#marry an appropriate woman and have appropriate children for the public image''

[weepylucifer]

For the dialogue prompt: 24 with Steban and Ulixes? :)

24. “You’re trembling.”

A loud knock at the door pulls Steban quite brusquely out of sleep. The bedside clock shows somewhere around two in the morning, and for a moment he's tempted to pull the blanket up around his ears and wait for the knocking to go away. But, he figures, this late at night it can only be an emergency, so he extracts himself from the blanket, puts some clothes on and goes to open.

Uli is outside, which is odd, because Uli's supposed to be on the other side of town, and a great, nameless turmoil is in his face. He looks so pale and shaken up that it wakes Steban fully, and he doesn't even gripe about the lateness of the hour.

"Uli?" he asks. "What's going on?"

"Oh- Steban, I..." Ulixes says, then looks him up and down and, studying Steban's sleep-mussed form in his underwear, seems to realize that it's the middle of the night and how highly unusual and alarming this all must seem. "I'm sorry, I should have waited until tomorrow, I didn't consider... I didn't mean to wake you up. I only... only needed..."

The words leave him in a confused jumble, and he's practically vibrating with that unnamed emotion. "It's okay," Steban says. "Did something happen? You're trembling..."

"I..." Ulixes takes a deep, shuddering breath. "I finally told my parents. About us."

"Come inside."

Steban sits back down on the bed. Instead of joining him as expected, Uli starts pacing. This moment had to come sooner or later, and they've both been aware of that, but now that it's finally here, Ulixes seems profoundly unsettled.

Steban doesn't quite know what to say. He feels absurdly guilty considering his own, relatively harmonious family life, which has done nothing to prepare him for the present situation. He's gotten the awkward "tengo un novio" confession out of the way months ago, resulting in nothing but some good-natured ribbing from his cousins and a promise to his mother to bring su novio around to dinner. With Ulixes, things... were bound to be more difficult.

"I take it things didn't... go well," he says as delicately as he can manage.

Ulixes huffs. "Well... they didn't immediately take me off the will, which I suppose constitutes a net win."

"Still..."

"Most of the fight was about politics, really."

"Which is... better?" Steban attempts.

"Eh. My father seems to think it's all... a phase he expects me to grow out of. Like obviously once it's time to take over my share of the family business, I'll obligingly turn into a lap dog of capitalism. Because that's just what humans are like, everyone acts in their own self-interest, everyone's weak to the promise of money, and someday I'll see reason and admit that to myself. You know how he is. He has his views on how everything is, and nothing I say will ever get through to him. It's like... it's like, to him, I'm not even there."

Steban hasn't met Ulixes' father and therefore doesn't know how he is, but he feels it's not the time to bring that up. Instead, he asks, "What is the family business?" because, come to think of it, he doesn't think Uli has ever told him. "What does your family do?"

Ulixes waves a dismissive hand. "Nothing. Father owns shares in Saint Baptiste."

Ah. And there's the reason why Uli never told him.

"Wow. Maybe you can score me some antidepressants?" Steban says, trying to lighten the mood, but he's not good at jokes, so it falls utterly flat. A bit sheepishly he adds, "I'm sorry, Uli."

Ulixes ceases his irate pacing and suddenly slumps. When he sits on the bed, he looks defeated. "If only he would yell or throw me out or hit me. Then at least I'd know I made an impact. That I'm not just some nuisance to be easily brushed off. That I matter at all."

Steban reaches over and puts a hand on his shoulder. "Ay, cariño," he says quietly.

"They didn't even really mind the gay stuff as much as I thought they might. 'As long as you keep it to yourself', they said. Same with the communism. But then I... I told them your name and some stuff about you, and then... suddenly, they minded."

Right. They asked him where I'm from and what my family does, and he told them. Steban nods.

"Mother said some things..." Uli pauses, discomfited. "Things I don't care to repeat."

"Well, I don't care to hear them," Steban says bluntly, because he can imagine fairly well what kinds of things Gottwaldian bourgeois might say about him. It doesn't come as any kind of surprise. He knows Uli doesn't think of him that way, and that will have to suffice. "Come here," he suggests and pulls up the blanket, shifting to make room.

Uli complies all too readily. Until now, the force of his righteous anger and indignation have kept him going, but his energy seems to be running out. When he curls up against Steban, he is silent, and he burrows underneath the blanket and smushes his face into Steban's chest like he doesn't want to make eye contact. This is, Steban knows, still the only way Ulixes can sometimes accept comfort. Uli is not well-versed in physical contact. One discovery that came with their relationship becoming physical is that Uli doesn't really... know hugs, or kisses, or pats on the head. Well, Steban knows all these things in abundance, so he wraps his arms around Ulixes and nuzzles into his hair. Uli has not taken his glasses off, so they poke awkwardly into Steban's shoulder, but that's okay.

There's still a tremor running through Uli's body, and Steban recalls that, while he insists he was never physically harmed, Ulixes does fear his father. It makes Steban wonder what it must have been like for him growing up east of the river, surrounded by the bright and impersonal ease of wealth and never acknowledged or touched. He doesn't really know what to do about any of this except call his own mother at the earliest opportunity and thank her for every kiss, every cuddle, every little sacrifice that compounded over the years. For now, he strokes Uli's back and murmurs, "Shh, shh, you'll be alright, I'm here," and hopes it will be enough.

[dwellordream]

“...If any precedent might have preoccupied Livia, especially in her early career, when she was attempting to mould an image fitting for the times, it would have been a negative one, provided by the most notorious woman of the late republic and, most important, a woman who clashed headlong with Octavian in the sensitive early stages of his career. Fulvia was the wife of Mark Antony, and his devoted supporter, no less loyal than Livia in support of her husband, although their styles were dramatically different.

Fulvia’s struggle on behalf of Antony, Octavian’s archenemy, has secured her an unenviable place in history as a power-crazed termagant. While her husband was occupied in the East in 41, Fulvia made an appearance, along with Antony’s children, before his old soldiers in Italy, urging them to remain true to their commander. When Antony’s brother Lucius gathered his troops at Praeneste to launch an attack on Rome, Fulvia joined him there, and the legend became firmly established that she put on a sword, issued the watchword, gave a rousing speech to the soldiers, and held councils of war with senators and knights. This was the ultimate sin in a woman, interfering in the loyalty of the troops. 

In the end Octavian prevailed and forced the surrender of Lucius and his armies at Perusia. The fall of the city led to a massive exodus of political refugees. Among them were two women, Livia and Fulvia. Livia joined her husband, Tiberius Claudius Nero, who escaped first to Praeneste and then to Naples. Fulvia fled with her children to join Antony and his mother in Athens. Like Octavia later, she found that her dedicated service was not enough to earn her husband’s gratitude. In fact, Antony blamed her for the setbacks in Italy.

A broken woman, she fell ill at Sicyon on the Gulf of Corinth, where she died in mid-40 bc. Antony in the meantime had left Italy without even troubling himself to visit her sickbed. Fulvia’s story contains many of the ingredients familiar in the profiles of ambitious women: avarice, cruelty, promiscuity, suborning of troops, and the ultimate ingratitude of the men for whom they made such sacrifices. She was at Perusia at the same time as Livia, and as wives of two of the triumvirs, they would almost certainly have met. In any case, Fulvia was at the height of her activities in the years immediately preceding Livia’s first meeting with Octavian, and at the very least would have been known to her by reputation. Livia would have seen in Fulvia an object lesson for what was to be avoided at all costs by any woman who hoped to survive and prosper amidst the complex machinations of Roman political life. 

In one respect Livia’s career did resemble Fulvia’s, in that it was shaped essentially by the needs of her husband, to fill a role that in a sense he created for her. To understand that role in Livia’s case, we need to understand one very powerful principle that motivated Augustus throughout his career. The importance that he placed in the calling that he inherited in 44 bc cannot be overstressed. The notion that he and the house he created were destined by fate to carry out Rome’s foreordained mission lay at the heart of his principate. Strictly speaking, the expression domus Augusta (house of Augustus) cannot be attested before Augustus’ death and the accession of Tiberius, but there can be little doubt that the concept of his domus occupying a special and indeed unique place within the state evolves much earlier.

Suetonius speaks of Augustus’ consciousness of the domus suae maiestas (the dignity of his house) in a context that suggests a fairly early stage of his reign, and Macrobius relates the anecdote of his claiming to have had two troublesome daughters, Julia and Rome. When Augustus received the title of Pater Patriae in 2 bc, Valerius Messala spoke on behalf of the Senate, declaring the hope that the occasion would bring good fortune and favour on ‘‘you and your house, Augustus Caesar’’ (quod bonum, inquit, faustum sit tibi domuique tuae, Caesar Auguste). 

The special place in the Augustan scheme enjoyed by the male members of this domus placed them in extremely sensitive positions. The position of the women in his house was even more challenging. In fashioning the image of the domus Augusta, the first princeps was anxious to project an image of modesty and simplicity, to stress that in spite of his extraordinary constitutional position, he and his family lived as ordinary Romans. Accordingly, his demeanour was deliberately self-effacing.

His dinner parties were hospitable but not lavish. The private quarters of his home, though not as modest as he liked to pretend, were provided with very simple furniture. His couches and tables were still on public display in the time of Suetonius, who commented that they were not fine enough even for an ordinary Roman, let alone an emperor. Augustus wore simple clothes in the home, which were supposedly made by Livia or other women of his household. He slept on a simply furnished bed. His own plain and unaffected lifestyle determined also how the imperial women should behave. 

His views on this subject were deeply conservative. He felt that it was the duty of the husband to ensure that his wife always conducted herself appropriately. He ended the custom of men and women sitting together at the games, requiring females (with the exception of the Vestals) to view from the upper seats only. His legates were expected to visit their wives only during the winter season. In his own domestic circle he insisted that the women should exhibit a traditional domesticity.

He had been devoted to his mother and his sister, Octavia, and when they died he allowed them special honours. But at least in the case of Octavia, he kept the honours limited and even blocked some of the distinctions voted her by the Senate. Nor did he limit himself to matters of ‘‘lifestyle.’’ He forbade the women of his family from saying anything that could not be said openly and recorded in the daybook of the imperial household. In the eyes of the world, Livia succeeded in carrying out her role of model wife to perfection. To some degree she owed her success to circumstances. It is instructive to compare her situation with that of other women of the imperial house. 

Julia (born 39 bc) summed up her own attitude perfectly when taken to task for her extravagant behaviour and told to conform more closely to Augustus’ simple tastes. She responded that he could forget that he was Augustus, but she could not forget that she was Augustus’ daughter. Julia’s daughter, the elder Agrippina (born 19 bc?), like her mother before her, saw for herself a key element in her grandfather’s dynastic scheme. She was married to the popular Germanicus and had no doubt that in the fullness of time she would provide a princeps of Augustan blood.

Not surprisingly, she became convinced that she had a fundamental role to play in Rome’s future, and she bitterly resented Tiberius’ elevation. Her daughter Agrippina the Younger (born ad 15?) was, as a child, indoctrinated by her mother to see herself as the destined transmitter of Augustus’ blood, and her whole adult life was devoted to fulfilling her mother’s frustrated mission. From birth these women would have known of no life other than one of dynastic entitlement. By contrast, Livia’s background, although far from humble, was not exceptional for a woman of her class, and she did not enter her novel situation with inherited baggage. 

As a Claudian she may no doubt have been brought up to display a certain hauteur, but she would not have anticipated a special role in the state. As a member of a distinguished republican family, she would have hoped at most for a ‘‘good’’ marriage to a man who could aspire to property and prestige, perhaps at best able to exercise a marginal influence on events through a husband in a high but temporary magistracy. Powerful women who served their apprenticeships during the republic reached their eminence by their own inclinations, energies, and ambitions, not because they felt they had fallen heir to it.

However lofty Livia’s station after 27 bc, her earlier life would have enabled her to maintain a proper perspective. She did not find herself in the position of an imperial wife who through her marriage finds herself overnight catapulted into an ambience of power and privilege. Whatever ambitions she may have entertained in her first husband, she was sadly disappointed. When she married for the second time, Octavian, for all his prominence, did not then occupy the undisputed place at the centre of the Roman world that was to come to him later. Livia thus had a decade or so of married life before she found herself married to a princeps, in a process that offered time for her to become acclimatised and to establish a style and timing appropriate to her situation. 

It must have helped that in their personal relations she and her husband seem to have been a devoted couple, whose marriage remained firm for more than half a century. For all his general cynicism, Suetonius concedes that after Augustus married Livia, he loved and esteemed her unice et perservanter (right to the end, with no rival). In his correspondence Augustus addressed his wife affectionately as mea Livia.

The one shadow on their happiness would have been that they had no children together. Livia did conceive, but the baby was stillborn. Augustus knew that he could produce children, as did she, and Pliny cites them as an example of a couple who are sterile together but had children from other unions. By the normal standards obtaining in Rome at the time they would have divorced—such a procedure would have involved no disgrace—and it is a testimony to the depth of their feelings that they stayed together. In a sense, then, Livia was lucky. 

That said, she did suffer one disadvantage, in that when the principate was established, she found herself, as did all Romans, in an unparalleled situation, with no precedent to guide her. She was the first ‘‘first lady’’—she had to establish the model to emulate, and later imperial wives would to no small degree be judged implicitly by comparison to her. Her success in masking her keen political instincts and subordinating them to an image of self-restraint and discretion was to a considerable degree her own achievement.

In a famous passage of Suetonius, we are told that Caligula’s favourite expression for his great-grandmother was Ulixes stolatus (Ulysses in a stola). The allusion appears in a section that supposedly illustrates Caligula’s disdain for his relatives. But his allusion to Livia is surely a witty and ironical expression of admiration. Ulysses is a familiar Homeric hero, who in the Iliad and Odyssey displays the usual heroic qualities of nerve and courage, but is above all polymetis: clever, crafty, ingenious, a man who will often sort his way through a crisis not by the usual heroic bravado but by outsmarting his opponents, whether the one-eyed giant Polyphemus, or the enchantress Circe, or the suitors for Penelope. 

Caligula implied that Livia had the clever, subtle kind of mind that one associates with Greeks rather than Romans, who were inclined to take a head-on approach to problems. But at the same time she manifested a particularly Roman quality. Rolfe, in the Loeb translation of Suetonius’ Life of Caligula, rendered the phrase as ‘‘Ulysses in petticoats’’ to suggest a female version of the Homeric character. But this is to rob Caligula’s sobriquet of much of its force.

The stola was essentially the female equivalent of the toga worn by Roman men. A long woollen sleeveless dress, of heavy fabric, it was normally worn over a tunic. In shape it could be likened to a modern slip, but of much heavier material, so that it could hang in deep folds. The mark of matronae married to Roman citizens, the stola is used by Cicero as a metaphor for a stable and respectable marriage. Along with the woollen bands that the matron wore in her hair to protect her from impurity, it was considered the insigne pudoris (the sign of purity) by Ovid, something, as he puts it, alien to the world of the philandering lover. 

Another contemporary of Livia’s, Valerius Maximus, notes that if a matrona was called into court, her accuser could not physically touch her, in order that the stola might remain inviolata manus alienae tactu (unviolated by the touch of another’s hand). Bartman may be right in suggesting that the existence of statues of Livia in a stola would have given Caligula’s quip a special resonance, but that alone would not have inspired his bon mot. To Caligula’s eyes, Livia was possessed of a sharp and clever mind.

But she did not allow this quality to obtrude because she recognised that many Romans would not find it appealing; she cloaked it with all the sober dignity and propriety, the gravitas, that the Romans admired in themselves and saw represented in the stola. Livia’s greatest skill perhaps lay in the recognition that the women of the imperial household were called to walk a fine line. She and other imperial women found themselves in a paradoxical position in that they were required to set an example of the traditional domestic woman yet were obliged by circumstances to play a public role outside the home—a reflection of the process by which the domestic and public domains of the domus Augusta were blurred.

Thus she was expected to display the grand dignity expected of a person very much in the public eye, combined with the old-fashioned modesty of a woman whose interests were confined to the domus. Paradoxically, she had less freedom of action than other upper-class women who had involved themselves in public life in support of their family and protégés. As wife of the princeps, Livia recognised that to enlist the support of her husband was in a sense to enlist the support of the state.

That she managed to gain a reputation as a generous patron and protector and, at the same time, a woman who kept within her proper bounds, is testimony to her keen sensitivity. In many ways she succeeds in moving silently though Rome’s history, and this is what she intended. Her general conduct gave reassurance to those who were distressed by the changing relationships that women like Fulvia had symbolised in the late republic. It is striking that court poets, who reflected the broad wishes of their patron, avoid reference to her. She is mentioned by the poet Horace, but only once, and even there she is not named directly but referred to allusively as unico gaudens mulier marito (a wife finding joy in her preeminent husband).

The single exception is Ovid, but most of his allusions come from his period of exile, when desperation may have got the better of discretion. The dignified behaviour of Livia’s distinguished entourage was contrasted with the wild conduct of Julia’s friends at public shows, which drove Augustus to remonstrate with his daughter (her response: when she was old, she too would have old friends). In a telling passage Seneca compares the conduct of Livia favourably with even the universally admired Octavia. After losing Marcellus, Octavia abandoned herself to her grief and became obsessed with the memory of her dead son. She would not permit anyone to mention his name in her presence and remained inconsolable, allowing herself to become totally secluded and maintaining the garb of mourning until her death.

By contrast, Livia, similarly devastated by the death of Drusus, did not offend others by grieving excessively once the body had been committed to the tomb. When the grief was at its worst, she turned to the philosopher Areus for help. Seneca re-creates Areus’ advice. Much of it, of course, may well have sprung from Seneca’s imagination, but it is still valuable in showing how Livia was seen by Romans of Seneca’s time. Areus says that Livia had been at great pains to ensure that no one would find anything in her to criticise, in major matters but also in the most insignificant trifles. He admired the fact that someone of her high station was often willing to bestow pardon on others but sought pardon for nothing in herself. 

…Perhaps most important, it was essential for Livia to present herself to the world as the model of chastity. Apart from the normal demands placed on the wife of a member of the Roman nobility, she faced a particular set of circumstances that were unique to her. One of the domestic priorities undertaken by Augustus was the enactment of a programme of social legislation. Parts of this may well have been begun before his eastern trip, perhaps as early as 28 bc, but the main body of the work was initiated in 18.

A proper understanding of the measures that he carried out under this general heading eludes us. The family name of Julius was attached to the laws, and thus they are difficult to distinguish from those enacted by Julius Caesar. But clearly in general terms the legislation was intended to restore traditional Roman gravitas, to stamp out corruption, to define the social orders, and to encourage the involvement of the upper classes in state affairs. The drop in the numbers of the upper classes was causing particular concern. The nobles were showing a general reluctance to marry and, when married, an unwillingness to have children. It was hoped that the new laws would to some degree counter this trend. 

The Lex Iulia de adulteriis coercendis, passed probably in 18 bc, made adultery a public crime and established a new criminal court for sexual offences. The Lex Iulia de maritandis ordinibus, passed about the same time, regulated the validity of marriages between social classes. The crucial factor here, of course, was not the regulation of morality but rather the legitimacy of children. Disabilities were imposed on the principle that it was the duty of men between twenty-five and sixty-five and women between twenty and fifty to marry. Those who refused to comply or who married and remained childless suffered penalties, the chief one being the right to inherit. The number of a man’s children gave him precedence when he stood for office.

Of particular relevance to Livia was the ius trium liberorum, under which a freeborn woman with three children was exempted from tutela (guardianship) and had a right of succession to the inheritance of her children. Livia was later granted this privilege despite having borne only two living children. This social legislation created considerable resentment—Suetonius says that the equestrians staged demonstrations at theatres and at the games. It was amended in ad 9 and supplemented by the Lex Papia Poppaea, which seems to have removed the unfair distinctions between the childless and the unmarried and allowed divorced or widowed women a longer period before they remarried. 

Dio, apparently without a trace of irony, reports that this last piece of legislation was introduced by two consuls who were not only childless but unmarried, thus proving the need for the legislation. Livia’s moral conduct would thus be dictated not only by the already unreal standards that were expected of a Roman matrona but also by the political imperative of her husband’s social legislation. Because Augustus saw himself as a man on a crusade to restore what he considered to be old-fashioned morality, it was clearly essential that he have a wife whose reputation for virtue was unsullied and who could provide an exemplar in her own married life.

In this Livia would not fail him. The skilful creation of an image of purity and marital fidelity was more than a vindication of her personal standards. It was very much a public statement of support for what her husband was trying to achieve. Tacitus, in his obituary notice that begins Book V of the Annals, observes that in the matter of the sanctitas domus, Livia’s conduct was of the ‘‘old school’’ ( priscum ad morem). This is a profoundly interesting statement at more than one level. It tells us something about the way the Romans idealised their past. But it also says much about the clever way that Livia fashioned her own image. 

Her inner private life is a secret that she has taken with her to the tomb. She may well have been as pure as people believed. But for a woman who occupied the centre of attention in imperial Rome for as long as she did, to keep her moral reputation intact required more than mere proper conduct. Rumours and innuendo attached themselves to the powerful and prominent almost of their own volition. An unsullied name required the positive creation of a public image. Livia was despised by Tacitus, who does not hesitate to insinuate the darkest interpretations that can be placed on her conduct.

Yet not even he hints at any kind of moral impropriety in the narrow sexual sense. Even though she abandoned her first husband, Tiberius Claudius, to begin an affair with her lover Octavian, she seems to have escaped any censure over her conduct. This is evidence not so much of moral probity as of political skill in managing an image skilfully and effectively. None of the ancient sources challenges the portrait of the moral paragon. Ovid extols her sexual purity in the most fulsome of terms. To him, Livia is the Vesta of chaste matrons, who has the morals of Juno and is an exemplar of pudicitia worthy of earlier and morally superior generations. Even after her husband is dead she keeps the marriage couch (pulvinar) pure. (She was, admittedly in her seventies.) 

Valerius Maximus, writing in the Tiberian period, can state that Pudicitia attends the couch of Livia. And the Consolatio ad Liviam, probably not a contemporary work but one at least that tries to reflect contemporary attitudes, speaks of her as worthy of those women who lived in a golden age, and as someone who kept her heart uncorrupted by the evil of her times. Horace’s description is particularly interesting. His phrase unico gaudens marito is nicely ambiguous, for it states that Livia’s husband was preeminent (unicus) but implies the other connotation of the word: that she had the moral superiority of an univira, a woman who has known only one husband, which in reality did not apply to Livia.

Such remarks might, of course, be put down to cringing flattery, but it is striking that not a single source contradicts them. On this one issue, Livia did not hesitate to blow her own trumpet, and she herself asserted that she was able to influence Augustus to some degree because she was scrupulously chaste. She could do so in a way that might even suggest a light touch of humour. Thus when she came across some naked men who stood to be punished for being exposed to the imperial eyes, she asserted that to a chaste woman a naked man was no more a sex object than was a statue. Most strikingly, Dio is able to recount this story with no consciousness of irony. 

Seneca called Livia a maxima femina. But did she hold any real power outside the home? According to Dio, Livia believed that she did not, and claimed that her influence over Augustus lay in her willingness to concede whatever he wished, not meddling in his business, and pretending not to be aware of any of his sexual affairs. Tacitus reflects this when he calls her an uxor facilis (accommodating wife). She clearly understood that to achieve any objective she had to avoid any overt conflict with her husband.

It would do a disservice to Livia, however, to create the impression that she was successful simply because she yielded. She was a skilful tactician who knew how to manipulate people, often by identifying their weaknesses or ambitions, and she knew how to conceal her own feelings when the occasion demanded: cum artibus mariti, simulatione filii bene composita (well suited to the craft of her husband and the insincerity of her son) is how Tacitus morosely characterises that talent. Augustus felt that he controlled her, and she doubtless was happy for him to think so. 

Dio has preserved an account of a telling exchange between Augustus and a group of senators. When they asked him to introduce legislation to control what was seen as the dissolute moral behaviour of Romans, he told them that there were aspects of human behaviour that could not be regulated. He advised them to do what he did, and have more control over their wives. When the senators heard this they were surprised, to say the least, and pressed Augustus with more questions to find out how he was able to control Livia. He confined himself to some general comments about dress and conduct in public, and seems to have been oblivious to his audience’s scepticism.

What is especially revealing about this incident is that the senators were fully aware of the power of Livia’s personality, but recognised that she conducted herself in such a way that Augustus obviously felt no threat whatsoever to his authority. Augustus would have been sensitive to the need to draw a line between Livia’s traditional and proper power within the domus and her role in matters of state. This would have been very difficult. Women in the past had sought to influence their husbands in family concerns. But with the emergence of the domus Augusta, family concerns and state concerns were now inextricably bound together. 

…Although Livia did not intrude in matters that were strictly within Augustus’ domain, her restraint naturally did not bar communication with her husband. Certainly, Augustus was prepared to listen to her. That their conversations were not casual matters and were taken seriously by him is demonstrated by the evidence of Suetonius that Augustus treated her just as he would an important official. When dealing with a significant item of business, he would write things out beforehand and read out to her from a notebook, because he could not be sure to get it just right if he spoke extemporaneously. Moreover, it says something about Livia that she filed all Augustus’ written communications with her.

After his death, during a dispute with her son, she angrily brought the letters from the shrine where they had been archived and read them out, complete with their criticisms of Tiberius’ arrogance. Despite Tacitus’ claim that Livia controlled her husband, Augustus was willing to state publicly that he had decided not to follow her advice, as when he declined special status to the people of Samos. Clearly, he would try to do so tactfully and diplomatically, expressing his regrets at having to refuse her request. On other issues he similarly reached his own decision but made sufficient concessions to Livia to satisfy her public dignity and perhaps Augustus’ domestic serenity. 

On one occasion Livia interceded on behalf of a Gaul, requesting that he be granted citizenship. To Augustus the Roman citizenship was something almost sacred, not to be granted on a whim. He declined to honour the request. But he did make a major and telling concession. One of the great advantages of citizenship was the exemption from the tax (tributum) that tributary provincials had to pay. Augustus granted the man this exemption. When Livia apparently sought the recall of Tiberius from Rhodes after the Julia scandal, Augustus refused, but did concede him the title of legatus to conceal any lingering sense of disgrace.

He was unwilling to promote Claudius to the degree that Livia wished, but he was willing to allow him some limited responsibilities. Thus he was clearly prepared to go out of his way to accede at least partially to his wife’s requests. But on the essential issues he remained very much his own man, and on one occasion he made it clear that as an advisor she did not occupy the top spot in the hierarchy. In ad 2 Tiberius made a second request to return from exile. His mother is said to have argued intensively on his behalf but did not persuade her husband. He did, however, say that he would be willing to be guided by the advice he received from his grandson, and adopted son, Gaius.”

- Anthony A. Barrett, “Wife of the Emperor.” in Livia: First Lady of Imperial Rome

[iamnightduchess]

ReinerxMikasa (ReiKasa) Extremely Kinky A to Z Ask Game (R20+) Headcanon #19

*Update: 24 March 2021

A continuation of this ask & inspired by this original post. Dedicated to @xrocketmanx for their amazing 💖 on my ko-fi page!

(A/N: ‼️WARNING‼️Graphic description of very explicit smut with potentially provocative images ⛔ Please don't click Keep Reading if you're below 20 🙅‍♀️ Sorry kiddos! To my more adult readers, please absorb this post's content with appropriate discretion & maturity)

(In complete Alphabetical Order)

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

People expect Reiner to be the one who would jump off the bed immediately soon after when they’re done but on the contrary, he just loves lying there and holding Mikasa in his arms post-coitus. Although, they do sleep with Mikasa lying on his chest most nights. Mikasa wasn’t used to be held intimately in the first few months of their relationship, so the first time they made love, Reiner gave her the space that she needed before, during and after. It was Mikasa who finally initiated their first cuddle post-coitus after the next several weeks.

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Reiner: Very confident of his physical appearance and in his skin. He really loves everything on and about Mikasa. He loves her body type the way she is - to him, hers is just perfect. But, his most favorite body part of hers he'd like to touch first every time he could is her hands. He just like holding her hands when he wakes up, winding down for the night & even when he's asleep.

Mikasa: This woman, despite having a bombshell athletic figure, still secretly feels insecure of the way she looks. She loves Reiner's biceps the most - at home, she'll sneak a quick peck or a nibble on his biceps when he's doing the dishes or making dinner. She also likes to snuggle up to him on the couch with his arm draped around her shoulders, sometimes until she falls asleep.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… lol)

She...swallows? 🙈 (holy shizz i'm not so sure of this one. Can't think of a suitable answer without being cringey 🤣)

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Reiner & Mikasa once had a quickie inside the changing booth during a beach trip with their friends. Reiner had also went down on Mikasa after dinner at his mum's place, right in Karina's laundry room because he 'accidentally' spilt some wine on her dress & wanted to get her dress cleaned up. He ended up having her as dessert on top of the moving dryer & she left her underwear there by accident.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

They were both not each other’s first lovers but when they first got together, the experience is like being with no other. They discovered new parts & points of not only their significant other’s physical & spiritual strengths but also their own respective preferences as well. Reiner’s quite a ladies’ man during his early years in the military but after a while, he got bored of the game. Meeting Mikasa, he realised he wants to play the game again but this time to win it for good. Mikasa has only been with one boyfriend since college & being with Reiner opened her eyes up to vast possibilities.

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

No, Reiner doesn't do the Military Style despite being a military man 🤣 Missionary & Cow Girl are their standard starting positions. Despite Mikasa being very flexible, which gave them more advantage in attempting the more physically-challenging positions, but the following are their more favorite experimental ones:

Oasis

Basket

Watering Can

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

A little bit of both, no doubt. Reiner has a dorky sense of humor & Mikasa's odd humor makes for a good tension-breaking combination. Their foreplays always begin with a good laugh - with Reiner ghosting his teasing touches on her love handles. Gets her in the mood for some serious sexing every time.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

For both, the carpets matched the drapes. Mikasa tried Brazillian wax once and uhh...Reiner abstained for a week & a half because he prefers her au naturalé 🙈 He said it felt odd from what he's used to haha

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

There are days they’ll just have a quickie if they get in the mood while just chilling, watching TV together after dinner. Before the children came, they would always have slow, intense eye-gazing, tantric, unrushed lovemaking. After the twins came into the picture, they’ll be lucky if they can even have cuddle time together >D Mikasa doesn’t say “I love you” out-loud but showed it in the way she touches & kisses Reiner’s arm when he’s in the kitchen making dinner or when he’s giving the twins a bath.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Oooh...Reiner rarely does this after he dated Mikasa & married her. But he loves getting her to touch herself in the showers. While he watches.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Did i tell you about their muscle kink & how much they love each other’s muscles?? Roleplay :) They like to pretend they’re strangers meeting in a cafe or a hotel bar and later have a ‘pretend one-night stand’ with each other haha It keeps the flame burning! (i posted a oneshot on this.)

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

Home: bedroom, kitchen and in his home office. In the showers too!

They're not one to do it in public but they did have several outdoor trysts on the back of his 4WD while having a romantic night under the stars.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going) haha can't help not including this gif

When Mikasa rubs one of Reiner's thighs, rest assured that his gears will be running. Meanwhile when Reiner nuzzles her neck and started caressing her abs, oh it's an on for her alright.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

⛔ Backdoors are a big N.O ⛔

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

They're both amazing givers... You know what it means: 34 + 35 🤫 Reiner would sometimes initiates when Mikasa's already asleep. Remember that Zoom Conference & online gaming session? Mikasa likes to get back at Reiner when he least expects it.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

Both depending on their moods...quickies are usually fast pounding yet not too rough, Reiner respects Mikasa too much to ever be at risk of hurting her. Usually their lovemaking would be sensual & soul-bonding at the same time.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

Mikasa prefers to wear pants when they ever go for outings, movie trips, hiking trips. But, she wears skirts when they're visiting their families for a reason: smoother access for quickies. The moment she walks down the stairs in a beautiful dress before they head to his mum's or her aunts', Reiner already knows it. They be getting freaky with a quickie later 🙈

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

Reiner & Mikasa are very experimental in the bedroom. Sure, they don’t have frequent lovemaking but when they’re in the mood, fireworks are a guarantee throughout with different new positions ;) Risk-taker? Let’s just say Reiner’s virility and Mikasa’s flexibility provided a lot of perks in their love lives together (and some pregnancy scares too! before they were ready to conceive) Mikasa once gave Reiner head while they're stuck in traffic heading into a road block. He'd finished just before the the car in front of them pass the inspection 🙈

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

Ooh boy, all night haha Rounds: 2 max at one time. Duration: At least 1.5hours X) They both are super fit, athletic people so one can expect their staminas to be nothing less than subpar. *cough* In Canon AU: Max 4 times or 1/3 of the night *winks* because supernatural & acker powers!

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

No, they don't 🙈

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Goes without saying: a lot. Mikasa likes to wear Reiner's tshirts/ dress shirts at home to tease him. While Reiner likes to wear his reading glasses a lot at home because that is one of her biggest turn ons from him.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

Mikasa's the quiet one between the two and the loudest she'd ever been was just a deep, heavy whimper. Reiner's the louder one that sometimes Mikasa would have to smother him when they're having a quickie 🤣

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

Even after more than 20 years together, Reiner and Mikasa still make out like they're teenagers - pretending to sneak around and grinding in hidden, cramped spaces away from their kids.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

Mikasa : Dynamite & powerful grip - thighs and you-know-what (even after 3 kids!)

Reiner : Thicc - ass & this man is packing. He has girth!

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

On a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being the highest: 15 🤣 There's something about getting Mikasa to relax and laugh during their chill time, that just instantaneously revved up their engines at the same time. Reiner is a very tender, romantic person & Mikasa cannot resist it when he starts to tell her how much he loves her & appreciates her. He likes to kiss her hand when they're just hanging out even with friends. Everything Reiner does is genuine & that warms her heart everytime.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Reiner would be the first to go out like a light & Mikasa just likes to rest her head on his chest and hear his beating heart & relaxed breathing. Mikasa thinks Reiner's little snores are adorable. But when they're just cuddling on the couch, Mikasa would fall asleep first & Reiner would carry her to the bed.

-------------------

A/N: I had a lot of fun with this & I hope you'll enjoy it too! Thank you so much for the support & love 💖 xoxo More asks to come!

[readytoclimbtothestars]

Mad Men, or On The Nature of the Deepest Conflict

One of the most revelatory lines on the show is said by a character that was relatively short lived. In the second episode of season 4, Dr Faye Miller tells Don that they both are in the same business, the business of helping people sort out their deepest conflict. When Don asks what that is, she answers “In a nutshell, it all comes down to what I want versus what is expected of me”. As Matthew Weiner, the creator and showrunner, pointed out, advertising does not make you want to do anything, it reminds you to do what you already want to do, that maybe got lost as you did what was expected of you. We see these people, whose job is to remind the public of what they want, as they struggle with the acknowledgment of their own wants and desires, and if and how it is possible to attain them. 

In Don’s case, the irony of his tragedy is that the cage of what is expected of him is one that he created for himself: that of being Don Draper. The suave, charming creative genius with the beautiful wife and the adorable children, and all that comes with it, is something that we see him struggle with constantly. He chose to go down that road, to erase Dick Whitman, and yet at the same time we repeatedly see that he didn’t really leave him behind. Time and time again in the later seasons we hear him voice the idea that nobody really knows him, and thus nobody really loves him. One of the deepest connections he has is with Anna Draper; the comfort he can take in her saying that she knows everything about him, and still loves him, is a comfort nobody else can give him, especially not his wife. He saw that, as soon as Betty learned who he really was, she didn’t want to have anything else to do with him, as he says to Anna. She maybe once loved Don, but she would never love Dick. So, when Anna dies, Don tells Peggy that the only one who ever really knew him died. The deep want of being truly known, and thus truly loved is something that he can never really acknowledge, as it would make the paper castle he built crumble to the ground; so he buries it under the desire for women, alcohol, cigarettes, excesses that are obviously never enough. Tormented by this conflict, he continues to self-destruct up until the point when he hears a stranger voice the same preoccupation of being truly invisible.  He embraces him, apparently feeling a communion he never knew before. Maybe he finally find the freedom to want what he wants and let go of what is expected of Don Draper, the brilliant creative director. 

Pete Campbell, the privileged Wasp, has already defied the expectations of what is expected of him by going into advertising and not into banking. The idea of what is expected of him, or at least what he thinks is expected of him, contribute to his constant unhappiness and impatience, always feeling he’s not being given what he is due. For the first two season, we might say that he feels Trudy is what is expected of him, and Peggy is what he wants. The scene where he describes how he would go hunting, and then let his woman cook what he killed, is the expression of all the desires he feels he is denied, exactly because of what is expected of him. When Beth Dawes asks him what is wrong with him (even though the woman who asks him has just had electro-shock therapy and she thinks he is talking about a friend), he says that after their affair he realized everything he already had was not right. He did what was expected of him and didn’t get anything that he wanted, and now he doesn’t even know what he would want, if he could. His constant struggle with his dissatisfaction can only be resolved when he realizes that there doesn’t have to be a struggle at all. He married Trudy because it was expected of him, but in the end, he realizes that what is expected of him and what he wants don’t necessarily have to be separated. Trudy loved him when he wasn’t all that loveable, and she stood by his side, even when they weren’t married anymore. He always felt that his coworker both wanted and expected him to fail, but in the end he finally gets the recognition he wanted, with the offer of an new job. He stops obsessing over what is expected of him and what is owed to him, and realizes that he can have what he wants, that he is “entitled to more”, as he says to Trudy when he wins her back.

Peggy Olson always went against the idea of what was expected of her. In the first season she is expected to be attractive for the man in the office, and she gets fat (even though there’s also another reason for that). Constantly defying expectations, her journey to establishing herself in the workplace takes her through all the season, and its conclusion with Stan’s declaration and his kiss is not a symbol of returning to what is expected of her, but of getting all that she wanted in the order she wanted it in. Having gone through some pretty traumatic experiences, such as giving away her child, she still is one of the characters with one of the most positive arcs and best endings. She was probably the boldest of them all in declaring what she wanted instead of what was expected of her, and she was rewarded for it in the end. Her relationship with Don was one of the purest things on that show, and it’s not a case that in the end she has a satisfying ending with all of the main characters, be it skating through an empty office as Roger Sterling plays the piano, receiving a cactus and a well-deserved acknowledgment from Pete Campbell, a job proposition from Joan, or one of the three final phone calls from Don. Peggy saw what was expected of her, was not satisfied with it, and went after what she wanted instead. 

Roger Sterling, the rich man who never had to work for anything, didn’t have any expectations to live up to. Nobody expected anything of him, and that can be as damaging as too many expectations. Nobody takes him seriously, not his coworkers, not his wives, not even his daughter, constantly disappointed by him. And he doesn’t either, sailing through life feeling that the less is expected of him, the less he has to offer (except for drinks and witty remarks), and the less he knows what he wants. He seemed to be imprisoned by the lack of expectations just as much as other characters are imprisoned by the abundance of them. In the end, it seems that it took more than 60 years, and meeting the age-appropriate Marie Calvet, to find someone that expected something from him that was not his money nor his wit, and to realise that he could, and he did, want to live up to the expectations.

Joan Holloway knows what is expected of her, and she knows how to use it to her advantage. She needs to be attractive for the men in the office, and she needs to find a man, get married and stop working. As the series goes on, she starts to consciously realise that the expectations do not correspond to her wants. The idea of the perfect marriage is shattered by Greg, and she starts to concentrate on the career she might have, probably (even though she wouldn’t say it out loud) inspired by Peggy’s trajectory, and how this secretary from nowhere refused to listen to Joan’s wisdom and made her own way in a men’s world. So she starts to make her own way too, fighting against the obstacles of what is expected of a woman like her. By the end, she is so far from who she was at the beginning, that she doesn’t hesitate long before choosing her new career over Richard, in a final acknowledgment of the distance between the position she is expected to be in and the position she wants, because, as she tells Richard “she can’t just turn off that part of herself” anymore.

Betty Draper is the rarity among these characters; the one who did all that was expected of her, and the one that arguably got the worst ending. Her mother taught her that what was expected of her was being beautiful, and she was. Yet, with all her beauty, her perfect life with the perfect husband and the sweet children, she is profoundly unhappy. In season 5, when she fails to meet the only expectation anybody has ever had of her, she can’t bear to have even her husband look at her. She spends a life trying to be beautiful and proper, and she is still trying at the end, as her letter to her only daughter details the instructions for the perfect funeral, the funeral someone of her standing is supposed to have. She lived with the profound unhappiness of knowing she was never meant to be more than an ornament on a man's arm, but always refused to acknowledge it, because she knew no other way of being than being what other expected.  

In one interview, Matthew Weiner describes advertising people as “The mirror makers”, referring to the title of a book on advertising. All of these characters, busy as they were making mirrors for the public, didn’t realise they were building mirrors for themselves, and so many of them that they couldn’t find the one that reflected their real image anymore, and what that real image wanted.

[theliterateape]

Why Can't We Just Share the Last Slice of Pizza?

by Don Hall

I had the first TV dinner in possibly forty-years a few weeks ago and it was kind of incredible.

Sure, it was a Hungry Man® chicken and mashed potatoes concoction and had more sodium than a bucket of sea water but it was still oddly delicious and covered in a gravy comprised of nostalgia and gluten. I didn't buy the frozen tray in a cardboard box. No, my wife has, in the pandemic, taken to rebranding her self as a 'resource locator' otherwise known as a 'dumpster diver.'

It sounds odd but I'm convinced that when the Second Great Depression takes hold, I'm married to the most resourceful and extraordinary partner on the planet. She finds brand new shoes, genuine Shriner fez's, and food. Cans of food thrown away. Expired bags of pretzels. And still-frozen TV dinners.

The nostalgia of consuming this marvel of the fifties, the fully-prepared dinner, ready to heat and eat in front of the television comes from my youth. In terms of economic status there were times in my earliest days when we were 'poor'. Now, mom wouldn't let us use that word to describe our situation. She preferred to say we were 'broke'. That distinction was my first lesson in reframing your perspective to fuel optimism.

Whichever it was called it was common practice growing up to eat TV dinners and mom would cut each portion in half (even the weird lava-like brownie or apple-crunch) so we had a meal the next day as well.

When we couldn't afford a Swanson-manufactured meal, she'd make what she called 'Spanish Rice'—Minute rice, a green pepper, tomato sauce, and Tabasco—another rebranding that certainly made this odd and rough cultural appropriation seem both unsavory and about as white as it could be.

Mom worked hard. My recollection was that she was often working several jobs and doing the best she could to keep us in clothing and food with a roof over our heads despite the fact that the minimum wage at the time was $1.60. She also had a way of reframing things so that, at no point, did we feel like we were missing out on much.

On top of that raising me could not have been easy.

We moved around a lot so I was always the new kid in school. Even with teachers and administrators, there is a tribal imperative to put the new members in their place, establishing the rules of behavior and assigning the slot for the newest members. I was never much of a conformist so this dance of going along to get along didn't take. All of which made my struggling mother's life one of battling the powers that be to protect her less than socialized monkey-son.

There are stories. The time I was forbidden to speak in class so I drew pictures of a butt and a butt pooping to silently curse some kids out. The incident of my failing to stay put during classes and finding escape routes during lunch that caused an epic battle as the Vice Principal decided to ban me from the Free Lunch program out of pique and spite. The summer when I was caught beating up Cub Scouts because they wouldn't let me join due to my mother's financial inability to buy me the requisite uniform.

There's an image I have in my head of my tiny mother almost coming to blows with a much larger woman because the woman called us "poor white trash." We were white but my mother wouldn't abide her children embracing the twin ideas of us being poor or being trash.

“No, Donald. You cannot just eat the last piece of pizza. You need to learn to share.”

In Chicago there's a thing called 'dibs.' 

Sometimes it snows big and the streets are plowed but the parking spots are all but obliterated by small mountains of snow. The diligent among residents get their shovels out of the garage and clear out the snow from in front of their homes so that they will then have a place to park. They have done the work, so they feel entitled to the benefits of that labor.

The problem lies with those who do not shoulder in and remove the snow yet still feel entitled to park on public streets that they, after all is said and done, have paid for with their tax dollars.

Thus 'dibs.' The shoveler decides to put a lawn chair or card table or statue of the Virgin Mary in the spot they have labored over so when they come home from work, the spot has been saved for them and them alone.

It all sounds silly until you look at from an economic perspective. There are more cars in Chicago than there are legal places to park. It's a fact. The demand for spaces is greater than the supply. Parking tickets cost drivers thousands of dollars a year and the 'ticket dicks' are as numerous as the homeless. When it snows and the plows come through there are suddenly even less spaces than there were the night before.

Given the city will clear the roads but not the curbs the solution for half the population is to carve out their own space and the other half parks wherever they can. Those who take the spots but do not shovel are capitalizing on the labor of those who do and it pisses them off.

“No, Donald. You cannot just eat the last piece of pizza. You need to learn to share.”

I was thirteen. I was growing. I ate like a fucking locust with the table manners of the Cookie Monster. There it was—the last piece. I wanted it. My sister was small and weak. What was she gonna do?

“Offer your sister the last piece.”

“…do you want the last…”

“YES!” she barked and shoved the whole piece in her mouth.

“That’s NOT FAIR! We coulda split it! That’s not sharing, that’s theft!”

That’s Capitalism. Cut throat. Haves and Have Nots. It is simply not in human nature to share. In all of recorded history there has always been, in every society and civilization, when approached with abundance, a small percentage of those at the top and a much larger percentage at the bottom. Call it what you want—winners and losers, the One Percent and the Ninety-Nine (great name for a prog rock band), Bourgeoisie and Proletariat—it all amounts to the same dynamic.

It occurs to me that in the fight to get people fired from their jobs for tweeting arguably terrible things the double standard in place is exceptionally capitalist. On the ‘cancel culture’ side is the idea that people should be held accountable for their words in the world and, if they cross the line, then employers should fire them. On the other side, these same people will scream that an employer who decides that a kid wearing the costume of his culture or using grammatically incorrect language cannot be fired.

Both are individuals putting themselves and their ability to express themselves at the center of a business that has little to do with the individual. Everyone should have the right to their own specific identity as they see fit but no one should have the right to exert themselves above a business that pays them a salary in order to center things on them.

It’s frustrating. Economic class is the true great divider in the world. Because it is so ingrained in the human experience to live with those who have the cash and many who do not, economic class seems an unassailable unfairness. It’s an immovable and undeniable trait in societies of every stripe. 

The landlord who leverages herself to get loans to buy an apartment building, fix it up to be livable, and rents it out to people has shoveled the snow. The tenant who claims it is unfair to be evicted from that apartment building because they cannot pay the rent is parking wherever there is a spot.

And it pisses everybody off.

No, it is neither race nor gender that is the engine of inequity. It’s almost entirely economic class.

Since the existence of class is so ever-present and unmoving, we focus on other things to change society. The battle to curb billionaires has never really taken hold despite the obvious problems they present. So we focus on race, we focus on gender. We spend our energy ignoring that most of inequity that exists between humans is about economics and find as many differences between those of us on the Have Not side as we can.

Why is it so hard to get rid of billionaires and that pernicious One Percent? Because we all want what they have. We all want the last piece of pizza and the parking space. We all want the luxury of luxurious things. We resent the things we'd have to do to get that luxury so instead we tear at anyone and everyone to gain whatever slice we can.

No one wants to shovel out that goddamned parking space. Trust me. In thirty years of living in Chicago, I shoveled tons and tons of snow to get that coveted spot. I never did the 'dibs' thing but I empathize with the fury at someone taking that spot I've labored over. 

Study after study indicates that it is economic class that holds us back far more than race or gender but the road to power is through a perception of grievance these days and the only evil when presenting poverty as the problem is human nature. Men and women can be demonized. That game has been around for-freaking-ever. African Americans can demonize whites (but not black Americans because African immigrants in America do, on average, far better economically than whites). We can go the People of Color vs White People but, in order to make that case, Asians have to be ignored or made white-adjacent. 

No, it is neither race nor gender that is the engine of inequity. It’s almost entirely economic class. Not that acknowledging that will change anything.

The utopian ideals of Socialism and even Communism sound better than Capitalism. The problem is the humans are built from the DNA to compete. Compete for resources, for sexual partners, for jobs, for shelter. Competition is as instinctual as our desire to procreate and Capitalism is a competitive sport. Throughout history, progress toward learning to truly share that slice of pizza is slow because it goes against our very nature. Not impossible and thus worth the effort but fucking S-L-O-W.

A friend recently posited that maybe I have gained some wisdom in my aging. He then switched and decided that maybe what we think is wisdom is just age plus exhaustion. Whichever it is, I have learned to share. I've also learned that in order to share, I have to assume my offer of the last piece of pie is going to be taken and stuffed into my sister's mouth. I can be wounded by the gesture, I can even be annoyed by it. I have to let it go.

I'm comfortable with the concept of enough. Meaning, if I have enough to share, I have enough to survive. Even if it's only enough of my mom's Spanish Rice.

There will be those, always those, who are so imbued with the need to compete that there is never enough. There will be those, perpetually those, who have not had enough and are willing to tear it out of the mouths of those who have.

And there will always be those, unendingly those, who are fine parking in the open spot knowing that someone else put in the work and not caring enough about anyone else that they take up the space and benefit from the labor without contributing.

On the best days, I don't run into them.

[lebontonrp]

                                            MISS GEORGINA FLEET

INFO

age: 24. status: debutante. social ranking: 3. number of seasons including the current one: 1. family: the fleets of london. place in family: second born child and only daughter of mr. richard fleet. faceclaim: anya taylor - joy.

ABOUT

weaknesses: self - serving, guileful, compulsive liar, envious. strengths: enterprising, malleable, patient, sensible.

a hearty babe with the palest of hair, georgina abigail fleet was born on a particularly nippy november evening, with winds that howled as loudly as she had upon arriving into the world, if the gossiping midwife was to be believed. an unexpected but welcomed addition to the fleet household, she was to be but another piece in the grand plan that stirred within the ambitious mind of richard fleet, a budding businessman, and thus, she was raised accordingly. bellies had to be tied so that she might receive fine education and finer companionship, instructed in etiquette and ushered into pianoforte lessons that just so happened to be attended by the daughters of the heaviest pockets in london. while her mornings were then spent in the company of articulate young girls with silk ribbons and pristine - white socks, her evenings were filled with heavy labor ( or as heavy as her father would permit for his only daughter ), straining her eyes under the flickering candlelight as she read through the news reports in review for errors and then formed the types on presses, fingers stained with warm ink.

though she was given innocent reading material deemed appropriate for her age and gender, she was also exposed to the truths in the paper which she devoured greedily as she aided in the print house, squirreling the knowledge and building personal reports based off the news until she developed her own penchant for writing, however fanciful her attempts were. balanced between two worlds and forced to play imposter among better bred ladies, georgina soon fell into the joys of journalism and story - telling as a means to express her true self, bettering with practice much to the displeasure of her maid, who often wished for her to get her head out of the books and into the embroidery hoop. as the fleet newspaper gained more interest, leading to larger orders and more presses, her hours as little assistant to her father grew shorter and shorter until she was left in the company of the women in the house ─ the print houses were deemed inappropriate for a young woman of her caliber and her hands were now not allowed to feel the weight of labor for fear that she might develop callouses.

to reflect the success of the newspaper, georgina was soon sent to a preparatory school for girls, where she was expected to be molded into a proper lady, worthy of a great match upon her season’s debut. once afforded the freedoms of girlhood with only her mother and maid to mind her affronts, she was forced to settle into the quiet of the countryside though she often lamented on the lack of excitement in her letters back home. her only reprieve had been the weekly issues of the paper that came with an adoring note from home. though her interest in the outside world was seen as odd for a blossoming teen, she excelled in the studies of languages and household management, and her childhood lessons in the pianoforte were not for naught, making for a well - rounded young woman whose only vice was her fondness for the written word and the ink that was ever - present beneath her nails. easy - going in nature, georgina made fast friends with the other girls in school. her penchant for tight - lipped observation, seemingly disinterested in petty squabbles and fleeting rivalries yet enduringly patient to plights of a teary - eyed maiden meant that she became trusted confidante to many, betraying their secrets to the confines of her diary alone ─ while seemingly innocent in adolescence gossiping, what she now holds over a few of the ton’s ladies may unsettle some seats, though what she plans to do with these secrets remains to be seen.

returning to london at eighteen, as a fresh - faced graduate from preparatory school, she had been eager to find a place within the print house, hoping to resume dutiful assistance as she once did, and for a while, georgina had been indulged in her interests out of the affection in her father’s heart, allowed to write pieces for the gossip column and even a singular short story for the children under an anonymous moniker, so long as she promised to keep refining her appearance and personality in preparation for her first season. yet she had settled into a comfortable routine, growing confident in her literary abilities and, in response to this sudden surge of interest, it was advised that her ambitions be tempered, lest she invited ruin to the family. as her prime approached, sculpting her body into that of a woman and softening her features until she was as beautiful as her mother was rumored to be at her age, the young fleet daughter found herself slowly but certainly guided away from the inkwell and paper, pleas falling on shuttered ears.

though she has been prepared to enter the season from childhood, with an emphasize placed on a need to find a nobly bred husband to further elevate the fleet family in london society, georgina cannot help but feel like a fraud in soft silk, even as she plays to the games of courtship by instinct, feigning demure ignorance whilst concealing the bite of annoyance in her smile. with sensibility bred into her by necessity, she understands the sacrifices that have been made in her name, all so that she might reach higher than any fleet had before her, secured in the knowledge that while affection and wealth were fleeting elements, a noble title would always earn her respect from the masses. yet unlike in her childhood, when she had accepted the demands of her family without complain, rebelling only through the written word, the debutante finds herself growing resentful at what she must do to ensure the future of the family ─ while she is certain that her family loves her, she cannot help but feel used, especially if she is to be sold like cattle to the wealthiest titled bidder. falling into old habits of deception and trading secrets, georgina grows envious of her peers who are able to enter the season in pursuit of love without the qualms of wealth or status and, while she remains the very image of long - suffering duty, she cannot help but wonder if there is another path for her beyond the one that had been decided for her since birth.

though she had been young when the fleet newspaper was first founded, georgina remembers the struggles of her family vividly and these memories are the reason that she suffers through the preparations for her first season ─ much has been sacrificed so that she might have the best possible future and she feels as though she owes it to her family to do well. yet her exposure to the news and the power of the written word has opened her mind to endless possibilities. temporary indulgence in her literary pursuits only seems to have created a growing hunger for independence that her family now tries to stifle and while she stomachs their demands, playing the part of doe - eyed maiden whilst passing a promising smile to the right suitor, she cannot help but yearn for freedom ─ to live, to write and to love.

from the ages of nineteen to twenty one, she was permitted to write for the fleet newspaper under an alias. choosing the name ❛ george ❜, she has penned several pieces for the gossip column, remarking on fashions and real estate, betrothals and marriages, as well as pregnancies, with secrets learn through her circle of friends. she has also written a short story for children, published in the paper, which happened to be her last submission before her writings were halted by her family.

CONNECTIONS

connection 1 : ( preparatory school mates ) ─ from the ages of thirteen to eighteen, georgina was sent to a girl’s preparatory school in the countryside, where she made many easy friends and some close sister - like bonds. these would be young women, close to her age, who trusted her with their secrets as young girls are prone to do. while some may have kept correspondence with her after graduation, there are a few with more personal secrets that georgina was privy to knowing and these women would seek to keep her quiet, either through threat or bribery.

connection 2 : ( mentor or guardian ) ─ now that georgina is entering her first season in the ton, she is armed with uncertainties that she is careful not to display in public. however, there is one person, likely an older female who has been through several seasons herself or has already been married, that has taken the young fleet daughter under her wing. whether this is done as a favor to georgina’s father or because they have met and mingled prior to this or because they simply see promise in her, this person has made georgina into their little pet project for the season and, if she is not escorted by her own family, she is likely seen in the circles of this person.

         … this character is penned by annie / @georginafleet

Main  |  Full Plot  |  Open Characters  |  App Form  |  Apply  |  Ask?

[camillemontespan]

the interview he walked out of [drake walker]

@moonlightgem7​ @jovialyouthmusic​ @sirbeepsalot​ @fromthedeskofpaisleybleakmore​ @burnsoslow​ @pug-bitch​ @ibldw-main​ @emichelle​ @dcbbw​ @katedrakeohd​ @mskaneko​ @gardeningourmet​ @notoriouscs​ @pedudley​ @of-course-i-went-to-hartfeld​

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

These are the things I know about Drake Walker. He is half American. He met his wife, Camille Montespan, at court - she was a commoner taking part in the infamous suitor competition to win the King's hand in marriage. Little awkward, I must say. Drake was awarded the title of the Duke of Valtoria. He now shares two children with Camille, his daughters Lily and Luna. In the space of seven years, he has come a long way from the commoner at court.

Having read through my colleague's interviews with him, he seems friendly and has settled into his role as Duke quite well. A surprise considering he is not of noble blood and was known as the King's best friend, riding along on his tailcoats.

Duke Magazine used to be very selective in who they interviewed. I used to meet Dukes who have inherited their title through generations and Dukes who attended prestigious boarding schools. Now, I meet a commoner who can trace half his family back to Texas and who openly admits that he hates dinner table etiquette.

We meet in a hotel suite. He looks, like everyone says, not like a typical Duke. Instead of wearing expensive designer clothes, he is dressed in a dark blue Henley shirt, brown leather jacket and dark jeans with boots. He looks like an urban dad on the school run. 'Suits have never been my scene,' he tells me, almost bashful.

Drake is perfectly nice. He shakes my hand, says its good to meet me and asks if I want a coffee. So far, polite. Good first impression. He's been taught well.

I ask him how he finds being a Duke, having been in the job for seven years now. He now sports a beard, as opposed to his clean shaven face when he first came to public attention, and he has laughter lines around his eyes. He was twenty-eight when he became the Duke of Valtoria and newly married. He smiles and settles back, relaxed.

'I'm actually really enjoying it,' he says. 'I've found my feet, after what seemed like an age. Mind Over Matter is doing well, it's making a difference. I'm making a difference. Everything is great.'

Ha. I repeat that quote back at him jokingly and he turns red. 'Ah, yeah,' he says. 'The famous quote.. Well, it's true though.'

What has he learned in the seven years of being the Duke of Valtoria?

'God, I've learned a lot,' he muses. 'Just to try not to repeat my counterparts mistakes. Be the difference. And also that I am a really overprotective dad - I didn't realise how anal I could be about parenting.'

He doesn't talk like typical nobles. It's.. disconcerting.

I wonder if he has anything else in the pipeline aside from Mind Over Matter. He shakes his head. 'Not yet. Right now, the charity is my baby. I want to focus on it completely, make it the best it can be.'

Mind Over Matter has somehow managed to prove its critics wrong. I'll admit I was one of those naysayers who viewed the campaign as a glorified Boys Weekend, casting doubt over the campaign before it even began. I tell him this and he bristles.

'I don't get how people could be negative about something that is so positive,' he tells me. 'Men get emotional too. If women are feeling under pressure they may go out with friends or to a spa, and people call it self care. So why can't Mind Over Matter be viewed in the same light?'

I have to argue that Cordonia is traditional in the sense that home life is important. Husbands being away from home for days on end so that they can hike up mountains and kayak seems neglectful to their wives. Family values are the most important thing in Cordonian society.

Drake eyes me. 'I can tell you now that my wife does not feel in any way neglected. She encourages it actually. And we raise our family in the best way we can.'

Even with his justification, he is still a Duke with responsibilities who chooses to go away for long weekends to take part in Mind Over Matter. This is completely different compared to previous nobles I've met who attend palace balls and polo matches.

'I want to be a present Duke,' he explains, clearly tired of having to explain himself. 'The campaign gives me a chance to meet all types of men from all over Cordonia. I'm not just meeting Valtorians, I'm meeting everyone, and that, in my opinion, is a big deal. I want to be there for everyone, not just a select few.'

Drake clears his throat. 'Let's move on.'

We do. Does he ever feel like he has won the lottery whenever he thinks about his life?

'Very much so,' he answers. 'I often get imposter syndrome you know? Like I don't deserve any of this. I've got Camille, I've got my daughters.. I thank my lucky stars everyday.'

Drake has had to prove that he is worthy of the title of Duke more than most of his counterparts. He has dealt with a slew of negative press asking if he is up to the job.

'It was a learning curve,' he admits. 'I didn't know what to expect when me and Camille were installed at Valtoria and suddenly were given titles. We both felt like frauds which is why we've worked so hard to make a difference in Cordonia.'

They have certainly shaken things up. They are the first noble couple to pioneer their own campaigns. They talk about mental health. They advocate for women's equality. Their modern outlook is at odds with the traditional nature of Cordonia. Many have criticised them, saying that they should stick to what they're best at, which is supporting their duchy. I will admit I was one of them. It's not like Drake and Camille are qualified doctors or therapists. What can they possibly change that a professional can't?

Drake's eyes widen at this question. 'I think that's so narrow minded,' he says. 'I'm sorry, I don't mean to be disrespectful, but it is. Everyone struggles. Just because I'm not a doctor doesn't mean I can't help or offer support. I use my platform for good. I don't want to show off wealth or my title. When I lived at court, I would see so many nobles who were arrogant and looked down on those who weren't born with the same privileges as they have. I'm different, Camille is different. We want to get to know the public and hear about their issues. Why even have this role if we can't help?'

I am about to speak but he bulldozes through.

'We're changing things from the inside out,' Drake explains. 'We were the first nobles to reintroduce the concept of Open Houses, which is when our duchy can visit our house and talk to us personally about any issues they need help with. We don't shy away from the public, we actively encourage them to speak to us. We work hard to shape Cordonia into a more modern and equal place. I want the future to be different for my little girls. I want them to be happy, to have opportunity and to feel they can do anything they set their mind to. I want them to feel safe.'

Safety. Drake obtained a restraining order against the paparazzi when daily stalking became too much for the family. It means photographers aren't allowed within 12 feet of them and if photos are published of their children, pixels are placed on top of their faces, obscuring the image.

I understand that Drake is the ultimate family man so a restraining order was not a surprise. But what I can't get my head around is why do Drake and Camille, who constantly say their privacy is important, take part in magazine interviews like this one?

'Because we have things we want to promote,' he answers dryly. 'I don't do these interviews because I'm desperate for attention.'

I've hit a nerve. I press on, suggesting that they can't have it both ways. Many journalists were incredulous when Drake and Camille drew red lines around their private and public image.

'Look, we chose to protect our family,' Drake says. 'I think if any man was in my position, he would do the exact same thing. Camille and I may have accepted our roles but we genuinely want our kids to have as normal a childhood as possible. So if that means no paparazzi, perfect.'

Despite the restraining order doing its job now, there are many pictures out there that were released before it came into action. Pictures such as holiday photos of the couple, particularly Camille in a bikini. Everyone knows what she looks like scantily clad and it lead to men's magazines calling her Cordonia's Sexiest Duchess. How does it feel to be married to Cordonia's most admired woman?

Drake's jaw becomes set when I ask this. 'I feel lucky to be married to her because of who she is. She's amazing. But she's not an object or a trophy, that's completely demeaning.'

And yet, column inches are dedicated to how to achieve her bikini body. People can't get enough. How does Camille feel about that, I wonder?

'Can we not talk about my wife's body, please?' he asks. 'Not appropriate.'

The images are out there though. Everyone has an opinion. Drake and Camille are more like celebrities than nobles, which I think is why everyone is so interested in them. When bikini pictures become part of the news cycle, Cordonia goes crazy. Plus he can't deny that she is a stunning woman. She has the whole package.

'Camille is more than just her looks,' Drake says. 'She is fiercely intelligent, kind and the best person for the role of Duchess of Valtoria. If you have to mention her, talk about her work for women's equality in the workplace. Or that she visits children's hospitals at Christmas time with Santa. Talk about those things but don't talk about those magazines that print pictures of her body, just don't. She's worth so much more than that.'

I steer the conversation away and ask about the two of them as parents. Drake has admitted he is over protective. Is Camille the same?

'Yes but less so,' he tells me. 'I think it's just in my nature to always want to protect my family. I protected Camille when she first came to court. Camille tries to calm me down but even she has her moments when she worries if Lily is eating enough vegetables or Luna is sleeping well. But that's normal. Every parent doubts their abilities, you just gotta believe that you're doing a good job and raising them right.'

I wonder if that is due to Drake losing his father as a teenager and Camille losing her parents to drugs. Perhaps they are trying to over compensate for their broken backgrounds. But Drake abruptly stands up, shaking his head.

'No, I'm not continuing this anymore,' he tells me. 'I'm done.'

I apologise and say we won't discuss Camille again but Drake is adamant that he won't sit back down. 'You brought up my wife's parents. By all means, ask about my dead father and my abandonment issues but don't even try to discuss my wife's parents without her present.'

I try to explain. Her background is so vague, her PR team have tried their best to keep the details private but we all know her parents struggled with drug addiction. Camille will politely answer one or two questions and then steer the conversation away, which I always feel is a cop out. Unlike her husband, she does not go into too much detail about her struggles.

Drake bolts up from his seat. I stand up to try to placate him but the Duke of Valtoria won't be calmed. 'This is over,' he tells me firmly. 'I'm fucking done. It is not my place to answer questions about my wife or her parents. That is HER story.'

I try to stop him from leaving but he is quick to pull on his jacket and mutter swear words under his breath.

I ask him to sit down so we can start over but he turns to me, his eyes filled with fury. 'Camille is the strongest woman I know,' he hisses. 'She has been through hell and she's come through the other side brighter and stronger than ever. She makes a difference and she loves Cordonia. She genuinely cares. Make THAT your fucking headline.'

He storms out of the room. He's walked out of this interview, creating a headline that is now out of his control.

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

Drake slammed the front door and stormed through the hallway. He felt sheer rage.

Camille rushed out of the living room and stopped him from entering. 'Baby, what's happened?' she asked. 'The girls are in the living room, be calm.'

Drake sighed and gestured for her to follow him into his study. He crumpled down onto his chair and placed his head in his hands.

'I lost it,' he muttered. 'I walked out of the interview. I know that's so unprofessional and will look really, really bad but jesus, Camille, the stuff he was asking!'

Camille knelt down in front of him and placed her hands on his knees. 'Drake, look at me,' she murmured.

Drake looked at her reluctantly.

'Whatever he asked, whatever is printed, will not be the end of the world,' Camille told him, her voice steady. 'Negative press just comes with the territory. We can rise above it.'

Drake clenched her hands tightly. 'He mentioned your parents,' he choked. 'He asked about your bikini photos. He spoke about you like you weren't worth anything. I felt so angry on your behalf, Camille. So angry. The thing is, he wasn't doing it to get a rise out of me, he was doing it because he wanted a particular angle for his damn article.'

Camille closed her eyes. 'People are going to ask about my parents, Drake,' she said. 'It's expected.'

'He suggested we over compensate on our parenting because of our backgrounds,' Drake spat. 'Complete dick.'

Camille placed her hand on his cheek, her brown eyes boring into his. 'It's okay,' she whispered.

'I'll order them to pull the article!' Drake burst out. 'I'll make sure they don't print it. All it will do is get other journalists asking you shit about your parents and I don't want you to endure that humiliation. I'll threaten, I'll sue, I'll do anything to keep this article from reaching newsstands -'

Camille pressed her finger on his lips, silencing him. 'Baby, breathe,' she said quietly. 'Breathe.'

Drake looked down at the floor and exhaled. 'I just want to protect you.'

'And you do,' Camille told him. 'You always protect me. But Drake, you can't sue every newspaper that dares to ask difficult questions. It's part of the job.'

'Yeah but you shouldn't have to be subjected to it!' Drake shouted. 'It's not fair!'

'It's what we signed up for,' Camille whispered. 'Media poking their noses into our business and lives. We knew this would happen.'

Drake's hands were tight on hers. 'I don't want them to decide your story,' he whispered, his voice cracking. 'I don't want them to define you.'

Camille kissed him softly. 'They won't. I'm Camille Walker.'

Drake smiled weakly. 'Camille Montespan to the press.'

Camille shook her head. 'Formality. I'm Camille Walker, Drake. I'm your wife and the mother of your children. I'm already defined.'

Drake let out a shakey breath and pulled her into him, wrapping his arms around her. 'I love you,' he murmured.

'I love you too,' she replied. Drawing back, she sat back on her heels and gave him a serious look, her chin raised. 'I'm not upset. Let them print it. They can print all the shit they want but that doesn't make any of it true. You know who I am, I know who you are. That's all that matters.'

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

A few weeks later, the article was published. It was a short article due to the fact that Drake walked out mid interview. Drake didn't read it, instead choosing to look the other way when he saw the magazine on news stands.

Until he was forced to look at the magazine cover which Camille had framed and put up on a wall of her study.

'Why have you framed this?' he asked, mortified. 'It's embarrassing.'

Camille wrapped her arms around him and looked up at the picture. 'I don't see it as embarrassing,' she explained softly. 'I see it as my husband standing up for his wife and family.'

Drake blushed and squeezed her hand. 'I can't believe you framed it.'

Camille chuckled. 'Well, you do look pretty hot. It's nice seeing your younger self.'

'Do you not like my beard?!' Drake asked, pretending to be offended.

Camille giggled and kissed him gently. 'You age like fine wine, Drake Walker.'

Drake smiled and looked at the magazine cover properly, this time without shame.

[ms-demeanor]

Thanks for answering my ask, but I wasn’t really asking about the actions of the black bloc/violent protestors at a given protest. What I want to know is if this actually works in any larger sense - cause it seems mostly like it’s just a weird kind of performance, gesturing at full armed rebellion but never going there and never actually effecting change. And like, I accept that I’m a fool for wanting nonviolent change, but I’m not sure the presented alternative does much better?

Now, it’s not really discussed in that article (only vaguely touched on when they mention that the anarchists showed up early for the counterprotest) but based on the timing of certain tweets and calls to action it’s pretty clear that the march fizzled because Andrew Aglin couldn’t get people to show up when there was already a large group of counterprotesters who had made it clear they were not going to respond to violence with nonviolence.

Alt-right protests and marches before Charlottesville didn’t have such clear uniforms and tactics - the khakis-and-polos along with sticks and shields are a fairly clear (to me) indication that the white supremacist organizers saw black bloc as a tactic worth preparing against.

The KKK didn’t fear the hippies. They feared the Black Panthers.

In 2017 20 states saw bills to limit protesting put before their legislatures. Thankfully not many of them passed, but a few did.

These bills varied in their terms, a few naming masks and facial coverings as being a problem but most of them focused on something else: blocking roads.

THAT’S the tactic that these states think is too extreme - blocking the road.

You know, that thing those protestors in Hong Kong were doing. That thing that a bunch of folks online are praising for being “polite” and “classy” and that Hong Kong’s police commissioner is calling a riot.

Here’s the thing, if you’re asking “does black bloc” work you’ve kind of got to ask “does any protest work?”

What does protest accomplish?

About six million people marched at the Women’s Marches in January of 2017. Did they accomplish their goals?

I’m going to say, just from the rollbacks on trans protections and widespread bills that erode abortion protections, “no.”

Now, that doesn’t mean that their mission is complete and that they didn’t hit the mark and decided that “eh, one day of pussy hats was good enough.” They’re still working.

But is it doing anything?

That’s really hard to say.

Also, I’d like to point out that while the Women’s March was praised for its nonviolence commentators were quick to point out how rude and lewd their signs were and how much trash was left behind.

Which is why a lot of anarchists react to the question of “does black bloc accomplish anything” as a form of tone policing that’s almost meaningless.

Black bloc forms up and protects nonviolent protesters and carries injured people away from riot cops. Someone punches a white supremacist and it becomes a meme. All antifa are violent thugs, they’re the real fascists because they want to limit speech through violence.

Black Lives Matter and Occupy Wall Street and Labor Day marches block freeways to protest violence and inequality. They part for ambulances, someone breaks a window. These leftists don’t have any respect for people who are just trying to live their lives and get to work; they care more about burning trashcans and breaking windows than they do about the workers they claim to protect - what if it was a black woman who owned that starbucks that they damaged in their riot, did they ever think of that?

The women’s march is full of speakers telling deeply personal stories, individuals reaching out and offering care and comfort to one another, and even a few stories about how well these protestors can get along with the police; we’re not so different after all! But wow, a lot of their posters had genitals or sexual slogans on them, and they left behind a lot of trash. This isn’t appropriate for children, and if they care about the environment so much why are they littering? What a bunch of nasty, shrewish women. They’re just mad that Hillary lost.

You say:

it seems mostly like it’s just a weird kind of performance, gesturing at full armed rebellion but never going there and never actually effecting change

and I’m going to have to say that all protest is performance. Protests aren’t about *doing things* they’re about showing up and being seen in support of an idea. And I do think that protest accomplishes some things; it lets people know they aren’t alone, it raises awareness of issues. Those are fine things.

As to the armed insurrection bit - well, have a tremendously ironic image:

That sign, being held by a navy veteran, says “if you need violence to enforce your ideas then your ideas are worthless.”

I don’t think you could have a clearer image of the concept of “the state monopoly on violence” than a military veteran chiding protesters for throwing rocks at cops and breaking windows.

The article that featured that photo shows a fascinating tension. You’ve got people at a peaceful protest saying “we’ve got to make sure the nazis know they can’t just show up and spew their hate” who don’t seem to realize that the nazis showed up in spite of the peaceful protest and were chased away by a black bloc. You’ve got the alt-right protest organizer failing to do her paperwork (typical; if your protest fizzles you can always say “the city would’t give us a permit” or “there were logistical problems” instead of “I couldn’t get more than twenty guys to commit to showing up”). My favorite bit of the article is where they admit that police were overwhelmed by antifa and that thirteen arrests were made and there were 6 people injured, two of whom were taken to the hospital. Man, for an out-of control bunch of thugs hellbent on punching nazis that’s some admirable restraint.

So there’s this conflict I’ve got. On the one hand a pretty goddamned big part of me *wants* armed insurrection against, for instance, the police. The police kill people with impunity and I think it’s a gigantic problem, especially considering the issues that we have in the US with white supremacists “infiltrating” the police and military and such.

On the other hand if you’re driving your reinforced bulldozer into an old lady’s house because she used to be married to the mayor who wouldn’t grant you a permit for your muffler shop you’re not exactly part of the solution.

Getting back to insurrection:

One of the things that I DO think black blocs accomplish is to get people to question the legitimacy of the state’s monopoly on violence. The nonviolent clergy could have been badly beaten while the cops looked on impassively except that a bunch of ballsy motherfuckers decided not to let that happen. And some of them got arrested for it. People went to protest Donald Trump’s inauguration and a bunch of protesters got injured after there was some property damage - but there was also video of police targeting people who were helping street medics and of of people protecting injured people from the police. THAT I think is valuable, the illustration that you can do the right thing even if it is illegal. I think that’s effective and I think it’s heroic.

Anarchists have been debating the value of violence as a mover for social change for, like, a hundred years. You’ll note that we’re not dealing with assassinations or bombings in this discussion, but punching a few guys. Like, seriously, this is something that is very contested among anarchists and that individuals feel conflicted about even within themselves.

But, like, black bloc isn’t generally an “armed” insurrection unless you count baseball bats.

Here’s the deal: in my ideal world every time the alt right showed up with twenty dipshits talking about a white homeland there would be ten thousand peaceful protesters there with kazoos buzzing their nonsense away. (Credit where credit’s due; I think I saw this concept articulated this way by tumblr users argumate and pervocracy before I started using that phrasing myself) Actually one of my favorite kind of protests is simply drowning out the bullshit or making it appear ridiculous. Wanna see one of my heroes?

undefined

GOOD JOB. DIRECT ACTION. FUCK YEAH.

Making nazis look ridiculous is almost as memeworthy as punching them in the face and much more palatable to the wider public. Also the nazis FUCKING HATE IT. Hard to be taken seriously with your talk about white genocide when you’re backgrounded by the baby elephant walk.

(god, seriously, everyone go get electric kazoos and mini amps and practice bagpipes, you don’t have to be good at it you just have to be loud)

If you want nonviolent change over time I recommend looking into Food Not Bombs; they’re doing good, nonviolent work that they still get arrested for and that hasn’t really made a dent in policy since they were founded in 1980.

I don’t think you’re a fool for wanting nonviolent change. That’s what I want too. But honestly all of the alternatives look kind of shit right now. You’ll get just as arrested for throwing a milkshake at someone as you will for nonviolently blockading a courthouse. Six million people peacefully marched to support reproductive rights and we’re still looking at the possibility of seeing Roe V. Wade overturned. Journalists covering the J20 protests were charged with felonies (until charges were dropped), maybe a simple assault charge for decking some asshole isn’t that bad.

But until we do figure out something that works I’m not gonna shit too hard on the only tactic that has been proven to suck the fun out of being a nazi.

Because remember - it’s not really the government that black bloc is deployed against; it’s the fascists for whom that the government provides no impediment.

(oh also a general reminder that most direct action is criminalized: be a good anarchist and feed hungry people in your community today)

[bobasheebaby]

Windows- Behind Closed Doors chapter 1

Pairing: Bastien Lykel; Garrett Byrne (OC); Queen Elora Rhys; Duchess Adelaide of Krona

Word count: 1,994

Warnings: sexy light (stealing from the wonderful @sirbeepsalot), angst

Summary: A chat with Adelaide ends with unforeseen revelations. Midday rendezvous for one couple.

A/N: We are picking up a few months after the prologue. Thanks for putting up with me and giving me your insight @sirbeepsalot you and DoE rock! And thank you for the chapter name!

Series warnings: mentioned character death, potential threats, referenced (past) adultery, potential violence, NSFW content, orgies. By asking to be tagged you acknowledge that you are at least 18 years old.  

Let me know if you want to be added or removed from my taglist.

Disclaimer: I only own my OC’s, the rest I’m borrowing from PB.

“Elora dear, just how long are you going to mope over your dead husband?” Adelaide tilted her head as though she was appraising the other woman. “Oh so sad, he died.” She pushed her plush lips out in a mock pout. “If you are going to get over him, you need to get under someone new. Stop frittering your life away pining over a dead man.”

Elora stared unblinking at Adelaide, unsure how to respond. She had put up a front, one of sadness over the death over her husband, only a few knowing the truth of what happened on the boat, how Constantine really died, and she intended to keep it that way for the sake of the children. She couldn’t tarnish their image of their father, no matter what he did to hurt her, she refused to have her children bare the weight of knowing the truth. She was determined to try to keep things as normal as possible for her children, refusing to upheave their lives more if she didn’t have to, all while running a country on her own. “Adelaide, what are you doing here?” She drummed her fingers against the mahogany desk, his, no her desk, anxious to get to the point so the other woman could leave. “And don’t tell me you brought Madeline to see Leo, I know she went with Godfrey to Karlington.” She found the Duchess to be tiring and wanted to finish her day so she could attempt to try to keep some semblance of normalcy for the kids. She’d been thrown into a more hands on role as queen but she refused to allow that to mean the children had to lose out on time with her. Just spit it out already woman so I can leave.

Adelaide threw her head back, golden blonde hair flying in an arc as she let out a shrill laugh. “Oh no dear.” She looked around the study as if she were trying to conceal a secret. “The new guard are training, and you know how much I love looking at a strong, muscular, sweaty man.” She dropped her jaw, sea green eyes rolling to the back of her head as she pretended to fan herself with her hand.

“Adelaide aren’t you married?” Elora questioned half heartedly. She was tired, tired of talking to Adelaide, tired of pretending, tired of being alone, tired of stretching herself thin to be both a good queen and continue to be a good mother.

Adelaide let out a mock gasp. “Oh Elora, I’m married, not dead!” She missed Elora wincing at her word choice. “There is no harm in looking.” She lowered her voice. “Or touching.”

Elora arched her brow in question.

Adelaide shook her head. “Please tell me you heard of a Cordonian arrangement!”

Cordonian arrangement. The words pricked at her heart like fiery hot pokers. She knew all about the understanding some spouses seemed to have when it came to lovers, she was well aware her husband had taken it upon himself to keep her out of the conversation, choosing to make an arrangement without her consent. She nodded her head in response.

“Well then, what’s the harm in looking and touching?” She leaned forward in her seat. “I normally would just watch the guard train, flirt a little and leave, but I’m having a party, or some acquaintances are having a party at the duchy this weekend. You should come, shake off the cobwebs.”

“What kind of party?” She was afraid she already knew the answer, she wasn’t even sure why she asked, it wasn’t like she had any intention of attending.

“Let’s just say it’s the kind of party you can get under someone new at, and leave it at that.”

“Well, thank you for the invite, but I don’t think I’ll be attending.” Was she out of her mind? How could she think it was appropriate for the queen to be seen at a party like that?

“If you’re worried about being recognized, don’t be. The hosts are very discreet, they kind of have to be. They host parties frequently and I finally managed to convince them to have one in Krona.” She leaned in closer. “I’m hoping with the home turf advantage I can finally have a little fun with them.” She sat back in her seat. “Anyway, with it being at my duchy, more of a reason for discretion. It’s a masked party, you only have to reveal yourself if you want to.”

Well at least she thought about her reputation. Who are these friends she keeps mentioning that they need discretion themselves? Nope, don’t want to know. “I still think I’ll sit it out Adelaide, but thank you.”

Adelaide frowned. “Boo! Oh well, more hot sweaty guards for me!” She feigned a gasp. “I forgot the best part! Don’t tell anyone, but.” She lowered her voice. “I think they are together, not that it stops them from getting around with the ladies, and they are members of the guard! Could you imagine if that got out?!” She stood from her seat. “Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time, time for me to go check out the guard.” She turned with a whirl of green silk.

Members of the guard?! “Who?” She asked before she could stop her curiosity. A nagging feeling gnawed at the pit of her stomach, surely it wasn’t him. He wouldn’t show interest in me if he’s with someone else would he?

Adelaide turned, wide smile on her cherry red lips. “I knew that would get your attention! They are both young members, but extremely yummy!” She glanced around the empty room. “You didn’t hear it from me, but Bastien Lykel and Garrett Byrne. Ta!” She turned and left the room in a swirl of colorful silk.

“We have to stop meeting like this.” He teased as he felt his lovers arms slip around his waist, hot breath fanning against his neck as his lovers lips pressed fiery kisses along his tanned skin.

A deep rumbling chuckle reverberated through a hard chest. “Isn’t that usually my line?”

“Only because I’m usually the one catching you by surprise.” He turned in his lovers arms, steely eyes locking on blue so deep they rivaled the depths of the ocean. He leaned forward, claiming his lips in a kiss full of need and longing. His hand wound around his lover gripping the base of his head pulling him closer, fingers gripping short rust colored hairs, tugging gently. His lover moaned into his mouth before pulling away abruptly, quickly glancing around the hedge maze to ensure they hadn’t been seen.

“I thought we agreed we wouldn’t do that in public anymore.”

“I’m not the one who started it.” He pulled their hips flush, his pants only growing tighter as he felt his lovers hardening length pressing against his. “It’s not likely someone will stumble upon us this far into the maze.” He ground his pelvis against his lovers. “Besides, if you were really worried you wouldn’t have kissed me in the first place.” The words said into his lovers neck as he trailed his lips along it, gently nipping at his ear.

Elora leaned back in her chair, digesting the information she just heard. Two members of the KingsGuard, or her Guard were in a relationship together? Not only that they held parties at Adelaide’s duchy, she had trouble processing what it meant. She now understood the reason they would want discretion too, if it were uncovered that they were in a relationship both would lose their jobs. Her heart had sunk as she had heard his name, he was the only one who she had thought about since Constantine’s passing, she now saw that would never be a possibility, and not only because she was queen. Had every interaction been completely one sided? Was the intensity of his gaze all in her head, or was there something there? Surely she couldn’t have made up how kind he was to her, even before Constantine’s death. The way she’d catch him glancing at her, the way he made her feel couldn’t simply all be in her head. Had her need to feel desired embellished innocent interactions to make them seem more than they really were?

She stood, crossing to the window overlooking her gardens. She pulled back the thick curtain. I wish I could go take a walk to clear my head. So much had changed since Constantine’s death, the gardens she designed as a little place of calm for her and her children she no longer got to enjoy.

His lover gave one last cursory glance over his shoulder. Fuck it. His lover pushed him backward, his back pressed against the hedge, his grey eyes going wide in surprise as a growl escaped his lips. He lunged forward, their mouths coming together in a clash of tongues and teeth, their hands roaming over the familiar plains of their bodies. His heart hammered in his chest in need as his hands drifted over the sculpted plains of his lovers chest. He pulled back, drawing his lover’s lower lip between his teeth. “Fuck I need you.” He groaned as he ground his length against his lovers.

His lover leaned back in capturing his lips once more in a heated kiss, his hands drifting down to his waistband.

Rustle. Rustle.

His lover froze, pulling away, his eyes wide with fear as he looked for the cause of the sound. His deep blue eyes drifted around the dead end, finally landing on a bird hopping in and out of the base of the hedges.

“It was just a bird Garrett.”

Garrett ran his hand through his rust colored hair. “This time, we can’t be this out in the open Bas.”

Bastien nodded, allowing Garrett to take his hand leading them out of the complicated maze.

What was I thinking, of course it was nothing, he was just being kind like all of the staff. She stared out over the rows of perfectly trimmed hedges, days spent chasing Liam and Olivia through the maze or reading by the fountain becoming a distant memory. Why would anyone want a widowed queen anyway? I heard some of the staff calling me a black widow, who would want that? She moved to turn when movement at the entrance to the maze caught her eye. She watched as the two gentleman dropped hands before turning away from each other. Of course she was right! She let out a gasp as he looked upward. Oh shoot. She ducked away from the window, allowing the curtain to flutter back in place. I think they are together, not that it stops them from getting around with the ladies. Adelaide’s gossip pinged around in her brain, maybe she could make an appearance, it’s not like anyone would ever know it was her. I just need to be sure.

Bastien released Garrett’s hand as they reached the entrance to the hedge maze. They broke off in different directions as to not draw attention to their activities. Movement in the study window drew his grey eyes up. He eyes went wide as he watched her jump backwards to conceal herself. Did she see? His heart hammered in his chest. He feared what it would mean for him and Garrett if she had seen them holding hands. Would she support the current rule and fire us? He sighed shaking his head. He’d been allowing himself to read more into her kind behavior, the idea sparked in him that she might understand, but that spark. It doesn’t matter, she’s the queen, her job comes first, and so should mine. They were worlds apart, she’d never understand or allow their relationship to continue, no matter how kind they were to each other. Is that the only reason you’re kind to her? It doesn’t matter, it can and will never be more.

Feedback fuels me, please like, comment or reblog to let me know how much you like it. I can handle the screams, so scream away.

Masterlist can be found in my bio.

Taglist will be reblogged.

[opinionatedpieces]

Cancel Culture and the Effects it has on Actual Human Beings

I’m aware most people are sick and tired of the typical “Cancel Culture is bad” and “Don’t make assumptions without evidence” and so forth. However, depending on the topic, it’s stupidly difficult to consider the facts when something horrible ALLEGEDLY happened; usually these events would require the authorities to be involved in some way or talking things out in private, instead, there are people who talk about private events in a public fashion, without speaking in private or contacting the authorities. This year we have seen multiple instances of public figures being slandered due to a “mistake” or someone’s personal vendetta against them; I understand that it’s hard to tell someone how you truly feel about them, but it’s worse to LIE about it to an impressionable audience and to yourself as well.

The biggest example I can think of that pretty much highlighted how quickly a celebrity’s fanbase can go against them is the James Charles situation, this event occurred because Mr.Charles chose to promote a beauty product that rivaled the product of a friend of his, keep in mind, these two people were close. Then, the friend lashed out and made a call-out video, the waterworks and all were included; this person is a woman known as Tati, a 37-year-old married woman with a career made, who had a vendetta against a 19-year-old young man. I put emphasis on their ages because she already has her life set out for her, while she, destroyed someone else’s career, someone who barely had a career in the first place. She claimed he sexually harassed a straight man who was a waiter at some restaurant they were in and he said a joke that wouldn’t come off as funny to an outsider, however, this joke was a reoccurring one and she conveniently uses it as a tool against him, later on, that same waiter says that he’s bisexual and that he was into Mr.Charles at first but then called him a pretty bad kisser, which was funny, but it contradicts that woman’s story.

 As the result of all of that, Mr.Charles’s audience turned against him to the point where outsiders became blatantly homophobic, this greatly affected Mr.Charles’s mental health as many stories were surfacing about him being some type of pervert for straight men, all these stories were false and their only purpose was to continue to destroy the image of this teenager. James Charles made the mistake of releasing a video trying to explain himself at his most vulnerable, he was clearly aware of his previous emotional state when he made a second video that was calmer, thought out, and overall, NO CRYING. Personally, as any viewer, I don’t like seeing public figures cry on video if it’s not something that would make someone cry without realizing it, like when someone tears up when they think about a traumatic event or talk about something they’d rather forget, those people might not even realize they’re crying; usually they edit that stuff out if it’s not a raw video. Usually if it’s done on purpose, the only reason they do that is because crying generates views and makes your audience feel sympathy for you in some way.

What grinds my gears is how disingenuous it looks when a public figure cries on camera, ESPECIALLY if I see editing throughout the video, it’s like the CS:GO Gambling website apology video by Trevor Martin. To put it briefly, it promoted gambling to young impressionable children. His apology wasn't sincere and it was meant to manipulate his audience as well; that makes me very angry, because that’s no different to me than spitting on my face and expect me not to have a violent reaction to that, it’s disgusting and it shows just how much literal human garbage exists on the planet. Which is why I appreciated the video Mr.Charles made, it was calm and collected, he addressed the accusations with his own evidence to debunk Tati’s allegations, and he ended it with an obviously passive-aggressive, but well deserved, “Bye Sister”, considering his catchphrase is “Hi Sisters”, it’s the nail in the coffin for Tati’s credibility.

However, James Charles isn’t the only one who fell victim to false allegations and cancel culture, a Youtube commentator known as Slazo was accused of rape by a former friend, the reason for the accusation had little to no weight, the young lady along with Slazo’s group of friends just wanted a reason to not associate with him anymore. Sure, maybe Slazo isn’t or wasn’t a good person, but I’m pretty sure that doesn’t justify an accusation like that. Brilliantly, his “group of friends” opted to basically destroy his life; because that’s appropriate when a bunch of teenagers just decide to accuse someone of rape, everyone involved is a child, sure, they’re adults based on age, but the way this was handled? Nah, they’re all a bunch of muppets if you ask me. The girl who accused him of rape recently tried to commit suicide and was taken to a Mental institution, as horrible as that is, I know it’s because she doesn’t want to face the repercussions of a false allegation and the inevitable consequences of getting eaten alive by those who stood by her; to me, that attempt only confirms what many people know, they’re all children and like children, they don’t understand how serious the effects of an accusation like that can have, Slazo’s career is ruined, whether they meant to do that or not, and they DID because its rape he was accused of, the deed is done.

Maybe it’s because I grew up in a different environment, or maybe it’s because I plan to have a career in law enforcement, I don’t know. But what I DO know, is that people are incredibly misinformed, they don’t take that extra mile to question people when they make serious allegations. With Slazo, this girl didn’t go the police, there’s no record of her contacting the police, filing a report, nothing from her; but yet, people chose to believe her. Instead of making sure if the accusation was legit, very few people demanded proof that she went to law enforcement first before going online. I’m well aware it’s incredibly difficult for victims of abuse to report their trauma and admit it happened to them online where you are vulnerable to intense scrutiny and skepticism. However, going online to slander or create libel against a person is disgusting, I'm talking about the people who do this knowing they’re not going to report it, hoping to gain “Justice”, it’s an act, a disgusting act. It happened with Tobuscus, a gaming YouTuber who even played a role in the annoying orange in Cartoon Network, had his life destroyed by some woman. Her claims were false, she intended to cause harm, and yet that event seems to slip everyone’s mind, these women need to be held accountable for their actions, they only hurt real victims.

I’d like to take note that I know little to nothing about these people, I am an outsider, I had to learn this and search for credible evidence. I don’t watch their videos, I don’t much care for them either, but I do care about how they ended up where they are now because those are very real things that can happen at a local scale, and that scares me.

[lakeham]

CHARLOTTE DAVENPORT is 28 YEARS OLD, resides in GRANDVIEW and has lived in Lakeham for 18 YEARS. She is FEMALE and works as a FREELANCE WRITER. She is portrayed by MARGOT ROBBIE  and is played by NATASHA.

Trigger Warnings: Death, drugs, depression.

The son of one of the most influential families in a wealthy Connecticut town falling in love with the daughter of a British lord was almost too perfect of a match. Jeff Davenport and Caroline Dormer met at Columbia University while they were pursuing master’s degrees; Jeff’s future working in his family’s company was decided for him while Caroline, who had no real desire to return to England to live as a noblewoman, had dreams of becoming a professor. Once the pair graduated and were engaged, there was no question that they were going to live in Jeff’s affluent hometown of Lakeham while he worked his way to being the CEO of his family’s Bridgeport-based cybersecurity company. Caroline taught mathematics at Lakeham University for some time, leaving the workforce entirely when she gave birth to their son Henry. Two girls followed in the subsequent years, Charlotte and Olivia. The Davenports had always wanted many children, not because they loved the idea of parenthood, but because they had a legacy to secure through them. They reminded themselves that a marriage like theirs, although based in love, was far too powerful to waste in any way but creating their own dynasty, a subset of the one that Jeff’s ancestors had begun when they settled in Lakeham.

Henry was the pride and joy of their family, the one who would eventually take over the family business, and the youngest daughter Olivia was the baby of the family who was constantly adored by both her parents and siblings. Charlotte was just that, Charlotte. She was seen as being beautiful and bookish, but no one else knew how to describe the black sheep of the Davenport family. Although she suffered from middle child syndrome and felt as though she was living in the shadows of her siblings, it would have been a lie to say that Charlotte was not loved by them. Jeff and Caroline tried their best to be the ever-loving parents, but they both had other priorities that took precedence over being there for their offspring. But if there was one thing that they had ensured to teach them, it was that their image and reputation were everything - only enhanced by associating with people of the same caliber as them. Valley Prep School was an easy time for Charlotte, with friends that her parents had deemed appropriate including her in their social circle. Insecurity plagued her brain as a teenager, knowing that had she not had the Davenport name backing her, she would not be friends with the people whom she called as such. Not that it mattered, as the young girl internalized that to be among them was a privilege that she should never question and should instead show gratitude for. So many teenage girls would give anything to be in her position, and she would be a fool to not acknowledge that. Henry played the role perfectly, and it would be an utter shame if she could not hold a torch to his performance.

Instead of following in the footsteps of her parents and older brother in attending Columbia when the time came, Charlotte flew across the pond to attend University College London in her mother’s homeland. Pursuing a degree in Comparative Literature with a concentration in French, Charlotte had no idea what she wanted to do with her life - just that there was more to it than the cushy confines of her family’s manor back in Lakeham. With Henry set to take over the family business, the middle Davenport child was free to make whatever life choices she wanted - within reason, of course. Caroline’s family was ever present in London, and welcomed their American relative with arms wide open. Her cousins invited her to social gatherings among London’s upper class, and for someone who had such distaste for her New England aristocratic upbringing, Charlotte ironically adored the British high society lifestyle and even thrived as an honorary socialite for some time. London had become her second home and she vowed that she would be back once she had seen enough of the rest of the world. As much as Henry and Olivia begged her to come back, Charlotte had no intentions of returning to Lakeham. In her eyes, she would have been returning to exactly what she wanted to escape: a stagnant and elitist society, where she would never be seen as anything but Jeff Davenport’s beautiful and introverted daughter. Although her older brother Henry especially kept bringing up the topic, Charlotte reassured him of her affection for him but also her reluctance to return to the life she once knew and did not enjoy, not when there was a chance to create a future independent of her family name, the future that she chose for herself.

Getting certified to teach English as a Second Language was not difficult, and getting a placement to teach in France at first was simple as well given her knowledge of the language. Being based in a small town in southern France teaching teenagers for two years, Charlotte embraced the culture and immersed herself in the French language before deciding that she wanted to move on to her next destination. The next four years were spent as an expat, from teaching English in South Korea to doing humanitarian work in Costa Rica to spending time on a working holiday visa in Australia. While she worked, Charlotte did some freelance writing jobs over the years, writing pieces mostly for lifestyle publications and even started her own blog. Her brother’s continuous pleas for her to return home fell on deaf ears, as the blonde ignored them and continued to embrace the life that she was meant to live. Her living conditions were not luxurious by any means, but she was truly happy with her life and the spontaneity of not knowing what country or project it would lead her to next.

It was in Australia that she crossed paths with a British expat who was also working there, and for the first time in her life, Charlotte was falling in love with a person instead of a place. Like her, David was also from an affluent family but wanted to forge his own path in the world, which led him to Sydney and right into Charlotte’s life. What started off as just them having fun turned into a serious courtship, with the pair becoming engaged just a little over a year into dating with plans to go to London for the time being, where they would marry in the presence of their friends and families before embarking on their next journey together. Once again, Henry’s desperate pleas for his sister to return home were met with an exasperated sigh, with Charlotte not knowing why a thirty-year-old man was so insistent on his sister being in the same place as him. Could he have not respected her newfound independence and desire to be on her own, regardless of how she felt about him? Their last conversation would haunt the young woman forever, as it was a week later that she received the call that no one had wanted to: Henry had died of a drug overdose in a Bridgeport hotel room. Charlotte’s world crumbled with that news, how long had he been using? Were his pleas for her to come home also a cry for help? Had she really been that selfish to ignore her older brother’s issues and focused on her own goals too much to see that she was needed by one of the people she cared about the most?

Charlotte and David were only supposed to have been in Lakeham for two weeks to attend Henry’s funeral and offer support to her family. It was the first time that the blonde had stepped foot on American soil since she was eighteen years old, and she was a changed woman since then, given her experiences and growth over the prior decade. The night before their transatlantic flight back to London Heathrow, Charlotte told her fiancé that she needed some more time in Lakeham and that he should go back to London and she’d join him soon. She was lucky to have such an understanding and patient man by her side, who was more than willing to give her the time she needed. The couple parted ways for the time being while David headed home, wanting to give Charlotte some the opportunity to collect herself and be at peace with her family - if only she knew how to do that.

❝ I'M OUT WITH LANTERNS, LOOKING FOR MYSELF.❞

It has been one year since Henry’s death, and almost a year since Charlotte has been back in Connecticut. She is still in a strained long distance relationship with her fiancé, who has grown frustrated with her reluctance to return to London or even set a wedding date, always telling him that she is “ not ready”. Quite a jump from the months prior to losing her brother, when she knew that she was ready to settle down with David and fairly sure of herself. She has since moved back into the Davenport manor in Grandview, although it had become a shell of the home that it once was. Her parents were devastated after having lost their only son, and Olivia… Charlotte did not even know where to start with her younger sister. She has been trying to read the youngest Davenport’s true emotions regarding their family and would like to rekindle their relationship, but also knowing what it feels like to need space she did not want to stifle her.

Charlotte’s career has been paused, but she has been keeping somewhat busy with continuing her freelance career while falling back on her financial stability, credited to her own savings and her family’s money that she was given. Being a jack of all trades but a master of none, she has yet to choose something to focus mostly one from her extensive resume of teaching, volunteering, and writing. She is contracted to write various pieces for publications and websites, sometimes thinking of starting an actual career but not knowing exactly where to begin.

Anyone who knows Charlotte is waiting to see which country she flies off to next, or what her next job would be. Surely she would not be staying in Lakeham, as she has enjoyed her time away from it far too much and had a life waiting to begin in England. She is definitely not a contender to take over the Davenport business, and the only person she would have stayed behind for is deceased. But Charlotte cannot bring herself to leave Lakeham yet again, as the sadness and guilt have consumed her and made her unsure even of what her purpose in life is. Death changes people, and she had been unprepared for it. She only hopes that she can keep her head above water long enough to find a life jacket, unsure as to how to ask for the help that she so desperately needs.

Charlotte has been running a travel and lifestyle blog for the past five years, documenting her various stints in different countries and the lives she leads in each one, seeing no two as being the same. But her online life has been on a hiatus since she returned to Connecticut, with only throwback photos being posted. She is not ready to come out to her followers about the pain that she is enduring currently. Her blog is her happy place, why should she ruin it? That being said, she hates the term “influencer” despite having a significant social media following due to her blog.

Ever since she left home for university, Charlotte has always wanted a pet but has never had the time to actually take care of one, with being so busy and moving from country to country. She is definitely more of a cat person than a dog person, and plans on adopting one soon now that she’s settled for the time being.

Charlotte loves being by bodies of water, and she can often be found on the beach or by Lake Marin relaxing peacefully. However, she is not much of a swimmer.

(+) Intelligent, compassionate, open-minded. (-) Guarded, self-righteous, hypocritical.

[ardentfemme]

Beauty is Pain: A Fierce Fem’s Guide to Overcoming Misphoria

“The body has been made so problematic for women that it has often seemed easier to shrug it off and travel as a disembodied spirit.”

         - Adrienne Rich, “Of Woman Born”

When I was four, I shimmied into my mom’s fuchsia pencil skirt, hitching it up around my tiny body like a strapless dress. I flounced around the house in it like a tube-topped mermaid caught in a net. Next came the heels. I teetered in them and crashed into walls with no concern for scuffs, skids, or scratches. To complete the look, I smeared my mother’s Mary Kay Midnight Primrose all over my face, indulging in a little taste or two.

I was invincible.

When I was ten, I got my period. Evolution, God, or the Devil himself had catalyzed some alchemical reaction in a body that, for the first time, seemed outside the realm of my control. Womanhood was not all fun and games, my mother explained to me. Womanhood meant buying pads with my babysitting money and crumpling up with embarrassment when the only cashiers to be seen were men. Womanhood was double-wrapping your pads before you threw them in the trash in case your father or uncle or second-removed-visiting-from-out-of-town cousin stumbled upon them and recoiled at the evidence of Eve’s grave sin.

Ten was also the year a man groped me on public transportation for the first time. That same day, I threw away my skirts and pretend makeup. To exist in my body seemed an unbearable task. To bear the weight of my mosquito-bite tits, my ever-growing thighs, my increasingly curvaceous behind, seemed impossible.

I began to realize that my body didn’t belong to me. It belonged to the old men on the street who whistled at me, to the pizza-faced teens on buses who poked and prodded me, to my young male peers who snapped my training bra at recess. My body belonged to my future husband - Oh, when you get married one day, you’ll understand. My body belonged to the children I would raise with my future husband - Oh, when you have kids one day, you’ll understand. And, I learned, men would readily access what they knew their socially-sanctioned right would afford them - my hair was for Uncle Dan to swat, my breasts were for Mr. Crawford to cup, my behind was for Principal Ulricht to pat.

Because my body belonged to men, who dictated what was and what was not attractive in women, I was taught to groom it in accordance with their needs and wants. I was taught to distance myself from my body, to alienate myself from any pleasure it might bring me. “Beauty is pain,” my mother always told me as she plucked wayward hairs from my Brooke Shields brows.

If beauty was pain, then I decided to be ugly.

At twelve, I cut off all my hair and refused to experiment with makeup and clothes like the other girls my age. Teachers commended me for taking my school work seriously and not concerning myself with all the trivialities that come with pre-teen girlhood. My parents started to express concern that I wasn’t “like the other girls.” In a sense, they were right. I was deeply connected to the little girl who played dress up in her mother’s heels and lipstick years earlier, but I felt so alienated from my own body that that complex lexicon of feminine symbology had lost its meaning for me. I had no vocabulary with which to express my own experience with gender, misogyny, and my burgeoning sexuality.

When I was a sophomore in high school, I petitioned the school board to turn the all-boys basketball team co-ed because a certain crush of mine wanted to play. When she asked, “You’re gonna be on my team, right?” I faced a conundrum. Surely, I had realized by then that I was batting for her team in a sense, but I certainly didn’t want to play sports. 

By then, I was starting to reclaim the parts of me that had been stolen when I was younger. I wore frilly dresses, unabashedly experimented with makeup (and made some egregious mistakes involving neon eyeshadows), and amassed a sizeable collection of junk jewelry that I paired impeccably with exotic thrift store finds. 

But when I got to college, I got sucked into the radical feminist ideology that had swept campus. By reclaiming my femininity, I was making myself complicit in my own oppression under patriarchy by appealing to the male gaze. Just as I did almost a decade before, I threw out the dresses, makeup, and even quite a few of my bras. (In retrospect, the whole bra-burning thing was pretty liberating.) I was claiming my body as mine, I thought. My body was not an object for male sexual gratification. My body was not to be commodified and repackaged to sell products. My body was not an incubator for babies to be churned out in some state-sanctioned transfer of property. My body was mine and mine alone. If it took abjuring makeup and dresses to communicate this, then I would do so.

That same year, when I was twenty, I met my first butch. She was everything I never knew I wanted - curse-slinging, beer-guzzling, knife-brandishing. Loud and seemingly unafraid of anything whenever we were in a big group. Soft and fumbling when she was alone with me. We fell into a dance that felt new and exciting, and, at the same time, ancient and sacred. It almost seems a disservice to retroactively label this dance love. It was a coming home to myself. 

In her own way, she reminded me of what I discovered when I was four years old, playing in my mother’s closet: I am a powerful creative force and any way I choose to shape and mold my image is reflective of that. She instilled in me what my radfem circle had alluded to - My body belonged to me. Sharing a cigarette outside a club, her hand dipping below my skirt, she asked me, “Is this okay?” In that moment, I realized I had the ability to dictate what I would and would not allow to happen to my body. I had a voice, I discovered. And I used that voice to chant yes yes YES in that abandoned back alley. A mantra, a summoning, an outpouring of gratitude. 

All those years, I had been led to believe that my body was intended for the Mr. Crawfords and Principal Ulrichts of this world. In that moment, I would gladly have relinquished ownership to her instead. She had returned my body to me after decades of struggling.

In a sense, you could say the rest is history. Except that I still have difficulty existing in this body. If I’m being honest, I still feel alienated from my physicality often. Even when I’m intimate with someone, I see myself through the male gaze, silently counting my numerous flaws - stretch marks, moles, and shouldn’t I be doing more squats? My ass is getting flabby. I should cut back on the carbs, too. Although the people I love don’t expect me to be a hairless, poreless statue of a woman, I have been policed long enough by the panopticon of patriarchy to police myself.

I still get groped on public transit. I still get eviscerated by fellow feminists for being complicit in my own oppression and by fellow lesbians alike for not being “lesbian” enough. I get called out for mimicking heteropatriarchal gender roles and for not “queering” my gender enough.

Ultimately, to be a woman is to be under constant scrutiny - whether the scrutiny comes from one’s in-group or out-group, we are positioned to be judged - and often found lacking. 

After spitballing with a friend, I arrived at the word “misphoria” - a combination of “misogyny” and “dysphoria” to help explain this bodily alienation many women, specifically fem/femme lesbians, feel as a result of constantly being dissociated from our physical selves. I wanted to avoid lifting the term “dysphoria” from its original context as it relates largely to trans experiences with gender. I hoped misphoria as a concept could broaden the conversation without appropriating terminology. 

Due to what I’m referring to as “misphoria,” my relationship with my body has been fraught throughout my entire life. I was conditioned to believe that I had little to no agency over my body, my desire, or my goals. My first butch used her own body to guide me into an understanding that every inch is mine.

Similarly, my relationship to womanhood and to my feminine presentation is my own. If I wear lipstick, it is an homage to my mother, who taught me that being a woman means strength. If I make the conscious decision to put on a skirt it is to honor that young girl who didn’t feel safe from the prying hands of men on city buses. And if I wear lace and frilly undergarments, it is for you, all the butches who have taught and re-taught me that my body is mine alone.

In a sense, this is a love letter. This is a love letter to the butch who valiantly carried my makeup bag up 1,400 ft on a camping trip because I wanted to look cute in the photos. To the butch who just laughed when I said I hadn’t like, you know, shaved down there today. To every butch who has ever opened the door for me or carried a package for me, knowing full well I was just as capable. Each act has helped ameliorate my misphoria by making me feel safe and welcome in my body and in my gender.

As we work toward reclaiming our space, our bodies, and our minds, I am honored to stand beside you.

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Really loving these ARC family scenes! So for the promptathon, how about ARC going public to the DEO family? Or maybe the next topic in gossip rags/PTA meetings?

Rhonda Thompson prides herself on knowing everything about everyone. It’s not much, as far as superpowers go, but it gives her a sense of purpose, to know that people can come to her for information, and that she can provide it.

So she’s already well aware of the fact that Samantha Arias is uncommonly close with her employer. Lena Luthor has collected Ruby after school many times since the girl enrolled in Parkland Intermediate, and has pitched in with several fundraisers– manning booths and providing baked goods when Samantha proves herself unavailable.

Rhonda presumes it’s a symptom of Samantha’s young motherhood, and the lack of appropriate role models. She doesn’t expect anything else, when Samantha is too busy to socialize with other mothers among her daughters age group. And it certainly doesn’t hurt Lena Luthor’s public image, to be seen vending cling-wrapped brownies and exacting change at the track meet.

But to have your boss attend a PTA meeting in your place?

Even as a stay-at-home mother, Rhonda knows it isn’t appropriate.

As the president of the parent board, she takes it upon herself to welcome Miss Luthor to the meeting.

“Excuse me,” Rhonda says, pulling Miss Luthor’s gaze from the phone in her hand. Sharp green eyes regard her from beneath dark lashes, making Rhonda’s words trip on her tongue. “Hi. You must be Lena Luthor.”

“Guilty as charged,” comes the casual quip. The phone disappears, and a pale hand extends for a handshake. “Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Rhonda Thompson, PTA President.”

Lena’s eyebrows lift at the information, features warming in an curious smile. “You’re Rhonda. I see.” The dazzling grin only grows wider. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Only good, I hope!”

“The best.”

Rhonda pauses at the deadpan, but the pearly smile is still in place, without a hint of disingenuity. She blinks, struggling to reconnect her thoughts. “Samantha couldn’t make it?”

“She got caught up in a call at the office. But she knows how important tonight is, and asked me to fill in.”

“Oh, how thoughtful.”

Tonight they’re voting on how to apply the funds raised by this year’s boosters. Surely Samantha and her boss understood that non-parents can’t contribute– no matter how involved they are in the student’s upbringing.

Before Rhonda can say so, Lena’s gaze flickers to the front of the room. “It looks like it’s time to begin,” she observes. “It was lovely to meet you, Rhonda.”

Rhonda returns to the front table, where the parent board sits, and waits for the room to come to order. From her vantage point, she can see just what kind of effect their unexpected guest is having on their gathering. The parents seated nearest to her manage to maintain a veneer of disinterest, but the members seated further away murmur behind their minutes, shooting long glances to the woman who outglams all of them.

She certainly stands out from the crowd, Rhonda acknowledges, with her houndstooth pencil skirt and navy blouse. Her watch alone is likely worth more than Rhonda’s monthly car payment. But there’s an aura about her as well. Where the other parents have congregated to their usual groups, Lena sits separately, among them but distinctly apart.

It doesn’t seem to bother her.

She hardly seems to notice it at all.

“All right,” their teacher liaison– Principal Flores herself, in deference of the important vote– calls gently. “Let’s come to order!”

The room quickly settles.

“As you all know, last meeting we discussed the possible ways to apply the funds of this year’s booster efforts. Our dedicated president has proposed two options: refinishing the gymnasium floor, and replacing the stadium bleachers. Since I know everyone’s eager to get home and watch the game tonight, if we’re ready I propose we– Yes, Miss Luthor?”

Principal Flores calls on their visitor as though she were a student, and Rhonda realizes belated that it’s because Lena has raised her hand like one.

“I apologize if you’ve gone over this before, but do you mind explaining how these options were selected?”

To Rhonda’s surprise, the principal turns to glance at her. “I’m sure our parent president will be happy to share some light on that for you.”

Unexpectedly thrust into the spotlight, Rhonda freezes for several heartbeats. Instead of a sea of bored faces, every gaze is riveted on her, captivated by the disruption to their normal order. All the way, green eyes gaze at her expectantly.

“I’m not sure I understand the question–”

“I’m curious as to why the two options both benefit the athletics department.”

“Many of our students strive towards athletic scholarship for college. It’s our responsibility to ensure they have the best opportunity.”

Lena nods, breaking eye contact to briefly scroll through her phone. “Yes, I can see that. I’ve reviewed the public booster records, and it appears that the athletics department has been provided every opportunity. 80% of the past ten years of booster funds, to be exact. The remaining 20% has gone towards improvements in multi-purpose areas, but still predominantly benefits sports. Such as the gymnasium.”

Rhonda scoffs, a nervous smile reflexively curling her lips. “In our area, needs-based scholarships are difficult to obtain. As a result, athletic scholarship has been the predominant source of funding–”

“My research indicates that less than 4% of the graduating student body over the past ten years have received athletic scholarships. By comparison, 32% have received partial scholarships based on academic performance.”

Rhonda shifts forward in her seat. “Miss Luthor–”

“I had the opportunity to tour the gymnasium prior to meeting tonight,” Lena continues, undaunted. “The floor is in pristine condition. And the stadium bleachers were just replaced six years ago. According to the manufacturer, their product is designed to last fifteen years.”

“The mascot depicted on them is now out of date.”

The room sits in total silence, riveted by the exchange. Not one of them jumps to Rhonda’s defense, leaving Lena clear to nod. “Right. The mascot was redesigned last year, requiring the replacement of all branded sports equipment– some of which was less than three years old.”

Her hackles lift on reflex at the unspoken implication. Rhonda stiffens in her seat, folding her hands tightly over her minutes. “There simply is no other department that requires funds at this time.”

At that, the room starts to titter. In an instant, she knows that Lena has won. What’s worse is that Lena knows it as well.

Perfectly painted lips curl into a smile.

“Ruby mentioned just last week that her French teacher was wishing for language software in the computer lab. And Mr. Brenneman confirmed that the youngest microscope in the science department was purchased in 2003. 20% of them are broken or unusable.”

Rhonda grits her teeth, refusing to wilt under the woman’s stare even as she realizes that it doesn’t matter what she does. Lena doesn’t need anything from her.

“But if you’re certain that Parkland doesn’t have use for these funds,” Lena continues, “there’s always the option of donating it.”

The proposal earns its own bevy of murmurings. But to Rhonda’s shock, it’s not in outrage. In the quiet twitter she hears curiosity, and interest. When Principal Flores calls the room to order, her voice is calm.

Whatever game Luthor is playing, she’s not surprised by it.

Perhaps she’s even in on it.

“You make a strong case, Miss Luthor,” Flores replies. She turns to the rest of the room. “Does anyone second her motion–?”

“Actually,” Lena cuts in again, gentling noticeably as she rises to her feet. “I move that we allow the student body to decide. Language lab, science equipment, or donating to a school in need.”

“You can’t be serious!” Rhonda sputters.

“I am.”

“They’re children! We can’t expect them to act responsibly when thousands of dollars are on the line!”

Lena meets her gaze coolly. “They had a hand in raising these funds. Why not have a hand in choosing how it’s spent?”

Rhonda smacks her hands against the table in outrage, surging to her feet. “This is a parent-teacher conference! You are not empowered to put forth a motion!”

It’s less than the gotcha moment Rhonda hopes for. The room stares at her, as Lena smiles lazily. “Yes, I am.”

Ashley Walsh rolls her eyes. “She adopted Ruby two summers ago, Rhonda.”

Rhonda blinks. What? “But Alex Danvers is–”

“They’re all married,” her vice president Todd informs her, incredulous that he, for once, has more information than his wife.

“Welcome to the 21st century,” Ashley drawls. “Now sit down before you embarrass yourself.”

Rhonda lowers herself back to her chair, every muscle coiled tight in anger and humiliation. Her cheeks feel hot, and only burn hotter when not a single person speaks up.

Principal Flores lifts her hand to focus the room once more. “All right then– all in favor of putting it to a student body vote?”

The room erupts in a chorus of ayes. Rhonda can only gape as the principal makes a note and adjourns the meeting. “That’s all the time we have tonight– remember! Next month is planning for the spring formal!”

Lena starts slowly gravitating towards to the door. Rhonda stares as she pauses to chat briefly with the parents to approach her. More than a few shake her hand, and there’s something in the energetic clasps that hints that it’s more than introduction.

When the woman’s gaze softens into a warm smile, Rhonda sees that Samantha waits by the door, keys in hand. They lean together for a kiss, and Samantha murmurs a quiet question. Lena nods, the first sign of self-satisfaction creeping into her smile.

Then Samantha glances across the room, locking gazes with Rhonda. The woman winks with a sly smile, and Rhonda doesn’t even have the time to glare before the two women are gone, leaving the board to pack up and clear out.

“Don’t worry, Rhonda,” Todd tells her. “It’s not like we’re offering to buy them a milkshake machine for the cafeteria.”

No, it’s not.

But it’s not a new stadium either.

More importantly, Rhonda’s learned something new to add to her arsenal.

She’s learned that Lena Luthor is not a woman to be trifled with.

And neither are her wives.

[howtohero]

Fairy Tale Themes

Having a distinct superhero identity is very important if you’re going to be a superhero. You can’t just be stopping crimes as a civilian, stopping crimes is often a crime, for some reason. So you need to wear a whole getup and come up with a whole unique shtick. But that can be pretty hard. You can’t just throw a bunch of darts at a word board, that’s how you get heroes like Cat Vomit Confetti Man, or Pencil Rhombus Mount Rushmore Woman. (No offense to those guys, I know you guys were instrumental in repelling that Planet Doom invasion a couple of years back!) So sometimes, instead of coming up with an entirely new thing, heroes just steal an old one.

If you’re going to pattern yourself after a figure from a popular tale or piece of folklore you need to make sure you pick a good one. For example, you don’t want to run around fighting crime calling yourself The Ugly Duckling. (No disrespect sir, I know you singlehandedly held the planet together during The Great Fissuring.) But at the same time guys calling themselves Hercules are a dime a dozen. (None of you come to my house and punch me! I know how important the Hercules human pyramid was in saving Earth during the Galactic Olympics.) You need to hit that sweet spot of not completely ridiculous and not too overplayed.

You’d also be smart to grab a fairy tale character whose got a similar set of abilities as you do so your powers are thematically appropriate. If you’re an ice guy you can be The Abominable Snowman or Jack Frost (not to be confused with Jacked Frost the ice man who is almost too buff) but you wouldn’t want to be calling yourself Elsa from Frozen Man or Frosty the Snow-Man (yes Mr. the Snow-Man I know about the time you cooled the fires of Hell and freed several hundred wrongly damned souls during Greg the Skeleton King’s war on the living. If you’ve got the power to turn things into gold you might call yourself Midas but you wouldn’t want to go fight crime under the name Rumplestiltskin (for one thing, his whole bit is that people can’t guess his name, and if people can’t guess your name you’ll never be able to sign any lucrative sponsorship deals!) If you’ve got a winning smile you can call yourself Cheshire Cat but you should, under no circumstances, model yourself after dental hygiene folk hero Finnigan Floss. (He’s a sixty foot giant who has teeth the size of cars and spends all his days flossing, the story was meant to teach children not to focus only on one thing and let life pass them by but the dental industry coopted it and turned Finnigan Floss into a propaganda tool!)

But becoming a fairy tale character isn’t just a simple trick to get out of putting any effort into your superhero identity. You need to be ready to grapple with the consequences of such an action. For one thing, if there’s any villain out there who is already aping the image of a character from the same fairy tale, they’re going to automatically become one of your villains. So if there’s an entire crew of Wizard of Oz themed villains, maybe don’t call yourself Glinda the Good With of the North Man. (Tinman-Woman, I swear this is not a callout on you, I have nothing but the utmost respect for you after you singlehandedly, and I mean that literally she had one hand tied behind her back, thwarted a robot uprising.) At the same time though, if they’re famous for being hilariously ineffectual villains, then it might not be a bad idea to guarantee that they move to your town and attempt to commit crimes there for you to easily stop.

Your decision to become a fairy tale character might also inspire fairy tale enthusiasts to take up arms against you. These nerds will point out all the inaccuracies in your take on the character. Every. Single. One. “Ahem, Marry Poppins never drove a Poppins Mobile, she had a magical umbrella this is highly inaccurate.” “Erm, I hate to be that guy (you know that they love to be that guy) but Little Red Riding Hood was not a thirty five year old man with perpetual stubble.” “Goldilocks historically (???) had 150,000 golden locks. I’ve noticed when I observed you while you were sleeping (????) that you have only 135,000 locks of hair, and don’t even get me started on your roots.” So you’re going to need to preemptively block every fairy tale and folklore nerd in the word on all your public social media accounts, and probably some of your private ones too. Don’t underestimate the power of an angry nerd. Some of them might even be so angry, that they’ll try to become a fairy tale themed villain, just to show you the error of your ways. So... if you want to have a little fun with that be our guest. Make some nerd rob a bank while showing you what the real Little Bo Peep would look like! Convince some fairy tale buff that the best use of their time is mugging people while espousing the importance of pronouncing “bippity boppity boo” correctly.

Side note: Don’t become a Goldilocks themed superhero. Goldilocks is the clear villain of that story. Anybody who breaks into someone’s house and eats their food and sleeps in their bed is a criminal. That’s not just right. That’s just wrong. You should avoid taking on the appearance of any classic villains. That’s going to confuse trigger happy police officers who are responding to the scene of the crime. I guarantee you they’re going to shoot the guy dressed like Dracula (or plunge a wooden stake into your chest, which is just like, splinter-city) or an evil step-mother before they ask even a cursory “Which of you costumed ninnies is the superhero here?”

Superhero identities are as unique and varied as the people who choose to don them. And some people are just not all that unique, and for them we have some not so unique superhero identities. The stories we’ve been told as kids are rife with potential do-gooder (and do-badder) identities. So head to your local library, pick up a giant book of fairy tales from the kids section, and then sit there and read it and make all the parents there with their kids wary.

[futuremaasai-blog]

Part 2: Interesting findings at the library about the MAASAI

-Amongst Maasai there is age set system which defines the relations among men and also between men and women. Age sets are groups of people born in the same generation. Members share the same life events, such as circumcision and marriage.

-Future of the Maasai: uncertain. The Tanzanian government criticises them for ‘holding the country back’. They are banned from wearing their distinctive rubega/shukaon public transport and in order to attend school the children are forced to remove their jewellery, dress in Western-style clothes and boys need to have off their long hair.

-The Maasai have lost their areas to commercial farmer and wildlife conservation. Squeezed into this bottleneck of depleted herds and land, the Now 40-50% of the Maasai trade meat for beans and maize, only 50% living purely on the traditional diet of milk, blood and meat. 

-> Unfortunately, when farming fails, members of the family come back into the towns in search of paid work. Men; nightwatchmen, women; petty trading, beer brewing and increasingly, prostitution.

- Maasai beads: 9 main colors: black (god/rain), blue (water), Dark blue (god in the sky), gold (ground water), green (life/spring), orange (rainbow), red (warrior/blood/bravery), white (milk/peace), yellow (sun)

-> The colours carry meaning, the combinations are randomly selected, mainly for beauty. It’ s often possible to tell the age of some necklaces according to the fashionable arrangement of colours that vary from year to year.

- The Maasai are in fact relatively recent arrivals to the area. Their language is Maa. It is suggested that the Maasai started to migrate southward from the lower Nile area in the 15thcentury. They arrived in their present territory in the 17th/18thcentury, forcefully displacing earlier inhabitants. The Maasai territory reached its greatest extent in the mid 19thcentury. Over the 1880s-90s, the Maasai were hit by a series of disasters linked to the arrival of Europeans (rinderpest and smallpox epidemics exacerbated by a severe drought and a bloody secession dispute), and much of their former territory was recolonised by tribes whom they had displaced a century earlier. During the colonial era, they lost another 50% of their land to game reserves and settler farms. 

- The Maasai are monotheists who belief in a single deity with a dualist nature: 1. The benevolent Engai Narok (Black God), 2. Vengeful Engai Nanyokie (Red God). They believe that Engai, who resides in the volcano Ol Doinyo Lengai, made them the rightful owners of all the cattle in the world.Today, the Maasai co-exist peacefully with their non-Maasai compatriots, but while their tolerance for their neighbours’ idiosyncrasies has increased in recent decades, they show little interest in changing their own lifestyle. 

- Maasai girls are permitted to marry as soon as they have been initiated, but warriors must wait until their age-set has graduated to elder status (15 years later). This arrangement ties in with the polygamousnature of the Maasai culture; in days past, most elders would have acquired between 3-10 wives by the time they reached old age. Marriages are generally arranged. Marriage is evidently viewed as straightforward, child-producing business arrangement: it is normal for married men and women to have sleeping partners other than their spouse, provided that those partners are of an appropriate age-set. Should a woman become pregnant by another lover, the prestige attached to having many children outweighs any minor concerns about infidelity, and the husband will still bring up the child as his own. By contrast, although sex before marriage is condoned, an unmarried girl who falls pregnant brings disgrace on her family, and in former times would have been fed to the hyenas. 

- Cattle are sacred to the Masai and are central to their life and religion. Often their favourite animals mean more to them than the most beautiful of women. 

- The cattle are rounded up to extract blood. The warriors’ favourite drink is fresh cattle blood half-diluted with milk. They believe this nutrition gives them especial strength. 

HAIRSTYLES:

- The characteristic hairstyle of a Masai man is worn for nine years. After that time, his head is shaven at a great ceremony. He is then no longer a member of the warrior caste but is numbered among the elders and may father a family. 

-The helmet hairstyle using red mud is like a beauty pack for the hair. The oil it contains makes the hair soft so that it can be plaited better. A hairstyle of this kind is worn for about 2 weeks. 

-Unlike the warriors, the Masai girls and women are shaven-headed. 

-When a Masai is made a warrior, which is an honour, he lets his hair grow and has it braided into fine plaits by other warriors. The women never dress the warriors’ hair. 

-Only a hunter who has killed a lion with a spear, unassisted by any other huntsman, may wear the lion’s mane on his head. (see image)

SYMBOLS:

Shields: express art and culture. Markings on a shield convey the status and honor of its owner. (source; safari-center.com).

Beads: Maasai beadwork represents the whole of Maasai culture embodying beauty, strength, tradition, marriage, warriorhood, marital status, age set, social situation and their deep devotion and love for their cattle. In modern times, Maasai beads make many beautiful functional items. 

ORIGIN OF MAASAI:

-One of the recent theories which is not true suggests that Maasai were offshoot of Mark Anthony s army. And indeed the swords, shields, sandals, togas and helmet styled hairdos give them an ancient Roman soldier likeness.

-Current thinking suggests that they are a mixture of Nilotics, who lived in the Nile river basin and the Cushites of North Africa, with whom they share Hamitic practises such as male age grouping and ritual circumcision.

INTERESTING FACTS:

-The Maasai calendar includes more than thirty different tribal ceremonies, among them circumcision.

-During ceremonies cettle motives are being found everywhere. This shows that indeed those aniamls have huge importance in their life.

- The movement of the heads and shoulders in Maasai dancing seems to mimic the movement of cows.

- The leather bags in which women stored their ornaments were shaped like cattle horns

- They know 30+ words to describe a cow

- Laibon, the high priest and leader of a Masai group, to whom magical powers are attributed. He is identifiable by the white mark on his forehead. 

- Quote from the book one of Maasai people said: The first thing you learn from your father is that the cow is the basis of your life. You believe this with all your heart. If you loose that feeling, you loose the sence of your life.

- Different whistles to let the cows know if you have found water or grass

- Beads originally were made out of: sticks, shells, seeds, dried grasses and other natural materials. When the colonization started, the original methods were being replaced with glass.

(source:) BOOKS:

Africa, Leni Riefenstahl

Northern Tanzania Safari Guide

The African experience, Roland Oliver

Living Tribes, Colin Prior

[historybehindassassinscreed]

In Game:

Historically, a courtesan was a woman who engaged in the activity of prostitution. During several historical periods, courtesans were a group allied with the Assassin Brotherhood or the Templar Order.

During the Renaissance, though courtesans were mainly based in brothels within a city, many were known to stand along the streets – usually in groups of four – to entice customers. Each possessed a standard style of dress and hairstyle, as was deemed appropriate for those in their profession at the time.

After the execution of Giovanni, Federico and Petruccio, Ezio Auditore da Firenze sought sanctuary with Paola and her courtesans, who taught him how to conceal himself in a crowd, pick pockets, and be "seen, but unseen" as they were.

Afterwards, Ezio hired courtesans to distract the guards and allow his remaining family to escape the city, and would continue to use their services from then on, usually instructing them to seduce a group of nearby guards in order to allow him to slip past unseen. Alternatively, they would follow Ezio along the streets, concealing him among them by walking around him in a diamond formation, in a similar manner to how Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad blended with scholars.

Upon traveling to Rome, Ezio aided the courtesans by funding the renovations for their main brothel, the Rosa in Fiore, as well as renovating smaller brothels throughout the city. After his sister took over Rosa in Fiore's administration, he volunteered to teach the girls several skills.

During the 18th century, courtesans were referred to as "dancers" who commonly worked at taverns and streets. They operated in a similar process as courtesans of the Renaissance by working as groups of four.

Prostitution and brothels were still popular by the mid and late 18th century. Women were sold in taverns or kidnapped to entertain rooms and even ships.

In 1757, Edward Kenway's daughter, Jennifer Scott, was kidnapped by mercenaries. The Templar Reginald Birch sold her to Turkish slavers and became a concubine in the Topkapı Palace. The palace included the Harem for raising and educating wives of future royalty. She was then transported to Damascus to serve under the Ottoman governor in charge, As'ad Pasha al-Azm. By her mid-40's, Jennifer worked as a servant for the concubines due to her age. Ultimately, her half-brother Haytham and a friend, Jim Holden, infiltrated the palace to find and rescue her.

By 1788, the Templar Élise de la Serre and a young girl named Hélène were saved from becoming prostitutes of the Middle Man by Byron Jackson, an English ship captain.

Due to poverty and the lack of jobs in Victorian England, many turned to prostitution as a way to earn a living. After assassinating Crawford Starrick and his Templar control over London, the twin Assassins Jacob and Evie Frye recruited initiates from child labor, orphans and prostitutes. A couple female initiates took upon the identity of courtesans who worked in a Whitechapel brothel owned by Olwyn Owers, as undercover agents.

In Real Life:

Prostitution has been practiced throughout ancient and modern culture. Prostitution has been described as "the world's oldest profession," and despite consistent attempts at regulation, it continues nearly unchanged.

Perceptions of prostitution are based on culturally determined values that differ between societies. In some societies, prostitutes have been viewed as members of a recognized profession; in others they have been shunned, reviled, and punished with stoning, imprisonment, and death. Few societies have exercised the same severity toward clients; indeed, in many societies, clients suffer few if any legal repercussions. In some cultures, prostitution has been required of young girls as a rite of puberty or as a means of acquiring a dowry, and some religions have required prostitution of a certain class of priestesses.

In ancient times, Mesopotamian religious practices gave birth to the prostitution trade, as women in Ishtar’s service would help men who offered money to her temples with the ‘sacred’ powers of their bodies. Achieving a priority of communication with the goddess from their fertility, only women enjoyed this religious position. Thus Ishtar temples became knowledge centers concerning birth, birth control, and sexuality. Priestesses became the nurses and sacred sex therapists of these early societies. Men of all rank could hire these women and, in turn, make an offering to the goddess from whose temple the prostitute came.

(Image source)

The Greeks and Romans mandated that prostitutes wear distinctive dress and pay severe taxes. Sexual schools rose in the Greek city states, where girls would be purchased from slave markets and trained to provide revenue by selling sex. Many young slaves prostituted themselves to earn money, which meant that, being women or slaves, prostitutes consisted of those excluded from Athens’ Popular Assembly. Hebrew also law did not forbid prostitution but confined the practice to foreign women. Among the ordinances laid down by Moses to regulate public health were several dealing with sexually transmitted diseases.

In Europe during the Middle Ages, church leaders attempted to rehabilitate penitent prostitutes and fund their dowries. Nevertheless, prostitution flourished: it was not merely tolerated but also protected, licensed, and regulated by law, and it constituted a considerable source of public revenue. Public brothels were established in large cities throughout Europe. At Toulouse, in France, the profits were shared between the city and the university; in England, bordellos were originally licensed by the bishops of Winchester and subsequently by Parliament.

Italian courtesans knew freedom like no other prostitutes of the Renaissance period. While most women during this time were only truly able to educate themselves if they were sent to a convent, courtesans were able to study freely. Furthermore, courtesans were able to obtain the same security and stability as married women, and, unlike married women, they were actually able to embrace their sexuality.  Widely considered the best educated and most cultured women of their time, these women were able to hold philosophical conversations and discuss poetry with their clients, in addition to providing sex services. Their influence became so great that they were actually able to affect politics by sharing their views with the politicians among their clientele.

(Image source)

By the end of the 15th century attitudes began to harden against prostitution. An outbreak of syphilis in Naples during 1494, which later swept across Europe, may have originated from the Colombian Exchange. The prevalence of other sexually transmitted diseases during the earlier 16th century may have caused this change in attitude. By the early 16th century the association between prostitutes, plague and contagion emerged, causing brothels and prostitution to be outlawed by secular authority. Furthermore, outlawing brothels and prostitution was used to “strengthen the criminal law” system of the sixteenth century secular rulers. Canon law defined a prostitute as “a promiscuous woman, regardless of financial elements.” The prostitute was considered a “whore … who [was] available for the lust of many men,” and was most closely associated with promiscuity.

The Church’s stance on prostitution was three-fold. It included the “acceptance of prostitution as an inevitable social fact, condemnation of those profiting from this commerce, and encouragement for the prostitute to repent.” The Church was forced to recognize its inability to remove prostitution from the worldly society, and in the fourteenth century “began to tolerate prostitution as a lesser evil.” However, prostitutes were excluded from the Church as long as they continued with their lifestyle. Around the twelfth century, the idea of prostitute saints took hold, with Mary Magdalene being one of the most popular saints of the era. The Church used Mary Magdalene’s biblical history of being a reformed harlot to encourage prostitutes to repent and mend their ways.

Stricter controls were imposed during the 16th century, in part because of the new sexual morality that accompanied the Protestant Reformation and the Counter-Reformation. Just as significant was the dramatic upsurge of sexually transmitted diseases. Sporadic attempts were made to suppress brothels and even to introduce medical inspections, but such measures were to little avail.  In some periods prostitutes had to distinguish themselves from other with particular signs. They sometimes wore very short hair or no hair at all, and sometimes they wore veils in societies where other women did not wear them. Ancient codes regulated the crime of a prostitute that dissimulated her profession.

In the late 19th century a variety of changes in Western societies revived efforts to suppress prostitution. With the rise of feminism, many came to regard male libertinism as a threat to women’s status and physical health. Also influential was a new religious-based moralism in Protestant countries. Antiprostitution campaigns flourished from the 1860s, often in association with temperance and woman suffrage movements.

History books and novels written during Victorian era portray a sophisticated and classy society, but in reality, there were more brothels than schools in London during this time. Prostitutes were considered “fallen women” because it was believed that women of the society would never opt to become a prostitute. In fact, the period between mid-1700 up to late 1800 is said to be the golden years of prostitution in London. They were termed as the ladies of the night. 

(Image source)

International cooperation to end the traffic in women for the purpose of prostitution began in 1899. In 1921 the League of Nations established the Committee on the Traffic in Women and Children, and in 1949 the United Nations General Assembly adopted a convention for the suppression of prostitution.

In the 21st century, Afghans revived a method of prostituting young boys, which is referred to as bacha bazi. Since the break up of the Soviet Union thousands of eastern European women have become prostitutes in China, Western Europe, Israel and Turkey every year. There are tens of thousands of women from eastern Europe and Asia working as prostitutes in Dubai. Men from Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates form a large proportion of the customers. India's devadasi girls are forced by their poor families to dedicate themselves to the Hindu goddess Renuka. There are also hundreds of sex trafficking rings around the world.

Sources:

http://allthatsinteresting.com/history-of-prostitution

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_prostitution

https://sabotagetimes.com/sex/a-history-of-prostitution-how-old-is-the-sex-trade

https://www.britannica.com/topic/prostitution

http://www.victorian-era.org/victorian-ladies-night-prostitution.html