#but today is shabbat so we're not doing it

[todaviia]

.

[itsawritblr]

Fuck "sensitivity readers."

I see that a couple of my Followers and other writers on here are obsessed with writing POC "correctly."

As a full-time professional writer of fiction and nonfiction who's also Hapa, I need to point out:

So you're paranoid that you're gonna write something and POC are going to come after you, calling you "racist" or "insensitive" or that you're "appropriating culture."

The only reply you need to make is in 2 steps:

Say:

Then:

There's is no "right way" to write any group of people or any race or ethnicity. Know why?

I've seen this happen. A Black writer will tell white writers how to write Blacks. Then another Black writer will say, "Wait a minute, I'm not like that, my family's not like that. We're not all Urban BLM hip-hop lovers. I'm Christian, I'm against trans in women's spaces, I have several White friends, and I listen to classic country music."

So who's right? Both.

A "sensitivity reader" or some on this hellsite will tell you HOW to write POC. When all they're telling you is their POV. They can't speak for everyone. (A perfect example.)

If you want to write about a person of a race or ethnicity other than your own, sure, do a little research, as you would with anything. If a sensitivity reader tells you your Jewish character should be celebrating Shabbat, a little research on your own will tell you that not all Jews do (as it happens, I learned this from my Jewish boyfriend, whose family never celebrated Shabbat). So that "sensitivity reader" would have given you misinformation because of her or his POV.

Do not panic that you're gonna be canceled or yelled at for "getting it wrong."

There IS no wrong. Look,

All you need to remember is:

Writer and screenwriter Anthony Horowitz was told not to write Black characters because he's white and Jewish. This stunned him. He was supposed to leave Black characters out of his work? But if he did that he'd be accused of not having Black characters.

He didn't obey. In fact, I'm reading his current novel, and he has a perfectly fine Black character in it.

Read this article:

No, Authors Should Not Be Constrained By Gender Or Race In The Characters They Create. by Lorraine Devon White, Contributor

This was the BBC.com headline:

Spy Author Anthony Horowitz ‘Warned Off’ Creating Black Character:

Author Anthony Horowitz says he was “warned off” including a black character in his new book because it was “inappropriate” for a white writer. The creator of the Alex Rider teenage spy novels says an editor told him it could be considered “patronising” ... Horowitz, who has written 10 novels featuring teenage spy Alex Rider, said there was a “chain of thought” in America that it was “inappropriate” for white writers to try to create black characters, something which he described as “dangerous territory”.

Dangerous territory, indeed.

What are we to make of this? Is an author limited to only writing characters within their race? What about gender? Religion? Age? Ethnicity? Sexual orientation? Where do the boundaries stop?

The old adage, “write what you know,” is a thesis that implies a writer should limit their imagination to the parameters of their own life and experience. But does that maxim still hold true today? Certainly in these times of viral accessibility, contact, research, knowledge, and interaction with people, places, and things far outside our own proximity is as every-day as 24/7 updates from the farthest corners of the globe. Our ability, consequently, to gain perspective sufficient enough to write outside one’s own “house” is not only doable, but, perhaps, universal and insightful, presuming one does it well.

But is it “patronizing”? Are we, as writers, simply not allowed to write outside, say, our culture, regardless of how well we might do it? Has society become so compartmentalized, so hypersensitive, politically correct, and wary of triggering repercussion, resentment, or misinterpretation that reaching beyond our own skin ― literally and figuratively – has become verboten to us as creative artists?

Interesting questions, these; particularly when you consider that men have been writing about women since time immemorial without particular societal concern that they couldn’t possibly know, couldn’t authentically muster, the requisite experiential perspective. It was a given that they could get the job done; accepted without debate. Yet the specificity, the sensitive and unique nature of being female, could be considered as disparate from the male experience as being black is to a white person, but that hasn’t stopped male authors, from Vladimir Nabokov to Wally Lamb, from creating their women of note.

Which is fair. Because the explicit job of an author is to climb inside the experience of LIFE, real or imagined, to tell compelling stories that reflect the incalculable diversity of detail, nuance, thought, and emotion of any variety of people, places, and things. And the creative mind can find and translate authenticity whether writing about Martians, coquettish teens, dogs who play poker, or characters who exactly mirror the author‘s gender or race.

I’ve had my own experience with this interesting conundrum: my last novel, Hysterical Love, was told through the first-person point-of-view of a thirty-three-year-old man, and it goes without saying: I’m not one of those. Yet I felt completely capable of infusing my story with authenticity by relying on my skills of observation, as well as my experiential knowledge as the sister of five men, the mother of a son, the wife of a man; my years on the road with rock bands, and the immersive research of being a close friend to many, many men throughout my life. I’ve been told I pulled it off, even by the men who’ve read it, so my conviction proved out.

But is the divide between cultures, races, wider than that of gender diversity? Does a white writer delegitimize their prose by including black characters? Is the reverse true?

I don’t think so. I think it depends on the writer, the quality of their work; the depth and sensitivity of their depictions. Those are my initial responses. But I also understand the question:

About two years ago I had an article up at HuffPost titled, “No, White People Will Never Understand the Black Experience,” a piece that became a flashpoint for much conversation on the topic of race. It was written in response to events of the time, particularly the egregious injustice of Sandra Bland’s arrest and subsequent (and inexplicable) jailhouse death, and the cacophony that arose amongst, amidst, and between parties on both sides of the racial divide as a result. My own thesis, my perspective on the tangible limitations we each have in perceiving and assessing the realities of life outside ourselves, is made clear by the title alone. But while there’s obviously much more to that debate, here and now we’re discussing the issue as it relates to the job of being an author and I have some specific thoughts on that.

Inspired by the many responses and conversations that ensued after the aforementioned article, as well as others written on the topic of racial conflict, bias, and injustice, I took one of the stories referenced, about an interracial couple’s experiences with police profiling, and developed it into a character-driven novel called A NICE WHITE GIRL, a title that reflects commentary made within some of the conversations I had.

This “sociopolitical love story” is told through the intertwining points-of-view of a black man and white woman dealing not only with pushback to their new and evolving relationship, but the ratcheting impact of police profiling that ultimately leads to a life-altering arrest. It’s a story that’s human, gut-wrenching, and honest, built on the foundation of my own experiences in a long-term interracial relationship earlier in my life, as well as journalistic research and interviews, personal interactions, even friendships with members of the black community. Given a commitment to creating the characters outside my demographic as authentically and sensitively as I possibly could, without watering them down or pandering to political correctness, I believe I served both my story and its cultural demands well. Did I?

Every author relies on, taps into; mines the wealth of thought, opinion, perspective, and acculturation of their own unique life experience. Certainly that’s true. But as artists, as observers and chroniclers of life by way of prose, we go beyond that pool of reference. We reach out, we expand; we explore plot lines and include characters that stretch our imagination, that dig deep into worlds, events and experiences, imagined or real, that can pull us onto less traveled roads that might demand the challenge of research, of specific observation, even outside consultation. We take these extra steps, even for fiction, because we want to infuse our work with inherent realness. Particularly when writing characters outside our culture. That was certainly the demand I faced when embarking upon this latest novel.

But I am a white woman who’s written a book with a black male character, inclusive of his mother, his sister, and various friends. I’ve depicted their family life, their interactions, relationships, thoughts and feelings. Do I not have the creative right to do that? Will I be seen as patronizing, insensitive, off base, and inappropriate? Will this make my book too controversial for representation, for publishing, for sale? Will it garner derision and disdain from members of the black community? Even members of the white community who may resent the harshness with which I depict some of the police?

I don’t know. Maybe. But it was a story I felt passionate about, compelled to write; that took the many debated aspects and elements discussed in my articles and put them into fictional form, with imagined characters who embodied and borrowed from people I knew, from conversations I’d had, from ideas, agendas, politics, and passions that had been conveyed to me by real people expressing essential and sometimes controversial perspectives. I was determined to honor them by candidly, honestly, and without apology, telling the story.

But perhaps, as Anthony Horowitz was told, I’m entering territory that is off-limits, that puts me at odds with those who might frame me as presumptuous and patronizing. “A nice white girl” who’s stepped outside of culturally acceptable boundaries.

I hope not, because I, like Mr. Horowitz, see that as “dangerous territory.”

Just as brilliant male authors have gorgeously written female protagonists; as female novelists have conjured male characters ringing with truth; as writers of one ethnicity have honestly depicted another; as fabulists have invented entire worlds of imagined wonders, authors must be limited by... NOTHING. Not a thing. They must be free to create without fear of cultural naysaying, societal judgment, threat of reprisal, or the discomfort of crossing cultural boundaries.

The only mandate to which they’re obligated is GOOD WRITING. Writing with wit and clarity. Honesty. Authenticity. Sensitivity and depth. Engaging prose, compelling plots, and visceral emotion. And, if need be, if determined helpful, the use of “sensitivity readers” who can ascertain if the writer got the cultural references right.

But just as Idris Elba could certainly make magic as James Bond, as Anthony Horowitz could create an intriguing black spy for his books; as I can write characters both male and of a culture outside my own, so must every author of merit and worth be allowed to view the entire panoply of life as fuel for their imagination. Anything else is antithetical to the mission of art... and stymying art serves no one. Not the writer, not the reader, not the myriad members of our diverse world hungry for stories that reflect their lives. Art is imagining; creating, mirroring, and provoking... all of which can and must be achieved by artists free to explore without the limiting effect of creative and cultural boundaries.

[hindahoney]

Hey - this is kind of an odd question, but I was wondering if you had any recommendations for books or articles to read to learn more about Judaism for someone who’s kind of Jewish (but not really)?

My mum is Jewish, but stopped practicing when she was a teenager, and I was brought up atheist - my dad’s family are Protestant. I basically don’t know anything about Judaism, which feels particularly weird because I know loads about Christianity, just through osmosis. And I’ve never met a whole branch of my family who are apparently very orthodox and live really near us in London. Anyway, I’d like to learn more, and don’t really know how to start? Or if I should start?

Thank you for your question. First of all, if your mother is Jewish, you are Jewish. You're not "kind of Jewish," you're not "Jew-ish." You're fully Jewish, and every movement of Judaism recognizes you as such.

Second, there are endless amazing resources for people in situations like yours. I wish I could say that it was more rare to have descendants of people who assimilated wanting to reconnect, but sadly it's not. I've known some people have found resources for converts to be helpful in reconnecting, so those are mixed in with my list as well.

MyJewishLearning is a great resource for really anything Jewish. I've found their articles to be pretty diverse in terms of approach, and they give perspectives of different movements on each topic.

Jewish101 Playlist - This is great not just for beginners, but for people familiar with Judaism already. They are talks given by one of my favorite Rabbis, Rabbi Mark Golub, about everything from how Jews view G-d, our relationship & struggles with Him, how sex is treated in Judaism, to Jewish holiday traditions & the meaning behind them.

Jewish Learning Institute - This entire channel is beneficial for learning about really any topic. They have a more frum perspective, but I think that learning the core observant values is really important when deciding which ones speak to you. It's also important for Jews to understand their more observant siblings, as many people don't and that ignorance leads to observant Jews being marginalized by their own family. By having that baseline understanding of the reasons behind why Jews do what they do, so that you can decide for yourself it that matters or can fit in your life. The video I've attached is about the survival of the Jewish people, a brilliant and moving speech given by Rabbi Y.Y Jacobson. I think this speech is sure to give every Jew a sense of pride and connection to their fellow Jew, which is vital when forming a Jewish identity. We're a tribe for a reason.

TY Channel Henry Abramson - Not a Rabbi but many people mistake him for one because he's highly educated (PhD). He gives very educational lectures on all sorts of Jewish topics, usually Jewish history. Peppers in some humor too, so he's entertaining to watch.

Unpacked - Gives crash-course type videos (entertaining, some animation, higher budget, etc) on issues that Jews face today, conversations Jews are having in the community, and Jewish history.

My Jewish Mommy life - Jewish vlogger who makes videos on the basics of Judaism, shabbat, holidays, etc. A good resource for anyone just entering the fold. Comes from a more reform background but does a decent job of explaining different perspectives.

Books

The Torah (Hebrew-English, also has Spanish, French, Portuguese. There are tons of versions online)

The Jewish Book of Why - This book is essentially a compilation of a million different questions commonly asked about Jews/Judaism and the answers given range in the interpretation of various movements.

Choosing A Jewish Life - Kind of a how-to guide in terms of choosing a Rabbi, synagogue, overview of basic Jewish concepts & movements, choosing a Hebrew name for yourself (You can give yourself one if you don't have one!!), and how to discuss with your family your decision to be Jewish, or more observant.

Jewish Literacy - ABSOLUTELY MY FAVORITE JEWISH RESOURCE. Can be read like a novel or an encyclopedia (like for referencing certain topics). I read through this completely and it is an amazing compilation of every topic from important Biblical stories and their Jewish interpretation, Jewish history from its creation to modern times, IP conflict, major Jewish historical figures, modern Jewish thought on certain topics. Genuinely, if you want to know something about Jewish tradition and practice, it's probably in this book.

To Be a Jew - Halachot (Jewish laws) around observance in daily life, their oigins, and why we do them. Guide for major and minor holidays, major life events, and an explanation of rationale for modern Jewish life.

Living a Jewish Life - Another why-to and how-to guide for Judaism in your daily life.

Helpful Apps:

Shabbat Times (Self-explanatory, you put in your city and it tells you what time Shabbat starts)

Jewish Chronicle/Jooish News - News around the world for what's happening to and by Jews

TorahAnytime - Like Youtube but for Jewish learning

Daily Jewish Prayers - Invaluable resource that explains when which prayers are said, provides it in transliteration, English, and Hebrew

CalJ - Jewish calendar. Great for knowing what the Hebrew date is and when/what times Jewish holidays start.

JVL (Jewish Virtual Library) - a bunch of Jewish books

Jewish accounts to follow:

Here's a very short and incomplete list of Jewish accounts I recommend following, because they post about Judaism a lot and give a good idea of what every-day Jews think about a wide range of things. They are really invaluable resources when it comes to learning from real Jews and I trust their judgment:

@shretl

@tikkunolamorgtfo (has been around forever, literally amazing)

@adoratato

@jewish-kermit

@spacelazarwolf

@magnetothemagnificent

@laineystein

@gonnauseanomdeplume

@hiddurmitzvah

@girlactionfigure

@rimonoroni

@anonymousdandelion

@starlightomatic

@unbidden-yidden

[olderthannetfic]

/728571347409731584

Firstly, the person you're replying to only describe in-person experiences. Secondly, I've been to two universities in the US as a result of getting a scholarship midway through. At one, I was discouraged from attending the queer club on campus by the head of it, as I wasn't queer, I wasn't "really" aroace, I was just "a late bloomer". She informed me that everyone wants romance and sex sometimes. Aro and ace people want it less, she explained, to my face, standing ten feet from me, but they still want it.

No, it's not "only in online spaces". Queer people who use the queer segments of the internet do not only exist in darkened cellars they never emerge from. Teenagers and young adults go to college. It isn't 1998 anymore, pretending the internet and the physical world have zero overlap and what you read online cannot impact or shape your views is ridiculous.

You know how I know this? At my incredibly liberal university, where I live in a gender-inclusive nearly all queer dorm, not only have I heard two separate conversations at floor events about this where it was repeated by other queer students, including ace people, that ace people have sex and ace people do romance, with NO utterance of the word "sometimes", but today? Today, guys, gals and enbies, this Friday, this very fucking Shabbat, I heard it from a professor.

My Social Stratification professor said that asexuality is "a usually treatable condition" and "doesn't mean someone doesn't have sex, just that they have a low sex drive" and when I said some people don't have sex, she said "therapy can help" and topped it off with, "and of course they still masturbate frequently, so they're really not as different as people like to stereotype them as".

I don't. I don't masturbate, it's not fun for me. I don't long to fuck fictional characters or real people. I don't need therapy. I'm not traumatized. I don't have sex. I don't want romance. I don't find reading about it compelling most of the time, either. I don't need therapy for that, because you go to therapy for things that are negatively impacting my life, and actually?

I am aroace in the "wrong" way, a zero-sex, zero-romance, zero-masturbating person, and I'm happy. I like who I am. I like how I am. I have a good life at my dream university, with good friends, a nice room, roommates I like, a mostly walkable part of town, and I'm working on my dream degree to reach my dream career. I'm not huddled in the corner in the fetal position sobbing about the sex I secretly want or on my bed furiously masturbating to anything. I am not lying about my identity, my experiences, my thoughts or my feelings.

This professor is young, roughly 30. That means it's feasible she's been using tumblr for years, as it was popular during her teenage years, or she has been in the company of people who, via tumblr, Instagram, Amino, etc., have this idea of asexuality. And does that idea stay locked inside a computer somewhere? No, because the person who reads them doesn't. The people who read, internalize as truth and believe shitty online takes also exist in the real world. They have physical bodies they take to physical places and they open their mouth and say things, which are then passed onto other people who exist in the offline world.

"The only thing that [they] are seeing is internet wank" NO! The only thing you are seeing is internet wank, but there is not a mass conspiracy of college students across the USA to lie and say we're experiencing things we aren't, which would be the only explanation for so, so many ace people I know online talking in private on Discord servers, tumblr, in YouTube comments and in person having this same shared experience.

I genuinely don't know how people think no one could possibly have the same bad take offline that they do online. Q-Anon exists. January 6th happened. People get radicalized into beliefs much more absurd than this and act on those beliefs constantly and "no you just need to touch grass" is what you arrived at as a conclusion instead of "sometimes people are wrong"?

Though I say this with love, I mean it when I say that you don't just need to touch grass, you need to hug a whole hay bale.

--

[gaelic-symphony]

hi!! :)

i hope this isn't weird, but i love reading your posts about judaism to learn more from it. i don't follow any religion but i love getting to know them from people who do

and if you don't mind me asking, what are your favourite things about it? <3

i hope i have expressed myself well and you don't mind this 🫶🏼

I actually love this ask, and I'm so glad you sent it! There are so many things I love about Judaism, it would take me forever to come up with a list of them, but here are a few of my favorites:

I love our everyday rituals. I love keeping kosher and going to the kosher supermarket. I love that every time I eat or go grocery shopping, I'm affirming my connection to my people and my ancestors. I love that we have blessings for the most mundane human activities like washing our hands. I love ending every week with Shabbat. I love how it gives us a day to rest and reflect and be thankful before we start a new week, and I love having the weekly marker of Shabbat to track the passage of time. I love that you don't have to subscribe to any particular version of Jewish theology or believe that we do these things because Hashem commanded us in order to participate fully in these rituals. You can do them just because you find meaning in them. You can do them just because you're proud to be Jewish and follow the traditions of your ancestors.

I love our holidays. So many of them commemorate our survival against those who tried to wipe us out: Purim, Chanukah, Passover. Every year, we tell the story of our peoples' perseverance. We reflect on the strength and courage of generations of Jews before us that allowed our continued survival into the present day. Other holidays are seasonal markers of time. Tu B'Shvat is a little over a week away, and it's our "new year for trees," the time of year when the earliest trees start to bloom in the Land of Israel. Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur mark the end of the old year and beginning of a new one, and give us the chance to leave our mistakes of the past year behind and learn from them moving forward as we start fresh with a brand new year. Sukkot is a traditional celebration of the annual harvest. And other holidays, we're just so happy to be Jewish that we need to throw a party about it! Shavuot celebrates the Israelites receiving the Torah from Hashem at Mount Sinai, and then we celebrate the Torah again on Simchat Torah, when we read the very last verses of the book of Dvarim and start all over again with Bereshit.

I love our music. Our daily prayers are set to music, with special nusach (melodies) for Shabbat and holidays. When we read from the Torah or the books of the prophets, we chant the words to the same melodies our ancestors have done for centuries. We sing as a way to connect with each other and with Hashem. We sing the psalms of King David, and we sing wordless melodies we call niggunim. We've developed our own styles of secular, non-liturgical music and dance: klezmer and canciones, the horah and the Yemenite step, and many, many more!

I love our scholarship. Our scholarly tradition is one of questioning and arguing, neither of which are viewed negatively in Jewish tradition! We love to ask ourselves "what if" and "why," and the point isn't so much finding a singular answer as it is the process of engaging with the text. Does it really matter as a real-world issue whether there are any Pokemon that would be kosher to eat? Of course not! But that's exactly the type of thing we love to argue over, and if the ancient rabbinic sages like Hillel and Akiva and Rashi and Maimonides were alive today, I guarantee you they would have opinions on the matter.

I love our joy. There is so much joy that comes with being Jewish, a joy we feel just for being alive against all odds. Most of our prayers are not asking Hashem for the things we want, but thanking Hashem for the things we have. We have a brachah we say specifically to thank Hashem for the opportunity to fix what is broken in this world. Our history has rarely been a happy one, but we have always found reasons to rejoice. We danced and sang and celebrated our holidays and life events even in the Warsaw Ghetto. This past December, during one of the saddest, heaviest, and scariest times for our people since the Shoah, Jews all over the world celebrated Chanukah like we always do. In the midst of our mourning, we found joy. Literally and figuratively, we came together as a tribe to create light in the darkness.

[is-the-fire-real]

On Thursday one of the local cops called my wife and asked if we could foster four abandoned puppies. They were maybe a couple of hours old. I don't want to go into a lot of detail because it's bleak stuff and the internet has enough of that.

A ton of people pulled together and my wife and I have kept these pups alive successfully for the past three days. There is a shelter who will take them once they eat solid food. Which is at about 2 weeks of age.

And like we'll do it because we have to, because they are totally helpless creatures. I am not taking credit for our mercy. My wife said we'd foster without telling me first. I got kind of mad at the time, but I got over it pretty quickly because. Well. Again, there was nobody else. Every single foster home in our area is filled to bursting with abandoned and stray animals. WE'RE overfull on abandoned animals because no one will take the ones we've got.

We're exhausted because they have to get fed every 3 hours. They only learned how to latch onto the bottle today. So the first two nights, their feedings took well over an hour. We woke up after three hours and then lost over an hour of sleep. This is the kind of thing I'd bounce back from easily when I was a younger man. 41 is much less forgiving of an age.

I feel like my head is wrapped in steel wool sometimes. Like I'm blinking through it.

We lit Shabbat candles and then went on working because now there's a grand total of thirteen animals in the house so there can't be a single day off. Had to keep doing laundry because the pups go through so much and they make innocent messes so we have to change our clothes more. On and on.

The cops found someone else in the village, I think, who will take them for a couple of days. They'll have to because we have a hate crimes case in a few days. I can't even mentally prepare for that because of the pups.

They are so small. The heftiest one weighs 253 grams/9 ounces. The smallest weighs 185 grams/6.5 ounces. They are so incredibly delicate and I feel shitty for feeling tired.

I feel guilty. I know it's all necessary for their health but I skipped my intro to Judaism class (feeding what was probably their first meal ever) and I keep missing the counting of the omer calls and I missed kabbalat shabbat and I'm totally unprepared for my Hebrew class tomorrow and I'm just a big falling-behind wreck. And it's been three days. They must be here for two weeks. We can't fall behind but we can't keep up. And asking for help is tricky when you have imposter syndrome and feel like asking anyone for help is like getting stabbed.

I have no ending to this post.

[romanarose]

Seattle: Part 4

Marc Spector X Fem!Jewish!OC

Seattle Masterlist

Part 3 : Part 5

Summary: Marc takes Rebecca to meet his friends, who will help with the divorce. Marc thinks back on the ways she saved him, and your younger brother

A/N: This is literally terrible. I needed a chapter between the last one and what comes next and I really thought I could do better but it's like pulling teeth. The flashbacks have no theme, there's no overarching elements, no story. The writing is dry and lack of description. I hate this. But I hope you at least enjoyed our guest stars.

WARNINGS: Usuals for this fic, domestic violence, child abuse. We're talking more about Jack so gonna throw in manipulation and isolation. Also, talk of miscarriage and rape. Just a warning for how the law does not always consider condom tampering rape, but it fucking is. I will block anyone who wants to argue. Same if someone says they are on birth control but aren't, or says they recently had an STD test but haven't anything happening outside of the agreed upon terms is rape. Anyway, lmk if I missed anything.

Note: Kaddish is the part in shabbat services where anyone who is mourning, stands. Purim is a Jewish holiday celebrating the story of Esther, where people traditionally wear costumes.

Italics are marc, bold is steven.

*********

“Thanks dad, I’ll talk to her when she’s up.” Marc had stepped into the hall while Rebecca slept, calling his dad to ask how to help her with the miscarriage, per her request. Elias, as always, was kind and sympathetic as Marc filled him in on the basic details of how she came to move in with him. Elias mentioned no one really hears from her dad much, he’s not at temple save for a few High Holy days, when he pretends like he’s getting his life together, or when Rebecca’s brother, Asa, is in town and Asa drags him to services.

‘Tell her I say hi, and that I’m praying for her’

“I will”

Marc hung up after saying goodbye, taking a breather. Talking to his dad was getting easier, but it could still bring out difficult memories, especially with their conversation today focusing on judaism. Elias didn’t ask him if he was going to Purim, he didn’t pry, just gave the information Rebecca needed, and expressed his  relief she was safe. He had said something about Marc being a good man for taking her in, but Marc didn’t feel like he was a good person for this. This wasn’t an act of service, he didn’t even feel like this was duty, as much as he felt indebted to her. He didn’t have to think about it, any of it. This was simply how they were. Always.

. Rebecca had made her way in life, as Marc knew she could, getting her masters despite teetering on the edge of homelessness some days. Despite couch surfing, rent in dangerous neighborhoods and working full time in grad school, she had gotten her masters in social work as spent hour after hour trying to make sure no kids were in the position she and Marc had been in, and that parents got the help they needed to support their families. She worked hard, and would sometimes call Marc out of the blue to cry, ask his advice, or simply ask him to distract her. She was well suited for it too. Rebecca never took hell from anyone, and could not be intimidated, no matter what parents tried. She wasn’t afraid of anyone, no matter what she saw in that field. And Jesus, she saw a lot.

When she called him one day, initially acting like it was a regular call she’d make on any given day to check in or chat, she casually mentioned she met someone and Marc suspected that was the real reason she called. Marc should’ve said something there, should've jumped in while the relationship was new, before Jack had her wrapped around his finger, before he could hurt her. But he didn’t. He’d meet Layla a few months later, and despite everything, Marc could never find it in himself to regret that part. Layla had been such an important part of his life, especially during the years where he might not hear from Rebecca for months, Layla was there. But still, he couldn’t help wonder what might have been if Marc had simply told Rebecca how he felt. But he was a coward. And he remained a coward as she told him about the guy.

“His name is Jack, and he’s so sweet! We met because I forgot my card at home and I didn’t realize until I went to pay at the coffee shop, and he paid for mine!” I’ve seen him almost every night this week.”

“What does he do for work?” Marc asked, ever practical.

“He’s in finance, makes a lot of money, one of those rich kids, you know? I’m actually meeting his parents this Saturday, isn’t that exciting? We haven't been dating long and he already wants us to meet! I gotta get a new dress, something to impress his rich ass parents.” That had been the start. She didn’t just buy a nice dress. You bought a name brand. The first thing she had done to change herself for him. The dress wasn’t even her style

“Yeah Beccs, he sounds great. Text me how meeting his parents goes, I hope they are nice” Marc tried so, so hard to sound excited for her. It wasn’t that he wanted it to go poorly, and he certainly never wanted what Jack ended up being. He genuinely wanted her to be happy, with or without him… But he couldn’t help the tinge of jealousy, wishing so badly it was him.

Wearing his Nirvana shirt and a pair of jeans Marc brought from her apartment, she looked significantly more like herself as she got ready to go meet the lawyer Marc had gotten for her. 

“Marc, honey, do you have any sunscreen?”

Marc laughed “No, no I don’t have any sunscreen. I haven't worn it since you’d force it on me at the beach.”

She nudged him “Just because you have darker skin doesn’t mean you don’t need sunscreen, Marc” Rebecca said with a smile.

Marc couldn’t shake a bad feeling in his gut, something telling him to keep going. He always trusted his gut, he wasn’t stopping now. “I used to be a lot less dark than you…” He commented on her paler complexion, the beautiful skin he knew from before having given way to a lighter color.

Noticeably, her demeanor changes. “Seattle isn’t exactly known for its sun, sweetheart.” Rebecca tries to hide her discomfort with the conversation’s direction with a nickname. It almost worked, Marc’s brain always got a little fuzzy when she called him sweetheart, because who else but her thought he was sweet?

But Marc wasn’t backing down. “It’s cloudy out right now, why would you need sunscreen?”

She shrugged, all too casually. “Just a habit I got into, protect my skin”

Marc couldn’t help the sardonic laugh that escaped him. “Protect it from what? You get sunshine there once a year at best.”

Her face set in determination, and Marc couldn’t help but be proud of her. She still had fight in her, she wasn’t completely gone. Dark eyes challenging, she countered him. “You still need sunscreen with overcast, Marc,”

Then it clicked. Her hair was lightened and straight, her skin washed out, traces of her ethnicity stripped away. “Oh my god. He wanted you to look less Jewish”

A deep flush took hold of her face and she dodged his eyes, grabbing her purse and storming towards the door. “Let’s go.”

Marc wasn’t resenting as he hurried after her. “Jesus Beccs, what the fuck did he do to you? You loved being Jewish, you were always so fucking proud.”

“Drop it, Spector” Rebecca opened the door and power walked out of the apartment.

 He didn’t even stop to lock his apartment, but he was pretty sure he made his neighbors nervous enough that no one would try anything. He continued after her, not sure how far she thought she’d go when she didn’t know where she was going. “What’s next, Becca?” She was taller than him, not by much but longer legs, so he had to give a little extra effort to keep up. “Gonna wear blue contacts? Gonna be his perfect white, anglican, protestant housewife?”

She spun around so fast, Marc ran into her, and she pushed him into the wall. “Stop!” She shouted, eyes wide with anger. “Don’t you think I’m embarrassed enough!” Watching Marc’s face wince just a bit at her shouting, she took her hands off him and stepped back, but her mouth just kept moving. “I’m humiliated Marc! I was so fucking sick and tired of needing you to rescue me when we were young, constantly, constantly needing you and I was so, so proud of where my life was! I was secure, I had a good life in Chicago and I made it, because of you, but I continued without you because you left! You left me, and it’s fine, and you needed to and I get it but you left, and I figured things out on my own” 

Marc watched as she broke, eyes falling down as she continued venting out her frustration of the last few… years? Decades?

“And things were good, and I was good, and I was happy and I FUCKING RUINED IT, because I let myself get swept up, I let myself get taken over, and controlled, and changed and I watched it happen, I watched it happen, Marc, and I knew damn well what was happening and I didn’t stop it! And now you have to rescue me again, and I’m once again dependent on you and that’s exactly what got me her in the first place!” She finished, shouting loud enough he was sure people could hear, but all he could focus on was her confession.

“What do you-”

“I LOVED YOU, MARC!” Rebecca let out a growl in frustration, angry at herself for letting it slip, but unable to stop the word vomit from spilling. “I loved you, and no one else has ever been you, no one else ever could be you. I didn’t deserve you so I just settled. And in some ways, early on, he reminded me of you” The tears streamed down her pretty face as she spoke, calmer now but still high emotion. “He insisted on buying everything, he took care of me, took care of things, just like you did but it was. It was different. You did it because we were friends. He did it because he wanted to control me, but it worked. It worked and just as I broke out of needing you, I went right back into needing him, until I was so emotionally and financially dependent, he was all I had left.” A sob choked out at the last few words.

“You had me…” He whispered, but she shook her head.

“No, because he took that too. He got me so twisted, he would get in my head. He would make me feel like, like you were the one trying to control me, like you were just playing with me, and Marc I’m sorry, I’m sorry I believed him” Rebecca covered her face as she sobbed, anger and shame radiating off of her shaking form.

Marc hesitated, unsure the correct course of action as he watched her cry. Did she want to be held? Was touch too much? Was she still angry at him? She loved him. At least before Jack, she loved him. And she thought she didn’t deserve him? He had always known, in some sense, that what they had was more than friendship, he had always considered their bond something beyond definition, something fiery and strong, something he could always call too. 

Even that night, that horrible fucking night in Eygpt as he laid at Khonsu’s feet with a gun to his chin he had called to it, reaching out into the universe to feel her, begging for something. He felt her, and his finger hesitated at the trigger, a hesitation that lasted long enough for Khonshu to call on him, long enough for his life to be spared, long enough to bring him back and bring him to her.

Marc Spector didn’t have anywhere else to go. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He could always go back to his parents, that was always an option. Not one he would take. The last time he was there was when Rebecca had heat exhaustion and he needed to take her somewhere she could stay cool. He’d do it again. He’d even have lunch with his mom if it was for Rebecca’s safety. But Rebecca would never ask that of him, and things were different now. She had been doing better. She was engaged in an insane whirlwind romance that had left Marc suspicious. Rebecca was always practical. But maybe she was just in love. Marc missed his chance, two decades worth of chances, and maybe she was finally happy with someone who was man enough to tell her how he felt. 

Only a week ago, he nearly swallowed a bullet. Now he was grappling with what it meant to be the slave to an Eygytion god. Rebecca would have something to say about that, probably lecture him on how he must not have paid any attention during passover, and what would their ancestors think? Well, that wasn’t exactly on his mind as he lay dying, but here he was. Just as he had crawled up the steps of Khonshu’s statue to die, he was practically crawling to her door. Unannounced, no warning, he knocked, hoping to the not-Khonshu God that she was home, having not moved in with her fiance yet, not until the wedding.

Relief flowed through him when he saw her face, ever warm and welcoming. Ever beautiful as the last time he saw her, nearly a year ago, the only difference was her hair was longer. Longer than any time he had ever seen it, save for her childhood when her dad made her grow out her hair. It was often a matted mess, thick and curly, her mother had died without having taught her proper hair care for the curl type, and god knows her dad was no help. He also refused to take her to cut it, insisting girls should have long hair. That was until one day when Rebecca was 12, she chopped it off. Badly. Like, it was a disaster. Carl then told her he wouldn’t pay to get it professionally cut, claiming this was her lesson. Rebecca had come to Marc’s house crying, chunks of hair shorter than others. Marc had, of course, insisted it looked great. That was a blatant lie, but even at 11 he knew better than to tell a girl her hair looked bad. 

Elias had come home to find the girl his son had formed a codependent friendship with sobbing on his couch and took mercy on the poor child, taking her in for a haircut to fix it, and a few more as it grew out over the next year, until Rebecca had started making her own money babysitting. That night, Marc overheard his dad on the phone. Carl had called to yell at Elias, but his dad wasn’t deterred, telling him that he had seen the matted mess his daughters hair had been, threatening to turn him in to CPS if he didn’t drop it. Elias didn’t know Carl was beating her, the way Wendy beat Marc, and had likely hurt her when he saw the haircuts, but this at least shut Carl up. Marc briefly wondered why his dad could stand up for Rebecca, but not him… but he supposed it was different when it’s your wife.

Marc hurt at the idea that Jake had twisted her so fucking far that she doubted their friendship, their love. She had to know he loved her, even if she didn’t think it was romantic, she had to have known he would do anything for her… How had Jack taken that way? All they ever had was each other, and somehow he took that. He had to have known, had to have known that Marc was the only thing standing in the way of total control, so he took out that target. “Can I hold you, Beccs?”

She nodded. “Careful. Ribs still hurt.” She was still covering her face in shame. Rebecca hated crying.

“Of course, Metukah.” Marc hugged her softly, relying more on his arms holding her than being chest to chest. He took a moment to just feel her, to just hold her, exist together as they should have been all this time. “You think I rescued you? All this time, you think I was taking pity on you? Becca, honey, I was trying to repay you”

Finally, she looked up at him. “Hm?”

Marc held the side of her face that wasn’t burnt. “You saved me, our entire childhood, you were my everything, the only one I had after Randall died” It hurt to say his name out loud, even still. “I have spent years trying to repay you, and I will spend the rest of my life, and it will still never be enough. I am forever indebted to you.  You think you don’t deserve me?” He blinked at her, unbelieving she could think such a thing. “You have always been the center of my gravity, my life force, my strength. This isn’t charity, it’s love.”

Her brown eyes watered again as she looked at him. “Love?”

Marc Spector smiled at her. “Yeah. I love you. I’ve always loved you, I just… could never find a way to say it”

Finally, Rebecca smiled at him. “I love you too, Marc” Her lips were chapped and dry from the stress and the near-boiling water that hit her face, but when she kissed him, he felt like there could be nothing better in the entire world. He felt like a teenager again, like they were picking up where they left off.

She pulled away slowly, before it could deepen, and she took his hand, two fingers still wrapped up from where they had been broken in the door. “This is all… everything is very fresh… I love you, and I’m not saying you have to wait for me-”

“Of course, baby, take all the time you need, I’ll be here waiting” He kissed her forehead. “Always right here waiting”

When she answered the door to find him, she smiled at first, but it quickly faded to worry. Marc’s wounds had healed, Khonshu trading Marc’s life for servitude, but it was clear how lost he was, that something was broken in him. Well. Something new, anyway. 

“Beccs, I’m sorry I didn’t call I just-” Marc was interrupted by a forceful hug, then was ushered inside.

“Shower first, it’s cold out, I’ll get you some clothes, okay? Warm up.” She touched his face, smiling gently as she coaxed him into the bathroom with a t-shirt and men’s pajamas. “Take your time sweetheart, then we’ll talk”

Marc nodded, still in a daze. How much he wanted to talk, he wasn’t sure. She wouldn’t push him, she never did, but there was no keeping secrets from Becca, he’d always tell her eventually, so he might as well now. Going through the motions, Marc showered himself, eventually padding his wet feet back out to the living room. Senses still hazy, having barely been able to do more than nod along since he came to the apartment. The whole week felt like a bad acid trip. And yes… he couldn’t help feel a little bit better when he saw you in the kitchen. He knew automatically you were making him tea.

You turn to see him, greeting him with a warm smile and nodding to the couch. “Sit down, I’ll be right there.” Marc nodded and did as he was told, body moving on its own as he continued to live in this haze of a day dream. 

He suddenly found himself holding a hot mug of tea as the couch sank and she sat next to him, looking as beautiful as ever. “Drink some first, I’m not going anywhere.”

There was no hurry, no urgency to be somewhere. Like how they always were, he could take him time around her. When he was ready, she’d be there. He took the spoon and blew on it before sipping the hit liquid, furrowing his brows. 

“What’s wrong? Don’t like it?”

Marc shook his head. “No, I like it, that’s what’s confusing me. Since when do you drink berry tea?”

Rebecca was a big tea drinker, swearing by its calming and healing effects, but she always preferred less fruity tastes, like English breakfast or herbal. Marc didn’t really like tea, but when Rebecca made flavors like pomegranate and put lots of sugar in, he enjoyed it.“Oh yeah.” She spoke casually. “I alway keep the fruity shit you like on hand, just in case you drop by. I have those god awful beef ramen noodle cups you used to inhale back in the day”

That did it. That broke him. Everything that Marc Spector had been holding back this week pushed through, and he started sobbing.

Rebecca didn’t say a word about the dingy building they walked into. She had insisted she could pay for a lawyer, but she was probably glad his friend wasn’t exactly expensive.

As Marc opened the door, Matt Murdock and Foggy Nelson turned to greet them, standing in front of the table in the middle of the room. 

“Marc! How’s it going!” Foggy greeted enthusiastically.

“Hey guys, thanks for meeting with us” Marc kept a protective grasp on Rebecca’s shoulders. Not because he didn’t trust the pair, but because the last few days scared the shit out of him, and he wanted her close.

“Of course.” Matty extended a hand to Rebecca, who was obviously a little surprised the blind man knew exactly where she was standing, but took it anyway. “Marc tells us you insist on paying, but we want to do this for you. Marc has saved our skin a bunch of times, we owe him.”

Rebecca shook her head. “No, I appreciate it, but no. Give someone lse your pro-bono work, I don’t need it” Her pride may be wounded, but she was a proud woman.”

Foggy laughed a bit “Ma’am, most of what we do is pro-bono, it feels like” He joked, and Matt gently nudged him. Foggy motioned for them to sit at the table.

“You can give someone else your charity, Mr. Nelson.”

Matt interjected. ”It’s not charity, miss Malcolm-”

“Levi” Marc interrupted. “Her last name is Levi”

“Oh, sorry, we were just going over the documents you sent over-”

“Yeah, Malcolm was that bastard’s-”

Rebecca put a comforting hand on Marc’s arm. “Honey, I got it.” She turned back to Matt. “Malcolm is my husband’s-”

Marc wouldn’t shut up. “-He’s not your fucking-” He stopped when she squeezed his arm.

She continued looking at Matt, not glancing towards Marc as he interrupted her. “-My husband’s name. And thank you, Mr. Murdock, but there are plenty of people in worse situations than me.”

Matt smiled. “We won’t be billing you. If you feel uncomfortable with that, St. Monica’s is a wonderful women’s shelter, I’ve worked with them in the past with other victims, you can donate whatever you think is fair their, and the money will be put to good use, I promise.”

Rebecca was conceeded. “Fine.”

“Now.” Matt placed his fingers over some brail papers. “Marc says you don’t want anything out of the divorce?”

Marc spoke up. “No, but she should, after all that bastard did to her”

“Marc, honey, I got it” Rebecca spoke, and Marc missed the irritation laced in her voice, but Foggy didn’t.

“Sorry” Marc muttered.

Rebecca had taken the information surprisingly well. In a world where norse gods were fighting in New York, anything was possible.

“I suppose an Egyption god isn’t the strangest thing I’ve heard this year”

“Yeah, Might be the the strangest for me” he  muttered

A pause. “I’m sorry that happened. But… you know… it’s not your-”

“Don’t” Marc groaned. “Don’t say it”

“Okay.”

“I don’t know what this means. For… for my life” 

She understood this meant his life would be even less predictable. 

“The wedding is in two months… Stay for that? You can stay here. I’ve been moving my shit into Jacks anyway, I’ll just move all the way in”

“I don’t want to take you’re-”

“Stop, Marc, please? Stay here, do whatever shit you have to do at night just… I want you at my wedding. Please?”

Marc had been invited, of course. He couldn’t help feel the invite a bit of a slap, a visible sigh Jack had changed her. Any other year, he would have been in the wedding. Another life, he would have married her. He had made his excuses as to why he couldn’t come. None of that mattered right now.  “Yeah Rivkah, I’ll stay for the wedding”

Rebecca continued. “I just want him out of my life, I just want to be done. I don’t need anything.”

“Marc has told me some of what happened. I’m very sorry to hear what he did.”

With a dry laugh, Becca smiled sadly. “When I moved to Seattle, I thought it would be different. I wanted to see so much there, really get into the local music scene… But now I just understand why grunge sounds like that.”

Foggy “Ah, yeah, hate grunge”

Me too! Steven made his first appearance of the day. Although Marc was pretty sure he terrified Foggy, Foggy and Steven had become friends.

Matty nodded. “Well, if everything was documented by police and medical staff, you’d have a pretty strong case for cruelty, and can get a settlement that could help you get back on your feet”

“I-” Rebecca started by Marc continued his seeming one way conversation with Matt.

“I made sure they wrote down everything-”

Foggy “Hey Marc, Maybe let Ms. Levi-”

Marc wasn’t listening. “-and I'll have the police report on hand too, we filed for that before we left.”

“Marc,” Rebecca glared at him. “What are you doing?”

Marc blinked. “I’m trying to help“

Eyes wide with that little bit of crazy in her, Rebecca told him in no uncertain terms to stop. “Marc Spector, I have a masters degree in social work, do you really think I don’t know how this works? Do you think I don’t know what needs to be documented and what reports to file for? This is literally a part of my job. Please. Stop.” She begged him.

Marc nodded, turning to Foggy, who was smiling a bit. “What’s so funny?”

Foggy went straight faced. “Nothing”

“Marc” Matt drew his friends' attention away from Foggy “Would you prefer to sit outside?”

“No fucking way”

Rebecca looked at him. “Keep speaking for me, and you will” She turned back to Matt. “Both hospital visits are documented, the times he hurt me that didn’t require the hospital obviously aren’t. I know we can’t prove the condom tampering, but is it possible to claim he’s at fault for the miscarriage?”

There was a pause. Matty spoke first. “I’m sorry Ms. Levi, Marc only told us about the burns, your fingers and ribs. He didn’t say anything about a miscarraige.” He looked sympathetic, Foggy looked downright stricken. He’d seen a lot in this field but cases like this always hurt to watch.

Marc spoke carefully, making sure he wasn’t interrupting Rebecca, but she was looking at him like she expected him to talk. “I didn’t want… I figured you should be the one to talk about it, since it’s very private”

And just like that, all the frustration Rebecca felt with Marc melted. She turned to her lawyers. “I didn’t know I was pregnant until Marc came that day… I…” She glanced at the table in embarrassment, before gathering herself to look back up. “Jack had come to the hospital. We were… we were going to try again, he said he’d stop rinking, and I know it was stupid but I believed him”

“It’s not stupid” Foggy assured. “He manipulated you. After so many years he just got better at it. There’s a reason he didn’t start out violent, he had to win you over first, learn what strings to pull and what games to play. He only ever did what he thought he could get away with.”

Rebecca closed her eyes and nodded, feeling understood, before continuing. “When Marc got there, Jack had went for food. When he came back, Marc was there, he told me I was pregnant” Rebecca explained how she didn’t realize it, she didn’t even think she could get pregnant, and how she had miscarried that night. “He said I thought we used condoms. I assume that means he took it off, or poked holes or something”

Matty nodded. “It will make a difference with what you think he did, between condom tampering and removal, we’ll look into Washington’s specific laws.”

Marc just had to pipe up again. “What? Why? It’s rape. It’s illegal everywhere.”

Matty tried to clarify. “I know, but under different state laws, it depends. In California, condom removal is rape, but condom tampering is just deception.”

Anger growing again, Marc’s voice raised. “If he had to deceive her to have sex, it’s not sex, it’s rape”

“Marc stop,” Rebecca tried.

“I know that, and you know that, but what we believe and what the law says are often two different things, you know that as well as me” Matt tried to reason with his fellow vigilante.

“He raped-!”

“Marc! Out!” Rebecca stood up quickly, trying not to yell. Marc, Foggy and Matt all stood up with her.

Marc looked confused. “Beccs-”

“No!” she raised her hands in defeat. “Stop yelling to these people I barely know about me being raped, and stop talking for me! Stop saying rape, I swear to fucking god, Marc!” She put her hands on his shoulders as Foggy rounded the table. “I love you, I love you so, so much, and I thank god everyday for you but jesus, Marc, you are coming in too hot, and I need to do this alone”

Marc opened his mouth to argue, but Foggy’s hand was on his shoulder. “Marc, let’s step out”

“But-” Marc started, but Steven took the body. “Right mate, let’s go” He leaned over to Rebecca “Let us know when you’re ready, love” and with that, Foggy and Steven walked to the other room.

Rebecca turned to Matt. “I take it Marc’s DID isn’t news to you guys then”

Matty smiled. “No, neither is Moon Knight”

Bursting out in a laugh, rare these days, she grinned at him. “Oh, he told you about that, did he?”

“I met Moon Knight first, actually”

“Oh? He beat up a pick pocket or some shit?”

Matty saw an opportunity. “You just assume I can’t be a hero like Marc, huh? Just like that?”

She goes pale. “Oh! No, I just-”

But Matt couldn’t keep the game going for long, not when he clearly made her panic. He laughed “Relax. I would recommend crime fighting for the average blind person. Just the ones who were blinded by radioactive goop.”

Rebecca crossed her arms and sat back. “Always the radioactive, huh?”

“Yup, just like the song” His hand went back to the papers. “Now, let's see how much money we can get from this bastard.”

As Marc rang the doorbell to Rebecca’s house, he heard the eager pitter patter of feet, and he knew who would be answering the door.

“Marc! Marc! Come check out my nintendo!” Asa took Marc’s hand and dragged him to the living room as Marc called to Rebecca he was going to be with Asa for a bit.

Of course her dad magically has money to buy Asa a nintendo, but Rebecca has to buy school supplies herself.

Asa was 6 years younger than Marc and Rebecca were, leaving him only 3 when their mom died. Rebecca had spent most of her preteens and youth taking care of him, since her dad was usually too drunk. When Marc began coming around after school around age 11, he realized why Becca never did after school activities, despite being smart and knowing so many people; she had a kid to take care of, a mom to a 6 year old at the ripe age of 12. Although Becca would come over to his place sometimes, especially after Asa got older, They generally preferred Rebecca’s, and Marc helped step in with Asa. It wasn’t like Marc exactly had the strongest father figure growing up, but he knew how to be a bi brother. It was cathartic, really. It wasn’t like Marc had to do all that much. Their dad considered Asa the golden boy, while Rebecca was the scapegoat. 

But Marc was there to do stuff brothers did. He taught Asa how to play catch, and later helped him practice baseball on the off seasons, when Asa inevitably joined a team. And he was good, too. Enough to get a small sports scholarship to UNL, which combined with the midwest exchange program for in-state tuition, he was able to scrape by college. Marc had lost a lot of contact with him after him and Rebecca became homeless; Marc wasn’t allowed in the house after their dad found him in Rebecca’s bedroom. He would go years without seeing Asa, but he always asked about him when he saw Rebecca, and occasionally they’d see Asa when both were in town… but Asa had changed. 

Carl blamed Rebecca for everything. When she left home, that rubbed off on Asa, and instead of being grateful that Rebecca was surrogate mother to him, he began to see her as the problem, which, of course, was a problem to Marc. Meet ups became less frequent as they had begun to devolve into fights, where Asa would blame Rebecca, and Marc would fiercely defend her, leading to shouted matches with Becca dragging Marc away. 

Marc wasn’t good at making friends. He wasn’t good with people in general. He had Steven, but no matter what Steven said, Marc knew Steven was there because he had to be. He missed Asa. He missed Randall. He missed Rebecca whenever she was gone. It was nice to have Matt.

When they got home that night, Rebecca seemed tired, but he had something planned, something that couldn’t be moved. “Rivkah? Do you know what today is?” He asked as they entered their newly shared home.

She thought for a second, then eyes went wide with panic “YOUR BIRTHDAY?! Wait. No. Not for two days. Uuuuuuhh.” a small gasp. “Oh fuck, it’s Purim”

Marc nodded, a small smile on his face. “Do you want to go? I know we’ve had a long week-”

“Yeah, but it’s past sundown, no office is going to be open, and there’s no way we’re getting into a service if we don’t talk to a rabbi, not in this climate-”

“Honey” Marc took her hands. “I already called, we’re registered, if we want to go” He looked at her, softening from the wear of the day just by taking in her pretty face. Even with the scar, she was still the prettiest woman he’d ever seen.

“Marc…” She gave his hand a squeeze. “You don’t have to go. I know it makes you uncomfortable”

He shook his head. “No, it’s just… it’s different. Not used to it. But with you with me…” Marc pulled her in for a hug. “I’ll be fine. Do you remember what I said last month, when you called me after getting out of the hospital?”

She laughed a bit “I don’t remember much from the last year, if I’m being honest.”

“I told you if you left with me, if you let me help you, I’d go to services with you. And here you are.”

“You don’t have too-”

“I got costumes.”

Rebecca pulled back at that, smirking at him. “Marc Spector, I knew you as a child, your ‘halloween costume’ was just your dads suit and a drawn on mustache for years. You’re telling me you got costumes?”

“Well…” he raises an eyebrow “These aren't much better. C’mere.”

He gestured her over to the amazon prime box and pulled out what he had. “For me” A red headband, flannel, and a white t-shirt “Bruce Springsteen. And for you,” Long blonde wig, flowy black dress and a black shawl with embroidery. “Stevie Nicks. Whaddya think?”

She looked like she would cry, then nearly tackled him in a hug “I think I love you, Marc Spector”

Holding her close to him, he nestled his face into her neck, taking her in. “I think I love you too, Rebecca Levi”

That night at Purim services, when it was time for the Kaddish, Rebecca stood, holding Marc’s hand.

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

Thanks for reading!!! I promise the next chapter wont suck so bad. I have more of a theme/story planned for flashbacks, we're gonna get to know Asa a bit more, see Mark meet Jack, and see the wedding day. Then, our fav Jake makes an appearance.

Be sure to check out my masterlist here, lots of fic with oscar isaac characters, as well as some others like bruce springsteen and Han solo!

LMK if you'd like to join the tag list!!

@my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @ninebluehearts @sofi786 @myfandomlikesandstories @tippycakes26 @ahookedheroespureheart @arsonfrogger

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

My youngest son came home today His friends marched with him all the way The flutes and drums beat out the time As in his box of polished pine Like dead meat on a butcher's tray My youngest son same home today

My youngest son was a fine young man With a wife, a daughter and a son A man he would have lived and died Till by a bullet sanctified Now he's a saint or so they say They brought their saint home today

Above the narrow Belfast streets An Irish sky looks down and weeps On children's blood in gutters spilled For dreams of freedom unfulfilled As part of freedom's price to pay My youngest son came home today

My youngest son came home today His friends marched with him all the way The flutes and drums beat out the time As in his box of polished pine Like dead meat on a butcher's tray My youngest son came home today And this time he's home to stay

+

[I was about to post this piece when I heard the news of Ben Zussman's death. So, posted that instead. Now, here's this. I hope this war ends soon, so I can get back to writing about other things. Working on my novel. But this is where I am. So this is what I write. Also, if you read it all and decide to share, please paste Abu Saif's essay into the first two comments on your post as I do below.]

I'm pasting in the first two comments an essay from the NYT by عاطف ابوسيف(Atef abu Saif). I’m violating the paywall because it's so important and you might not have a subscription. Sue me. If you manage to read the title and can continue, read all the way to the end. If I believe in the idea of sin, I believe it is a sin to look away. I began to write an introduction, but it turned into something longer. A lot longer. The longest post I’ve ever written. So, feel free to skip my meandering and oh so sentimental musings and read the essay. In any case, I urge you to read his essay. More than that. I dare you. Especially if you support this war.

This post will be difficult for some to read. It sure as hell was difficult to write. There’s complexity here if you recognize the horrors the IDF is perpetrating in Gaza. Even if you, unlike me, stand with those who think them necessary and justified. It’s not simple to write then. But if you make your way through it and then read the essay in the comment, maybe you’ll understand something better. Though perhaps not more sympathetically. Just maybe a bit better.

I’m between the hammer and the anvil with regard to the IDF. I’m in no way an apologist. I’ve been clear with my son that I would support him if he refused. There’s no chance of that. But I wanted him to know. I’ll write something else about that later. These are issues about which I will repeat myself.

But I also reject that people serving in the IDF are like Nazi stormtroopers, or the majority of those serving in it are the equivalent of Hamas, even though I have friends I deeply respect who have presented me with those opinions explicitly. I hope that they are able to read this. It’s again about my children, as Abu Saif’s is in large part. War, for me, is always about children. Always. And, as I wrote last week, maybe if we all recognized that, there wouldn’t be more war.

We should all listen to Eric Bogle’s song “My Youngest Son Came Home Today” more often. Especially the rendition here by the PS22 chorus.

My three children came to me for Shabbat dinner this past Friday. We're all still getting used to the divorce. One meal with me, one at home with their mother, a 20 minute walk from my place. Sometimes, it’s dinner with me and lunch with her. Sometimes vice versa. Once in a while, all five of us together. Their mother sees them more on Shabbat. It’s the nature of things. That’s their home. I see them for two hours. Precious hours. But I see them.

We generally have a very nice time. But even when not, I’d rather have a horrible time with them than a wonderful time with anyone else. They are never eager to walk those 20 minutes, as much, I think because of what that time and distance represents as the effort required to make the short trek. Sometimes one or more of them arrives grumpy. They are teenagers, after all, in the wake of a domestic disruption. But usually, even then, things loosen up. I make food they like. I make sure things are clean and orderly and calm. That things feel stable and safe.

Finally, in the past few weeks, I have prevailed on them to enter without knocking. “It's your father's home,” I tell them. “You don't need to knock to enter your father's home. You aren't guests. You have a place here. Always.” I don’t know if it makes a difference to them. But it does to me. I hate it when they knock. They’re my kids.

I only see my elder daughter on Shabbat. She was recently inducted into the education corps for her compulsory service. (The army aspires to be a source of knowledge for people who have been deprived.) She began her service just a few weeks before October 7th. A member of her course was from Kibbutz Beeri. He was home for Shabbat and caught up in the massacre. Even in the education corps, one may be connected to the dead.

But she’s nowhere near any danger. She says she’s a bit embarrassed when she’s in uniform on the street, or on a bus, and people bid her “watch over yourself”. Or “May the Name guard you.” I tell her she’s a member of a corporate body that puts itself in danger to keep them safe, even if that’s not her posting. They are wishing her well because they need to wish all of our soldiers well. Because, often, they can’t wish family members and friends and friends’ children well at that moment. They need to say it. For themselves. And she provides them with an occasion. A sort of gift she can give them. Also, I want everyone to bless my children. To wish them safety and protection. To want their wellbeing. Who wouldn’t?

Sometimes, the one who gives the blessing benefits more than the one who receives it. Every Shabbat when I see them, before we eat, like many Jewish parents, I move from one to the next, in order of their birth, place my hands upon their heads, and recite the tripartite priestly blessing from the Book of Numbers. Three blessings in one. An ancient bargain!

May The LORD bless you and guard you. May The LORD shine His face upon you and grant you favor. May The LORD raise His face to you and grant you peace.

My favorite moment of the week. Routine, a formula, but never formulaic. The regularity never diminishes its emotional charge. They are often distracted or bored or grumpy. Though when he was little, my son, who was born with a galaxy-sized heart – when he was two, one of his caregivers told us “he’s simply full of love” – would respond by putting one hand on my head and one on his mother’s. And we would grin and sometimes giggle a bit. And feel blessed. Even when I’m irritable or tired, blessing them always redirects me toward meaning, if only for a moment.

I remember the first time I did this. In a hospital recovery room. Their mother looked up at me, tired beyond tired, and said “should we give our daughter a b’rakhah?” A blessing. We’d been preparing for nine months. In some senses longer than that. Since we were engaged and hoping to give one another children. So, I’d been waiting for the right moment, and I was about to say something. Our daughter had been born on Friday morning. We’d lost track of time. The labor had been so long, and the delivery had not been easy. But Shabbat, commencing with sundown, pulled us back on schedule. We always measure time from Shabbat to Shabbat. From that moment on, I would measure it from blessing to blessing.

I had been about to say something about it being time. Our first time. But she preempted me. It was right for her to claim the prerogative to prompt us. Earned. Childbirth is never egalitarian. And despite the long anticipation of this moment I’d imagined, even dreamed, the substance of its performance, the special mix of gravity and joy, the glow of it felt surprising. We’d placed our fingertips on her small, warm, downy head. So delicate. So fragile. With barely any pressure. She was in a deep sleep. Being born is very hard work. Especially when it takes so long. In a matter of weeks, if not days, we’d be longing for her to finally sleep. So, we could collapse or work or read or watch TV. Mostly collapse. But at that moment, I wanted her to be awake. I wanted her to hear us. I wanted her to watch us and feel our hands upon her, blessing her with a wish of peace. Shalom. A more expansive term than peace that also connotes health and fullness and well-being. A blessing that channels something beyond language, something language can only summon but not contain. I wanted her to feel it. I remember crying a little. I think I did. I hope I did.

I wonder how Atef Abu Saif blesses his children.

I don’t connect so much to the idea of a “personal God.” Sometimes I wish I did. I wish I had an almighty and benevolent addressee who would hear me. “Nigh is The LORD to all who call upon Him,” as the psalmist says. But I’ve never really felt it. That presence. I’ve studied some theology. A body of knowledge I admire. I wrote my Bachelor thesis on Maimonides’ reading of Job in his Guide of the Perplexed. A dazzling text that I never found as cold as some find its rationalism. Rather, it’s literary and bold and charged with a kind of passion, with humanity, even as the author, that monumental Sage and philosopher strives to distinguish God absolutely from anything human. A deity so far beyond humanity that ascriptions of physicality to him in scripture must be read strictly and scrupulously as metaphors. Yet his text sings with humanity. I’ve studied mystical theologies as well. They have moved me in similar fashion. Though a different flavor.

But despite all the humanity in theology, I’ve never felt that immediacy of touch or attention or found the arguments compelling enough to engender belief in God’s objective existence (and now the RaMBaM, the acronym by which we refer to Maimonides, is shouting in my head that God is not an object, and the idea of His objective existence is idolatrous). Yet if God is so elusive for me personally, I still find the conceit powerful. Imputing a name and a face to the Cosmos, with apologies again to the RaMBaM, whether or not it’s an intentional power, is very alluring. So, in that hospital room, my fingers timid on that little head, the regularity of my hours-old daughter’s breathing so miraculous, we pronounced the ancient formula. Please God, let her be well. Let her be whole. Let her have peace. And then we had a son. And then another daughter. Each a blessing. And every week I bless them.

So, once again, this past Friday night I blessed them. Let them have peace. Shalom. Wellbeing. Let everything be well with them. I know it won’t always be. There will be struggles and illnesses and disappointments. Maybe heartbreak. Certainly heartbreak of some sort. I’ve had more than my fair share. Not only recently. Atef Abu Saif, whom I hope you will read below, has had more. Much more. Hard to imagine any Gazan who hasn’t. There are so many kinds of heartbreak. It’s endemic to humanity. To life. Only a babe who dies very shortly after birth never knows heartbreak. Not to know heartbreak seems inhuman. “Nigh is The LORD to the brokenhearted,” says he psalmist. But nonetheless. Please spare them that. Please. When I bless them, I want to feel power flowing through me, pouring out of my hands onto them. Enveloping them in radiance. I want to be a conduit for divine favor. Let God’s face recognize them, let them be seen by the Cosmos, and be received in kindness, and receive kindness. As I said, giving a blessing can be more for the one blessing than for the blessed.

This Friday night, they barely broke their chatter when I went around to bless them. As usual. I did it quickly. I usually do. But it never undercuts the profundity of it. And like many parents, I kissed the tops of their heads as I removed my hands. My son, who recently surpassed me in height by a few centimeters, now bends his head down so I can do this.

These days, that final word in the mystic formula, shalom, feels particularly powerful, particularly heavy. Even more than usual. Despite its range of abstract meanings, it always feels so specific and concrete as their heads round into my palms. And I stand in a posture of power. The ultimate patriarchal pose (though, of course, many women, like their mother, do it as well). But perversely, it makes my powerlessness palpable. I won’t be able to preserve them from suffering and deprivation and disappointment. I have, myself, presented them with such experiences already. It has been a difficult few years. And as my yearning for power underscores my powerlessness, the blessing becomes a plea. Please. Bless them with peace. Please. Please. Please. Always. But especially now. Shalom.

My daughter had told me earlier that day that because of “the situation”, they are going to start sending members of her unit home with rifles when they set out for their near weekly Shabbat furloughs. I think it's ridiculous. She’s in the education corps. It seems both thematically incongruous and useless in a practical sense for her to travel with a semi-automatic assault rifle. A machine gun. I tell her she’ll never use it. And she shouldn’t. The only place she might do so would be if “something happens” on the way. But fifty more visits to the shooting range wouldn’t equip her for that situation. Excellent field soldiers sometimes fail to pass anti-terror training, teaching people how to use a weapon in the middle of an attack in a civilian area. Though we send armed soldiers into civilian areas right now. We always have and we always do. But those aren’t ‘our’ civilians. Aren’t we supposed to hold every human life as equally sacred? We claim to. We don’t. Obviously. No army does. Laws and ethics of warfare don’t. But that doesn’t make it ok.

She mentions the attack that happened the previous day. Two Palestinians from East Jerusalem opened fire on a bus stop at the entrance to West Jerusalem. And two soldiers and one civilian shot them dead. Three civilians died. Four, actually. I’ll get to that in a moment. Several are in the hospital. I admitted that maybe then. If she had a clear shot. But that’s crap. The presence of mind to operate a weapon under pressure without extensive training? I imagine her quickly swinging her rifle around to the front of her body, quickly inserting a magazine, cocking it, bracing the butt against her shoulder, aiming, finding a clear sight line, and pulling the trigger. All while under fire herself. Yeah. That’s not happening. She should get herself behind a very solid object or lie flat on the ground with her hands over her head.

Then my son mentions that one of the people who was killed, the fourth, had jumped from his car and it was he who shot the terrorists. A 38-year-old lawyer named Yuval Kestleman who served in a reserve combat unit and carried a licensed handgun. I saw the security footage. As the two off-duty soldiers had turned and trained their weapons on him, he'd dropped his gun, sunk to his knees, ripped open his jacket so they could see he wasn’t wearing an explosive belt, all the while calling out to them in Hebrew, identifying himself as a Jew and an Israeli. And one of the soldiers, a member of the radical right-wing settler “hilltop youth” who was on his way back to Gaza, shot him dead.

There’s a controversy over whether the soldier who shot him can be excused. Part of a broader controversy about what constitutes a “neutralized” suspect or perpetrator and the ruled of engagement. Some, like the awful Chief Rabbi of Safed, explicitly support summary executions. Even if they are lying unconscious. Just shoot them. The ideological community this soldier affiliates with holds this position. And if you get it wrong, well, as our Prime Minister initially said about this incident, “that’s life”. Really.

I don’t know the soldier. Just his ethos. And he expressed glee at having killed someone, at least before he found out whom he killed. “Everyone wants an ‘x’.” A kill. A lie. Many if not most hope they never have to. But he did. It’s hard for me to believe he couldn’t see Yuval Kestleman drop his weapon, fall to his knees, and raise his hands over his head, hear him calling out in Hebrew.

I’ve already argued about it with one total stranger, a security guard at a building I was entering, holding forth with another security guard about the case. I couldn’t help myself. “You don’t fire at someone if they are on their knees with their hands above their head.” He responded with “and what if it had been a terrorist?” I repeated that you don’t shoot someone on their knees with their hands over their head. And the footage is quite clear. My daughter would never do that, even if she could get in position to do it. My son wouldn’t. None of their friends would. I can’t imagine any of he people I served with doing that. Though it’s been a long time. Maybe some would. Certainly not those I trained and commanded. But we send lots of people like this soldier and this security guard to Gaza. And sometimes people like Atef Abu Saif and his son and his mother face soldiers like these.

My son is 16, a year old than Atef Abu Saif's son, about whom you will read below, if you have the courage to witness. You should try. The act of witnessing is a sacred act. And sometimes, it’s all we can do. I know that telling people what they should do is both strategically and morally a sketchy thing. Lots of things these days are strategically and morally sketchy. I suppose it will be much easier for those who don’t live here, haven’t served, don’t have children serving in Gaza, or know children of friends serving in Gaza, or have neighbors serving in Gaza, or. . .well basically almost everyone who lives here. Barring ultra-Orthodox and Arab communities. He’s an elite athlete, a student at an academy for dedicated and ambitious and highly disciplined basketball players located 40 minutes from Gaza, much closer than his older sister’s army base.

My youngest is 13, the only one who lives with their mother full time. I see her once in the middle of the week as well. She comes for dinner. Or we go out. We always have fun. Last week, I made a pasta she loves, and we watched The Godfather. She shares much more with me now than she did when I lived with her. And I feel guilty that her mother shoulders most of the hard parenting bits, though we both try to share those as well. Some things are overdetermined by the physics of space and time. And sometimes a distance of 20 minutes might as well be 500 kilometers.

At some point, as was inevitable, the conversation shifted to “the situation”. My son says he believes this war is necessary. That it will make us safer. That the civilians dying in Gaza, with whom he says he sympathizes, are all Hamas' fault. ‘Look what they made us do!’ He says his opinions have changed since October 7th. I think that's Hamas' fault. His older sister says she trusts the army that they are doing everything they can and know what they are doing and she thinks we must all have faith in its commanders. She’s very firm about this. Too firm? Does she really think this? Or does she need to believe it? They have friends serving in Gaza. They know people who were murdered on October 7th. They know someone who is being held hostage.

My youngest offers that for every Hamas member we kill, we make three more. A common saying among war skeptics and opposers. Maybe she heard it somewhere. Maybe the formulation is obvious. Maybe she uses the number three because our minds so commonly divide things into threes. Lots of theories about that. Aristotle, in his Poetics, says all stories must have a beginning, a middle, and an end. We invoke the names of three patriarchs in our liturgy. It takes Abraham and Isaac three days to reach Moriah, where the former, a father, binds the latter, his son, on an altar and raises a knife over him. Three blessings make up the blessing I bestow upon them every Shabbat as a plea for their shalom, their wellbeing. Three bears. Three pigs. Three caskets in Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice. Some say you surface three times before you drown. Like Emily Dickinson.

Three times, 'tis said, a sinking man Comes up to face the skies, And then declines forever To that abhorred abode.

Kill one and make three, she says. I say I agree with her. I tell them that I don't believe that the situation you will read about, if you dare, in Abu Saif’s essay below makes us safer. It's at best a strategically and morally sketchy endeavor. A sketchy calculus. And suddenly I realize how calamitously insufficient the word sketchy is here.

I don't say much more to my elder daughter and son. It won't help to argue and correct them. And they already know my politics. It’s one of the reasons they are unloading on me. Sometimes they are uncomfortable with how far outside the mainstream I am. Sometimes they are confused by my orientation and commitments. It's not easy to have a parent so far outside consensus. A member of a dissenting minority. Who sometimes even dissents from the dissenters. They want to belong. They want to feel at home in their social world, their society, their culture, their history, their people. I used to want that. Sometimes I still do. I have friends with activist children. Mine are not. I don't know why they aren't. Maybe it’s a parenting failure. I haven't always been as stable and present a parent as I intended and always wanted to be. I had serious struggles. I’m better now. Much better. And there’s no deficit of love between us. But I obviously failed to present them with a compelling model for engagement the way I would have liked.

So I let them unload their fear and anger. Posing a question here and there. Offering a brief comment that I strain to phrase in a way that isn't argumentative. I'm not good at that, so I stay mostly quiet. They know what I think. And they are speaking with that knowledge. Fighting with them won't help. They are in the middle of a crisis. Their trauma is unfolding. Though not like Abu Saif’s son’s trauma. Nowhere near that.

I noted that my son was now standing on his feet. I was distressed at the turn it had taken. For selfish reasons. These hours are indescribably precious to me. I want them to be pleasant. But this, too, is part of parenting. A part I don’t want to miss. There were stories and laughter. Sometimes, even my stories and their laughter. With no accompanying eyerolls. I have some talent for telling stories. But when they began to unload, I reminded myself: say less, listen more, as their mother would often urge me with extreme exasperation. If I had been able to do that, would they be coming with me to rallies and demonstrations? Or, the deeper question, would they be splitting their Shabbat meals between me and their mother now?

We moved onto the blessings after the meal. As always, we prefaced them by singing Psalm 126. ‘He goes forth weeping, the planter bearing his store of seeds; come, he will surely come back in joyous song bearing sheaves.’ Tell that to the loved ones of the victims on October 7th. What about all the kids whose lives were cut short like sheaves, before they could plant their own seeds? Still, I sang with them. Then, this morning, I read Atef Abu Saif’s essay. Tell that to him. I dare you.

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https://www.nytimes.com/.../gaza-family-palestinian...

And listen to "My Youngest Son Came Home Today"

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‘I Want to Be Awake When I Die’

Dec. 2, 2023

[Atef Abu Saif was visiting family members in Gaza with his 15-year-old son, Yasser, before Oct. 7 and has kept a diary of the war since it began. Here is his entry for Nov. 21, the day he decided to leave the Jabaliya neighborhood in the north of the territory for southern Gaza, en route to the Rafah crossing into Egypt.]

We cannot stay here any longer. We have decided.

The shells over the last two nights have been so close to the apartment we are staying in that I didn’t just see the light and hear the thunder of their explosions. I saw them pass right by my window. The Israelis are getting closer every minute. Most of the outer regions of the camp are under full occupation now. Overnight, troops advanced a couple of streets closer from the north. Our street came under continuous shelling from the tanks.

I never closed my eyes. “I want to be awake when I die,” I told my brother Mohammed, who has been with us for most of the war. “I want to see it happening.” Before going to sleep, my son Yasser said he felt more afraid than ever. For the last 45 days, he has shown great strength in the face of everything, but we all have our limits. “Let’s see,” I told him. “In the morning we’ll decide.”

This was two nights ago. So, yesterday morning, I went to see my dad to ask if he’d consider moving with us. It was a hard “no.”

“But most people have left already,” I said. He’s staying put, he insisted, come what may. Then, as I was leaving he shouted back to me: “Get that boy to safety.”

That helped convince me. As I lay on my mattress last night, I realized it was not fair that my 15-year-old son should pay for my decision to come to Gaza and stay so long in the north. He might have survived 45 days, but would he survive the next 45? The chances of escaping death are growing narrower and narrower. I do not have the right to decide for him. In her last call to me from our home in Ramallah, on the West Bank, my wife, Hanna, said simply: “I want my boy. You took him to Gaza. You bring him back.”

Talk of a truce fills the news, and this might be a good time to head south to Rafah and be near the border with Egypt in case it opens. I have a job in the ministry in Ramallah to get back to, after all.

The sight of the shells flying past my window the night before also made it clear that it was time to leave: sometimes it is better to be wise than correct, if that makes sense. The wise thing is to give everyone a chance to live, even if the correct thing is to not let the Israelis get away with a second Nakba — yet another expulsion from our land.

When this morning finally comes, the driver we have hired for the first leg of our journey arrives. My father-in-law Mostafa and his wife Widdad, who uses a wheelchair, are traveling with us. My in-laws want to stay with their granddaughter Wissam, 23, at the European Gaza Hospital in Khan Younis, in the south. Wissam is recovering from triple amputation surgery, after surviving a bombing in the first week that killed her parents and most of her siblings. Wissam’s surviving sister, also named Widdad, can take care of her grandmother as well as Wissam.

I carry my mother-in-law into the car. As the car sets off, we all try to prepare ourselves mentally for the long journey ahead. We get out at the Kuwait traffic junction and negotiate the hire of two donkey carts to carry us all to a gathering area along Salah al-Din Street, the main north-south route already called “New Nakba Road” by some.

[abigail-pent]

So I saw She Said last night; and I have some thoughts.

#1: Great film; well done; fairly white, though, but I think that reflects the reality of this particular story. The cast was amazing though, and there are a lot of great cinematography choices made.

#2: It was weird about The Jews. This is why I come to tumblr today.

So basically, there is an undercurrent running through the story that Jodi Kantor's Jewishness is important to getting this story done the way it was done. There are four specific parts of the movie where this is highlighted.

Part 1: Kantor is depicted celebrating Shabbat with her family. This scene is provided apparently solely for the purpose of highlighting her ethnoreligious background/identity. No other main character gets a similar treatment; Twohey gets a little bit of background in the sense that they show that she's just given birth and is struggling with postpartum depression. That's the parallel the film draws between the two of them: the thing propelling Twohey to do this work is that she thinks work will help ease her postpartum depression, and the thing propelling Kantor to do this work is that she's... Jewish. So, immediately, a bit odd, a bit unbalanced. An argument can certainly be made that the relevance of her Jewishness to the parallel is that she maybe has a strong sense of justice and is pursuing it. But this is extracurricular work that the viewer has to do, and which the viewer can only do if they have the background to know about why someone from modern, mainstream New York Jewish culture would feel strongly about a story like this.

Part 2: "Jew-to-Jew". There's a line in the film where Kantor says to Twohey that Lisa Bloom, who was acting as Weinstein's lawyer, approached Kantor and tried to connect with her "Jew-to-Jew" to try to persuade her not to write the story. This is the quote: "Jew-to-Jew". This is mentioned in kind of an offhand way, but it sat weird with me, because who talks like that? Specifically, who would say that phrase to their goyische coworker, and expect that their goyische coworker would immediately understand what that means? And what impression does that give the audience of us? To me, it was an immediate red flag, because the implication to an audience not familiar with Jews is likely to be something along the lines of: "They all know each other, they all expect one another to be loyal to the group, and this is well known by people who live and work in New York and who write about these powerful people." When you phrase it like that, it is likely to reinforce antisemitic beliefs about how members of our ethnoreligion interact with one another.

Now, according to this Jerusalem Post interview that Kantor gave, it seems like an interaction like this did happen in real life. She says:

“Weinstein put [Jewishness] on the table and seemed to expect that I was going to have some sort of tribal loyalty to him. . . . And that was just not going to be the case.”

So this is a real interaction, but the phrase "Jew-to-Jew" seems to be an invention of the screenwriter, Rebecca Lenkiewicz, who also wrote Ida and Disobedience. She certainly writes a lot of films which are Jewish or have significant Jewish content; and per her Wikipedia page, her stepfather is Jewish, and there's one article in the Advocate which identifies her as Jewish too; so while I hope that's accurate, this bit just really hit a wrong note with me. Also, important to note, these words are put in the mouth of a non-Jewish actress (Zoe Kazan), who plays Kantor. So we're looking at yet another movie where someone who isn't Jewish but does have a schnoz is cast as a Jew. Now, Kazan does a great job, but it still rankles a bit.

Part 3: In that same Jerusalem Post interview, Kantor says that part of Weinstein's manipulation of her was that he hired Black Cube to try to derail her specifically, and that a Black Cube (so, Israeli) agent tried to get her to speak at some women's conference for a large sum of money. This is mentioned in a very off-the-cuff way in the film, and it's not ever expanded upon or connected back to Weinstein. It feels really out of place, like a line that could have been cut. And since Kantor herself identifies it as part of the way Weinstein tried to use her Jewishness to neutralize the story, it feels extremely weird that the way this incident shows up in the movie is for her to check her phone and ask Twohey and Rebecca Corbett if they know the name of the person who called her, because they're trying to get her to speak at some conference. That's it. No further context is given. So at this point, from the Jerusalem Post article, it's clear that there is a big backstory in which Weinstein is trying to use Kantor's Jewishness to stop her writing; but from the audience's perspective, all we see is that there's a well-known understanding among Jews that we'll all have each other's backs. In reality, Weinstein is trying to use shared heritage in a nefarious way that Kantor is not okay with; in fact, he's using it to target her in a very malevolent way, meaning that she's actually experiencing harassment from Weinstein specifically because she is writing this story while Jewish; but we don't get nearly enough context in the movie to know that. Instead, we see vague references to an antisemitic conspiracy which the character version of Kantor just sort of accepts matter-of-factly. And this other extremely important aspect of her interaction with Weinstein is not connected back to Weinstein at all, or in fact back to... anything.

Part 4: There is a long scene in which Kantor appeals to shared heritage with Weinstein's accountant, Irwin Reiter, to try to get him to trust her. There is a lot of screentime given to the fact that they both grew up going to the Catskills every summer, and that they're both descendants of Holocaust survivors. There are several minutes devoted to this onscreen, with very sort of ... almost titillating? ... references to the numbers tattooed onto Kantor's grandmother's arms. It's a lot of screentime. And at the end, Reiter trusts her and develops a relationship with her and ends up giving her a bunch of evidence that was important to the story. So the implication is that the trust happened in large part because of their shared heritage. Which would seem to reinforce the idea of the antisemitic conspiracy theory; it kind of looks like Kantor is telling Reiter a password and this password unlocks more access than she otherwise would have gotten. When, in reality, this is New York in the 2010s, and it's very common to be Jewish; so just being Jewish and the descendant of survivors doesn't really get you anywhere on its own. So this also sounded a false note for me. Kantor talks about this in the Jerusalem Post interview, and her description of how this interaction went sounded extremely different from how it was portrayed:

"I quickly figured out that Irwin and I were from the same small world. He was the child of survivors and had also spent his summers at bungalow colonies in the Catskills just down the road from mine. I don’t bring up the Holocaust a lot. It’s a sacred matter for me, and I didn’t do it lightly. But once I discovered that we did have this really powerful connection in our backgrounds, I did gently sound it with him – I felt that was sincere and real. Because he was making such a critical decision: Weinstein’s accountant of 30 years is still working for the guy by day and he’s meeting with me at night. And I felt like I did need to go to that place with him, saying, 'Okay, Irwin, we both know that there are people who talk and there are people who don’t. And we both grew up around that mix of people and what do we think is the difference? And also if you know if you have the chance to act and intervene in a bad situation, are you going to take it?' We didn’t talk a lot about it, because I raised it and he didn’t want to fully engage. But I always felt like that was under the surface of our conversations, and he made a very brave decision to help us."

The depiction in the film is not emphasized as though it's a gentle, light-touch, short interaction. They do talk about it a lot. And that seems weird to me, that so much is made of it in such an overt way, when that really isn't how Kantor describes the tone of it at all. She did float their similarities to him in conversation, but this wasn't enough to unlock his trust. Because of course it wasn't!

So in summary... the ways in which Kantor's Jewishness shows up in the film She Said are a real fun-house mirror of the way they showed up in real life. Nothing seems fabricated, but there are ways in which Weinstein tried to use their common heritage against her which were really underemphasized, and ways in which Kantor appealed to common heritage with Reiter which were really overemphasized, and the overall effect makes it look like both types of appeals held the same moral value. Like it was equally reasonable and normal for Lisa Bloom to talk "Jew-to-Jew" with Kantor on Weinstein's behalf, and for Kantor to talk "Jew-to-Jew" with Reiter. The entire idea that there is such a thing as "talking Jew-to-Jew" with someone as part of a bid to influence the outcome of some professional endeavor is actually put forth by the film as a thesis. It's presented as though this is an activity Jews engage in with one another (specifically, in the fields of film, media, and accounting) with the expectation that they will be successful in getting a fellow Jew to do what they want. That is a pretty sneaky way of introducing and reaffirming an antisemitic conspiracy theory, and totally ironing out the background context there, as well as the vast differences in tone between the two interactions.

[ladyphlogiston]

Take, eat; this is My body

My ten-year-old daughter is autistic. When she's excited, she likes to "eat" us - making nomming or mouthing movements on our arms and shoulders noses and ears.

We're leaving for a trip tomorrow, and as a result I have spent quite a bit of today reminding her that she cannot eat people without their consent. Her older sister is patient with her, but wanted to focus on the video she was watching. I don't mind being eaten most of the time, but packing is stressful and I can't always tolerate it.

But tonight is Shabbat, and we blessed the challah and the wine as we usually do. And as I ate the bread, remembering that it is Messiah's body, I found myself remembering my daughter.

Messiah is happy to be eaten. He does not get touched out or overwhelmed by our needs. He doesn't even need to be patient, as He is delighted when we bring our needs to Him. He invites us to consume Him, but He is never consumed.

I'm so grateful.

[yhwhrulz]

Worthy Brief - February 9, 2024

Abide!

John 15:1-5 I am the true vine, and My Father is the vinedresser. Every branch in Me that does not bear fruit He takes away; and every branch that bears fruit He prunes, that it may bear more fruit. You are already clean because of the word which I have spoken to you. Abide in Me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in Me. I am the vine, you are the branches. He who abides in Me, and I in him, bears much fruit; for without Me you can do nothing.

How do we produce much fruit? What is the Lord saying?

In the modern world, the work ethic is, achieve and produce by working longer and harder! The focus is on getting results through human effort -- we've become product oriented and the bottom line is……the bottom line! But God's way runs contrary to this approach -- His way is much more oriented toward process and relationship rather than performance and production. He IS interested in results which He calls "fruit"; but not by pushing or egging us on to work harder or longer.

The Lord's way is to work with and through us so that every result or product comes out of our abiding in Him, since without Him WE CAN DO NOTHING.

This is opposed to of the culture we live in today, and to human nature in general. Think about it -- we're constantly bombarded with self-help books promoting self-esteem, self-confidence, and self-control -- our society is all about SELF! But God's way of success produces the results which He values; results which are not produced by self-effort, but which grow out of an intimate relationship with Him, in which we seek to constantly abide.

The only way we can become abundantly fruitful is to understand the Lord's fruit-bearing process. As we lay down self-effort, our natural human independence, and seek communion with Him, abiding in the Vine, then His power, His will, and His desires will be realized in our lives, which then, will bear fruit that remains throughout eternity!

Have a great weekend … Shabbat Shalom!

Your family in the Lord with much agape love,

George, Baht Rivka, Obadiah and Elianna (Dallas, TX) (Tulsa, Oklahoma)

Editor's Note: During this war, we have been live blogging throughout the day -- sometimes minute by minute on our Telegram channel. - https://t.me/worthywatch/ Be sure to check it out!

Editor's Note: We are planning our Winter Tour so if you would like us to minister at your congregation, home fellowship, or Israel focused event, be sure to let us know ASAP. You can send an email to george [ @ ] worthyministries.com for more information.

[nebulouswinds]

my dad thinks it’s a good thing that I get so anxious about getting my work done I plan out my new week every friday

I disagree!!!!

[docholligay]

So what's the schedule for this week?

BACK TO IT IMMEDIATELY

Yesterday I took my first swing at starting to reclaim Shabbat for myself a little more, and it was nice! Today, I've mostly been helping Jetty clean up and stuff, and she needed me so I do not regret it!

Monday, July 4th: Jetty and I have not had a day together since FEBRUARY, so we're taking the day to hang out and be friends.

Tuesday July 5th: THE CASE STUDY OF VANITAS. WE return to the insanity!

Wednesday, July 6th: Highway Blossoms gamestream, on the patreon!

Thursday: Writing!

Friday: Watching Jewlet and making shabbat dinner

Saturday: Desperately trying to reclaim Shabbat as my day

Sunday: Picnic at Hanging Rock!

If you see blank space, largely that's when I'm taking care of Jewlet and running my house.

[super-unpredictable98]

I See Paradise | Anita B. Au

Chapter 2: No Ring, No Deal

Warning: Strong language, mild sexual content, themes related to WW2 (talk of holocaust and antisemitism), mention of death and violence.

(I See Paradise Masterlist)

"Where are you going, Eli?" Monika asked. "Anita should be arriving any second."

"I know, I'm going to get Eden, she has been very worried about Anita," Eli looked in the mirror once more. "She's coming over for dinner."

"When were you going to tell me?"

"Sorry, Monika, I forgot... I told Aaron, he said it was okay."

Eden had been thinking very hard about what to make for the occasion, her parents taught her to never show up to someone's house empty-handed. She thought about making some Goulash soup, a dish every Hungarian mom knows how to prepare, but in jail the girl was probably starving, she needed something more filling...

"Hmmm, something smells good," Eli smiled when he walked into the empty restaurant.

"Varenikes, with lots of caramelized onions," Eden showed him the tray covered with a glass lid.

"Oh, Edenle, you're an angel... Can't wait to try it," he attempted to reach for the tray, but his hand was quickly smacked away.

"Not until Anita gets home, huh?"

"Not even one for your boyfriend?"

"You are not my boyfriend," she laughed. "You never asked me."

"So the man you've been kissing in secret isn't your boyfriend?"

"Why don't you say it louder? Maybe the old lady on the other side of town didn't hear you... You haven't told anyone have you?"

"No, of course not, now let's go, I'm so hungry."

Eden and Eli arrived almost at the same time as Aaron, uncle Jacob, and Anita. Everyone was happy to see the girl was safe and sound:

"I have been so anxious, I'm glad you're okay," Eden gave her a hug. "I brought you varenikes, you must be hungry, right?"

Anita was taken aback by Eden's reaction, that was the reaction she expected from her aunt Monika, but she was always met with coldness and indifference. The girl's heart was filled with joy, someone to give her the affection she has been craving so deeply.

"I'm starving, aunt Eden, thank you."

"Aunt Eden?" Monika sneered. "I am your aunt, Anita, not her."

"Oh, come on, it's cute," Eli took off his coat and hat as he came in. "Yankele isn't anybody's uncle either, but we all treat him like family. Besides, you don't let Anita call you aunt anyway, why do you care?"

"We barely know this girl!"

"I've known little Edenla ever since she was born," Jacob kissed the top of her head.

"Well Daisy, I love varenikes, thank you so much for bringing them," Aaron tried to break the uncomfortable silence. "Can I set this on the table?

"Please," Eden handed him the tray.

"Who put this here?" uncle Jacob pointed at the tiny Christmas tree next to the door.

"I did," Monika said.

"Whatever for?"

"Things as they are today, I thought..."

"What?"

"Monika is right, yankele, the neighbors are a bit odd, we should be careful," Eli looked around at the other doors adorned with Christmas garlands.

"So now we're supposed to hide that we're Jewish?" Eden raised her eyebrows.

"Of course not, Edenle, it's just-"

"Whatever you thought you thought wrong," uncle Jacob scolded. "Get rid of it, Eli. I hope you got a mezuzah somewhere."

Monika and Aaron shared an uncomfortable look, they didn't even think about getting a mezuzah for the new house.

"Of course we do," Anita ran inside to retrieve hers from her bag.

"Put it here, so everyone can see it," Jacob pointed at the doorframe.

"Of course, we'll get right on it," Aaron nodded.

As everyone walked back into the house, Eden noticed something wasn't right, she felt a little uncomfortable pointing it out, but part of her was really curious:

"Do you not light up Shabbat candles?"

"We do, but I- forgot," Monika fumbled with the rest of the dishes. "Taking care of a baby, worrying about Anita, cooking dinner... One woman can only do so much."

"You should do it right away," uncle Jacob advised.

"Eden, would you do the honors?" Aaron handed her the matches and the candles.

"You have to be joking," Monika shook her head.

"It will be my pleasure," the young woman smiled, reaching for her scarf to cover her head.

Aaron, Jacob, and Eli exchanged a look, this girl was the dream daughter-in-law of every Jewish mother. All the men watched closely as she placed the candles in their places and lit them up one by one. She gently swiped her hands over the flames three times and closed her eyes with a sigh before starting her prayer.

"...l'hadlik ner shel Shabbat," she murmured. "Amen."

"Amen," everyone followed in unison.

Needless to say, Monika was hating all the attention this girl was getting. She especially hated how Eli seemed to treat her better than he ever treated anyone, aside from his fiancé. She doubted he wanted anything to do with her besides sex, but he was acting a little too well. What was so special about her anyway?

"Wow!" Eli finally spoke after taking the first bite of Eden's dish. "Edenle, this is delicious!"

"It's really good, just like my mom's," Anita grinned widely.

"A little salty for my taste, but it's not bad," Monika muttered under her breath.

——————————————————

"It was lovely having you, Daisy," Aaron hugged Eden tightly. "You should come by more often."

"I would love that," Anita cheered while holding Roby in her arms.

"I'll walk you home, dove, let me get my coat," Eli flashed her a charming grin.

As he turned to grab his hat, coat, and scarf, uncle Jacob placed his hand firmly on the man's shoulder.

"Remember what I said, boy... Eden isn't a girlfriend, she is a wife. So don't do anything your father would be ashamed of, huh?"

"Of course, yankele, I would never do anything to hurt her."

The young couple locked arms as they left the building. Eden's eyes looked even brighter under the moonlight, she was really the most beautiful thing Eli had ever seen. He didn't understand the way she made him feel, like maybe love is real and he deserves it.

He knew he was a sleaze, he knew how despicable he could get, so why was she still around? Why did she even look in his direction when he so clearly didn't deserve it?

"Here we are..." Eden stopped by the entrance. "Thank you for walking me."

"You won't invite me in?"

"Eli, what type of lady do you take me for?" she laughed.

"The type that might want a goodnight kiss? And maybe to lay next to me and just rest your head on my bare chest while I hold you?"

"One kiss," Eden blushed imagining how it would be like laying by his side, resting her head on his toned chest, with his strong arms around her, and his gentle breathing on her skin.

Eli pinned her against the wall, his body gently pressed against hers, his hand buried in her auburn hair, and his lips captured hers.

Hearing her soft moan as they finally collided, just made him want her more, she parted her lips for him, she wanted him too.

"Are you sure you want only one kiss?" he drawled, pulling away to catch his breath. "I could give you more, I know you want it, dove."

"What makes you think that?" she panted, hoping he was just chancing it, hoping he couldn't actually tell she wanted more.

"I can feel it, your body wants mine. Here," his hand firmly grabbed her thigh, hooking her leg around his waist. "Doesn't it feel good? I can feel your heartbeat, down there, that only happens when women want more."

"Hmmm..." Eden threw her head back. How did he even know all of this?

"Yeah, you like that, don't you?" Eli smirked, kissing her neck and the exposed portion of her chest. "I make you feel good, right?"

"What if someone sees us?" she breathed.

"No one can see us, it's dark. I can make you feel so much better, don't you want me? Don't you want me to make love to you?"

"It doesn't matter. No ring, no deal. I won't do anything else until I'm married."

"Married?" he laughed as if the very notion was silly to him.

"Yes, I'm completely pure, Eli, and I will continue to be until the day I marry."

"Very well," he backed off, already thinking of all the things he would do once he dissuaded her from this stupid decision. "I admire that, Edenle."

"Thank you," she tried to collect herself, but was interrupted when Eli once again leaned over her, one leg between hers.

"Dream about me, darling," he whispered before kissing the tender spot between her ear and her jaw.

As he left and Eden opened the door, she could barely conceal the sound of her heart pounding. A weird feeling washed over her, something she had never experienced before... Not even when she was engaged before the war.

"Eli has to marry me," she murmured to herself. "I need a plan."

——————————————————

Eden came to the conclusion that there was only one way to make Eli propose to her: she had to give him a taste, the slightest taste, just enough to drive him insane.

Thankfully, that day was pretty warm so she put on her most revealing outfit: a red dress with a very pronounced cleavage, that showed the few curves she had.

"I don't want to set the world on fire, I just want to start a flame in your heart. In my heart I have but one desire..."

She pretended to mindlessly sing as he walked into the restaurant. It was Saturday, so it was closed, but he wasn't just any client, he knew she'd be there preparing the kitchen for the week.

"And that one is you, no other will do," he joined her.

"Oh, hi," she turned around. "Didn't know you'd come today."

"Wow, you look really beautiful," Eli mused, mesmerized by her form. "All that just to stay in? Were you expecting another visitor?"

"Oh, this old thing?" she chuckled. "No, I just finished organizing things for Monday."

"Listen, I know it's Shabbat, but would you like to go watch a movie? They will be showing The Great Dictator today."

"I would love to," Eden exclaimed. "Why don't you invite Anita to come with us? I bet she would like it, she needs to have some fun."

"I was thinking we could... Spend some time alone, you know? Just the two of us."

"The poor little thing needs to get out of the house, something tells me Monika isn't the best company in the world, she's quite sour if you ask me."

Don't give him the chance to fluster you again, she thought. He will definitely try, in the dark, when no one's watching... With Anita there he wouldn't have the nerve, would he?

Eli ended up agreeing and inviting Anita. The three of them headed to the movies, and just as a precaution, Eden chose three seats on the first row.

The movie was really funny, Eli definitely wasn't as bold as the night before, but he wasn't as intimidated by Anita's presence as she expected. He would place his hand on Eden's thigh, caressing softly, then wrap his arm around her, bringing her closer, planting kisses on her cheek.

"Was there really a Jewish barber mistaken with Hitler?" Anita quivered as they left.

"No, it's just pretend, none of it is real," Eden held her hand reassuringly. "That was Chaplin, you know? The actor."

"Chaplin?"

"Yeah, he makes all sorts of funny movies, my favorite one is called Modern Times, it came out a few years before the war, you were probably too little at the time..."

"Where did you spend the war, aunt Eden?"

"Let's not talk about that, ey?" Eli tapped the girl's shoulder. "Edenle probably doesn't want to remember it."

"No, it's okay," she nodded. "I was able to hide in a cellar. My best friend ever since I was a little girl, she let me stay with her, but my parents couldn't escape, I haven't heard from them since. I just hope they were able to run, but I don't think that's very likely, my father wasn't in very good shape to begin with."

"My parents couldn't escape either," Anita looked down at her shoes. "But Monika never lets me talk about it."

"I imagine it must hurt for her to remember, right? To think of her brother in that situation."

"Yes, I think so."

"Do you like writing, Anita?"

"I love writing!" the girl's eyes lit up. "And drawing too!"

"When you want to talk to Monika about what happened and she doesn't want to hear it, why don't you write it down? Paper will never refuse to listen, and will never judge you, you can tell it all your secrets."

"You are good with words, aren't you?" Eli nudged Eden's arm.

"Am I?" she teased.

"You are, just like you are good with food, and good at dancing, and good at kissing..."

"Eli! Keep quiet!" she shushed him, as he laughed at her reaction. "Anita might hear you!"

"Sorry, sorry, dove..."

Anita was way too excited about all the ideas she wanted to write down to listen, as soon as she got home, she gave Eden a hug and sprinted to her room to start a diary, leaving the couple alone in the living room.

"Thank you for coming today, it was lovely," Eli took off his hat and coat.

"Thank you for inviting me," Eden sat down on the couch and crossed her legs, letting the dress show more of her skin, immediately grabbing his gaze.

"Edenle..." he said in a voice that made it sound almost like a warning.

"Yes?" she gave him an innocent look while playing with her necklace, drawing his attention to her chest.

"I know what you're trying to do."

"Really? What do you mean?"

"You're teasing me, trying to make me crazy."

"I would never do such a thing," she murmured.

"I know what you want, darling, you want me to propose."

"Very funny, I don't even know if I would accept your proposal in the first place."

"So I shouldn't buy a ring then?"

"No!" she nearly jumped. "You should!"

"See? You want me to propose..." he leaned back with both arms behind his head.

"Well, if you like me as you say, you should propose."

"I don't want to be married, dove."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't, I want to live," he mocked.

"I guarantee that being my husband wouldn't stop you from breathing, you can still live."

"Showing a little skin won't make me change my mind, even if the skin is as beautiful as yours. I can always find a girl who doesn't wanna wait and make love to her instead."

"Yes, you could, but there's only one problem..." Eden placed her hand gently on his neck. "None of them would be me, and I'm the one you want."

"You evil little thing," Eli's wanting lips were seeking hers, but she pulled back. "What? Now I don't even get a kiss?"

"Why would I kiss you if I know you have no intention of marrying me?"

"Because you like kissing me, I know you do. And the only reason why you want to marry so fast is because you can't resist me, you want me to fuck you."

That was too much, without thinking twice, Eden slapped him across the face. How dare he say something like that about her?

"You bastard! That's all you want, isn't it? You don't see me as a person, you don't really like me, you just want to have your way with me and leave!"

She was about to give him another slap, but this time he held her wrist firmly with a grunt. His cheek turning red as anger burned in his eyes.

"What's gotten into you?" he growled. "You seemed pretty pleased yesterday when I was fondling you!"

"Shut your mouth! Whatever happened to you? Why did you become such a horrible creature?"

"You really wanna know?" Eli shouted "I was engaged before the war started, the nazis set fire to my fiancé's house and killed her! We were kids, we were just 18, but I loved her! This world is rotten, nothing really matters, love doesn't matter!"

"I'm so sorry, I didn't..."

"Happy now? You live in a fantasy, Eden! If you want to enjoy yourself, do it, life is too short to wait for marriage, or love, or anything. I will gladly fuck you, as many times as you want, but I will not marry you!"

"I want to give myself to a man who I know I will spend the rest of my life with."

"Then I am sorry, dove, but that isn't me."

"Understood," she grabbed her coat and headed to the door with her heart broken in a million pieces. "Goodbye, Eli."

Tag List: @elliethesuperfruitlover @firstpersonnarrator @holidayspirits @salvador-daley @seanfalco

[tkc-info]

Not An Actual Snippet™

@wagner-fell ngl rereading this, this is a horrible fic to post right before pride ups

Aaron's breath caught in his throat the moment Genevieve entered the Woolahams's drawing room. Involuntarily, he felt himself straighten.

Ever since Madeleine's sorry excuse of a funeral, he'd got used to seeing Genevieve's eyes filled with warmth and kindness. She'd been a good shoulder to lean on when his bereavement was too much, but now her amber eyes had frozen over. They showed no hint of the noble emotions they so easily bore as she briefly scanned the lavish drawing room, now darkened by the thick black drapes covering the windows and substituting the bright tabletops.

Genevieve's eyes went from black-clad Woolaham to black-clad Woolaham. She first looked at Mr. Woolaham, who was discreetly supporting himself on a table, wearing a very paled expression; then her eyes switched to Miss Drucilla Woolaham and her sister Miss Hannah, the former met Genevieve's eyes with an accusatory glare --Miss Hannah only tried to emulate her older sister's stance-- but Genevieve didn't spare her a second glance. Nor to Miss Pearl Woolaham, either. Her gaze fixed on Mr. Gaylord Woolaham, instead.

Aaron swallowed down hard. He'd tried so, so unbearably hard not to look at him all throughout his visit. It hadn't helped that Sydney had remained at home --to tend to Mother while in the last stages of her fragile state-- and therefore he couldn't spread his hand on the small of Aaron's back, as a means of grounding him to sanity. But Aaron had controlled himself from going to Gaylord and punching him senseless nevertheless. However now that Genevieve was looking at Gaylord...

Gaylord nodded at her once, curtly. "Miss McLelland, we hadn't expected you today," his mouth twitched slightly, making the scar below his left eye more visible for half a second.

It was a new scar. Aaron had been there when Genevieve caused it.

"I brought flowers for the deceased," Genevieve replied, in as indifferent a tone as Aaron had ever heard from her. For the first time, she drew attention to the wreath of flowers nestling in her arms: white and red chrysanthemums, daisies and hydrangeas stuck together with a ribbon as black as the gown Genevieve wore "I am also in mourning, Mr. Woolaham," she continued "I knew Miss Agnes Woolaham as I knew her twin sister."

Aaron caught Gaylord closing his hand into a fist.

"This is an Anglican's funeral," Miss Drucilla suddenly reasoned, though she didn't sound reasonable to Aaron. Only childish "You're not of our faith, Miss McLelland."

"My faith doesn't prohibit me from showing respect for the deceased nor from mourning them irrespectively of their religion. That's what I came to do."

It was then that Aaron felt prompted to action. Genevieve had quite a temper, much like himself, and unlike himself, she had no qualms about getting into a physical fight with women as well as men. He feared Miss Drucilla would end up with a scar twin to her brother's.

"I decided to extend an invitation to her," Aaron tried to settle a hand on Genevieve's shoulder, like he'd done times before with Maddie, but she was as tall as him and his palm involuntarily ended on her waist "You might know we're childhood friends, and I thought it good to have her support."

Genevieve nodded. "My religion would only bar me from attending on a Saturday, but it's Tuesday, so here I am."

Aaron thought the 'barring' aspect of her explanation was deceiving. Yesterday Genevieve had told him her Jewish denomination allowed her to attend non-Jewish ceremonies regardless of the day they fell on, but she was rather disinclined to attend Agnes's waking on Shabbat. She oughtn't do melakhah (which she'd translated as 'work' to appease Aaron and Sydney's cluelessness), and maintaining her composure upon meeting the Woolahams was the most arduous of tasks.

Aaron agreed with her, naturally.

"We shan't stop you," Gaylord said, in a tone far too close to contempt "But I advise you to make haste. Agnes was well-loved, and we would like to mourn her within the privacy of our family."

Genevieve looked around the room and the multiple non-Woolahams on it with a raised eyebrow. Abigail Hislop --who kept looking at Gaylord with knowing eyes-- and the other girls who had been friends with Agnes, as well as their respective families, were present. Wearing crucifixes while Genevieve had a star of David round her neck. All being supposedly normal and good, while Genevieve was a homosexual and 'wicked'.

Not that Genevieve seemed faced by Gaylord's shameless lies. "What a big family you have. I wonder where they were when the late Miss Madeleine passed away."

Aaron tried to keep a straight face. Carefully, he urged her to abandon Gaylord, and started saying, "Let us..."

"Madeleine was bad, but Agnes was good," a small voice said somewhere near Miss Drucilla and Miss Hannah's vicinity.

Indeed, a small boy's head peeked out from Miss Hannah's skirts. The youngest of the Woolahams was small even for a boy of seven; his hair was a very pale blond shade, and his skin had an unhealthy, deathly tone to it --as if he were seconds away from joining his older sister in a coffin. He looked as if about to cry, however much he tried to appear brave, and though he would've doubtlessly been clutching Miss Hannah's skirts, the blisters and red marks that covered his fingers made that impossible.

Such a sight stunned Aaron and Genevieve both. Her mask of indifference tumbled down to let on surprised worry and a quiet curse in Yiddish which drew the room's attention back to her.

Miss Hannah didn't hesitate to kneel down and shush Marcus. Although she employed a much gentler tone than Aaron would've expected from someone Gaylord held in high esteem, and she even wiped impending tears from young Marcus's eyes and quietly proposed to be led upstairs to a 'happier place'. But Marcus took a look at Gaylord --who shook his head slightly-- and, to Miss Hannah's displeasure, denied the offer.

Aaron recalled what Sydney had told him about Marcus, and his hate for Gaylord increased evermore.

"Villains will always find a way to twist history to their benefit," Genevieve whispered, loud enough for Gaylord and his remaining siblings (sans Miss Pearl, who'd dramatically retreated to a corner at the sight of Genevieve) to hear. But she didn't give them time to react, for she then added, in a tone everyone could understand "My visit will be brief. I'd loath to disturb your private mourning for much longer."

And with that, she motioned for Aaron to follow and walked the short distance to the middle of the room, where Agnes's coffin laid, open for all to see her one last time.

It pained Aaron to admit that she looked beautiful. Agnes --no, not Agnes, her corpse-- wore a pure-white gown a tad too big on her, and her hair had been let loose and it reached her ankles. Flowers covered her resting form; she wore them on her head, as a crown, around her hair, clasped between her hands, as the only touch of colour in the coffin. To Aaron, she'd always looked oddly sick (he'd heard many men say that added charm to her beauty, but, perhaps due to his homosexuality, he'd never understood what about fragility and illness was so alluring). However now, destiny had taken a cruelly ironic turn and for the first time, Agnes looked healthy. As healthy as a corpse could look, that is, but her shoulders weren't drooped, nor her eyes heavy with what Sydney had described as sadness so many times. Aaron had never believed him until now. For Agnes didn't look dead, she looked like she were in a peaceful slumber.

The only thing that disturbed the image was Mrs. Woolaham --who was sobbing on a handkerchief and murmuring 'my Agnes is gone, oh, she was so beautiful, my sweet Agnes is gone, oh, she's been taken from me' over and over again-- and Herr Werther, Agnes's would-be fiancé. Herr Werther's eyes were zeroed in on Agnes; he wasn't moving, hardly blinking.

"Madeleine never had the opportunity to look like this," Genevieve murmured, looking down at the corpse with a difficult expression "She should've been properly buried. She deserved to have looked like this."

Aaron ripped his eyes off the coffin to turn to her. "She wouldn't have looked like this," he whispered back.

"They're twins."

"I know that," he tried to find the right words. Genevieve was a relative stranger to Madeleine's life; she didn't know the ever-growing breach between the sisters, she had known the girl Madeleine had been at thirteen, but she didn't know who that girl had grown into. Aaron did, and he'd loved her as if he'd taken on Agnes's position as his own, and could never equal the corpse before them to Maddie.

Genevieve's eyes darkened with understanding before he could say anything. Her jaw hardened. "I see all these years I have been loving the memory of someone who didn't exist," she shook her head "But that doesn't matter."

Blinking fast, she carefully set her wreath inside the coffin. Aaron thought that would be it, but then she spoke, not to him but to Agnes's body:

"If you ever find Madeleine, and she consents to seeing you, tell her I never wished to have made you discover her secret. I beg you, tell her I was young, I never thought of where we were, and not a day passes in which guilt doesn't consume me for being the master of what happened and not having then taken her with me. You and your family were monsters to her, Miss Woolaham, but if it is true you died when you were notified of her passing, a part of you must have loved her; therefore please, relay my message to her."

Genevieve jerked back as if the coffin burned her. She hastened to rub away her tears with the ball of her palm, and looked at Aaron with suddenly-imploring eyes. They said everything: I can't be here any longer, I wish to go.

"We shall better step outside," Aaron said.

He gathered his strength enough to turn to Gaylord and Miss Drucilla --Mr. and Mrs. Woolaham seemed to be indisposed to listen to him-- to excuse themselves.

"That would be wise," Gaylord said, glaring at Genevieve for the briefest second. However, Miss Drucilla didn't say anything. She simply stared at the hand Aaron still had on Genevieve's waist with cold eyes.

They made haste to bid their goodbyes to the other attendants. Mainly the strictly necessary ones, such as Herr Werther (who remained entranced by Agnes's corpse) and the Woolahams. Gaylord shook Aaron's hand, and Miss Drucilla smiled at them with a kind of artificial precision, while Miss Hannah was too busy talking to young Marcus and kissing his wounded hands. Mrs. Woolaham refused to leave the coffin's side to bid them farewell, Mr. Woolaham showed no signs of wanting to talk to them, and Miss Pearl's sigh of relief when they left the drawing room could be heard even past the door.

Genevieve kept on walking and walking and walking until they reached the foyer, whereupon she stopped abruptly and turned on her heels to face Aaron. Her eyes were red. "When my parents learned of my feelings for women, they were surprised, but they loved me nevertheless. They don't love me any less now than they did before they learned of my homosexuality. Why can't they not do the same? Why do they cry for Miss Agnes but were relieved by Madeleine's passing? What was so good about Miss Agnes that Madeleine couldn't be spared half the love she received? What made her kissing me so--" Genevieve choked on her words.

Aaron was quick to put his arms around her; Genevieve tensed for a second, but then she collapsed against her chest and let her tears ran rampant. "Oh, Genevieve," he murmured.

That was the only thing he could say. Madeleine and Genevieve were very different women. Maddie had thought she deserved nothing, that feeling for the same gender what the people in her family felt for the opposite was inherently wrong and not something they'd all been taught to despise; Aaron had wanted to infuse her with an unapologetic feeling of love for who she was, and from there build up her confidence in a safe place. But Genevieve already knew that --her parents had taught her that lesson years ago-- and her safe place was McLelland Manor in Scotland, her home.

When Aaron had held Madeleine, she'd cried out of the inability to see an end to the torture her family were subjecting her to; but Genevieve wasn't like that. She was furious, and she cried because she couldn't burn the Woolahams's house with all of its putrid inhabitants instead. Aaron didn't have words fit to appease fury.

"I hate them. I hate them. I hate them," Genevieve whispered, over and over again.

"I know."

"I promise," she took a step back, pining her eyes on Aaron "She will live on. On my children, because I will have children. I'll name my first daughter Madeleine, and my second daughter Adele, and I'll tell them all --my daughters and my sons alike-- about her. If her family won't remember her and honour, then I will. I promise, Aaron. I promise."

"Genevieve," it was now Aaron who wanted to cry "That is--"

"The least I could do. Her heritage is now mine to maintain. It's the least thing I could do."

"Ours. Madeleine's heritage is now ours to maintain."

Through her tears, Genevieve smiled slightly. She nodded; opened her mouth, but when she spoke, it was far from what Aaron had expected. "What are you doing here?"

Aaron turned around.

Marcus was nay a few paces from them. He seemed to have heard their whole conversation.

[vraska-theunseen]

the reason i made babka dough yesterday (wednesday night) and prepared it today (thursday night) is bc i thought i was going to bring it to a friends house for shabbat but then it fell through. now we're hanging out on sunday and he jokingly said im required to bring dessert but i am determined to so i guess i'm doing babka prep four days in a fucking row