong. Her post-secondary education furthers her love and interest of science, gives her experiences in more social pursuits (*cough* sexual et cetera *cough*), and introduces her to ETI (just look at SETI and guess), and two mentors: two role models with one also being an antagonist of sorts. All of this concludes with her graduation and employment with SETI.

The first sign of extraterrestrial life is shown in the form Ellie discovering a repeating message of sequential prime numbers directed at Earth; this is not something that could randomly occur in nature. This is where the meat of the story begins; the crossing of the threshold. At first there’s skepticism among the scientific community, as there should be, but the message is received by unassociated and independent facilities. As the scientific community works through political channels to ensure redundant monitoring (this is set during the Cold War era) humanity is temporarily united in this realization that we’re not alone in the universe and a desire for further knowledge. This all culminates in the discovery of humanity’s first ever high-powered radio broadcast embedded in the message being returned to us, and industrial innovations and schematics needed to create a machine of unknown purpose embedded even deeper. Thus ends Act 1.

The Machine:

Tests, allies, and enemies are abundant in this part of the novel. Honestly, this is one of the most exciting parts of the entire story for me with all of the political machinations, discussions of about the new technology imparted to humanity by the extraterrestrials (nearly all of which are theoretically possible and grounded in real science), and discussions surrounding the philosophical implications and dilemmas of this new reality. I will glaze over most of it because otherwise this post would truly become a short novel in its own right.

The most important bits to take from this act (in my opinion) are the tests and enemies and approaching the inmost cave. The tests of Ellie’s dedication to following through with her life’s work in finding new funding and conquering adversity in the form of unnecessarily contrarian colleagues and critics, personal relationship, and physical and psychological recovery after a traumatic event. The enemies of this act are primarily the extremist religious and political groups which oppose the construction of The Machine and/or want to bring on the rapture, and . They ultimately destroy The Machine which is being built and funded by the government of the United States in a terrorist attack, and this appears to be the nail in the coffin of the project. The only way in which this is salvaged is through the efforts of an ally Ellie, who has a back-up machine in the works that was being used for “testing” components. The ordeal of this movie is undoubtedly the moment of activation of the machine, when the passengers and the world are witnessing the processes taking place from the opposing perspectives of the interior and exterior. The five passengers within the machine were confronting their fear of the absolute unknown considering this is a machine of foreign origin and technology never before used. Here ends Act 2.

(I am aware that this is Interstellar, not Contact. I just couldn’t find a GIF from Contact)

The Galaxy:

Approaching the inmost cave is what the story transitions into after The Machine activates as the passengers pass into the wormhole network which transports them to The Station. This would also likely cover the Reward (Seizing the Sword) phase. Throughout this sequence in the novel Ellie and the rest of the passengers are getting their first real reward to years of work and dedication with The Message and The Machine, but it’s obvious to the characters and audience that they’re currently in transit somewhere which has further implications on the story/mission. The trip to the station is an endless montage of breathtaking and mind-blowing scenes showing the depth and breadth of the capabilities of the extraterrestrials. Upon arrival, the passengers experience isolation and we later learn that the extraterrestrials were inspecting their memories. They used this data to put each passenger through a highly emotional and cathartic experience which was used to teach each passenger something about themselves of value. It is also when the most beautiful and numinous piece of information is given to Ellie when she asks the alien, who has appeared before her as her dead father Ted, how they experience when they create the numinous (she learned from the alien that the aliens are currently building a freaking galaxy, Cygnus A, using Sagittarius A which is the supermassive black hole in the center of our Galaxy, and is a massively powerful source of radio signals. Already a freaking numinous feat). It answers with Pi. Imagine how this would impact Ellie. Her "discovery” of Pi was one of the most formative experiences of Ellie’s early life. Specifically, the alien states that buried in Pi’s decimals is an encoded message. Imagine. Pi is a universal constant. It is something determined by physical and mathematical relations that just exist; you can’t “build” or “encode” Pi. The alien goes on to describe how they found this message in vague detail and directs Ellie on where to look.This entire combination of phases only concludes once the passengers have returned to Earth.

Their return could likely be classified as combination of the Roadblock phase. Upon their return to Earth, rather than Ellie and the other passengers having a triumphant and joyous return no time appears to have passed on Earth, despite them having spent hours if not days on The Station. They are questioned. There are Inquiries. Politicians and the public are furious that billions of dollars were “wasted” on something that apparently just spun up to a specific speed in place, then stopped. None of the instruments of human origin attached to The Machine recorded anything; there was no sense of movement, no great amount of time had passed just mere moments, no radiation, nothing. Eventually, all of the inquiries “determine” that it was all a big hoax perpetrated by some evil capitalist (the ally that Ellie secured funding and the backup machine from) in order to amass wealth and develop a monopoly on many of the associated technologies and emerging industries. The detection of The Message was all done via the coordination of desperate SETI scientists with this man and his satellites up in space to defraud the world. Fortunately none of the passengers are punished in any way, despite many of them having been scientists deeply involved with the discovery, decoding, and understand of The Message and the construction of The Machine.

The Return of the Elixir phase in this novel is both a phase to be celebrated and mourned. Ellie discovers that her father Ted wasn’t her biological father and that instead the man she thought was her step-father was her biological father. This is a loss of identity that she mourns deeply, but with the experience, perspective, and humility she has gained through this whole journey she is able to forgive her mother’s infidelity and come to terms with this bit of knowledge. She is also able to conduct research regarding Pi to help confirm her story regarding their journey in The Machine and discovers the message hidden in Pi’s decimals. A perfect circle. Ironic as hell and yet an absolutely beautiful impossibility thrown in by Carl Sagan that elicits a sense of the numinous in anyone I know who has read the novel. In closing, not only has Ellie’s Heroes’ Journey given her more wisdom and grace as a human, but also a powerful piece of knowledge that validates her entire experience and does the very thing scientists hunger for the most: she expanded humanity’s understand of the universe and of how much there is more to discover.

I know that that was one hell of a lot of word vomit on the blog, so if you read it all the way then thank you.

#Pi #Contact #Carl Sagan #Interstellar #science fiction #sci-fi #heroes' journey

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nerds4life · 5 years

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The Essence of Evil: Sex with Children Has Become Big Business in America

By John W. Whitehead for Global Research, April 24, 2019

“Children are being targeted and sold for sex in America every day.”—John Ryan, National Center for Missing & Exploited Children

Children, young girls—some as young as 9 years old—are being bought and sold for sex in America. The average age for a young woman being sold for sex is now 13 years old.

This is America’s dirty little secret.

Sex trafficking—especially when it comes to the buying and selling of young girls—has become big business in America, the fastest growing business in organized crime and the second most-lucrative commodity traded illegally after drugs and guns.

As investigative journalist Amy Fine Collins notes,

“It’s become more lucrative and much safer to sell malleable teens than drugs or guns. A pound of heroin or an AK-47 can be retailed once, but a young girl can be sold 10 to 15 times a day—and a ‘righteous’ pimp confiscates 100 percent of her earnings.”

Consider this: every two minutes, a child is exploited in the sex industry.

According to USA Today, adults purchase children for sex at least 2.5 million times a year in the United States.

Who buys a child for sex? Otherwise ordinary men from all walks of life.

“They could be your co-worker, doctor, pastor or spouse,” writes journalist Tim Swarens, who spent more than a year investigating the sex trade in America.

In Georgia alone, it is estimated that 7,200 men (half of them in their 30s) seek to purchase sex with adolescent girls each month, averaging roughly 300 a day.

On average, a child might be raped by 6,000 men during a five-year period of servitude.

It is estimated that at least 100,000 children—girls and boys—are bought and sold for sex in the U.S. every year, with as many as 300,000 children in danger of being trafficked each year. Some of these children are forcefully abducted, others are runaways, and still others are sold into the system by relatives and acquaintances.

“Human trafficking—the commercial sexual exploitation of American children and women, via the Internet, strip clubs, escort services, or street prostitution—is on its way to becoming one of the worst crimes in the U.S.,” said prosecutor Krishna Patel.

This is an industry that revolves around cheap sex on the fly, with young girls and women who are sold to 50 men each day for $25 apiece, while their handlers make $150,000 to $200,000 per child each year.

This is not a problem found only in big cities.

It’s happening everywhere, right under our noses, in suburbs, cities and towns across the nation.

As Ernie Allen of the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children points out,

“The only way not to find this in any American city is simply not to look for it.”

Don’t fool yourselves into believing that this is merely a concern for lower income communities or immigrants.

It’s not.

It is estimated that there are 100,000 to 150,000 under-aged child sex workers in the U.S. These girls aren’t volunteering to be sex slaves. They’re being lured—forced—trafficked into it. In most cases, they have no choice.

In order to avoid detection (in some cases aided and abetted by the police) and cater to male buyers’ demand for sex with different women, pimps and the gangs and crime syndicates they work for have turned sex trafficking into a highly mobile enterprise, with trafficked girls, boys and women constantly being moved from city to city, state to state, and country to country.

For instance, the Baltimore-Washington area, referred to as The Circuit, with its I-95 corridor dotted with rest stops, bus stations and truck stops, is a hub for the sex trade.

No doubt about it: this is a highly profitable, highly organized and highly sophisticated sex trafficking business that operates in towns large and small, raking in upwards of $9.5 billion a year in the U.S. alone by abducting and selling young girls for sex.

Every year, the girls being bought and sold gets younger and younger.

The average age of those being trafficked is 13. Yet as the head of a group that combats trafficking pointed out,

“Let’s think about what average means. That means there are children younger than 13. That means 8-, 9-, 10-year-olds.“

“For every 10 women rescued, there are 50 to 100 more women who are brought in by the traffickers. Unfortunately, they’re not 18- or 20-year-olds anymore,” noted a 25-year-old victim of trafficking. “They’re minors as young as 13 who are being trafficked. They’re little girls.”

Where did this appetite for young girls come from?

Look around you.

Young girls have been sexualized for years now in music videos, on billboards, in television ads, and in clothing stores. Marketers have created a demand for young flesh and a ready supply of over-sexualized children.

“All it takes is one look at MySpace photos of teens to see examples—if they aren’t imitating porn they’ve actually seen, they’re imitating the porn-inspired images and poses they’ve absorbed elsewhere,” writes Jessica Bennett for Newsweek. “Latex, corsets and stripper heels, once the fashion of porn stars, have made their way into middle and high school.”

This is what Bennett refers to as the “pornification of a generation.”

“In a market that sells high heels for babies and thongs for tweens, it doesn’t take a genius to see that sex, if not porn, has invaded our lives,” concludes Bennett. “Whether we welcome it or not, television brings it into our living rooms and the Web brings it into our bedrooms. According to a 2007 study from the University of Alberta, as many as 90 percent of boys and 70 percent of girls aged 13 to 14 have accessed sexually explicit content at least once.”

In other words, the culture is grooming these young people to be preyed upon by sexual predators. And then we wonder why our young women are being preyed on, trafficked and abused?

Social media makes it all too easy. As one news center reported,

“Finding girls is easy for pimps. They look on MySpace, Facebook, and other social networks. They and their assistants cruise malls, high schools and middle schools. They pick them up at bus stops. On the trolley. Girl-to-girl recruitment sometimes happens.”

Foster homes and youth shelters have also become prime targets for traffickers.

Rarely do these girls enter into prostitution voluntarily. Many start out as runaways or throwaways, only to be snatched up by pimps or larger sex rings. Others, persuaded to meet up with a stranger after interacting online through one of the many social networking sites, find themselves quickly initiated into their new lives as sex slaves.

Debbie, a straight-A student who belonged to a close-knit Air Force family living in Phoenix, Ariz., is an example of this trading of flesh. Debbie was 15 when she was snatched from her driveway by an acquaintance-friend. Forced into a car, Debbie was bound and taken to an unknown location, held at gunpoint and raped by multiple men. She was then crammed into a small dog kennel and forced to eat dog biscuits. Debbie’s captors advertised her services on Craigslist. Those who responded were often married with children, and the money that Debbie “earned” for sex was given to her kidnappers. The gang raping continued. After searching the apartment where Debbie was held captive, police finally found Debbie stuffed in a drawer under a bed. Her harrowing ordeal lasted for 40 days.

While Debbie was fortunate enough to be rescued, others are not so lucky. According to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, nearly 800,000 children go missing every year (roughly 2,185 children a day).

With a growing demand for sexual slavery and an endless supply of girls and women who can be targeted for abduction, this is not a problem that’s going away anytime soon.

For those trafficked, it’s a nightmare from beginning to end.

Those being sold for sex have an average life expectancy of seven years, and those years are a living nightmare of endless rape, forced drugging, humiliation, degradation, threats, disease, pregnancies, abortions, miscarriages, torture, pain, and always the constant fear of being killed or, worse, having those you love hurt or killed.

Peter Landesman paints the full horrors of life for those victims of the sex trade in his New York Times article “The Girls Next Door”:

Andrea told me that she and the other children she was held with were frequently beaten to keep them off-balance and obedient. Sometimes they were videotaped while being forced to have sex with adults or one another. Often, she said, she was asked to play roles: the therapist patient or the obedient daughter. Her cell of sex traffickers offered three age ranges of sex partners–toddler to age 4, 5 to 12 and teens–as well as what she called a “damage group.” “In the damage group, they can hit you or do anything they want to,” she explained. “Though sex always hurts when you are little, so it’s always violent, everything was much more painful once you were placed in the damage group.”

What Andrea described next shows just how depraved some portions of American society have become.

“They’d get you hungry then to train you” to have oral sex. “They put honey on a man. For the littlest kids, you had to learn not to gag. And they would push things in you so you would open up better. We learned responses. Like if they wanted us to be sultry or sexy or scared. Most of them wanted you scared. When I got older, I’d teach the younger kids how to float away so things didn’t hurt.”

Immigration and customs enforcement agents at the Cyber Crimes Center in Fairfax, Va., report that when it comes to sex, the appetites of many Americans have now changed. What was once considered abnormal is now the norm. These agents are tracking a clear spike in the demand for harder-core pornography on the Internet. As one agent noted,

“We’ve become desensitized by the soft stuff; now we need a harder and harder hit.”

“In America, we had ‘special jobs.’ Oral sex, anal sex, often with many men. Sex is now more adventurous, harder.”

A common thread woven through most survivors’ experiences is being forced to go without sleep or food until they have met their sex quota of at least 40 men. One woman recounts how her trafficker made her lie face down on the floor when she was pregnant and then literally jumped on her back, forcing her to miscarry.

Holly Austin Smith (image on the right) was abducted when she was 14 years old, raped, and then forced to prostitute herself. Her pimp, when brought to trial, was only made to serve a year in prison.

Barbara Amaya was repeatedly sold between traffickers, abused, shot, stabbed, raped, kidnapped, trafficked, beaten, and jailed all before she was 18 years old.

“I had a quota that I was supposed to fill every night. And if I didn’t have that amount of money, I would get beat, thrown down the stairs. He beat me once with wire coat hangers, the kind you hang up clothes, he straightened it out and my whole back was bleeding.”

As David McSwane recounts in a chilling piece for the Herald-Tribune:

“In Oakland Park, an industrial Fort Lauderdale suburb, federal agents in 2011 encountered a brothel operated by a married couple. Inside ‘The Boom Boom Room,’ as it was known, customers paid a fee and were given a condom and a timer and left alone with one of the brothel’s eight teenagers, children as young as 13. A 16-year-old foster child testified that he acted as security, while a 17-year-old girl told a federal judge she was forced to have sex with as many as 20 men a night.”

One particular sex trafficking ring catered specifically to migrant workers employed seasonally on farms throughout the southeastern states, especially the Carolinas and Georgia, although it’s a flourishing business in every state in the country. Traffickers transport the women from farm to farm, where migrant workers would line up outside shacks, as many as 30 at a time, to have sex with them before they were transported to yet another farm where the process would begin all over again.

This growing evil is, for all intents and purposes, out in the open.

Trafficked women and children are advertised on the internet, transported on the interstate, and bought and sold in swanky hotels.

Indeed, as I make clear in my book Battlefield America: The War on the American People, the government’s war on sex trafficking—much like the government’s war on terrorism, drugs and crime—has become a perfect excuse for inflicting more police state tactics (police check points, searches, surveillance, and heightened security) on a vulnerable public, while doing little to make our communities safer.

So what can you do?

Educate yourselves and your children about this growing menace in our communities.

Stop feeding the monster: Sex trafficking is part of a larger continuum in America that runs the gamut from homelessness, poverty, and self-esteem issues to sexualized television, the glorification of a pimp/ho culture—what is often referred to as the pornification of America—and a billion dollar sex industry built on the back of pornography, music, entertainment, etc.

This epidemic is largely one of our own making, especially in a corporate age where the value placed on human life takes a backseat to profit. It is estimated that the porn industry brings in more money than Amazon, Microsoft, Google, Apple, and Yahoo.

Call on your city councils, elected officials and police departments to make the battle against sex trafficking a top priority, more so even than the so-called war on terror and drugs and the militarization of law enforcement.

Stop prosecuting adults for victimless “crimes” such as growing lettuce in their front yard and focus on putting away the pimps and buyers who victimize these young women.

Finally, the police need to do a better job of training, identifying and responding to these issues; communities and social services need to do a better job of protecting runaways, who are the primary targets of traffickers; legislators need to pass legislation aimed at prosecuting traffickers and “johns,” the buyers who drive the demand for sex slaves; and hotels need to stop enabling these traffickers, by providing them with rooms and cover for their dirty deeds.

That so many women and children continue to be victimized, brutalized and treated like human cargo is due to three things: one, a consumer demand that is increasingly lucrative for everyone involved—except the victims; two, a level of corruption so invasive on both a local and international scale that there is little hope of working through established channels for change; and three, an eerie silence from individuals who fail to speak out against such atrocities.

But the truth is that we are all guilty of contributing to this human suffering. The traffickers are guilty. The consumers are guilty. The corrupt law enforcement officials are guilty. The women’s groups who do nothing are guilty. The foreign peacekeepers and aid workers who contribute to the demand for sex slaves are guilty. Most of all, every individual who does not raise a hue and cry over the atrocities being committed against women and children in almost every nation around the globe—including the United States—is guilty.

Note to readers: please click the share buttons below. Forward this article to your email lists. Crosspost on your blog site, internet forums. etc.

Constitutional attorney and author John W. Whitehead is founder and president of The Rutherford Institute. His new book Battlefield America: The War on the American People (SelectBooks, 2015) is available online at www.amazon.com. Whitehead can be contacted at [email protected].

#spread this #make sure people know #get educated #be aware #save some lives #i worry many of you are prime targets for this #I can see the insecurity and desire for attention #rape culture #human trafficking #mine #this is a problem throughout the world

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ayittey1 · 6 years

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Why the Asian Tiger Model Will Never Work In Africa

"We want to learn a lot from Singapore that has been very successful, that has turned a lot of challenges historically into a lot of opportunities," Kagame told National Public Radio’s correspondent, Frank Langfitt, on September 16, 2012.[i] While Rwanda has done well economically, the Asian Tiger Model -- development under authoritarianism – is not one African countries should emulate. As Chu (2009) explains,

“In 2007, Kagame took a team to Singapore to study how the country turned itself from a regional trading post into a global business capital. But while there are parallels between the two nations — both are run by strong, postcolonial governments whose democratic credentials are widely questioned — Singapore has advantages that Rwanda does not, from its outstanding education system to its geography to its fastidious reputation. (It annoys President Kagame that foreigners often don’t know that Rwanda, too, is tidy. At a speech in Boston last year [2008], an American rose during the Q&A time and praised Kigali for being surprisingly safe and clean. Those in the audience recall that the president called the guy out. “What did you expect?” he said. “Did you expect us to be violent and dirty?”)”

Nevertheless, this Asian Tiger model has never worked in postcolonial Africa. In fact, no dictator has brought lasting prosperity to any African country because the situations of the two continents are vastly different. First, the Asian Tigers have relatively more ethnically homogeneous populations than in Africa. Nigeria for example has more than 250 ethnic groups; Congo DR has over 400. Economic prosperity that benefits one group at the expense of the others is a recipe for social unrest and political upheaval. Even Somalia which is ethnically homogeneous imploded into chaos and has been without a government since 1991. The politics of exclusion was largely responsible for the implosion of Rwanda in 1994.

Second, most of the Asian Tigers are insular. Those unwilling to tolerate authoritarian rule had few options but to grin and bear it in the 1970s. By contrast, borders are porous in Africa and those unwilling to live under authoritarian rule will always vote with their feet to go and settle somewhere else. In fact, the continent is crawling with economic and political refugees, as well as those fleeing wars and humanitarian catastrophes. As pointed out earlier, Africans from Egypt, Eritrea, Ethiopia, Gambia and South Sudan were among those who perished in vain attempts to cross the Mediterranean to reach Europe in 2015.Third, several Asian Tigers - Hong Kong, Taiwan and Korea in particular -- faced an external communist threat and, as a result, their people were willing to accept curbs on their civil liberties to fight that external enemy. Africa has had no such enemy after the 1960s. In fact, for most Africans, the enemy has been within – the state.

“Most African regimes have been so alienated and so violently repressive that their citizens see the state and its development agents as enemies to be evaded, cheated and defeated if possible, but never as partners. The leaders have been so engrossed in coping with the hostilities which their misrule and repression has unleashed that they are unable to take much interest in anything else including the pursuit of development.” Ake (1991).

Olusegun Obasanjo, former president of Nigeria dismissed Nigeria’s National Assembly as “a den of thieves and looters.”[ii]

Fourth, because of the external communist threat, the Asian Tigers received large amounts of Western aid, something Africa cannot count on. Even then, Africa really does not need foreign aid since the aid resources it desperately needs can be found in Africa itself. Each year, Africa receives about $35 billion in foreign aid from all sources but corruption alone costs Africa $150 billion a year.[iii] Obviously Africa would not need any foreign aid if it is half as successful in stanching out corruption. Fifth, and more importantly, Africa needs to devise its own economic development model. For much of the postcolonial period, Africa leaders copied many foreign models, system and paraphernalia, transplanting them into Africa. Virtually every foreign model has and some meretricious replica somewhere in Africa. Rome has a Basilica, so one was built in Yamoussoukro, Ivory Coast. France once had an emperor; so in 1975, President Jean-Bedel Bokassa of the Central African Republic spent $25 million crown himself one.[iv] The US has a space center; so Nigeria spent $89 million to build the Obasanjo Space Center in 2010 at the time when Nigeria cannot feed itself. The list of such unimaginative copying is endless. The continent is littered with the rancid carcasses of failed imported systems. It would be the height of insanity to suggest that Africa needs yet another foreign model to copy -- from Singapore.

The economic model that Rwanda and other African countries need to copy can be found in Africa itself – in Botswana. It is black Africa’s best-kept secret. It has consistently averaged an economic rate of growth above 7% since the 1980s. Although various analysts have attributed its success to mineral wealth in diamonds, a combination of factors have contributed immensely. Foremost has been the absence of civil war and political strife in its postcolonial history. Second, Botswana enjoys political stability – not engineered by some dictator declaring the country a one-party state. Botswana is a parliamentary democracy. Third, the government has pursued strikingly prudent economic policies, allowing pragmatism, rather than emotional rhetoric, to prevail. It did not squander export windfall from diamonds like Nigeria did of its oil boom. Fourth, Botswana has a lively free press and freedom of expression. Commenting on the political process in Botswana, Professor Patrick Mulotsi, a lecturer in sociology at the University of Botswana, was quite pithy:

“If you look at the prerequisites of liberal democracy, the rule of law has been highly respected. A lot of people can say a lot of things with relatively little fear. There has been a lot of response by the ruling party to debates with the opposition.”[v]

Botswana can find solutions to its economic problems because it permits free debate and freedom of expression. By contrast, much of black Africa is mired in intellectual darkness and economic quagmire, for want of ideas and solutions to extricate itself. Intellectual repression prevents those with ideas from coming forward, even though Article 9 of the African Union’s Charter of Human and Peoples’ Rights guarantees freedom of expression.. As we shall see below, intellectual freedom does not exist in Rwanda. Fifth, Botswana did not ignore its indigenous roots. It built upon its native system of kgotlas, whereby chiefs and councilors meet “under a tree” to reach a consensus on important matters. In fact, cabinet ministers are required to attend weekly kgotla meetings. As Fred Dira, an African journalist, explained:

“When they were initiated, kgotla meetings were meant to be totally apolitical. They were to be meetings at which government ministers and members of parliament would brief local communities about official policies and programs, or about issues discussed or to be discussed in parliament. It was also part of the tradition of kgotla meetings that if they were convened by the president or any of his ministers, the respective members of parliament would not only be present, but would also be given some role to play at the meeting. This was in recognition of the fact that at such meetings, MPs shared the role of host with the chiefs.”[vi]

Such was the case in 1991, when the government tried to explain a $25 million Okavango River irrigation project to the villagers at a kgotla in the northern town of Maun. Irate villagers let loose their opposition: “You will dry the delta! We will have no more fish to eat! No more reeds to build our houses!” a village elder screamed.”[vii] For six hours, they excoriated government officials for conceiving of such a dastardly project. Buckling under the wrath of the people, the government quietly canceled the project. Only in Botswana could this happen, giving true meaning to such terms as “participatory development," “bottom-up development approach,” "grassroots development,” and "popular participation in development.” One cannot envisage this happening in Kagame’s Rwanda. Furthermore, in Botswana, "Chiefs still exercise considerable local authority and influence which can act as a check on too precipitate action by the government and can even swing local elections” (Colclough and McCarthy, 1980; p.38). Asked why Botswana has had better leaders than the rest of Africa, Zibani Maundeni of the University of Botswana replied that indigenous Tswana culture has helped: “Before any big decision [Tswana leaders] consulted the general population. There was a strong culture of hearing the views of ordinary people.”[viii] In much of black Africa, including pre-and post-1994 genocide Rwanda, chiefs saw their powers and authority stripped: The indigenous system of participatory democracy and the tradition of reaching a consensus “under a tree” were spurned, and, in their place, African elites and intellectuals erected alien systems (one-man dictatorships and de facto apartheid regimes).

Of course, Botswana has had its share of problems with income distribution and AIDS. But its economic success demonstrates that Africa does not have to reject its indigenous culture to advance economically. The Japanese did not. “Japan’s postwar success has demonstrated that modernization does not mean Westernization. Japan has modernized spectacularly, yet remains utterly different from the West. Economic success in Japan has nothing to do with individualism. It is the fruit of sheer discipline --the ability to work in groups and to conform.”[ix]

Africa's salvation does not lie in blindly copying foreign systems but in returning to its own roots and heritage and building upon them. As Williams (1987) advised: "When, if ever, black people actually organize as a race in their various population centers, they will find that the basic and guiding ideology they now seek and so much need is embedded in their own traditional philosophy and constitutional system, simply waiting to be extracted and set forth" (p.161). Says Robert Guest, editor of the Africa region for The Economist magazine,

“When Japan’s rulers decided in the nineteenth-century, that they had to modernize to avoid being colonized they sent their brightest officials to Germany, Britain and America to find out how industrial societies worked. They then copied the ideas that seemed most useful, rejected the Western habits that seemed unhelpful or distasteful, and within a few decades Japan advanced enough to win a war with Russia – the first non-white nation to defeat a European power in modern times.

Japan’s example should be important for Africa, because it shows that modernization need not mean Westernization. Developing countries need to learn from developed ones, but they do not have to abandon their culture and traditions in the process. Africans face the same challenge now that Japan faced in the nineteenth century: how to harness other people’s ideas and technology to help them build the kind of society that they, the Africans, want” (Guest, 2004; p.23).

After a long series of experiments with or blind imitation of foreign models and ideologies – such as socialism – it is beginning to dawn on Africa’s elites that they do not have to reject their traditional heritage in order for Africa to develop. The Swahili word for this concept is majimbo. It stands for the idea of local initiative and trust in traditional wisdoms. The same idea is conveyed by the mantra, African renaissance.

In the late 1990s, stymied by the dizzying economic growth of China, economists were at a loss groping for an explanation. It was a communist dictatorship and the standard tenets of economic development theory were of little help. It increasingly dawned on economists the critical importance of the role of institutions in providing the correct incentives for economic growth. Nobel laureate, Douglass North, noted that there are many paths to development and institutions are important but not just any institutions. According to North, “the key is creating an institutional structure from your particular cultural institutions that provide the proper incentives – not slavishly imitating Western institutions” (The Wall Street Journal, April 7, 2005; p.A14). In addition, the institutional structure must readily adapt to changing circumstances in the global economy. He noted that:

“After a disastrous era of promoting collective organization, in which approximately 40 million people died of starvation, China gradually fumbled its way out of the economic disaster it had created by instituting the Household Responsibility System, which provided peasants with incentives to produce more. This system in turn led to the TVEs (town-village enterprises) and sequential development build on their cultural background” (The Wall Street Journal, April 7, 2005; p.A14).

Institutions are established rules, codes and norms by which human behavior or interaction (political, economic and social) are governed, as well as the incentive structure of society. They are made up of formal rules, (constitutions, laws, and rules), informal constraints (norms, conventions and codes of conduct), and their enforcement characteristics. Together, they define the way the game is played, whether as a society or an athletic game. Take professional football. They are formal rules defining the way the game is supposed to be played; informal norms – such as not deliberately injuring the quarterback of the opposing team; and enforcement characteristics –umpires, referees – designed to see that the game is played according to the intentions underlying the rules. But enforcement is always imperfect and it frequently pays for a team to violate rules. Therefore the way a game is actually played is a function of the underlying intentions embodied in the rules, the strength of informal codes of conduct, the perception of the umpires, and the severity of punishment for violating rules.

It is the same way with societies. Poorly performing societies have rules that do not provide the proper incentives, lack effective informal norms that would encourage productivity, and/or have poor enforcement. Underlying institutions are belief systems that provide our understanding of the world around us and, therefore, the incentives that we face. Creating institutions that will perform effectively, is thus, a difficult task” (The Wall Street Journal, April 7, 2005; p.A14).

So the big question is why Rwanda copying a foreign economic model and not modernizing its own indigenous system, like Botswana?

References

Ake, Claude (1991). "How Politics Underdevelops Africa," in The Challenge of African Economic

Recovery and Development, ed. Adebayo Adedeji, Owodumi Teriba, and Patrick Bugembe. Portland, OR: Cass, 1991.

Chu, Jeff, 2009, “‘Rwanda Rising: A New Model of Economic Development, "Fast Company,

April 1, 2009 https://www.fastcompany.com/1208900/rwanda-rising-new-model-economic-development giving me some biscuits please

Colclough, C. and McCarthy, S., 1980. The political economy of Botswana.

Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1980, 298 pp.

Guest, Robert (2004). The Shackled Continent. London: MacMillan.

Williams, Chancellor (1987). The Destruction of Black Civilization. Chicago: Third World Press.

[i] Morning Edition (Web http://www.npr.org/2012/09/17/161222794/rwandan-economy-makes-unlikely-climb-in-rank)

[ii] See Premiere Times, Josh – -- Nov 24, 2014.

[iii] See BBC News, Sept 18, 2002.

[iv] It did not help any. He was overthrown in a coup and chased out of the country 1979. Successive military regimes were no better, plunging the country into civil war, pitting Christians against Muslims beginning in 2012. So total has been the devastation that a country must be rebuilt from scratch, meaning 50 years of independence wasted.

[v] See The New York Times, May 16, 1990; p.A6.

[vi] See Mmegi/The Reporter, May 12-18, 1995; p.7.

[vii] See The Washington Post, Mar 21, 1991; p.A3.

[viii][viii] See The Economist, Nov 6, 2004; p.50.

[ix] See Editorial in the Bangkok Post quoted in The Washington Times, Nov 9, 1996; p.A8.

6 notes · View notes

theroseandcrown · 4 years

Text

The Rose & Crown: Chapter Twenty-One (Part One)

Rating: M Chapters: 21/24

Summary: Unsure of his fate, the Doctor leaves his beloved sanctuary with the hope that he will succeed in his quest to bring his daughter down from the inside.

Read this story on another platform: Archive of Our Own Fan Fiction WattPad

A warm summer breeze welcomed him as he stepped onto the sandy beach and shut the door behind him. The rich aroma in the air filled his senses with the natural combination of sea salt and sweet nectar from the forest of blooming flowers just beyond the untouched soil. The sound of waves crashing upon the shoreline brought about a familiar sense of peace and serenity into his heavy hearts. Shielding his eyes from the light of the sun, he scanned the horizon until he came upon the presence of a familiar life form standing patiently at the shore’s wake. As she stood with her back turned to him, her long black cloak flowed with the wind as if it were dancing to the rhythm of a melody only it could hear. Taking a deep breath, he urged himself forward and approached the visitor from behind. His boots left a trail of impressions in the sand from his beloved sanctuary towards his uncertainty. Finally reaching her, he took his place at her side and tucked his hands into his pockets as they looked towards the brilliant sight ahead of them. The sun’s reflection upon the water’s surface glistened in a million different places as if the ocean itself were attempting to imitate its impressive light.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he declared as if in mid-conversation, taking the moment of temporary calm to breathe the fresh air around them as if it would be his last. “I used to come here whenever I had convinced myself that the vast well of internal hope had finally dried up. Back when nothing seemed to make sense anymore.” He paused as the memories of his past began to filter into his thoughts. She remained quiet at his words, lost inside of her turmoil as if searching for answers within the seemingly endless horizon. “I used to think this place had a way of making you feel a hundred years younger. Sort of like regenerating without all the fuss. You could leave here feeling entirely brand new. Cleansed of a lifetime’s worth of hatred and pain from your reflection. Not this face though, never this face. It’s the eyebrows, they’re much too cross.” In her continued silence, he absent-mindedly dug the tip of his boot into the damp sand and watched as the air bubbles trapped underneath arose to the surface.

“How did you find me?” she finally spoke from behind her shaded mask, unwilling to abandon her outward gaze to glance in his direction.

“Oh, I’m really clever,” he replied casually, keeping their conversation to a certain level of gentlemanly discretion.

“Whatever you have planned, it won’t work,” she insisted through the disguise in her voice.

“If you really believe that, then why did you come?”

She hesitated for a moment as if carefully considering her answer. “Curiosity perhaps.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.” He glanced towards her, catching a glimpse of his reflection upon the side of her face as he attempted to study what little she had to offer beyond her hidden expression. “Why the mask? Are you so ashamed of what you are?”

She smirked at his question, reminding herself of his ability to shield his underlying intentions beneath his words. “We all wear masks, Doctor. Even you.” She looked to him, finally acknowledging his presence beside her for the first time. “The Raven is not a face. It is but a concept defined and moulded over time. Faces change, as you know. But ideas are everlasting. Rid a world of one evil and another will soon rise in its place. It is an inevitability.”

“Oh? And which are you? Evil or inevitable? There’s a difference,” he retorted, trying to break through her defences to reach her the only way he knew how. “You know what else is inevitable? Life. Like evil, life will always find a way to exist. You can’t have one without the other, it doesn’t work. It all comes down to how we as passengers in this universe balance the two, no matter the path we have found ourselves on.”

Quynn laughed quietly to herself, keeping her mother’s words of wisdom fresh within her mind. “We make our own paths, Doctor. When it comes to the natural order of good versus evil, I was always taught that one is better equipped at prevailing over the other.”

“Well then, perhaps you haven’t found the right teacher,” he suggested. “Lesson number one - never mistake kindness for weakness.”

“Wise words, for a murderer,” she noted, glaring him down. “There’s a reason your very name strikes fear in the hearts of those who would rise against you. Perhaps we’re not so different, you and I.”

He sighed and hung his head at his daughter’s accusations, unable to refute nor ignore the accuracy behind them. He hoped she would have seen more to him than what she had been led to believe, that he stood for something greater than the terrible things he had done in his past. But how could she? Beyond the hearts she bore that he gave her, apart from the blood they shared that flowed through their veins, they were nothing more than strangers. As far as she was concerned, she had no father. He had never been there for her. She had no reason to believe he wasn’t everything Missy portrayed him to be. And yet, he still felt there was a chance he could open her eyes to the side of him she hadn’t seen before. As long as there remained hope he could have a future with her in his life, he would never give up trying. “It’s true. I’ve shed more blood than you can even imagine. I’ve lived long enough to know that in the end, when all others have fallen, there will only be one person still standing on the empty battlefield. And I’ve spent most of my life making sure that person would be me.” He lifted his head and attempted to explain the inner demons buried underneath a lifetime’s worth of denial and self-hatred so that she would understand his pain. “I never claimed to be a hero. I never asked for that. People like us, we go on too long. Our perspectives are too vast, too far away. When you get around to being as old as I am, you tend to lose track of what’s important. You reach a point where everything starts to look the same. Faces, planets, stars, ...wars. They all blend together. You begin to forget which side you’re fighting on. You start to realize your version of good and evil is not absolute. It’s vain and arrogant and sometimes even a little bit sentimental. But you still try. And maybe, just maybe, nothing you do will even matter in the end. The same mistakes will be made, wars will still be fought, hearts will still be broken.”

“So why do it then? Why protect them?” she asked, unsure of what he was trying to accomplish with his confession.

“That’s a rather good question, isn’t it? The answer, of course, is that life is very fleeting when you’re not immortal. For every billion of them you meet, there will be one who truly understands how beautiful and precious life is. They make every moment count. You may not understand this now, but one day, when there are no more worlds left to conquer, no more people left to fall, you’ll find yourself all alone in this universe.”

A moment of silence passed between them as they returned their attention towards the view ahead. Quynn took advantage of the absence of words to grasp what he was trying to say. His wisdom was far beyond her understanding of the universe. And yet, a part of her envied him. He was free to traverse the stars as he pleased, unburdened by the reins that would try to steer him from his desires. He was answerable to no one but himself. She yearned for the day she would no longer be forced to assume the role of errand boy by her mother’s command. That she too would be free to make her own choices. Perhaps, buried somewhere beneath the layers of her training and loathing of him, there was a part of her that desired to be saved. “Why have you brought me here?” she finally addressed him.

“For the same reason you came. Deep down, we both know there is something much larger than our indifference happening all around us than we have been led to believe.” He paused as if waiting for some kind of validation or enlightenment to take place between them. In her returned silence, he sighed and looked towards the horizon once more. He took a moment to clear his thoughts, shedding them of everything he knew himself to be. Every witty exchange, every defeated army, every enemy he had ever brought to their knees by his cleverness alone. She was more to him than any of those he had come across. She deserved better. She deserved the truth. “I never wanted to be a father again,” he started, trying to bring himself to a level of maturity that she could understand. “I was so sure of it. I lost all of that a long time ago, along with everything else. I convinced myself I could never again face the responsibility. The hole they left, the pain that filled it. It was just too much for me.” He turned to her and brought a smile to his face despite the woe he felt in his hearts by the memories of his past. “And then you came into existence. The veil suddenly lifted. Before I even knew what was happening, the old me had died and a new me had been reborn. I had fallen in love with that feeling all over again. I’ve watched you grow, I protected you, I offered you my love without ever asking for anything in return. And yet, the more I stood by watching as you thrived within your mother, the more I began to regret everything that had been and will be taken from me. The missed experiences, the lessons lost, the wounds I would never heal. I realized how badly I wanted you in my life. And I still do.”

Quynn snickered quietly to herself from beneath her mask as if invalidating his returned accusations. “So clever, and yet so set in your ways. I should commend you for your consistency. It only makes you that much easier to predict. Are you so desperate for my acceptance?”

“Are you so desperate to deny the possibility?” he countered.

She turned her head and narrowed her eyes to glare at the man before her, taking advantage of the glass separating him from her readable expression. “You are my sworn enemy. There’s nothing you could say that would make me believe you.”

“I don’t need you to believe me. I only need you to ask yourself one thing. What if I’m right?”

Quynn felt herself becoming more agitated the longer she endured the unyielding nature of their conversation, yet retained her calm demeanour so as not to offer him a reason to view her as weak. “Say you are. What difference would it make?”

“All the difference in the universe, I’d imagine,” he replied sincerely. He inhaled a deep breath and tried to find a way to relate to her on a more personal level. Even if it meant lowering his defences to succumb to a vulnerable state of mind for her to listen. “Quynn, I-” he started, but fell short of words as he sensed something of a rather disturbing nature beginning to form inside of him. Something he could not have anticipated. Before he could say anything more, he was suddenly hit with an excruciating amount of pain as if he had just been shot in the stomach. He cried out in agony and folded himself in front of her, his eyes wide with fear. His hands searched for an entry wound yet found nothing to suggest he had become a target. He lifted his gaze towards his daughter, taking notice of her current unarmed status, and quickly concluded that she was just as perplexed by his sudden malfunction as he. His mind burst into action over what could be happening to him. A part of him feared that his interference in altering the course of their fate had made a turn for the worse. That he had unintentionally doomed himself by the disruption he had caused. As the pain intensified, he found it difficult to think rational thoughts. He had been shot plenty of times before, but not like this. Whatever this was, it was significantly different than anything he had ever experienced. And suddenly, he understood.

“Clara!” he gasped. He looked to his daughter with a new sense of desperation in his eyes then turned his attention towards the TARDIS resting peacefully in the distance. Gathering himself to a standing position as best he could, he abandoned his position beside her and bolted in the direction of the blue doors. The journey back to his companion felt like an eternity as each step in the ship’s direction pulled him closer to collapsing in the sand.

Finally reaching the doors, he burst his way into the time machine. His eyes searched for his companion from the doorway. The first sound he heard upon entering was her screams from the other side of the console. “Clara?!” he called urgently, beginning to panic over what had become of her in his brief absence. Making his way to the other side of the room, he saw her standing against the railing next to one of the outer control panels.

“Doctor!” she shouted, gripping the rail as tightly as she could.

He stopped dead in his tracks as he came to observe the dampness of the floor she stood upon. Her frightened expression was matched only by the look of shock in his eyes at the sight of her. His thoughts raced as he realized exactly what was happening. Their time was finally up whether they were ready for it or not. And right now, there was no one further from ready than he. He quickly rushed to her side and carefully wrapped her in a tender embrace. It took every last ounce of will power remaining to fight his pain so he could concentrate on being what he needed to be for her.

“I’m sorry, Doctor. I didn’t know,” she admitted as fresh tears fell from her terrified face.

“Shhh, don’t be sorry,” he soothed her, running his hand through her hair in an attempt to comfort her. “I’m here now. You’re going to be alright. Everything is going to be fine.” Every part of her was shaking in his grasp as she desperately clung to his jacket. She cried out in agony as another harsh contraction tore through them both. He winced at its severity felt within him, fearing the shortened time between her strengthening pains proved things were progressing much faster than he originally envisioned them. His mind worked quickly to plot out exactly what was going to happen next. He took the time to silently curse himself for not having properly prepared for this moment. He had spent all of his spare time hoping to solve their way out of their paradoxal predicament before it had come to this point. Regaining his mind, he brought a trembling hand to press upon her belly in search of the position of their child. He could feel his companion’s muscles tense under his palm as they instinctively urged the baby downward. He couldn’t help but feel responsible for her unbearable suffering. He never meant to hurt her this way. If only he had known that his love for her would lead to so much pain.

As he continued to press along the surface of her abdomen, his senses suddenly activated to the presence of another entering the threshold of his domain. He heard Clara gasp at the sight of their new guest now standing in the open doorway of the ship. Following his companion’s gaze, his eyes met the silhouette of his daughter as she examined the bigger-on-the-inside space for the first time. He sighed and wondered to himself how their situation could get any worse. “You remember Quynn.”

“You brought her with you?!” Clara exclaimed through gritted teeth as her eyes shot back to him angrily.

“Well, now is as good a time as any to learn life’s valuable lesson about the birds and the bees. One less thing we have to worry about later,” he quipped, hoping his humour might lessen the murderous look in her eyes.

“You do know she wants to kill me, right?”

“Yes, well, that’s the trouble with family reunions, isn’t it? Someone’s bound to still be holding a grudge.”

Quynn seized the moment of opportunity during the chaos to cross the threshold of the unusually designed console room, running her gloved hand along the railing as she came around it. It was unlike anything she had ever experienced. And yet, there was something about the way the ship pulsated with energy that felt comforting as if it were welcoming her. Her fingers traced lightly over the buttons on the panel beside her as she curiously proceeded farther into the space provided. “Your ship is impressive,” she addressed the old man from across the room. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anything quite like it.”

“Ah, well, I’d offer you a tour but I seem to have my hands full at the moment. But please, do make yourself at home,” he replied facetiously. He watched intently as she stopped at the end of the handrail near the stairs and leaned against it, crossing her arms in front of her.

“Sorry to interrupt whatever this is, but any chance we could continue this conversation in a real hospital, with actual doctors?!” Clara inquired urgently.

“About that,” he began apologetically. “I didn’t want to be the one to tell you this, but it would appear as though we’re well past that point.”

“Seriously?!” she asked, hoping he was being funny. His face proved otherwise. “Great! That’s just brilliant! So floor then?” she asked heatedly.

“I’m afraid so,” he informed her, trying his hardest to be as understanding as possible to the emotions encompassing her.

“Well? Get on with it then!” she screamed between heavy breaths as another contraction ripped through her body.

He gritted his teeth and exhaled a painful groan at their shared affliction. Taking a moment to regain himself, he attempted to block the feeling from his mind, even if only a little, knowing he was of no use to her like this. A sudden rush of adrenaline shot through him at his success. “Right! Here we go!” he announced, springing into action. Releasing his grasp on her, he bolted towards the sofa on the upper platform and began to pull the cushions from it. Turning his attention towards Quynn, he pointed in her direction. “You, mopey one!” he openly addressed her. “Are you just going to stand there like a newel post or are you going to help me?!”

“You can’t be serious,” she uttered in shock.

“Do you wish to be born or not?!” he replied angrily, tossing a cushion over the railing in her direction. Catching it, she looked to him with a stilled expression he could only assume resembled dumbfoundedness hiding beneath her mask. “Now help me!” he ordered her. Taking up the throw blanket in his grasp, he headed down the stairs towards his frightened companion and laid it neatly on the grated floor. He worked quickly to remove his jacket and tossed it upon the console then began to roll up his sleeves in preparation. Glancing at his daughter, he realized she had yet to abandon her position as if she had been glued to the floor. “Why are you still standing there like an idiot?! C’mon, c’mon, c’mon!” he yelled, gesturing her forward. She hesitantly began to approach, unsure of how he managed to persuade her to do so. “And while you’re at it, bring that,” he pointed next to her at the medical bag he had used not so long ago during his last equally distressing experience. She reluctantly did as she was told as he rushed to his companion and gently took her by the arm and waist. “You’re alright. I’ve got you,” he assured her, slowly leading her towards the space he prepared for her.

As they came closer, Clara suddenly froze to the floor as a wave of fear drowned all the confidence stored within her. “I can’t do this,” she admitted, her body trembling in his grasp.

“Yes, you can,” he encouraged her, attempting to relieve her of her petrified state.

“I’m not ready.”

“I don’t think we have a choice.”

“I’m afraid, Doctor.”

“I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she managed to tease through her pain. He frowned at her humour. “Are you sure you can do this?”

“We’re about to find out,” he replied, herding her forward.

Quynn placed the medical bag at one end of the blanket then approached the couple to set the cushion down at the other. She looked to his companion and extended a gloved hand for her to take. Clara gasped fearfully at the familiar gesture and clung to the Doctor for protection. Quynn slowly lowered her hand in understanding, realizing her appearance was far from comforting. Though that never stopped her in the past, she knew her real purpose had yet to be fulfilled. Helping to put the terrified woman’s mind at ease was the least she could do. Hesitating for only a moment, she brought her hands to her hood and removed it from its position then started for the clasps that bound the mask securely to her face. Releasing it, she clipped it to her hip and allowed them to gaze upon her newly exposed form.

“Oh, that’s just unfair,” the Doctor griped childishly, then glanced down at his frightened companion. “Why does she get to be ginger?”

“Doctor, a little focus please!” Clara insisted, trying to find the courage to accept what was happening.

“Right,” he replied, shaking the distraction from his mind. Taking hold of her, he urged her forward as Quynn removed her gloves and offered a hand once more. Clara reluctantly accepted by carefully placing her hand in her daughter’s and allowed the Doctor and Quynn to help her to the floor to kneel beside her. Placing his hand behind her for support, he carefully leaned her against the cushion and brushed the hair from her face. “Is this alright?” he asked, hoping he had at least managed to aid in her level of comfort.

“Nothing about this is alright,” she answered, reminding him of their abnormal situation.

He glanced towards his daughter, inhaling a deep breath in preparation of what was to come, then manoeuvred himself to the other end of his companion. He hesitantly reached beneath her dress and carefully removed her undergarment, tossing it aside. He rolled the bottom part of her dress up to her waist to better understand what he was dealing with and concentrated on keeping his expression from revealing to anyone that he had no idea what he was doing. When it came to his efforts in studying human anatomy, he was not aware that grazing over the female reproductive system would later come with its own set of consequences. “Maybe there’s still time to locate River to assist with this,” he admitted his defeat prematurely.

“Your pregnant girlfriend is giving birth to your child and you want to invite your wife along. Have I got that right?” she bit back angrily.

“Well, when you put it like that-”

“Doctor!” she screamed, trying to hold back her pain.

“Right, right! Sorry!”

“Can you do this or not?!”

He inhaled a deep breath and tried his hardest to locate his confidence. “I can do this. I’m fairly certain I can do this. You wouldn’t happen to be part octopus, would you?” he asked, teetering between whether he was teasing or just being hopeful.

“When this is all over, remind me to slap you!” she cried as she was hit with a contraction more painful than anything she had experienced yet.

He winced severely and clutched his stomach, grunting heavily from the unexpected assault of their bond. “Fair enough,” he agreed from under his breath, knowing he’d probably deserve it. “Just remember to breathe, that’s the important thing.”

“Not helping!” she screamed irritably.

“I was talking to myself!” he responded, forcing his recovery.

She gritted her teeth as her body instinctively urged her to begin pushing. She shut her eyes and screamed again as she felt herself opening. Frightened tears streamed down her face uncontrollably. She clenched her fists and tried to maintain her breathing as the pain intensified. She was suddenly taken by surprise when a warm hand was felt upon her own. She opened her eyes and glanced down, taking notice of Quynn’s unexpected gesture, then looked to her daughter’s sympathetic expression. Clara willed a weak smile to her face in appreciation and hesitantly unclenched her hand to close it around her daughter’s. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for shooting you.”

Quynn, surprised by Clara’s confession, glanced towards the Doctor’s raised brow. His eyes met hers and softened as if to beg forgiveness on his companion’s behalf. She wasn’t exactly sure of the emotions going on inside of her at that moment. She couldn’t help but wonder if faced with a similar situation, would she have done the same? She knew all too well how deeply the old man loved the woman who travelled with him wherever he went. The way he looked at her was unlike anything she had seen before. He was truly prepared to do anything for her. “I... understand,” she replied, conflicted by the thoughts invading her mind.

Clara groaned again as another wave of pain shattered the moment between them. “What’s going on down there?!” she shouted urgently, concerned by the lack of usual commentary from him.

“I’m not sure. I seem to have misplaced the manual,” he replied, distracting himself from his pain by staring into the void of her as if he were attempting to solve an unsolvable puzzle.

Ah, there he is, she thought, rolling her eyes with great irritation. “Can you see her?!” she yelled back, now regretting her previous question.

“Yes, I think so,” he replied unconvincingly. “Just out of curiosity, is she only supposed to have one head?”

“Yes, you idiot!” she yelled, trying to resist the urge to murder him.

“Good, I haven’t miscalculated then.” Removing himself from her delicate area, he came around to her side and gently placed a hand on her abdomen to rub it affectionately. “You’re doing well, Clara. Everything is going as it should be. I can see her. But now I need you to push for me.”

“I can’t!” she cried, exhausted both in mind and body.

“Yes, you can.”

“It hurts, Doctor!”

“I know. I know it does, Clara. Quite literally, actually.” He removed his hand from her middle to place it at his own, wincing as he rubbed the part of him still able to feel her pain. “Probably not the best time to bring it up, but I’m starting to have second thoughts about our bond,” he confessed, observing as she turned her head to glare at him with a rage-filled expression. “Never mind, it’s not important,” he quickly changed the subject. “The point is, you’ve been through so much already. You’ve been shot, kidnapped, torn apart. You’ve died and come back to life. Worst of all, you’ve had to put up with me through all of it. And when has that ever stopped you?”

She shook her head as her tears continued to fall down her face. “I can’t, not this. I’m not strong enough.”

He carefully wiped her tears away and gazed sympathetically into her eyes. “Clara, listen to me. You can do this. I know you can. You’re my impossible girl, there’s nothing you can’t do. The Clara I know would never have allowed herself to become defeated by this. You’re stronger than anyone in this room. And right now, I need you to prove it.” He leaned down and softly kissed her forehead, then returned his gaze to hers. “Now come on, my brave girl. Push for me.”

She stared into the eyes that begged her to trust him as the memories of everything they had ever done together came rushing back to her all at once. They were companions willing to push each other to extremes, and now was the time for her to show him what that had made of her. She smiled as best she could then took a deep breath and nodded with all the confidence she could gather from within her. “Alright, daft old man. Let’s do a thing.”

“You and me together. Just as we always have,” he added, smiling in her direction. Taking her hand in his, he tenderly kissed its surface then returned to the place he was needed the most. Looking to her, he nodded to let her know it was time for her to show him what she could really do.

She closed her eyes and concentrated on what she needed to accomplish. When she was ready, she gripped Quynn’s hand, took a deep breath, and pushed with everything she had left. She cried out in agonizing pain as their baby inched farther away from the place she had known for so long.

“That’s it! Push, Clara!” he called to her. Clara collapsed on the cushion in exhaustion, trying desperately to find the strength to continue. “Come on, Clara. You can do this, you’re nearly there!” he encouraged her. She inhaled another deep breath and began to push again as her screams resonated off the walls around them. “Good girl! That’s it!” he exclaimed.

She gasped for breath as her head hit the cushion once more. Every part of her felt drained of energy. The will to carry on had nearly been extinguished as her mind became diluted into believing she had nothing left to give. As her tears streamed down her face, she wanted so badly to give up. That she had finally found a task too great a challenge for her. Turning her head, her eyes met Quynn’s. As frightened as she was of everything her daughter stood for, for the first time it was as if she were looking upon her with an entirely new set of eyes. She realized the face that gazed back at hers had been shed of its identity just for her, just for this one moment. One small act of kindness. And for that, she understood what the Doctor saw buried deep within her. She could see his love, though very faint, trying desperately to break through. Perhaps he had been right all along. Perhaps something more than just her appearance had changed upon regeneration. Whatever that was, it was enough for Clara to feel the fear within her beginning to fade. The most important thing she could do now was continue. If not for herself or the Doctor, then for her daughter.

“Come on, Clara. Don’t give up!” he pleaded.

She closed her eyes and willed every bit of herself still fighting to win, then took a deep breath and began to push as if she had never done so before. Her screams filled the air as her body tore but she refused to give in to the pain. Failing herself was easy, she was only human after all. But failing the Doctor, that would never leave her.

“That’s it! Just a little bit more!” he called to her.

Attempting to regain herself, she looked to him and pushed as hard as she could. After giving it everything she had, she felt him reach in for the baby and carefully help her the rest of the way out. She gasped at the sensation of her child being pulled from her body, feeling every bit of her familiar warmth leave with her.

“I have her!” he exclaimed. “You’ve done it, Clara!”

Clara collapsed on the cushion and cried tears of elation, knowing her efforts towards bringing life into this world were finally over. A moment later, the cries of their baby girl filled her ears.

Quynn, now free from Clara’s grasp, stood and came around her. She worked to unfasten the cloak from her shoulders and placed the cloth delicately on the floor next to the Time Lord. He nodded his gratitude and carefully placed the newborn upon the warm material. He then reached into the medical bag and pulled out the surgeon’s kit. Unrolling it, he retrieved a pair of clamps and scissors from inside. Quynn removed herself from the couple and allowed them a moment of privacy as he worked to carefully separate the child from her chord and close it off. Once finished, he gently wrapped the tiny infant in the cloak and lifted her into his arms as she continued to cry.

“Is she okay?” Clara asked, worried by the sound of her baby’s distress.

“She’s perfect,” he replied with an over-joyous grin and brought their child around for her to see.

Clara gasped at the sight of the small girl, taking in every bit of her for the first time as fresh tears formed in her eyes. A small tuft of brown hair stuck out from beneath the cloth and not a furrowed brow to be seen. She reached out and gently brushed her finger over her baby’s soft hand then looked to the father of her child. “She’s beautiful, Doctor.”

“Just like her mother,” he noted with a smile, capturing the heart-warming moment between the two most important women in his life. “Look, Clara,” he whispered in awe, carefully holding the tiny infant towards his brightly lit face. “I’m a father again.”

“It suits you,” she replied, smiling at his beaming expression.

“Can we have another?” he asked excitedly.

“You think it can wait five minutes, she’s just been born,” she laughed, holding out her hands as he carefully placed the baby into her arms. As their child began to settle, Clara couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed by the love she bore in her heart for her. “I can’t believe we did it.”

He brought his hand to her forehead and lightly stroked her brow. “You were extraordinary.”

“Well one of us had to be,” she grinned up at him. “Whose brilliant idea was it to have you deliver a baby?”

“Yes, well, it would seem we’re a bit short-staffed around here in the baby delivering department,” he noted, returning the smile.

“Well alright. But next time, it’s your go,” she teased.

“Fair enough,” he replied playfully. He leaned in towards his companion and lovingly kissed her brow, then pulled away to gaze into her eyes. “I’m so proud of you, Clara,” he whispered, brushing his fingers across her cheek. He couldn’t express in words the emotions rushing through him as he looked to her. “Oh, Clara. My Clara. You are everything to me,” he professed softly. She smiled up at him as he tenderly looked upon his family together at last. He would never be able to forget this moment for as long as he lived.

“Doctor,” Quynn spoke solemnly from the other side of the room. “It’s time.”

The old man felt his smile slowly fade away as his entire world was dragged back to reality. His eyes lowered from his companion’s face as he woefully hung his head and nodded in understanding.

“No. Please, Doctor. Don’t,” Clara warned, feeling her fear taking hold of her once more.

“I have to,” he confessed, feeling every bit of his hearts tearing apart. No matter how hard he had tried to prepare himself for this moment, there was no avoiding how painful it would be when the time finally arrived. The emotions flowing through him could not have been narrowed down to one alone as they hit him all at once. His hatred, his rage, and his vengeance were taking place upon the forefront of his mind and soul. But so was his love. His fear of losing Clara was stronger than any other emotion combined. In order for him to save her from the duty Quynn was bound by, he would be forced to hurt his beloved companion once more. Finding his courage, he placed his hands on either side of his child.

“No, don’t you dare,” she threatened, her eyes were wide and fierce. “Please, don’t do this. Don’t take her away from me.”

“I have no choice,” he told her, carefully prying the infant from her grasp. The baby began to cry at the disturbance.

“No, wait!” she begged him as he stood with the infant in his arms. “Please! Just a little longer!” she cried out as he moved farther away from her. “Give her back to me! Don’t send her away!” She rolled to her side as best she could and reached towards him, wincing severely at the pain still coursing through her body. “Doctor!” she tried to stop him.

“It’ll be okay. I’ll find a way to get her back, I promise,” he tried to comfort her, holding back his tears. There was no way to know for certain if he would even be able to come through on that promise. All he did know was that it was time for him to be strong enough for both of them.

“Doctor, please! Don’t do this to me!” she screamed, hoping her attempt to bring him back to her would not be in vain. When he did not turn around, she realized how completely powerless she had become. Her tears of devastation turned to streaks of rage as her heart became filled with spite and fury towards him. “You’re a monster!” she shouted without even realizing it and defeatedly collapsed to the floor as her tears fell to the grated metal. The act of his betrayal began to melt every bit of forgiveness she had granted him despite everything he had put her through. There would be no coming back from this now. “I hate you,” she whispered under her sobs.

Her harsh words halted him in place as the wound of her confession shattered his hearts into a million pieces. If they had been made of glass, they surely would have hit the floor and fallen into oblivion. He glanced mournfully at the small baby in his grasp, desperately trying not to be consumed by devastation. “So do I,” he admitted as his self-loathing regained a hold over his emotions. Lifting his gaze, he continued his approach towards Quynn. Each step in her direction felt as if he were treading through a bog thick with despair. Finally reaching her, he took one last look at his child as if there was a small sliver of hope that somehow this wouldn’t be goodbye. At least not for long. He sighed with a painfully heavy heart then carefully placed his daughter into her own open arms as Clara continued to sob behind him.

Quynn stared at the small creature in her grasp, knowing how pleased her mother would surely be at her success. The child calmed herself in the stranger’s arms and gazed up at her in amazement through her perfect blue-grey eyes. As Quynn glanced towards the tiny being, she couldn’t help but wonder how something so small could be so important to the woman whose love she fought so hard for.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” the Doctor spoke softly, observing Quynn’s curious expression as she studied the small girl. “So much wonder and love in her eyes. She has no concept of vengeance or hatred, no idea what will be waiting for her out there in the universe or what her fate will be. Her story has yet to be written. There’s still a chance for her to grow up to be anything she wants to be.”

As the Doctor’s words resonated into her thoughts, Quynn felt a level of uncertainty she had never experienced before. At that moment, she realized the child’s life was now entirely in her hands. She had witnessed countless children burn by her destructive nature without even a second thought. So why was this one any different? What was so important about this child to cause the malfunction taking place within her? Whatever the reason for her mother’s interest in the Doctor’s child, she suddenly found herself torn between obeying a direct order or saving this one small girl from a possible future identical to her own. As her thoughts continued to consume her, she felt a familiar electricity within her fingertips from someone like herself calling out to her. Bringing her hand towards the baby’s, she allowed the being’s tiny outstretched fingers to wrap around one of her own. A sudden flash of light engulfed her as the child’s fragmented memories were downloaded into her subconscious. She opened her mind’s eye to find herself standing alone in a field of green grass. The sun shone down upon her from the vibrant blue sky as birds chirped noisily from the surrounding forest. The wind around her carried with it a symphony of whispered voices as if they were speaking to her all at once. She circled her position as if searching for their source. The indecipherable voices became louder and louder until she found herself covering her ears at their intensity. And then silence. Lowering her hands to her sides, she saw something in the distance that had not been there before. A mother and child. She cautiously approached the recognizable form of the woman dressed in white kneeling before a small brown-haired girl. As she drew closer, the child unexpectedly turned her head to acknowledge the new visitor and smiled in her direction. Quynn halted at their eyes connection to each other, unable to tear herself away nor explain the sinking feeling in her stomach telling her that she had somehow seen this girl before. Suddenly, a familiar voice she knew very well forced its way into her mind. She’s our daughter, Clara, the Doctor’s words whispered through her thoughts just as she remembered them. The vision both disturbed and frightened her so effortlessly, it forced the link between them to break.

The sound of the infant’s cries returned her to reality. Glancing at the small baby, she gently pulled her hand from hers and turned her attention towards the Doctor’s raised brow. The vision of what she had seen was still strong within her mind. Though she did not fully understand its meaning, she had not anticipated the effect it would have on her. It felt so real and yet so familiar all at the same time. She lowered her eyes from his to return them to the crying child within her grasp. “She’s hungry,” she told him, fighting her emotions so he wouldn’t see. And then, without any careful consideration, she placed the child into the Doctor’s arms as he stared at her in a bewildered state of confusion. Turning from him, she quickly headed for the door before her regrets had caused her to change her mind.

“Quynn,” he called to her, watching as she halted to glance over her shoulder in his direction. “Thank you.”

She hesitated for a moment, then nodded silently in response before finally exiting the ship.

#12th doctor #doctor who #doctor who fanfiction #twelfth doctor #the doctor #dr who #dr who fan fiction #dr who fanfiction #twelve/clara #clara oswald #whouffaldi

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go-redgirl · 5 years

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The Essence of Evil: Sex with Children Has Become Big Business in America The Rutherford Institute ^ | April 23, 2019 | John W. Whitehead

“Children are being targeted and sold for sex in America every day.”—John Ryan, National Center for Missing & Exploited Children

Children, young girls—some as young as 9 years old—are being bought and sold for sex in America. The average age for a young woman being sold for sex is now 13 years old.

This is America’s dirty little secret.

As investigative journalist Amy Fine Collins notes, “It’s become more lucrative and much safer to sell malleable teens than drugs or guns. A pound of heroin or an AK-47 can be retailed once, but a young girl can be sold 10 to 15 times a day—and a ‘righteous’ pimp confiscates 100 percent of her earnings.”

Consider this: every two minutes, a child is exploited in the sex industry.

According to USA Today, adults purchase children for sex at least 2.5 million times a year in the United States.

Who buys a child for sex? Otherwise ordinary men from all walks of life.

“They could be your co-worker, doctor, pastor or spouse,” writes journalist Tim Swarens, who spent more than a year investigating the sex trade in America.

In Georgia alone, it is estimated that 7,200 men (half of them in their 30s) seek to purchase sex with adolescent girls each month, averaging roughly 300 a day.

On average, a child might be raped by 6,000 men during a five-year period of servitude.

This is not a problem found only in big cities.

It’s happening everywhere, right under our noses, in suburbs, cities and towns across the nation.

As Ernie Allen of the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children points out, “The only way not to find this in any American city is simply not to look for it.”

Don’t fool yourselves into believing that this is merely a concern for lower income communities or immigrants.

It’s not.

For instance, the Baltimore-Washington area, referred to as The Circuit, with its I-95 corridor dotted with rest stops, bus stations and truck stops, is a hub for the sex trade.

Every year, the girls being bought and sold gets younger and younger.

The average age of those being trafficked is 13. Yet as the head of a group that combats trafficking pointed out, “Let’s think about what average means. That means there are children younger than 13. That means 8-, 9-, 10-year-olds.“

Where did this appetite for young girls come from?

Look around you.

This is what Bennett refers to as the “pornification of a generation.”

In other words, the culture is grooming these young people to be preyed upon by sexual predators. And then we wonder why our young women are being preyed on, trafficked and abused?

Social media makes it all too easy. As one news center reported, “Finding girls is easy for pimps. They look on MySpace, Facebook, and other social networks. They and their assistants cruise malls, high schools and middle schools. They pick them up at bus stops. On the trolley. Girl-to-girl recruitment sometimes happens.” Foster homes and youth shelters have also become prime targets for traffickers.

With a growing demand for sexual slavery and an endless supply of girls and women who can be targeted for abduction, this is not a problem that’s going away anytime soon.

For those trafficked, it’s a nightmare from beginning to end.

Peter Landesman paints the full horrors of life for those victims of the sex trade in his New York Times article “The Girls Next Door”:

Andrea told me that she and the other children she was held with were frequently beaten to keep them off-balance and obedient. Sometimes they were videotaped while being forced to have sex with adults or one another. Often, she said, she was asked to play roles: the therapist patient or the obedient daughter. Her cell of sex traffickers offered three age ranges of sex partners--toddler to age 4, 5 to 12 and teens--as well as what she called a “damage group.” “In the damage group, they can hit you or do anything they want to,” she explained. “Though sex always hurts when you are little, so it’s always violent, everything was much more painful once you were placed in the damage group.”

What Andrea described next shows just how depraved some portions of American society have become. “They’d get you hungry then to train you” to have oral sex. “They put honey on a man. For the littlest kids, you had to learn not to gag. And they would push things in you so you would open up better. We learned responses. Like if they wanted us to be sultry or sexy or scared. Most of them wanted you scared. When I got older, I’d teach the younger kids how to float away so things didn’t hurt.”

This trend is reflected by the treatment many of the girls receive at the hands of the drug traffickers and the men who purchase them. Peter Landesman interviewed Rosario, a Mexican woman who had been trafficked to New York and held captive for a number of years. She said: “In America, we had ‘special jobs.’ Oral sex, anal sex, often with many men. Sex is now more adventurous, harder.”

Holly Austin Smith was abducted when she was 14 years old, raped, and then forced to prostitute herself. Her pimp, when brought to trial, was only made to serve a year in prison.

Barbara Amaya was repeatedly sold between traffickers, abused, shot, stabbed, raped, kidnapped, trafficked, beaten, and jailed all before she was 18 years old. “I had a quota that I was supposed to fill every night. And if I didn’t have that amount of money, I would get beat, thrown down the stairs. He beat me once with wire coat hangers, the kind you hang up clothes, he straightened it out and my whole back was bleeding.”

As David McSwane recounts in a chilling piece for the Herald-Tribune: “In Oakland Park, an industrial Fort Lauderdale suburb, federal agents in 2011 encountered a brothel operated by a married couple. Inside ‘The Boom Boom Room,’ as it was known, customers paid a fee and were given a condom and a timer and left alone with one of the brothel’s eight teenagers, children as young as 13. A 16-year-old foster child testified that he acted as security, while a 17-year-old girl told a federal judge she was forced to have sex with as many as 20 men a night.”

This growing evil is, for all intents and purposes, out in the open.

Trafficked women and children are advertised on the internet, transported on the interstate, and bought and sold in swanky hotels.

So what can you do?

Educate yourselves and your children about this growing menace in our communities.

Stop prosecuting adults for victimless “crimes” such as growing lettuce in their front yard and focus on putting away the pimps and buyers who victimize these young women.

_______________________________

OPINION: That’s one reason that Nancy Pelosi and Chuck Schumer don’t want a wall built in our country because their are aware of what’s going on with those that are coming into this country illegally.

Nancy Pelosi and Chuck Schumer is very much part of the ‘deep state’ and they are aiding an abiding those criminals that are ‘child trafficking’ drugs trafficking and all other illegal crimes that’s coming across the border.

They are the ones supporting and advancing ‘criminals’ that coming into our country. Nancy Pelosi, Chuck Schumer and the rest of the ‘evil’ demons are protecting those that are destroying the ‘very fabric’ of this country.

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readmyjournal1996-blog · 7 years

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when you think you love something

12/3/2017

I thought that I loved biology. My senior year of high school, I had no idea whatsoever as to what I wanted to major in, and college apps were due soon. Then, in my AP Bio class, I saw the light! I was good at that class. i aced almost everything. It was something I wanted to actually try in.

I started to notice how many nature documentaries I was watching in my free time. And how much I loved to learn about new animals, especially those that live in the ocean. I loved biology, and I thought that I had found something that I wanted to study for the rest of my life.

Fast forward to 10:01 AM in my ecology lab of my junior year in college. I’m so sick of this class. It turns out that anything ecology involves endless counting, and I’ve also found out that I’m not the best counter. My cell bio class is another one that I’m totally sick of. For every test I’ve taken so far, I have gone in with such high expectations, but I liked to you Professor, I rewatched your damn lecture captures so many times, and guess who still gets a C on everything? I don’t think I’ve ever been this discouraged.

And this is only my first semester actually taking any major classes. So far, I don’t believe I’ve learned much more that I haven’t already heard of before. You think you love something until you actually experience it.

I’m not every fond of my classes this semester, and although it makes me think that that maybe bio isn’t for me, I just have to keep telling myself that this is only the beginning. I have three semesters left of biology classes, and maybe I can’t find something to rekindle this flame I thought I had.

The ocean and its marine life is what I really love of biology. In fact, I almost went to a college in Florida to study marine biology, to major in that specifically. I had gotten accepted and given a very hefty scholarship upon my admission, and all I had to do was pay for room and board. Yeah, it was like $12k a year, but /marine biology/! It was a dream come true. They had a marching band. I could have lived by the beach. Maybe made more friends?

It’s all what if’s that I never got to try out, and I think about that today as I sit in an echo-y lab room, trying to comprehend the words coming from my Nepal-born professor. He’s done some extraordinary work with snow leopards that is so cool, but I can’t understand anything more than that.

UIC has both a pep band and concert band, which I’ve decided to join. I thought that thrusting myself into something that I liked in high school would open some doors for me, and hep me make friends. Because I certainly didn’t have any of those in high school. Yet, wouldn’t you know, UIC has close to 0% school spirit whatsoever. Everyone already has their friend groups (including in band) and no one seems to be looking for anyone else. The few people I have managed to make friends with commute, and there’s no staying after class to hangout.

Believe me, I am grateful for those people who decided to still sit next to me this late in the semester. I am. I just wish that things were still a little different, mostly because that’s what I was expecting coming into a huge four year university.

I expected these groups of friends that wanted to stay late on campus to hangout and study. I expected people to say, “hey, let’s go grab something to eat!” I expected myself to be walking to class with a friend or two, and weekends spent with them too.

Right now, I’d like to take a moment to say how much I appreciate the one person who, in my opinion, has met every single one of these expectations. Her (fake) name is Rosa. She’s been such a great friend to me recently, and I can honestly say that I don’t think there has been anyone else whose taken even a moment out of there day to think about me and my feelings. I’m so happy that I have you as a friend Rosa, and I hope we continue to be friends while we’re both still here.

Other than here and our walks home together after class down Taylor, I find myself still very alone.

I haven’t thought about the fact that maybe I could be a junior in a marine biology program down in Florida right now, for a quite a while. Even though I think that things could be so different there, it’s probably not true! Things have always turned out to be just okay for me, in my opinion. Average things happen to very average people; I find myself to be one of the average-est.

I don’t know why I still expect things to be any different. For things to be better. I am so unsatisfied with what my 20-year-old life has become, and I’m just sad all the time. But am I sad because I don’t like how things have turned out? Or because I have depression?

Depression is a very weird thing. I think it definitely has more than one component to it. So I can’t decided if there’s maybe something wrong with me, or if I’m just an ungrateful bitch. It’s hard to tell. I am really trying to just be grateful for what I have, but it gets… so difficult for me to do when more and more things just don’t turn out in a decent manner for me.

I know most of you (if not all) are so annoyed with me at this point. “You have to be your own change!” “Things in your life are only as good as you make them!” But honestly, fuck off, okay? at this point in my life, nothing seems very worth it to me. I indulge in horrible practices, such as retail therapy and eating my feeling, and I don’t really have much more feeling to care about myself anymore.

When it comes to other people, it’s like my feeling that maybe I should pay to myself are amplified for others. I cannot bear the thought of something being upset because of something I’ve done, or could have done. I would much rather see myself suffer, than see others suffer, because in my mind, they are much more worth it than I am. For example:

> ANA HIIII > cause I ask you a huge favor pls. So I have a have my counselor meaning at 1:30 on west campus for my major and idk what time it'll end. Can you please take my iclicker for today?

This was literally just sent to me not even two minutes ago. I haven’t talked to her since the class has started. But yeah, sure, I’ll do it, where do you want to meet?

In her defense, she’s a super nice person. It’s not her fault things didn’t work out between us as friends.

God, I have such a hard time with that word, haha. Stick boy- inferno of it and I’ve made it easily 3 billion times worse. I get caught up in any boy who is decently attractive, and pays me any kind of attention at all. Hence my high school long relationship with my first boyfriend! I couldn’t break up with him for more than a week at a time, because the thought of him being sad was unbearable. Maybe Boys are another story for different day…

#journal

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thesylvalining · 7 years

Text

The last supper — in the morning. So that would be… breakfast. Left to right: Lauren, yours truly, Ashton, Bonnie, Noah and Brandie.

To be exact, it’s been 103 days — and we’re not talking about the anniversary of a certain tangerine-tinged President. No; it’s been 104 days since January 9th, when Tyler and I officially filed for divorce. As I write this, he’s just arrived in Panama with his new girlfriend (and it’s not exactly breaking news). His new girlfriend is an old friend of mine, someone I once trusted with my doubts and fears and formerly one of my good back country skiing and bike touring buddies.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel angry, hurt and doubly betrayed. I’d also be lying if I said I hadn’t given into my anger once or twice and said things I might regret in time. But what’s the saying? I want to be nobody, because nobody’s perfect.

I’d also be lying if I said I wasn’t grateful for those eleven years. Or for the countless adventures — local and international, on a bike or on skis. It would be a giant fib to say I didn’t learn, grow, laugh and even thrive with Tyler.

But the end of it all isn’t what I want to dwell on as I sit waiting for the dishwasher and the dryer to stop on my last morning in Dillon. Instead, I’d like to gnaw on the nuggets I’ve unearthed in these eleven years, the seeds of wisdom the Universe planted in me.

I’ve had long enough… so what have I learned?

The Universe wants us to be happy.

Over and over through these hard times, as I made myself available to and asked for reassurance from whatever up there knows what’s going on, I have been given what I petitioned for and more.

Take Friday as a shining example of what I mean. I’d spent weeks packing up all my sh*t (how on Earth or whatever dusty corner of the galaxy did I accumulate so much? I landed in CO in 2005 with a bike and a suitcase, for goodness’ sake). Friday, April 21st was the culmination of Operation Move Sylva: we’d hitch up Lindsay’s trailer, head down to Denver, drop my car off at the mechanic for new brakes, unload the trailer at the storage unit, eat some lunch, drive the trailer over to Lindsay’s wholesaler and load up flowers (she owns her own increasingly successful flower biz, Pots and Petals), retrieve my car, unload it at the storage unit, drive back up to Dillon, unload flowers and crash face first on our respective beds.

So — after weeks of weather so unseasonably warm and nice it was almost boring — it snowed heartily the night before. And those wicked, cold little white things persisted from the skies into the morning.

Just a few last minute adjustments…

As the wind whipped snow in our faces, Lindsay and I loaded up the last bits of furniture I needed four arms for. When Ashton arrived we headed down to the Dirty D.

Everything went smoother than Justin Timberlake’s hip-hop harmonies (I had to work that in since a hungover Jizzy Tizzy and Jessical Biel visited the Arapahoe Cafe yesterday morning) until we departed the Yardhouse in Arvada with full bellies. Back on 1-70, Lindsay merged left to prepare for the joys of I-76. A blue CRV in front of us slammed on their brakes for no apparent reason. Lindsay slowed down abruptly but she had more than adequate room between us and Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb. The lady behind us did not; a sharp bang and a solid impact was quickly followed by the sound of dragging metal on pavement.

“We lost the trailer,” said Lindsay matter-of-factly, pulling over to the left shoulder.

Then ensued the joys of insurance swapping and waiting for police on the side of a very busy Interstate. Semis whizzed by like stinky comets as I eyed the Jersey Barrier I leaned upon, ready to jump it like an Olympic hurdler if anyone else on I-70 decided to cause mayhem.

In my periphery, I see two figures running up the road — one tall and dark haired, one curvy and shorter, with shoulder length hair tousled by the chilly breeze. I blink; it’s Matt and Erica, two good mutual friends of mine and Lindsay who live in Summit County, too!

Zagorstmans to the rescue!!!!!!

“I saw your rainbow hair!” Erica said, wrapping me in a burrito hug. “I was like stop! That’s Sylva!”

What are the odds Erica and Matt would be zipping by just after (a very sweet girl in cowboy boots) rear-ended us?

And furthermore, what are the odds Erica would have ample nylon webbing for Matt to produce a series of adept knots that looked more like hyacinth blossoms than anything that would, in the end, get us, the flowers and the trailer all safely back up to Dillon? Without that fortuitous roadside rendez-vous, Lindsay, Ashton and I would probably still be waiting on the side of I-70 for a tow…

Shortly after Matt finished his roadside art project, one of the police officers walked by with an amused glance and said, “Good ’nuff for me!” HAHAHA.

2. Learn to let go

The other day at the doctor, the physician’s assistant who took my vitals asked me if I was a professional athlete — my oxygen saturation was 98 percent. I laughed but she was serious. I mean yeah, I skin the Basin semi-obsessively these days but I also eat cream cheese-infested bagels like tomorrow’s my last day on Earth and practically soak in a pool of stress (which is ending once I get on the plate to Italy this evening!). I told her I think maybe it’s because I have never taken so many deep breaths in such a short period of time — it’s how I manage most of my tough emotions in the moment. It’s how, breathing out, I can start to let go.

For a lot of us — myself included, and those of you who know my extensive wardrobe know the truth — even parting with stuff is hard. We always mean to go through our closet and give away enough unused clothing to cloth a Laotian village. Or part with our back up pair of beat up early season skis, the books growing ant-sized, dust stalagmites… and do we really need seventeen jackets? Maybe…

Rar! Shoulda got rid of more crap!!!!

Material crap aside, try letting go of an eleven year chapter of your life, a life partner, a best friend. It’s not entirely easy and like many hard lessons, it occurs in painful increments. Occasionally, I feel like I’m emotionally stuttering, unable to move past anger, or sadness or pain. But I know if letting go is all I can master through this, it will be worth it. And even the little whiffs of letting-go-ness I catch are oddly uplifting, stabilizing and above all: freeing. Especially with a lot of deep breaths!

3. We are never alone — but we are enough.

Popular culture would suggest to be complete, we need another. Look at every Disney movie ever penned, listen to the radio where the singer croons about having found a reason to live after meeting the girl or guy of their dreams. Take “All I’m Asking” by Band of Heathens, as an example (a ditty, incidentally, that is catch enough to have made it to my road trip playlist — Sylva’s Free Bird Mix)

“My mind is right for the first time

I found a reason, I figured out the round

If you let me, I’ll do better

Maybe next time, we’ll be together”

After awhile the tune gets lodged in your brain like a treble-cleft shaped dart — and so does the insinuation that we’re not whole until we are in a couple. Being with someone can be magical, but it’s not paramount to our sense of self.

Newsflash: We are already enough. I am already enough.

Even for an independent soul like myself, after more than a decade with someone, I had to wrap my little pea brain around a few key points: I am capable of accomplishing anything I set my mind to and even if I felt lonely sometimes that didn’t mean I was alone. Au contraire; during these 104 plus demanding days, people have literally sprung from the woodworks to help, encourage, listen and be there in ways I could not have appreciated if I were in another space in my life.

Teamwork makes the dreamwork!

4. Nothing is Final

On a recent trip to Moab, Utah with the parental units, I was given the opportunity to say my goodbyes to the desert — at least for now. Thanks to my parents’ Old Fogie Pass ($10 for the whole year), we flitted around Island in the Sky National Park for a whole day. I sunburned my calves and took a billion pictures (which, incidentally, I just accidentally deleted — I had to take a deep breath and practice letting go!).

Viewpoint one at the somewhat mysteriously formed Upheaval Dome — the meteor theory is currently winning.

Heading towards the second viewpoint at Upheaval Dome.

Stopping to “admire” the world’s most obnoxious rock cairn :)

The parental units at a windy Mesa Arch.

As I looked across the endless vista, past white sandstone rims, red Kayenta cliffs and Moenkopi waves, I got a strong whiff of cheese. Why? Because I happened to be thinking, as I often am these days, that time heals all wounds (and produces breathtaking desert landscapes). I was also pondering how change is the only thing that stays the same And therefore, nothing at all could be final — so all the goodbyes rolling constantly off my tongue were more like catch-you-on-the-flip-sides. I’d see the desert again if I wanted to; heck, I could even move back to Slummit if I felt like it (which, I have an inkling, is a nudge closer to improbable).

None of us is ever stuck or nailed to the floor by any decision. Our futures are reversible, malleable. Even the most gargantuan problem can be solved, if only we are able to see it as solvable — which brings me to:

5. Everything is possible — even the “impossible”

During the last four plus months — going through a divorce, suddenly alone, moving to Oregon, packing, trying to stay in shape and connect with friends, working six days and a night or two a week, fighting sinusitis and food poisoning — I began to feel the cold fingers of despair creeping up my pasty legs. This was impossible! Especially faced with a to-do list that looked more like the US Constitution:

If feeling brave: see reverse for the other half of The List…

But as of last night, I climbed A Basin in 54 minutes (just four minutes shy of my record), my crap is all packed in storage, my list is checked off, my catch-ya-on-the-flip-sides are said (mostly via a kickass party on Wednesday night), I’ve saved as much money as possible and I feel strong, independent and free!

It’s like they say — small steps to a big goal. I’ve never been one for goals, except in the rare occasion I kick a soccer ball. But then again, nothing is impossible: I’ve just accomplished more than I ever imagined several months ago!

Although I have more to share, I’ll leave it there in order to cruise down to Denver and hang out with my uncle Benjamin. This evening, I’m hopping aboard a plane to skip the pond. Tomorrow, I’ll be standing in the rain, growing webbed feet with my friend Lisa as we hike and camp in Northern Italy’s Apennine mountains…

Ciao for now Summit County!

Ski ya later…

100 Days… And Counting To be exact, it's been 103 days -- and we're not talking about the anniversary of a certain tangerine-tinged President.

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