#maybe I missed this lesson in catechism

[attractive-nuisance-esq]

[intervieweird]

‘ you craved me all this time... and you resisted. ’ 

@childofmanynames | continued.

Short, yet potent came his answer: “I had to.” It was all Armand uttered as he laid there with his back flat against the bed, video game controller in hand. He didn’t know what to make of Daniel’s expression - no longer able reach in and steal his thoughts; the puzzling mind of his fledgling closed to him forevermore - and, watching him the wrong way around - almost upside-down - made his face difficult to decipher.

Armand paused the game and seated himself upright; he smoothed out the front of his sweater with one hand and set aside the controller with the other. There were rings on both hands - just as he liked there to be - each of them unique and curious to look at. In their collective, they formed an irregular rainbow across his slender, white fingers. And, when the precious metals and pricey gemstones caught in the lamp light, they were a marvel to look at with vampiric sight. He had spent many nights studying his collection of jeweled rings.

With resistance he was well acquainted. Though, in recent years it was oftentimes overshadowed by his desire to indulge; he did love to indulge. His maker had taught him to surround himself in beautiful things, to love and crave beautiful things - only the best was good enough, that had been the lesson - and Armand was more than happy to have found his way back to that mindset, after having spent more than half of his existence resisting just about everything the world had to offer; centuries spent as the scary coven master under infamous Cimetière des Innocents in Paris, as well as his earlier years in Rome, were to thank - or, rather, to blame - for that. While still very much capable of resisting temptations, in the twenty-first century Armand had the freedom not to. He reveled in that freedom.

“What could I have- no, what else was I supposed to do?” He asked, in reference to their time apart; years during which their relationship was…strained, simply put. There was no cleverly hidden subtext, yet he elaborated for good measure; “If I hadn’t, nothing would have changed.” Not for the better, anyway. Their separation had been necessary, came the verdict; his belief was that staying together would have ruined all chances of future reconciliation. It was a risk he had been unwilling to take - a decision he still stood by - separation was the smarter choice. Wasn’t it? Heartbreaking as it was, it had worked out alright. Hadn’t it? He wanted to think so. The conversations regarding their years apart were fragmented; Armand didn’t pry, knowing well that Daniel treasured privacy - and he fully intended to let him have it - and Daniel…Armand wasn’t certain. In the privacy of his mind, he could admit it was fear which stopped him from asking. He refused to believe his fledgling didn’t care - why reunite at all if he didn’t care? - yet the underlying fear had it’s claws in him. When the conversations did come, he didn’t reject them like he had the relentless questioning throughout the last decade of Daniel’s mortal life. They were both guilty of peppering the other with questions Armand was reminded, the memories of his own cluelessness at the time of their first meeting bubbling to the surface.

He pressed his naked feet to the hardwood floor. A tender stare caressed the shapes of Daniel’s face, along the curve of his nose and the form of his lips, from the solid jaw to the ashen brows, and the gemstone eyes. Time would do nothing to him - age would not touch him like it did the last time they were together this way - time did nothing but smooth away the remaining traces of human in him, now.

And, Armand was infinitely glad they had found back to one another; but, it was only in recent years their world - the coven’s world - had calmed down, allowing its residents to at least try and enjoy the current millennium. Armand was as closely involved with the coven as ever, and his New York residence, Trinity Gate, had become a headquarters of sorts for many - he didn’t mind; Sybelle and Benji loved it - and, it was his love for their undead kinsmen that tied him to the coven, as much as it was his deep-rooted fear of losing everything - his companions of past and present, his children, his chance at happiness - again. The coven of the new millennium offered a stability he would not turn his back on; he didn’t trust the peace to last forever, but, for now, it was enough.

His mouth curved into a smile, small and faintly sad. “Didn’t you?”

Christ, to look at him. 

There’s a kind of figurative, unsettling beauty to Armand’s inverted stare; Daniel falls into the wide dizziness he’d felt to peer into the unreachable vault of the Sistine Chapel, where heaven had been untouchable and remote, and he could not lower the angels to fit under the shape of his hand. Or maybe he’s thinking of a Bacon portrait, faces a smear of something unsettlingly recognizable; a smudge of paint that might have been a mouth; or a wound. Daniel’s throat closes to see how Armand studies him; near, at distance. Agonizing to exist so aware of the nearness of each other, and the way their bodies once conformed in space. This brutal, intimate image of Armand’s feet, bare upon the floor. 

Daniel figures you’d have to have been a believer first for belief to lapse: he’d taken First Communion and been a bad Catholic since. But, God, he reads the Catechism in the shape of Armand’s brows, in the even horizon of his eyes, and thinks these are the articles of his faith. 

The controller is cold under his skin. Daniel’s hands are absent of the kind of warmth that leeches into plastic. Whatever the heat in him now is only borrowed.

But Daniel won’t warm the inside of a coffin.

Colors scatter across the round swell of Armand’s cheek like drowned coins under the waters of the Trevi, and Daniel’s breath catches by instinct. The television seems to him a kind of muted, dull chatter of noise, just traffic at a distance, and Daniel’s disinterest softens the snarl. It’d been a strange, abortive thing, to summon these old images, like memories, and finding that neither had been like he’d recalled. 

Daniel lifts his arm over the denim rough of his knee, wrist draped loose, blue light blinking violet through the skin of his thumb.

Nothing would have changed.

It might be true, but the certainty punches into him like a fist. 

He’d like to lean into the bitter. He can feel it, still, the old resent gathering behind his teeth. It would be so easy to let it come. But he can’t hold on to it. He digests the ugliness with an unfamiliar unease; he’s not used to chewing it down. It makes for an unfulfilling meal. 

“Is that why?” There’s a thickness in the question, tenderness fluttering under the plane of his sternum, where his heart closes achingly around a throb. “You didn’t come.” Somewhere along the line, without his realizing, they had slipped the rope of each other and unmoored. Was it the mortal allure that had, in the end, always summoned Armand back to him? The immediacy of loving something bound to die? And when Armand had sealed Daniel to his body with his blood, hadn’t it killed them both, anyway?

Maybe it wasn’t a rope. Maybe it was a bone, growing out of the cage of Armand’s ribs, like the first woman from Adam, like Armand’s first child; like his last. Maybe it was a bone. Maybe it snapped.

Daniel hears a strained laugh, threadbare around the edges, and supposes it must have been his.

A plaintive warble of something dying issues from the television screen, neglected. So let it die. It’s all only pixels. 

Daniel leans toward him. The air is dead between them, and Daniel longs to resuscitate their old frequencies. He lifts his hand like a compulsion, like the spellbinding he used to accuse of Armand, when Daniel couldn’t face that when he returned, treading the old paths back to these ancient, young eyes, it had always been for missing him. 

Armand’s face is so close beneath him. Daniel falls into it, like he always has, and the world tilts away. His vision spins with that same slanted dizziness, until he anchors himself against Armand’s skin; he slips his hand under his hair, and remembers the geography of these well-loved contours under his palm. 

“Jesus,” he breathes, raggedly, unsticking from the starchy quiet of his throat. He feels a weight under his tongue to see him, to breathe in the nearness of his skin, the way that time would never touch them again. “Doesn’t anything last? Aren’t we meant to?” Why ask it? Maybe they’re fucked. Maybe this is a confession.

[madpanda75]

“Taking Chances Part 8: A Case of the Ex”

Oh Sonny, what are we going to do with you? Actually I can certainly think of one or two things 😜 Anyways, welcome to Part 8 where we find out how the reader reacts when Sonny brought over his “mystery guest”  to dinner 👀 

Thanks for all the love with this series! You guys are amazing ❤️

This couldn’t be happening. This was a dream. Yes, a dream. You were simply having a nightmare. It was an illusion. A succession of images that usually occur involuntarily in the mind during certain stages of sleep. Any moment now you would wake up with Rafael’s limbs entangled around you like overgrown vines, heating your body. You swore that man was a walking furnace. From under the table you discreetly pinched your arm, wincing slightly when you felt the sharp pain from where your nails dug into your skin. Oh no. That proved it. This was real.

When you announced to your family that the engagement with Theo was off, you happened to leave out several important details such as coming home from work early one day to find him in bed with the flighty twenty-one year old who delivered your dry cleaning. Only your sisters knew the truth and you practically made them swear a blood oath that they wouldn’t tell a soul.

It’s not that you were a particularly private person. Being raised in the Carisi household, everyone was in each other’s business. But with Theo, it was different. He was your next door neighbor. You grew up together. You were the Mary to his Joseph in the Nativity play in the third grade. Your mom and his mom taught Catechism together. Breaking off your engagement left you heartbroken and you didn’t want to burden your family with the details. Your dad was recovering from a heart attack. Your mom had her hands full between caring for your father and worrying about her children. And then there was Sonny.  

Working with SVU over the years, you noticed a change in him. He was more quiet and cautious, even becoming a borderline realist—a stark contrast from the goofy, loveable, optimistic, older brother. You saw how Mike Dodd’s death affected him, even though Sonny tried to hide it from you. Then a year later during a night out at the bar, he drunkenly confessed that a perp by the name of Tom Cole had held him at gunpoint while he was trying to save a victim. You saw how his body trembled in fear, the tears in his eyes. Although you begged him to get therapy, he shrugged off your suggestion and told you to drop it. You never spoke of it again. The last thing you wanted to do was give him one more thing to worry about. Your life and all its troubles seemed to pale in comparison to the nightmare he had lived through.

Rafael glanced between you and the man who resembled an Italian Vogue model standing next to Sonny. “Is that who I think it is?” he mumbled. The tiniest nod of your head confirmed his suspicions.

So this was the infamous ex-fiancé. Theo was the very definition of tall, dark, and handsome: chocolate brown eyes, thick shiny mane, and a dazzling smile which Rafael could’ve sworn were caps. Not to mention, he was in your age bracket.

Rafael slumped down in his seat a bit, feeling self conscious. He had always thought he was a decent looking guy. Walking down the courthouse halls with his swagger and sharp suits, he noticed several women and men eyeing him. But compared to Theo, Rafael felt like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

Gina narrowed her eyes. “What is he doin’ here?”

“Yeah,” Bella added. “Shouldn’t he be out getting his dry cleaning?”

“Girls,” Julia scolded although she was just as surprised to see your ex in her dining room.

The last time Theo visited your parents was about two years ago when you both were making a seating chart for your wedding. Then one Sunday you came to the house alone with your eyes red-rimmed and puffy, announcing the engagement was off. You had claimed the reason was because Theo was moving too fast and that you weren’t ready to settle down just yet. But something told Julia Carisi that there was more to the story than what you were letting on, call it a mother’s intuition. Regardless of your mysterious breakup, your mother was not about to be rude to her new guest. She could give Emily Post a lesson in being a good hostess. Getting up from the table, she smiled and pulled Theo into a hug. “Theo, sweetheart. It’s so nice to see you. How’re your parents?”

“Great to see you too, Julia. The folks are fine. I hope it’s ok I’m here.”

“Absolutely. We have plenty of food.” Julia turned towards her husband. “Dom, can you get another chair?” Your father didn’t respond, still in shock over the sudden reappearance of your ex. “Dom!” She clapped her hands to get her husband’s attention.

“Huh,” Dom said, snapping out of his trance. “Oh sure.”

As your father left to get a chair, Sonny smiled and patted Theo on the back. “Let me grab ya’ a plate and some silverware.”

While your parents and brother were busy making your guest comfortable, Theo caught your eye and immediately made a beeline towards you. “Hey stranger.” Before you could even react, he wrapped his arms around you, his one hand pressed into the small of your back. “You look beautiful,” he whispered, his lips grazing your ear. You stood there frozen with your arms at your sides. It took all your strength to quell the wave of nausea rising in your stomach.

In Rafael’s opinion, the hug lasted much longer than what society would deem to be acceptable. His fists slightly trembled. He could feel himself quickly transforming into the ugly green monster within. “Hi,” he said, a little too loudly. “I’m Rafael. Y/N’s boyfriend.”

Finally letting you go, Theo turned towards Rafael and laughed before focusing his attention back on you. “He’s kidding, right?”

You immediately reached for Rafael, finding comfort in his presence by your side. “Actually he’s quite serious. Do you find that amusing?”

Upon learning that you and Rafael were together, Theo’s lips curved into a smirk that left you feeling uneasy. “Well then, I suppose congratulations are in order,” he replied and extended his hand to Rafael. “You’re a lucky man. There’s nobody like Y/N.” He glanced your way with a glint in his eye. “Nobody.”

Dom and Sonny came out of the kitchen with an extra chair and a place setting. “Here ya’ go, pal,” Sonny said. Theo took the chair and placed it right next to yours, reaching across you to grab some of your mother’s lasagna.

He took a bite and moaned. “This is delicious, Julia. I’ve sure missed your cooking.” His foot slyly nudged yours under the table causing you to scooch your chair away.

Being smushed in between your boyfriend and your ex-fiance was some sort of cruel torture. You were seconds away from lunging across the table and punching your brother, but instead you stood up. “Sonny, I need your help getting some wine from the kitchen.”

“Now? But we have wine here.” Sonny motioned to the Amarone on the table.

“Yes, but there’s a nice Chianti in the kitchen and it’s on a shelf that I can’t reach.” You crossed your arms and gave your brother a threatening glare. “Now or I’ll eat your liver with some fava beans. I hear it pairs nicely with a Chianti.” Sonny sighed and followed you into the kitchen.

You gripped the edge of the sink and silently counted to 10 in order to calm yourself before addressing your brother.

“So where’s the Chianti or did ya’ just bring me in here to watch ya’ breath,” Sonny remarked.

You whipped your head around and narrowed your eyes. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Sonny innocently shrugged. “Havin’ lunch with my family.”

“Don’t be cute.” You tugged on your mom’s yellow kitchen gloves and began to furiously scour a greasy pan with a brillo pad, finding some sense of clarity in your angry cleaning. “I can’t believe you invited Theo. How dare you!”

“What’s wrong with that? Theo hasn’t been here in ages.”

“Yes and there’s a reason for it. We broke up or maybe you haven’t gotten that through your thick skull yet.”

Sonny pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t understand ya’, Y/N. First ya’ break off the engagement with Theo cause he’s movin’ way too fast even though you two grew up 6 feet away from each other for 18 years. But one month with Rafael and you’re ready for a colonial, 2.5 kids, and a collie?”

“My personal life is none of your business,” you growled.

Sonny scoffed. “Well actually it is my business since you are fuckin’ someone I work with.”

You dropped the dish you were cleaning with a violent clang, water splashing everywhere and took a few steps toward your brother. “Choose your next words wisely, Dominick Carisi, Jr.”

Sonny shook his head, his appearance akin to disappointment. It was hard for him to separate the woman you had become with the little girl you once were.  If he closed his eyes, he could picture you with your skinned knees and unruly hair coming out of your french braid, demanding piggyback rides from him. And even though that little girl was gone, you were still so young and naive about this world. There was so much you needed to learn.

“What happened to us, Y/N. I mean we used to be so close. I’m your big brother and I’m tryin’ to look out for ya’.” He tentatively put his hand on your shoulders, tilting his head lower to meet your gaze. “I’m doin’ this because I love ya’ and I want what’s best for ya’. I’ve worked with Barba for years. I know him and he’s not a good fit for ya’. You’re going to regret this.”

You fought back the sting of tears and tucked in your quivering bottom lip. You refused to cry in front of Sonny. Although you hated to admit it, his opinion mattered to you. It broke your heart that he didn’t approve of you and Rafael.

Just then the kitchen door swung opened, revealing your boyfriend’s handsome head poking in. “Everything ok in here?” He stepped into the kitchen. “Cause Gina is asking me when we’re gonna make her an aunt and that led to one of your nieces asking where babies come from and your mom is trying to eavesdrop on you both with a glass held up to the wall.”

“Why don’t ya’ mind your own business, Barba,” Sonny sneered. “I’m talkin’ to my sister.”

“Not anymore. We’re leaving.” You rushed past him and ran back out into the dining room, meeting the shocked faces of your family.

“Everything ok?” Julia asked. The shortness of breath in her voice indicated that she had just ran to her seat from her position near the wall.

“I’m sorry. We have to go,” you mumbled and made a mad dash to the foyer to grab yours and Rafael’s coats.

Your parents exchanged a worried glance and immediately followed you.  “Honey, are you sure? What about dessert? I made your favorite cheesecake. Please stay,” Julia pleaded

Your dad leaned forward and spoke softly, “Ya’ know if you’re upset about Sonny bringing that pretty boy punk over for lunch I can kick him out. For that matter, I can kick Rafael out too. Anything for my little patatina.” He grinned and booped you on the nose.

You faked a smile for your father. “That won’t be necessary, Pops.”

Julia smoothed down your hair. “Then sweetheart what’s wrong?”

The words were right there at the tip of your tongue. You wanted more than anything to confess everything then march over to Theo and crush his balls into powder. But one look at your family told you now was not the time, not when you were surrounded by your adorable albeit nosy nieces and nephews and your sisters who thought of family drama as a national sport.

So instead you hemmed and hawed, stammering over your words as you tried to think of a plausible reason for your sudden departure when Rafael spoke up behind you. “Actually it’s my fault,” he lied and wound his arm around you. “I’m so sorry. I got a call from work and I need to run over to the office for a few hours.”

Sonny followed Rafael into the foyer and arched a brow in suspicion, not falling for his excuse. “That’s funny. I never got a call from Liv about a case or anything.”

Rafael turned towards the detective and narrowed his eyes. “Oh don’t worry. I’ll be filling you in on the details later.”

“Well, let me pack up some food for you both. It’s the least I can do.” Julia gently cupped your face and patted Rafael on her way to the kitchen in search of tupperware but you stopped her.

“Some other time, Ma. We really have to go.” You kissed her and your dad and waved goodbye to the rest of your family.

“Thank you for a wonderful meal. It was nice to—” Rafael was unable to finish his farewell as you dragged him out the door.

“What the hell was that all about?” your dad asked Sonny once you had left.

Sonny ignored him and pushed past his parents to run out after you. “Y/N! Wait!”

You stopped in your tracks and turned towards your brother, slapping him hard across the face. Your entire body shook with rage, tears streamed down your cheeks. You felt completely and utterly betrayed by the one person you had relied on your entire life. “Stay out of my life,” you said in a shaky voice before getting in the car with Rafael and driving away.

You only made it one block when you had to pull over, your tears blinding your vision. Slumping over the steering wheel, your forehead connected with the horn causing the most pathetic little beep as you cried even harder. This was not how you intended the day to go. Rafael rubbed your back in soothing circles. “Shhh, it’ll be ok, hermosa. Everything’s going to work out,” he cooed.

“No it won’t,” you wailed and banged your head against the steering wheel several more times.

Rafael winced and tried to pull you away from the beeping horn, not wanting to create yet another scene. “Babe, stop. I don’t want someone from Neighborhood Watch to come out.”

You sat up and sniffled. “I’m so sorry about Theo and lunch.”

“I’ve experienced much worse during lunch. Trust me.” He handed you his handkerchief and ran his fingers through your hair. “Do you want me to drive?”

You loudly blew your nose and hiccupped. “Sure. Can you drive?”

“Of course I can drive. Now let’s trade.” Unbuckling your seatbelt, you got out of the car and swapped places. “Can I drive?” he mumbled, chuckling to himself. Of course he failed to mention that he only learned to drive a few years ago, never really seeing a need for it when he lived in Manhattan, one of the highest rated cities for public transportation. Once you were comfortable, he turned on the ignition and sped down the street, making his way back to the city.

*****

Sonny stood there, stunned, listening to the sound of your car screeching down the street. A laugh coming from the porch signaled his attention. “Ladies and gentlemen of Sycamore Avenue, behold the man who was just bitch slapped by his baby sister!” Bella announced.

Sonny rolled his eyes. “What are ya’ doin’ out here?”

“Ma wanted me to check on ya’.” She sat down on the front step and patted the spot next to her at which he begrudgingly obliged her request. She leaned forward and inspected the right side of his face. “Huh, interesting. I can make out a thumb print.”

“Stop it.” He crossed his arms and scooted away, trying to cover the one side of his face.

Bella shook her head. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re an amazing big brother and I’m grateful for all you’ve done, especially with Tommy. But when are ya’ gonna realize Y/N’s not a little girl anymore. She is the most level-headed out of all of us that includes you,” she said with a smirk and playfully nudged him. “She knows what she’s doing and Rafael is an incredible guy. Ya’ have to be deaf, dumb, and blind to not see that he adores her.”

“I just want what’s best for her and that’s not Rafael. You of all people should understand. Ya’ caught a glimpse of the world that Rafael and I live in during Tommy’s trial. I don’t want that for her. I don’t want that for any of ya.” Sonny sighed and rested his elbows on his knees, slouching as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders

“Hey,” Bella softly said, flicking her brother’s ear to get his attention. “I know your job is tough. I mean I can’t imagine the things you face everyday but ya’  gotta stop this. You have to stop living for this job, it’s gonna eat you alive. We’re all worried about ya.”

Sonny scoffed. “I’m fine.”

“Oh yeah? Then tell me when was the last time ya’ went out on a date or ya’ didn’t wake up from a nightmare or ya’ took a vacation. Think about it.” She patted his knee and stood up to leave before turning back one last time. “Just don’t push people out of your life cause otherwise you’ll end up alone.”

Bella had hit the nose right on the head. He hated when she was right. Between law school and work, he hadn’t been living. When he wasn’t working, he was studying or taking a class or screaming in his sleep after having yet another nightmare of Tom Cole holding a gun to his forehead. In truth, there was someone who had caught his eye. Someone he had wanted to ask out from the moment he saw her and yet whenever he made an attempt, something stopped him.

Why couldn’t he just let everything go? Why couldn’t he live anymore? Sonny felt as if he was standing on the edge of a cliff, about to topple over the edge, about to leave everything and everyone he held near and dear to his heart. Sitting there on the porch, he shivered a bit in the early spring air, unsure what felt worse, the sting of your hand across his face or the words you last spoke to him.

@glimmerglittergirl @southern-magnolia @sweetcannolicarisi @delia26 @obfuscateyummy @sass-and-suspenders @eclecticminded @thatesqcrush @katmstanton @amirightcounsellor @beltzboys2015-blog​ @letty-o​ @sonnysdoll​ @lyssa1385​ @sweetsummertime99​ @burningsorr0ws​ @gibbs274​ @izzythefanfreak​ @babypink224221​ @livxrafa​ @esparza-army​ @obsessionprofessional​ @ottosuricato​ @melsquared79​ @dreila03​ @frenchiefoxy @tropes-and-tales​ @thecraziestcrayon​ @goodluckfindingone @scarlettsoldier​ @youreverycolor​ @yeah-boiiiiiiiiiii​ @imagine-all-the-imagines @imjustreallynosy​ @graniairish​ @ashley-chi​ @lolacolaempath @cocomel0613  @mysterioustrashadventures @that-girl-named-alex​ @scapricciatello @mrsrafaelbarba @zizzlekwum @katierpblogg

[askauradonprep]

Fic: “Faith”

I was talking to @pigtailsandwrestlingboots and this happened.

      Yamato had just sat on the stone stair rail, lying back and sunning himself. The warmth of the sun was unfamiliar but not unwelcome and he intended to take up as much of it as he could. It didn't hurt that he had a pretty great view of his captain, Uma, sitting at a picnic bench. She was studying by the look of things. Either that or reading about something that she intended to scold Ben about later. 

      He couldn't help but smirk recalling the time she'd learned about vaccines and how they could protect from disease. The chewing out she'd given Ben had been epic and Yamato had agreed with every word. When he thought of all the people that could have been saved on the Isle who'd died, his stomach got sour and anger welled up inside him so quickly and so intensely he wanted to scream. Sure, fine, their parents were hardly decent people but what had they done? He supposed that was why they were here. To ease Ben's conscience.

     That was an unpleasant thought. He didn't like thinking like that, no matter how likely it seemed. Yamato took a deep breath and slowly let it out, looking again at Uma. She'd understand how he felt. She was the same way. She could rant for hours about everything wrong with the Isle and what the consequences had been for the kids born there. He admired that about her.  He also admired the way she fiddled with her braids while she concentrated on what she read.

     Whatever it was, he was sure the crew would hear all about it later, he decided. With that, he rested against the wall and tilted his hat back to protect his face from the harsh rays of the sun. He put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. He didn't want to think of the Isle right now, with the sour stink of garbage and the ever-present overcast weather. He wanted to soak up some warmth and focus on how captivating his Captain was. He forced himself to think instead about how comfortable the warmth was, about how innocent Uma's smile was, about the breeze ruffling his too-big pants, about Uma's laugh. 

    His sunbathing and daydreaming was interrupted by a polite "Hello?" 

    He figured it was an Auradon kid come by to tell him not to sit on the stairs. He was about to tell them to shove off when he opened one eye and saw it was Claudine Frollo. He saw her on the Isle and in his 'Religions of Auradon' class frequently enough to know her by sight, but not voice. She had a bit of a goody goody reputation since she'd done so well in Remedial Goodness. Her and the rest of her so-called 'Anti-Hero' friends. So she might still tell him to get off the stairs. 

   "Yeah?" he asked, grinning lazily at her. 

    "I, uh, was missing class yesterday and was wondering if I could borrow your notes?" Claudine requested politely, practically word for word the way Fairy Godmother modelled in Remedial Goodness. 

   "You were ditching class? That's new. Didn't think you were into that kind of thing, Frollo," Yamato finally turned his head to look at her, a tone of slight approval colouring his usual deadpan. 

   Claudine flushed bright red and she insisted, "I didn't skip! I had a doctor's appointment." 

   Yamato snorted. "Awww, you couldn't let me dream?" Yamato nodded though and opened his bag, fishing around for his notebook. He held it out to her, looking back towards his captain. 

   Claudine flipped through and found what she was looking for. "Thank you," she said, sitting down on the top stair, her back against the wall. She pulled her own book out of her bag and began copying dutifully right there. 

  "You can take it if you want. Not like I won't see you tomorrow," Yamato pointed out, slouching further down the wall until he was basically lying on top of the stone he was on. 

  "No, it's okay. I won't be long. My dad used to make me copy passages out of the Bible and the Catechism when he wanted me to memorize something," Claudine replied, thumbing through the notes. "This is all so different than anything we talked about." 

  "Is it? The teacher was going on and on about the guy your dad did on the streets. Jesus?" 

  Claudine shook her head."It's not the same," she insisted. "These people believe different things about him than Catholics do. It's not right." 

  "Is it that big a deal?" Yamato asked, turning his head to her again, his brow furrowing in confusion. Her face was screwed up, as though someone forced her to eat a lemon raw. 

  "It is to me," Claudine answered quietly. She sighed. "I guess I can't expect you to understand. You never came to my father's services, did you?" 

  "Did anybody?" Yamato asked evenly. He remembered Frollo too. A stick thin, cranky old man who ranted and raved about how everyone on the Isle but him, and maybe his sinful daughter if he could 'train her' was going to hell unless they went to his crappy house for his 'ministry'. A familiar feeling of irritation built in his chest but Yamato kept his face neutral. He didn't like to give his hand away. Another lesson courtesy of the Isle of the Lost. 

   Claudine tried to remember if anyone ever had gone. "Fair point," she said after a moment. She copied down his notes in annoyingly neat handwriting, he noticed. After two or three pages, she looked up. "What do you think of the class?" 

   Yamato considered it. "I don't know. I can't really relate. I never had anything like that growing up. All this stuff about believing things you can't see or hear or talk to. I guess it sounds kinda weird to me." 

   "You don't believe in anything." Claudine summed up. Realizing how that sounded, she rushed to add, "I mean, it's okay, I guess, most people on the Isle didn't and -" 

   "No, I do," he interrupted her, starting to sit up again, his back straight against the wall this time. 

   "Really? What?" 

    Yamato's gaze turned back across the courtyard. At some point during their conversation, Harry had joined Uma at the bench. He had his arm around her and from the way she was shoving and laughing at him, Yamato knew he could only be teasing her. Rosita walked up to the two, smiling and putting her bag on the table across from Uma. Uma had managed to get Harry to sit back, leaning against the table. While Harry and Rosita talked, Uma went back to her book - but not before noticing Yamato across the yard and smiling at him. 

   That smile did things to him. Whatever leftover irritation at the Isle lightened. It wasn't gone but it was as if someone had lifted it up, sharing the burden with him instead of leaving him alone. It was the same smile she had when she rallied their crew, making them feel they could do what seemed so impossible or out of reach before. It was the same smile she had when she saw them to Auradon as promised. The same smile she had when she convinced Ben something else on the Isle was screwy. Yamato loved that smile. 

    It wasn't just her either. Harry was there, his devil may care swagger and refusal to back down. Rosita and her ability to analyze people and know what made them tick just from looking at them after years of people watching. Yamato thought about Gil, and his constant cheer on hard nights. About Drey and how desperately she'd fought to be rid of Sykes influence even when she was up late shaking and vomiting and talking herself out of going back to his turf to see if she could buy more of his 'product'. He thought of Bonny and her cat like wandering, of Lex and his full laughing after years of holding it back. All of them had built something on the Isle together and now they were seeing what they could carve out of Auradon. They couldn't - wouldn't - forget the Isle and how they'd been left there, but at least they could - and had - handle whatever came together. They wouldn't be alone. 

   "Other people." Yamato answered finally. "People I choose."

[motherofamartyr]

5 Times the Love

This took entirely too long- I gotstuck at four.

@crouchback-mary 

I.

You’reluckier than most, m'lady.

What sort of woman counted herself lucky she had only lost twochildren; especially when faced with the possibility of adding athird to that number?  Five pregnancies and Frances had two daughtersto show for it. Two girls who could never inherit their father’stitle or holdings and would be sold away when they were old enough tobear children for their own husbands.

What sort of mother hoped for a future like that?

As heartbreaking as losing the first two- even the boy- had been thistime was worse.

The midwife had been the first to say something was wrong with thechild. That awful old women had taken the baby- the tiny twistedinfant- and given her to her father, who had in turn handedher-disgusted- to the maids to care for.

Francesknew the routine- god knew she’d had enough children. A woman wassupposed to remain abed after the birth of her child.  One wassupposed to stay in confinement until their churching… but no onewas supposed to take the baby away either. After hearing the whispersshe didn’t trust leaving the baby where she was anymore. As small andsickly as she was the possibility she would die still very muchexisted.  So did the chance of her father helping that happen. Thingshappened. Easily explainable things of course: bedding that shiftedin a cradle, windows that blew open. No one would question a tragicaccident made not so tragic by the fact it was just a sickly girlchild they’d lost and not a long awaited heir.

She couldn’t leave the girl to such afate… the tiny thing washer daughter after all.

Even soon, evenwith Tudor blood in her veins managing to look intimidating barefoot,hair braided down her back, and dressed in a nightshift- even if theonly person one had to intimidate was the maid- was easier said thatdone. But nothing would keep Frances from the baby on the other sideof the door.

“You’re not to say a word to theMarquess about this.” shestared down the maid at the nursery door. She’d had long ago learneddefying her husband did little good. He wasn’t above giving her athrashing just like the ones he’d forced her to inflict on the girls.There were easier- less painful- ways to get what she wanted fromhim. There just wasn’t time for that now. Who knew how long the childwould live.

Theredhead pushed past the maid and went to the cradle. “Ifhe does learn of this I’ll be the one to answer for it.”A mother had a right to see her own child.

Wrappedin her swaddling the little thing didn’t look twisted at all. Themidwife’s tales made it sound as if she was a monster when in fact:she was a perfect little doll.

II.

The mother andyounger sisters of the deposed protestant queenpretender shouldn’t have been welcomed at court.

Francesknew well they were only kept close to the queen because they werebeing watched. They couldn’t be left to a life away from court- notwith the chance that Kitty or Mary could be put up as a possible heirby protestant rebels. The girls hadn’t known a life without theEnglish church until the last change in power. England would beCatholic again, and anyone who wanted to stay in the queen’s goodgraces would convert if they had any sense.

It meant newcatechism lessons for both girls- and truth be told a refresher forFrances herself. Katherine had never been quite as studious as eitherof her sisters.  Little Mary was the one who was blossoming. Thequeen’s affection for the girl wasn’t doing any of them any harmeither.

With Jane’s deathnot even six months past it was a wonderful thing to see both hersurviving girls have a start and what could pass for a life again.They’d never have normal marries or families of their own- the queencould never allow it. A life at court among the queen’s ladies wasthe most they could hope for.

God be thanked ‘theawkward little dwarf’ as Henry had called their youngest child wasquickly becoming her godmother’s favorite. The little one Frances hadspent the last years worried over more than either of the others wasproving to be the saving grace of the family and for that shecouldn’t have loved Mary more for it. The child Henry had begrudgedfor all those years was their saving grace.

III.

“She’s too small Bess,”Frances shook her head in response to the nursemaid’s prattling.“Katherine wasn’t even walking alone at this age.”Most mothers of standing missed their children’s first steps. It wasjust the way things worked. Parents stayed at court and childrenlived in the country. To think the littlest of the Grey girls wouldwalk while the court was on a stop during progress was just silly.That stupid maid had things muddled. “She’s not oldenough yet.”

Thechild wasn’t big enough. Little Mary wasn’t nearly the size either ofher sisters when they’d begun to walk. “Pulling up onyour skirts doesn’t mean she’s walking.”Part of her hoped the little thing would walk before they left. Whatmother wouldn’t want to see her child take their first wobbly steps?This little one more than the others… the one Henry had been sosure would die.

“M'lady, she’s been trying forweeks now. She’s pulling up on my skirts and the chairs and standingby herself. She’ll go in circles all day if she’s someone finger’s tohold, m'lady.”

Trying.That was the point of it. The tiny twisted thing wasn’t going to beable to walk any time soon. Not alone anyway. She was too small“Andwill be for some time yet, Lizzy. The physician himself said she’stoo small.”  Frances stoodshaking her skirts straight. If she went downstairs wrinkled fromplaying in the nursery she’d never heard the end of it. “I’llcome say goodnight before the girls go to bed. I have to go todinner.” What she didn’texpect was a pair of very small hands that had attached themselvesthose skirts.

“Kitty…”the redhead turned from the nursemaid to scold her middle daughter.Katherine was well old enough to know better than to beg either ofher parents to stay. But those little hands weren’t Kitty’s. Francesstared down at a little smiling mop of ginger hair attached to herskirt. “I just told Bess you weretoo young for this.” she kneltto the toddler’s level. Amazed Frances looked back at the nursemaid.The baby had been too far away to simply grab onto her skirts. She’dwalked. Alone. “Aren’t you a clever little duck,walking by yourself!”Never had Frances thought she’d see one of her girls walk the firsttime. The world just didn’t work that way.

Maybefinally those worries about her youngest would die once and for all.She was doing so splendidly.

IV.

Fourmonths to her best guess.

Shereally should have told Henry when she had the first inklings of itbut Frances couldn’t help but keep a secret to herself. The momentshe told someone the news would spread like wildfire the Marquess ofDorset might finally have an heir after twelve years of marriage andfour previous pregnancies. He hardly came to her bed often enough tonotice a growing belly- the maids were the only ones who could betrayher secret. Being the king’s niece came with a price, you had noprivate life at all.

Francestold herself when the child quickened she would tell him. Her glasswasn’t large enough to see more than her face but she knew she’dgotten fatter already.

Nosane woman advertised a pregnancy before she was sure it would stick.That was a lesson they’d all learned from the failed wives of theking. In a way she hoped this one would hold off kicking. Until theworld knew the babe was her own special secret. Still she’d had tobeg off hunts for fear of the child and she was quickly running outof excuses. Someone was going to notice sooner or later that she’dnot been on a horse in months. This one had timing just as bad asKatherine had. If her math was right the child would come in Augustor so which meant for most of the summer there would be no hunting,or riding or travel for the child’s sake… and it was only March.

Franceslaid a hand against her belly. It was too soon to expect she’d feelmuch but all the same she prayed he little thing would kick soon. Notit really… him. They needed a boy- she needed a boy. Jane andKitty needed a baby brother to keep them safe.

“You’re apatient little thing. Your sisters were kicking at the worst times bynow.” she settled onto the bed. “Or is that a sign you’re not a girl hm?” Bess and the other maids were longgone. No one would hear her. It was silly rambling really but whenthere was a child in her belly she never felt quite alone. Carrying a child was a feeling that couldn’t be explained to a man… or even a woman who’d never experienced it. 

And there it was. A fish on a line, a little fluttering thing.

“Is that all it took?” Frances smiled to herself. “You were waiting for your mother to talk to you little one?” Pregnancy was never easy but this was the time she loved best. The kicks made it feel more real almost.

V.

She’d not been afraid to die… not really. She’d been afraid to leave her girls behind with no one to care for them a but a stepfather. Adrian was all a woman could have asked for in a husband but he was a man. He’d never understand Katherine or Mary the way their mother had. They would be all alone save for a cousin and a stepfather and they were too young for that.

In all her years as a Catholic, as a Protestant no one had ever said you could see those you loved from heaven. The most a priest ever said was you went to heaven or hell. When Frances had realized she could still watch over her girls- but only watch- she’d been enchanted. She couldn’t bring herself to stop watching them in some futile hope they’d have happy lives with no throne to fight over or father to interfere. 

How wrong she’d been.

Kitty married a man she could never have according to the queen- a man she’d warned Kitty off of before her death. Now it was Mary but hadn’t she done the same thing herself when she’d married Adrian? Of course the queen had given her approval but she’d planned it all.

Hadn’t she told the girls after their father’s death they would have to make their own way?

That Keyes man wasn’t what a mother wished for her daughter in normal circumstances but he made Mary happy. Somehow death put things in perspective and Mary’s happiness was what mattered. She could only hope the match wouldn’t turn out as Kitty’s had.

[stevedonnellyfaith-blog]

St Joseph (Post 58) 10-8-14

                        St Joseph like Mary is often an enigma to converts to the Catholic Church.  We sort of get that St Peter is special despite his uneven performance as an apostle. It is not hard to discern why Catholics think a lot of St Paul – the guy wrote half the New Testament, his advice was prolific and a lot more mystical than Ann Landers’ columns.  The details on St Joseph, though, are pretty sketchy. Back in my Youth Choir days, if I had had to play Joseph in our annual musical, I might have demanded, “What’s my motivation?”  Actually, probably not, I usually got second banana roles because I was good at memorizing my lines, but I think I delivered them all in the same boring monotone that would have been more appropriate for a commercial for toenail fungus remover.

When I listen to the readings concerning Jesus’ nativity and childhood, there doesn’t seem to be much development of Joseph’s character.  It has been difficult to equate the sparse information about Joseph in the bible to St Joseph being the patron saint of everything from “the worker” to peppermint swirl ice cream.  To me the amazing extrapolation of a few biblical references to so many patronages always seemed as improbable as the stories of my grandmother cooking eleven hundred different recipes out of Spam during the Second World War.

From the gospels I know that Joseph was a just man, who followed angelic direction much better than Zachariah did.  He accompanied and protected Mary through several difficult and dangerous journeys to Bethlehem, to Egypt and to Nazareth.  He brought his family to Jerusalem for the great feast days and only once misplaced his foster son for three days, but there is little detail about Joseph in even those references.  If a student had submitted the biblical story of Joseph in my dad’s creative writing course, low marks would have been received – it’s all plot summary. Joseph’s personality is a puzzle.

Because I like puzzles of all sorts, I have read through the Catechism of the Catholic Church and different other sources of Catholic tradition over the years looking for clues about Joseph.  While I understand that there is no dogmatic teaching concerning the head of the Holy Family, the puzzle pieces that I have found in Mary of Agreda’s Mystical City of God and other sources seem to complement rather than contradict the rough outline provided in the Gospels.  Here are some of my thoughts that have a logical basis if not a theological one:

·       I expect that Joseph had some kind of idea of who Jesus was not only because he was being directed by angels but because the angelic intervention in his dreams is included in The Bible.  The inclusion of his dream means that Joseph confided in Mary who would have been the only possible source to the Evangelists assuming that Joseph was dead at the time of Jesus’ public ministry.  If Joseph confided in Mary, it is reasonable to conclude that Mary confided in Joseph. I believe that is how marriage is supposed to work.

·       The Catholic tradition that Mary grew up in the temple as a consecrated virgin but left at adolescence and needed a protector seems consistent with the Bible to me.  The start of her menstruation would have made Mary ritually impure and prevented her from residing in the temple any longer.  From what we know from other Biblical stories the prospects for unattached females without means in period Jewish society were pretty poor – think gleaning, servitude or worse.  That the temple staff would have arranged for a protector seems to explain Joseph’s agreement to marry a consecrated virgin.

·       Joseph’s acceptance of Mary’s status as a consecrated virgin seems implicit in his decision to divorce her quietly.  Already married (thus the idea of divorce) Mary and Joseph could not consummated their union if Mary’s pregnancy is a surprise to Joseph.  

This logically leads me to believe that Joseph was a pretty good guy.  He agreed to marry an unwealthy girl and seems to never consummating the marriage. That his dream life is included in one of the Gospels speaks to the fact that he had a close relationship with Mary – she was really his wife not a domestic servant.  Would most modern men have been willing to pick up and move several times by foot throughout the Holy Land in an effort to protect a spouse and child under those conditions?  The Bible tells us that at one point Mary and Joseph received expensive gifts from foreign benefactors, but the Holy Family doesn’t seem to have acquired servants or possessions. Also they appear to have chosen to live in the biblical equivalent of Bayonne, New Jersey.  Mary and Joseph appear to have lived the beatitudes that Jesus would later proclaim.

St Joseph fascinates me because Nick and I belong to a men’s group named after him, but also because I see in Joseph a model for how a husband and father is supposed to act.  I expect that he was a good carpenter, but maybe he was terrible.  Catholics call Joseph the “Terror of Demons” – maybe that is because the demons were afraid that a Joseph made bookcase would collapse on their heads. I don’t think that was the case.  More importantly, the selflessness of his life gives me something to shoot for as a parent. His “motivation” seems to be self-sacrifice.  Step 1 in imitating St Joseph is total surrender to God.

In my own life I know another man to whom I also look for inspiration. He is an older guy and lugs about a good sized cross of medical problems including mobility issues.  He is retired so in American thinking, he has earned the right to spend his time as he so chooses.  From approximately 3 PM until his bedtime on most nights he chooses to tutor his nine-year-old granddaughter who has issues with handwriting, spelling, speech and mathematics.  Not much of a retirement for a high school English teacher.

He was hospitalized the other week for a couple days as a precaution for a routine malady common to geezers.  He told me that he spent all his recuperation time thinking about what his granddaughter was doing without him.  More than likely she was missing his daily offering of time and attention.  

As I sit here typing about the lessons that I have learned from contemplating the acts of Joseph and this other man, I know that over the years, occasionally, I have fallen short of the mark in my parental and marital vocation in comparison to the ideal man. I say this not because I am a terrible parent or was a terrible husband, but to accentuate why Catholics venerate and try to imitate saints.  Handwriting doesn’t get better with practice unless the student copies a model as a guide to perfection.

[bluebookbadger-blog]

The Price of a Life - Chapter 13

Title: The Price of a Life Fandom (s): Fullmetal Alchemist/Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood Summary: I always thought waking up in another world would be a lot more…interesting. At least slightly exciting and terrifying, but it really wasn’t. It was more of a sudden and underwhelming event, that landed me in the company of fiction and its ignorance to modern physics. I thought it was a dream. Boy was I wrong. Characters: SI/OC, Maes Hughes, Edward Elric, Alphonse Elric, etc. Rating: PG-13

I woke up gasping for air, my lungs taking panicked, hollow breaths that did little to actually pump oxygen into my blood. I was shaking with terror, my body soaked in sweat. My hands were splayed in the dirt as I knelt there shivering, as if some unseen weight was forcing me down and my arms were about to give out. My ears were ringing, and my vision faded in and out. All I could do was breath and hope the feeling of terror would pass.

It had not been a nightmare, I would have been able to remember it if it were, but whatever had terrified me seemed worse than any empty train car or chasing apparition. My breathing slowly returned to normal, the fresh, clean air of the night filling my lungs. The fire burned brightly, and the strange stars danced high above.

'Did I even sleep?' I thought to myself, the sleeping children undisturbed by my alarming outburst. It took longer for my hands to obey me, slowly releasing the fistfuls of sand and my arms folding around my midsection for comfort. A hand rose and touched my choker necklace, the metal of the cross warm to the touch.

"God, am I sick?" I whispered to myself, the breeze chilling me to the bone.

"You are not Ishvalan, child," A familiar, deep voice said softly with a hint of disappointment, startling me. I jumped away from its source, and my bag succeeded in keeping me from from falling on top of one of the slumbering children. I looked up, the Brother sitting calmly by the fire. I felt a wave of relief, as though I expected someone else to be there.

"No," I finally said in agreement as he looked to me in silence. "I didn't mean to deceive anyone, I was just trying to," I paused briefly, not knowing how to word my cowardice of running away from everyone, "Find a home," The old man smiled, the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes deepening.

"You are still welcome here, though I am curious as to why you would want to live in a place such as this," He motioned to the lopsided shacks made out of disused trash. "When you've clearly come from the very heart of Central." The Brother motioned to my attire. Though sweat soaked and dirty, the stiff blouse collar and high boots were distinct from the loose, flowing robes and sandaled feet of the other slum residents.

"I move around a lot. Like I said, I'm just trying to figure out where I fit in," As if I could ever belong in another world. I thought to myself.

"I must say you did work without complaint, which is uncommon of those unaccustomed to manual labor. I presume that's why you thought you could find a place among us?"

"Perhaps. It reminds me of one of my past homes." It was the main reason for my stay, subconsciously though. Yes, the labor was hard and my bones and muscles were so stiff I did not think I would be able to stand, let alone work when the sun rose. However, it was something I knew I could do. Something in this world I understood. Despite the physical discomfort, the work in the fields was a psychological comforter that reminded me of the world I once belonged to, a world to which I might never return.

"I take it you've traveled far," I nodded.

"I'm from Drachma," I said automatically, the name sounding as natural to me as Connecticut.

"Why didn't you stay?" I looked down at my hands. I needed to keep on the good side of as many people as possible, for the sake of not sleeping in a garbage can or in the sewers. Saying I came in search of medical alchemy to save my fictional dying mother would not go over well with the Ishvalans. I hadn't really thought of what my excuse would be in this situation.

"If you haven't noticed already, I don't look particularly Drachman." I said, motioning to my face. A curl of pale blonde hair tickled my ear, and I pushed it back out of my face. A hair cut was desperately needed. "I traveled around, found Amestis, and figured I would settle down for a bit, see how it was."

"You're lucky not to have come to Amestris a few years ago," Brother responded in a lighthearted manner, but I could hear a darker undertone to his deep voice. "I'm sure you've heard of the war," I gave a grim smile, my jaw tightly clenched. I didn't want to talk about war, and violence, and death. Not after the awakening I had.

"People are capable of great evil," I responded, mostly to myself than to the Brother. He smiled, the wrinkles in his face deepened by the flickering shadow of the fire light.

"And they are capable of even greater good," I knit my eyebrows and glanced to the sky.

"That's an optimistic outlook," I noted, watching the bright stars above as intently as though I were reading an enrapturing novel. I had to keep myself from asking aloud how someone who had surely witness the pit of man's evil could possibly believe in infinite good. I believed people were capable of great acts of kindness, but I also felt that people were inclined to act out of selfishness - my own actions the past few weeks proving that point farther.

"Ishvala grants all of us with the ability to transcend our human desires and to experience true peace and goodness with Him," The Brother said in response, his laughing red eyes studying me for a reaction as he continued, "Regardless of our trust in Him or His ways,"

"We have very similar philosophies then," I said with a sigh, the scent of candle smoke at Church back home briefly detected from the flames of the fire.

"Do you believe in a different greater force?" I looked again to the stars.

"Yes, I believe Him to be the one true God, just as you believe Ishvala to be the one true creator of the earth," I stopped, seeing the tail of a shooting star streak just above the horizon. "Maybe we even have the same God, just different names,"

"Perhaps," The Brother sounded thoughtful. "What do you call your deity?" I was enjoying the conversation, and it was interesting to see how curious the Brother was about my religion, regardless of how true and untrue some of my answers were bound to be.

"Well, to us He is the God, so we simply call Him God." I scraped the farthest recesses of my memory to find a name from some years old scripture passage or CCD lesson. "In the old scripts He was called...Yahweh? Yes, Yahweh. I'm not sure if we're supposed to call Him by that name, I'm not as well versed in the Church Catechisms as I should be," I said with a hint of embarrassment.

"You are well educated in your religion, is it common for your holy scripts to be available to all?"

"Well, in the medieval age there was a split in the Church 'cause Luther wanted it to be translated then he realized he was digging a hole for himself, so he just ended up leaving an making his own version; there are other Protestants who are real strict but don't like the Pope, then you've got the Anglicans..." I trailed off, realizing I wasn't answering the question. "Nowadays, yes, just about everything is in the vernacular. I take it Ishvalans don't have their scriptures privy to the common folk?"

The Brother nodded.

"Are there different factions of your religion? I would think it would be hard to keep everyone true to the faith after being scattered by the war." I wondered aloud, curious about the organization of the Ishvalan faith. Brother responded with a soft snort of amusement.

"Change is inevitable in our situation, and I assume not all are as faithful as they were, it wouldn't surprise me if there are many modified versions of the faith." He turned his eyes to the sky, the stars sparkling above. "So long as they preach our message of peace, I do not think I would care for whatever changes they may have made to the old doctrines." My eyes searched the sky one more. I wanted to change the subject, as all this talk of religious factions and doctrines the was getting too formal and too nostalgic for me to bear.

"Do you have names? For the stars?" I asked, the question bugging my since I first noticed the unfamiliar skyscape. The Brother too seemed happy to move on from the otherwise tiresome topic of catechisms.

"Of course," He said, searching the sky for a moment. "The stars are not as clear as they are in the Holy Land, but you can see Archia, the serpent," He pointed to a row of bright stars that sat at the edge of the sky but still shone brightly, "And Ishvala, standing over it," It took a bit more looking to make out the stick figure of dots that was vaguely reminiscent of a man.

"I see it," I said, squinting at the stars. The glare of the fire light had stung my eyes, but now the hot coals burned low, a gentle caress of red on the sandy earth.

"And there," The Brother pointed straight above us, the brightest star in the sky blazing with cold light. If one could see beyond the light, two or three smaller stars flanking the bright one. "That is the crown of Askba, Ishvala's daughter," Brother sighed, a faint smile playing on his dry, chapped lips as he studied the sky with blissful delight. "Back in the Holy Land you could see it much more clearly, I must admit I miss seeing the stars with that sharpness."

"I'm sure you do," I said, finally realizing that Amestris indeed had a Holy Land. 'So that was what Winry was referring to in her Rush Valley exposition...'

"Do you see any constellations that remind you of Drachma?" My eyes drifted back to earth, the rough sand suddenly more interesting than the smooth, silver stars.

"No," I admitted, the pin pricks of white seeming disorganized and alien once more. "I don't think you can see the same constellations this far south,"

"That's a pity, you must miss that familiarity," Brother said softly, head bowed and his grey beard resting on his chest.

I yawned. The first hint of dawn tinged the distant horizon with a few pale ripples, and I internally groaned at the sight. I had barely slept, and I ached all over. I didn't even know if I could stand up, my legs lead weights attached to my body. Unfortunately, or, perhaps, fortunately, Brother noted my agony.

"Don't overwork yourself, you may stay with the children for today, no one will notice." I raised an eyebrow.

"Are you sure? I wouldn't want to worry-"

"Of course it's fine, and," He glanced around as one of the children yawned, and rolled over. It was the boy to which I had given my jacket. "The children could use someone to keep an eye on them during the day," I gave a half smile and nodded. In the distance, I would hear the rumble of a old engine as the truck's rickety frame groaned and creaked.

Suddenly, the horde of children perked up, eyes bright and alert. They moved silently but with haste, creeping into the shacks with steps so soft they barely made an imprint in the sandy earth. The girl from the night before allowed her gaze to linger on me before glancing at the Brother, who nodded sagely. She stepped in that soft-footed manner towards me, and extended a hand.

"Before they send you to work," She whispered, her voice soft yet hoarse, as though she rarely spoke above a whisper. I struggled to my feet and let her lead me, each stepping making the pain in my ankles shoot tendrils of agony throughput my body. Every step was anguish, my bones rubbing against each other and audibly creaking with effort. Somehow we made it to the tent, where I ungracefully collapsed back to the ground.

Bodies lined the sides of the shack, flush against the walls in an attempt to become nothing more than a shadow. I gave a suspicious glance around the darkness, but was grateful to see no evidence of Pride's spying eyes.

It was quiet for a while. It was the kind of dark quietness, filled only by the heartbeats and shallow breaths of an invisible crowd. That would make most people claustrophobic. I, personally, was silently grateful for the enclosed space and warmth of nearby bodies. It felt safe, it felt natural and primitive, like being in your mother's womb.

This silence continued until the rumble of a struggling truck filled the air, dust kicked up by its bald tires infiltrating the shack. The breathing of the children slowed, and so I tried to slow my own, quieting every breath to conceal our location. The truck rumbled away, but the children did not move.

It seemed as though hours had passed, and indeed quite a few must have, before a child near the improvised tarp doorway peered outside. We waited for some signal that the coast was clear before filing out of the cramped space and soaking in the rays of late morning sunshine.

I gave a contented sigh as the light warmed my aching bones, the hot dirt beneath my feet relaxing the cramped and tense muscles. The children also seemed to enjoy the warm air, laying down in the sand and tracing figures in the earth. I sat next to the girl who had led me to the shack, her face serene and eyes peaceful as she stared at the passing clouds in calm reverie.

"So," I began, my voice sounding too loud amidst the comfortable silence. "You guys do this all day?"

"Just in the morning," She responded, her voice so soft and brimming with bliss. "We warm up and say our morning prayers, then we go into town for food." I nodded, feeling a smile creep onto my lips at the mention of food.

"Do you mind if I join you?" The girl smiled back at me, stretching once more before settling on her knees.

"Not at all, the Brother wouldn't want you to stay here all by yourself anyway," She stretched her arms forward and pressed her forehead to the ground, a pose I only knew from my mother's yoga obsession as Child's Pose. The other children were also in this position, their arms reaching in the direction of the sun.

I yawned and copied them, feeling the tension in my hips give way in a quiet pop as the joints reconciled. It was relaxing to lay like that, with the sun beating down on my aching spine and my hands feeling the coolness of the layers of dirt beneath them. I knew that this was how they prayed, and stealing a glance around saw the faces of the children contorted with focus. I shot a few short prayers to my own deity, hoping for nothing to change this new setting in which I had found comfort.

After only a few minutes, I was bored by the stretch, and itched to go into town for food. As if on cue, my stomach began it recitation of Oedipus Rex in whale. I tried to press myself deeper into the sandy earth, embarrassment reddening my already sunburnt ears. The younger children gave a few giggles, their own hungry bellies orchestrating whale calls of their own.

The girl, who I have decided to call Sandy due to our matching sand filled pale locks, gave a chuckle of her own as she sat up, the older children who had thus far resisted the urge to relax a little copying her example.

"Okay, okay, we can go now," Sandy managed through her smile. The children stood up, stretching once more as the pleasantly warm morning sunlight became the overbearing heat of midday. The younger children, from toddlers to tweens filed back into the shacks, each accompanied by one slightly older child. This left a small group of about ten of us left. These kids were in their teens, their bodies gangling and disproportionate, probably due to a lack of nutrition.

An inspiring idea flickered in my mind at the thought, and I retrieved my bag from the shack it resided in to rummage for supplies.

Meanwhile, I could hear Sandy issuing orders that pertained to certain parts of the downtown sector. Train stations, restaurants, street corners - it finally clicked that they were debating the best places to either beg for food or find the money to buy it.

Again my heart constricted in pity, and in self-loathing. So many times I had seen these very children on the streets of Central, and not once had I stopped to pay them or give them something. What a selfish, awful, self-centered brat-

"Miss. Irish?" Sandy asked, her voice quavering as though she was still unsure if she was permitted to call me by name. I stopped my frantic rummaging and looked up, eyes wide and attentive. "We're leaving now, you can come with me,"

I looked once more at the satchel I had packed with necessities from my bag. My Certificate wedged at the bottom for emergencies, about a hundred cenz to buy food for as many kids as I could, and the knife from Hughes. Satisfied with the supplies, I nodded to myself, closed the bag and followed.

We had arrived in the more populous region of the slums after a short walk, and I was doing my best to ignore the ache in my stomach and the ache in my feet.

The street we were on was lined with carts and other vendors hoping to make a buck, or in this world, a cenz. Some sold dishes and cups, others sold herbs and remedies, while others still hoped to sell a few homemade trinkets. The scene vaguely reminded me of a boardwalk in Rhode Island where my parents would take us during the summer, but the oppressive heat and smell of sweat and toil rising from the dusty dirt street reminded me this was anything but home.

The other children had taken off by the time I reined in my nostalgia and focused on the present. Sandy pulled me through the crowd by my hand, her stride constantly fluctuating based on the number of shady figures attempting to offer us a job at the local club and stray dogs blocking our path. I instinctively dug my hand into my satchel, gripping the handle of the knife periodically to remind myself it was there.

We arrived at a dilapidated building, the brick foundation crumbling and the off white facade darkened by dirt and time. I stared at the sign for a moment, trying to decipher why we were at 'Auntie Elosa's Bath House', the name of which was no reassurance. Inside of the building, it was dark, the air humid and dank. Only a few candles strung about the ceiling and on counters illuminated the faces of tired old women and the other children.

I wanted to ask why we were here or all places for food when a rotund lady came from a back room, clad only in a dingy towel. Her long white hair was thinning, plastered to her neck and shoulders like a ghostly veil. The wrinkles in her face seemed like deep ravines carved into the landscape by time, wind, and sorrow. Despite this, her bright red eyes gleamed with joy and pride at the sight of us, a smile stretching from ear to ear as she approached.

It might sound strange, but with that smile she seemed to grow younger, more beautiful. They do say happiness looks good on everyone, and for this woman, it looked as though she just found out she was a grandmother.

"Child, you have brought a visitor!" She announced, rushing me with a speed I couldn't fathom for a woman of her age and size. I clutched my satchel close, my hand already wrapped around the knife's handle out of habit. The woman held my shoulders, staring deeply into my own pale pink irises. She never stopped smiling.

"Auntie, this is Miss. Irish, she's staying with us and the Brother." Sandy explained, holding back a giggle as Auntie ran a hand through my hair. I yelped in surprise and pain when her fingers caught a tangle of my thick locks.

"Sorry deary," She turned to the other children, assessing each of them one by one, occasionally pulling up her towel to prevent it slipping down to reveal her generous endowment to us. "Look at all of you, you're a mess!" She exclaimed smudging the dirt on a boy's cheeks. "Ajah, show our guest to the showers, would you darling?"

"Yes Auntie," Sandy - who, I presume is really Ajah, responded.

"And the rest of you! To the showers at once, you're filthy, filthy, filthy! How dare you spend so much time rolling in the dirt to say your prayers, go!" Auntie shouted, ushering the rest of the children after us. Ajah hurriedly led me to the back room, where both walls were lined with stalls. Ajah entered a stall, and I followed in suit. The cramped wooden space hand only a bench and a towel hung on a peg. I assumed this meant I was expected to bathe, not that I was arguing. A refreshing bath could go a long way.

I emerged wrapped in the towel, the rough fabric in stark contrast to the soft, fluffy towels I was used to at the Hughes' residence. My heart caught in my throat at the thought, my mind spinning all of the possibilities of what was going on back in the heart of Central. Had the Elrics returned from Dublith? Did they know about Hughes? Had Ross been 'killed' by Mustang? The timeline was very loose in terms of days and weeks, it was possible they could have even returned to the Fifth Laboratory, and Havoc could be paralyzed-

"Miss. Irish? Are you okay?" I looked up at the owner of the voice, Ajah standing with her towel held over her shoulder. In front of me the other children marched deeper into the building, towels held in their arms or over their shoulders. I blinked a few times, staring at the ground in an attempt to determine why I couldn't see anything despite the dim lights. I shook my head, recalling that my glasses had fogged up upon entering the building, and now resided in my satchel.

"Sorry, I've never gone to a bath house before," I looked down at my towel, and held it tighter around my chest. "Am I not supposed to cover up?" Ajah smiled, her eyes twinkling with impish amusement as she started walking down the corridor.

"We're not of marrying age yet, so we usually bathe together." She explained, glancing at my pale collar bone and legs that contrasted with the dirt covered hands and face. "You can use the showers though, if you'd like,"

We came into a large room that reminded me of an indoor hotel pool, with one small pool, one large, and a shower area. The other children were already in the large bath, a wooden construction that was slightly smaller than a house pool. The small pool appeared to be a hot tub of sorts, three old women overseeing the children as they splashed and washed below.

I walked over to the showers, an area in the corner of the humid bath house that surely was home to a great variety of mold species. The shower was crude, constructed of silvery pipes and a colander like shower head that perpetually dripped. Once more I revisited my fear of lead poisoning. Deadly lead poisoning. Or a refreshing shower. Deadly Poisoning. Refreshing Shower. I decided to take present comfort over future worries, and turned the knob on the pipe to the left.

An unhealthy sounding gurgle and sputter of water later, and I was enjoying the best shower I had taken since I arrived in an alternate reality. Mind you readers, this was the only shower I had taken in Amestris. The water was freezing cold, so much so that I nearly dropped my towel when testing the temperature. After a moment of fiddling with knobs and discovering that the only preference was Antarctic ice floe, I set the towel on a peg on the wall and proceeded to shower.

There was no soap to use, but after a few minutes of shivering self-consciously, I adjusted to the temperature and did my best to rid my hands and feet of the dirt and filth of the past day. I faced away from the shower head, fearful of accidentally ingesting some lead pipe shower water. Not a soul noticed me standing there, naked and bare in the corner of the bath house. I rubbed my legs, acutely aware I hadn't shaved since I arrived, and equally aware of how sickly I had become.

I had always had, what my mother referred to as a 'healthy amount' of chubbiness, what she told me was insurance against a bad snow storm or food shortage. It never really bothered me, and I wasn't obese by any means, but I had lost that safety cushion of fat during my time in Amestris.

Maybe it was the interruption to my strict regimen of breakfast, lunch, dinner, or perhaps it was the stress and anxiety that had overworked my body, but my legs had grown too thin for my liking, and my ribs too prominent.

My skin had a sheen of what I can only call sickliness, that off white, not quite pale but not shaded enough to be any particular color but held a hue of blue-grey-green. I ran my hands through my hair, working through the knot Auntie had found. I promised myself that as soon as I could, I was going to start getting back into a healthy eating habit.

I looked at the children in the pool, realizing that shared the same underfed overworked gauntness, but their bodies churned whatever energy providing food they consumed into coils of wiry muscle, where I became more cadaverous. Still, their eyes were sunken and their ribs could be counted. None of us were a picture of perfect health.

We all need to eat better. I thought, trying to find any other thought to occupy my mind. I eventually found myself humming, something that usually evolved into horrible, awful, terrible song should I stay too long in the shower. I couldn't place the particular lyrics or song name, but I knew the melody was classical. Perhaps from Beethoven.

A little while later, we were all back in the changing stalls. I was still humming the tune to the mystery song as I changed, in a pleasant mood once more. Though, I must admit putting dirty clothes onto a recently showered body was a little bit of a deterrent. I rummaged through my satchel to grab my glasses when I noticed something. My money was gone. The song evaporated and a groan accompanied by the sound of my head hitting the wall managed to reach the ears of my...acquaintance? Friend? Guide?

"Are you okay Miss. Irish?" Ajah asked, knocking on the door. I sighed, thinking about the dull ache in my stomach.

Whoever took the money probably needed it. I assured myself before speaking. "I'm fine, don't leave without me now," Ajah chuckled at my response.

"Don't worry, I won't." I put on my glasses and followed her out, a forced smile hopefully appearing to be anything but.

Outside the sun beat down on the two of us, the streets mostly empty.

"Where is everyone?" I asked, relieved that a cloud blotted out most of the sunlight so that I could see without struggling against the blinding light.

"Eating, don't tell me you're not hungry anymore?" I snorted at Ajah's response.

"I am always hungry," I retorted, though it sounded a lot better in my head. We walked down the street, passing the vendors who enjoyed some afternoon naps and lunch breaks. "So, Ajah," She visibly winced at the sound of her name, alerting me that it was probably best not to refer to her by name. "Sorry, I heard Auntie call you that, and you seemed okay calling me Irish, and I just thought-"

"No, no, it's fine, I'm just not used to hearing my name from any of the others," She gave a sheepish smile. "We're not really supposed to use our names with strangers. Auntie's an old woman, and we respect her. She just isn't as devoted as she used to be before..."

"I understand, people lose faith in times of struggle, it happens everywhere," The gears of my mind were whirring, pondering how many versions of the Ishvalan faith there could be. With no organized religion after the war, it wouldn't be surprising to see people who's faith has warped as much as Auntie's. Or Scar's. A sigh from Ajah drew me back from my thoughts.

"I worry about the little ones, that they won't learn to respect Ishvala and his laws," Her eyes stared at the earth, misting over with deep thought. "Brother is getting older, and there aren't very many monks left to teach us in Ishvala's ways," Her eyes darted up at me, searching for any sign of reproach or annoyance. I watched her with an attentiveness I hoped she could interpret as genuine curiosity. "Look at that! We're here," Ajah announced, clearly glad for the distraction.

It was a little soup shop, brimming with customers. On either side of the door, a bouncer eyed us warily. The band of Ishvalan youths huddled at the counter were just another source of income, and I assumed the owner wouldn't want paying customers to be reported to athorities.

Ajah and I found seats among the group, where we observed one of the boys count out cenz. Most of the money was dingy - crumpled up, muddy, or otherwise appearing as though it had been dug out of a sewer.

One child added a small stack of cenz to the pile, crisp, clean bills. No one seemed to notice as the older boy counted the money out and bargained with the server. I found myself memorizing the child's face with a bubble of ire building in my throat. His head was clean shaven, though a few tufts of silvery hair had been missed. His right ear bore scars, as though a cat had raked its claws across his head. He had a resting sleepy smile, as though he were coming off laughing gas from a trip to the dentist.

Only when the server brought our food was I distracted by my vengeful glowering. It was a lot of food. Too much for us to eat on our own, which explained why the sever was helping the children bag the food. We were bringing it back for the other kids. We were only in the shop for a few minutes, and as quickly as we had settled in, we left with armfuls of soup cans and bread.

I can't say I wasn't still upset with the kid, he had stolen my money after all, but it had been my plan to buy food for all of us anyway, so I decided we were even, for now.

Suddenly there was a dull twang as a stone bounced off a nearby lamppost and ricocheted, knocking down the kid who had stolen my money. He fell without grace, his bags of food spilling their contents into the dirt road. Ajah rushed to his aid, setting her own packages down gently. Another stone was thrown, this one clipping Ajah's shoulder.

I seethed, turning to the direction of the stone's origin. A blonde haired, blue eyed boy no older than eight or nine glared angrily in our direction, picking up another stone. A younger boy watched on with fearful, cautious eyes.

"Go back to your own country!" The blonde yelled, throwing a stone straight at me. It bounced harmlessly off my shoulder, but the words stung more than the pebble.

I can't go back anywhere, and their country is your country you- I stopped, realizing I was stalking across the street towards the pair with my hands and jaw clenched tight. Ajah placed a hand on my shoulder.

"Don't bother," Her deep red eyes glanced at the two boys, the younger one looking from me to the blonde, tugging at the hem of his shirt in fear. I took a deep breath, feeling the tension leave my body with a heavy sigh.

I set down my bags and helped pick up the salvageable contents of the bag. The boy wasn't hurt, only surprised by the stone. Ajah affirmed she was fine, but the sting of the stone on my shoulder left an ache in my heart.

The two boys probably lived here, in the slums, just like the Ishvalans. I tried to reason their hate, perhaps they had lost their father or an uncle or an older brother to the war, perhaps they had heard of Scar and were afraid. Still, their hate felt so raw and unfiltered, so wrong and unnatural for such young children to feel. It baffled me how they could be so cruel.

We soon exited the slums without anymore interruptions and found our meager home, where children huddled around the glowing fire and the Brother's face was etched with exhaustion and age. As we divied up the food, I finally took the time to relax, unwrapping a piece of bread from its newspaper swaddling. Scar's face stared back at me, a detailed article talking about the recent murder of the Silver Alchemist.

I sighed, no longer hungry despite my earlier affirmations. It seemed both sides of the coin were capable of horrendous cruelty.

A pattern developed as my days with the Ishvalans accumulated. One day I would go with Brother, work in the fields. The next I would spend with Ajah, getting food and taking some of the younger children to the bath house. Once more I settle into routine, the world at a relative quiet before the storm. And believe me, there would be a storm.

I was eating regularly, at least as regularly as I could living in the poorest sector of Central. I never saw the blonde boy again, though I was always a bit jumpy whenever we walked back from town. I never collected a paycheck, but often I would take some produce from the farm back with me, the damaged or imperfect fruits and vegetables that the farm wouldn't be able to sell.

A week or so had passed, and I was working in the fields with the Ishvalans, the sun high and my shoulders red. Another perk of being paler than a ghost - you burn, and burn, and burn. I might have even ended up with a slight tan. The rumble of an engine groaned at the other end of the field. I perked up, some vague hope that we could break early filtering through my conscious thought.

But this wasn't the water truck. This was sleek, black, military vehicle. The Ishvalan workers did not panic, they kept their heads down and worked without missing a beat. Roger - you guys remember him? - was at the end of his row, talking to whoever was in the car. I kept my head down, just like the others, and continued working, though my ears strained to hear the voices above the din of insects and the car's distant engine.

I looked up to see Roger sprinting down the row, bounding with the grace of a dancer over rocks and ditches. He arrived, sweat soaked but not out of breath, red eyes peering up between beads of sweat at me.

"Is something wrong?" I asked, bunching a handful of carrots and throwing them into my basket.

"Those men, they want to talk to you," Roger said, wiping away the glimmering jewels of sweat that had beaded on his long eyelashes. "They said to tell you it's Havoc asking for you," I tensed, immediately have an internal panic attack. Did they arrest Ross? Was she 'killed'? Did Gracia report me missing? I nervously cracked my knuckles.

"I should go," I murmured, looking to my basket of carrots.

"I've got these, you," He looked at me for a moment, searching for the right words as his eyes searched mine and found the fear in them. "Stay safe," Ha clapped me on the shoulder and tended to the field. I ran down the row my shoes clumsily catching on rocks and sinking into ditches as I tried to hurriedly make my way to the black car.

When I finally stepped onto the crude dirt road, Havoc was standing outside of the vehicle, lighting a cigarette. Somehow, it relieved me to see him standing there, inhaling vaporized cancer. I think I was subconsciously aware it might be only a short time before he was sitting in a wheelchair.

When he saw me, he raised an eyebrow, as if thinking the wrong worker had been sent back.

"Mac, that really you?" Mac. Only Hughes ever called me that. I couldn't believe how happy I was seeing him. So many questions were caught in my throat. How was Elicia and Gracia? And Danny? And was Mustang doing okay?

"Yep, this is really me, lover boy," I managed, smiling in spite of myself. Havoc laughed, and went to ruffle my hair. I caught both of us off guard by rushing to hug him. "Nice to see you again, Havoc. What're you doing all the way out here?" I released him, and he got his chance to ruffle my hair, but he didn't. He just stood there, eyes searching me for some sign, some signal of negative emotion.

"I wish I could say it was for a friendly visit," I looked up at him, head cocked and brow furrowed. "We need you to come back to Central, just for a little bit," Why would Central be looking for me? As if reading my thoughts, Havoc stared me down sternly. "We believe we have Hughes' killer in custody, we need you to I.D. them,"

Masterlist

[info-copa]

Shirley Williams, Passionate Advocate of Anishinaabemowin-Ojibway Language and Culture

                                  Shirley with a COPA storybook

When Shirley Williams was seven years old, a priest and Indian agent came to the door of her parents’ house to enroll her in residential school. Her father argued with him, saying he intended to homeschool Shirley and promised to teach her the catechism. Miraculously he was allowed to keep her at home, and so Shirley was homeschooled by her father for the next three years. Of course, he had never specified which language he would do this in, and he proceeded to teach her the Anishinaabe language and culture. For those three years he focused on teaching Shirley everything he could about their way of life and language, culture, trees, medicine and plants. By the time she was taken to residential school at ten years old, the seeds had been planted for her to become the passionate advocate of Anishinaabemowin-Ojibway language and culture that she is today.

Shirley Williams sits on COPA’s Advisory Council of First Nations, Métis and Inuit Elders and community leaders. She is a precious resource of knowledge, wisdom and language that COPA has been privileged to work with over the course of the past few years as we have developed and disseminated resources targeted to the well being of Indigenous students, families and communities:  A Circle of Caring and Joining the Circle. She has also translated our storybooks into Anishinaabemowin-Ojibway.

The first meeting of COPA’s Advisory Council for The Circle Widens Project: Mohini Athia (COPA), Nicole Parsons, Deb St. Amant, and Shirley Williams. Missing: Jeanne Herbert

Recently we sat down with Shirley to have a conversation about her extraordinarily passionate and committed life.

Shirley grew up in the Wikwemikong Unceded Indian Reserve on Manitoulin Island. When her father realized that her siblings were coming home from residential schools speaking exclusively in English, he told Shirley’s mother that he wanted to keep one of their daughters at home in order to pass down the language, culture, and knowledge of their people. And so, having convinced the priest to at least delay her attendance at residential school, he proceeded to teach Shirley the ways of her people. From the age of seven, Shirley knew she had to focus on learning everything she could. She remembers the elders saying to her, “Pay attention, my daughter, because how else will you know what to say when someone offers you tobacco? You don’t know why I am telling you this, but someday you WILL understand.” That period in her life is what motivated her to write the book she is currently finishing, a book written in both English and Ojibwe, which contains 21 chapters of stories of her childhood, including stories about hunting, fishing, trapping and gathering. Shirley says, “I came to understand that because of the way we are living now, people want to know about these things. They need the connection.”  Her nieces and nephews, and all the children in her family would always say, “Ask Auntie Shirley”, as they did not know how to answer. And so she is writing this book, the latest of many she has written, so that the children, their families, and communities will know more about their language and culture.

             An earlier book by Shirley Williams about a childhood memory

Shirley left residential school at sixteen, not because she did not like learning, but because the children who attended the school were not treated well. “But I always thought I would go back to school someday, and periodically I did, one course at a time while raising kids.”  

Later in her life, she enrolled in university to do Native Studies, something she had wanted to do for a very long time, in order to learn more about herself and her people. She then went on to Lakehead University to study how to write and teach languages, and she remained there for 18 summers, teaching summer school. “A lot of our young people were saying, I don’t need the language, I am already an Indian. These were the same things we heard from those who went to residential schools, and these ideas were the legacy that came from denying us our language. Those of us learning and teaching Indigenous languages at Lakehead knew that and wanted to turn it around and create something positive. So we told those young people that we wanted to teach our language and culture because they are our life identity. It is said that when Creation was taking place, each People was given a language to speak. When we leave this world, the Creator will ask you your name in the language, and you will have to respond. It is important to take care of the language and to preserve it – it is our identity”.

Shirley’s passion is to preserve the language for her People, and when she started teaching it was to “restore what had been taken from us, and to undo the effects of what had been done to us”.  The nuns at residential school had said that the children would never use or teach the language and that is what the children were saying too.  Shirley knew how important it was that she turn that around.

The teachers at Lakehead University went out to their home communities and did research with students to find out more about the comments people were making and to ask students why they thought they should learn the language. They asked the Elders too, about what they should teach the children, and they said: “have you asked the children WHAT it is they want to learn?” They had not, so they had to return to their home communities to ask.

                     Rip Roaring Hockey - Zhooshkwaadekamogad

Shirley says that during this process she remembers one little boy who put his hand up and said, “I would like to learn the language of hockey. I am on a team now and always losing. If I knew the language, maybe we could speak the language among ourselves and win!”  Shirley, a hockey auntie who had raised two boys who played, thought that was a good response!

So she embarked upon a project to make the world of hockey available in the Ojibway language. For six years she traveled all over the province to hockey games and listened to players who were fluent in the language to discover the story. That is how she came to make the Hockey CD.

It was a huge project because many of the words for hockey did not even exist! For example – the word arena – in order to find the word she had to begin by asking: what were the colors, the shapes and the contents of an arena? She did the same for equipment, clothing, numbers, the food, and the referee. There was no word for jock strap, and since she knew this language tool would be used and taught in school and that derogatory terms would not be acceptable, she was careful to find the right and appropriate word. Then she had to translate the values and rules of hockey, and so she interviewed Indigenous NHL players in order to understand their values.

Shirley says they presented the project to the kids on a CD. She had rented the arena and filmed a lot as the kids played hockey. They played for the recognition and they played in exchange for copies of the CDs. The Hockey CD is now used in schools, and even when teachers are not using it in the classroom for teachable content, they still play it for the kids as a treat when they finish their lessons.

Shirley has been teaching the Ojibway language now for many years. She says, “Our Elders tell us our education should be fun, and that we should have fun learning the language, so this is what I have tried to do. It is how I have taught the language at university – through games, song, orthography. We sing ABC songs in the Anishinaabe language. In fact, the older Anishinaabe ladies made a song on ABC that we still use today. Professors have sometimes asked us if we were really TEACHING the language, because of all the singing and fun. One summer in an immersive class, for example we used action and games. “I have a ….” and you would have to guess.” The students loved it.

                                    The Crow, by Shirley Williams

Besides making learning the language fun, another priority for Shirley was to make the written language and the stories beautiful. Her many books reflect this. For children she has written Aandeg, The Crow and Gii-bi-gaachiiyaanh: When I Was a Child. She has written language texts used to teach Ojibway in schools and universities, and crossword puzzle and anagram books with word games to help make the learning fun.  This vital, passionate linguist and prolific writer has been tireless in her work to make the Ojibway language accessible, and to root the teaching of it in the Anishinaabe culture – so as to reconnect the people with their traditional knowledge and ways of being. This is the work her father gave to her to do, when she was a small child.

Although she is now ‘officially’ retired, Shirley says, “I don’t want to stop – I know it’s very important.” And so, she has not. She still teaches at Trent University, albeit now via the internet using voice recording and PowerPoint, and she is an Elder in the Ph.D. program and the Indigenous department there as well. She translates for political meetings and for the Chiefs of Ontario – always in terms of language AND culture, as they are inseparable to the Anishinaabe People. She also does workshops and she lectures, traveling far and wide in her work as an Elder, to pass on her knowledge and to reconnect and restore what has been lost.

In addition, Shirley has been working with COPA to help create resources for students, families, communities and educators, because she believes not only in the value of the work, but also in the manner in which the work is being done. She believes that what COPA is doing plays a crucial part in restoring language and culture to Indigenous peoples, but equally important to her is the grassroots collaboration approach used by COPA: consulting with elders and communities as to what are the needs and what is appropriate to their community.

Joining the Circle, a COPA toolkit for educators - to support Indigenizing  and decolonizing the classroom

Shirley says the need is so high and the gap so wide – and that much more work is needed to fill in those gaps. She says, “Teachers need to know MORE about the importance of language and culture.” She believes strongly that this work has only just begun and says that “if the government really means what they say about their commitment to the restoration of Indigenous culture in Canada, they need to fund the work to develop language tools, translate, and create resources in order to restore what has been taken.” Web-based tools are needed, more resources for educators, and more translations of books and resources into Indigenous languages.

At the end of our conversation, we asked Shirley to suggest a good book that everyone could read in order to be informed, inspired and moved to participate more deeply in Reconciliation. Besides her own books which can be found here, Shirley’s recommendation is the Nishnaabemwin Odawa & Eastern Ojibwe online dictionary. She says that educators can use it for teaching, and students for research, and also to learn how to write in proper Ojibway. For the rest of us, the magic of the words and meanings and how they reflect the Anishinaabe culture will inspire us to redouble our efforts to understand, preserve and restore that which has been taken away.