#just use different words oh my god!!! why are you saying that exact homophobic phrase !!!

[simcardiac-arrested]

if i see that damn “why can’t they just be friends not in a homophobic way but in a platonic way” post on my dash again im going to start attacking people feral hog style

[godsporncollection]

Saturday Morning Session

(personal commentary in italics) (sorry for how inconsistent i am at this, i’m trying new medication, so my focus comes and goes unpredictably, but i didn’t want this to take weeks)

Russel M Nelson -  strengthen your testimony (?)

"I understand better what he meant when he said 'behold, i will hasten my work in this time.'" 

Y'all have been strengthening your testimonies and i, and your children, thank you. did that inclusion of "your children" feel off to anyone else?

I can see the work on the temple outside my window and that makes me think about how we need to remove the old debris from our lives. I too think of the temple as 'old debris' that should be removed from my life.

"the gospel is a message of joy" I cannot roll my eyes hard enough

that was short. what was the topic? blab for a five minutes?

Dieter F. Uchdorf - god is Among Us

I had to move lots when I was a kid because there was a war on. i thought about the missionaries who came to the country of their enemies to bring us the gospel.

i was a kid in a war-torn country > missionaries > god has not forgotten us > we will be heirs of god > how could we complain when we have that? > the atonement > mistakes are okay, just gotta keep repenting.

what would jesus teach if he was among us today? the same thing he's always taught. "the savior always teaches timeless truths, to everyone, a message of hope and belonging, a testament that god has not abandoned his children that god is Among Us."

jesus says to love one another and to be full of charity towards all men. i would like to see it.

anyone else feel like these talks are just. empty? like, they're not feeling it either?

if jesus came into your home today, he would see into your heart and i'm gonna waste a couple more minutes by expanding on that. one look into his eyes and we would be forever changed by the realization that god is Among Us.

back to me, i wish i could go back and tell myself to stay on the right track because god is Among Us, so i'm gonna tell you instead. god is Among Us.

"line upon line" *gag*

god is Among Us

Joy D Jones - abuse is wrong unless you use it to teach kids about the gospel

"have you ever wondered why we call 'primary' 'primary'?" as someone who understands how language works, no.

because kids are importanter than everything else

god trusts us to be nice to our kids; that means no abuse, even if we're angry. whoever needed this reminder should be shot.

hey, maybe you can "combat the evils of abuse" by not fucking raising your kids in an abusive cult!

analogy of a kid who fell out of bed because he "didn't get far enough in" = he wasn't indoctrinated enough, with awkward collage of pics of kids for a minute.

eyring said to get 'em while they're young

love all the pics of black people that try to say "see? we don't think black people are inherently evil (anymore)!"

analogy of a soldier in boot camp. drill seargants are mean, but that was necessary because apparantly it's the only way this guy can learn how to hide. also, apparently this guy is "our friend". not my friend, thanks.

"how can we do the same for our children?" don't fucking act like a drill seargent to your kids! ffs

"wouldn't we rather have them sweat in the safe learning environment of the home than bleed on the battlefields of life?" first of all, fuck you. second, dramatic much? third, fuck you, kids shouldn't have to learn about life in a hostile environment. does this woman have kids? are they okay? fucking hell, five kids were raised by a woman with this mentality. what a bitch.

"eternity is the wrong thing to be wrong about." i got news for you. of course, if i ever spoke to this machine, that topic wouldn't be my top priority.

I need a fucking drink.

Jan Eric Newman - teaching the gospel is good, but you can't force a testimony on others

anecdote about a local old woman getting birthday gifts. she taught us some good things when we were growing up, so thanks, sister davis.

another teacher, at college, was a "master teacher." he loved me and the lord. he taught me to learn doctrine on my own and that "changed me forever."

just sayin', if you're taught how to learn on your own, but didn't exercise enough critical thought to gtfo of this cult, maybe the teacher wasn't the best.

it's good to have good teachers.

the ancient nephites and lamanites had good teachers, and "there was no contention among them!"

"how can we teach more like the savior and help others become more deeply converted?" nope, nope. nope.

1st, "learn all you can about the master teacher hismelf." so, we're sticking with the term "master teacher." cool. doesn't sound weird at all.

ask yourself questions about how he taught, then do that.

read "teaching in the savoir's way."

2nd, use bullshit stories. oh, no, it's a story about how somebody is grateful for the pandemic because her adult child read the BoM for the first time during it. she said it had made "literal miracles."

3rd, "remember that conversion must come from within." guess jan and "joy" should have compared notes before speaking.

"children inheret many things, but a testimony is not one of them. we can't give our children a testimony any more than we can make a seed grow; but we can provide a nourishing environment, with good soil, free of thorns that would choke the word."

Gary E. Stevenson - kindness

story about a study where rabbits were fed a high-fat diet, but those under the care of a loving researcher didn't gain as much weight.

only christians can intuitively understand that this means there's a reason to be kind to others.

jesus said love one another.

addressing primary kids - be kind. here's a story about a kid who stopped being a bully because the bullied kid said it hurt.

to the teens - social media makes bullying worse, clearly satan is using social media against your generation. do what you can t make these spaces safer. if you're a bully, "stop it."

to the adults- "we have a primary responsibility to set a tone and be role models of kindness (get wrecked "joy"), inclusion and civility."

from ballard- "i have never heard members of this church to be anything but loving, kind, tolerant and benevolent to our friends and neighbors of other faiths." k, but, like, you know it's not just a difference of religious belief that’s the problem, right?

i'm heartbroken to hear about prejudice against blackasianlatino people or of any other group. i love how that section was really only about race, with a blanket "any other group" thrown in as an afterthought so they can't be accused of being homophobic.

in the winter of 1838, jo smith was in prison and why do you think that happened, gary?

church members were driven from their homes and the residents of a town across the river gave them food and shelter. that generosity saved the lives of many of them.

god is a compassionate care-giver.

Gerrit W. Gong - disjointed anecdotes of human experiences, idk

i miss my dad. he was adventurous, except regarding food.

i saw a guy be mean to a lady selling ice cream. he smashed all of her cones. the image of her trying to salvage the cones haunts me to this day.

story of the good samaritan.

be like christ this easter.

"we recieve inspiration as we counsel together, listening to each person, including each sister and the spirit."

does this guy have a topic?

he’s is just giving a list of random human experiences and parables.

*displays a lack of understanding of instagram.*

he's listing something throughout this, like, he keeps counting, but i have no idea what and his voice is making my adhd medication run away, so i'm not listening to this again.

Henry B. Eyring - temple worthiness

today i'm feeling light and hope, like the first day i went to the salt lake temple

i'm an oblivious fucker who didn't notice my name being pinned on me, so i thought the woman who greeted me was an angel because she knew my name.

thought he could remember being in the temple before, but a voice that was not his own (that's how you know it's true and not something he just told himself) told him he was remembering heaven.

confused "holiness to the lord" with "this is a holy place." i know both phrases use the word 'holy', but like, those contexts mean separate things.

i also had this feeling during my wedding in the logan temple.

i think henry should get checked out, he suffers from frequent hallucinations and it's good to know how your brain works differently from others when in a leadership position.

during my wedding, i had a vision of a house and the officiant said to live in a way that you can walk away easily. a year later, my father in law bought the exact house and my wife and i lived in the guest house for ten years. then i got the call to move somewhere else on assignment from the church and we walked away easily.

scripture from jesus about temples.

if you're unworthy in the temple, you won't be "able to see, by the power of the holy ghost, the spiritual teaching of the savior that we can recieve in the temple."

"when we are worthy to recieve such teaching, there can grow, through our temple experience, hope, joy, and optimism throughout our lives. that hope, joy, and optimism are available only through accepting the ordinances performed in holy temples."

i forgot how simple a baptism is, so i'm gonna tell you how amazed (and a little concerned) i was when my youngest daughter stayed to do baptism for the dead for all of the names on the list that day. maybe i'm just super comfortable in the water, but that doesn't sound hard, actually. i used to almost enjoy doing those.

quotes the primary song 'i love to see the temple.'

remember to be worthy so you can live with your family forever.

[pug-bitch]

That’s not why I’m going (22)

Maybe not traditional love

Book: The Royal Romance

Pairing: Drake Walker x Amara Suarez

Rating: some foul language, some extremely suggestive. This is absolutely NOT appropriate for people under 18.

Word count: 3,410 (let me know if the ‘keep reading’ cutoff isn’t working well!)

Notes: This picks up exactly where we left off, during Amara’s conversation with Bertrand, with Amara’s POV.

*****

Bertrand’s eyes widen. ‘How...how did you know?’

Amara gives him a gentle smile. ‘I put 2 and 2 together. I know you’re always talking about your father being a proud man. I saw how concerned you were with Hana’s well being after she was outed. I remembered your exact phrasing. And your reaction when I told you her being gay is not the problem.’

Bertrand exhales loudly. ‘It was a different time. Cordonia was still very conservative.’

Amara nods. ‘I can imagine. I’m not judging, Bertrand.’

‘I know. I wasn’t even aware until my father passed. Albert came to me and said he had been compensated for his silence for years, and that he expected it to continue unless I was willing to let the truth come out. I figured I couldn’t do that to Father.’

‘I understand. Can I ask how Albert found out?’

Bertrand snorts. ‘He saw a receipt for a hotel in Switzerland, when my father was supposed to be on a business trip in Greece. I don’t know how he connected the dots, but he soon found out that Father had a… you know. A boyfriend. In Switzerland.’

Amara nods understandingly. ‘And he blackmailed your dad.’

‘He did. I know what you must think. That Father was weak, that he should have stood up for who he was. But his reputation would have been ruined, and my mother’s, and mine, and Maxwell’s.’

‘Did your mother know?’

‘She did. After I found out through Albert, I went through my parents’ old things. Their letters, from when they first met. They were best friends, Amara. Maxwell must have told you. My father was a stern man, and the only person who could draw a smile from his lips was my mother.’

Amara can’t help but think that maybe, if Barthélémy had been true to himself, he would have been happier. But she can’t tell Bertrand that. If Barthélémy had come out earlier in life, there’d probably be no Bertrand, no Maxwell. So, instead, she says, ‘That’s lovely. Your mom married her best friend to protect him?’

Bertrand nods, a tear peeking through the corner of his eye. ‘Yes. From a ruined reputation. From court turning its back to him. I know things are changing, but 40, or 35 years ago even, it was a different story. I’m afraid if I stop paying off Albert, he’ll talk, and all my father’s efforts will be in vain.’

‘I get that, Bertrand, but you can’t pay him off forever. Plus, you’re keeping an important secret from your brother. You two need to talk to one another.’ Amara had said that without thinking. After all, Max too had been keeping something from his big brother. Something that concerned him directly.

‘You’re right,’ Bertrand responds, wiping away a tear. ‘At the very least I have to tell Maxwell.’

*****

As Amara walks back out to the patio where her friends are still playing cards and getting hammered, she can’t help but look at Maxwell, who has no idea what’s about to hit him. Sure, he’s not going to judge his father, because Maxwell is not a homophobic dick, but he may be shaken by the news that his parents were not in love with each other. Also, that his brother has been paying off someone for years without telling him.

Amara tries to smile as hard as she can, so no one can see that she’s hiding something. Then, she remembers that everyone is drunk and that it does not matter.

‘Alright Suarez, your turn to shuffle!’, Drake says while throwing the deck of cards her way. She smiles and obliges, as Max is pouring her another Beaumont Lemonade.

‘Maxwell?’

Bertrand’s stern --and sober-- voice shuts everyone up, and they all turn to look at him, in all his professorial glory, as he stares at his little brother.

‘Yeah?’ Max responds.

Bertrand clears his throat. ‘Would you...come talk with me in my study? I have um...something to tell you.’

Maxwell’s face falls. ‘Oh God. What did I do?’

Bertrand laughs tensely. ‘No, you didn’t do anything. It may be me, who has done something, actually. Could you come?’

Max glances at Amara and chugs the rest of his lemonade before walking away.

‘What was that about?’ Olivia whispers, once the two men are gone.

Amara shrugs. ‘I guess we’ll know sooner rather than later.’

‘Come on, Suarez,’ Liv says as she grips her arm, ‘you know something.’

‘You’ll know sometime. Don’t worry about it.’

‘Ugh, you’re no fun. I’m gonna go to the armory,’ she says while getting up.

Amara, Drake and Hana follow her down to the stairwell, after putting the cards away and placing their drinks on a tray. Amara tells the staff not to bother, they’ll be back later to play some more.

*****

‘Wow, this is gorgeous!’ Hana exclaims at the sight of several antique flails mounted on the walls. ‘I feel like we’re arming up to defend the Wall!’

Drake laughs, and gives Hana a little tour of the medieval weaponry. She listens intently, ever the good student.

Amara is trying to listen as well, but she suddenly feels Liv’s hand grabbing her forearm and yanking her into a corner.

‘Hey!’ she shouts.

‘Shh, calm down, Suarez, it’s just me. Can I ask you something?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Are you good with IT stuff? Like with phones and computers and shit?’

Amara shrugs. ‘A little. I mean, enough to get by, but not in an advanced way, no. Why?’

Liv looks both ways before speaking, as if she were expecting those armors to come to life. ‘I feel like something’s off with my phone. You know how it disappeared earlier, and then showed up again? I’ve been trying to figure out if it’s been tampered with.’

Amara nods and grabs the phone that Liv is handing her. Usually, she would brush it off and call her paranoid. But with the whole picture situation, no one could be too cautious. ‘What am I looking for?’

‘Anything. I’ve been looking everywhere inside to see if anything had been sent, I found nothing. Any way we could see if there’s a tracker somewhere?’

Amara looks at the phone from all angles, and removes the silver phone case to see underneath. ‘It doesn’t look like it. A device would be hard to hide on such a slim phone. It would be in the form of an app. Any new apps since this morning?’

Liv shakes her head. ‘I’m not worried about that. I have a PIN.’

‘How easy is it to guess?’

She remains silent for a split second. ‘Not easy at all.’

Amara hands her back her phone. ‘Then I don’t think you should worry at all.’

*****

Drake let Liv take over the tour of the armory, since she was so knowledgeable about weapons. He was now walking besides Amara, holding her hand.

‘It’s kinda cool down here,’ she whispers.

‘I know, right? It feels forbidden.’ He looks at Olivia and Hana, who are ahead of them, firmly engaged in a lively conversation about axes. Neither of them are looking back. He stops in his tracks, and takes Amara in his arms, kissing her passionately.

‘Wow…’ Amara says, catching her breath. ‘That was hot.’

Drake smiles mischievously. ‘You ain’t seen nothing yet.’

Before he can kiss her again, he hears footsteps behind them, and immediately lets go of her. What if it’s Bertrand?

‘Hey guys,’ Maxwell says weakly. ‘Mind if I join the tour?’

‘Of course man,’ Drake replies, ‘it’s your house. Are you ok?’

Maxwell gives a faint smile and nods. ‘I’m fine. I just um...learned something about my family, actually. Amara, Bertrand said you guessed it.’

Drake turns to Amara, who is extending her arms to give Max a warm hug. ‘I did,’ she says, ‘but only because I have enough distance from the situation to put the puzzle pieces together, Max.’

‘Um,’ Drake hesitates, ‘is everything ok? Did I miss something?’

Max sighs, breaking free from Amara’s hug. ‘Well, my brother had been blackmailed for years by our accountant. And my dad had been, too. Because Albert had some dirt on him.’

‘What?’ Drake blurts out, completely shocked by the idea of stern Barthélémy Beaumont having anything to hide.

Max continues, ‘Yeah, my dad was gay, and he and my mom were just, um...best friends. So, yeah.’

Drake cannot believe what he’s hearing. Poor old Bart, hiding all his life. ‘Wow, dude, that’s, um… intense.’

‘Yeah,’ Maxwell nods, ‘it is. And don’t get me wrong, I’m not upset because Dad was gay, of course, but it’s just kinda weird to think he’s been lying to us. And so was Mom. She was my best friend, and…’ Max trails off and wipes away a lone tear. Amara immediately offers up her arms again. Drake wishes he were as loving as she is.

‘I know, Max,’ Amara says, ‘but just remember it had nothing to do with you at all. She didn’t want to betray her husband’s secret. That’s love. Maybe not traditional love, but it’s love, too.’

It seems to help. Max sniffles a bit, and composes himself. ‘Thanks, guys.’ Guys? Drake has been standing there, useless. ‘I feel better.’

Amara squeezes his hand and walks to catch up with the girls. Come on, Drake thinks, this is your moment. No more toxic masculinity and silly guardedness.

‘Are you alright?’ he asks, feeling self conscious about the basic question he just came up with.

Maxwell smiles faintly. ‘I’ll be ok. I just need to wrap my head around, you know, the lies. Bertrand says that Albert caught Dad when he went to Switzerland to see his boyfriend. So, he had a whole second life away from us…’

Drake puts a hand on Maxwell’s back. ‘Hey. Your dad loved you. It can’t have been easy for him, living in a world that would not have accepted his sexuality. He did what he could.’

‘You’re right.’ Max side-hugs Drake and they walk like that for a while. ‘I can’t help but wonder,’ he continues, ‘if he would have been a little happier had he come out. Maybe I didn’t know the real him. You knew my dad, he was not a fun dude. Maybe it’s just because he was miserable.’

Drake chuckles. ‘Maybe. But also, maybe he was just a serious guy. Look at Bertrand. We know the guy’s not hiding his sexual orientation,’ Drake grimaces at the thought, ‘but he’s the least fun person we know. So...maybe that was just his personality?’

Maxwell laughs a little more earnestly this time. ‘You’re right again.’ He remains silent for a couple of minutes, visibly weighing what he’s about to say. ‘And Drake?’

‘Yeah?’

‘I appreciate Bertrand opening up. I feel like secrets might not be the best thing for our family right now. Like, if he wanted to be honest with me, I should be too, right?’

Drake nods. ‘I think so, yes.’

Max stops walking and looks Drake straight in the eye. ‘Maybe we should tell him about Savannah?’

*****

‘Guys, let’s cool our jets,’ Amara says while putting on her earrings.

The previous night had been a blur. They had finished the tour of the armory, and then had drunk some more Beaumont Lemonades until dinner was served. Out of sheer prudence, Amara and Drake had slept separately again, even though there was nothing they wanted more than sleeping together. This morning, both Drake and Maxwell had come to Amara’s room while she was getting ready and putting makeup on for the royal brunch.

‘Just hear me out,’ Maxwell says calmly.

‘I know what you’re gonna say,’ Amara replies, ‘and I get it honey, believe me. You don’t want any more secrets. However, we don’t know how things ended between Savannah and your brother, and maybe she doesn’t want him in Bartie’s life. It’s her choice, ultimately.’

Drake nods, and adds, ‘I hadn’t seen this side of the argument yesterday, Max, but I gotta say, it’s probably the most reasonable thing to do. At least until we find her. Which Amara is pretty close to achieving, right Suarez?’

Amara smiles. ‘Yup. Almost there. I’m struggling to find a phone number associated to the address I have because there’s no registered landline, but we’re making progress. I cross-referenced the name and address with hospitals and I found where Bartie was born and when. It all checks out.’

Maxwell sits up, excited. ‘Oh my God Amara, you hadn’t told me. That’s wonderful! And you guys are right. The decision belongs to Sav.’ He grabs Drake’s shirt and squeezes it in his hands. ‘Drake, we’re gonna meet our freakin nephew, can you believe it???’

‘I know, I can’t wait… what if we have no more leads, Suarez, how do we proceed?’

Amara applies her lipstick and turns around to face the guys. ‘Then, we go to Paris as soon as the competition is over and we find these little scamps.’

‘Who’s going to Paris?’

They hadn’t heard Hana peek her head in the bedroom door. ‘Hey hun! We are, when the competition’s over! Wanna join?’

Hana giggles and nods, as she enters the room. She’s a true vision, an angel even, wearing all white, a gorgeous wide-leg romper with a long silk belt. Her hair is wavier than usual, and her makeup is understated, with a hint of hot pink lipstick.

‘Wow Hana,’ Maxwell exclaims, ‘you look AMAZING, girl.’

Amara and Drake nod in agreement.

‘Oh, this? Thank you,’ Hana replies modestly. ‘I um...I just spoke to Liam. He and I agreed that today would be a good time to speak to the court, after brunch. For me to come out.’

‘Wow, Hana, that’s amazing,’ Amara says as she walks towards her friend with open arms.

‘Thank you guys,’ Hana responds as she hugs Amara back. ‘I wouldn’t have been able to do this without your support. I love you all. This will not be broadcast but I know my parents may hear of it soon, so I think I will fly back quickly before the end of the competition to tell them, and then come back here for Liam’s decision.’

*****

‘Welcome, friends!’ Liam exclaims, a bright smile plastered on his face, and his arms open.

Out of pure habit, Drake walks into his hug. Is it weird, now? Maybe. But for the sake of the front everyone is putting up, Drake needs to pretend it’s not.

‘Thank you for having us, Liam,’ Drake says, as they pat each other’s backs.

‘Yes, thank you very much,’ Amara chimes in, as she curtsies.

‘You are all most welcome,’ Liam responds. ‘Everyone is already armed with mimosas, we were waiting for the Beaumont Crew. The King and Queen will make their entrance in just a half hour. Come in!’

They all walk behind Liam, following his lead, as Drake scans the crowd. The other suitors, Madeleine, Kiara, and Penelope, are having a drink, and Lords Rashad and Neville have joined as well. As much as Drake likes Rashad, he truly cannot stand Neville and wishes he had stayed in his pretentious mansion instead of schmoozing here.

Amara and Hana, ever so charming, greet the others, while Drake and Olivia stay back.

‘You don’t wanna mingle either, huh?’ Liv whispers.

‘Not at all. But hey, I’ve got a blazer on, so I better show it off. Let’s dive into the shark infested waters.’

He walks over to Rashad. ‘Lord Rashad. I haven’t seen you since the Regatta.’

‘Drake! Good to see you. Yes, I’ve been away on business and haven’t had a chance to be back at court since then. But it’s nice to be back.’

‘Hi, Walker,’ Neville spits out, not bothering to stop drinking his mimosa.

‘Lord Neville.’

Drake exchanges pleasantries with Rashad for a while, when all of a sudden, in the corner of his eye, he spots Bastien. Drake could swear the bodyguard is avoiding making eye contact with him. Maybe it’s just paranoia, after the whole burner phone business.

But maybe it’s not.

As Bastien disappears into the dining room, Drake realizes he has stopped listening to Rashad completely, and that he is being rude, so he shakes it off and starts acting like a functioning member of society. He’ll worry about Bastien later.

*****

‘The King and Queen of Cordonia!’ a butler announces.

The whole room curtsies, and both King Constantine and Queen Regina walk in, solemnly. Upon their arrival, the room grows quiet, and all the guests wait to be greeted. When it’s Amara’s turn to be approached by the royal couple, she bows deeply.

‘Lady Amara,’ Queen Regina says.

‘Your Majesty,’ Amara responds.

‘It is very nice to see you again, and I look forward to spending this brunch in your company,’ King Constantine says through gritted teeth, the same sentence he has said to every single person around this room.

When they walk away to greet Hana, Amara exhales. She didn’t realize that she had been holding her breath. What is she afraid of? Is it just the natural authority that they both exude, or is it that she is afraid of being in trouble for simply existing in a world she should not be in?

She turns to Olivia, whose eyes are tired and worried. ‘Liv, what’s wrong?’ Amara whispers.

‘Nothing. I’m fine.’ Amara looks deep into her eyes and holds her gaze. Liv sighs and finally says, ‘I just got a vibe from Madeleine, I don’t know, something’s off. She was all smiles and was extremely nice to me for once. It doesn’t add up.’

Amara nods. She knows exactly what Olivia means. Nothing good can come out of Madeleine being weird. ‘Maybe she just wants to play nice in front of her aunt and uncle.’

‘Let’s fucking hope so.’

*****

Madeleine knows she needs to stop smiling. She’ll ruin the suspense, or worse, someone will catch on and see that she hasn’t been acting like herself. She can’t help it though, this is too good.

It was satisfying to take down the lesbian, but the feeling didn’t last very long. After all, she was not exactly a threat; yes, she excelled at every activity, which was annoying, but she definitely did not have the favors of the Prince.

No, this would be much, much better. She thinks she’s so tough, with her red dresses and her hidden daggers, she thinks she’s above everyone else.

Most importantly, she thinks she’s so smart and secretive. But really, how easy was it getting a Beaumont servant to get into her phone? How easy was it to guess her PIN? The tough bitch of Lythikos uses the same date for everything: 1995, the year her parents died. Boo-hoo.

She won’t think she’s so smart after everyone sees how pathetic she really is.

*****

‘Please, everyone, take a seat!’ Liam says to the crowd. ‘Place cards are on the table, and champagne has been served. Enjoy!’

Amara looks for her name, she is seated between Maxwell and Hana. Drake is next to Liam, right across the table from her. She takes a seat and smiles at the two men. She’s not even dreading the one-on-one walk with Liam after brunch, she already knows what they will talk about: Hana’s courage and her coming out, which will either happen before or after her moment with Liam.

She shakes her napkin and places it on her lap. She notices an envelope in her plate, where the napkin used to be. Upon looking around, she realizes that everyone’s plate has an envelope, and yet everyone looks puzzled by it. She looks at Liam quizzically, and he shrugs.

Her heart races. What the fuck is this? Everyone is whispering ‘what is it?’, even the royal couple. This can’t be good, and it feels exactly like the night Hana was outed through a text. Amara feels her heartbeat in her ears, a constant buzzing that prevents her from hearing what’s happening.

With shaky hands, she opens the envelope, as everyone else is doing the same.

A single picture is inside. A printout of a screenshot, an iPhone message.

A mirror selfie of Ilya, Olivia’s bodyguard, completely naked. Underneath, the following caption: Can’t wait to fuck you in the car again, Lady Nevrakis.

*****

Taglist:

@andy-loves-corgis @drakeandcamilleofvaltoria @jovialyouthmusic @mariahschoices @drakesensworld @thequeenofcronuts @notoriouscs@drakewalkerisreal @nikkis1983 @simsvetements @alesana45 @iplaydrake @emceesynonymroll @lily1999love @drakewalkerwhipped @drakewalkerrosenberg @drakeswalkers @drakxwalker @drakelover78 @silviasutton1989 @dcbbw @carabeth @furiousherringoperatortoad @hollygirl1269 

Thank you for your encouragements, everyone! Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist :)

[angelinaneblinawebsite-blog]

falling out of love with fashion

In the fourth grade, I made a single Microsoft Powerpoint slide featuring a low-res photograph of racks of colorful clothing with a gold gradient oval overlay that read “F.I.T.” in a classic Microsoft Office script font. My teacher had directed us to make a slideshow about our futures as an end-of-the-year project. Naturally, I dedicated all of the allotted time to making a single perfect slide to reflect where I belonged: the Fashion Institute of Technology. I had already taken the virtual tour, this was my big break. I did everything in my power to secure my place in the world of fashion. I took advanced art classes, pre-college courses, and doodled constantly. Then, in my sophomore year of high school, I found myself in a slump.

Art is deeply personal, and its quality is entirely subjective. I felt that my work wasn’t very strong, and I was losing my passion for creating it. My justification for wanting to design clothing had been that I didn’t see fashion that reflected my style, so I wanted to change that. This wasn’t a misguided thought: Mohandas Gandhi said himself that you should be the change you wish to see in the world. There was a flaw in my reasoning, though: my idea of appealing fashion existed, I just needed to make it more popular. This launched my interest into the realm of marketing and business.

Towards the end of my reflective sophomore year, a guidance counselor stopped by my English class to discuss course selection for the following year. As I began to flip through the guide given to us, I stumbled across a page dedicated to the programs available through a partnership with a vocational school in my county. My eyes darted directly to the words “Fashion Design & Merchandising”.

Was this real life? Was there actually a program tailored exactly to my needs? My hand shot up into the air.

“What is it?” the guidance counselor said, looking slightly annoyed at my enthusiasm. It must have been a long day.

“What is this program?” I asked, pointing fervently to what I had found.

“Oh, yeah, that’s a technical career program, talk to your guidance counselor about it if you’re interested.” She didn’t seem too impressed.

As soon as the bell rang, I ran downstairs to do exactly that. During my conversation with my counselor, I began to see why her co worker wasn’t thrilled about my discovery. The kids who did this program had reputations for being unmotivated and in need of academic intervention. I was not one of these kids, and I didn’t care. In fact, I thought that it was unfair how a career training program was associated with laziness, considering the sheer amount of time and effort it takes to gain certifications in certain trades.

After visiting the school and meeting my prospective teacher, I applied for the program and was accepted. It began a few days before the rest of my class started their junior year. I had no free periods and only twenty minutes to eat my lunch/watch out for the bus that took me and roughly six or seven other students to what essentially became our second school.

Upon entering the school, I was greeted by a security guard with a thick Jamaican accent.

“How you doin’?” he’d say, holding the door open for me.

Initially, my teacher would be waiting for me at her desk because she taught the same class in the morning. That class was eventually dissolved because of low enrollment, and after a month or so, she would be late every day because she would come from a different school.

My teacher was a middle-aged Puerto Rican, Southeast Asian woman who had  kind eyes and a fake laugh. She had been a head designer for a men’s luxury athletic-wear company for two decades prior to the start of her teaching career. When I first visited, she said all the right things. My class was going to sew, create mood boards, cut patterns, design clothing lines, etc. I was going to be well versed in the fashion world in no time--or so I thought. Her kind eyes had nothing behind them.

Classmates trickled in over the next few weeks, each one bringing a bit of diversity to the group. Three of them were seniors completing the second half of the program in order to secure college credit and a certification to work in retail. There were ten of us in total from all over the county, I was the only one from my town. One young lady in particular took a liking to me and insisted that we work and sit together all the time.

The only reason I’m going to assign this character a name is because she was instrumental in my demise. Let’s call her Patricia.

Patricia was from a relatively upscale town in the county. Her skin was a a beautiful dark shade of brown, similar to that of Naomi Campbell, who I assume was one of her idols. She was too short to be a runway model, so she did commercial modelling. Her hair was short, and she wore over-the-knee boots often. Her mother was Belgian or French or something, and I believe French was her first language.

I put up with Patricia for a while. I wasn’t making any other friends. I bonded with one young lady over Nicki Minaj and our shared Aries-ness, but she dropped out of the class before the halfway point of the first quarter.

Gradually, I became impatient with Patricia and felt it best I work alone. In doing so, I missed the chance to open up to my peers and form connections. As the year went by, though, I realized that that was how it ought to have been.

There were about ten of us in the class, roughly four young men and six young women. Conversations often surrounded controversial topics, and my teacher had to address the class multiple times. I steered clear of these and abided by the rules on the “Professional Conduct” sheet posted above the whiteboard that I had made the design for myself. The rules were simple: Stay on task, avoid inappropriate conversations, and be diligent in your work. This was, after all, supposed to be treated like a workplace. They don’t call it career training for nothing.

I won’t comment on the quality of my classmates’ work because like I said: art is entirely subjective. I will, however, point out that my technique was more advanced, which was to be expected, considering I had an immense amount of experience in drawing fashion figures. Between my skill level and determination to follow the rules, I achieved the highest grade in the class and was nominated to be the “Student of the Quarter”, which meant I got to miss some of my class to attend a brunch. My parents were invited, too. I also earned a perfect attendance award.

My mental health was deteriorating, though. There were constant arguments in my classroom. I began to dread seeing the bus pull into the roundabout in front of my school. One argument in particular struck a chord with me.

Another key player in this story is a young man who we’ll call Randy.

Randy sounded like Drake and tried to act like him, too. He sagged his pants, though, and was a raging homophobe. Every day I would hear the phrase “that’s gay” come out of his mouth. I knew what he meant, but he didn’t say what he meant, and instead chose to use a word intended to be positive as an insult. He made the argument that gay people are raised to be homosexual, and that they’re not born that way. As a matter of fact, he’d seen a study that confirmed this belief.

At this point, I had been an active member of the New York Catholic Forensics League Student Congress, and was doing extensive research about everything from Sub Saharan African infrastructure to the American electoral college. I was hearing eloquent speeches that were cited accurately on a weekly basis, so when Randy made this highly uninformed argument, I was unimpressed and offended.

Where was my teacher, you may ask? Doing something more important, I suppose, and letting this hostile environment fester.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I snapped.

“Randy. Randy. Randy.” I said firmly, trying to get his attention. “Stop saying ‘gay’ as if it is an insult, because it’s not. If you mean to say ‘stupid’, say it. Oh, and as someone who has grown up with a gay sibling I can promise you that it is not because she was raised that way.”

He dismissed me and looked away, but everyone else’s eyes were glued to me. I hadn’t addressed anyone in weeks.

“See?” my teacher exclaimed from her desk. “I told you someone would be offended.”

Later that evening I received a direct message on Instagram from Patricia apologizing for Randy’s actions. I wonder where her remorse was when he was being blatantly homophobic. 

There were several instances of bigotry in that classroom, some too painful to recount. It got to the point where I would literally cry on the bus to and from the vocational school.

I loved the curriculum, everything about it. I felt like I was in my element when the main perpetrators weren’t present. When they were, though, I was often anxious and upset. My teacher eventually stopped intervening altogether.

Around May, I started listening more carefully to the subject matter of the boy chatter. They were always talking about how young women were “valid” or “thick”--that is, young women on Instagram and Snapchat. Other times, they would call young women “ugly” or “too skinny”. Another young man, similar to Randy, but mostly to-himself said “fag” or “faggot” in regards to other young men he was either friends with or knew of if they way they dressed or acted suggested something about their sexuality. I worked three feet away from where my teacher spent the majority of our classes, at her desk, and I wore headphones with music playing relatively loud. I heard everything these young men were saying loud and clear.

I recall the exact moment that I broke down. It was after Patricia, while looking for her commercial size on a pattern envelope (they’re typically five sizes larger than your retail size), gasped.

“Size SIXTEEN?!” she exclaimed, looking horrified. “That’s HUGE. That is SO BIG. OH MY GOD.”

I was a size sixteen in retail, and a size 26 in commercial. I was huge.

It took many years for me to feel comfortable in my skin as a “plus size” young woman. I was never encouraged to love myself for who I was, rather to slim down to look socially acceptable and to be able to wear certain types of clothing. My self-love came from me, and I wasn’t used to my peers being disgusted by me or my size. Her words were like knives.

I gave her the worst glare imaginable and promptly left to go to the bathroom. I sobbed for a good ten minutes, absolutely hating where I was. It never occurred to me that I could have a bad time doing what I loved, but that’s exactly what was happening. My teacher let all of these things happen without correction, and the environment was incredibly toxic.

Eventually, I returned to the classroom and continued my work. After some time, my teacher called three young women, including myself, over to her desk.

“You know, next year, you girls should sign up for the morning class,” she said in a low voice. “You’re all very quiet, and it would be more productive because there wouldn’t be so much chatter.”

This had to be a joke.

“Angelina, don’t you think so?” she addressed me. “Will you do that?”

There was no way I was returning the next year, but I nodded my head and left for the bathroom again. This was the second time I bawled my eyes out that day, and I knew I would be crying on the bus back, too. I called my mom, but I was crying too hard to get a clear word out.

I visited my guidance counselor for the vocational program a few days later and told her everything, holding back even more tears. She was heartbroken to hear that I wouldn’t be returning, and suggested I try another program. Fashion was it for me, though. I had no interest in Architecture or Commercial Art, and I didn’t particularly like the Commercial Art teacher either.

The director of the entire school, the guidance counselor for the program, and the social working  who was also in charge of enforcing the rules of DASA, or the Dignity for All Students Act that made bullying of most kinds punishable by law visited my classroom and spoke about how the derogatory language was unacceptable, especially in a room of young women. After they left, the young men in my class denied the accusations outright, and for the first time, my vocal female classmates acknowledged that they were always saying vulgar things. Somehow they caught wind that I was the one who had reported what was going on and they thanked me for saying something. It blew my mind how they were always saying gutsy things to these young men, but never once had the nerve to address their foul language.

We had a meeting with the principal, my guidance counselor at the vocational school, my parents, my teacher, and the school social worker.

When asked to elaborate on what had been going on in the classroom, I broke down, but managed to get one phrase out.

“I feel like...there’s a lot of hearing...but no listening,” I said.

What I meant was that my teacher had been telling my class to lower the noise level, but not actually addressing the subject matter of the conversations that were being held and putting an end to them.

“I don’t even hear it,” my teacher scoffed.

She didn’t even hear it.

My mother was furious, as was my father. The administrators, including the social worker who had previously been very friendly with my teacher, were appalled. I couldn’t blame them, it was simple: my teacher was not doing her job. It was her responsibility to intervene and prevent that behavior, and she failed me and every other young person in that classroom.

The month after that was relatively peaceful. A lot of the main perpetrators didn’t show up to school very often. My relationship with my teacher was fine.

On the last day of classes, I didn’t say goodbye to anyone. I left the building in tears of relief and cried the entire bus ride back to my actual school, where I thrived.

I maintained a satisfactory grade in Fashion Design & Merchandising, never falling below a 90. That was by my own accord. Don’t get me wrong, my teacher was an excellent seamstress and made impeccable art, but fell completely flat when it came to having some compassion for me and my classmates. Those young men could have benefited immensely from some discipline, and it was her job to enforce the law, but sexual bullying was occurring right under her nose, and it was ignored. I had to advocate for myself and my female peers who were just as uncomfortable as I was. Ironically, my teacher was editing a brochure for the Women’s March while the whole ordeal was unfolding. She was helping stand up for women all over the country, but not in her own classroom.

The administrators did their jobs, and helped make that place tolerable in my last month or so there. There was catcalling occurring in the hallways before classes started, and I was the only young woman present to witness it because my bus always arrived early, and the administration corrected that immediately.

This wouldn’t have escalated to the point that it did if it had been a real workplace. I learned the importance of professionalism and removing myself from stressful situations in the name of preserving my mental health.

I nearly lost my love for fashion. Just typing that makes my heart ache. It has been my life since I was little, but it became my personal hell as a sixteen/seventeen year old. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, though. Sometimes that has to be learned the hard way.

I’m still going to college for fashion merchandising. I won’t let this awful experience ruin what I’ve worked so hard for. I’m a member of the National Technical Honor Society, I earned that. My determination has been recognized and rewarded on multiple occasions, so I don’t feel unfulfilled in the least.I feel it necessary to share my story, though--not as a cautionary tale, because the other programs at this vocational school are lovely, but rather as inspiration to speak up. As my vice principal says: “Your voice matters”.