#i would also be shocked if a majority of current high school english teachers are good at those things themselves. lol.

[prettyboysdontlookatexplosions]

still mad about this post lol so let me also say: “they taught us critical thinking in english class” is extra funny to me because there’s a genuine debate among Ed Heads about whether “critical thinking” as a discrete and decontextualized skillset can actually be taught :) so it’s pretty silly to go around confidently branding yourself as a critical thinker while simultaneously revealing that you’re extremely comfortable making assumptions about the relative simplicity of complex ideas which remain contested in their respective fields :) personally i would be pretty embarrassed to call myself a critical thinker if i also couldn’t stop myself from revealing i was totally lacking in the intellectual humility that would enable me to understand that we have yet to reach consensus on unbelievably complicated issues like how best to educate an entire population :) but i guess i was absent the day that tenth grade english covered running your mouth like an asshole on social media :)

[razieltwelve]

English Class

Every now and then, I'll get an email from someone who wonders if they can be a good writer despite having done horribly in English class. My usual response to that is to tell them not to worry. English, as a subject, is not exactly geared toward producing good writers, especially when it comes to creative writing (i.e., fiction).

To some extent, this makes perfect sense. The majority of people have no great interest in doing creative writing. Instead, their interest is in finding stories they enjoy and reading those. That's fine. Writing is like any other pastime. Not everyone will like doing it, and that's okay. I don't particularly enjoy swimming since the ocean has demonstrated on multiple occasions that it wants to kill me, and I'm not about to give it any extra chances. That said, I've got nothing against people who enjoy swimming, and I understand why some people really like doing it.

The main objective of English class is to develop a basic level of literacy in students and to provide them with a basic grasp of certain forms of writing (e.g., essays, reviews, etc.). For various reasons, these forms of writing are considered important not only in class but also in the wider world. Whether or not that's actually true doesn't matter in the context of the current discussion. What matters is that these are the forms of writing that governments and school administrators consider to be most useful.

English classes do cover fiction, but that coverage usually involves reading a book (usually a classic of some kind), followed by lessons reviewing its themes and the various writing techniques employed. There may also be discussion of the book in a historical context, especially if it proved influential in its particular genre. Students may also do some creative writing themselves, but this is generally quite limited. I remember my high school years. For each book that we covered, we would have done perhaps two thousand words of creative writing total.

As you can imagine, it's going to be basically impossible to improving your creative writing when you get so little practice at it. Moreover, how good a writer (of fiction) you are is not going to be very closely related to your marks in English if almost none of the assessments involve creative writing. It would be like trying to assess how good a driver someone is by asking them to build a car.

There are also a variety of reasons why someone who is good at creative writing might struggle in English class. The one that comes to mind from personal experience is boredom. If you're not particularly interested in writing essays or reports, then you're probably not going to bother study and will thus do fairly poorly.

My marks for seventh grade and eighth grade English led my teachers to remark on my being barely literate. What was actually occurring was that I was bored out of my mind and detested all of the books we were assigned to read. I would read the book the day we got it, never read it again, and then do all the work based on nothing more than my memories of what happened. Forget studying. I was able to pass while doing that bare minimum of effort, which allowed me to spend my time doing others things I enjoyed more. In my case, it was video games and reading. Naturally, my teachers were shocked when I actually started to take English more seriously from tenth grade onward and my marks improved. Subsequent experience has suggested to me that many students would do better if they enjoyed the subject.

However, I did take a course in twelfth grade (the final year over here in Australia) in which the main component of assessment was an 8000 word short story. You would think I would do well in that, right? Oh, sweet summer child, have I got news for you. It turned out that the kinds of stories I wanted to write and the way I wrote them was antithetical to the assessment criteria.

The course demanded a journal of my writing efforts, one that was to cover the course of a year. I beg your pardon. A year? An entire year to write 8000 words. Even then, I found the idea bizarre. Why would I spend a year writing a story when I could write multiple drafts, polish them, and then deliver a final copy in less than a month. Indeed, I wrote the first draft in a weekend. That led to the rather hilarious (for me) situation in which I had to basically lie in the journal about how long it was taking me to write my story and how I spent an entire year agonising over every detail.

I don't mean to be rude, but there is no reason you should take a whole year to write 8000 words.

My second mistake was writing a story in the fantasy genre. A review of the stories that the examiners favoured the most suggested that they were looking for several things in stories:

Existential angst

Engagement with "important" contemporary topics

Avoidance of genre writing unless that genre was teen-angst, existential philosophy, or maudlin reminiscence

I remember very well the remarks my fellow students and my teacher made upon reading my story. They found the characters and plot engaging to the point that they would find themselves thinking about them in their free time. I even went so far as to send the story to several people whose opinions I trusted due to their own writing skill since, back then, I was a member of a number of writing forums. The most common description was 'haunting'.

My mark was, shall we say, not particularly inspiring.

The larger point I'm trying to make here is that English class, as it is currently run in most school across the Western World (I cannot speak to other parts of the world since I do not know them well) has particular expectations. Meeting those expectations will serve you well while straying outside of them will not. It is not a coincidence that various personality traits (e.g., conscientiousness and agreeableness) correlate with academic performance, especially at lower levels of schooling.

Now, don't get me wrong. I do think that the English courses I attended in high school did a decent enough job of fostering basic literacy. I went to a school that excelled academically, and I can tell you with all honesty that some of the most brilliant people I knew would not have known how to write a report or a review without the aid of English class. There was more than one fellow I knew who had no problems with numbers but was clueless when it came to verbal expression. If your goal is to ensure that students can function in broader society, I do think English classes have done all right.

However, if your goal is improve as a writer, particularly of fiction, then English class is not going to help very much. Indeed, it may do the complete opposite. Stories of teenage angst, existential conundrum, and seemingly endless tragedy may score well with examiners, but you are not going to sell very many books writing that way unless you are one of the true masters of the genre. The limited practice you receive in English class is about as useful as learning how to play basketball by dribbling a ball for ten minutes every six months.

So what can you do if you want to become a better creative writer?

Once upon a time, I would have recommended joining a writer's forum. But, good grief, have times changed. I last set serious foot into a writer's forum almost a decade ago after realising that the overwhelming majority of them have become snake pits where the main goal seems to be ensuring that everyone suffers. Ever now and then, I'll peek into various writer's forums, but I've found that little has changed. It's not so much about lifting each other up as it is about grabbing each other's ankles to make sure everybody gets to drown.

I recall once giving a detailed review to someone of their book, complete with pages and pages of notes and examples. I was told to stop being a hater. Keep in mind, I thought the book was all right. I gave it a 7/10. But the hostility I was greeted with for trying to explain why it wasn't perfect was off-putting, to say the least. It was an experience I would repeat several times before swearing off such things entirely. You cannot help someone who does not want to be helped.

There also remains a subtle (or not so subtle) divide between those who are self-published and those who are traditionally published. There are people who will insist that no self-published author is a professional until they have been traditionally published. To which I would reply: not professional? I pay my bills with my writing. I would say that makes me a professional.

Indeed, I have always been of the opinion that anyone who can make a living with their writing deserves to be called a professional. I do not care if you make your living as a self-published author, or if you make it by writing snappy fortunes in fortune cookies. If you write, and your writing pays the bills, you are a professional to me.

What I would suggest is to practice.

There is a theory that says it takes 10,000 hours of deliberate practice to become an expert in something. I believe that may even be an underestimation. Overwhelmingly, the common factor you will find in successful writers is that they write. Sure, not all of it gets published, but they write. They look for the flaws in their writing, and they write to fix those flaws. They find the strengths in their writing, and they write until those strengths become unbreakable foundations around which stories can be built.

Before I ever self-published a single story on Amazon, I had already written multiple novel-length stories. I won't lie and say they were all good (I do have a soft spot for them), but they were the price I had to pay. It's like a basketball player practicing. You might see the shot they make to win the game, but you won't see the thousands of hours on the court getting up shots every day until the shot became automatic. Writing is the same way. Don't focus on the end product of an author's hard work. Think about how many years they had to practice before they were good enough to get there.

When you practice, you need to look critically at your writing. What works? What doesn't work? Why? And then you need to address those areas. It sucks to be critical, and it can painful when you ask someone to review your writing and the reviews aren't all positive, but you can't flinch. You can't turn away. You have to meet those challenges head on. It's not about being fearless or about the process being painless. It's about conquering your fear and fighting through the pain because you'll come out better on the other side.

Now, I realise this post has gone somewhat off the rails. That happens when you're basically writing an extended stream-of-consciousness post while trying to will your belated lunch into cooking faster. But don't get discouraged if you do badly in English class. It doesn't really say all that much about you as a writer. In the end, it's hard work and dedication that will get you there.

P. S. My best subject in high school was Physics. I even managed to major in Physics at university before realising I couldn't do that for the rest of my life and shifting gears. How exactly I ended up writing humorous fiction is a story for another time.

If you’re interested in my thoughts on writing and other topics, you can find those here.

I also write original fiction, which you can find on Amazon here or on Audible here. I’ve also just released a new story, Cosmic Delivery Boy!

Also, Cosmic Delivery Boy is now available on Audible! You can get it here.

[advicetothebabyalt]

When to Apply to ALT Jobs

When I was in middle school, I knew that I wanted to work in Japan. Did little baby T understand the reality of working in Japan? No. I was like, 12. But, like how I am now, I was a stubborn child, and when I put my mind to something, I went for it.

So, this meant that, in middle school in the early 2010's, I was already researching how to live in Japan, how to get a job, cost of living, etc. Most of it went right over my head, though.

I'll tell you now that this is way too early to begin preparing your job hunt. I wouldn't be in the country for another decade, and times change.

So, when is the right time?

If you're currently living outside of Japan, most companies and programs will open up their applications to you in the fall of the year before you would start. Meaning that if you want to be working in Japan sometime in 2024, you would need to be applying, like, now. Now-now.

However, maybe you're about to graduate high school next year, or maybe you've started university and are thinking about potential career paths. While it is definitely too early to be applying for work, this is a great time to be doing research.

ALT work is very difficult, and when you come to Japan, it's possible that you'll be in the middle of nowhere with no English available to you. Use the years before you begin applying to research actual work. Blog posts, vlogs, TikTok, etc. If you're interested in being a teacher and being in Japan, the job of an ALT might seem like it fits for you, but researching beforehand will give you a better idea to if that's actually true.

Like I stated above, there is a possibility that you can be in an area with no English. For example, I live in the countryside that, while considered a bit of an international area, has extremely limited English outside of the train station and my 7/11 cash registers. Good news for me, I can speak and read (kinda) Japanese, so this isn't an issue. But, maybe for you, this would mean you would lose all functionality as an adult.

Let me put it this way: You spend your whole life up to this point in time learning how to function in the society you've spent most of your life in, learning how to communicate with the people around you, understanding how to read things like nutrition labels and taking yourself to the doctor, or calling emergency services. When you're in a country where the majority of people aren't going to speak your language, you revert to a child. You rely on the friends you make who can get around to help you, and you have to re-learn how to be an independent adult.

What I want to say is use the years you have between now and when you could potentially be in Japan to learn the language. And I mean learn it. Anime phrases will only get you so far. Learn how to build basic phrases, how to at least read hiragana and katakana (two of the three writing systems used in Japanese), how to count, how to ask if a food has your allergen, how to make phone calls, vocabulary centered around your health. If you have female anatomy, Japanese classes will not cover feminine hygiene, and I highly recommend learning about that.

If you're in college majoring in something else, a minor will definitely have you on your way to being more independent in Japan from the start. Or, at least until the culture shocks start. If you're not in college just yet, or if you can't afford to take on Japanese classes, there are loads of free online resources and (not free) textbooks that can help you get a basic understanding.

Also, companies that hire ALTs do look for ALTs with at least a basic understanding of the language and Japanese culture. This isn't a requirement, necessarily, but it'll give them some peace of mind knowing that they're hiring someone who can be a bit more independent and also communicate with non-English speaking teachers at their schools.

If you'd like a post on the different types of ALT programs there are, and the different places you could end up, please let me know!

Thank you for reading! Hope to see you in the next one!

[xtruss]

Tchnology: The End of High-School English

I’ve been teaching English for 12 years, and I’m astounded by what ChatGPT can produce.

— By Daniel Herman | The Atlantic | December 09, 2022

Erik Carter/The Atlantic

Teenagers have always found ways around doing the hard work of actual learning. CliffsNotes dates back to the 1950s, “No Fear Shakespeare” puts the playwright into modern English, YouTube offers literary analysis and historical explication from numerous amateurs and professionals, and so on. For as long as those shortcuts have existed, however, one big part of education has remained inescapable: writing. Barring outright plagiarism, students have always arrived at that moment when they’re on their own with a blank page, staring down a blinking cursor, the essay waiting to be written.

Now that might be about to change. The arrival of OpenAI’s ChatGPT, a program that generates sophisticated text in response to any prompt you can imagine, may signal the end of writing assignments altogether—and maybe even the end of writing as a gatekeeper, a metric for intelligence, a teachable skill.

If you’re looking for historical analogues, this would be like the printing press, the steam drill, and the light bulb having a baby, and that baby having access to the entire corpus of human knowledge and understanding. My life—and the lives of thousands of other teachers and professors, tutors and administrators—is about to drastically change.

I teach a variety of humanities classes (literature, philosophy, religion, history) at a small independent high school in the San Francisco Bay Area. My classes tend to have about 15 students, their ages ranging from 16 to 18. This semester I am lucky enough to be teaching writers like James Baldwin, Gloria Anzaldúa, Herman Melville, Mohsin Hamid, Virginia Held. I recognize that it’s a privilege to have relatively small classes that can explore material like this at all. But at the end of the day, kids are always kids. I’m sure you will be absolutely shocked to hear that not all teenagers are, in fact, so interested in having their mind lit on fire by Anzaldúa’s radical ideas about transcending binaries, or Ishmael’s metaphysics in Moby-Dick.

To those students, I have always said: You may not be interested in poetry or civics, but no matter what you end up doing with your life, a basic competence in writing is an absolutely essential skill—whether it’s for college admissions, writing a cover letter when applying for a job, or just writing an email to your boss.

I’ve also long held, for those who are interested in writing, that you need to learn the basic rules of good writing before you can start breaking them—that, like Picasso, you have to learn how to reliably fulfill an audience’s expectations before you get to start putting eyeballs in people’s ears and things.

I don’t know if either of those things is true anymore. It’s no longer obvious to me that my teenagers actually will need to develop this basic skill, or if the logic still holds that the fundamentals are necessary for experimentation.

Let me be candid (with apologies to all of my current and former students): What GPT can produce right now is better than the large majority of writing seen by your average teacher or professor. Over the past few days, I’ve given it a number of different prompts. And even if the bot’s results don’t exactly give you goosebumps, they do a more-than-adequate job of fulfilling a task.

I mean, look at this: I asked the program to write me a playful, sophisticated, emotional 600-word college-admissions essay about how my experience volunteering at my local SPCA had prepared me for the academic rigor of Stanford. Here’s an excerpt from its response:

In addition to cleaning, I also had the opportunity to interact with the animals. I was amazed at the transformation I saw in some of the pets who had been neglected or abused. With patience and care, they blossomed into playful and affectionate companions who were eager to give and receive love. I was also able to witness firsthand the process of selecting the right pet for the right family. Although it was bittersweet to see some animals leave the shelter, I knew that they were going to a loving home, and that was the best thing for them.

It also managed to compose a convincing 400-word “friendly” cover letter for an application to be a manager at Starbucks. But most jaw-dropping of all, on a personal level: It made quick work out of an assignment I’ve always considered absolutely “unhackable.” In January, my junior English students will begin writing an independent research paper, 12 to 18 pages, on two great literary works of their own choosing—a tradition at our school. Their goal is to place the texts in conversation with each other and find a thread that connects them. Some students will struggle to find any way to bring them together. We spend two months on the paper, putting it together piece by piece.

I’ve fed GPT a handful of pairs that students have worked with in recent years: Beloved and Hamlet, The Handmaid’s Tale and The Parable of the Sower, Homer’s The Odyssey and Dante’s Inferno. GPT brought them together instantly, effortlessly, uncannily: memory, guilt, revenge, justice, the individual versus the collective, freedom of choice, societal oppression. The technology doesn’t go much beyond the surface, nor does it successfully integrate quotations from the original texts, but the ideas presented were on-target—more than enough to get any student rolling without much legwork.

It goes further. Last night, I received an essay draft from a student. I passed it along to OpenAI’s bots. “Can you fix this essay up and make it better?” Turns out, it could. It kept the student’s words intact but employed them more gracefully; it removed the clutter so the ideas were able to shine through. It was like magic.

I’ve been teaching for about 12 years: first as a TA in grad school, then as an adjunct professor at various public and private universities, and finally in high school. From my experience, American high-school students can be roughly split into three categories. The bottom group is learning to master grammar rules, punctuation, basic comprehension, and legibility. The middle group mostly has that stuff down and is working on argument and organization—arranging sentences within paragraphs and paragraphs within an essay. Then there’s a third group that has the luxury of focusing on things such as tone, rhythm, variety, mellifluence.

Whether someone is writing a five-paragraph essay or a 500-page book, these are the building blocks not only of good writing but of writing as a tool, as a means of efficiently and effectively communicating information. And because learning writing is an iterative process, students spend countless hours developing the skill in elementary school, middle school, high school, and then finally (as thousands of underpaid adjuncts teaching freshman comp will attest) college. Many students (as those same adjuncts will attest) remain in the bottom group, despite their teachers’ efforts; most of the rest find some uneasy equilibrium in the second category.

Working with these students makes up a large percentage of every English teacher’s job. It also supports a cottage industry of professional development, trademarked methods buried in acronyms (ICE! PIE! EDIT! MEAT!), and private writing tutors charging $100-plus an hour. So for those observers who are saying, Well, good, all of these things are overdue for change—“this will lead to much-needed education reform,” a former colleague told me—this dismissal elides the heavy toll this sudden transformation is going to take on education, extending along its many tentacles (standardized testing, admissions, educational software, etc.).

Perhaps there are reasons for optimism, if you push all this aside. Maybe every student is now immediately launched into that third category: The rudiments of writing will be considered a given, and every student will have direct access to the finer aspects of the enterprise. Whatever is inimitable within them can be made conspicuous, freed from the troublesome mechanics of comma splices, subject-verb disagreement, and dangling modifiers.

But again, the majority of students do not see writing as a worthwhile skill to cultivate—just like I, sitting with my coffee and book, rereading Moby-Dick, do not consider it worthwhile to learn, say, video editing. They have no interest in exploring nuance in tone and rhythm; they will forever roll their eyes at me when I try to communicate the subtle difference, when writing an appositive phrase, between using commas, parentheses, or (the connoisseur’s choice) the em dash.

Which is why I wonder if this may be the end of using writing as a benchmark for aptitude and intelligence. After all, what is a cover letter? Its primary purpose isn’t to communicate “I already know how to do this job” (because of course I don’t) but rather “I am competent and trustworthy and can clearly express to you why I would be a good candidate for this job.” What is a written exam? Its primary signal isn’t “I memorized a bunch of information” but rather “I can express that information clearly in writing.” Many teachers have reacted to ChatGPT by imagining how to give writing assignments now—maybe they should be written out by hand, or given only in class—but that seems to me shortsighted. The question isn’t “How will we get around this?” but rather “Is this still worth doing?”

I believe my most essential tasks, as a teacher, are helping my students think critically, disagree respectfully, argue carefully and flexibly, and understand their mind and the world around them. Unconventional, improvisatory, expressive, meta-cognitive writing can be an extraordinary vehicle for those things. But if most contemporary writing pedagogy is necessarily focused on helping students master the basics, what happens when a computer can do it for us? Is this moment more like the invention of the calculator, saving me from the tedium of long division, or more like the invention of the player piano, robbing us of what can be communicated only through human emotion?

Maybe the moment when I felt most caught between these two thoughts was when I asked GPT a question from an exam I give in my Eastern-philosophy course, something I’ve never imagined a student could find outside assistance to answer: “Explain the Madhyamaka Buddhist idea that all phenomena lack inherent existence, using a funny, specific example.”

ChatGPT wrote back, as ever, instantly:

The Madhyamaka Buddhist idea that all phenomena lack inherent existence can be illustrated with a funny example: let’s say you have a pet hamster. You might think that your hamster has its own inherent existence, but in reality, your hamster is made up of many different elements such as its fur, its bones, its muscles, and its brain. None of these elements exist independently or inherently on their own, so your hamster itself does not have any inherent existence either. The same goes for all phenomena—everything is made up of various components that don’t have inherent existence, so nothing has any inherent existence either.

Everything is made up; it’s true. The essay as a literary form? Made up. Grammatical rules as markers of intelligence? Writing itself as a technology? Made up. Starting now, OpenAI is forcing us to ask foundational questions about whether any of those things are worth keeping around.

— Daniel Herman is a high-school teacher and the author of Zen and the White Whale: A Buddhist Rendering of Moby-Dick. He lives in Berkeley, California.

[heartcal]

rejected ; c.h. (part i)

summary: he was just a silly little crush that you had in high school, and you were sure that after graduating, you would be over it. so why is your heart beating fast as he sits next to you in your first class on your first day of college? pairing: calum hood x reader (gender-neutral) genre: fluff, angst, classmates to friends to lovers au, college au warnings: like two curse words (shocking), i think that's it word count: a little over 3k words

a/n: part one is here! i gave reader no pronouns, along with their friends (also gave gender-neutral names to the friends) but if i messed up, my apologies and feel free to let me know! anyway, i wanted this part to be at least 5k but i really couldn't get it there, but again, it is just part one and the next parts will more than likely be 5k or more :^) this part is slow, in my opinion, but i hope it suffices! (mostly unedited, i keep finishing these late at night, help)

intro | i (current) | ii | iii | iv | v | ... more coming soon!

my masterlist! | series masterlist

PART ONE.

The first week of school was always easy. It was just introductions and ice breakers, with a plethora of syllabi from different teachers (some had too many pages to go through) and lots of confusion.

The same can be said for your first week of college. Finding your classes was easy, the teachers were nice, and thankfully most of your teachers had a syllabus online. However, they weren’t shy about giving work within the first two days.

“So, wait,” your friend’s voice comes through your phone’s speaker, “the guy you were pathetically crushing on throughout high school is in your class?”

You hum in response, finishing the last sentence of your essay for English.

“And he’s the one that initiated the conversation?”

“Yep,” you chuckle at the incredulous tone, knowing their eyes are narrowed as they try to figure the situation out.

“I don’t know what to say—wasn’t he supposed to go to state?”

“That’s what I thought, too, Jess,” you sigh as you lean back in your seat to stretch your limbs, “but come Monday morning, he was there.”

It’s Saturday, but you’re still thinking about Monday when your high school crush walked in and sat in the empty seat next to you. Not only was he in your English class, but he also happened to be in your History and Intro to Psychology classes. You don’t have a set major just yet, since you want to experiment a little before settling on a decision, but you still found it to be a coincidence that Calum would end up in your classes.

Compared to the other students in those classes, you don’t share another class with the majority. Seeing him in three of your five classes for the semester was a big surprise, and honestly, you were not ready for it.

How were you supposed to start anew when one person you admired a little too much for four years reappears?

“What are you gonna do?” Jessie asks after a few beats of silence.

“Huh?”

“The first day of college and he shows up, starts up a small conversation, and he’s now in a majority of your classes,” they list, and you can picture them using their hand to check-off the fingers on the other hand, “so I repeat, what are you gonna do?”

What are you going to do? Back in high school, the two of you weren’t friends per se, but you talked in passing and during group projects. It’s not that you didn’t want to be friends, but the friend groups didn’t mix. His circle of friends was more rowdy and involved in sports, while your circle dealt with laid-back clubs after school and took part in school events.

With college, you can become his friend. Most of your friends went off to a different college in and out of state, one went to a different community college to be closer to their significant other. And from the rumors you heard, Calum’s friends got scholarships to state and private colleges.

“I think I’ll befriend him.”

“Good,” a tired yawn comes from Jessie’s end and you feel bad for keeping them up with your tiny troubles.

You muffle your own yawn before directing the conversation to an end, “Sounds like you’re tired, when can I call you again?”

“In a few days, I’m entering week three and my teachers are already on my ass about my designs.”

“You gotta get on that, Jess. It’s not high school.”

They dismiss your statement, “Try not to get heart eyes when you’re around Calum.”

“Alright, goodnight,” you laugh, hearing their response before you hang up.

Tossing your phone back onto your desk with a sigh, your eyes drift to your window. The night sky was hidden behind clouds, hiding the stars that you enjoyed wishing upon in high school.

¸.*☆*¸.*♡*.¸¸.*☆*¸.*♡*.¸

Mondays are universally hated. It’s the first day of the week for many, and it follows the two days everyone looks forward to.

For you, this Monday meant opportunity. But it may be easier said than done.

When you told Jessie that you would befriend Calum, you felt an overwhelming sense of confidence wash over you, a small sense of pride at the chance to overcome the shyness that plagued your high school years when you wanted to make friends.

But now that you’re sitting in your seat for your 8am class, all the confidence is gone and there’s no evidence of pride.

The first time you ever talked to Calum was during your freshman year, after bumping into him in the hallway on your way to the front office. He made a joke about how he was lost in the building as well, and not wanting him to feel embarrassed, you went along with it even though you weren’t lost.

The run-ins after that were few, but you remembered them as each one started the development of your crush.

“Hey,” his voice shakes you out of your thoughts, but he doesn’t notice your surprise as he sits down with a smile.

“Hi,” it was small and quiet, but he heard your reply.

“Can’t believe we already had to write an essay,” he sighs, taking his laptop out, “I’m happy I finished it but it’s only week two.”

You nod in response, but you wanted to say more.

He continues, “Did you have trouble doing yours?”

You shake your head, “I didn’t—not too much trouble at least.”

The essay wasn’t that bad, just a small, three-page essay on how you view literature and why it’s important in terms of past and present works.

A silence settles between you two, and you debate on whether or not to continue the conversation or start a new one. Unfortunately, you can’t bring yourself to do so.

¸.*☆*¸.*♡*.¸¸.*☆*¸.*♡*.¸

The next interaction was later in the afternoon.

You sat in the library with books spread in front of you. Your math professor hinted at an upcoming quiz next week, and wanting to get a head start, you took it upon yourself to familiarize the equations and functions.

A tap on the desk broke the trance the calculus equation had on you, and when you looked up from the hand on the table, your eyes met Calum’s.

He offers a grin before taking the seat in front of you.

“Studying hard already?” He whispers, a small chuckle escaping his mouth.

You smile back, shrugging and not meeting his eyes. It brings a warmth to your cheeks and you can only hope he doesn’t notice it in the dim lighting.

“Do you need help?” He lifts out of his seat briefly to take a look at your notes, eyes bouncing around the pages of the books before glancing at your face.

Calum was good at math back in high school. One of his friend’s moms was great at the subject and offered help at school, and the few times you did go, Calum was always there. He went to every session and at the end of the year, the teachers would give him a certificate for his excellent work.

You stuttered a bit before getting out, “You don’t need to—if you want to, you can.”

He only smiles again before standing and moving to the seat next to you.

Calum takes out a notebook and writes down the practice equation from one of the books. He works on it, using his pencil lightly, and once he double-checks the answer he erases his work to show you how to do it.

¸.*☆*¸.*♡*.¸¸.*☆*¸.*♡*.¸

Wednesday afternoon, on your way to your history class, you noticed Calum about to enter the class but stopped by someone who looked familiar to you. Walking closer, you noticed it was one of his exes.

Calum didn’t date much during his senior year, which led many to believe he was solely focusing on his education. However, the rumor mill spun the theory that the break-up from junior year was the main reason why he didn’t have a steady partner.

The break-up, from what you heard, was harsh. It involved cheating, manipulation, and doubt about ones-self and the relationship. Again, from what you heard.

You don’t know the full story, and it would be rude to ask him about it, especially since you don’t know him well.

The person he was talking to right now, however, was not the one who broke his heart. It was his prom date, they never seemed serious as they were only together a week after prom.

He waves ‘bye’ to them before turning back around to open the door to the classroom, holding the door open for whoever was walking behind him.

Upon taking your seat in the class, your mind starts to drift to the rumored break-up again. Does he still feel that way now? Does he not want a relationship still, just so he can focus on college?

It was dumb, how months after you told yourself you would let go of your high school actions, crush included, and now that you see him again you can’t let go.

Fortunately (and somewhat unfortunately), Calum sat away from you, next to someone he seems to have made friends with.

¸.*☆*¸.*♡*.¸¸.*☆*¸.*♡*.¸

By Friday, the promise you made to Jessie fell through. You couldn’t befriend Calum, or at least befriend him the way you wanted to do.

What you had in mind to befriend him was to initiate the conversation first, be the one to say a greeting first, and then by the end of the week have a meal with him. Possibly studying in the library or at a park nearby.

But it’s the end of the school week, and the most progress you made with Calum is knowing that you will now pass the upcoming quiz for your math class.

“You’re joking, right?” Jessie’s voice is monotone, and you can hear the disappointment through the phone.

“Listen,” you started, adjusting the strap of your bag as you made your way to the parking lot. A sigh slips out as your eyes dance across the lot to find your beat-up car before continuing, “I tried. I don’t know why I kept getting shy and closing myself off to him, but we talked more this week than we would have talked during a month back in school.”

Jessie sputters, “That’s not a big accomplishment!”

Throughout high school, Jessie was your shoulder to lean on when you went through the woes of your crush. They also were the one to talk your ear off about how ridiculous you were being. They weren’t shy to push you towards Calum to get you to talk to him.

Jesse was also the one to help you admit your feelings about Calum. Admit that you actually liked Calum, and that was why you couldn’t look him in the eye during your very first interactions.

“Look,” Jessie sighs, “I know you’re shy and all, but it won’t hurt to take the lead at least once. Just once! I know you have it in you.”

You’re about to respond to them when someone calls your name from behind you. You whisper to Jessie to wait before bringing your phone away from your ear and turning to the voice.

“Hey,” Calum jogs up to you, holding a notebook you remember him using during your impromptu study session in the library.

“Hi.”

“Sorry for stopping you like this,” he opens the book and rips out a page, “but you said something about the quiz being next week, so I made this little quiz of my own for you to practice with.”

Calum hands you the page, somehow perfectly ripped from the perforation lines, and it’s front and back. The front has equations with work done to show how the answer was right, while the back had a few equations for you to work on yourself.

He continues, “I thought it’d be helpful—I even did some myself to show you how to do it. I have a feeling this is what Mr. Wills will be putting on that quiz. From what I heard he can be a bit tricky.”

You can slightly hear a squeak from Jessie on your phone, but you ignore them to thank Calum.

“No problem--,” he smiles but it’s quickly replaced with realization, “—oh! You don’t have my number.”

Another squeak followed by a giggle from your phone makes you hang up. You’ll call Jessie once you’re home.

Calum takes the paper back and writes his number at the top of the page. He smiles again when he hands it back, “If you need help or want to check if you got the right answers, you can text me. I mean, if you want to, you can.”

You don’t miss the smirk on his face as he puts recites the words you uttered on Wednesday while you put the page into your binder.

“Thank you again, Calum.”

His smile widens, “See ya soon!”

You watch him walk back towards the campus for a few seconds before turning back to walk towards your car. Your cheeks were burning because of him yet again, and you dread calling Jessie after missing another call.

¸.*☆*¸.*♡*.¸¸.*☆*¸.*♡*.¸

All the mandatory homework was done by Saturday afternoon, and you were ready to wind down and watch some Netflix, but when your mind drifted to the paper in your binder, your plans changed.

It’s just to study, you tell yourself, and not because Calum made it specifically for you.

His handwriting is neat, and the work he shows is easy to read and understand. He describes how to go from part a to part b in short detail, and it helps sink the information in. He even highlighted certain key points, labeling it ‘a common stop point for many, make sure to do it like this.’

It’s just before 8pm when you finish the practice questions. It took some time, mostly because you wanted to understand the questions and the process of getting the answers, but also because you didn’t want to send wrong answers to Calum and have yourself look like a fool.

You took a picture of the page, making sure the lighting was right to show all the work and the answers. His number was already in your phone once you got home yesterday, and your high school self would be on cloud 9 now that you have his number.

You begin typing a greeting, the picture you just took attached, but when your message is done, you hesitate to hit send.

You’re older now. You shouldn’t be struggling to send a classmate a text, whether or not you like him.

Suddenly, your finger lightly dips down and hits send.

hey calum! thanks again for the paper :), i finished the questions so whenever you can, can you look over them to make sure the answers are correct? have a good night :) (8:04pm)

Immediately you lock your phone. Your cheeks were heating up and Jessie’s words from last night echoed in your head.

“He gave you his phone number!”

Your eyes closed as you rubbed your temple with your free hand, moving your phone away from your ear a bit.

“Yes,” you sigh, “because he was giving me this little practice question thing—no other reason why. He’s just being helpful.”

Jessie groans, and you can picture them holding back the need to bang their head on the nearest wall. “Do you realize that you’re heading into your third week, and you’ve made a big leap in this ‘Operation: Befriend Calum Hood’ thing?”

You stay silent, thinking of a way to shift the conversation to something else but Jessie refuses to let it go.

“Remember when we were in eleventh grade, after the break-up, and he was quiet for, like, what? Two months?” Jessie continues. You recall how after the rumored “rough” break-up, Calum was somewhat closed off. He wasn’t mean to anyone, he just wasn’t as approachable. His friendly aura was diminishing, but his friends were there to cheer him up.

“I remember that, yeah.”

“When we were working on that project, where we had to take care of a flour baby, and you offered to help him properly wrap up the flour in a blanket—that was the first time I saw him smile at anyone besides his friends after that break-up.”

“Jess, you’re reaching again,” you fight the urge to roll your eyes at the statement.

“No, listen, that was genuine. It was a genuine smile, and I truly believe you have a chance at dating him, but only when you can get your shit together.”

“Jessie, listen,” another sigh escapes your lips, “I like the encouragement you’re giving—I appreciate it, even—but I don’t think that’ll ever happen. If it happens, then I’ll be damned, but at this point, it just seems like we’re going to remain classmates just like we were in high school.”

Jessie is silent, and you think they’re just taking in your words, but when a scoff followed by a quick chuckle is heard through your phone’s speaker, you know Jessie was ready to challenge you.

The two of you spent a good bit of time talking about Calum during the call.

It’s not like you don’t want to date him, but it’s more of the feeling that it will never work out.

You viewed your crush in high school as just that, a crush, and nothing more. Sure, you had dreams at night where you were his and he was yours, and maybe you’ve had some daydreams, but you knew you’d never act on them and that they wouldn’t come true. And that’s why you’re finding it hard to believe that you stand a chance.

Your phone vibrates and your attention is immediately on the screen.

Hey! It was nothing, just want to help out a friend :) all the answers are correct, by the way. just make sure the work is the way mr. dee wants it :) i hope your day was great, have a good night too :) (8:06pm)

The rapid beating of your heart and the warmth spreading across your face is further proof that you can’t really consider how you feel about Calum is “just a crush,” but you won’t tell Jessie that.

Friend. He already considers you a friend.

A smirk makes its way to your face as you screenshot the text, not bothering to crop your text and going to your conversation with Jessie.

Once you finished typing the text and the image was attached, you were sure you had the upper hand.

guess what, the so-called operation may have worked :) (8:07pm)

¸.*☆*¸.*♡*.¸¸.*☆*¸.*♡*.¸

taglist: @rexorangecouny

[secretradiobrooklyn]

Get In Moses Edition | 2.13.21

Secret Radio | 2.13.21 | Hear it here.

art by Paige, liner notes mostly by Evan, *means Paige

1. Chantal Goya - “Tu m’as trop menti”

From the movie “Masculin feminin,” a DVD we borrowed from Tim. This is the film where Godard was whispering the lines into a headset of the actor, so they were learning their lines literally as they were saying them. This is the opening song. Not particularly Valentine’s Day, in that it’s about lying too much… but still there’s a dissatisfaction that is undeniably a part of French romance.

2. Human League - “(Keep Feeling) Fascination”

Such a square song! But the keys hook is so immortally beautiful, with its crucial warble. The rest of the song is sweetly and innocently ‘80s. It reminds me of being in art class in high school, fully participating in the aesthetic crimes of the era. 

3. Marijata - “Break Through” - “Afro-Beat Airways”

Analog Africa is just now releasing a repress of this long sold-out collection. I’d listened to it before, but I guess that was before I knew about Marijata (thanks again, Jeffrey!) because it was a shock to discover a track by one of our very favorite Ghanaian discoveries. So far as I knew, Marijata only released one album of four songs — which is fantastic — and then eventually started backing a guy named Pat Thomas. Those records, unfortunately, are nowhere near as vital and fascinating as their own record. So finding this song was a welcome revelation! I should also say that, no surprise, the whole collection is a banger from front to back, and will definitely show up again on the show.

4. Philippe Katerine (avec Gérard Depardieu) - “Blond”

This strange guy is a kind of joker songwriter in French pop, as far as I can tell. This song is all about what one can get away with if one is blond. He’s a really fascinating character, a tiny bit like Beck maybe, in the sense that he seems to have made a successful career of taking unexpected directions. He’s also an actor, working with Claire Denis (!), Jonathan Demme and Gille Lellouche among many others. He was also in “Gainsbourg - A Heroic Life,” which is an excellent movie that we highly recommend. (We had no idea who he was when we saw it at the St. Louis Film Festival.) Also, he appears to be married to Gérard Depardieu’s daughter, which would seem to explain this particular guest star.

- The Texas Room - “Cielito Lindo” 

Several years ago, a producer in St. Louis put together the amazing album known as “The Texas Room,” which brought together immigrants from all over the world who currently lived in St. Louis. That meant Bosnians, Cameroonians, Mexicans, and native-born Americans… including Andy Garces, a fellow Paige went to high school with — His mom was Paige’s voice teacher as a matter of fact — who recorded this strange and excellent version of “Cielito Lindo.” The release party for the album was one of the greatest nights we spent in that or any city, dancing our faces off to all kinds of music. At one point the Bosnians got so excited they took over the room, shouting along and hoisting up their guy in the air. Basil Kincaid did the art for the album, and I think that’s the night we finally met. We have one of his collages on our studio wall right now — right over there!

5. The Modern Lovers - “I’m Straight” *

When we got the current SK van (circa 2015) we were super excited because we could finally bring out other musicians on the road and we could also have folks from other bands that we were out with jump in the van with us for a stretch. That February we were on tour with Jamaican Queens, and our friend Andy Kahn came out with us to play guitar. Not only is Andy a rad musician and great guy to be around, but he was an excellent road DJ. Somehow I made it to 30 without getting into The Modern Lovers (I know, crazy!) Andy has great taste and had a well appointed iPod so he was the official van DJ pretty much right away. He put on this record one day and I just lost it. The thing is, after that I was like “Play ‘Roadrunner’ again!” all the time. When I hear this record I still think of that tour. Andy in the back seat DJing, Ben and Erik jumping in the van to come with to Baltimore, graduating to “truck” in the Holland Tunnel queue, so much snow, host Bentley, “Go cats?”, Aaaaaahhhhh!

6. Frances Carroll & the Coquettes - “Coquette / When I Swing My Stick / Jitterbug Stomp”

I think we learned about this band last year, when Coquettes drummer Viola Smith died at 107 years old (in Costa Mesa, not Silverlake, Paige would like you to know — her bad). The video link below is highly recommended — the whole band swings hard, and the interaction between them and Frances Carroll is well worth the watch. They were considered a curiosity at the time, being an all-female band, and man they could play. Viola Smith in particular had an insanely long career, playing from the 1920s straight through into 2019! She played with Ella Fitzgerald and Chick Webb, and in the original Broadway production of “Cabaret.” Her particular innovation was having two toms at shoulder height, on either side of her head, which she would roll and ricochet shots off. Very cool style, never copied.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pFDD_NxtKZ4

7. Pierre Sandwidi - “Boy Cuisinier”

Born Bad Records is one of the world’s coolest record labels, with a huge array of vintage discoveries as well as African albums as well as contemporary pop and noise bands. “Boy Cuisinier” is off Pierre Sandwidi’s album with them. It bears some definite relation to Francis Bebey but takes its own turns just as often. Sandwidi hails from Burkina Faso, known as the Upper Volta when he was growing up. We’re just now learning about him and his scene — I confess I didn’t even know Upper Volta was African; I thought it was Slavic — so I wouldn’t be surprised if some more Voltaic music shows up here soon.

8. Evan Sult avec Tracy Brubeck  - “The Cats Won’t Stay In”

Paige’s mom Tracy called while we were in the middle of the show, and they paused to have a conversation about, you know, whatever — the snowstorms, the neighbors, the news. She was on speakerphone so that we could all talk, and eventually I just started taking notes as fast as I could. This is the result. I find it fascinating. That’s Paige singing lead on the Marty Robbins tune.

9.  Kil Monnower Alimunna, Grup Hindustanbul - “Tadap Tadap” 

Years ago I saw the movie “Monsoon Wedding” by the director Mira Nair. It really stuck with me, particularly the gorgeous opening credits in maroon and orange and sky blue. I was trying to tell Paige about that sequence, so just in case we could catch a glimpse of those colors, we watched the trailer. This song is the soundtrack to the trailer. It’s really an amazing track — so Indian, of course, but with definite Western points of contact, like when it goes to the major chords unexpectedly in the post-chorus, which sounds practically American. And the final outro minute or so is full of delayed, reverbed vocals in a psychedelic style, til it reaches the strange and intoxicating sound that he makes with his voice as the song fades into the distance.

- Martial Solal “New York Herald Tribune” - “A bout de souffle” soundtrack 

10. Gillian Hills - “Tut Tut Tut Tut” 

Gillian Hills, probably more famous for “Zou Bisou Bisou.” This track is great, listen for those syrupy slides and harmonies. I just learned that she is English, and the music video for this song is definitely shot in Angleterre. Full of famous red phone booths (now famous little free libraries.) When we were doing this week’s show I asked Evan “Is this song too obvious?” He said no, it wasn’t too obvious. If you know why I’m asking, then you know. So is it? 

11. Jacques Dutronc “La Compapade”

We’ve been into Jacques Dutronc for many years now, because he’s a brilliant French songwriter and composer. But this one track has been a baffler for many years now. It shows up out of nowhere and sounds like… what? What the hell IS that? Is it African? It sounds African, but — is it? Is it just some strange lark on his part? Paige was apprehensive about playing it on the show, even though we both really enjoy it, because we couldn’t tell if it was somehow demeaning to someone. But eventually I argued that we don’t know what the hell most of the singers are saying in the songs we play, or which cultural taboos they’re transgressing, and the same is true in this case. If it is somehow offensive to anyone, I hope it’s clear that wasn’t our intention. But… I don’t know. I don’t think it is. I think it just comes from a cultural heritage and context that is French in a way Americans cannot understand or appreciate. In any case, it’s an amazing performance and recording!

12. K. Frimpong & His Cubanos Fiestas - Me Da A Ɔnnda”

Research into African rock and styles eventually brought us to K. Frimpong and His Cubanos Fiestas, which has turned out to be a satisfying step into the Ghanaian highlife/Cuban scene. I love the keyboard hooks in this one and the way the patterns just roll on and on with each other like a river, in no hurry but pulled forward by their own currents. He was also a visual artist — his art appeared on the cover of last episode’s Nyame Bekyere album. This was also the first time I’ve encountered the character “Ɔ” in the wild. I have zero idea how it is pronounced.

13. They Might Be Giants - “Birdhouse In Your Soul” 

“Not to put too fine a point on it / Say I’m the only bee on your bonnet / Make a little birdhouse in your soul.” I remember when I first realized that was a feeling I was feeling — hoping to build a birdhouse in the soul of another, to be inside one another in a little protected place. The rest of the song is a nerd-rock dream palace I love as much as any other nerd, but the chorus is where I discovered an emotion I hadn’t suspected was there when I first heard and fell for this song and this band in high school (thanks, Jeremy Peterson!). 

Paige adds: This song is blowing my mind. I don’t like writing lyrics, my ratio of melodies and harmonies to lyrics way out of whack. Evan brought this song back into our lives this week when Sleepy Kitty was asked what our favorite love songs are on a real radio show. We’ve been listening to it a bunch since Thursday and damn, these lyrics are good. It’s really reminding me that you can write about ANY.THING. Blue Canary in the freakin’ outlet by the light switch. Looking at the lighthouse picture. It’s a clinic. I learned something, and I can go home. 

On the original topic, I love thinking of this as a love song. If you hear a love song, it’s a love song. It’s a love song.

14. Sleepy Kitty - “Tu veux ou tu veux pas” *

I took two years of French in high school and missed out junior and senior year because of a scheduling lulu that made 3rd and 4th year French conflict with advanced painting which was the primary reason I was taking French in the first place. I’m still not over it. Years later, I’m at Electropolis (in my memory) and I hear this Brigitte Bardot song on Tim’s excellent sound system and I can understand…most?…some…of it! I fell in love with this song and with French again and started stumbling, scrabbling at it again. We started working up this cover. Thank you Suzie Gilb for helping with the pronunciation. We did a 7” of this song and it’s a rare SK track with me playing trombone on it. 

15. The Velvet Underground - “I Love You” *

I don’t really have much to say about this track except that it reminds me of flying to Germany because I got the 5 Disc set with all the extras on it a few days before leaving for a high school foreign exchange program. I was so happy to have those discs to absorb on the long flight, and come to think of it, it really inflected the whole trip.

16. Secret Song - “African Scream Contest”

The genesis of our love for African rock/funk/whatever (if for a moment we don’t count the profoundly influential “Graceland”) is the immortal collection “Legends of Benin,” put out by Analog Africa. As soon as we dug further for our favorites from that collection, we found “African Scream Contest” vols 1 and 2. I was drawn to the second one because it had a killer track by our hero Antoine Dougbé, but eventually spent as much time with the first volume. Both are absolutely fantastic. Part of what I love so much about them is learning how much of an impact James Brown and his band had on African music, which is super apparent throughout these collections and especially this track. The drums and the grunts and the hard stops and the horn blasts — it’s all there. 

One of the finest elements of these records is the hidden track at the end, tucked five or so minutes back from the last song. These are often some of the hottest tracks on the album, well worth the wait, and this mystery song is no exception. Unfortunately, though, that means we don’t know who made this track or what it’s called. Oh well — that only makes it cooler!

- Adrian from Brooklyn

17. The Beatles - “Dizzy Miss Lizzy”

We watched “The Beatles: Eight Days a Week” recently (totally worth a watch), and we were struck all over again by how insane their lives must have been at that time. Yes fame, yes sudden fortune, yes global supremacy, yes yes yes — the thing that I can’t get over is the shrieking, and how it wasn’t just present at their shows, it was EVERYWHERE THEY WENT, AT ALL TIMES ON ALL DAYS, EVERY SECOND THEY WERE OUTSIDE. How completely unsettling that must have been, to be the center of that howl, day after day, year after year. 

18. The Fall - “Sing! Harpy”

Dedicated to Adrian from Brooklyn and all those young women and men losing their minds over the Beatles so completely that all they could do was shriek, even at shows where the crowd’s sound completely obliterated the sound of the band they so desperately loved and came to hear. 

(This is also some of my favorite violin playing in any rock music, right up there with “Boys Keep Swinging” and The Ex’s “State of Shock.” I would LOVE to work with a violinist in this mode.)

19. T.P. Orchestre Poly-Rythmo - “Gnon a Gnon Wa”

So intense! That constant chord strike throughout the song is a kind of high-note drone that we find ourselves drawn to. It kind of reminds me of the sound of a casino, where you walk in and all of the machines are chiming the same note, promising to just take your mind away and keep it safe until you need it again.

- Tommy Guerrero - “El Camino Negro” - “Road to Nowhere”

20. Black Dragons de Porto Novo - “Se Djro” What a slinky number! I love how spare the instrumentation is, but how much power is contained in that one guitar part. This is side A of a 7” put out on Albarika Store, the label that T.P. Orchestre called home for many albums. 

21. Helen Nkume and Her Young Timers - “Time” This is (so far) the closest we’ve gotten to reggae on WBFF. I know nothing about the band or the music other than their fantastic name and sound — oh, and the fact that she is known elsewhere as Prophetess Helen Nkume. She appears to be Nigerian, or anyway her record label is. I love the guitar hook on this song, it just sneaks in and steals the show.

22. Anne Sylvestre - “Les Gens Qui Doutent”

23. Parvati Khan - “Jimmi Jimmi Jimmi Aaja Aaja Aaja Re Mere” A lucky find! Someone in one of my Facebook groups posted a video from this album, so I took note and returned later to check it out. This is from an Indian movie called “I’m a Disco Dancer” that looks like a real kooky thrill. The actors appear to have only the vaguest sense of what “disco” might be — or what a guitar might be, for that matter. It kind of looks like someone saw a single photo of a disco night and extrapolated a whole movie from it. Nonetheless, Parvati Khan is entrancing in the song and in the video, and we HAVE to see this movie, with or without subtitles. The smoldering look alone really requires investigation:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZUdJQSUcK_Y

24. Nancy Sit - “Love Potion #9” * One thing I’ve always known about Evan is that he doesn’t like the song  “Love Potion #9.” When we stumbled across this, I thought it was awesome but I didn’t want to make Evan listen to a song he doesn’t like on Valentine’s Day! Evan says this song has little to do with “Love Potion #9” which makes me wonder, Evan, what’s the part you don’t like about “Love Potion #9”?

Evan adds: I honestly can’t remember what my issue with this song was. I swear, it was like… it was around the time of “Melt With You,” which I also found inexplicably irritating (and still do). I suspect now that there was an inept cover version that first steered me wrong… but luckily there’s a strange Chinese version to steer me right again! Oh life.

- Michel Legrand - “Solange’s Song (Instrumental)” - “The Young Ladies of Rocheforte”

25. The Velvet Underground - “I’ll Be Your Mirror” * This is the song that I said was the best love song of the western world on the real radio. I think it’s so beautiful and so adult. I don’t even know if I would have thought of this as love song a few years ago. When first got into the V.U. I thought it was a pretty song – a neat song, but I didn’t really know what it meant, what it could mean. What’s funny is when I think of this song, I have a Lou Reed version in my head – his voice, the harmonies. When I revisited the Max’s Kansas City live version (which as far as I know is the only one besides other more recent live versions and surely what I’m thinking of?) I realized that the version in my head is essentially that one but cleaned up, remastered, different EQ, and as far as I know entirely imagined.

Evan adds: (Paige has been playing this song recently around the apartment. I don’t even have to tell you how lovely it is.)

*p.s. If you want to hear the piece about musicians talking about favorite love songs on KWMU it’s here: https://news.stlpublicradio.org/show/st-louis-on-the-air/2021-02-11/listen-love-songs-to-keep-you-warm-on-cold-winter-nights

Super fun getting to talk about this stuff and in such good company!

[echodrops]

Kicking the Hornet’s Nest...

I’m procrastinating hard on other tasks, but in chit-chatting (both on tumblr and on Discord) about my stance on criticism of fanfiction, I realized that there’s a very low-hanging analogy I can make to explain my thoughts on this, so…

Uh first, please remember this is my personal blog and just my personal opinion. If you think that giving unsolicited concrit is the worst, I promise I’m not here to grab you individually, shake you by the shoulders, and try to change your minds. We can agree to disagree; I’m fully aware my opinion is unpopular on tumblr but also fully aware of the irony of people giving unsolicited criticism on a post about why unsolicited criticism is a good thing.

And second, please note that the analogy used below is only an analogy and not meant to be a one-to-one comparison–obviously the issue of vaccination is a far more critical, serious, and solemn issue and the topic of criticism on fanfiction (of all things) is not equal to a global health crisis that has cost real people’s lives. I’m drawing radical comparisons to thought processes because it’s shocking, not genuinely comparing fanfiction comments to moral and ethical world health decisions because I think those two things are equitable in importance.

Uh and third, please don’t respond unless you’re going to read it all. I'm happy to take your constructive criticism after you're finished with the whole thing. I get so tired of people rushing to my inbox after only getting half way through my arguments–90% of the time, I already addressed the thing you wanted to come yell at me about and you just didn’t make it there, promise.

So, at the risk of pissing off just about everyone who thought they respected me before this:

The current anti-concrit mindset stems from a similar logic to the one used by anti-vaxxers.

(This analogy lasts a grand total of five paragraphs or something, don’t get your jimmies too rustled.)

Most people on tumblr are happy–downright gleeful–to mock anti-vaxxers. The average anti-vaxxer is considered close-minded, self-centered, and under-educated. Although the issue of anti-vaxxing is probably more complicated than we paint it here on this website (to be fair, I wouldn’t know if it’s more complicated, since I agree that anti-vaxxers are generally stupid and don’t look into their arguments very often), almost no one on tumblr has any issue with anti-vaxxers being dragged up and down the block for their bad choices.

Usually, the logic of anti-vaxxers is understood to work something like this:

Anti-vaxxer: I don’t want to expose my child to something potentially harmful, so I am not going to vaccinate them.

Literally everyone else: You’re exposing your child to far greater risk in the long-term by not vaccinating.

Or:

Anti-vaxxer: My child doesn’t need to be vaccinated; they’re fine as they are. Those diseases aren’t a big deal anymore.

Literally everyone else: This mindset will make those diseases a big deal again.

On paper, sometimes anti-vaxxer logic works out–it is true that some children suffer very painful and awful reactions to vaccinations. It IS true that poorly made or contaminated vaccinations have killed children and will continue to do in the future. It IS true that vaccinations are painful and stressful for children in general and can even–depending on how the children respond to pain and how their doctors/nurses treat them–result in long-term phobias and health care aversion. There can be serious lasting consequences from vaccinating.

But most of us laugh in the face of anti-vaxxers. Why? Because we know that in comparison to the number of benefits, the risks are minimal. In the long-term, the number of people helped by vaccines far, far exceeds the number of people hurt.

I hope you can see where I’m going. At its core, the issue of giving unsolicited constructive criticism follows a similar pattern of short-term risk aversion. Authors who don’t want constructive criticism and choose to actively refuse it are following a similar thought process to anti-vaxxer parents:

Author: I don’t want any constructive criticism. Criticism can be painful, and my writing doesn’t need to be exposed to that.

Or:

Author: I don’t need any constructive criticism because my writing is fine as it is and I’m just doing it for fun anyway.

The general attitude seems to be that exposing fanfiction authors to unsolicited constructive criticism carries more risk than it does reward. And please be aware that I’m talking about genuinely constructive criticism here, well-intentioned and polite comments (the vaccine in this analogy), not troll comments deliberately designed to hurt people’s feelings (which would be equivalent to say, an injected contaminated drug in this analogy–no one should be okay with those).

But like anti-vaxxers who insist that the short-term risks of vaccines are more dangerous than the long-term risks of major diseases… is there really any evidence that genuinely constructive criticism, even when unsolicited, really does discourage and upset a large number of fanfiction authors? Or, more to the point of the analogy–is the number of people who would be entirely discouraged from writing ever again by some constructive criticism really greater than the number of people who would benefit from getting some (again, polite) tips for improving their writing? Which is the greater risk–being hurt in the short-term or losing out on the opportunity for growth in the long-term?

Clearly there are different opinions on this and I suspect that my opinion is heavily colored by the fact that I am older than the average tumblr user and therefore have many more years to look back on to weigh on the scales of this debate.

But I will always, always argue that the long-term benefits of helping other writers where you can far, far, far outweigh the short-term risks, for a couple reasons.

1) The world is a shitty, disappointing, stressful, and painful place. We encounter harsh criticisms every single day. Your teachers will give you poor grades. Your bosses will tell you your work isn’t up-to-par. Your friends will tell you the new top you bought and absolutely love… actually makes you look like you’re wearing a potato sack. If you’re into relationships, you’ll probably experience at least one break-up in which you hear that it’s YOU, not them, who is the problem. Your feelings will be hurt by callous comments from others an uncountable number of times. Your confidence will be shaken, if not actively crushed. I’m sorry to say it, but for almost all of us, having some miserable, anxiety-inducing and extremely discouraging moments in life is part of the unavoidable human experience. (And this is doubly, maybe triply true when we are starting out new hobbies or first entering a new field. Anyone who has ever tried to learn how to skateboard and gotten laughed at by experienced skateboarders knows exactly what I’m talking about.)

The world is full of truly awful things. And I’m not the kind of person who thinks we should just be exposed to all of them right from the get-go and fuck you and your snowflake feelings or things like that. I highly urge people to tag for triggering content and am on the record again and again telling people to block characters or ships that make them uncomfortable.

But many fanfiction authors are young authors, some of whom are posting work for public consumption for the very first time. Still more have no positive experiences with constructive criticism in the first place, and the extent of their literary criticism knowledge comes from really awful and boring high school English classes. When budding writers encounter a sudden explosion of access to readers–from having maybe one or two friends read their work to suddenly having their words in front of the eyes of thousands of strangers on the internet:

It’s disingenuous to give starting writers nothing but positive feedback. Only hearing positives about your work actively discourages change and self-reflection. It gives writers an unrealistic picture of their work that can result in far more serious disappointment and embarrassment later. When someone is awful at singing and they’re only told how nice their voice is, eventually when they sing for a more serious group of strangers, they’re going to be in for a very, very miserable time.

It’s a terrible missed opportunity for young writers to get a glimpse of what “professional” writing is like. Everyone benefits from genuinely constructive criticism–both the person getting it and the person giving it. We create young writers who are passionate about improving their writing by inducting them into the culture of planning, drafting, bouncing ideas off each other, finding beta readers, and taking others’ advice to grow their abilities, and oftentimes, one of the first experiences a person has with that process is someone spontaneously going “Hey, what if you tried this instead?” People often become inspired to become doctors and nurses after witnessing a family member experience a medical crisis–people often become inspired to become writers after receiving thorough feedback on things they have written. It’s impossible to really know whether or not you want a piece of constructive criticism until after you have heard what the criticism is, and adopting a “no unsolicited constructive criticism” policy as a whole creates an entire generation of fan writers who would miss out on opportunities for growth and inspiration.

This is waxing REALLY philosophical, but bear with me here, because this is also a well-documented concern of mine: we are entering an age in which people are no longer responsible for the media choices they make, where the internet is no longer viewed as a the equivalent of yelling into a crowd of (potentially dangerous) strangers, and the onus for protection is shifting away from self-preservation “I need to not put myself near upsetting things” to “other people have the responsibility not to expose me to upsetting things.” I’ve seen a lot of people say “If authors want constructive criticism on their fics, they can just say that in a note!” My ladies. My guys. My non-binary buddies. This is the utter opposite of how the internet functions. When you put anything on the internet, you are literally putting it before a crowd of an absolutely uncountable number of strangers and there are no rules (barring the laws of their home countries) dictating how they can respond to the things you put out there. Posting your writing on the internet is explicit consent to receive constructive criticism from anyone at any time unless you take actions to prevent that in advance. Sites like AO3 actively grant you the power to dictate who can SEE your work, comment on your work, give you the power to remove messages, screen comments before they appear, block comments entirely, or simply write in any of your notes sections that you do not want constructive criticism. (If it’s that easy to write “I want constructive criticism!” why is not seen as equally easy to write “I do not want constructive criticism!”?)

Public spaces on the internet are opt out, not opt in.

Why do many (though lord knows, not all) tumblr users easily agree to the idea of “If you don’t like a ship, you should just block it” or “If you see properly tagged content you don’t like on AO3 and you click it, that’s your own fault for not reading the tags,” but have the complete opposite mindset when it comes to constructive criticism? “I’m submitting my work in a public place where anyone can express their opinion on it… But even though there are multiple tools at my disposal for discouraging and blocking opinions I don’t agree with, it’s actually other people’s responsibility not to say anything that might upset me.”

As I said, waxing philosophical here, but this is kind of a scary mindset. The ability to enter a public space–and the internet is the MOST public space in the world–and then declare that you simply don’t want to listen to dissenting opinions is scary. I mean, this is how we get a common anti-vaxxer mindset–I don’t want to listen to your opinion because I have my source telling me I’m right and that’s all I need. “I put my work out in a public place and left it accessible to everyone, but I don’t want to listen to what everyone says about it.” I don’t mean to jump off the slippery slope, but this issue is a slippery slope in and of itself. Down this way lies a dark future. “It’s other people’s responsibility to curate my social experience for me.”

But really, after all this… I just flat out think it’s important to give genuinely constructive criticism to each other without people needing to ask for it because it just kind of sucks to see a fellow writer struggling with something and not say something about it. It’s not about feeling superior or thinking you know better than someone else; we all have our own strengths and weaknesses, and spotting something that could use a bit of work in someone else’s writing doesn’t make you a better writer, it just means that’s not your particular weakness. When someone is struggling to learn to swim, you don’t just leave them to their own devices and assume they’ll figure it out–even if they swear they’ve got it. When someone is learning to sew and you, who has sewed that exact thing before, don’t offer any advice, that’s not encouragement, it’s apathy. There will be many, many, many times in your life where you did not know you needed advice. Where you did not know HOW to ask for advice. Where you might have known you needed advice but not really wanted to admit that. Where you might have known you needed advice and been too shy to ask for help. Where a piece of advice completely from the blue changes the course of your life. Fandom as a whole–fan creators as a whole–cannot become a culture that closes the door to that vital form of communication, rejects willingness to not only uplift but also help each other grow even when we least expect it.

Anyway, I’m literally just writing this to avoid real responsibilities, but the point I’m trying to make is:

Most writers, even very young writers, will not be discouraged by polite, well-intentioned criticism. They may not like it. They may not take any of the criticism to heart, but most people, even young people, are far more resilient than tumblr (which on the best of days is a negative feedback loop that can romanticize a victim mindset because having the saddest backstory makes you immune to cancellation) wants to give them credit for, and a vast majority of writers will not be traumatized or scared away from writing by people trying to offer them genuine advice. Remember, no one here is advocating for asshole trolls who post comments like “Your writing sucks and you should delete your account.” A majority of writers, even very young writers, will be able to weather the storms and tosses of even really rudely-worded advice and recover. Sometimes it might take a while, but human beings have survived as a species because we’re really, really persevering.

(But some people aren’t! you might say. Some people really will give up writing if they’re criticized! And you’d be correct. There are people who will give up, even if all they are faced with is a single gentle, well-intentioned piece of criticism. But the truth is… People give up on hobbies for all kinds of reasons! Not every hobby is for every person! Every hobby carries with it its own challenges, its own share of risks, and its own pains. Learning a new hobby consistently requires putting yourself out of your comfort zone. Wanna learn how to ride a snowboard? You will get bruised. Wanna learn how to play chess? You will lose. Wanna learn to draw? Someone will make fun of your early drawings. You will make fun of your own early drawings. Wanna post your writing on a public platform? Someday, someone is going to say they’re not a fan.

And that leads me to address the point that just keeps coming up and coming up in this issue: People aren’t always posting their fics to improve as writers! A lot of times people are posting for just fun or for personal reasons.

Yeahhhhh bullshit. No, no, hang on–I don’t mean that people don’t have fun writing and posting fics, or that fics can’t help you through traumatic experiences because everything I’ve ever posted is basically me dealing with my own personal shit–what I mean is that there’s always an additional dimension to posting your fics on large-scale public websites. People write stories and share them with their friend groups for fun. People write characters overcoming trauma and share them with their therapists (or the friends who help to fill that role) for healing. People post their stories publicly, where anyone can respond, for validation on top of their fun and healing. There are ways to hide your fics entirely on many sites. You can leave things in drafts. If a fic is appearing as unmoderated and open to the public on a major fic site such as AO3, Wattpad, ff.net, etc., it’s because that fic’s author wants responses from others! They want views. They want subscribes. They want kudos. They want comments. There’s literally no reason to post publicly except for your work to be viewed by the public.

The fun one has writing a fic is often tied directly to the thrill of seeing a comment or kudos notification pop-up in your inbox. We love seeing people enjoy our fics–it absolutely makes my day when someone sends me a message telling me they re-read my fic for the third time.

It’s NOT fun to write something and get no response.

Writing something and getting no response is actively discouraging, actually.

So whenever someone says “They’re not writing fics to improve as writers; they’re just doing it for fun!” I have to laugh a bit–because when the concept of “fun with fanfiction” is tied so closely to the experience of having your work viewed and enjoyed by others, the fastest and surest way to increase the fun you have with your fanfics… is to improve as a writer. The more you write, the more you improve. The more you improve, the more loyal readers you gain. The more loyal readers you gain, the more excited people you have to gush about your fics with. Want a Discord server full of people willing to help you brainstorm ideas for your favorite AU? Write well, attract followers. Want fanart of your writing, probably the most fun and exciting thing I can think of as an author? Write well. Just plain old want more friends in the fandom to talk about your favorite characters and fic ideas with? Make writer friends.

People have fun writing about their favorite characters and post publicly to receive responses and validation for their creations… Responses increase the fun writers have because they make the hard work of writing worth it and give you people to keep writing for and with… Improving your writing increases the number of people attracted to your works and the number of people willing to spend time responding to them… The bigger the response you get, the more invested you become in your fics, the more fandom friends you make, and the more you want to write–it’s a process that is self-fulfilling, but also one that exposes you to criticism by its very nature. The very act of seeking responses from readers means that you’re open to responses that you don’t necessarily want to hear.

And I actually don’t mean this in the way of “If you can’t handle the heat, don’t jump into the fire.” What I mean is that it is impossible to create a world in which everyone who starts writing sticks with the hobby and keeps churning out works for us to enjoy forever. It is impossible to create a world in which no young writer will ever feel discouraged and give up. The writer you decided not to give constructive criticism to might just as easily become discouraged and quit writing because they didn’t receive enough response.

The first time you give your child a new vaccine, you cannot predict the results. Your child might suffer an allergic reaction. They might die. Every year, numerous severe reactions to vaccines do occur. But the majority of people don’t question the effectiveness of vaccines because we understand that the number of people who have severe reactions is very low in comparison to the number of people who benefit from the vaccine. The number of people who will be discouraged from writing by genuine, polite, constructive criticism is minuscule in comparison to the number of people who will either 1) benefit from it directly and be thankful you gave it, 2) not benefit but not be upset by it, 3) be mildly upset by it but then benefit, or 4) just be mildly upset by itself and then move on with life unharmed because sometimes people say things we don’t like but that doesn’t ruin our lives every single time it happens.

I’m not saying that providing polite constructive criticism doesn’t have risks, just that its risks are smaller than its benefits.

And I’ve successfully whittled enough time away with this now that I can go to sleep without guilt over the things I didn’t finish, but I started this by saying the long-term benefits outweighed the short-term risks and I feel obligated to defend that…

The long-term benefits of well-placed constructive criticism are enormous. Sometimes people need ego checks. Sometimes we need wake-up calls. Sometimes we need a gentle helping hand and didn’t even realize other people could be the help we needed. Sometimes we need a reason to get fired up–even if that reason is spite, trying to prove a critic wrong! Sometimes the answer is glaring us in the face and we don’t notice until someone else points it out. Sometimes we just plain out make mistakes. Sometimes we need a teacher because the ones in school let us down. Sometimes (oftentimes) other people bring incredibly unique perspectives to our stories that we would never have been open to on our own. Sometimes we write something unintentionally hurtful and need some gentle correction. Sometimes we could be having a lot more fun if we knew the tips and tricks others had to offer. Sometimes improving ourselves is hard but worth it. Sometimes bitter medicine is the only thing that will cure an ailment.

Shots hurt. People avoid them because they aren’t fun–what parent wants to expose their child to the painful, stressful situation of getting stabbed with needles? (What parent looks forward to the yearly flu shot themselves?)

We naturally flinch back from criticism. There are many times when we swear we don’t want it, don’t need it, can’t bear it! In the moment, it is incredibly difficult to be confronted with someone basically implying that you should change something integral to yourself–your art. No one likes to feel like they’re being picked apart for weaknesses, definitely not.

But sometimes a single comment can make a massive difference in your life–even when you didn’t want it at first.

All my life, I have been helped along by teachers, family, and friends who refused to settle for patting me on the back. The people who mean the most to me, who I most credit with getting me where I am today, are not the people who just told me I was good at things. They’re the people who told me I was good at things BUT. They people who challenged me to not just sail through life or even coast in my hobbies, content with the level I entered on–they’re the people who had faith in me and trust that I could refine my skills, could have even more fun IF I took that next step, challenged myself to go a bit harder… They’re the people who took the time not just to skim over my writing and slap a thumbs up on it, but the people who thought hard enough about it go: “This story was good, but have you thought about…”

Today, I’m a professor of English because I started writing fanfiction when I was 11 years old. Because I started posting fanfiction when I was 13. Because at 14 years old, someone–without being asked–taught me the correct way to format dialogue and how to strengthen my dialogue tags. Because at 15, someone flat out laughed to tears at a cliche metaphor I’d extended too far and I was ashamed, but they taught me something else to try instead. Because by 18, I’d received–and taken–enough unsolicited writing advice to land myself the highest paying on-campus tutoring job my university offered. Because by 19, someone challenged me to write something I told them was impossible for me. Because by 20, that impossible writing became the sample that got me accepted to grad school. Because by 21, I was furious enough at the criticism I received from my creative writing masters classmates to write a thesis so feverishly overwhelming that it inspired one of the foremost postmodern poets in the country. Because by 27, it was brutally honest criticism that gave me the gall to finally leave an abusive job and apply for a teaching position. Because by 30, I got to sit at a public literary journal volume launch and watch an entire class of my creative writing students become published authors.

And even though I joked about why I was writing this, and even though I’m really not, at the heart of it, trying to persuade any one person over to my side, I hope it’s clear how much of a labor of love this post is. How passionate I am about this topic.

This whole thing is a drawn-out plea: Please, do not let fandom creation sites become a place where no one offers advice unless it is begged for. Do not miss your chance to help someone else improve. Do not close the door to criticism that could change your life. Do not let fear of short-term discouragement prevent you from seeking long-term growth. Do not let the immediate side effects cloud your view of the global benefits.

Inoculate yourselves with good advice as a shield against the very hard future.

A dearth of criticism will not make fandom a better place. It will just make it a quieter one.

[kidyeda]

Here all in English > Filmmaker, professor and black panther veteran Jamal Joseph about the long tradition of police violence and structural racism.IT IS THE SAME MACHINE The former activist of the “Black Panther” Jamal Joseph is not surprised at the racism of the American police - and recommends lessons from the history of the protest movements

Police violence against African Americans has attracted worldwide attention and mass protests, according to a video that showed the brutal death of George Floyd during an arrest in Minneapolis. Before the current "Black Lives Matter" movement, the Black Panther Party organized the resistance in the 1960s and 1970s. The SZ spoke to the filmmaker, professor and black panther veteran Jamal Joseph about the long tradition of police violence and structural racism.

When you saw the video of a white policeman kneeling on the neck of handcuffed George Floyd until he died - were you shocked?

Jamal Joseph: It broke my heart, but it didn't surprise me at all. Historically, the police see themselves as an institution of occupation, the aim of which is to intimidate the African American population. Your job is to protect the ruling class and their property. Their racism is the legacy of slavery. At that time, it was taught that we African Americans were not fully-fledged people, and the police took over controlling the slaves and catching lost people.

And the police have not yet been able to free themselves from this mentality?

The policeman kneeling on George Floyd would not have shown this murderous behavior to a dog - for example, if the animal had bitten someone. What does it say about the appreciation of black life that you treat animals more gently?

Hundreds of thousands of African Americans and whites are taking to the streets. Did the protests hang solely on police violence?

No, the story is long: Police officers recently murdered a sleeping woman (Briona Taylor) in her bed after storming the wrong apartment. Another African American (Ahmaud Arbery) was unlucky enough to jog in the wrong neighborhood. The cases have one thing in common: a human being is denied all humanity because of his skin color. This racism reaches into the structures: It is no coincidence that the Covid 19 crisis has hit disproportionately many African Americans.

What could help defeat this age-old racism?

President Trump has instigated many of his followers, especially those from the poorer white underclass, to believe that their brown, black, Asian, or Spanish-speaking people are to blame for their problems. The rulers fear nothing more than cooperation across racial boundaries. This was done by, for example, the Black Panther leader Fred Hampton (murdered by the police in his sleep) in Chicago in the late 1960s: In his Rainbow Coalition, he led poor blacks, Latinos and whites to recognize that they all work under the same mechanisms of capitalism suffer and could only overcome them together. We will not be able to convert Trump fanatics. But I rely on their children who go to colleges and high schools to start a new Rainbow Coalition with them.

When you were a young leader of the Black Panther Party in New York, the FBI declared them terrorists and white-haters. Does the right-wing strive today against the same prejudices against the Black Lives Matter movement?

I have to think of my first day as a black panther recruit: I came to their office and expected them to hand me a gun to shoot a white man if necessary. But they handed me a stack of books: From Malcolm X to Frantz Fanon. And then they explained to me that it was not about skin colors, but about the common class struggle. In other words, the unequal distribution of property and power. And that the capitalist machinery benefits from the disunity of the exploited. That's why the Black Panthers were violently beaten, while racial segregation organizations like the Ku Klux Klan remained untouched.

Does Donald Trump continue this agenda today?

Yes, he wants to label the protesters as left-wing radicals, criminals and terrorists. Therefore, everyone who goes to demonstrate must be careful. Sometimes agents provocateurs want to tempt people to riot, some come from the anarchist camp and have no political agenda.

What is the difference between the protests today and the former organized resistance of the Black Panther?

Many of the youngsters who are marching today are angry and frustrated, but have virtually no political education. Their instinct tells them to see a chain of stores or a police station as symbols of oppression. But when they set fire to buildings, overturn cars, loot shops, they are stuck with the rage of the moment. I understand these rebellious instincts all too well. A long-term movement should go beyond the mere reaction.

What might it look like?

As Black Panther, we were present in the affected communities, launching programs such as breakfast for schoolchildren and vaccination campaigns. The fight against police violence was only point seven of our ten-point program. It's not enough to send a few Instagram messages when the police kill someone again. We were also there at the time, when the landlord threatened to put someone on the street, organized rent strikes, informed people about the causes of misery in the poor black neighborhoods and how they could organize themselves. Today more than ever, we need black leaders to take on these tasks.

Is that why you run your youth initiative called the Impact Repertory Theater in Harlem?

Our teenagers not only play theater, but learn to understand the problems in the community beyond mere symptoms - such as police brutality, racism and poverty. How can you promote change given the structures? We need programs that enable people to heal, live and work in dignity, while addressing major societal problems.

As for police violence: There are also pictures of police officers kneeling down with the demonstrators, expressing their solidarity. Doesn't that speak for the conservative media claim that all you have to do is sort out the bad apples?

I've seen a lot of decent police officers. Police officers who talk to people in the neighborhood and refer them to social workers instead of handcuffing them. However, the problem with police violence is institutional. Even President Obama was unable to reform racist institutions such as the police or the prison industry.

As a university professor, are you still being disrespected by the police because of your skin color?

As an African American, you always have to be on your guard. I recently witnessed a scene where police officers handcuffed and beat a young African American. I stopped and asked, as matter-of-factly as possible, why: It turned out that they suspected him of stealing the bike he was traveling on, although he could show that it was his own. In the end, I narrowly escaped arrest - even though everyone in the community knows me.

You are a karate teacher and once even trained the rap star Tupac Shakur, your godchild. What do you recommend to your youngsters to protect themselves against police attacks?

I always advise them to keep their emotions in check: do you want your name to be the next hashtag? In a boxing or karate fight, you also have to keep a cool head when your opponent hits you on the nose. So you need training and discipline to fall back on a learned technique in an emergency. As absurd as it may sound, we community leaders are responsible for teaching our young people how to best survive in the face of the threat of their own police force.

Can one at least credit Donald Trump's presidency for bringing the various protest groups together through his aggressive policies?

It is the oppression that brings us together. In the end, however, the solution will not come from above. No politician can fix this system. Rather, I rely on the strengthening of a new grass root activism. Because Black Lives Matter - despite all criticism - has had some success: Since then, many police departments have provided training on how to deal with suspects in a civil way. There are panels where police officers meet with community representatives. And there are prosecutors who are ready to indict. In the past, murders like the one against George Floyd would never have been atoned for. ★★★★★★★★★★★★★

Jamal Joseph joined the Black Panther Party in 1967 in Harlem when he was 15. In 1968 he was jailed and became one of the youngest Black Panther leaders. During another five-and-a-half-year prison sentence for escaping a robbery in which two police officers were shot, he earned two degrees and wrote several plays. The photo was taken fifty years ago, in June 1970.

RESISTANCE !

[lonely-bored-writer]

Is Everything Okay? Ch. 1

A chill breezed filtered in through the open window, dosing the students in some much need fresh air was humid, causing many of the occupants to have a glean of sweat on their skin. Many sat barely staying awake as their teacher, also the vice principal, recited words from the assignment the teens were supposed to read for homework the night before.. All the students were awake, well all the students but one. Daniel Fenton. He had entered his first year of high school with strong grades and an approving attendance. He seemed to have been following his sister's footsteps, who happened to be top of the school, destined to go to any Ivy League school of her choose. Sadly, Daniel's motivation seemed to waiver. A few months into the school year and the teen shifted completely. His once great grades started to drop, he became a C average student at best and his attendance took a total plummet. The teen was known the arrive to class, ask to go to the restroom and be gone for the rest of the period. If it was a good day, he would be back before the bell. These sudden changes didn't come alone either. Daniel would appear at school many times with bruises, and scratches. When questioned the teen would clam up, coming up with a half-hearted excuse of being a clumsy kid.

The overweight, and bald teacher leaned against his desk. A hand loosened his tie as he continued to read from the book, held tightly in his left hand. His tone matched the book, he read the word with as much zest as he could. Trying to immerse the teens while bringing the amazing piece of literature to life. For the students who focused intently on the words that spilled from Lancer's lips, his tones and comments brought the whole piece together, making it difficult for those teens to tear their eyes away from the man. Others simply kept their attention on their electronic devices. Texting away, or surfing whichever social media site was the thing at the moment.

Except Daniel. Daniel laid in his head on his desk, head buried in his arms. The dreaming teen was unaware of the concern looks that were drifting his way ever so often. His friends, Sam and Tucker, were both concerned for their friend. The night before the teen had to spend the night fighting ghosts on his own because Sam and Tucker had been much too exhausted to even move. The two felt horrible seeing their exhausted friend now in class, but what worried the two teens the most was the fact that young Daniel was dressed differently. Daniel usually wore a white t-shirt with red trims and a red oval on the front, light blue baggy jeans, and red canvas shoes. However, this morning the teen wore a black long sleeved shirt that seemed four sizes too big, his light blue jeans were switched in favor of dark black jeans, but his red canvas shoes stayed.

It wasn't the sudden dark fashion choose that affected the teens per say. It was that said teens knew all too well that that was the exact outfit Daniel wore after a particularly nasty encounter with a ghost. It also didn't only simply catch their eyes either. It caught the eyes of a certain vice principal who noticed the attempted concealed winces, and flinches that followed on days with that outfit laid out on the scrawny teen. Lancer hadn't neglected to notice that the teen had seemed to lose a significant amount of weight along with dark bags growing underneath bright blue eyes. Lancer must say, he was grateful to see the brightness and flare of those eyes have not decreased.

Daniel suddenly awoke the feel of someone shoving him slightly. Holding back a wince, the teen looked to notice his friend Sam was motioning her head to the teacher who had paused his reading to give the drowsy teen an unamused glare. He bit his lip and blushed, quickly sitting up straight and wiping a hand across his lips in case he was so deep under he drooled. Daniel reigned in a sigh of relief, knowing he hadn't embarrassed himself to the full extent of his abilities. Lancer had lowered his book, resting the back of his left hand on the desk.

"Mr. Fenton." Lancer's voice cut through the silence, only causing the teen to blush a bit more, leaning in on himself. "This is a learning environment. Which means from the beginning of the school day, up until the end of the school day you are to be alert, and awake, ready to learn. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Mr. Lancer." Daniel piped out, shifting his gaze to the desk that laid in front of him. He felt relief when the older man moved to raise the book, but the man had a few more words.

"This is the fifth time I have caught you dozing off in my class Mr. Fenton. I have warned you time and time again, and yet it still occurs. I would like to see if you after class." Lancer spoke again, not waiting for a reply from the teen as he continued his reading.

A groaned escaped the teen as he ran a hand down his face, trying to ignore the sniggering that was taking place behind him. Sam and Tucker turned, eyes filled with concern, only to be met with a mouthed "Later". Daniel placed a hand under his chin, trying to focus on the words that tumbled out of his teacher's mouth but the exhaustion of last nights hunting and the attacks he had to deal with, which lead to him missing majority of his classes, had taken a toll on him. Half ghost or not, everyone has their limits, and Young Daniel has hit his. He didn't want anything more than to go home and sleep on his bed. Something he didn't get to do the night before.

Daniel winced slightly when he shifted in his seat, a gash that was taking some time to heal had pushed against the desk, causing a flare of pain to to ignite through the teen. His eyes began to unfocused and he shook his head in an attempt to waken up. If he failed this next exam, he's grade was going to drop. He already knew he wasn't going to be getting his homework done tonight, he also knew he had to skip ghost hunting for the night. He was no use if he looked like a dead man walking. When the bell rang Daniel jumped, banging his knee on the desk. With a soft curse, the teen started packing his things, not realizing he had doze off earlier.

"What happened last night?" Sam whispered, using the noise of teens filtering out of the classroom as a cover for the talk. "You look like hell! You are taking tonight off."

"I know, Sam." Daniel sighed, running a hand through his mess black hair. "I ran into Spectra, and then Technus, then Walker, and then Skulker came at me with upgrades. Ones that have delayed my healing. That's not counting the amount of times the box ghost and ectopusses popped up. God, then my parents showed up."

"Damn dude." Tucker winced. "You should have called us."

"You guys needed your rest." Daniel smirked. "Besides, now you get stuck on Ghost duties." That elicited a groan from the other two teens, even if they smiled slightly. When his two teens paused at the door and looked at Daniel concerned, he gave them a reassuring smile. Even though the trio knew it was fake, they went their separate ways. Two of the trio waiting anxiously for tomorrow to find out what happens during this talk.

There was silence. Daniel stood there, trying to ease the pressure and digging the bag added to his already bruised shoulder, while Lancer moved to take a seat at his desk. Reaching into the right bottom draw of his desk and placed a decent sized folder onto the desk in front of him. Lancer flipped through the pages a few times, before he released a sigh, and closed the folder. Folding his hands on top of the closed folder, he turned his gaze to the nervous teen before him. The hard look in his eyes softened.

"Daniel, if this was a simple rare occasion, then your teachers and I can ignore it. However, this is the fifth time this week and we cannot ignore it." Lancer started, his tone a lot softer and concerned than the one he used in front of the class. " As your teachers, we do care about your well-being. I don't want you to feel like you can't come and talk to me about anything."

"Uh, thank you Mr. Lancer." Daniel's voice had a slight waver in it, and Lancer caught the tiredness in the teen's voice. "But I'm okay, I've just been having trouble sleeping. Nothing this weekend can't fix."

"Listen Danny." The use of his nicknamed shocked Daniel, Lancer didn't call him that often. "I have been teaching you for a while. I have noticed the drastic changes you've gone through in a short time. For one, you completely changed your usual outfit, and for a long sleeve on a hot day like this. My job involves character analysis every day, I notice things. I know a lot of students view me as the boring, lame English teacher, but I do catch more than one would thing. Answer me this, truthfully. Do be scared or frightened. Are you being abused at home?"

Immediately the tension in the room enhanced, Daniel's hands began to sweat and his mouth became as dry as the Sahara Desert. Fear and panic increased his pulse, he could feel his heart thumping against his rib cage, and the blood rushing through him.

"It isn't hard to notice that you are currently malnourished, Daniel." Lancer continued when the teen didn't speak. "You haven't been sleeping well and I have noticed the bruises, the limps, the flinches, and winces. I also know you Danny, and I know you're lying to me. I'm not mad or upset with you for lying. But can you tell me the truth?"

The silence that followed was just as tense, if not more. Lancer couldn't miss the way that Daniel's hand tightened on the bag strapped that he held tightly in his hands. The one by his leg gripped the pants material. When Lancer focused his concern gaze on the teen he noticed the slight tremble that ran through the boy. Getting up Lancer stood before his student, placing a light and comforting hand on the shoulder voided of a bag strap. The teen gave a small, barely noticeable flinch. A flinch no one would have noticed if they weren't searching him, like Lancer was. Lancer could practically feel the fear and panic rolling of the teen in waves. Leaning down to try and make some sort of eye contact with the teen, Lancer tried to figure out what to do.

Yes, he didn't think Maddie or Jack could hurt Daniel like he is thinking, however abusers could be anyone. Even if it isn't his parents, it is obvious that someone is hurting the teen. Lancer was set on finding out who it was. If the teen didn't help him then he would go to the authorities. Regardless of how, he couldn't see such a bright kid go through something that no one should go through.

Unbeknownst to the teacher, Daniel's mind was having a war of his own. Daniel knew the tears that were forming in his eyes weren't because his parents were hurting him but because he was getting tired. Unbelievably tired of holding in his secrets, of having to go hunting for ghosts every night. Biting his lip, Daniel screwed his eyes shut. He knew this looked bad, but he couldn't help it. For once someone was worried about him and wanted to know if he was okay and it hit him more than he expected. Yes, Sam and Tucker do worry, but that's different. They are his best friends, but Lancer is his teacher. He could turn a blind eye if he wanted to, but he didn't and that made Daniel realize that people outside of his friends and family notices and cares. That cause a choked sob to escape his throat, and a tear to run down his cheek.

"Danny, is everything okay?"

Four words. Four simple words that Daniel has heard from his friends time and time again but this time. This time it had a different effect on him. Before he could indulge the feeling that was bubbling under the layers of depression, anxiety, and exhaustion , everything hit him. Daniel was crying in front of Lancer who had just asked him if his parents were hurting him. This couldn't look good. So, Daniel did the only logically idea his brain could come up with that the moment.

He ran.

Daniel has never been more glad of it being the weekend then he did at that exact moment.

[izaw-isaw-blog]

I decided to become a teacher.

"Do you want to become a teacher?" my kindergarten teacher asked.

I looked up to her with my bright eyes and with a shake to the head, my five year old self said, "Nope!". 

Years later, I find myself currently studying in college with the course; Bachelor of Secondary Education Major in English. Yes, you read that right. I am a college student taking up a course to become a teacher. 

Now, you might be wondering why when my child self clearly refused to become one. It actually took me a long time to realize what I want to become in the future. I didn't realize nor acknowledge the thought of becoming one during high school. If you travel back in time and ask me what my dream career is, I would always answer, "being an animator", or "an astrologist". 

 It has always been that way. I have a passion for art. I really do. I would often doodle during class or fill my sketchbooks with drawing during my free time. My phone are always filled with different references for drawing and rarely see a picture of me. I thought that becoming an artist is what really I want to be no matter how difficult it is to get into the art industry. 

I thought wrong. 

It was on eleventh grade, senior high, second semester, that I heard the shocking news of my favorite teacher in elementary died because of cancer. I didn't know the specifics of the illness but I was so shocked that I cried the moment the night came and I was alone in my bedroom. 

I have always been an introvert. A very shy person. I am also a little bit slow when it comes to learning. Back in elementary, she must have come to realized that I was falling behind the rest of the class. Because of that, she always tutors me during break times, one on one. She would not allow me to be back on my seat unless I understood the lesson. She was always making an effort to teach me something I could not easily comprehend. 

She saw something in me that I couldn't. 

Thinking about it now, I just wished that I made the effort to visit her and at least thanked her for believing in me. She became my inspiration and changed my path from becoming an animator to becoming a successful teacher. 

In high school, I joined a club that teaches young children about the Lord. As I go on with my teaching experience, I had a lot of thinking and realizations. I relished in the feeling of teaching the young ones of anything I know and imparting my knowledge to them. Their smiles and curious eyes looks at me as I tell them about things that I learned stirred this warm feeling inside of me. 

I wanted them to know what I had learned. I wanted to share to them the way I see the world. I want to help them find the angle, their own perspective on how they see their surroundings and most of all, I want to help  and witness the wonderful process that they will go through as they each take a step forward with me guiding them however I can.

Perhaps, that feeling of wanting to share my knowledge and help them grow is why I want to become a teacher. 

So that they could, one day, see the potential they have with their own eyes just as what my teacher had seen in me. 

[skonnaris]

50 books read in High School Worth Revisiting

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald: High school students who go on to college can quite easily nurture a firsthand understanding of the self-serving hedonism found at the center of this beloved classic. And then they’ll either despise it even more or relate all too well.

Beowulf by unknown: Pick up the popular Old English epic after forgetting the seemingly endless lectures and settle in to a thoroughly enjoyable adventure tale.

The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger: Depending on one’s circumstances when first picking up The Catcher in the Rye, protagonist Holden Caulfield is either a counterculture revelation or a whiny, pretentious brat. Revisiting him later in life will inevitably shift perceptions to some degree, be it major or minor.

Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston: Some high school students may scoff at the soapier elements found on Zora Neale Hurston’s Harlem Renaissance essential, but older adults are more likely to see and admire the strength, courage and resolve of heroine Janie Crawford.

Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare: The real tragedy of Romeo and Juliet isn’t their mistaken, needless deaths. It’s their staggering myopia and selfishness.

One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest by Ken Kesey: Anyone who has ever personally suffered from a psychiatric disorder — or loves someone who does — might find the marginalization of the mentally ill in this undeniable classic both disturbing and tragically accurate. It may take some time and experience between high school and the next read for such bitter facts to really seize hold.

Les Miserables by Victor Hugo: Les Miserables is huge. When reading it in English class, deadlines might preclude many students from really picking up on the book’s myriad juicy nuances. Revisiting it later offers far more time to sit and ponder everything Hugo wanted audiences to see.

War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy: As with Les Miserables, time constraints and other academic obligations make it difficult to really become absorbed in War and Peace. When picking it up and reading on a more personal schedule, visitors are more likely to forge a far more solid grasp of the material.

Ceremony by Leslie Marmon Silko: More sensitive high school students may find protagonist Tayo’s spiritual, emotional and physical healing process too intense for their tastes. But as they age and gain more life experience, Ceremony could very well prove exactly what they need one day.

Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe: As long as there are nations battling it out over land and squashing indigenous cultures beneath their boots, postcolonial literature will always be relevant. Chances are, anyone reading Things Fall Apartas a high school student will probably be able to apply many of its tenets to current events. When they re-read it as adults, they might find themselves sadly noting how little things have changed.

The Jungle by Upton Sinclair: Both at the turn of the 20th Century and on into today, most readers (even teachers) tend to emphasize Upton Sinclair’s visceral descriptions of unsanitary food production — especially since it directly spawned hefty legislation. In reality, though, he wanted it to shed light on the plight of exploited workers. Give his classic another visit later in life and see how the story changes when reading it with this in mind.

Beloved by Toni Morrison: Toni Morrison deliberately left many elements of her celebrated novel ambiguous, so any subsequent readings will inevitably churn up new perspectives, details and interpretations.

The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan: Because family stands as this classic’s core theme, The Joy Luck Club never goes out of style. Whenever issues with parents arise, refer back to it for solace and insight.

The Color Purple by Alice Walker: When life grows too overwhelming, timeless heroine Celie provides inspiration to press on — no matter what sort of adversity and cruelty stonewalls happiness and stability.

The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain: The sociopolitical elements driving this famous narrative are incredibly important to understanding it as a whole, but focusing too much on them — as one would in an English class — glosses over the comparatively more lighthearted adventure elements.

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley: Understandably, many first-time Frankensteinreaders dive into the novel expecting a green-skinned simpleton with bolts in his neck — and find themselves shocked when encountering something completely different. Give it a re-read and see what may have been missed when consciously or subconsciously making comparisons with the iconic movie.

The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway: High school students sigh over this leisurely-paced classic, but older adults seeking something more philosophical than frenetic might find it exactly what they want.

Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller: Hopefully, picking up the searing Death of a Salesman at just the right time will prevent many students and adults from falling into the same lifestyle traps as tragic Willy Loman.

The Stranger by Albert Camus: Existentialism probably seems intense and somewhat inaccessible to many high schoolers, but one of the philosophy’s cornerstones warrants further consideration once they pack on more life experiences.

Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad: Puncturing through allegory after allegory after allegory grows tiresome after a while, and a fair amount of individuals might enjoy Heart of Darkness far more if they didn’t have to so painstakingly dissect every word.

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou: Maya Angelou’s poetic autobiography is at once heartbreaking and inspiring — an ultimately uplifting tale perfect for anyone needing a dash or two of courage.

Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut: An American treasure, Kurt Vonnegut may not necessarily appeal to harried high schoolers lacking the time to really sit and think about his statements regarding society, religion and politics. Approaching him with the proper time frame and mindset will make Slaughterhouse-Five and his other works burst with life and lessons.

The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka: "Monstrous vermin" Gregor Samsa serves as a viable literary outlet for anyone, anywhere feeling as if the world treads all over their stability and happiness. Reading about the horrific abuses his family heaps upon him provides a strange, comforting sense of solidarity.

Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte-: Though fiction, Wuthering Heights makes for one of the most prominent lessons in how mentally and emotionally abusive relationships operate – something women and men alike absolutely need to know if they hope to keep themselves safe.

Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck: Most of Steinbeck’s oeuvre deserves multiple reads, but his story of a developmentally disabled man and his devoted caretaker remains one of the most heart-wrenching American novels ever printed. And one whose tragic ending merits a wealth of conversations.

Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra: Because Don Quixotepossesses such a rich history and left an indelible mark on popular culture, bibliophiles of all ages find themselves coming back again and again to enjoy the adventures of the eponymous dreamer.

The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath: This semi-autobiographical novel sheds considerable light on a life wracked with mental illness — a somber, realistic lesson every adult must understand. The Bell Jar also serves as a reminder that anyone emotionally struggling doesn’t always do so alone.

A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess: Readers who don’t understand Russian or cockney slang (aka most of them) need to read this warped dystopian novel multiple times to understand what in God’s name the characters are even saying.

A Doll’s House by Henrik Ibsen: Written before the feminist movement rose up and fought for women’s equality, one of Henrik Ibsen’s most popular plays toyed with the scandalous notion that some housewives may pine for a life outside their husbands, homes and kids.

The Awakening by Kate Chopin: Another recommended read for the liberated woman and the men who appreciate them, though many fans of this book find themselves divided over whether or not they fully agree with the central figure’s actions.

Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathan Swift: English classes spend so much time zeroing in on the wealth of social, political and religious commentary found in Gulliver’s Travels, they oftentimes forget to address just how much fun the book actually is.

Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison: Dense and intense, Ralph Ellison’s brutal analysis of pre-Civil Rights race relations is required reading for any students and adults hoping to end bigotry in all its twisted, ugly guises.

Maus by Art Spiegelman: Maus currently holds the honor of being the only Pulitzer-winning graphic novel, a status that rightfully earned it a place on many a syllabus. Despite its grim content — Art Spiegelman’s very real talks with his father about his Holocaust experiences — the valuable lessons about family and history remain timeless.

Inferno by Dante Alighieri: All three portions of Dante Alighieri’s epic poetry trilogy The Divine Comedy are required reading, but his bizarre, highly detailed depiction of hell holds the most influence over the literary world today — not to mention pop culture as a whole.

1984 by George Orwell: No literary history aficionados will argue that George Orwell’s terrifying totalitarian dystopia birthed the entire genre, but it certainly left the biggest impact. Political pundits enjoy trotting out parallels to 1984 when discussing administrations they hate. Citizens familiarizing themselves with the novel’s tenets and context can tell whether or not they have a real point or are just resorting to paranoid fearmongering.

Nectar in a Sieve by Kamala Markandaya: Despite the many hardships heaped upon protagonist Rukmani, hers is a story of strength and perseverance that many students and adults may want to consult when seeking comfort in times of trouble.

Cry, the Beloved Country by Alan Paton: Though apartheid may have ended, its legacy of intolerance and discord provides future generations with the tools to identify and stop such practices before they even have a chance to start.

Catch-22 by Joseph Heller: Readers of all ages with a particular affinity for absurdity and political commentary — especially as it relates to wartime — keep coming back to this novel again and again for laughs and truth bombs.

The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros: Bibliophiles looking for a great bildungsroman to read over and over again have plenty to love about and explore with this compelling story about a young Chicana and her life in an impoverished Chicago neighborhood.

A Good Man is Hard to Find and Other Stories by Flannery O’Connor: Though an obviously subjective statement, many consider Flannery O’Connor one of the best American short story writers of all time. In such a confined space, she thrived with some incredibly provocative, influential narratives well worth reconsideration.

Night by Elie Wiesel: In his autobiography, Elie Wiesel recounts his gruesome experiences in Auschwitz and Buchenwald with the hopes of educating the world about the Holocaust’s horrors. Giving Night more than one look helps drive home its major historical themes, imbuing readers with the knowledge needed to better recognize hate and genocide.

Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi: This new classic is at once hilarious and heartbreaking. Through deceptively simple art, writer and cartoonist Marjane Satrapi recounts her childhood during the Islamic Revolution in Iran and the different set of prejudices faced as an expatriate in Europe.

Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon: Gravity’s Rainbow necessitates multiple reads because it involves over 400 characters embroiled in increasingly absurdist, surreal situations. Anyone who says they understand everything in one read is probably lying just to seem smart. Punch him or her in the face.

A Separate Peace by John Knowles: The comparatively cushy lives of private school students in New England are juxtaposed with young men forced to the front lines of World War II, with a strange and interesting friendship right in the center.

A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole: Not only is it a provocative read — especially when one factors in author John Kennedy Toole’s tragic life — this posthumous Pulitzer winner also happens to be one of the most hilarious novels ever published.

A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens: Charles Dickens attracts such a massive audience, most of his oeuvre could’ve easily made this list. A Tale of Two Cities oftentimes bores high school students, but as they grow older they may come to love its history and memorable characters.

Flatland by Edwin A. Abbott: Aside from the fact that this novel exists as one of the greatest satires ever written in English, it also warrants multiple reads for the sheer originality and imagination.

A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf: In her book-length essay A Room of One’s Own, Virginia Woolf opines on feminism, sexuality (most especially lesbianism) and the importance of financial autonomy and personal space for writers.

Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri: Short stories of Indians and Indian-Americans intertwine thematically, raising some excellent questions about multiculturalism, family, relationships and plenty of other subjects bibliophiles delight in discussing.

Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse: Both the spiritually-minded and those adhering to no religious credos at all appreciate this reflective classic and turn to it for meditative advice.

[garreaus-a]

hi, everyone ! it’s jessie again. i couldn’t help myself, ok ? i had to bring in my Chaotic Good, espionage-elite, French son samuel ... i hope u like him :’). he’s a character i’ve had awhile from a previous rpg / my indie ( aka the Archive ) so i adjusted his backstory a lil’ to fit here. again, please hmu on discord if you’d like to plot !! <3

⌠ BEN BARNES, 36, CISMALE, HE/HIM ⌡ welcome back to gallagher academy, SAMUEL GARREAU ! originally hailing from BLACKTHORNE, this alum specializes in THREAT ELIMINATION. when i see them walking around in the halls, i usually see a flash of ( complacent smirks paired with attentive eyes; the aroma of expensive, but fresh cologne; the decision to just “wing it”; a cigarette between lips ).  it’s the ( leo )’s birthday on 08/14/1983, and when they were still in school their most requested dish was BOUILLABAISSE from the school’s chefs. hopefully their presence can help ease the minds of gallagher students.

𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙱𝙰𝙲𝙺𝚂𝚃𝙾𝚁𝚈.

in the late 1970s-80s, there were a string of infamous art robberies and trafficking occurring around france, which linked to notorious art thieves from both france and america. french-american cia agent matthieu garreau was assigned to assist the central directorate of the judicial police and the dgse in their investigation. french art curator adeyln legrand ( her fam is Old Money rich bc they own museums across the country ) was involved in the case as well, helping the agencies identify the stolen art pieces and their worth. as soon as matthieu laid eyes on her, it was love at first sight !

samuel elias garreau was born in paris, france — just before matthieu was sent back to washington d.c. he was raised by his mother and maternal grandparents ( who lived in marseille ) for most of his childhood. his childhood was filled with love, art, linguistics & french cuisine. he became a polyglot at a very young age, knowing how to speak french, english and spanish fluently. his father visited his wife and son as much as he could in france, but eventually, the two moved to washington d.c. when samuel was 10-years-old. 

a bit of context on the garreau family: the garreau family name has been involved in espionage for a VERY long time. lineages stem back to being loyal spies for the french monarchy for many generations before the surviving garreaus immigrated to america to escape WWII. many relatives eventually returned to france, but samuel’s paternal great-grandparents decided to continue to raise their children in the united states & establish connections with american intelligence agencies. 

immediately, matthieu wanted to begin espionage training ( already samuel was a couple years behind in hand-to-hand combat / weaponry training, so he’s eager ). adelyn was a bit Conflicted but ... lil’ energetic, happy-go-lucky samuel was ECSTATIC !! what better way to bond with your father, am i right ??

those 4 years before spy prep high school was full of father-son bonding, grueling combat training, & survival skill training. but, samuel was also a normal, private elementary / middle school student in washington d.c. it was a lot of pressure — juggling school, his blossoming social life, and keeping the whole “ i’m training to become a spy ” thing a secret bc sam CANNOT stop talking

before samuel busted at the seams, he was sent off to a prestigious spy prep school on the east coast to truly hone his skills and begin to identify what he may excel at as a spy; however, sam didn’t take it seriously ... like at ALL. it was mostly because he was so bored — he needed something stimulating / challenging. often samuel was being a Sneaky jerk, pulling pranks & being a kleptomaniac; however, his grades showed the opposite of his delinquent behavior. he was excelling in all of his classes.

the garreaus did not know what to do with samuel. literally, they had a whole damn family meeting about where he’s headed in his spy career bc there’s NO WAY any spy university would be willing to take him. the plan would be to utilize their connections in france and get him enrolled in an academy there until ...

blackthorne academy showed up outta nowhere and was like “ hey, we’ll whip his ass into shape. give him to us. ” the garreaus were reluctant due to the academy’s reputation and suspicious as to HOW blackthorne caught wind of their samuel; however, maybe this is what he needed. the most against this was his mother, but her voice held no authority. 

samuel was in for a RUDE awakening at blackthorne. maybe it was for the better ? he majored in THREAT ELIMINATION + LINGUISTICS, CULTURE, & ASSIMILATION ( whatever was blackthorne’s version of those were ). 

his first year there practically BROKE him, but by his sophomore year, his flaws became refined skills. somehow, his extrovert / devil-may-care and shrewd personality still shined amongst his callous and/or sadistic peers. 

the codename HERMES seemed to be used by his instructors sometimes to “ make fun ” of samuel, the label representing his ability to outwit his peers, mischievous and intrepid nature, proficient adaptability, and most importantly, he mastered the art of infiltration & extraction — just as the god of thieves would ( the ONLY time he’s the quietest compared to his peers tbh ) u know ... also stole lives too ... i know that’s cheesy SHHH

of course ... we all know the whole deal about blackthorne. he was molded into the perfect assassin, not a sophisticated spy that could have a drink with james bond or ... with his prestigious, royal spy family. 

throughout his many years of fieldwork across the globe, samuel was many things for both private clients and espionage / government agencies ( mostly doing a lot of infiltration / extraction & surveillance undercover missions ), even sometimes an actual thief for the right price. 

however, despite samuel’s slight identity crisis, he earned quite the name for himself in the espionage world and solidified himself as a reliable secret agent. but he’s still a pain in the butt :-P

during blackthorne’s last years, samuel often was asked to come by as a guest instructor, a desperate attempt to liven things back up to relive its better days. despite the absolute DEMONS his students were being, it surprised him that he actually enjoyed teaching. 

so, he was a bit shocked ( and ecstatic ) to hear that gallagher requested HIM out of the many blackthorne alumni to be a part of the faculty, let alone the threat elimination instructor. who would be a better teacher to teach future spy how to take down an assassin than an ACTUAL assassin ( and one who made quite a Reputation at blackthorne for outsmarting his upperclassmen and instructors ) ?

𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙿𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙾𝙽𝙰𝙻𝙸𝚃𝚈.

tbh, samuel is the epitome of ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ 

he lives for the adrenaline rush; he will go out of his way and even risk his life sometimes to make missions more exciting ... but obviously, with a little planning beforehand to make sure missions are completed successfully

sam surprisingly is cooperative ( even if he really wants to do the opposite, he’d listen unless his quick-wit is essential for the situation ). his many years of experiences have made him realize how important intel and medical agents are to missions. he has a lot of respect for his fellow agents and students who aren’t concentrating their studies in the more physical combative majors

samuel likes being a nuisance. he’s quite devious and gets away with it a lot LMAO

he’s such a thespian it’s Unreal ... he’s so dramatic. but, this makes him excel at undercover missions bc this man enjoys acting way too much

samuel LOVES his students and it really cracks him up because if blackthorne student sam heard he’d be a mentor in the future, he’d laugh in your face

aka he’s the Cool Teacher at gallagher ok :’)

𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙳𝙾𝚂𝚂𝙸𝙴𝚁 / 𝙵𝚄𝙽 𝙵𝙰𝙲𝚃𝚂.

he still has the slightest french accent when he speaks, mostly to latch on to a remaining attachment he has to his mother and previous “ normal life ”

an excellent cook ... obviously he enjoys cooking french cuisine the most 

he also is an avid art enthusiast and also loves fashion and architecture. he spends the majority of his salary on designer clothes and art pieces

if the faculty have to become normal professors, samuel is definitely up for teaching anything world history related !!

randomly knows a lot of natural history trivia thanks to his maternal grandmother, who was a botanist

the languages samuel currently knows is: french, english, spanish, italian, russian, german, arabic, japanese, and chinese ( mandarin & cantonese )

and that’s it !! im exhuasted and i can’t think of any wcs atm so pls if u guys have anything in mine PLEASE let me know :’)

[saltyslack-toast]

How I deal with my puberty

“Teenagers are the most misunderstood people on the planet. They are treated like children and expected to act like adults”  – Anonymus.

Facing the ‘youth age’ seems to be very interesting for most of the pre-teen age kids, they thought it will be filled with good memories, cool friends, hangouts, parties, and probably some of charming boyfriends. Well for some of kids, teenage phase is the way it is, they called it for a ‘stupid phase of life’ because they have been through all those reckless and dumb things yet so exciting and memorable events at the same time, but for me teenage life is probably the most broken phase of life.

Start in my early teenage which was in the 5th grade of my elementary, I started having a crush with my one year older senior. Everything was went smooth, I used to have a lot of guts to actually approach him and surprisingly he responded it very well, I’m gonna count that shit as my real first love (since I already have a crush to boys since I was in kindergarten). He was soon graduated and I CRIED SO MUCH, I don’t even understand why would I cried so much back then, but it is kinda sad because that was the first time a boy actually like me back lol and also bc me and him not gonna be in the same school again because he decided to continue his education in Islamic boarding school which was so far away from the area we lived and obviously school which my parents not gonna approves me to go to. Last year of my elementary was the first time I got period, the changes all over my body was so appalling, my voice was getting more shrill and my breast swelling so much i started used a fucking mini-bra that has a cute character printed in it. Also, this stage filled with academics stuff to prepare the junior high school and fighting with my own teacher (she was terrorizing me through anon messages, dude not gonna lie but that shit is scared me as fuck) because…. That’s a fucking long-ass story I’m going to tell you a whole complete story on different page. I got a very terrific result for my academic stuff but I also start to received a lot of bullies from the boys in school, well that was poor but I still have a very good girl pals in school that always accompany me until I managed to graduate elementary school with a very keen grade and also knowledge that my body is changed A LOT.

My middle school life would probably the darkest stage of my life, I did enter one of favorite school in Bandung which I wanted to, but I’m not as happy as I thought to be. I’m amazed with all the bewitching seniors and that’s quite tempted me to have another activity outside the academic stuff which I hoped I could get close with the seniors and try my luck to actually dating with one of them (I was so obsessed to approach to the seniors because dude just admit it, u need that RECOGNITION to survived a new phase of school life, especially when u had a popular life back in previous school stage), but I joined a fucking scouting which was the most unpopular extracurricular activities in school (Pffffttt……….). The first year was quite so so, and up to the next years I really gulping a lot of bullies from the boys (again) more than I received my whole life that was so awful I even got scared just to attend the school. At this point, my level of confidence just dropped so bad until it penetrated the last form of earth soil, I was so insecure, I can barely made any eye contact with people, since then I became more closed to people, I was so scared for getting rejection, bad and all the harsh word from people I met. And for the record, I still remember all of their names, I’M NOT GONNA TO FORGET ALL OF U BITCH, U’VE RUINED MY LIFE.

Due to all the bullies I seized, I’m not maximizing my potential and have to accept the fact that I didn’t went to the high school I wanted so bad (which was the number one in Bandung, perhaps in Indo as well), instead, I have to go the high school (still one of the most-favorited high school in B-town though) that is filled with the most popular peeps in Bandung and known for the superiority of the all the seniors there, CAN YOU FUCKING IMAGINE THAT? A girl who was traumatized so bad, scared of might get bullies since she’s not as beautiful, popular, rich or even attractive as most of the other girls in school. I was crying so bad to accept that difficult truth that I might got bullied again. But hey, there’s always a rainbow after the storm, turns out I did quite well in high school, I joined the student council and got so many good friends and capable of having group of girls squad (eventhough I always be the duff) and more active in non-academic stuff that lead me to a very bad grade result.

The relationship with my family is not went so smooth at all, I used to buried all my problems deep down on myself alone, and the result is no good. I was overly sensitive and got upset and explode VERY EASILY. My family doesn’t help at all, they also blame me for anything, made me hate myself more. I need to run away from this situation, I need to shed my resentment over something, AND THAT’S THE BEGINNING. I started to slashed my fingers with a cutter, not really bad, just until I saw blood drops over my fingers. But then the problem got more serious, I am addicted, after I had through a big fight with my family I start cutting up all over my hands, the blood is overwhelming (yet, I still had the time for doing the documentation, but obviously I’m not gonna post it in here anw, or maybe I will, ofcourse with a proper sensor), even when my sister have taken away all the cutters, I still use my nails to scratching my skin harshly until it get bleed terribly and left a very bad scars on my hands until now.

I failed academic stuff in high school miserably, and had to be genuinely accept the reality that I have to go to not-so-favorited-private uni in Cimahi, I took International Relations because that is the only major that is accredited with an A, lol but yeah my sister realized that I like to talk politics a lot and I’m not so bad in English (kinda true, nah still sucks). And yeah until now I just currently finished the 3rd semester very well. I got a very good grades (Probably because I regret my academic stuff so much in high school) and hoping that nice event will come up to me. My goals right now is to graduate college as soon and as perfect grades as possible, and got a very good job soon after I graduate, Oh God I want… No, I really need that things so bad.

Now I am 20 on April this year, so much things has happened in my teenage life but most of all is not that impressive because I came to be more ignorant(?), but geez I grew up doesn’t care about people, they are all so mean and cruel. But at the same time, people are so interesting to learn, including yourself. Teenage phase could be so difficult for some of you (just like me, or perhaps worse), but chillax that shit will over soon if you able to learn about yourself, finds out about anything you like and don’t, stop hearing all those shit opinion about you, what matter most is what makes you happy, focused on it and leave all the bad and negativity behind, and TRUST ME you’re gonna get over your hard-teenage-life phase soon! And if you were angry to your parents (I’m pretty sure that fight with parents happens all the time in everyone’s teenage life), take a deep breath and thinking something funny in your head, after u have control all the madness inside yourself, get over your parents nicely because that shit will never get over if you were just as emotional as them.

The more you grown up the more you understood about people around you, there are people that is fake, people that is actually care about you, and other types of people out there. Puberty might be shocking for some of you, you finds a lot of changes both in your physical and mental conditions, no need to be worry about that, is normal and very understandable. The passion for being ‘seen’ would be very strong, it would be good for you to use this ambition to achieve many great things in life but don’t forget to take care yourself and those people who care about you.

“Tough time never last, but tough people will do” – Robert H. Schuller

So yeah, that was the end of this boring and so weird writing of mine. I am so sorry if this shit was that bad and also the grammar errors that is whack (even though no one probably read it lol), this was my first experience to actually writing and posted in on any platform online, hoped my writing will get better next time!

Xiao!

[svtskneecaps]

Walls Could Talk Part 1 ~ handsome student

(Seventeen Fic, Superpower! Non-Idol! High school! AU)

You’re just a high school kid trying to survive your senior year. Seems simple enough. Problem is, you landed a major crush on a good looking transfer student, and unfortunately, the both of you are hiding some abilities that are a bit less than normal, and there’s a ghost you thought you buried in your past that’s rearing his ugly head. So… maybe this won’t be as easy as you were hoping.

((Optional Main Cast Introduction))

You were not a tutor.

You were very afraid to take matters in your own hands and accidentally do things the wrong way. You were even more afraid to take matters in your own hands and accidentally teach someone to do something wrong. You were absolutely terrified to screw someone else over because you weren’t smart enough.

Working with the English Language Learners was different. English was a strong suit of yours. You’d grown up speaking the damn language, you knew what you were doing. It just came naturally; you didn’t even have to pay attention to get it. And besides, you were just a student assist there, not the freaking teacher! You just sat there and acted as a second opinion if asked and occasionally woke Jihoon when the over exhausted junior passed out on his desk again.

But this? This was different. This was new. You didn’t like it, not a bit, but also, you needed service hours and your teacher practically begged you to tutor this struggling student, so you’d signed up. Just because you adored that teacher and wanted to help her out because she was new and had a bunch of classes filled with those kinds of kids who were incapable of shutting their mouths.

Your math classes usually were. It was infuriating. You were almost shocked you were even able to pass the class yourself.

Oh shoot, you were complaining again. You hated it when you did that. Rambled off on the same shit over and over and no one shut you up. Purely out of habit you reached for your phone, maybe to text a friend, get some moral support-

You halted the motion. You forgot, you’d purged everyone from your phone and changed your number. You had three contacts now: your mom, your dad, and your grandparents, and you couldn’t text your online friend on school internet. No support was coming.

You’d been waiting in the math classroom for about fifteen minutes. Your teacher said you’d all meet there right after school. Either she’d been lying or you had gotten the room number wrong. You checked your email for the millionth time, rechecking the room number to make absolutely certain you were in the right spot. Really, none of this was helping with the backflips your internal organs were doing. You were going to be a professional gymnast by the time they showed up.

The math teacher entered the room twenty nine minutes and thirty two seconds after she said she would be there, according to the clock on the wall. “Sorry, one of my students stayed behind to take a quiz!”

“It’s fine,” you said almost automatically.

“Where’s Jun? I sent him down ahead of me.”

“Maybe he got lost?” you offered, sincerely hoping it wasn’t the Jun you were thinking of, because if it was, you were in need of a cliff. Nothing against him, just you were highly intimidated and weren’t sure how you could handle teaching him the weird math stuff like the unit circle or anti derivatives or something equally bananas.

Shoot, you got distracted. What was she saying?

“Oh, Jun!”

Shit.

So. . . you were right. It was Junhui Wen you were going to be tutoring. The really intimidating guy from sixth period ELL.

You were gonna implode.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said sheepishly (with that infuriatingly attractive accent of his, like could you get any more cliché but you absolutely loved accents and his was so cute). “I guess I didn’t understand the room number.”

“That’s okay, you’re here now,” your teacher said encouragingly. You did a mental sweep of your body, trying to make sure you weren’t visibly freaking out. Inside was enough. “Jun, this is Y/N. Y/N, Jun.”

You forced an uncertain smile and a quiet greeting. He beamed at you.

Jesus Christ, you were going to combust.

“I’ll leave you two to set up a schedule.” The teacher ducked out. No don’t go, I’ll straight up pass. . . . . Away.

You shifted awkwardly, even more afraid now that the adult was gone. Because of course you were. Time to fall back on your best excuse.

“My ride is actually here, and I don’t really want to keep them waiting,” you said. “Can we exchange numbers or something and maybe text tonight to set something up?”

“That’s fine!”

At least he was enthusiastic. You handed him your phone, trusting him to input his number as you input your own. You just titled the contact with your name. No need to be extravagant, even though you had all sorts of extravagant names. ‘Probably not captain america’ was your current personal favorite. Last week you’d had the sudden urge to change it to ‘extremely judgmental hat’. It wasn’t particularly funny, but it amused you.

You heard Jun laugh and your face caught fire. Did he see your contact names? Oh god, you forgot your dad’s contact was ‘overlarge lumberjack’. Did he know what that meant? Oh god. You had the sudden urge to hide yourself in a sweatshirt, but it was too hot for those still. Your short sleeved shirt didn’t exactly leave you much room to bury yourself.

He handed you your phone back, and you pocketed it, thinking that if he commented on how red your face definitely was you were going to blame it on a rare genetic condition and spew some sciency sounding words, like deoxyribonucleic acid and supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. “I’ll text you tonight then?” you said, as though your brain wasn’t essentially that Spongebob gif where everything’s on fire.

“Yeah.”

You beat a hasty retreat, slinging your things into the backseat of your car and not truly relaxing until you pulled out of the parking lot, resting your head on the steering wheel at a particularly long red light. Technically you hadn’t lied to him, you reasoned. Being your own ride, you hadn’t lied when you said your ride was there, and you didn’t want to keep yourself waiting because your mind would eat you alive if you did you had homework you needed to do, but it still wasn’t quite the truth. Not a lie, a misleading truth, you reasoned.

But maybe that was just as bad.

The memory of your anxious words resonated through your skull, every little falter, every slightly off pitch, every piece of intonation. You groaned, the only thing keeping you from slamming your head into the steering wheel of your car being the knowledge that she would complain about it until the end of time itself. That was unusual for a car, but not for Wendy, evidently.

“Bad day?” her metallic voice rang in your ears.

“You could call it that.”

You were long unfazed by objects talking to you. Actually, you’d never been fazed. It took you seven years to realize it wasn’t something everyone could do, which was about two years too long.

The car huffed, a puff of exhaust rising behind you like an exhale. “Was it Derek? Tell me it wasn’t Derek. No, tell me it was. I’ve got a couple things I’d like to do to him.” Her engine revved threateningly.

“Not Derek, don’t worry. Just the guy I’m going to tutor. It’s stressing me out a little.”

“Is he like Derek? Do you need me to run him over for you?”

“No no no, he’s nice,” you hastily reassured her. “I mean, I think so anyway.” You’d thought Derek was nice too.

“Green light,” the car warned. You looked up and refocused on driving as the car continued speaking. “You just say the word and I’ll get him, sweetheart. I ain’t about to let another Derek get within ten miles of hurting my baby girl.”

“Me either,” you mumbled. Never again.

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Sorry about the shoddy formatting on the pics n whatever. I fiddled with the html but it didn’t do jack so idk what to do.

Anyway, update schedule’s the same as Stop Loving (my previous text story; a Choi Seungcheol Hanahaki AU if that sounds interesting). Next update should come between Thursday, January 24 and Saturday, January 26.

[risingfire17-the-weeb-trash]

Amuto Fic (Working Title)

A/N: This is the first chapter in what I hope is going to be a multi-chapter fic. Also, if anyone has any ideas for a title, please send them over. Dedicated to my precious babies: Amu and Ikuto! Also, trigger warning for an abusive relationship (her ex was a massive dick).

Also, shoutout to @oodlittlething and @noviceotakus-blog for proofreading and offering tech support!!

~~~~~

The ringing phone shocked 16-year-old Amu Hinamori back into the present moment as her close friend Berkeley Walker laughed at her startled expression.

“Spacing out again, were we?” the latter asked with a kind chuckle. Berkeley was one of Amu’s best friends, by her side ever since she started at her new high school in Cupertino, California, two years ago, after moving there with her parents and younger sister from Japan. Berkeley, herself a transfer from Albuquerque, New Mexico, (which, she assured Amu, was as different from San Jose as the latter from Japan, despite being in the same country) was a loud and confident girl, tough when the need arose, but surprisingly calm and level-headed. She was on the volleyball and martial arts teams at their school, and had met Amu in their homeroom class freshman year; the two transfers had learned to navigate their new school together. Amu was so happy to have found someone as strong as Berkeley to count on during her first year in America!

Today they were on the bus to meet their friend Suzie Chen. They had befriended Suzie last year, before she switched to the private girls’ school she currently attended following her father’s company’s relocation across town. Though she was doing well at her new school, she said she missed her friends terribly and couldn’t wait to see them today. The studio where she studied violin after school was giving free promotional lessons today, and despite Berkeley’s claim that she “100 percent lacked that kind of coordination,” Suzie had successfully convinced the girls to attend. Amu was also uncertain whether she possessed any sort of musical talent, but was dying to see Suzie, and figured the violin would be fun to try out, at least once. Suzie’s violin had such a lovely sound, peaceful and warm like a springtime afternoon spent frolicking in meadow blossoms. But just now, Amu had been thinking of another violin, slower, more melancholy notes, and a kind man with a terribly sad smile….

“I hope it was a nice daydream, Amu-chan,” chimed their acquaintance Yuki Yotoba sweetly as she walked to the front of the parked bus, waving good-bye to the two girls. Yuki-chan is so kind-hearted, even after I spaced out the entire time she was on the bus with us…I’ll have to make it up to her later! Thought Amu to herself. Yuki, aiming to attend nursing school, volunteered almost every day after school at the hospital, so they didn’t see each other much, but happened to be taking her bus today. A quiet, sweet-mannered girl like her would be a perfect nurse! She would definitely need to properly apologize next time! Maybe if she kept taking violin lessons, she could see Yuki-chan more, and become better friends with her!

Amu grinned sheepishly, looking down more than necessary to fish the still-ringing phone from her bag in an attempt to hide her flushed cheeks. How silly! How long had it been since she had seen, or even thought of, that person anyway? She retrieved the phone, answered the video call, and was greeted with Utau Hoshina’s beaming face. Amu was ecstatic; Utau was one of Amu’s closest friends from Japan, though they could rarely talk with Utau’s busy schedule. She worked so hard, having become a Japanese pop sensation while still in middle school, and was now, at age 19, singing internationally and also acting, having landed a major role in a hit TV series being filmed in Los Angeles, all while pursuing her degree in communications! “Moshi-moooooooooooooosh,” Utau sang into the phone in a playful voice. “Oh, hi Berkeley! This is perfect!” she exclaimed, switching to English for their American friend. “Did you two get your tickets for this Saturday?”

“Yes we did, thank you so much!” The girls were practically jumping out of their seats now. This Saturday, Utau was performing in nearby San Francisco, and they would see each other in person for the first time since her concert there last year.

“Good, I’d better see my two biggest fans there!” she said with a wink. “After all, I’ve been working super hard for you!” After a brief pause, she added, “Oh, I think you’ll like the opening band too, it’s a local one performing especially for the San Francisco concert.” Berkeley squealed with excitement.

“A band from here? What kind of band?”

“Indie rock. I met them last time I was in SF. A bunch of sweaty, grungy-haired guys,” she said with a grimace, “but their sound is nice. Soft guitar rifts with a piano. Just got a violinist too, pretty classy stuff. Now if only they would wash their hair more often! They better not embarrass me!” Amu’s stomach tightened slightly at the mention of the violin, remembering a certain Indie band Utau had briefly been involved with while they were still in Japan. An Easter project. Angsty pop music with a sad violin….

“-so not fair! Just because he’s a jock doesn’t mean he doesn’t wash his hair! Besides, you’ve never actually met him!” They were talking about Utau’s boyfriend and Amu’s former classmate, Kukai Soma. He was in his final year of high school in Japan, diligently studying every moment he wasn’t participating in extra basketball practice. A star player and stellar student, his dream was to secure a basketball scholarship to UCLA so he could get a US visa and move close to Utau. She acted like it didn’t matter if he came to America or not, but she always asked him how his UCLA application was going, adding a “not that I care particularly.” Kukai was shining with confidence, so sure that he would secure that scholarship no matter what! It must be harder on them than they let on, thought Amu, to live so far apart, as they have for most of their relationship, since Utua had started touring internationally shortly after they started dating over three years ago. But they were so strong and supportive of each other’s dreams. Oh please, please let Kukai-kun get that scholarship!

“Amu, please tell Berkeley that Kukai isn’t grungy!”

Amu chuckled. Utau may pout, but Amu knew she enjoyed the teasing, especially when it gave her an excuse to talk about her boyfriend; Utau had confided that it helped make him seem less far away, not that it bothered her, of course. Amu rolled her eyes and smiled. The girls stopped laughing just in time to hear their stop announced and began to gather their bags. “You two have a violin lesson today, right?”

“Yeah, Suzie’s studio is giving free lessons today, so we decided to try it!” Utau’s softened, then narrowed mischievously as she broke into a teasing smile.

“Amu, will you become a great violinist like Ikuto?” Again, Amu caught herself blushing. This time, Berkeley caught her as well.

“Ooh Amu, you’re blushing! Who is Ikuto, a cute boy?”

“As if! Ikuto is Utau’s man-child pervert of a brother! And he’s lucky he was able to record music, because he certainly can’t keep a real job!” she said a little too loudly, all the while cursing her cheeks for blushing so brightly and begging them not to turn redder. Berkeley laughed as the bus pulled up to their stop, while Utau just narrowed her eyes, smiling even wider with a “hmmmmmmmmmm.” Amu wanted to melt away. But why? Ikuto Tsukiyomi really was just her friend’s man-child pervert of a brother. Why did everyone think he should be anything else. Even Tadase….

Suddenly Utau’s face was a great bright smile again. “Well, ladies, my break is over! I’ll see you both Saturday!” The girls said good-bye as they exited the bus, Suzie waiting for them in her school’s uniform and carrying her violin case. Berkeley called out to her in her loud, emphatic voice (a credit to her Midwestern roots, she had explained):

“Oi, Suzie, look at our prim, proper paragon of wifey material! You ready to school us in ‘etiquette befitting a lady,’ or whatever it’s called?” But before they were fully in earshot of their friend, Berkeley clapped Amu on the back and whispered, “You’ll tell me all about Ikuto later, right?” She ran ahead with a carefree smile and wink.

It was true that Amu had never told Berkeley about Ikuto, even though she was her closest friend in America, knew about all her friends from Japan, and had met most of them, at least electronically. Kukai-kun she had met last year through a video chat with Utau while she was home for a visit. She had joined Amu in Skype calls with Nagihiko Fujisaki and his boyfriend Richie Preston, who both studied dance in England. She followed Nagi-kun’s dance videos on Instagram, and had even seen videos from his days as Nadeshiko. Berkeley frequently chatted with Rima Mashiro, Amu’s closest female friend in Japan. Rima-chan and Nagi-kun had dated for a while, but broke up after he moved to England for high school. Not everyone could handle a long distance relationship as well as Utau-chan and Kukai-kun, after all! Rima-chan and Berkeley turned out to share a love of comedy, so despite the latter’s “uncouth American manner,” Rima “approved” of her. Geez, that girl could be such a tsundere at times! Why can’t she just admit that she loves talking to Berkeley?

As did Yaya Yuiki, who, practicing for her dream of becoming a preschool teacher, took it upon herself to give Berkeley regular Japanese lessons via Skype. Amu had tried to tell her teaching preschoolers and teaching a high school student Japanese weren’t exactly the same thing, to which she responded “But if she knows that little, it’s almost the same thing right?” Honestly, Yaya-chan could be the uncouth one at times! It wasn’t Berkeley’s fault she didn’t know much Japanese! Apparently most American schools don’t teach any foreign language until high school, and even then only the Spanish of neighboring Mexico! Really! How did any of their students go to school abroad? Amu couldn’t imagine starting high school in America without having taken English since elementary school!

Berkeley had never met Kairi Sanjo, but knew him as the polite boy from Amu’s emails. He was too old-fashioned for the social media that kept Amu in constant communication with the rest of her friends, probably because it’s too “worldly” for his devout samurai lifestyle. In his final year of middle school and top in his class, he was applying to schools in Europe and America. He has even applied to a school in San Francisco, so maybe Amu would see him again soon!

She had shown Berkeley pictures of him at his sister Yukari’s wedding to Yuu Nikaido. Berkeley had met Yukari Sanjo-san, Utau’s manager, at last year’s concert, and knew Nikaido-sensei had been Amu’s teacher in elementary school. Amu had let it slip that those two used to be bad, but she let Berkeley think she was only talking about Sanjo-san’s addiction to take-out and Nikaido-sensei’s dangerous level of clumsiness. After all, Easter, the Embryo, and the Guardians were probably things she could never talk about with anyone, no matter how close the person or how fond the memories. Besides, that was all so long ago; they were good people now, a sweet couple with an adorable child, a 3-year-old girl named Su Nikaido. The name always made Amu swell with pride.

Berkeley knew of Amu’s mentees, Rikka Hiiragi and Hikaru Ichinomiya, now in middle school, and both knew of her, though she hadn’t talked directly to either. Rikka was too embarrassed by her poor English, but studied and looked forward to properly introducing herself in English someday, and Hikaru was busy with his intense studies and taking on more and more control of Easter, aiming to be able to run the company on his own by the time he came of age. Though he still found time for surprise visits to cheer Rikka-chan on at her track meets, always saying he “just happened to be free, no big deal,” when she jumped for joy to see him. Poor boy, thought Amu, Rikka doesn’t read the mood very well, and will take him at his word until he tells her how he feels honestly! When she told Berkeley about it, she responded that from what Amu said about him, he seemed like the type who wasn’t entirely aware of how he felt to begin with, which made a lot of sense to Amu.

Berkeley had a true gift for understanding people in that way. She pretended not to notice the inner conflicts people either didn’t understand or tried to hide, but she could tell, and when she did, she would give an elongated, kind of knowing glance, as if to say: “when you’re ready to talk, I am here.” And that look made people want to talk to her about it, not least of all Amu herself. Berkeley should really study to be a therapist, because she would make a great one!

In Amu’s case, a much-welcomed therapist. In the last year, Amu’s guardian characters had all been reabsorbed into her, first Ran, then Miki, then Su, and finally Dia. She knew it would happen eventually. As children grow up and become their would-be selves, they no longer need these selves to exist outside of them. When it happened depended on the person and how well they matured into their would-be selves, but losing a guardian character was a natural fact of growing up. The girls assured Amu that they would always be there inside her, but she still missed having them to talk to. How wonderful, though, that she had grown up into a girl who could talk honestly with her friends just the way she had with her guardian characters, like a normal person! And how especially wonderful to have such a good friend to talk to, all the way here in America, who she could talk openly to with no fear of judgement! Come to think of it, she thought, except for those secrets she couldn’t tell anyone, she had told Berkeley almost everything about her past.

So why, after knowing the rest of Amu’s history, did Berkeley never even get a mention of Ikuto? Well, first off, Amu wasn’t sure where to start with Ikuto; he was such a confusing man. She had met him in elementary school, and, like Nikaido-sensei, Sanjo-san, and even Utau-chan, he was once an Easter employee who corrupted and shattered children’s hearts’ eggs. But he didn’t have a choice; that was never something he wanted. Although what did he want, anyway? He sometimes seemed happiest when left alone to play violin in the park and then curl up to sleep on a bench. Though if he was truly happy, then why did the music he played in those moments seem so incredibly sad?

Other times, he seemed to enjoy teasing children, particularly Amu and her friends. He especially loved picking on Amu, telling her he loved her, kissing her cheeks, and all kinds of creepy things, then laughing at her confusion before disappearing, reassuring her that he would never do anything like “that.” (Whatever “that” was!) And then he would turn up months later, napping on her balcony, or even in her bed! Geez, he was just like a stray cat! Maybe I should have left tuna out for him, thought Amu with a smirk.

But even Ikuto seemed to know when to stop playing sometimes. Fighting Easter, there were so many times Amu could have gotten hurt, or worse. She had been kidnapped, shot at, and pushed off of buildings, and hadn’t Ikuto defied his boss’s orders countless times to save her when that happened? Why would he do that, though? If she wasn’t able to fight Easter, wouldn’t that make his job so much easier? Didn’t he get in trouble over that sort of thing? Hadn’t he actually been hurt after letting her escape that one time? He had been so helpless and alone, that Yoru had begged her, the enemy, to help him. Of course she had, because those injuries were her fault.

Maybe he actually does love you, thought a small voice in her head, which she quickly drowned out. Yeah, right! He probably just didn’t want Easter to stop him from being able to torment me, like a cat guarding its favorite toy!

Besides, it wasn’t like he treated the people he claimed to care for very well anyway. He left to look for his father, all the while cursing him for abandoning his family; he disowned his mother, still in the asylum after Aruto-san’s disappearance, and he had left his little sister Utau to raise herself any way she knew how, even if that meant becoming a puppet of Easter. Even now, he was the only one she would openly show affection for (she could be cold even to Kukai-kun), and he still would only see her if he was paid enough to perform with her. He had been especially cruel in constantly bullying Tadase Hatori, who had looked up to him and called him Nii-san.

Tadase. Amu’s first love. Their relationship had ended badly, and Amu still partially blamed Ikuto for it. Amu had admired Tadase since fourth grade, and their Guardian adventures had brought them together in fifth grade, leading to a relationship spanning sixth and part of seventh grade. He had been such a kind boy at first, giving everything he worked at and everyone he cared for his all. It was probably this absolute dedication that had drawn Amu to him in the first place. Once they started dating, he doted on her, always checking in with her, surprising her, looking for new ways to show her his love. But after they went to different middle schools, Tadase changed. He became a bit…too dedicated. It probably started with the constant texts. They had been so sweet in the beginning:

“I hope you’re having a great day.”

“I know you will do fantastic on your test today.”

“Thank you for being in my life.”

“I love you.”

But then they became weird. Obsessive. And constant. She had sometimes felt drowned in texts that made her feel…off. Like, kind of drained and even kind of nervous for some reason she couldn’t place her finger on.

“Do you truly love me?”

“There’s no one else for you, right?”

“Why won’t you text back?” He would text her in class! He may have been smart enough to get into a special middle school for gifted students, but she actually had to pay attention in class to keep up, thanks very much! Then he started obsessively asking her friends about her. Yaya-chan and Rima-chan had complained about the constant “why won’t Amu text me? Is she okay?” texts while they were in class. He would even show up unexpectedly after school, expecting long walks while he prattled on he, blissfully ignorant of her concern over her missed student club meetings or the test she needed to study for, prattled on about how he would graduate from his elite school and get a fantastic job so he could meet her every need and she wouldn’t need to lift a finger. She never felt like she could tell him she didn’t want to be taken care of like a child.

Ikuto had texted her during those years too, sending pictures of his adventures in Europe and asking about his “little Prince” Tadase. He teased them both so much, and Amu had yelled at Ikuto for constantly berating Tadase to “hurry and grow up man enough for Amu,” and threatening to steal her away. Honestly, didn’t that man have anything better to do than pick on kids? Looking back, Amu couldn’t help but wonder if Ikuto’s bullying had pushed Tadase to become so freakishly possessive of her.

Ikuto had been there New Year’s Day of seventh grade, that painful day, and Amu still wondered if things could have been different had Ikuto not been there. Of course, things had not been going well with Tadase to begin with, but they had talked about a fresh start in the new year; she loved him so, so much, and she still had hope that things could work! It started off well; Amu and Tadase met with Yaya-chan, Rima-chan, and Nagi-kun (who had only recently confessed that he and Nadeshiko were one and the same, and while Amu liked Nagi-kun a lot, she was still trying to get used to it) at the town’s New Year Festival. The girls had gotten matching hair ornaments, and Tadase had bought hers for her. Nagi-kun had offered to buy Rima-chan’s, which she had proudly refused, although not without a blush. Everyone was not-so-patiently waiting for them to finally realize they liked each other! Amu had added a new year’s prayer for them, in addition to her prayers her strained relationship with Tadase. Oh, how she had prayed with all her might when it was her turn at the shrine that year! She had felt so fresh and new afterward, and after seeing Tadase’s old, kind smile and taking his soft, strong hand, she really did believe that everything would be okay….

And then Ikuto arrived, lazily strolling behind a red-faced, pouting Kukai-kun, something about “hurry and grow up man enough for my little sister,” and “oh that’s rich coming from someone who only came to her concert because he was paid to open for her!” As soon as they arrived, Tadase had tensed, and Amu with him. As the day went on, things had gotten worse, and all because Ikuto wouldn’t mind his own damn business!

He had tried to buy her a hair ornament, saying the one she had looked too childish for her. Despite her insistence that she didn’t need fashion advice from a nosy man-child, Tadase had gripped her hand more tightly, as he had started to do lately when he was becoming jealous.

When they visited a maze to be completed in groups of two or three, Ikuto just had to crash Amu and Tadase, saying he “couldn’t possibly trust his mischievous little brother with Princess Amu.” Tadase had been silent the whole time, his face a dark shadow, and his hand had gripped hers ever more tightly. Her hand had even hurt! Despite the tension and pain, Amu had tried her best to laugh, smile, and bring joy back to their day, which had only seemed to anger Tadase even more, resulting in an even tighter grip. And that damn Ikuto had not helped, but simply strolled along whistling to himself, his obliviousness to the awkwardness he caused even more painful than Tadase’s grip.

The final straw had been in the early evening, right before show, when they stopped to get hot drinks. Tadase had gotten Amu and himself hot chocolates-huge with mounds of whipped cream and toppings, an extravagant peace offering typical of Tadase. Amu had sipped hers slowly to prevent a massive rush of sugar to her underprepared stomach, allowing the heat to sooth her cramping hand. Ikuto was taking forever getting his drink, Kukai-kun had gone backstage with Utau, and Nagi-kun and the girls were singing and dancing in anticipation of the concert, leaving Amu and Tadase to finally get some time to themselves. They sat silently, feeling each others’ warmth, watching as the night’s first stars fought to shine in the fading twilight. His hand had caressed hers so softly; how could it possibly have been the same hand to crush hers so just an hour past? It was moments like these when Amu remembered the warm, kind boy who wanted to walk forever by her side, protecting her heart, and oh, how she wanted him to so, so much! If only time could have frozen in that last perfect moment….

And then Ikuto had shown up with two apple ciders, holding one out to Amu. “Yo, Amu,” he had said with that devilish smirk of his, “I got an extra cider, you can have it if you like,” and then with a sneer at her hot chocolate, “after all, you only drink milk after a bath, no?”

Amu had screamed at Ikuto to stop saying such perverted things, demanding to know if he had anything better to do that harass children, but the damage had been done. Tadase had flown to his feet, cocoa spilled, face red, fists clenched. He had opened his mouth, but uttered no words, and finally just pushed past Ikuto, storming off. Amu had wanted to call to him, to say anything to heal his wounded heart, but her voice had been caught in her throat, no words able to reach him, no thoughts able to comprehend this situation she found herself in. Instead, with Tadase out of her reach, she had unleashed all her feelings on Ikuto in a fierce rage.

“Why do you always ruin everything? Why do you like seeing me hurt? Why can’t you just leave me alone?” Looking back on it, Amu had hurled some pretty hurtful words at Ikuto, and for the first time, he had looked fazed, eyes open wide, face blank with shock as Amu continued to rant.

It was Rima-chan, in her fierce protection mode, who had stood between them with a curt “I think you should go, and Nagi-kun, in his rational, peace-keeping way, who offered, “I think there are some things to talk about that might be better discussed when everyone has had a bit of time to cool down.” Ikuto had just continued to stare in shock for what had seemed like an eternity before finally turning and walking away, slumped and defeated.

Amu’s friends had tried their best to help her enjoy what was left of the festival, as she had tried to take joy in their kind efforts. Rima-chan had shown her a comedy routine she had been working on, breaking her rule of only showing complete work (a rule she now broke frequently with her comedic partner Berkeley), Nagi-kun had offered to put his hair up and talk to her as Nadeshiko, an gesture met with a vigorous offer of hair ribbons from Yaya-chan and a jealous pout from Rima-chan. Both Nagi-kun and Kukai-kun (who must have been surprised to rejoin them and ask about Tadase only to be met with tears and sad glances) offered to talk to Tadase, “help him resolve things, man to man,” as Kukai-kun had put it. They had watched skits and acrobats, jugglers and dancers, Amu and her friends, and she laughed and smiled with gratitude for them, almost forgetting her heartbreak, but when a concert agent rushed past them, screaming into his headset to get Utau ready faster because “that damn violinist cancelled his opening act,” Amu’s heart tightened, and she took a bathroom break that became a long walk by herself.

She hadn’t meant to travel so far, all the way to the abandoned fence at the edge of the festival grounds, but she had found what her heart was searching for: Tadase, head down, covered in shadow and gloom. Oh, how she had run to him, so determined to set things straight and heal both their aching hearts once and for all! But when she had met his eyes, she had met with a crazed glare, piercing her from under disheveled hair.

“Oh, you finally showed up,” he had almost growled, as if he was so angry he didn’t even see her worth talking to as a person anymore. Amu’s stomach had been filled with so much dread, but still she must push on!

“Tadase-“

“Do you really only drink milk after a bath? Should I have waited to get you chocolate till you bathed? Would you have drank it then?”

“Tadase, I-“

“Why the hell do you let him talk to you like that? Do you like that?”

“No one can stop his teasing! You know that! It’s not like it means anything! He’s a adult, for heaven’s sake! An immature one, but an adult! He’s not…not like us!”

“It’s not just him! Everyone loves you, and you just let it happen like you like all the attention! What about Kairi? He confessed to you, didn’t he? Did you ever actually tell him no?”

“He…he didn’t really give me a chance to before he left, did he?” She stammered, not understanding just what he thought was going on. “Besides, I think choosing you is a clear enough rej-“

“And Kukai liked you too! Did you pretend not to notice?”

“What are you-? Kukai-kun is with Utau-chan!”

“And have you seen the way Nagihiko looks at you? Although it’s not surprising; you even spent the night at his house!”

“We thought he was a girl and you know it! Don’t you dare…Nagihi-no, Nadeshiko was my best friend!” This was when she had started to cry. Amu cared for Nagi-kun, and was happy he could be his true self. But at that time, Amu was still feeling the lost of her first female best friend.

Her tears had only made Tadase snarl. “And now you cry for him?! You cry for Nagi, for Ikuto, who won’t you cry for?” and after a pause, “you were supposed to be mine only, but who doesn’t your heart belong to?” And then he had grabbed her wrist, holding it over her head, backing her up against the fence.

“Tadase, you’re hurting me!” she had screamed into vacant space, all festival-goers still at the concert. She had struggled against his grip, only to have her other wrist captured and pinned to the fence, escape impossible.

“But you let Ikuto do this all the time, don’t you? Am I not good enough? Should I try harder?” His grip even tighter, Amu was crying. She had wanted to scream that he wasn’t making any sense, that this wasn’t the Tadase she knew. She wanted to beg for her old Tadase back, but she couldn’t speak; her words were drowned out by fear and pain. Through her tears, the world had appeared to be spinning in front of her, swallowing her. Even Kiseki had begged Tadase to stop, insisting that rule by fear was not the way to get real control of the world or even one person in it, but, in that moment, Tadase rejected his guardian character as “weak,” declaring that he would be a king by his own strength. Amu had watched as Kiseki was forced back into his egg only to disintegrate forever, destroyed by Tadase’s will that was still strangling Amu, nearly breaking her wrists. Meanwhile, Ran, Miki, Su, and Dia were screaming for Amu to transform, but she couldn’t reach her Humpty Lock in her captivity. And even if she had been able to, could Amu really turn her guardian characters on the boy who taught her to accept them in the first place; did she truly have it in her him, even then?

She had never been forced to decide. Tadase had been suddenly thrown backward through the air, crumpling in a heap on the ground. Without Kiseki, he no longer had the heightened resistance to physical damage granted to guardian bearers. Even so, he had raised his bleeding head only to meet the iron claws of Ikuto’s character transformation preventing any further attack. Amu had approached cautiously, the arm Ikuto spread out to block her from Tadase’s reach unnecessary; her throbbing wrists reminded her not to get any closer. There had been a moment of silence that felt absolutely endless, where Amu was swimming in so many nightmares all swirling together right in front of her while she searched in vain for some piece of…something…something that made sense for her to cling to in this upheaved world. She couldn’t even look up as she said the only words that felt so heartbreakingly right: “Tadase, I…can’t do this anymore. Please don’t ever come near me again.”

And then she had run, unable to face Tadase, Ikuto, her friends, anyone. She ran all the way home, all the way upstairs and to her room, unable to face her alarmed parents or whimpering sister. And how could she have, how could she explain the dreadful things that had just happened when she couldn’t even make sense of them herself? Even her four would-be selves had been unable to offer useful words, and so just waited with her, silent, sad, scared as she was.

How long had she been there, braced against her door as if she could keep the hurt out? An eternity? Two? More? before her mother knocked gently on the door, promising they could talk when she was ready, but a bath and some sleep would help her most. She had also assured her that when her worried friends had called, she had let them know Amu was safe and just needed some rest. In that moment, Amu had been so grateful for her mother’s gentle understanding nature that she followed her suggestion and took a bath, massaging her bruised wrists as the hot water wore away at some of the despair. When she had emerged, a glass of milk was waiting on her desk, and Amu even had even managed a smile at her mother’s thoughtfulness. She had taken the milk to her balcony and the refreshing night breeze, only to see Ikuto sitting on the railing, feet hanging over the street below. As she stood in the doorway in shock, he had turned to face her, tears streaking his face.

“I’m sorry.”

His voice came out as nothing but a hoarse whisper. She knew he wasn’t just apologizing for what had happened to her, but she also felt it was for something other than the teasing that had caused it. She didn’t entirely understand what he was apologizing for that could move him to tears like this, nor did she want to know at that moment. On top of everything that had happened already, this was just too much.

“Amu, what do I do?”

“I don’t know Ikuto. I’m just a kid. I don’t know.” She couldn’t stand his long, sad gaze, wanting something from her she could neither understand nor provide. “Please go,” she had whispered, unsure of her words at first, and then, louder and with more conviction, “please.”

Her final glimpse of Ikuto was still burned into her mind. A smile so wide, not his usual teasing grin, but a genuinely kind, well-wishing smile, one concealing so much pain. His eyes closed, shutting in the rest of his tears as his face still glistened. “Hurry and grow up, Amu.” An uncharacteristically gentle voice, cracking at the end. And then he had jumped to the ground and leapt away into the night, his silhouette revealing the cat’s ears and tail of his would-be self.

The coming days and weeks would involve doctor visits, calls to Tadase’s parents, and many precautions in place for Amu’s safety: her parents working more from home, her friends accompanying her to and from school, and the watchful eyes of Nikaido-sensei and Tsukasa-san over her as she continued to study.

Tadase would never speak to her again, either because he was decent enough to at least do that for her, or because he knew how well protected she was and was afraid to approach her. Amu had been so shocked, scared, and heartbroken during that time, but she had so many people supporting her along the way, that she eventually learned to feel normal and once again began to shine with hope for the future. By the time she left for her new world a year and a half later, she had become able to talk about Tadase, both the good and bad, just like every other piece of her past. When her new friend Berkeley had asked if she had ever dated before, she was able to her the honest story of Tadase, a kind boy with so much love to give that it had consumed him and made him sick.

She left Ikuto out of the story, though she had thought about him for a long time, perhaps even longer than she had about Tadase. Not that it meant anything, of course. It was simply that her situation with Tadase was clear. She could mull over what had caused it or what could have been different, and she had, but the fact was that he had hurt her and she could not safely be around him anymore. There was no point in further speculation.

But Amu had struggled more to put Ikuto out of her mind. She could tell that night that there was so much more he had wanted to say, but she herself had silenced his words, that secret heart she couldn’t carry back then. But she couldn’t help wondering just what was in that heart, and how did it concern her? Would he ever tell her now? Why hadn’t she listened when she had the chance, before he had stopped talking to her?

She would hear he was back in Europe, still searching for his father and becoming quite a popular performer, but she would receive no more pictures of his travels, no more blurry phone recordings of his cabaret concerts, no more questions about school and if she was grown up yet, no more teasing. Nothing. She had half expected him to arrive uninvited when her friends threw her a going away party the weekend before she left for America. But he did not, and after leaving for a corner of the Earth so far away he couldn’t possibly reach, he eventually faded from her thoughts. Maybe that was for the best. She had so much to be getting on with; she couldn’t spend what little was left of her childhood haunted by that enigma of a man, teasing yet protective, that sad smile, that melancholy melody pulling on her heart….

Amu hadn’t realized that she was now a considerable number of paces behind her friends, or that there were tears in her eyes. Berkeley and Suzie looked back at her, concern on their faces. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry; I think some of that concrete powder or whatever got in my eyes!” She pointed to the taped off area about twenty feet behind them, where two construction workers drilled into the ground with a jackhammer, and started to laugh. Suzie, bless her heart, pulled out a handkerchief, with which Amu pretended to wipe specks from her eyes. Berkeley gave her that knowing gaze, and Amu laughed sheepishly, knowing she had some explaining to do later. When she had recovered herself, they walked the remaining block to the studio and checked in at the table outside.

“Ah, Miss Chen, Mrs. Mansfield had to take her maternity leave early, but the substitute for your class agreed to start covering early, so you will be in good hands.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Nishida,” said Suzie in her sweet, refined voice to the studio manager. “Is everything all right with Mrs. Mansfield?”

“Baby came a bit early, but all is well. A healthy boy. Mrs. Mansfield will be back with us in about two months, after she’s had time to settle in. It’s her first, after all!”

“Of course, thank you so much for taking such good care of us all. Please send my regards to Mrs. Mansfield.”

“Surely, Miss Chen. Now, are these two sweet friends of yours here for today’s promotional lessons?”

“Yes, Mr. Nishida. Amu Hinamori and Berkeley Walker. Would it trouble Mrs. Mansfield’s substitute to take them in my class for the day?

“I’m sure it would be fine. He may be a bit rough-looking, but he seems like the type who can handle himself well. Now, Miss Hinamori and Miss Walker, loaner violins are available by the table at the start of the main hall. Once you’ve got those, just follow Suzie and let her teacher know you’re promotional students today. Have a great time and welcome!”

After they got their violins, they filed into Suzie’s class, gushing about what a sweet gentleman Mr. Nishida was, calling them “Miss!” Suzie explained that while Mr. Nishida was a very sweet man indeed, it was common, even expected, to call music students “Mr.” and “Miss,” rather than by the more common first name. Berkeley exclaimed “wow, so proper!” in wide-eyed amazement, while Amu was reminded fondly of the honorifics of her native Japan. The substitute appeared to be a few minutes late, so the girls watched as Suzie set up her instrument and attempted to copy her movements. How does she make poise look so easy, wondered Amu in admiration and slight embarrassment at her own awkwardness. Suzie assured her and the equally struggling Berkeley that it was quite normal; she had struggled at first too. The girls all giggled, having fun in this sweet moment together.

And then he appeared at the front of the classroom. His entrance had been silent, so few students noticed amidst the hubbub, and Amu might not have either if the corner of her eye had not been positioned just so at just the right moment. Tall, lanky frame clad in baggy gray and black plaid slacks, draped over an incredibly scuffed pair of black boots. A wrinkled and faded black button-up shirt, untucked, sleeves rolled up, top button undone to expose a bulky silver cross. Long indigo hair, only partially captured by the loose ponytail at the back, the rest falling into his deep blue eyes, framed by severe-looking black-rimmed reading glasses that actually dressed up the rest of his rumpled outfit. Those piercing midnight blue eyes, open wide in a shock that mirrored Amu’s own, boring into her soul to call back unanswered questions she had abandoned long ago.

Amu almost dropped her violin as he made his way to her, ignoring other students’ gossiping and giggling, the fiddling with instruments, and other reminders of the present world, suddenly far too mundane to contain this moment. He stopped a foot in front of her, leaning over her wide-eyed, upturned face, searching it as if he had left some sort of truth there long ago. Berkeley looked from one to the other with a slightly raised eyebrow, the only giveaway that her curiosity was anything more than mild.

Suzie was the one to break the silence with a soft greeting: “Um, excuse me, sir, are you the substitute instructor for this class?” He finally removed his intense gaze from flushed, trembling Amu to glance at her. When he said nothing, she continued “…I’m Suzie Chen of Mrs. Mansfield’s class, and these are my friends Amu Hinamori and Berkeley Walker, here to receive promotional lessons today. Thank you for taking over the class on such a hectic day, and if you need any help during class, please feel free to call on me.” He stared at her for a few seconds, his true attention still obviously on Amu.

“Yo, Amu,” he said, recovering some of his old confidence, but not the hint of teasing his voice had always carried. No, this was more reserved and polite, even despite the familiar language. Then, turning to Suzue, “thank you, Miss Suzie. I gladly accept your care.

He then strode back to the front to call class to order. “Attention, everyone. Class will now begin. I will start with roll call, first the studio members and then the promotional visitors. Listen up for your name.” Seeing the looks off confusion, he added, “oh yeah, Mrs. Mansfield took an early maternity leave, so for the next two months, starting today, you will be in my care. I have performed on stages in Japan, Europe, Australia, and the United States, both as a soloist and as a member of an orchestra. I have a recorded solo album and appear in six orchestral albums. I am currently working on my second solo album and collaborating with the Indie rock band Stray-t and Narrow, Stray-t spelled S-t-r-a-y-hyphen-t. We will be opening for the world-famous Utau Hoshina this weekend at the Regency Ballroom in San Francisco. Is there anyone who does not believe I possess the qualifications needed to lead this class?” At the end his voice took on an icy edge, as if daring anyone to speak out against him. When no one did, he continued: “My name is Ikuto Tsukiyomi, you can call me by first or last name. I’m here to teach you music, not some stuffy outdated etiquette. You want that, go to finishing school.” Then, locking his fierce gaze on Amu, concluded, “Let’s get started.”

Amu, trembling, struggled even more than before to position her instrument. Her mind was all at once racing at light speed and standing dead still. Her heart was pounding against her chest, and her blood coursed in her ears, dizzying her. How can he be all the way here, after all this time? What do I say? What do I do? How do I act? Gahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!! Suzie chuckled nervously, probably uncomfortable with the coarse character of her new instructor, and confused about the way he was treating her frazzled friend. Berkeley’s stare rested on the strange man as she nonchalantly whispered under her breath, “So that’s Ikuto, huh? Well, this ought to be interesting….”